by Laura Parker
“Where are you taking him?” Deirdre cried as they dragged Killian from the stable.
The leader turned, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight as he smiled at her. “Fear not, ceanabhan. We’ve orders nae to harm him…or ye, more’s the pity. Ye’ve a sweet look about ye, and a man being a man could nae wish it otherwise.”
He came toward her until the smell of onions and ale from his warm breath assailed her. “Ye’d nae be doing yer lad harm by offering his captor a pogue.”
Deirdre drew back from him as far as her pinned arms would allow. “’Tis a polthogue I’d be offering ye, were me arms free!” she answered.
“There’s an answer for ye, Cuan!” said the man on her right.
“Shut up, ye great lout!” The leader took Deirdre’s chin between his calloused thumb and forefinger. “If ye care for yer man’s life, ye’ll have heard nothing, nothing!”
Deirdre bared her teeth. “I know the direction of the house you keep and the name you use, Cuan O’Dineen!”
Cuan regarded Deirdre steadily. “Ye’ve brave words but no brave arm to protect ye, Lady Fitzgerald, if that in truth be yer name. Only we do nae fear the name any longer, and ye may as well learn it now as later.”
As he dragged her chin forward to grind his lips against hers, Deirdre braced herself on her left foot and brought her right knee up sharply, the way Conall had taught her, and slammed it up between his legs.
Cuan fell with a strangled cry of pain, and in their surprise, Deirdre’s captors loosened their hold. She twisted and jerked, gaining her freedom. She flung herself into the dark space where Killian’s pistol lay unseen. Her hand closed over the butt as the scuffle of men’s footsteps sounded beside her and she rolled onto her back and lifted the pistol with both hands. “Stand back or I’ll shoot!”
The men paused, their shapes black silhouettes against the moonlit doorway. “Step back! Into the doorway!” she ordered as she rose to her knees.
“Now, lass, ye would nae want to point that at a man,” she heard Cuan say, but his two companions did not seem so certain and they did as she asked.
“If a man of you comes near me again, I will put a hole in him,” Deirdre said, gaining her feet.
“If ye murder one of us, the rest will hang yer lad.”
Deirdre did not doubt him. They had dragged Killian away. She could not expect them to release her husband unharmed if she shot one of them.
“Ye’d best keep quiet, lass.” Cuan straightened a little but kept one hand covering his groin. He pulled his forelock and then gave a defiant laugh. “I will say this, ye Fitzgeralds always were quick on yer feet.” He turned and limped out into the night with his silent companions.
Deirdre stood irresolutely, the pistol wavering in her hands. She had lost. Killian was gone and the men with him. What could she do? She knew not a soul in the valley. Even if she had, she could not be certain who was friend and who was foe.
Even as she thought of them, she heard the pair of horses she and Killian had ridden gallop away, urged on by the cries of the men who had accosted them. She was trapped in a burned-out hulk of a castle. She was alone. All she could do was wait.
Carefully she uncocked the hammer and lowered the pistol. When the last of the voices died away in the distance, she walked quietly back into the gray stone fortress of Liscarrol.
Chapter Nineteen
“Faith! That’s a fine ugly look to give a man what’s saved yer life!”
Killian sucked in a quick angry breath as the filthy blindfold and gag was ripped from his face. As he worked saliva into his dry mouth, he looked up at his captor. The man was huge and as shaggy as the native cattle which still roamed the countryside. Long hair, tufted eyebrows, mustache, and beard all flowed together in a wild matted tangle of fiery red. Tufts of orangy hair sprouted on the ridges of his shoulders, which were bared to the chill by a sleeveless leather waistcoat, and a heavier, darker mat of hair crested his chest and rode the curve of his gut where the waistcoat gaped open for lack of buttons. A wide leather belt kept a brace of pistols snug against his belly and held up breeches black with grease and wear. In his right hand was the skean with which he had cut Killian’s bindings.
Killian looked down and carefully spat to one side.
