The Maid of Ireland

by Susan Wiggs

  To his left the sea swelled out endlessly. To his right, a small town huddled a stone’s throw away.

  “Milford Haven,” said Thurloe.

  “Milford Haven! My God, that’s two hundred miles from London,” said Wesley. Lost miles, during which he had imagined being borne to hell in the devil’s chariot.

  “You see, we’ve not even left port.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because not all of us are going with you, Mr. Hawkins.”

  “Going where?”

  Thurloe made no response, but led the way down a hatch and through a companionway that smelled of wet timber and moldering rope. Two men descended on Wesley with soap and a razor. Fifteen minutes later, he found himself thrust before the Lord Protector of England. The sight of Oliver Cromwell freshened Wesley’s fears that he had gone to hell, after all.

  Framed from behind by a bank of diamond shaped stern windows, Cromwell stood at a burl writing desk. Reddish brown hair, cropped to his shoulders, framed a bold-featured face ornamented by a curling mustache and pointed beard. The Lord Protector’s eyes had the gleam of ice-coated rock.

  “Bit of an improvement.” His gaze sharpened on Wesley. “Ah, Mr. Hawkins. I’ve got you at last, after all these years.”

  In the wells of the desk sat an array of crystal ink bottles with silver stoppers. The gilt-edged blotter and the straight-backed chair bore an imprint of the lions of England. The trappings of royalty.

  Wesley planted his feet on the red Turkey carpet of the stateroom. “What ship is this?”

  Cromwell’s lips tightened as if he found the question impertinent. He drew himself up proudly. The pose looked faintly ridiculous on the Lord Protector. His plain cloth suit appeared to be the work of a country tailor. “It used to be called Royal Charles but it’s been rechristened Victory.”

  “And where are we going?”

  “You are sailing west as soon as I’ve given you your instructions.”

  “You’re sending me into exile?”

  Beneath the legendary ruby nose, a controlled smile tugged at Cromwell’s mouth. “Exile? Too easy for the likes of you.”

  “You obviously want something from me, else you’d not have spared my life,” Wesley reminded him. The truth hit him suddenly, a swift blow to his empty belly. He was alive! Laura. Laura, darling. The thought of her clasped him in an embrace of both joy and dread.

  “You royalists are always so astute,” said Cromwell, his voice sharp as an untuned viol.

  Wesley ignored the taunt. He had been astute enough to elude Cromwell for six years.

  “Sit down, Mr. Hawkins.”

  As the Lord Protector lowered himself to the richly carved chair, Wesley took a three-legged stool opposite him. Thurloe poured brandy into small glasses.

  “The Irish problem.” Cromwell pressed his palm to the map before him. The chart depicted the island, with stars drawn at the English-held ports and hen-track markings tracing the route of Cromwell’s dread Roundhead army.

  Ireland? Wesley frowned. Perhaps the pressures of his office were weighting Cromwell’s reason.

  “I know nothing of Ireland,” said Wesley. Almost true. A hazy memory came to him, filtered by the years. His parents’ stern faces and cold eyes as they informed him that England was not safe for Catholics. His banishment to Louvain on the Continent, where Irish friars had put him to work printing outlawed books in Gaelic. The kindness of the brothers had almost filled the void in his heart. And the strange, lyrical language of the Gaels had lingered like a never-to-be-forgotten song in his mind.

  “You stand to learn more than any civilized man ought to know.” Cromwell jabbed a thick finger at the map. “Dublin, Ulster, all the major ports belong to us. The Pale is ours. We gave the rebels a choice of hell or Connaught, and most of them made the mistake of choosing Connaught. And that’s where the problem lies.”

  The west of Ireland. Wool, peat, herring...what else? He could not think of a commodity that would induce Cromwell to risk his men. But that was the Lord Protector: all-powerful, enigmatic, consumed by ambition, and unwilling to explain his motives.

  “Galway,” said Wesley, deciphering the upside-down word near Cromwell’s finger.

  “Aye, and the entire coast of Connemara. I’ve garrisoned troops at Galway. The Irish were driven out of the city long ago. But we’ve had resistance.”

