by Laura Parker
“So,” Lord Fitzgerald said shortly. This was not the answer he had hoped for. A professional soldier himself, he had little liking for the rapparees, as these undrilled fighters called themselves. The countryside swarmed with irregular troops, farmers and peasants mostly, who would offer aid in one battle and then disappear before the next. Often they fought with the tools of their trades: scythes, pitchforks, pikes, and sgians. Some rapparees were honest fighters and defenders of their homes. Many others were nothing more than thieves and murderers who used the Irish cause as a cover for their crimes.
Fitzgerald remembered the pistol in his pocket. Pistols were rare among common herdsmen. Powder and shot were even more difficult to obtain…unless this lad was a highwayman.
Fitzgerald shook the boy until he groaned. “Tell me yer name!”
The boy coughed and choked, bringing a blood-tinged foam to his lips.
Fitzgerald cursed roundly when he saw the blood. After laying the boy flat he unsheathed his skean, threw back the cloak, and began cutting away the bloody tatters of clothing wrapped around his body.
When the last shreds of cloth gave way under his knife blade, Fitzgerald saw the dark bloody bruise that covered half the boy’s right side. With knowledgeable fingers he located three broken ribs. Perhaps one or more of them had pierced the lad’s lung.
When his eyes fell to the boy’s waist, he blinked in surprise. Tied about his waist under his shirt was a wooden rosary and crucifix such as monks wore. Fingering it curiously, Fitzgerald pondered the reason for it. The life of a rapparee was about as far from a priestly existence as a man could imagine.
“Ye sent for me, sir?”
Brigadier Fitzgerald looked up into the ruddy face of his sergeant. “Aye, I did. We’ve a wounded lad here. A rapparee, by his own account, only he’s slow to speak his name.”
Elam O’Conner looked down dispassionately at the injured boy and said, “Will ye be having me coax it out of him?”
From the corner of his eye, and to his great consternation, Lord Fitzgerald saw his daughter step from the shadows. “What are ye doing here?”
Wide-eyed at the sight of the young man’s horribly battered chest, Deirdre came closer. “Is he dead, Da?” she questioned. “He looks dead.”
“No, lass, he’s not dead,” Lord Fitzgerald assured her.
His voice hardened as he added, “Ye were not to come back. ’Twas an order.”
Her gaze shifted to the boy lying disquietingly still. “I found him,” she said, as if by saying that she could reclaim him as hers.
“Aye, lass, and a brave thing it was ye did. But ye’ve no need to think about it any longer. We’ll patch him up and have him on his way in a trice.”
Deirdre looked up at her father, her gray-green eyes swimming with tears. “He thinks you’ll hang him, and he hurts something fierce.”
With a rueful smile Lord Fitzgerald held out his hand to his daughter and said, “If I promise ye shall see him again when he’s cleaned and bandaged, will ye go up to the house and wait?”
Deirdre nodded, the agreement reluctantly drawn from her.
“That’s me girl. Go now and—”
Suddenly Deirdre’s father stiffened and his sergeant with him. The men exchanged glances and the sergeant nodded his head. “Damn!” her father swore.
Deirdre stared at them a fraction longer and then she heard it too—horses cantering toward Liscarrol.
“That’ll be me cousin Neil,” Lord Fitzgerald said.
“And the English,” Sergeant O’Conner added.
“Aye. English soldiers come to see me off.”
Together the two men glanced down at the boy as he stirred and began coughing. When their eyes met again, each realized that his thoughts were the same as the other’s.
Regular Irish troops like themselves were under the protection of the Treaty of Limerick, but it did not cover rebels who fought the English in informal combat using ambush and surprise. Rapparees were fair game for English soldiers, to be hunted and killed like vermin.
Lord Fitzgerald shook his head even as his sergeant opened his mouth. “It will not serve, man. Look at him. He cannot escape on his own, nor can we leave him here to be discovered once we’ve left. I’ve seen too much of English justice. Those we leave behind will be made to pay for harboring a wanted man.”
“Hand him over to them,” the sergeant suggested without batting an eye.
Lord Fitzgerald did not hesitate. “I’m not a man to set the dogs on a wounded stag.”
“What then, sir?” the sergeant questioned, a grin easing into his features for the first time.
