“No, Sir William, I don’t think so, or at least I don’t think that’s what the letter refers to specifically. Rather, an uprising, keyed to an event other than an invasion. The Irish won’t rise again in open war against the English unless the French come, and the French won’t come unless William is first overthrown and significant forces rise for James. The French can’t get another army past the English fleet, and even if they could get one to England, Scotland, or Ireland, they can’t survive ashore without traitors turning out in great numbers in support. They can’t pin their hope on Jacobites rising when a French army lands. They must have the uprising first—and this will occur only if King William is dead.”
“I still don’t see what you want me to.”
“It is simple: someone plots to kill King William.”
The old gentleman was silent for a minute. Then he shifted, stood, and walked about.
“There are always plots against King William,” he said eventually.
“I’m not talking about common tavern-room plotting by drunken Jacobites, nor of a few arms laid in secret by wishful thinking Jacobite loyalists. I’m talking about a real plot, a planned assassination, one that will indeed be attempted.”
“I suppose I see your logic, but who else will? Those you must convince will see many explanations. They’ll doubt that plotters would forewarn so many people, because someone always talks. Not all those sworn to secrecy can keep secrets, and others may surmise an assassination from events we ourselves know nothing of.”
“Exactly: if someone at St. Germain has let this slip, even a hint of it, even to only one other person, it would pass to a dozen or more. People don’t keep secrets well.”
Sir William picked a crumb from his cravat. “Logic and evidence notwithstanding, no one here will believe you. And even if some do, they’ll still debate for weeks on the information before they do anything, if they do anything. The best you can hope for is that they’ll forward them to London. Of course, some spy among them will warn the local Jacobites.” Sir William shrugged as if annoyed. “Even so, it’s your duty to turn them over to the sheriff or to Captain Waller, the lieutenant-governor at Charles Fort.”
Edward’s jaw tightened. “No, I don’t think so.”
“What?”
“I’m not going to turn them over to the local authorities.”
“What’s got into you, Edward? You must turn them over. These are letters of great import, if what you say is true.”
“I know that. And if the best they might do is to forward them to London, well, that’s something I can do myself. After last night, I don’t trust anyone around here anymore, excepting you, of course, Sir William. But even my trust in you isn’t enough to sway me. I’m sure I’ve been followed since I’ve been here; I’m sure I was followed and betrayed last night.”
Sir William’s brow began to darken. “Edward, you had damn well better not be insinuating what I think you are.”
“Easy, Sir William, you’ll be struck with apoplexy! And if you know what I’m thinking, then you’ve been thinking it yourself. At least hear my argument. It’s not my intention to accuse Molly, but to clear her name,” he lied, even while hoping he might prove his suspicions baseless. “And I certainly don’t accuse her of trying to have me killed, only robbed. But dammit, someone knew when and where to find me on the road. And only you, Molly, and apparently the widow Hardy knew I was off to see Brennan and Allin. And Molly—”
“Must you accuse her while pretending you’re not?” Sir William said angrily.
“It was by her doing we were where we were. And Molly, well, she gave me back my pistol this morning—unloaded. It had been fired.”
“My God, you think she shot that bastard you just cut down from the tree!”
“No, Sir William, I don’t, but—”
“Molly told me this morning—damn, she was still distraught—that she fired your pistol last night, she thought rapparees were after her. So maybe she hit that bastard you found hanging from the tree; hell, maybe it’s your bullet in him, that’s all there is to it.”
“Please listen, Sir William: if between us we prosecute the case against her, we’ll prove why it won’t hold up. Consider this: why weren’t her dogs with her yesterday? There’d have been no ambush if she’d had the wolfhounds with her.”
“Well, I damn well don’t know why she’d leave her dogs behind. But leaving her dogs behind and having a picnic with you and firing a pistol because she was frightened is no proof she tried to have you robbed or murdered for some damned secrets. For God’s sake, Edward! Do you really think she set you up?”
“Dammit, Sir William, someone did, at least for robbery.”
