The Maiden of Ireland. Susan Wiggs
here.” Caitlin left him standing by an ancient stone well while she crossed to a long, low fieldstone building with a stout door. She opened the door and a chorus of equine noises greeted her. The famed ponies of Clonmuir, Wesley realized.
A man’s voice spoke in Gaelic and Caitlin replied in low tones. Wesley strained his ears but could not hear the words. A small girl with long braids crept around the side of the stable, gaped at him briefly, then darted back into the shadows. The years of conquest, Wesley realized, had taught all Irish to be cautious, even in their own homes. A flash of shame heated his face. He had come here under false pretenses to coax secrets from Caitlin MacBride—secrets that could force her to forfeit her home. The idea sat like a hot rock in his gut.
She rejoined him in the yard. “Come along,” she said briskly. “We deny hospitality to no one—even an Englishman.” They made their way to the donjon, a tall, rounded structure with walls pierced by arrow loops and tiny windows. She pushed the heavy main door open.
Sharp-scented peat smoke struck Wesley in the face, stinging his eyes. A translucent gray fog shrouded the scene in layers, from the woven rushes on the floor to the blackened ceiling beams. The great hall had no chimney, only a louvered opening in the roof to draw out the smoke.
Children cavorted with a lanky wolfhound in a straw-carpeted corner. A group of women sat knitting skeins of chunky wool on fat wooden needles. Most of them conversed blithely in Irish, but the youngest was silent, sulky, and dazzlingly beautiful.
At a round table a group of men drank from horn mugs and cracked nuts in their bare hands, throwing the shells to the rush mats. The eldest wore a knitted cap on his head and had a waist-length white beard. Beside him sat the dwarf Wesley had seen with Caitlin. The fellow spoke rapid, colloquial Gaelic and swung his legs as he talked, for his feet did not reach the floor.
Caitlin headed for the table. Wesley watched her face but she held it set, the pure, sharp lines of her features scrubbed clean of sentiment. “We’ve a visitor,” she announced.
A dozen inquisitive faces turned toward Wesley. He wondered if these rough-hewn Irishmen belonged to the Fianna. On the heels of that thought came a sudden, sharp ache. Too many years had passed since he had enjoyed the company of good friends.
He tried to take in their expressions all at once, but got caught on the dwarf. His face was a picture of such pure delight that Wesley couldn’t help smiling, even as he wondered why his appearance so pleased the man.
“He says his name is John Wesley Hawkins,” Caitlin explained. “He’s English.”
Gasps and grumbles colored the smoky air. Large hands closed around knife handles. Women gathered small children to their skirts. Wesley carefully kept his smile in place.
“Is he an idiot?” a big man asked in Gaelic. He had hair the color of West Indies yams and a face that resembled a well-cured ham. He held his horn mug in two great, red-furred paws. “Look at that grin,” the giant said, tossing a nutmeat into his maw. “I say he’s an idiot.”
Wesley made no indication that he understood the foreign, lilting tongue. He was not here to challenge a taunt, but to infiltrate the Fianna, to find out their secrets, and to capture their leader.
“You could be right, Rory,” said Caitlin. “But he’s our guest, and we’ll give him a meal and a place to sleep. Lord knows, Daida has made certain there’s plenty to eat.”
“And why should we be opening hearth and home to a seonin?” Rory demanded. “It’s the business of his kind to take the very food out of our mouths.”
Caitlin’s shoulders stiffened. “I didn’t know having an Englishman under the roof frightened you, Rory.”
He shook his shaggy head. “’Tis not that, Caitlin, but—”
“Then we’ll treat him as a guest.”
Enmity blazed in the huge man’s eyes. “If he makes one false move, I’ll put that gawm of an Englishman right through the wall with one great clout.”
Wesley kept a courteous smile on his face when every instinct told him to lunge for the door.
“You’re such a Goth, Rory,” grumbled the dwarf.
“He doesn’t look like an idiot to me,” the white-bearded man said in English. “He looks properly Irish, save for that naked face of his.”
“Don’t insult us,” said another man, dark-haired and nearly as large as Rory. “An English bastard would never fill the fine, wide boots of an Irishman.”
A roar of agreement thundered from others. Horn mugs banged on the tabletop. “Well put, Conn,” shouted Rory, then turned to the man on his other side. “What think you we should do with our guest, Brian?”
Brian had a quick smile, merry blue eyes, and a deadly looking shortsword at his hip. “I say we give him the same reception Jamie Lynch gave his son in Galway all those years ago.”
Shouts of approval met the suggestion. James Lynch Fitzstephen, Wesley remembered with a chill, had hanged his own son from the window of his house.
Caitlin waited for the uproar to subside. Desperately Wesley searched her face for some hint of mercy. He saw unadorned beauty and strong character, but no sign of whether or not she would let the men do their will with him.
The room quieted, and she spoke in a voice that trembled with grief. “Has it come to murdering strangers, then?” Her soft words captured everyone’s attention. “Have we learned to hate so much?”
“I suppose we might see what he’s about,” Rory grumbled into his mug.
Only when he let out his breath with a whoosh did Wesley realize he had been holding it. Squaring his shoulders, he approached the table and held out his hand to the eldest man. “I assure you, sir, I am English, but I don’t necessarily regard that as a virtue.” He clasped the man’s hand briefly, and their eyes met. The Irishman was handsome, with unusually soft skin and strongly defined facial bones. His eyes were light, the color of damp sand. “You’re the MacBride?” Wesley guessed.
“Aye, Seamus MacBride of Clonmuir, by the grace of God and several high saints. You are welcome by me, although I cannot speak for the others.”
“Devil admire me, but I like him,” piped the dwarf, bobbing his head. “Fortune brought him here.”
Caitlin’s gaze snapped to him. “And what would you be knowing that you’re not telling us, Tom Gandy?”
Tom Gandy’s eyes rounded into circles of innocence and he dropped to the floor. In his beautiful green doublet, silk pantaloons, and tiny buckle shoes, he would not look out of place in a portrait of the Spanish royal family.
Disregarding Caitlin’s question, Tom said, “Don’t we all know that it’d bring the bad luck on us to treat a stranger ill?” Rory slapped his forehead. Caitlin rolled her eyes.
Wesley looked back at Gandy only to find that the man had vanished. “Where did he go?” Wesley asked.
“He can go to the devil for all I care,” grumbled Rory. He scowled up at Caitlin. “You went off alone again. How many times must I tell you, it’s dangerous.”
“You are not my keeper, Rory Breslin,” she replied.
“Not for want of trying,” said Brian with a knowing wink.
Wesley observed the tension in her body, the pause no longer than a heartbeat during which she looked to her father. But Seamus MacBride didn’t notice; he had lifted his gaze to the patch of star-silvered sky visible through a high window.
Suddenly, Wesley understood her problem. He didn’t know which to credit—his experience with women or his experience as a cleric—but he had insights into female hearts, and he was rarely wrong.
Caitlin MacBride wanted her father to be a father, not an old man reminiscing over a mug of