“There ye are, lads, a gentleman, this one!” the giant of a man declared. He thumped Killian hard on the shoulder. “What will ye be saying for yerself, gent?”
“I give my name freely to any man who asks it, but not to those who hold a dagger at my throat,” he replied in a voice that sought neither to antagonize nor to assuage.
“Ye show little fear for a lad within an arm’s length of losing his life.”
Killian looked about. He was in a stand of trees, probably the patch of forest he had seen from the minstrel gallery of Liscarrol. The man standing over him was the only one made visible by the small campfire but he could hear the breathing of others. His gaze swung back to the huge man. “Where’s the lass?”
“The lass? What lass?” the man asked and burst into laughter.
The giant moved his dagger until the point of it rested in the hollow of Killian’s throat and his eyes narrowed until they were nothing but silver slits of light. He pricked Killian’s skin but withdrew the point almost before Killian realized he had been cut.
“I keep it sharp so, for skinning rabbits,” the man explained as casually as though he talked to a bairn, and stuck the dagger in his belt. “Yer woman’s as safe as when ye left her side.”
Killian felt a warm trickle at his throat and knew it was blood. “Where is she?” he asked again.
The giant swung about, roaring a command into the darkness, and a man moved haltingly forward into the ring of firelight. “Tell him about the lass!” he demanded.
The slight man in black face said, “Yer lady’s well, for all she aims her knee more recklessly than ’tis right.”
Killian almost smiled as the reason for the man’s hobbling sank in. Deirdre had defended herself well. “You did not harm her?” he questioned.
“The lass kicked his balls back into his belly,” the giant answered and waved the man aside with a thick arm that nearly knocked him off his feet. “’Twill be some days afore he can harm any lass the way you mean.”
Killian turned to the leader. “Why have you brought me here?”
“Ye’re here because ye’ve come to claim lands that are now mine. I’m giving ye a chance to explain yerself, for I heard little that made sense from the pair of lickspittles ye had in tow.”
Killian now knew what had happened to his men. “What did you do to them?”
The giant shrugged.
“Would your name be O’Donovan?”
The man’s eyes widened an instant before his laughter boomed through the campsite once more. “I like ye, MacShane. Ye’ve courage.”
“My name’s MacShane,” Killian said, “but I’m certain that you learned more than that from my men. What should interest you is the reason I am here.”
“And so it does.”
“Your patroness is disturbed by certain rumors which have reached her ear.”
O’Donovan grinned. “Is she now? And would that patroness be the colleen dheas up at the old castle?”
“That lady is my wife.” Killian locked gazes with the taller man. “She is my business and no other’s.”
“More’s the pity,” O ‘Donovan answered. “Well. You’re here now, so speak.”
Killian shook his head. “Come to Liscarrol in three days’ time and I will welcome you as a guest.”
O’Donovan grinned. “Ye’ve a fine way with words for a man who has naught to say in how matters are settled. I may yet slit yer throat. I’ve been of a mind some little while that such as us owe nae allegiance to a French lady who profits more than we from our sweat.”
“You will always need ships to carry your contraband,” Killian answered casually. “Murder of a merchant’s employee will keep others from dealing with you. Even pr
ofit has its limitations to beguile. There are many smugglers, few ships. Merchants may easily find smugglers of more even temperament.”
O’Donovan scratched his belly. He liked MacShane better and better. He did not panic. “Mayhaps there’d be a place for ye with me. Ye’ve a glib tongue and manners that the English admire. Yer share of the profit could be handsome, if ye work out. Think on it before ye spurn O’Donovan’s offer.” He signaled to someone in the dark, roaring, “Where are ye, Teague? God’s Death! The man’s nae about when he’s needed.”
Killian stiffened at the name, and an instant later his disbelieving senses had proof of his suspicions as a slight, pale-haired young man with a sad narrow face stepped from the darkness.
“So ye’ll be knowing we’re nae all ignorant braggarts, here’s the schoolmaster among us. He’s a cousin who goes by the name of Teague. Talk to him, MacShane, and see the sense of throwing yer lot in with O’Donovan.”