“And no one else saw you on the road?” Sir William asked pointedly, already knowing the answer.
“A few, surely.”
“And of course none of Brennan’s or Allin’s servants saw you?” he continued sarcastically. “There you have it, lad, rapparees do have their spies among the common folk. Hell, maybe Brennan or Allin set you up; either could be a traitor pretending to back the king. These damned intrigues of yours, wanton and otherwise, are going to get you killed if you’re not careful. And who’s to say that widow woman isn’t involved? Didn’t you say she knew you were on the road?”
“You’re right, Sir William, I’m sorry. It may be my imagination running away with me. I’m just tired of being a pawn in these Irish intrigues. I swore I was done playing games with Fortune, and now it seems I’ve fallen right into her arms,” Edward said, half sincerely and half to placate the old gentleman.
“I forgive you, lad. I’ll admit I was myself concerned for a brief time this morning. But I know Molly; it would make no sense, no matter her ties to Jacobites and Tories. I’ll look after her.”
Edward was silent in thought, worried that further discussion would antagonize Sir William and jeopardize both their friendship and their business relationship.
Aye, Sir William might even be right, it could be anyone. But dammit, if Molly’s involved with Jacobites and rapparees, Sir William himself may be in danger.
“What about the letters?” Sir William said eventually.
“I’m going to deliver them to the Crown myself. In London.”
The old gentleman shook his head. “I think that’s foolish, but it’s your business. I’ll pretend I know nothing of it. But have you considered that maybe they killed this man for losing these letters? If so, you’ll be in even more danger now.”
“I sail soon enough, and they can’t be sure I have them. For all they know, they were discovered this morning by one of the posses.”
“But you said there’s evidence they came back to search for them last night. And if there are spies around here, and I’m damn sure there are, they’ll soon know whether or not the authorities have them. And if the authorities don’t have them, the Tory spies will assume you do. If you’re going to take those letters to London, you can’t leave Ireland soon enough, not if you really do have evidence of assassinators or plotting rebels in hand.”
“I’ll keep on my guard. I didn’t come to Ireland to seek out traitors, only to further my own cause—and maybe these letters will help us both. The Crown would look favorably on anyone who brings evidence of a plot against it.”
“How many pistols do you keep on your person?” Sir William asked, his brow darkly furrowed.
“Two at the saddle and two in my pockets.”
“Good. Don’t travel anymore unless you absolutely must, not until you venture to Kinsale to set sail. When is that?”
“As soon as I can. Hopefully within the week; perhaps in a day or two. I’ll see if the captain will let me come aboard now; the letters will be safe that way.”
“We can lock them in my strongbox until then. We’ve still some business matters to discuss, and this way you won’t have to hide aboard ship.”
“I intend to keep all the letters on my person until I sail, Sir William.”
“That�
��s dangerous. If you’re robbed again …. By God! Damn you, Edward! You really don’t trust Molly! What now, you think she’ll break into my strongbox and the steal the letters? Friend or not—damn you!”
Christ, not now! Edward thought. “Sir William, calm yourself, you’re going to have a stroke, for God’s sake.”
“You don’t know what this means, Edward, you don’t know what this means.”
“I do, Sir William, I’m sorry, but I do. The facts are against her. She acted last night as I’ve seen traitors do when they try to lead an enemy into an ambush. And even you can’t explain why her dogs weren’t with her. And dammit, there’s a couple things you still don’t know: I only heard one shot afterward, and with it I heard voices. And worse, that bastard laying in the mud over there, there are powder burns on his coat, even a few unburned powder corns not yet dissolved by the rain. Whoever shot him did so at close range, closer than when I fired, and certainly closer than a woman fleeing on horseback. I’m not saying she shot him—”
“I don’t want to hear your evidence! You misunderstand me, you don’t understand at all.”
“No, Sir William, I don’t. You’re my friend and business partner, but I can’t avoid telling you the truth as I see it.”
The old gentleman shook his head. Edward swore he saw tears in his eyes.
