There Will Be War Volume II

by Jerry Pournelle

  Liam sighed. Times were certainly not like that now. Just work, work, and not enough hands to go round.

  His mother called. “Quit mooning out there! Come in and eat your breakfast!”

  He scraped his boots on the grating at the back door and went in, placing the egg in the crock on the dresser. He said, “Does Andy know the time of the wedding?”

  Maureen McGrath frowned. “Liam, I wish you would learn not to call your stepfather ‘Andy.’ You are not yet a grown man, and it is altogether too familiar. Could you not call him ‘Da’—just to please me?”

  Liam sat down at the bare, scrubbed table. He mumbled through a mouthful of oatcake. “Andy is not bothered. He said I might call him what I wished, so long as I didn’t call him early. He is not my real father, anyway.”

  “Your own father would have stood for no use of Christian names.” His mother’s voice shook with unaccustomed emotion. He looked up and caught her eyes sparkling angrily at him. “Flinty was a strict man,” she stormed. “He’d have stood no nonsense from you!”

  “Leave off. Mam,” he pleaded. “Who knows what my Da would have stood for? It’s fifteen years since he got that arrow in his lung, fighting for the old ram up there on Barra Hill.”

  “Liam!” Her voice rising alarmingly. “I will not have you using words like that about the Master of the Fist.”

  He raised eyebrows in astonishment. “But, Mam—that’s what everyone calls him. They say he’s been to bed with nearly every woman in the village.” He broke off, and bit his lip in embarrassment.

  Maureen McGrath flushed. “Liam McGrath, you have been listening to prurient gossip, and much good will it do you.”

  “Mam,” he said patiently. “I’m only repeating what has been whispered around the village since I was a gossoon. Why, half the kids have the great O’Meara beak.”

  “Liam!” His mother screeched. “I forbid you to discuss such things in this house. If you have finished eating, I suggest you take the mare on down to Seamus Murray, and after that you give the gig a good wash. If you are going to church in style, let it at least be a clean style.”

  Liam stuffed the last of the oatcakes into his mouth and rose from the table. “I’ll do it right now. Mam,” he said.

  At the door of the smithy, Seamus Murray clapped a hot shoe to the mare’s off hind foot clutched firmly between his knees and watched the smoke curl.

  “Great day for you, Liam,” he said.

  “If I can keep my Mam in a good temper it will be,” Liam responded. “Why should she get so upset when I criticize the old ram up there?” He nodded at the Fist which loomed plain in the sunlight at the top of the street. “Hasn’t the old despot had his way with almost every woman in Barley Cross?”

  The blacksmith fished a long, triangular nail from the pocket of his apron, inserted it through a hole in the horseshoe and hammered it home. His voice was almost inaudible. “Easy to be critical, son. The O’Meara has been Lord and Protector here nigh on thirty years. Before he came we were like fowls in a farmyard with the fox outside. But he disciplined us, drilled us, dragged guns half the length of Connemara behind that old tank of his, and made Barley Cross a name in the land.” The smith waved towards a black skeleton which lay rusting on the hump of rock in Flanagan’s barley acre. “That didn’t come down by accident. We shot it clean out of the air. They say ‘twas the last aeroplane in the West of Ireland. I was there and saw it come down. We did a three-week stretch on duty in those days because the village had to be guarded constantly. Gangs used to come aroving. And, if they thought you had anything worth stealing, by God, they were after you with guns and cudgels and knives. But we stopped ‘em in Barley Cross. They learned to leave us alone.”

  The smith sniffed embarrassedly. In silence he snipped off the sharp end of the nail protruding from the side of the mare’s hoof. “There aren’t so many people around now to make trouble,” he added. “You might even say we no longer need the O’Meara for a protector. But, who can tell?” He straightened up, searching his pocket for a nail. “You might say we were lucky to get through in such good shape. They tell me Clifden is a ghost town, now. ‘Tis a great pity. But they didn’t have our luck. And sure, ‘twas the O’Meara luck, and I, for one, am glad of it. So, if he wants to play medieval monarch, I’m prepared to put up with it.”

  He hammered home the nail, snipped off the point, and released the mare’s leg. Liam followed him into the smithy. He watched the smith work the bellows before pushing another shoe into the glowing coals. “But, Seamus, what if it was your own wife?”

