The Maid of Ireland

by Susan Wiggs

  “Caitlin!” A clear voice called from the outer hall. “My lady, where are you?”

  She jumped and ran to the door. “Curran Healy, what the devil are you doing here?”

  Apple-cheeked and grinning, panting with exertion, he doffed his caubeen and clutched it to his chest. “Come back to Clonmuir, and you’ll see.”

  * * *

  She burst into the hall and stopped to take in the scene.

  Tom Gandy stood atop the round table and spoke faster than a spinning wheel.

  Seated around the table, amid the “fishermen” with their windburned faces and triumphant grins, were no less than three dozen priests.

  “Praise be to the Lord,” whispered Caitlin. She barely felt herself putting one foot in front of the other as she moved into the hall. Near the fire, a flash of ivory caught her eyes. White hair and a white beard.

  “Daida!” She ran to her father, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

  “Aye, ’tis back in the fine wide boozalum of Clonmuir I am, a stor.” Seamus grinned from ear to ear. “A hundred thousand blessings upon us all.”

  She drank in the sight of his dear, noble face, so beautiful in its untroubled simplicity. Feeling a clash of worry and affection, she asked, “You were at Inishbofin?”

  “Aye, that I was.” He gestured grandly about the room and raised his voice above the thunder of conversation. “I and the great good men of God, left to starve in that inhospitable place. But I brought them all safely home, aye, just as I said I would.”

  Someone cleared his throat. Caitlin spied Rory Breslin nursing a mug of poteen in his large paws. Rory said, “He had some little help in the rescuing.”

  “Very little,” said a strong English voice. Caitlin caught her breath at the sight of Wesley. Wind-tossed hair and ruddy cheeks. Broad shoulders and narrow hips. Eyes the color of moss in shadow. And a grin that could melt butter at fifty paces.

  She didn’t bother to resist the smile that tugged at her lips. Relief and tenderness glowed in her heart.

  “Tell me,” she said softly.

  “It was all your father’s doing,” said Wesley.

  Seamus drew himself up. Rory opened his mouth to protest.

  Wesley shot him a quelling look. “Over Brian’s loud protests, Seamus cleverly disguised himself as a cleric and let himself be seen by a priest catcher in Waterford. They transported him to Inishbofin, and then it was just a matter of waiting for us to play our part. A part that wouldn’t have been possible had it not been for Seamus.”

  Seamus launched into a rambling recitation of his exploits.

  Caitlin’s gaze met Wesley’s. She felt a sweet gentling inside her, like water settling in a jar. Wesley could have grabbed the credit for himself, but instead allowed the proud old man his moment in the sun.

  “A toast!” Tom shouted. Mugs and glasses lifted all around the room. “To the priests of Ireland,” he called. “May you never again stray from your flock.”

  Conn O’Donnell stood. “To the clan MacBride, for all that has been done this day.”

  Seamus rose. “The holy light of heaven shine upon us all. And if we can’t go to paradise, may we at least die in Ireland.”

  Caitlin glanced at Wesley. His full-throated “Hear, hear” before he drank made her believe he truly wished it. The feeling of tenderness inside her tightened, became something stronger. Something she hesitated to acknowledge.

  He motioned her to his side, then winced. She longed for him to touch her, longed to feel his strong arm around her waist and his chest against her cheek.

  Instead he gave her a familiar smile that had a familiar effect. “We’ve got to do something about these priests,” he said.

  “Aye, it would be tragic indeed if they were seized again. I doubt the English would trouble themselves to send them into exile a second time.”

  “They’d shoot them on sight,” Wesley said.

  Heads together, united in their concern, they made a plan. Caitlin felt herself drawing closer to him, the weight of her office shifting, somehow, becoming lighter. In some part of her mind she knew that it was odd to be sharing her duties with this man, and yet the moment felt comfortable, as if they had done this often.

  Some of the priests, they decided, would dress as fishermen and head north for Connaught where the English didn’t trouble the Irish. Others would leave on foot disguised as wanderers. Still more would go to cities and lose themselves amid the crowds.