“She’s my daughter, Edward. She’s my bastard daughter.”
Edward flushed.
“I’m sorry, Sir William. I didn’t even suspect. What a fool I’ve been. Does she know?”
“No, and by God if you tell her I’ll fight you and kill you, old and crippled as I am.” Sir William stood and wiped away his tears. “If Molly were a part of the attack on you last night, it was no choice of hers, I’m sure. She’s trapped, hell, we’re all trapped. If I declare her my daughter, she’ll lose her estate because she’ll no longer have legal right to it. And I have little to leave her when I’m dead, even if I acknowledge her. My shit of a greedy, ungrateful brother will inherit. I don’t even speak to him or of him anymore. He covets my estate, he despises Molly, probably suspects she’s my bastard, and he hates all papists. That damned parson of mine—never take on a man, Edward, until you’ve tried him—has been trying to reconcile us, but I told him to go bugger himself; he’s only trying to insinuate himself with my brother against the day I die.”
“I’m sorry,” Edward said again, at loss for other words.
“It gets worse. O’Hanlen? I’m sure he’s the man she’s betrothed to; O’Neal is his real name I think, and I’ve no doubt he’s around here again. Likely enough it was he who attacked you last night. I’ve tried to marry her off, to no avail, for she loves that scoundrel, or so she says. And now I hear rumors they’re going to accuse her of treason in order to confiscate her estate. Someone’s been feeding lies to the prosecutors lately, or maybe just the truth, that she won’t wed anyone but her betrothed. So if none of these fine, upstanding local asses can add her estate to theirs, why not let the law seize it and sell it below fair value?”
“Sit down, Sir William. There’s been too much excitement today. You need to rest.”
“What the hell am I to do, Edward? It’s far easier to invest in a privateer, or search the sea for plunder, than it is to navigate this mess ashore. Ah, hell, the soldiers return, we’ll talk more later, my friend.”
Edward tucked the packet of letters beneath his waistcoat under his sash as Lieutenant Fielding rode up and dismounted.
“So, Lieutenant, now that you’ve ridden him in chase, are you ready to buy that gelding?” Sir William asked jovially. It was, Edward perceived, an act, a means of putting the past moments out of his mind. “He has lungs, he does, and is far more handsome than that ugly bay you usually ride. Are you hungry, sir, will you take some pie? Edward, the lieutenant’s stomach is as bottomless as yours, I think.”
“And yours, Sir William,” Edward replied, also jovially, in keeping with the pretense.
“I’ll give you twenty-five pound, sir, for the gelding and some pie,” replied the lieutenant with a grin.
“Excellent, sir, excellent!”
“Can you join us this afternoon, Captain MacNaughton?” the lieutenant asked. “We’re going to reconnoiter the north countryside and see if we can’t find a thief or traitor to hang.”
“I can’t, my leg needs rest, and I’ve some last minute affairs to settle before I depart on the Virginia Galley, wind and tide permitting.”
“Another time then,” the lieutenant said, as he finished his bit of pie. He directed his men to tie the end of the rope hanging around the dead man’s neck to a horse to drag the body to Charles Fort.
“Careful you don’t pull his head off!” shouted Sir William.
“It’s what we intend anyway,” Lieutenant Fielding shouted back.
Edward, his mind on the new letters beneath his waistcoat, watched them work and sensed dangerous eyes upon him.
Chapter 15
...and when the wine-presse is hard wrought,
it yields a harsh wine, that tastes of the grape stone.
—Francis Bacon, Essays, 1601
The next three days were quietly uncomfortable for everyone. Molly kept to herself, pretending—or so Edward thought—fatigue and anxiety caused by the attack on the road; then he considered that her stress might be authentic no matter what role she had in the violence that night. Sir William put the house under heavy guard and confined Molly until, after a raging tempest of an argument, he agreed to let her ride close by once daily, and only under armed escort. After some brief resistance he got Edward similarly to agree not to go abroad without an escort of two or three armed servants. The Scotsman did not fear traveling, no matter the threat. In fact, he hoped he might encounter O’Hanlen, or O’Neal if they were the same, and by killing him solve Sir William’s problem—and perhaps Molly’s too.