Killian stood up, taking in at a single glance the painfully thin figure of his childhood friend.
*
“The men respect him,” Teague murmured as dawn turned the sky pink. Killian and Teague had talked for more than an hour, but nothing was settled. “His methods may not be mine, but a man cannot measure himself against another unless his accomplishments are as great. The people are behind him. They respect O’Donovan.”
“The people fear him, and you and I know that is not the same,” Killian answered and set aside the empty bowl that had contained cold porridge. With a fleeting pang of conscience, he remembered that Deirdre had spent a miserable night without food of any kind. “What you have told me, good Father, is that O’Donovan is rabid for the blood of the English; and when he cannot have it, he bleeds his own.”
“We are at war. These are hard times. Our people must protect their own.”
“But not the jackals that hide among them,” Killian countered, his voice dropping even lower. “Men like O’Donovan live only to fight. I’ve met their sort in every battle, fought both beside and against them. When they have no enemy, they invent some quarrel among themselves. How can you, gentle Teague, defend him?”
“You’ve been gone some while,” Teague answered softly. “The English are squeezing the life’s blood from the land. Ireland must be rid of the English. If we must kill, then so be it. We will kill and kill again until there are none of them left and the land belongs to us once more!”
Killian eyed his friend in astonishment mingled with pity. “You have changed, Father, or do O’Donovan’s men know you for a priest?”
“They do.”
“And do you pray for them and urge them on with vengeful sermons against the Pope’s enemies?”
Teague stiffened. “You come close to blasphemy in your tone, MacShane. Not so long ago I asked you to come here with me to do spiritual work and you would not. Now you are here. Allow me to advise you in this matter.”
“Be Deirdre’s friend, for ’tis certain you cannot be mine,” Killian answered. He had his own method for dealing with O’Donovan that no other man could be party to.
“I do not understand.”
Killian smiled suddenly. “I am wed since last we met. Aye. My wife lies alone in the roofless castle beyond this wood without food or blanket. If you would be a friend, go and help her.”
“’Tis little enough to ask, Killian, but I will promise.” Teague hesitated, his brow furrowing. “This lady of yours, is she pious?”
“She is not a woman of the streets, if that is what you mean, Father. She’s a Fitzgerald, daughter of a lord. Had I not a man’s view of the world, I would believe as she does that the work of the Sidhe brought us together.”
“The fairies, your lady believes in fairies?” Teague asked in shocked tones.
Amusement brightened Killian’s expression. “Were you to hear the full tale of our courtship, you might wonder at it yourself. But that’s a chat for another, happier evening by the hearth. Liscarrol belongs to her and she’ll fight the English or the devil himself to retain it.”
“There are those here who would help her fight the English,” Teague reminded him gently.
“Aye, and get her hanged in the bargain!” Killian rounded angrily. He eyed the priest hard. “Many a good man has come to a bad end for a good purpose.”
“O’Donovan has done good for the people.”
“Then you can be certain there’s a purpose in his generosity. A man who would allow his own child to hang in his place, well, what will that man not do to preserve his skin?”
The priest was still and white. “The village folk were frightened. They would blame any evil on O’Donovan to excuse their own weaknesses. O’Donovan encourages the stories because they gain him a certain amount of notoriety and respect wherever he goes.”
“And fear. Do not forget the power of fear, Father,” Killian answered.
“You have not been here long. You will understand in time.”
Killian looked at the priest’s flushed face and avid gaze. “You came to feed the Father’s flock, not raise rebellion.”
“To feed the flock here in Ireland, one must first throw off the oppressor’s yoke!”
“Do not feed my wife this brand of theology,” Killian said flatly. “I will not have her stirred by brave words that cannot be followed by equally brave deeds.”
“Of course,” the priest replied. “If she is gently bred, she would not understand in any case. It might do as well if you sent her back to Nantes immediately.”
“She is not so gently bred as that,” Killian answered with a chuckle. “Even if I were to threaten her with a beating, she would remain until she sees an end to Liscarrol.”