“An old trick. ’Tis served well enough before,” his commander answered with a wink.
He knelt and took Deirdre’s face in his hands. She is so like her mother, God rest her soul he thought fleetingly. Too severe of feature to be called a pretty child, he believed she would one day grow into a beauty. She was why he was willing to leave Ireland. He could watch his sons fight and die, if need be, for the cause in which they all believed. Deirdre was another matter. There was a promise made on a deathbed which he must honor to save his soul.
He smiled at her. “Lass, I need ye to go to the house and tell Brigid there’s to be a man put in the priest hole. We’ll be coming by way of the servants’ door. Tell her that.”
A smile bloomed suddenly on Deirdre’s face and the effect softened her too-sharp chin and the too-high bridge of her nose. “I knew you’d not hurt him. I told him so.” She threw her slender arms about her father’s neck and squeezed him tightly before running toward the house.
Lord Fitzgerald turned to his sergeant.
O’Conner shrugged, offering, “I’d not wager a sum on his living out the night.”
Fitzgerald nodded slowly. It was not the lad’s life that concerned him at the moment. Hiding a man sought by the English authorities was a hanging offense.
While O’Conner lifted the young man into his arms like a babe, Lord Fitzgerald bent to pick up the hat with the telltale white cockade. If the mysterious young man lived, he would have to come with them to France. If he lived.
Chapter Two
Lord Fitzgerald kept watch as the sergeant lowered the injured young man to the floor in the narrow passage. Built inside the massive fireplace of Liscarroll’s Great Hall, the passage could be entered only by tripping the lock that opened a door cunningly cut into the back wall.
After a quick inspection, O’Conner turned the boy on his side to ease his breathing. “I cannot be certain, but ’twould seem he took a ball in them ribs, and he’s bleeding from a dozen smaller wounds.”
“Do what ye can,” Lord Fitzgerald answered as he held a taper to provide light. “Damnation! Where’s Brigid?” he continued just before the dining-room door swung open on the nurse.
Brigid curtsied automatically to Lord Fitzgerald, who smiled as he saw the supplies in her hands. “No one saw ye?” he asked, and she shook her head. “Have me guests arrived?”
“Aye, me lord. They’re in the front hall.” White-faced with anxiety, Brigid glanced at the kneeling sergeant, who took her supplies, and then at the wounded man sprawled in the passage, but his face was shielded by the soldier’s broad shoulders. When Lord Fitzgerald had returned to the house and ordered her to bring bandages to the secret chamber which had hidden more than one hunted priest during the days of Cromwell’s terror, she had not known what to think. Yet, here was proof positive that Deirdre had found a man in the stables. Who could he be?
Lord Fitzgerald noted his servant’s interest in consternation. Leaning toward her, he said, “If it comes to it, ye’ve seen nothing, have ye, Brigid me girl?”
Brigid’s gaze flew back to his face and she shook her head quickly, her face flushing with guilt. “No, me lord. I’ve seen and heard nothing, and there’s me word on it.”
Satisfied that her nervousness was nothing more than an honest fear of danger, he relaxed. “My cousin and his English friends should not be
left alone or they will begin to wonder at our hospitality.”
Brigid curtsied again. “Aye, me lord. Cook’s put the kettle on to boil for tea, only there’s nothing to serve it in but the scullery china.”
The thought brought a brief smile to Lord Fitzgerald’s lips. “Liscarrol hospitality is nae so fine as it once was. There’s nary a chair to be shared amongst them. Perhaps ’twill encourage them to see us off quickly.”
“Aye, me lord.”
“Make certain me daughter is kept away from them. She’s a braw lass but her tongue gets the better of her on occasion. Keep her entertained and out of sight.”
Brigid blanched and Lord Fitzgerald’s sharp eyes saw it despite the gloom. “What is it?”
“’Tis Deirdre, me lord. She’s in the front hall. Sir Neil asked particularly to speak with her.”
Lord Fitzgerald swore a vicious oath. “Well? Why do ye stand there like a stone in a bog? Fetch her away at once!”
“Aye, me lord.” Brigid turned and hurried from the room, firmly closing the door after herself.
The sergeant looked up, having firmly bound the broken ribs. “He’ll hold now.”
“Can he ride, that’s the question,” Lord Fitzgerald countered.
