I can’t bear to stay here. Her heart begged her to fly from there; instead, she walked with leaden feet, slowly, aimlessly, away from the crowd. She never looked back. She never saw Father Vittorio di Rienzi of the noble di Rienzi family, a duke in his own right, look longingly after Ottavia, her form growing smaller and smaller as she walked into the distance.
Ottavia ran through fields, oblivious of the tall spring grass that grazed her legs, blind to the haze of flowers that colored the hillside. Without conscious thought, she headed for her private sanctuary in the hills, hills that shielded her from the world and its pain. She threw herself down on the grassy hillside and sobbed until she could cry no more. She didn’t know how long she stayed there, holding her knees close to her, nor what she thought about. She was only aware of overwhelming pain.
The next week dragged by. She continued to visit the sick, to force a smile and say a cheerful word. She sleepwalked through her household chores.
Her heart was shattered. She could not pray, only question from the silence of her room, “My God, why have you withdrawn from me?” She found her only solace in the hills, far away from the villagers, the church, and Vittorio. She fled there every afternoon, hurrying for fear she would see him and feel a stab anew. She sat down on the grass, her face shaded from the sun by an overhanging ledge softened with trailing vines.
Her mind swam with questions. Why had he, a nobleman, ever come to Argiano, when he was destined to live his life in Rome? Why hadn’t he been unkind and unlovable instead of good and wonderful? Why had she ever believed that he, a priest dedicated to God’s work, had desired her the way she did him? She was overwhelmed with fear. What would she do without his loving presence? He had entered her life so gently, and become its center, her very heartbeat.
She buried her face in her hands and sat there motionless. When she looked up again, the sun dazzled her eyes and she imagined she saw Vittorio in the distance, walking toward her. As her eyes became used to the brightness, she took in the slim build, the sunlight like gold upon his hair. When she realized it was Vittorio, she was seized with the desire to run from him. Ottavia jumped up and looked around, hoping to flee. Instead, with a wave, Vittorio began to run toward her, and she was forced to wait, her hands trembling in tempo with her heart.
“Ottavia,” he said, catching up to her. “I’ve been looking for you for days.” He looked down and saw her face, pale and drawn. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice filled with concern.
“Yes, fine.” She barely answered, and started to turn from him, the nearness of him kindling a mixture of pain and desire. “I should go.”
He reached out and held her arm. “Please don’t. I have to talk to you.”
The touch of his hand, the sound of his voice, and his presence so near were too much for her tortured soul. Ottavia looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. “Why are you leaving? The people need you. The church, the children… What will they… What will I do without you?”
He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. “Don’t cry, my beautiful Ottavia, don’t cry,” he repeated, holding her until she was comforted.
Ashamed of her emotion, she drew away from him.
“I have to leave,” he said. “My assignment is to go back to Florence, to be a curate at the Duomo for a few years, then to go on to Rome as a pastor. I have no choice. I am doing what my superiors have ordered. This is not what I want, but I must obey, no matter what pain it causes me.”
“Why should that cause you pain? You will be going on to a new church, a new life. You will be returning to your family, to those you love.”
“Ottavia, my pain is great because…” He took her hand. “Because I will be leaving the one I love.”
They looked into each other’s eyes, their love no longer hidden. They were in each other’s arms, kissing sweetly, then passionately, in a rush of desire. Enfolded in his arms, his lips soft against hers, she was floating.
Suddenly he stopped. “My God, I mustn’t.”
They drew apart. “What have we done?” Ottavia whispered.
“Not you, Ottavia. I have betrayed my vows. From the time I was a little boy, my family wanted me to be a priest. I am their oldest son, and by becoming a priest, I bring them honor. All my life has been preparation for this calling.”
Ottavia searched his face, trying to comprehend. “I know marriages are arranged, but I didn’t know that one might become a priest because of someone else’s choice. You are a duke, free to do as you wish.”
“It is precisely because of my family that I am not free.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I wish I had a better answer, for both of us. I have to leave you now, because more than anything else, I want to stay.”
He turned and walked quickly away, leaving Ottavia staring after him.
For days after their meeting, Ottavia found herself heading down the path to the vineyards when she was supposed to visit a woman in the heart of the village. She spilled the wine at dinner, called her favorite nephew by the wrong name, and left the flowers on the table to wilt. Each day she became more agitated. She lay awake at night, his face before her, until she whispered, “I cannot do this. I cannot let him go.”
The day before he was to leave, she could stand it no longer. Whatever the cost, she must see him. She went directly to his house. It seemed strange that nothing about it looked different. Nothing about it revealed that its inhabitant, Father Vittorio di Rienzi, would be leaving it the next day. Leaving it forever. Small and whitewashed, a few flowers in a dusty yard, it stood quietly in the sun.
She knocked on the sturdy wooden door and waited. No answer. She knocked again, this time louder. Again, no answer. In a panic, she ran around to the back of the house. Only a cat lay dozing in the shade of the stucco wall that framed a small yard.
She walked away in a haze, along the familiar route through the fields. As she walked, the truth dawned upon her. She knew she would find him. She began to hurry toward the place in the hills where they had met. As she climbed the last hill, she ran at full speed, anxious to reach the crest. By the time she reached the top, she was breathless. Below her, standing at the entrance to the protective bower, was Vittorio.