  The Lord Protector looked as if he could not comprehend this defiance. Why, Wesley thought ironically, wouldn’t the Irish wish to give up their age-old way of life, their tradition of self-rule, and their Catholic religion in order to embrace a revenue-hungry Protestant conquest?

  Wesley realized he knew more about the Irish than he had thought. He took a drink. The brandy dropped like hot lead in his empty stomach.

  “The heart of the resistance,” said Thurloe, “is a band of warriors called the Fianna. Do you know the legend?”

  “No.” Wesley suspected it had to do with dark magic, fey folk, and shadowy deeds.

  “It’s a medieval order of warriors, bound by blasphemous pledges and initiated in pagan rites. They fight like devils. Our captains swear the villains hold their horses under a spell, so fierce are the beasts.”

  One corner of Wesley’s mouth lifted in a half smile. “I think your captains have been in the bogs too long.”

  “They do God’s work,” Cromwell retorted.

  “The Fianna use antique weapons,” Thurloe continued. “Broadswords, slings, cudgels, crossbows—and violate every rule of war. They strike like a sudden storm in the dark: swift, unexpected, devastating to men who pursue victory with honor.”

  “And where do these warriors come from?” asked Wesley.

  “Some are Connemara men. We know this because of the unique horses they ride. The Irish call them ponies, but the beasts are as large and thick as cavalry horses. Other warriors might have been recruited from the exiles of Connaught to the north.”

  “And your army can’t contain them?”

  “My army has righteousness on its side,” Cromwell insisted. “But they’re not trained in dirty, sneaking, bog-trotting tactics.”

  And you think I am, Wesley silently observed. He took another sip of brandy. Resurrecting an ancient order was, he decided, an act of political genius, a clever way to remind the despairing Irish that they were the sons of warriors.

  “They have a weakness,” Thurloe said.

  Cromwell picked up a quill pen and brushed it over the map. “They have a blind, pagan devotion to their leader.”

  Thurloe nodded. “The man has already achieved the status of legend. Our soldiers hear ballads sung about him. His Fianna will follow him to the very gates of hell and beyond.”

  “Who is he?” asked Wesley.

  “No one knows.” Thurloe’s sharp, Puritan features drew taut with chagrin. As master of protectoral intelligence, he prided himself on knowing the business of every last mother’s son in the Commonwealth. He resented the elusiveness of the Fianna. “We suspected the hand of popish priests in this, but we’ve culled every cleric from the area, and still the rebels ride.”

  Cold distaste turned the brandy bitter in Wesley’s mouth. England was not the only dangerous place for the Catholic clergy.

  “I want the devil taken.” Cromwell’s ruddy fist crashed down on the leather blotter. Crystal ink bottles clinked in their wells. “I want his head on a pike on London Bridge so all England can look upon an Irish thief and murderer.”

  Wesley winced at the contempt in Cromwell’s voice. “He’s only a man fighting for his life and his people.”

  “Bah! Honest Englishmen lived for years among the Irish, who enjoyed equal justice from the law. The rebels broke that union, just when Ireland was in a state of perfect peace.”

  “Or perfect suppression,” said Wesley.

  “I did not bring you here to debate questions of justice. I can drastically shorten your stay of execution.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Once this chieft
ain is taken,” Thurloe continued, “the Fianna will disintegrate.” A tight smile played about his mouth. “The Irish are sheep who lose their way without their shepherd.”

  “Then from Galway we’ll take all the coastal districts of Connemara,” Cromwell stated with an air of finality. “We’ll put a noose around the rebels in Connaught.”

  Wesley no longer wondered why Cromwell had cut him down from Tyburn Tree. He knew.

  “Mr. Hawkins,” said Cromwell, “do you value your life over that of a murdering outlaw?”

  I’m a Catholic, not a madman, thought Wesley. “Absolutely, Your Honor.”

  “I thought so,” said Cromwell. “You’re to find the chief of the Fianna and bring his head to me before the year is out.”

  The ship’s timbers creaked into the silence. The smell of brine and mildew pervaded the air.

  “Why me?” asked Wesley. “I’m a king’s man, and one of the few left in England who’s not afraid to say so.”

