The Maid of Ireland

by Susan Wiggs

  There was no more magic in Ireland. The conquering Roundheads had stolen that as well.

  She opened her hand and drew the thorn from her finger. A bead of blood rose up and spilled over. Furious, she flung the flower away. The wind tumbled it toward the sea.

  Abandoning whimsy, she turned for home.

  A movement on the shore stopped her. A shadow flickered near a large rock, then resolved into a large human form.

  A man.

  Three

  Caitlin stood rooted, unable to move, to think, to breathe. Thick fog swirled around the man, tiny particles of moisture catching the brilliance of the new stars and bathing him in the hero-light of legend. Huge and unconquerable, aglow with an unearthly radiance, he strolled toward her.

  Wild and primal urges pulsed through Caitlin, reawakening the slumbering believer deep inside her.

  The stranger seemed more myth than human, the Warrior of the Spring from Tom Gandy’s ancient tales, a champion with the aspect of a pagan god.

  Still he came on, walking slowly, and still she watched, suspended in a spellbound state woven of whimsy and desire.

  She thought him beautiful; even his shadowy reflection in the dark tidal pool that separated them was beautiful. He was strong-limbed and cleanly made, his body pale, his hair aflame with the colors of the sunset, his face shapely and his eyes the hue of moss in shadow. Caitlin felt no fear, only the awe and enchantment that flowed like a river of light through her.

  Above tall black knee boots, he wore loose breeches cinched at his narrow waist by a broad, highly ornamented belt. A blousy white shirt draped his massive shoulders, the thin fabric wafting with the subtle undulations of the well-conditioned muscle beneath. His clothing and his astonishing mane of hair appeared slightly damp as if kissed by the dew.

  With his deep, shadow-colored eyes fixed on her, he skirted the tidal pool and came to stand before her.

  He gave her a smile that she felt all the way to her toes.

  Caitlin gasped. “Heaven be praised, you were sent by the fey folk!”

  “No.” The smile broadened. His unearthly gaze shimmered over her, and she felt herself vibrate like a plucked harp string. “But I’d swear you were. God, but you catch a man’s soul with your loveliness.”

  He spoke softly, his vowels and Rs as light as the mist, his stunning compliment a breath of spring wind on her face. He was so strange, so different...And then realization struck her. He was foreign. English!

  The spell shattered like exploding crystal. Caitlin reached for her stag-handled hip knife. Her hand groped at an empty sheath.

  Crossing her fingers to ward off evil, she stepped back and looked around wildly. The weapon lay on the ground a few feet away. Had she, in her trancelike state, set it down? Or had he, by some evil witchery, disarmed her by will alone?

  Catching her look, he bent and retrieved the knife, holding it out to her, handle first. “Yours?”

  She grasped the knife. He was a seonin, an English invader. In one swift movement she could plunge the weapon to the haft in his chest. She should.

  But the tender sorcery of his smile stopped her.

  She slipped the knife into its sheath, leaving the leather thong untied. “And who the devil would you be, I’m wondering?”

  He touched a hand to his damp brow where dark red curls spilled down. “John Wesley Hawkins, at your service,” he said. “And you’re...”

  “Caitlin MacBride, and I’m at no Englishman’s service,” she snapped. “What might you be doing here, Mr. Hawkins?”

  He plucked a twig from his hair. “I was shipwrecked.”

  She lifted one eyebrow. “A likely story, indeed. We’ve had no reports of a shipwreck.”

  “Alas, you wouldn’t have. I was the only survivor.” He lowered himself heavily to a flat rock. “Bound away from Galway, we were, on a trading mission. No, not guns, don’t glare at me like that. A squall whipped up. Next thing I knew, the decks were swamped and we’d capsized. Everything was lost. Everyone.”

  “Then how did you survive?”

  “I’m a strong swimmer and managed to stay afloat. A big rowan branch happened by and I clung to it. It carried me here, and—” He slid her a sideways glance. “You don’t believe a word of this, do you?”

  “No.”

  “I’d rather hoped you would.”

  “You weren’t really on a trading vessel, were you?”

  “It was a very small ship.”

  “How small?”

  He hesitated. “A coracle.”