She ran to him, wanting only to reach him, not to be without him for another second. He lifted her in his arms, her skirt billowing and her hair swinging forward to graze his face. He brought her down and kissed her—her lips, her face, her hair, her neck. Holding hands, they ran to the protected cave between the rocks.
“I was waiting here for most of the day,” he said, his arms around her. “What a sorry sight I was, squinting toward the hill, imagining that every breeze that ruffled the grass was you.”
“I’m sorry you waited so long.” Looking down where he had waited and seeing that he had brought no food, she said, “You must be hungry.”
He looked down at her and, with both hands, brushed her hair back from her temples. “I am. Hungry to my very soul.”
His response electrified her. She had desired him for so long. Now he was standing before her, desiring her as she did him. Emboldened, she slid her arms around the back of his neck and pressed her body against him. If at any point there had been a chance of turning back, Ottavia knew that, with that act, she had crossed it. What she didn’t know was that their love that afternoon would change her life forever.
They lay down on the hillside, the blue sky peeking through the filigree leaves that cascaded down the overhanging rock like a curtain of fragile lace. They kissed long, and she drank in the sweetness. She rose above him and kissed his eyes; then her lips slid down his nose to his mouth.
“Ottavia,” he whispered, and together they surrendered to the desire that had hunted them. One in soul, arms and legs and spirits entwined, now they were one in body. They lay in each other’s arms, the warm sunlight dappling their bodies with flecks of gold. She closed her eyes and felt the nearness of him. For a few hours, they were al
one in the universe.
Chapter 3
Munster, Ireland, 1888
“Liam! Over here!” In the dead silence of the Manchester night, Liam Dwyer heard the whispered command of his comrade and crawled to him in the underbrush. By the light of the full moon, they could see the guard patrolling the barn in which the two prisoners were held. The guard could have been any farmer innocently checking on his livestock before going to bed, but his mission was deadly.
“The work of the devil himself,” Liam had called it as they plotted the rescue.
For six months the three men—Sean Kenny, Patrick O’Rourke, and Liam Dwyer—members of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, had met by night to plan the release of their brothers. They were all men in their late twenties, full of idealism and anger at the injustice of the world, particularly the injustice permitted by the hated British Parliament.
They were too young to have experienced the Great Famine of the 1840s that had all but destroyed the Irish people, but their parents had kept the bitter memory alive with stories of British indifference to their plight. Their help was too little and too late, as thousands died of starvation, watching for five harrowing years as abundant crops of potatoes sprang up only to rot from within, desiccating before their despairing eyes.
Those who survived felt abandoned, cast adrift by Britain’s director of government relief and his counterparts in Parliament who did little to help them as they faced the tyranny of unjust landlords and excessive rents that existed down to today. The young men had had enough, and they banded together in secret to become members of the Brotherhood, or Fenians, after Fionn MacCuchail, or Finn MacCool, the heroic warrior of Celtic legend.
They considered themselves at war, and the Fenians who lived in England waged that war in England itself. Three of the most daring of their number had set off explosives a mere half hour before a meeting of the Exchequer was to begin, sending a message that the Irish were ready to fight for their freedom and independence from England. The explosion leveled the structure, killing three Britons and one Fenian who was trapped by one of the Englishmen as they ran from the building. As they fought hand to hand, they were blown to eternity together.
Before the other two Irishmen could escape farther, they were caught in a sweep of the countryside and imprisoned, under guard day and night. They were moved about in secret, for fear the Brotherhood would uncover their whereabouts and free them. A few careless words in a pub, spoken by a drunken guard who lost his teeth and his job because of them, and word of their location spread like an underground fire.
Sean had formulated a plan to rescue them, and Liam, a hotheaded young man who had lost all four grandparents during the famine, was the first to volunteer to join the team. The trio was completed with quiet Patrick, whose silence hid his rage against the English, the tyrants he blamed for his impoverished life. When word reached them in their native Munster, they were ready and set off within hours of receiving the news, afraid their brothers would be moved before they could reach them.
“Don’t go,” Maeve Dwyer begged her husband, for they were married not quite a year, and she was carrying their first child. Though he loved his wife dearly, the thought of his grandparents dying of starvation haunted him. He had made up his mind, and there was no turning back. With arms strong from laboring in the fields, he picked her up, spun her around, and kissed her hard.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” he said, looking long at her beautiful face in case he should see it no more. He put on his cap, concealed a gun in his trousers, and ran out to the barn for his horse. Maeve watched from the doorway, her lips mouthing a silent Hail Mary as she saw him disappear into the dusk.
The three rode to the coast, booked passage on a packet to England, and proceeded to Manchester.
The moon that fated night was their ally and their enemy. In its light, they clearly saw the one guard that patrolled the barn. They also knew that in the clearing they could be seen as well, and had to plan carefully, crouching in the tall grass until the last moment. If only a cloud would drift across the moon’s face for just a few moments, they would race to their prey.