  Seamus Murray turned to stare at him, his gaze level and placid. “After twenty-eight years of marriage to me, Mary is not the lass to drive the O’Meara crazy with desire. Let’s say the idea doesn’t trouble me.”

  “But when you were younger?”

  The smith hooked the shoe from the coals. He spat expertly. Spittle ricocheted from the hot iron. Satisfied, he gripped the shoe with the tongs and carried it out to the waiting mare. “Let’s say,” he said slowly, “if anything happened, I wasn’t aware of it. And, if it did, somehow Mary neglected to mention the matter.”

  His eyelids crinkled as he watched the hot iron bed itself into the mare’s hoof. He glanced slyly at Liam. “I suppose ‘tis your wedding this afternoon that has set you thinking these serious thoughts?”

  Liam scowled. He cocked an eye at the menacing Fist and drew patterns with his toe in the dirt. He set his jaw. “Nothing happens to Eileen without my say-so.”

  Seamus Murray smiled sourly. He began to nail on the cooling shoe. “Brave words, son. But what would you gain by standing between the Master and a woman’s virginity? He could deal with you, and then take what he wanted.”

  Liam felt his resolution wavering before Murray’s calm acceptance of the Master’s authority. He said, “Surely the O’Meara wouldn’t treat a new bride that way?”

  The smith was grinning openly. “Haven’t you just suggested that he treated my Mary so?” He stared quizzically at Liam for a moment, then bent back over the hoof. He rasped the clipped nail points smooth without looking up. “I shouldn’t worry overmuch, son. Probably the Master is not even aware that you are to be married today.”

  He gave the hoof a final buff, then released the beast. He pushed her towards Liam with a pat on the rump. “She’ll do for a while now, Liam. Tell your Mam that’s the last of my good shoes. I’ll be making them from scrap in future, unless a tinker happens by with some.”

  Liam took the mare’s bridle. “Let me know when you’re ready for the piglet. I’ll bring it straight over. Then we’ll be quits for the last two jobs.”

  The smith patted his shoulder. “Don’t be worrying about that either, son. I’ll let Andy know when we are ready for it.”

  Liam slid onto the mare’s back. He turned her head towards home. God Damn! These old ’uns wouldn’t let you grow up. Leave it to Andy. He will settle it. Let the O’Meara have his way, he saved our lives in the past. Well, he hadn’t saved Liam McGrath’s life, and Liam McGrath owed him nothing. They could run the village any way they liked, but don’t expect Liam McGrath to get down and bow to their pet tyrant.

  His stepfather was waiting outside the front door when he got home. Andy McGrath wore his visored helmet and beribboned flak jacket. Wizened Willie Flanagan and poor Eamon Toomey stood behind him. All three carried FN rifles. Liam opened his mouth to suggest that three men were not much of a guard of honor, saw the look on his stepfather’s face, and thought the better of it. He cartwheeled dextrously from the mare’s back. “Hi, Andy! You’re early. The wedding’s not until two.”

  Andy McGrath’s face was grim. “We’ll be in time, Liam, never doubt. But first we’ve a little business with you.” He fumbled inside his jacket and brought out a folded sheet of paper. Pushing up his visor, he put on his spectacles, and unfolded the paper. “Just so you understand, Liam, that I am carrying out orders.” He cleared his throat and began to read.

  “F
rom the Lord of Barley Cross to Liam McGrath of Killoo Farm. Take note that we intend to exercise our droit du seigneur with your intended wife Eileen O’Connor and that Sergeant McGrath has orders to escort her to the Fist at six of the clock this day.”

  Liam felt his face grow hot. “Droit… droit what?”

  His stepfather’s face was impassive. “Droit du seigneur, lad. It’s old French. Sometimes it’s called Jus primae noctis— which is Latin for the same thing—the right of the first night. The Master intends to exercise his legal rights with your betrothed.”

  Liam felt the color drain from his face. A lump of ice congealed in his chest. He stammered. “The… the Master can’t want my Eileen!”

  Andy McGrath refolded the paper, then tucked it inside his jacket. He removed his spectacles and put them into a pocket. “The Master can, and the Master does.”