  In spite of herself, Caitlin felt a glimmer of humor. “Then I’m after thinking you were the only one aboard.”

  “Aye.” Unexpectedly, he reached for her hand. His was damp and cool from wind and water. “Sit beside me, Caitlin MacBride. I’ve had a close brush with death and it’s unnerved me.”

  She didn’t think a howling banshee could unnerve him. Pulling her hand away, she settled herself on the rock a careful distance from him. The sky had melted into a rich indigo tapestry shot through with points of silver. The waves glowed as they curled toward the shore, crashing on sand and rock.

  She thought of the letter Curran had stolen from Galway. Could this man have something to do with Cromwell’s new plan? Best to find out. “Well, then, John Wesley Hawkins, I’m waiting for the truth. Why are you here?”

  He took off first one boot, and then the other, pouring out the water and then putting them back on. “I’m a deserter.”

  She blinked. “From the Roundhead army?”

  “Aye.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “I don’t hold with killing innocent folk just to make an English colony of Ireland. Besides, the pay—when it came—was poor.”

  “Where were you bound for, then?”

  “I’d planned to sneak into Galway harbor and find my way onto a trading vessel. Unless you’ve a better idea.”

  “I can’t be doing your deciding for you, Mr. Hawkins.”

  “Wesley,” he said. “My friends call me Wesley.”

  “I’m no friend of yours.”

  “You are, Caitlin MacBride.” The evening light danced in the color of his eyes. She saw great depths there, layers of mystery and passion and pain, and an allure that drew her like a bit of metal to a lodestone. “Didn’t you feel it?” he persisted. “The pull, the magic?”

  She laughed nervously. “You’re moonstruck. You’re more full of pixified fancies than Tom Gandy.”

  “Who’s Tom Gandy?”

  “I expect you’ll meet him shortly if I can’t find a way to get rid of you.”

  “That’s encouraging.” He took her hand again. A tiny bead of blood stood out on her finger. She tried to snatch her hand away. He held it fast.

  “You’re bleeding,” he said.

  “A thorn prick, no more,” she stated.

  “I didn’t know fairy creatures could bleed. I always fancied them spun of mist and moonlight, not flesh and blood.”

  “Let go.”

  “No, my love—”

  “I’m not a fairy creature, and I am surely not your love.”

  “It’s just an expression.”

  “It’s a lie. But ’tis no high wonder to me. I’d be expecting falsehoods from a Sassenach.”

  “Poor Caitlin. Does it hurt?” Very slowly, with his eyes fixed on hers, he put her finger to his lips and gently slipped it inside his mouth.

  Too shocked to stop him, she felt the warmth of his mouth, the moist velvet brush of his tongue over the pad of her finger. Then with an excess of gentleness he drew it out and placed her hand in her lap.

  “I think the bleeding’s stopped,” he said.

  But something else had started inside her, something dark and fearsome and strangely wonderful. She retorted, “And I think you’re an English spalpeen through and through. You haven’t answered my question. What do you intend doing with yourself?”

  “That depends on you, Caitlin MacBride. Will you take me in and succ
or me, then send me on my way with a fine Irish blessing?”

  She needed another mouth to feed like she needed another sister like Magheen. “And why should I be extending the hand of friendship to an Englishman? You Sassenach take what you please without asking.”

  “Caitlin. I’m asking.”

  Ah, there was magic in the man, in the warm, beguiling honey of his voice, in the comeliness of his face, in the layers of world-weary appeal in his eyes. But there was magic in wolves as well, dangerous magic.

  She felt at once angry and confused. She had cast a net of enchantment and managed to land a shipwrecked Englishman. And how had he managed so quickly to lure her thoughts from Alonso? An enemy on the loose was a greater threat than an enemy under one’s roof. She resigned herself. “Come along, then.” She glanced about as she stood, glad that the black horse had followed Tom home. She did not want the stranger to see her treasure. A plundering Englishman would think nothing of stealing her horse.

  And as for the Sassenach, she would watch him like a hound eyeing the barn cat.

  “Where are we going?” asked Hawkins.

  “To Clonmuir. This way.”