With surprise, three men could easily subdue one guard. What they did not know was how many men guarded their brothers inside. Patrick slipped around the far side of the barn, his gun trained on the barn door. Sean and Liam crept ever closer to the guard, who was dressed in dark clothing, his cap pulled far down to his eyebrows. They could not see a weapon but were sure he had a gun ready in his coat pocket. Liam pulled his own gun from his trousers and held it ready.
They were now so close to the guard that when he passed them, they could hear the song he hummed low to himself. In a few seconds, they could pounce, but in that short time, he would see them and, even if he couldn’t fire a shot, a shout in the stillness would warn the guards inside.
“I’m gettin’ cramped in me leg,” Sean whispered after they had crouched for an hour, waiting for the moment when man and moon conspired to do the deed. “I’ll be no good to anybody if I can’t move.”
“There’s clouds to help us,” Liam whispered. “We got to wait.”
After crouching for ten minutes more, Sean’s leg began to twitch, rustling the tall grass around them.
“What the bejesus is that?” Liam hissed.
“The pain. Can’t keep me leg still no more.”
“Clouds or not, we’ve got to move the next time he passes us,” Liam said. Guns cocked, they lay low, ready to pounce.
With the guard out of sight, the moon slid behind a cloud, and the earth went black. Sean and Liam strained in the blackness for some sound of his regular pacing. Instead, they heard the drumming of their own hearts. What was taking the guard so long to come into sight? Had he stopped to relieve himself? Had he tripped in the darkness? They watched in disappointment as the moon edged from behind the cloud. Damn our luck! Now, with one gimpy-legged partner and the full light of the moon, we’ll have to take him. God give us speed!
As the guard rounded the corner, gleaming now in the light of the moon was a gun. The men saw it, and their drumming hearts reached a crescendo. The guard walked slowly, then stopped and bent down to rub his ankle. He must have fallen on the other side of the barn. He’s farther away than we planned, but he’s down, the weapon on the ground beside him.
“Now!” They charged like panthers, leaping from the curtain of grass upon their prey. With a cry, the guard scrambled for his gun, but he never reached it. Liam tackled him, and the force of his body sent the guard head first into the side of the barn, knocking him unconscious.
Patrick flung open the barn door, and Liam and Sean raced to the front to help. They turned the corner to see a huge, muscular guard lunge at Patrick, who opened fire and shot him through the heart. Patrick leaped over the body and, guns drawn, the three men charged the barn.
The barn was cavernous and dank with the odor of animal feces, lit only by a single oil lamp in the center. The men squinted in the near darkness, and Liam was the first to spot the two figures at the far end. “Over there,” he said, pointing. “Dennis! Seamus!” he called.
“Liam, is that you?” A man sat up on the hay.
The three rushed over to the men, who had been shivering, their hands bound behind them, not knowing what punishment awaited them. Liam cut their ropes, and the five greeted each other with rough pats and strong-armed embraces.
“Let’s get out of here,” Sean said. The men headed for the door, Liam in the lead.
“Stop where you are!” The guard they had overcome outside stood before them, his gun pointed at Liam. Patrick raised his gun.
“No!” Liam shouted, pouncing on the guard. Two shots rang out, Patrick’s barely missing Liam’s ear as the two crashed to the floor, the guard’s bullet piercing Liam in the thigh. They lifted Liam up and gave a last look at the guard, who had hit his head and lay there, unconscious and bleeding.
“Your leg,” Sean said, as they breathed the cool air outside.
“I’m fine, don’t ye be worryin’ about me,” he said, backing away from his comrade. He limped a few hundred yards and fell down with a moan, holding his leg, which was hemorrhaging.
Sean and Patrick ran to him. They wrapped his jacket around his leg as a bandage, and then each held him under an arm and he hobbled along as fast as he could without passing out from the pain. At dawn, they stopped at the house of an old survivor of the Brotherhood. Dennis O’Malley, a self-styled doctor, had seen much suffering in his day. He ripped away the blood-caked pantleg and gingerly examined the wound. No matter how carefully he touched the inflamed area, Liam had to bite his lip to keep from crying out.
“Whether or not ye have the stomach for it, ye’ve got to help me,” O’Malley said. “I’ll be needin’ all four to help hold him down.”
They cleared the heavy kitchen table, laid a clean cloth on it, and lifted Liam onto the table.
“Let me sit here a moment,” Liam said. “I need time for a long whiskey and a short Hail Mary.”
They served him a cupful of whiskey, which he held for a moment as he prayed, prayed for the strength to survive and once again hold his beloved Maeve in his arms. Then he downed the drink in one gulp, and they eased him down on the table.
The bullet had lodged in his thigh, the tip of it visible to the eye. As the four men held him down, O’Malley poured whiskey on the wound and asked Sean to pour another cupful down Liam’s throat. He was able to cut the bullet out; then he cleaned the wound and sewed it. Liam, biting on a rag in his mouth, never cried out.
When the stitches were done, Sean passed out on the floor. Liam tried to get up from the table to help Sean, but finally passed out himself and slept until the next day. O’Malley gave him a pair of pants and burned his bloodstained ones in the fireplace until all evidence of their deed was destroyed.
Choices of the Heart Page 2