  Liam caught his stepfather’s hand in sudden appeal. “But you won’t let them take her away!”

  Andy McGrath’s gaze softened slightly. “I’m sorry, lad. I’m the one that must do the taking.”

  Liam clutched him. “Andy, you can’t!”

  His stepfather firmly removed Liam’s hand. “I must warn you, son, that it is a serious offence to obstruct the Master’s officers in the execution of their duty. So don’t try anything foolish. You’ll get your Eileen back in the morning. She won’t be the first, nor will she be the last. Now I suggest you accept that your married life starts tomorrow instead of tonight. And I’ll be on my way to break the news to the O’Connors.”

  Liam stared incredulously at his stepfather and the two-man squad awkwardly clutching their rifles. Each of those guns, by repute, held only one round because of the miserly way General Desmond released ammunition. But one bullet could settle an argument. Would they really shoot him if he tried to prevent their abduction of Eileen? In the leg, perhaps, as a warning. Willie Flanagan was a poacher by vocation; no doubt he would prefer a noose, or the knife. But poor Eamon Toomey would do whatever he was told: he would shoot, and think afterwards.

  Hot, burning tears were suddenly scalding his cheeks.

  His stepfather put an arm around his shoulders. He urged him towards the doorway of the house. “Go in and talk to your mother, son. She’ll listen to you. And she will tell you that what I say is the best thing to do.”

  He turned to Willie and Eamon. “Right, lads. To the O’Connors now, and we’ll get it over with.”

  Eileen O’Connor opened the back door and gasped. “Liam! You know it’s unlucky to be seeing me before the service!”

  He tried to take her into his arms, but she held him off.

  “I had to come,” he panted. “My Mam thinks I’m checking the snares. Has Andy been yet?”

  She glanced quickly over her shoulder into the interior of the house. “You know he has. He came straight from your place.”

  He gripped her arms. “Do you know why he came?”

  She nodded, lowering her eyes.

  “Then why don’t you say something?” Surely she could not remain calm, knowing the message Andy McGrath had brought. He said, “You won’t let that old—?”

  Eileen O’Connor drew in a deep breath. She looked him straight in the eyes. “My Da says it’s the law and that we must do as the law says. He says we should regard it as an honor.”

  He snorted bitterly. “Your Da sounds like a first-class creep to me.”

  She glared at him. “Don’t you be calling my Da a creep. He did his share for Barley Cross before you were born. And you’re not even old enough to stand guard at the Fist yet?”

  He pulled her towards him and again tried to embrace her. “Don’t let’s quarrel, Eileen. I’m not calling your Da names. It’s just that he is like our Andy. All the old folk act the same—as though O’Meara was God, and his slightest wish the law.”

  She stood cold and motionless in his arms. “My Da says without the Master there would be no law.”

  He swallowed an angry retort and said patiently, “We’ll have to get away before Andy comes.”

  He felt her stiffen. “Why? Why should we go away?”

  “Why? So that old lecher can’t…”

  “He’s not so old, and he’s not a lecher. They say he is a very civil man.”

  “Civil! My God!”

  She drew back as far as his arms would permit. Her voice was like ice on a pool. “If I’ve said something foolish, Liam McGrath, please don’t hesitate to point it out.”

  His hands trembled with the impulse to crush her to him, knowing that she would resist. He said, “Eileen, let’s not quarrel over this. Do you want the O’Meara to take you up there, and…” He floundered helplessly, left the question hanging.

  Her lips compressed into a thin, straight line, which warned him that O’Connor common sense would now prevail. “If I agreed to go with you, where would we go?”

  “Why—somewhere outside the village. There’s the O’Toole cabin on Kirkogue has been empty this twelve-month.”

  “Because no one has wanted it since old Gabriel died there, all alone, without a soul to help him, and at the mercy of any rogue that passed that way. Who would be caring for me while you were down here working at your farm?”

  “But, Eileen—I’d stay with you. I wouldn’t leave you on your own. We’d start a new farm. Old Gabriel had quite a bit of pasture at the back.”

  Her mouth turned down at the corners. “Faith—there isn’t enough soil up there to grow a week’s potatoes. And the land sloping so bad you’d need a short leg to get around easy.”