  * * *

  Dark triumph surged in the heart of John Wesley Hawkins. The ugly business would be over before he knew it. He had made a rendezvous with Titus Hammersmith, the harried Roundhead commander who could not best the Fianna, and already he had gained the acquaintance of the maid of Clonmuir.

  But God, he thought, his eyes riveted on her as he climbed over brambles and rocks to the top of the cliffs. The last thing he had expected was this. Cromwell had painted a daunting picture of a half-wild barbarian woman. Thurloe swore she was well past marrying age, but Wesley couldn’t believe it.

  This, he thought, still gazing at her, is something a man might believe in.

  The moon had started its rise, and pale, watery light showered her. She had skin as smooth as cream. Her tawny hair and eyes gave her the fierce beauty of a tigress, while the soft edges of her full mouth and the delicacy of her features reminded him that she also possessed an excess of feminine assets. Caitlin MacBride was a formidable yet irresistible mixture of implacable will, wily intelligence, and endearing Irish whimsy.

  And she could lead him to the Fianna.

  For a week, Wesley had combed the woods and dales west of Galway where the Fianna had last struck. But heavy rains had washed away any sign of the warriors’ retreat. Then he had scouted about Clonmuir, watching the comings and goings. He had observed no wild warriors, but fishermen and farmers. No mail-clad berserkers, but an old man chasing a shaggy black bullock. No host of heroes, only small bands of half-starved exiles.

  Odd that he’d seen no priest.

  We’ve culled every cleric from the area. The memory of Thurloe’s words swept like a chill wind over Wesley.

  This evening he had watched a girl streak across the heaths on a beautiful black horse. He had followed her to the remote beach and had seen her speaking with a stocky dwarfish fellow.

  When the dwarf had vanished, Wesley had initiated the encounter. His story of shipwreck was as weak as watered claret, but the lie about being a deserter from the Roundhead army had gained him a small measure of sympathy.

  Sympathy was a useful tool indeed.

  They walked across a boggy field. The earth felt springy beneath his feet. The girl beside him was silent and absorbed in thought.

  He noticed the forthright manner in which she walked, a purposeful stride mitigated by the slightest of limps. The flaw was subtle but his tracker’s eyes took note. He burned to ask her what unhappy accident had hurt her. He held his tongue, reluctant to provoke her quick temper.

  The night wind swept up the dark honey waves of her hair and fanned them out in a thick veil. Her bare foot caught a rock and she lurched forward. Wesley’s first impulse was to put out a hand to steady her, but he drew back.

  Pretending not to notice the stumble, he asked, “Your father is the lord of Clonmuir?”

  She hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes. He’s the MacBride, chief of our sept.”

  “So Clonmuir is your ancestral home?”

  “Yes. Since Giolla the Fierce became the servant of St. Brigid. And until the cliffs beneath it crumble and the keep falls into the sea.”

  He started to smile at her vehemence, but realized his amusement would not sit well with her. “Cromwell claims the entire coast of Ireland, three miles deep, for the Commonwealth.”

  Her chin came up. Her eyes flashed in the moonlight. Her body went as taut as a drawn bowstring. “I spit on Cromwell’s claim.”

  “You’re devoted to your home.”

  “And why shouldn’t I be?” She spread her arms, embracing the broad sweep of the rugged landscape. “It’s all we have.”

  Wesley caught his breath and wondered at the ache that rose in him upon hearing her speak, on watching the reverential and possessive way she walked across Clonmuir land. The mood of the sere wind-torn grasses racing up to meet the broken-backed mountains, the spirit of the misty wide sky crowning the craggy jut of land, flowed in her very bloodstream.

  Something about her called to him, and the yearning he felt discomfited him thoroughly. He had made a vow, broken it, and gotten Laura. Her appearance in his life had compelled him to renew his oath of celibacy. Like a drowning man, he had clung to that oath, turning aside invitations that would have brought a smile to Charles Stuart himself.

  So how could he be feeling this heart-catching tenderness for a wild, barefoot Irish girl? Damn Cromwell. And damn Caitlin MacBride, for Wesley could not help himself. He stopped walking, touched her arm.

  “Caitlin,” he said urgently. “Look at me.”

  She stopped and eyed him warily.