  “Where’s Charles Stuart now, eh?” Cromwell sneered. “Helping the man who helped him escape Worcester?” He planted his elbows on the table. “He’s wenching on the Continent, Mr. Hawkins, and doesn’t give a damn about you.”

  Wesley wouldn’t let himself rise to the taunt, wouldn’t let himself think of the night spent in an oak tree with a frightened young prince. “What makes you think I’m your man?”

  “I’ve learned much about you. Your parents sent you overseas for rearing among papists. You returned to England to become a thief taker, growing rich on bounties and blood money.”

  Tightening his muscles, Wesley fought to govern his emotions. Few knew of his parents or of the deeds he had done, tracking thieves, hauling them kicking and screaming to justice.

  “Then you threw in your lot with the royal tyrant,” Cromwell went on. “We lost track of you. But we knew you were in England, spreading sedition and popish idolatry.”

  “I seem to have been a busy man,” Wesley said wryly.

  “It’s your reputation for tracking that put the idea on us,” said Thurloe. “Men swore you were capable of finding the path of a snake over stone, or a bird’s flight through a cloudy sky.”

  “I think that’s overstating my talents a little.”

  “In your time, you were the most successful thief taker in England.”

  “There are others who have given their loyalty to you.”

  “True, but you’re fluent in Gaelic. From your training in Louvain.”

  Wesley made no reply. This was no bluff, then. Thurloe was conscientious indeed. He had done his research.

  “Ah, and one final thing.” Cromwell smiled, the drawn-back grin of a viper about to strike. “Your success with women. Even as a postulant you couldn’t resist.”

  Wesley went cold inside. He wondered how much the Lord Protector actually knew of his lapse.

  He found out when Thurloe presented him with a letter. “From William Pym,” the Secretary of State announced in a voice hot with venom. “You seduced his daughter, Annabel, and she died three years ago birthing your bastard.”

  Wesley closed his eyes as shame scoured his soul. Here was his penance. He forced his eyes open. “I comported myself poorly. How will that help me corner an Irish outlaw?”

  Thurloe produced another letter. A whimsical script danced across the page. “There is a reference to the Fianna in this, from a woman of Connemara to a Spanish gentleman in London.”

  “You intercepted it?” Wesley asked.

  He nodded. “The woman’s name is Caitlin MacBride. She’s mistress of a coastal stronghold called Clonmuir.”

  “An excellent place to start your conquest,” Thurloe put in. “The attacks of the Fianna began not long after the English burned the fishing vessels of Clonmuir.”

  “If you can sweet-talk your way into her bed as easily as you did into the beds of English ladies,” said Cromwell, “you’ll be able to coax secrets from the Irish whore.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, my lord?” asked Wesley.

  The Lord Protector lifted his glass. “An unenviable task. Irishwomen are Amazons—dirty and ugly—and this Caitlin MacBride will likely be worse. She’s twenty-two and unmarried despite her holdings. But you’ll put up with her barbaric ways. Knowing your proclivities, you’ll probably find her interesting.”

  “I cannot seduce a woman,” Wesley stated with a rush of guilt. The appearance of Laura in his life had made him swear off meaningless dalliances.

  “You’ll do as I say now, my friend,” said Cromwell.

  “And if I fail?”

  Cromwell smiled grimly. “You won’t. My commander in Galway is Captain Titus Hammersmith. I sent letters ahead, explaining what is expected. You are to cooperate with him in every way.”

  “I can’t work with Roundheads breathing down my neck.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Hawkins, you won’t have to.”

  An arrow of suspicion embedded itself in Wesley’s mind. Cromwell was too confident. Something rang false. “What’s to stop me from losing myself in Ireland?”

  Cromwell waved a summons at someone standing outside the door. Wesley heard the sound of approaching feet, one pair heavy, the other light and rapid. The back of his neck began to itch. He rose from the stool and turned toward the door.

  “Papa!” A tiny girl burst into the stateroom.

  Wesley’s legs wobbled. He dropped to his knees. She leapt into his arms and pressed her warm, silky cheek to his.

  “Laura, oh, Laura.” He kissed her, then pressed her face to his chest.

  “Papa, you sound funny,” said Laura. She touched his throat. “What happened to your neck?”