  “Then we’ll build a cottage nearer the village. There’s plenty of stone, and I’m good with my hands.”

  She sighed, wagging her head in mock despair. “Liam McGrath, sometimes I think you are a great booby. How near the village would you build your cottage? Near enough, I hope, for O’Meara’s law to protect us from vagabonds like the two your Andy hanged last month. But if you seek the law’s protection, don’t you have to obey it, too? And the law says I go up to the Fist tonight.”

  She let him pull her towards him then, felt his tears wet her cheek. She stroked the back of his head. “It’s not the end of the world, lad. If we lived outside Barley Cross I’d probably have been raped at twelve, and dying from malnutrition by now. We have a good life here. No bad men. And there’s Doctor Denny’s hospital if you’re sick. I don’t want to live anywhere else. So, we take the rough with the smooth. And, if I do have to go up to the Fist, nobody outside our families need even know. And I’m sure you’d rather I went willingly, than be dragged there, kicking and screaming over something any girl outside Barley Cross would regard as a normal event, and in this specific case might even consider it an honor.”

  He crushed her to him, not listening, unwilling to dispute further. “Don’t worry,” he murmured into her hair. “I’ll fix it, somehow.”

  She pushed back his head so that she could look into his eyes. “Liam McGrath, there’ll be no fixing, somehow or anyhow! We are going to live here in Barley Cross after we are wed, and you’ll do nothing to prevent it!”

  “But Eileen—” he began.

  “But nothing.” She closed his lips with her own. “If I can put up with it, so can you. Now off you go before my Mam comes to see who it is that I’m blathering with at the back door.”

  Mind churning, Liam stumbled blindly from the O’Connor’s yard. Sunlight flashed on jewels under his eyelids. Help from someone more powerful than himself was what he needed. He lurched towards the street.

  Molly Larkin filled the doorway of her father’s neat cottage beside the schoolhouse. Her arms were white to the elbows with flour. She stared at him in surprise. “Why, Liam—I thought today was your—?”

  “It is, Molly, it is.” He felt himself coloring with embarrassment. Once upon a time he had fancied motherless Molly Larkin. No doubt she would make someone a fine wife—if that someone didn’t mind marrying her old man as well. He said, “It’s your aunt I wanted.” She dusted flour from he
r hands, wiped them on her apron. “She’s not home, Liam. I believe she’s up at the Fist. Would you be leaving a message?”

  He backed away. There was no message he would choose prosy Molly Larkin to deliver for him. “Ah—no, thank you, Molly. Tisn’t anything important.” Granite chippings crunched underfoot; the gate squealed as he closed it behind him.

  Who else to try?

  Tessie Mallon was snipping dead rose heads in her garden. She was as plump and jolly as her husband was shriveled and sour. She slipped scissors jnto her apron pocket and pulled off her homemade gloves as Liam hesitated the other side of her hedge. She saw his face and showed alarm.

  “The doctor is not in, Liam. Is it your Mam?”

  He shook his head dumbly.

  “Yourself, then?”

  He found his voice. “There is nobody ill, Mrs. Mallon. I just wanted a quick word with the doctor.”

  She nibbled thoughtfully at the tip of her index finger—a habit that, forty years ago, had driven the village lads crazy. “He said he’d be back in an hour or so. Should I ask him to call round at your house?”

  Emotion choked his voice. “No—no, thank you. I’ll catch him another time.”

  She held her head on one side, half smiling. “Your Eileen has already had a chat with him, if that is any help. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

  Liam fled.

  Clouds were gathering over Cam Seefin and Leckavrea. Rain would soon be pocking the surface of Lough Corrib. Endless Connemara rain. A wet afternoon for the wedding, for sure. Who else could he try? Father Con?

  The old priest led him into a furniture-filled study which had not altered in fifty years, except that now the electric light no longer worked. He listened in silence to Liam’s plea for help.

  “Well, Liam,” he said gently. “What would you have me do? Forbid the wedding?”

  “Ah, no, Father.” That was not the solution that Liam sought.

  “What then, son? I’m too old to be trudging up Barra Hill with a shilelagh in my hand to knock piety into the O’Meara.”