  “What happened to us, down there on the strand?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You do. Don’t deny it.”

  “Moonstruck English fool,” she murmured. Her words meant nothing, for the shadowy rhythms of her speech captured him, and the secrets that haunted her eyes beckoned mystically.

  “Caitlin MacBride, you do ply strange arts upon a man.”

  “I do no such thing.” She drew away and started walking again.

  I cannot trust her, thought Wesley. Yet at the same time he admitted to himself that he had never met so compelling a woman. Heather and moonglow colored every word she spoke. Fierce conviction molded every move she made. She plundered his heart like a bandit after treasure.

  A dangerous thing. For the plundering of hearts was supposed to be Wesley’s specialty.

  They passed a great, brooding rock that sat on the upward-sloping lip of a cliff. Tiny facets in the granite winked in the moonlight. Wesley paused, passed his hand over the surface of the stone. “There are symbols chiseled here,” he said, and the rough whorls beneath his fingers made him shiver.

  “So there are.” Sarcasm edged her voice. “Pagan runes.”

  “Who put them here?”

  “Probably the first MacBride to leave his cave and proclaim this the Rock of Muir, his throne. Come along, Mr. Hawkins. We’re almost to the stronghold.”

  Clonmuir crouched like a great beast on a cliff overlooking the sea. Its west-facing walls resembled a set of teeth bared at the snarling breakers. To the east rose rocky hills that disappeared into the haze of the night. In the distance, moonlight glimmered around the high gable of a church topped with a heart-shaped finial.

  They entered the stronghold through the main gate and walked across a broad yard of packed earth, empty save for a few weeds straggling along the walls and chickens roosting in nests of dried kelp. Wesley could make out the humped shape of a small forge barn and several thatched outbuildings, a cluster of beehives, and a cloistered walkway leading to a kitchen.

  “Wait here.” Caitlin left him standing by an ancient stone well while she crossed to a long, low fieldstone building with a stout door. She opened the door and a chorus of equine noises greeted her. The famed ponie
s of Clonmuir, Wesley realized.

  A man’s voice spoke in Gaelic and Caitlin replied in low tones. Wesley strained his ears but could not hear the words. A small girl with long braids crept around the side of the stable, gaped at him briefly, then darted back into the shadows. The years of conquest, Wesley realized, had taught all Irish to be cautious, even in their own homes. A flash of shame heated his face. He had come here under false pretenses to coax secrets from Caitlin MacBride—secrets that could force her to forfeit her home. The idea sat like a hot rock in his gut.

  She rejoined him in the yard. “Come along,” she said briskly. “We deny hospitality to no one—even an Englishman.” They made their way to the donjon, a tall, rounded structure with walls pierced by arrow loops and tiny windows. She pushed the heavy main door open.

  Sharp-scented peat smoke struck Wesley in the face, stinging his eyes. A translucent gray fog shrouded the scene in layers, from the woven rushes on the floor to the blackened ceiling beams. The great hall had no chimney, only a louvered opening in the roof to draw out the smoke.

  Children cavorted with a lanky wolfhound in a straw-carpeted corner. A group of women sat knitting skeins of chunky wool on fat wooden needles. Most of them conversed blithely in Irish, but the youngest was silent, sulky, and dazzlingly beautiful.

  At a round table a group of men drank from horn mugs and cracked nuts in their bare hands, throwing the shells to the rush mats. The eldest wore a knitted cap on his head and had a waist-length white beard. Beside him sat the dwarf Wesley had seen with Caitlin. The fellow spoke rapid, colloquial Gaelic and swung his legs as he talked, for his feet did not reach the floor.

  Caitlin headed for the table. Wesley watched her face but she held it set, the pure, sharp lines of her features scrubbed clean of sentiment. “We’ve a visitor,” she announced.

  A dozen inquisitive faces turned toward Wesley. He wondered if these rough-hewn Irishmen belonged to the Fianna. On the heels of that thought came a sudden, sharp ache. Too many years had passed since he had enjoyed the company of good friends.

  He tried to take in their expressions all at once, but got caught on the dwarf. His face was a picture of such pure delight that Wesley couldn’t help smiling, even as he wondered why his appearance so pleased the man.