“Ye can’t mean to take the lad with us?”
Lord Fitzgerald nodded. “Aye. When me cousin’s had his fill of pacing his new home, he’ll return to Dublin for supplies and furnishings. ’Twill be no great hardship for ye and a man ye trust to nip back at dark and retrieve the lad.”
The sergeant’s brows drew together. “If we’re caught…” he began reluctantly.
“Don’t be,” his commanding officer answered with finality as he rose. “Report to the troops at once. I’ll see to our guests. I hope to God Dee has held her tongue!”
*
Deirdre eyed her father’s cousin mistrustfully. In his gloved hand, he held out a sweetmeat, but she was much more interested in his appearance. His bushy, carrot-hair brows clashed in an absurd fashion with his black wavy full-bottom wig. In its forelock were tied tiny silk bow-knots that matched his emerald-green velvet coat. His nose was a large, bulbous affair with a spiderwebbing of veins on its blunt tip. Only his eyes, pale and slightly bulging but without any calculation or malice, were attractive to her. Yet, she clasped her hands behind her back, refusing the tempting offer.
“Thank you, sir, but no,” she said softly in Gaelic. “Me da says ’tis unfitting for a lady to accept a gift from a strange gentleman.”
“Gaelic!” one of Sir Neil’s companions voiced in disbelief. Deirdre’s gaze moved to the tallest of the three English soldiers in red coats. His was scarlet, decorated with embroidery and braid, and she guessed by his air of superiority that he was their leader. “Doesn’t the chit know Gaelic is forbidden?”
Undaunted by his tone, she looked straight up at the man, who wore a modest blond periwig, and asked in English, “Why?”
He looked down at her as though she had bitten him. “Impertinence!” he snapped and turned to her uncle. “Valuable time is being wasted here. One would think we were the vanquished waiting upon the pleasure of our conquerors. Instead, we are made to stand in wait, hat in hand, like beggars. Irish arrogance! They’ll pay for it.”
Sir Neil Fitzgerald colored uncomfortably. “Captain Garret, ’tis a trying day for all of us. A little patience, I beg you.”
The English soldier smirked. “You can afford patience when you stand to gain by it.” He deliberately surveyed the stripped hallway before saying, “Though one wonders at your interest in so Spartan a domicile. From what I observe, they leave you little that is of comfort, pleasure, or beauty.”
“’Tis a lie!” Deirdre burst out. “Liscarrol is the most beautiful place on earth. ’Tis been the home of Fitzgeralds for five hundred years.”
The Englishman looked down at her, his eyes narrowing. “I believe I preferred it when you spoke heathen gibberish. At least then I was spared your plaguey poor manners, brat!”
“Deirdre, lass, are ye no better a hostess than our guests are guests?” Lord Fitzgerald questioned. His lips smiled but his eyes were hard as he entered the front hall and held out a hand to his daughter. He patted her cheek as she clasped him about the waist.
“They’re horrid!” she whispered against his waistcoat.
“Aye, lass, ’tis a pity what power does to some men’s judgment,” he said softly. More loudly he said, “Not a week ago I saw a common English soldier strike a lady for no more reason than that she refused to yield the road to his horse. In England, such a man would have been thrown in jail or, at the very least, publicly horsewhipped for having dared the violence.” He enclosed his daughter’s shoulders with a firm arm, his gaze leveled on the English officer. “But we’re not in England, and many a man away from home forgets his manners.”
The Englishman had the grace to blush, his neck above his collar warming to red, but that did not improve his disposition. “Your daughter is a trifle forward, Lord Fitzgerald, and my temper is somewhat uncertain these days.”
Lord Fitzgerald regarded the younger man with the barest hint of a smile. “Aye, the strain of command can be wearisome for one without the temperament for it.” Turning, he held out his hand to his cousin. “Welcome to Liscarrol, Neil. I see ye prosper for all ye keep uncertain company.” Gently he pushed his daughter forward. “Make yer curtsy to yer cousin, Dee, and then be off with ye.”
Deirdre complied gracefully. “Welcome to Liscarrol, Cousin Neil,” she said politely and, looking up, gave him a dimpled smile. “Now that we’re properly introduced, ’twould be rude to turn away a gift.”