The letters were another matter. Both Brennan and Allin sent frantic inquiries regarding the safety of their missives, to which Edward would not reply by message or messenger. Sir William reassured him of the security of his large iron chest, so heavy that it would take six men to carry it out and a cart to run away with it, with double locks so well hidden that not even Molly knew how to find them, but Edward would not be moved. The letters must not remain where either Molly or armed thieves could get at them.
And so on the third day Edward rode out, armed with a backsword, dirk, four pistols, and also his long buccaneer gun, a sling hastily rigged to it. In one of his saddlebags was his writing box. Two of Sir William’s most reliable servants, likewise well-armed with swords, pistols, and musketoons, rode at his side.
He made his first visits to Brennan and Allin, telling them plainly that they had nothing to fear, that the letters were safe. Brennan’s arrogance was insufferable: Edward immediately knew he was nervous about something but had no idea what it might be.
“Damn you, sir, what impudence to come here after what has happened! Everyone is gossiping of an intrigue, and now you confirm my role! Leave now, sir, leave now!”
Allin, on the other hand, was even more talkative than before, almost reveling.
“Swordplay and pistol shots on the road! A Tory hanged as a message to the others! Desperate times, sir, desperate times!” the baronet said almost gleefully. But otherwise he seemed unconcerned and only wanted to know that the letters were safe.
Edward’s third stop was to visit Jane Hardy. He dismounted, left his musket with one of the armed servants, both of whom were tactful and disciplined enough not to give him any sly looks, tossed his saddlebags and pistol holsters over his shoulder, and entered the foyer to be received.
“Edward! I’ve missed you, you rogue. Mistress O’Meary keeping you busy? I think I warned you, didn’t I?”
“I need something,” he replied, ignoring the jibe.
“I’ll not be taken to bed that easily, sir. It’ll cost you conversation in the salon and at table.”
“I haven’t time for that, and any
way it’s not your bed I’m asking for, at least not yet.”
“Indeed?”
“I want fine flour, water, a basin, some rags, and to be left alone.”
Jane cocked her head, then called for a servant to tend to him as requested.
“I’m surprised you trust me, Edward.”
“Shouldn’t I?” he said, more coldly than a friend ought.
“Considering your philosophy and recent events, I’m surprised you trust any woman. But then, you already know my opinion on the subject: it’s always best to keep your friends and enemies close.”
“I’ll bear that in mind after I disengage and get some distance to reflect. And don’t let anyone leave the house; my servants are under orders to stop anyone, to shoot if necessary.”
“My, what a mistrusting soul you’ve become. But I have a remedy for that,” she said, smiling as she closed the door and left him alone in the room.
When his materials arrived, Edward went to work. On the table he placed his naked sword and his four pistols, fully-cocked. With flour and water he made molds of the seals on the letters sent by Brennan and Allin, and dried them by the fire. Thanks to some brief experience in the past of petty craftsmanship in the trade of espionage, taught to him by an expert in the trade, yet not so expert—or perhaps not so lucky—that it kept him from being hanged, Edward was able to open the letters, read and copy them, and re-seal them, although it took him almost two hours to get the seals right, even with the aid of much cursing. If Lord Deigle suspected he had opened the letters, Edward would explain truthfully that he’d opened and read them because he feared their being stolen.
But in the letters he found nothing of note, unless there were messages hidden in code or secret ink. Neither described plots, but were only lists of persons thought to support the Jacobite cause or to support the king, none of whose names he recognized. Nor was any spy’s identity speculated on, and, significantly, Molly’s name was not listed. Edward was disappointed at first, then realized the lack of intelligence on Jacobite plotting made the letters he had stolen on the road all the more valuable.
Fortune's Whelp (Fortune's Whelp Series Book 1) Page 17