The priest blinked. “’Tis strange how you phrase that. Since I came I have heard talk of the return of the old guard, of the rising of Liscarrol. An old wives’ tale, to be sure, but one would hope it does not reach your lady’s ear.”
“What tale is that?”
Teague hesitated. “’Tis bound up in the old religion and best forgotten, but I will tell you. It began just before the Bastard Queen Elizabeth conquered the north. From the clan O’Neill there was to come a savior of her people, a beautiful lady with the mark of the otherworld emblazed on her skin. The first visitation is said to have taken place in Leinster a century and a half ago. I remember hearing the tale as a child. The lady was a Butler, but she was said to have been the natural child of Shane, the O’Neill of Ulster, and her mother was the daughter of a Fitzgerald chieftain. She became known as the Rose of Ulster.”
The priest’s cheeks reddened as he hurried on. “She was marked from birth with a bloodred mark on her cheek. Legend says she saved the Butlers in their quarrel with one of the Bastard Queen’s men. The Butlers now deny her existence; but tales have a life of their own, and so it has been handed down among the common folk.”
“What has this to do with Liscarrol?”
Teague smiled. “You were nae born here or you would not need to ask. A few years before the English victory at Kilkenny in ninety-one, the then Lord Fitzgerald took as his wife a lady from the house of Butler. ’Twas rumored she was a witch. I never saw her, but they said she was a black-haired beauty with strange eyes that changed color like a lough when cloud and sunlight play on it.”
Killian smiled at his friend’s wistful tone. The priest was still a man.
“She bore Lord Fitzgerald a child, and before it was born she proclaimed that her child would be the next fairy woman of the O’Neill line. A daughter was born. I know nothing of the child other than that she fled to the Continent with her family in ninety-one.”
“And…?” Killian urged when the priest fell silent. “And you fear that my wife’s return to the Liscarrol will stir old superstitions?”
“Perhaps. But then I fear too easily.” The ghost of a smile flitted across his features. “You’ve nothing to concern yourself with unless she bears a rose birthmark on her cheek.”
“Nae. ’Tis on her shoulder.”
“Deirdre has a lovely rosebud mark on her left shoulder,” Killian replied and then erupted in laughter. “Shame, priest! You should be above superstitions of the bog and Sidhe.”
The priest stood up. “You find humiliating me a pleasant pastime.”
“Nae. But go and see my lady for yourself. She is a lovely golden-haired lass with eyes that change color like the seasons reflected in a lough. You will find her charming, spirited, and loyal to both the true Church and Ireland.” Killian sat forward suddenly, his humor gone. “But do not tell her your tale of fairy women. She feels too strongly about Liscarrol for my tastes. I would not have you stir her head with fancy.”
“I will say nothing.”
“You will take her food and wine? She has gone these last two days without.”
“Aye, I will see to her good care, MacShane.”
“Tell her I love her.”
The priest looked down into MacShane’s strong face, the defiance for once in abeyance before the more tender emotions of love and concern.
Teague shook his head slightly. He could not imagine the joy that Killian found in a woman’s arms. The pleasure, yes, the release of urges he, too, had felt. But the rush of feelings that colored Killian’s words were reserved in him for the moments of ecstasy he felt in prayer. “So you have found your place at last. ’Tis glad I am for you.”
When Teague was gone, Killian sat staring at the fire. Teague’s final words had stirred the old unrest within him. Deirdre was his heart. Where she was, there he would be. But something of his own, that measure which a man must have in order to exist, where was that place to be found?
The answer came to him gradually, a feeling that he had long denied because it carried with it inherent dangers and great risks that he no longer found acceptable. But it was real, and as he allowed the thought to enter his mind, he knew that it had been waiting for his acknowledgment all along.
He was a part of Deirdre as she was a part of him, and Liscarrol was a part of them both. Liscarrol had brought them together. If it would keep them together, he must hold it. He would fight not because Deirdre wanted it but because it would be his home, something he had never had.