  “I’m all right,” he whispered. Tears needled the backs of his eyelids but he conquered them. Think. Cromwell had the child. Wesley raised his eyes to the woman who stood wringing her hands. He held Hester Clench captive with the same furious thief taker’s stare he used to employ on recalcitrant prisoners.

  The truth shone brightly on the woman’s frightened face. She had told Cromwell everything.

  Every blessed detail she’d vowed to take to the grave.

  “Damn you,” he said quietly.

  She had dark eyes and a handsome face he’d once thought kindly. Her chin came up, and she said, “It’s best for the child. Lord Cromwell swore he’d keep her safe and save her immortal soul from your popish training.”

  Wesley regarded her over the top of his child’s head. “You lied to me,” he said in a low, deadly voice.

  “For the sake of this innocent babe, I had to,” the woman said with conviction. At a nod from Cromwell, she withdrew.

  Wesley’s faith in human mercy withered. Cromwell had outbid him for the loyalty of Hester Clench. He buried his face in Laura’s peach-gold hair and inhaled her fragrance of sea air and sunshine. Her soft curls bobbed against his face, and then she pulled back, regarding him through gray-green eyes that were mirrors of his own.

  The miracle of holding his daughter in his arms once again brought on a rush of memories. Living as an unordained Catholic novice in England had been a dangerous business. The nomadic life had been hard, the temptations many. Nearly four years before, in High Wycombe, he had strayed from his path and bedded a woman named Annabel Pym.

  Months later he had returned to the town to be confronted by the lady Annabel, her belly great with his child, her face a mask of censure. Annabel died giving birth. Her parents, furious with grief, had thrust the baby into Wesley’s arms and summoned the priest catchers.

  Those early months on the run passed through Wesley’s mind in a blur of frantic action. He’d engaged a slovenly, illiterate wet nurse, then dismissed her as soon as Laura could tolerate cow’s milk. When people demanded to know what a cleric was doing with a child, he had passed Laura off as a foundling.

  Most especially, he recalled the cherished moments—holding his tiny daughter close at night and breathing in her scent, noting the imprint of her ear on his arm when she fell asleep again
st him. Marveling over each little milestone, whether it be a first smile, a first tooth, her first tottering steps, or the first time she gazed up at him and called him Papa. The pure intimacy had planted a seed of paternal tenderness so deep that nothing could touch it. The seed had flourished into a strong, vigorous, protective love.

  “Auntie Clench said I’d never see you again, Papa.” Laura’s voice, calling him Papa, made him believe in miracles again.

  “We’re together now, sweetheart.” But for how long?

  “I cried and cried for you. Then Master Oliver promised he’d let me see you again.” Laura peered over her shoulder. “Thank you, Master Oliver.”

  The words of gratitude knifed Wesley through with fury. But his arms were gentle as he cradled his child, treasured her, felt his heart spill over with love for her.

  “Look, Papa,” said Laura, holding out a silver bauble on a ribbon. “Master Oliver gave me a locket. Isn’t it pretty?”

  Fury stuck in Wesley’s throat.

  While Cromwell and Thurloe conferred over their maps and their plans, Wesley and Laura shared a meal of biscuit, small beer, hard cheese, and grapes. She chattered with the blithe innocence of untroubled childhood, and he listened with a smile frozen on his face. It would serve nothing to let her glimpse the black hatred that gripped his soul, to confess the loathsome thoughts that claimed his mind. To Laura this was all a great adventure. She’d had them with him before, fleeing priest catchers and Roundhead huntsmen, sleeping in haylofts, and bolting down meals in rickety farm carts. She had no idea she was a pawn in Cromwell’s deadly game.

  At length the rocking motion of the ship lulled her; she settled her head in his lap and tucked her tiny hand in his.

  “I love you, sweetheart,” he whispered.

  As she fell asleep in his arms, Wesley felt the walls of the stateroom pressing on him, squeezing at his will. Cromwell had trapped him in a prison more confining than the dank stone walls of Little Ease in the Tower of London.

  The Lord Protector broke Wesley’s reverie by calling out an order. Two burly sailors appeared in the doorway.