Despite her deliberate use of Gaelic, Neil chuckled and produced the looked-for sweet. “A delight, you are, Cousin Deirdre, albeit a naughty one,” he answered in a whisper as he handed her the treat.
Deirdre popped it whole into her mouth, afraid that the tall Englishman would somehow contrive to take it from her if she delayed. When she had chewed and swallowed it, she lifted her chin and gave the English officer a gloating smile.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” the office said, ignoring the child’s triumphant glance. “I am Sir Harold Garret, Baronet of Bowland and captain of the guard sent to escort your party to Cork.”
Lord Fitzgerald nodded slightly, giving no ground at the man’s title of nobility. To his cousin he said, “’Tis a sad day, this. I’ve no accounting to ye as to the reasons, but know that Liscarrol comes into yer hands for but a short time. Take good care of it. That said, there’s nothing to do but ride.”
“Lord Fitzgerald, a moment.” Captain Garret stepped forward to stand before the Irish lord. “We have a matter that must be attended to before you will be allowed to leave Liscarrol.” When Lord Fitzgerald did not reply, the captain continued stiffly, “While I am willing to believe that neither you nor your men were involved in the incident, I must make a thorough search of Liscarrol before we depart.”
“We were attacked on the road,” Sir Neil offered in explanation to his cousin. “Two of Captain Garret’s soldiers were killed.”
“Who attacked ye and why?” Lord Fitzgerald questioned the Englishman.
“Is there ever a reason for what you Irish do?” Captain Garret challenged.
Lord Fitzgerald’s lips twitched. “If ye’re an example of English tolerance, then there’s no reason necessary.”
Captain Garret straightened, his face paling with anger. “I should remind you, Lord Fitzgerald, that you and your company are under arrest. You should know that we caught and hanged one of the ambushers. I shot the other but he got away. I mean to see that he joins his comrade. If you will help me in this matter you will be treated with the utmost kindness and accorded the freedom you earn.”
“As yer prisoner I would have none,” Lord Fitzgerald answered. “But ye’re neither my jailer nor my superior, and I will not submit to a search of my private possessions without express orders from your superior.”
For the first time
Captain Garret smiled. “Is there, perhaps, good cause for your reluctance? A man in your position should care little what happens to the property he deserts.”
For the first time Lord Fitzgerald became aware that Deirdre still stood beside him, watching and listening. He turned to her. “Go upstairs to yer nurse, Dee, and do not come down till I come for ye.”
Deirdre nodded, not quite meeting her father’s eyes. But when she turned away, she gave the Englishman one long last look of enmity. He was responsible for the injured man lying in the priest hole. At last she understood why her father hated the English, for the anger roiling in her breast made her want to scratch and bite the officer.
“If you wish to be difficult, I can see to it that your family is delayed indefinitely at the barracks in Cork,” she heard the Englishman say as she hurried up the narrow winding stairwell. “I’d not care to have my womenfolk subjected to the indignity. Will you allow the search?”
“Search anywhere ye please! And may ye find the Devil himself at the end of it!” Deirdre heard her father answer as she reached the top.
“We will, sir. And when we do, we’ll hang him!”
The skin on Deirdre’s arms puckered and she shivered in fright as she stood on the landing. They would hang him! The English would hang her stranger!
She glanced up the stairwell that led to the nursery and then back down. Unlike her father, she did not believe that the English would fail to find the priest hole.
Her stranger could not be the murderer. He was the embodiment of a daydream come to life. Somehow, without her willing it, she had conjured him up. But who would believe her? Certainly not the silver-eyed English officer. Perhaps not even her father, who refused to listen to her tales of fairies and disturbing visions. Childish fancy, he called them. Yet, the man in the stables was real enough.
“I must do something!” she whispered to herself, and, seizing a candle from the hall sconce, she hurried toward the servants’ stairwell, which was a back way into the Great Hall.
*
Pain was the only definable sensation within Killian MacShane as he regained consciousness. The pain was excruciating. It crushed his lungs and radiated out to numb his arms and legs. He was helpless against the stabbing that caught him unprepared each time he drew a breath. Tears pricked his closed eyes. No. He would not cry. He had witnessed and suffered too much to shame himself with the cowardice of tears. If he was dying, perhaps it was best. This sliding down into the red seafoam of pain flooding him was not so difficult. Then, at last, it would be over.