  “And Father Tully?” Wesley asked at last.

  “Father Tully stays,” said Caitlin. “Without him, we’re a rudderless ship.”

  “He was betrayed once. It could happen again.”

  “It won’t.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “I found out who betrayed him.” Caitlin took a deep breath. “You were right. It was Logan.”

  “When did you decide to believe me?”

  “Magheen admitted that Logan sold Tully’s whereabouts to a priest catcher. He swears it’s because he feared for Father Tully’s life but I’ll never believe that.” Unthinkingly she pulled his hand into her lap. “He’s my brother by marriage. It pains my heart to think ill of him.”

  He lifted her hand to his lips. “It will pain more than your heart if you continue to trust him.”

  A shattering sound broke into their conversation. Rory had flung his mug at the wall and was advancing on Tom Gandy.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Rory shouted.

  “Now, Rory, sure and it’s a fine idea—”

  “Shut your mouth, you parboiled imp!” Grasping Tom by the shoulders, Rory lifted him off the table and held him so they were eye to eye, nose to nose. Tom’s legs flailed in useless protest. “We’ll hear no more of your English-loving blarney,” said Rory.

  “Huh! You are the dumbest Goth in creation. I say we do it.”

  “I say we don’t,” Rory snarled.

  “Do.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Do what?” Caitlin demanded in exasperation.

  Tom lifted his chin. “Make Wesley one of the Fianna.”

  Gasps of surprise gusted from the crowd; then a hush fell over the hall. Unable to look at Wesley, Caitlin said, “That’s absurd.”

  “It makes perfect sense to me,” Seamus called.

  “There,” said Tom. “You see? And put me down, you great, bad oaf.”

  Rory dropped him. “I’m with Caitlin. No Sassenach can join the Fianna.”

  Tom picked himself up off the floor. “I say he’s earned the honor. Look all these good priests in the eye and deny it.”

  Rory stared at the floor.

  “Tom’s right.” Seamus MacBride came to stand beside Wesley. “He nearly paid for the freedom of the priests with his life.”

  “What?” Caitlin asked.

  Father Tully stepped forward, bringing a thin, gray-haired cleric with him. A chain of office glinted on his chest. Lifting his hand to point at Wesley, the bishop said, “This man took a saber cut meant for me.”

  Caitlin’s heart dropped to her knees. “Where?” she asked Wesley.

  “Just a graze.” He touched his shoulder.

  “What say you, Caitlin?” asked Tom. “Has he earned the right to join the Fianna?”

  Yes! her heart shouted. But pride made her doubt him.

  “We’ll put it to a vote, as we do all clan matters,” she said.

  And when the voting was done, everyone save Conn and Liam voted to offer Wesley initiation.

  And Caitlin, more torn and confused than ever, claimed the right to abstain.

  * * *

  The day began bright, cool, and lonely as usual. Wesley rose from his pallet to find that Caitlin had left him and gone about her business. Lord, what he wouldn’t give to awaken with her warm in his arms, to tarry beneath the covers with that firm, silken body, to share intimate secrets and make plans for the future, to fantasize about the babies they would have.

  To be fair, she had plenty to
occupy her. The dispersing of the priests had taken most of her time.

  Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he went to the basin to shave. Numbed by the icy water, he barely felt the scrape of the razor or the twinge of discomfort in his shoulder.

  The shave made him feel human again. He managed a smile when Curran Healy tapped on the door and entered.

  “This just came.” The youth handed Wesley a letter. “A courier from the east brought it.” His gaze took in Wesley’s bare chest and the livid gash on his upper arm. “Does that hurt?”

  “Not so much.”

  Curran went to the door. He hesitated, turned back. “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Good luck to you, sir.” Curran left.

  Wesley dressed in tight leather trews and knee boots. He pulled a plain white tunic over his head. He would endure the initiation bareheaded and bare chested, but first he would go to pray.

  He broke the seal of the letter and read it.

  His blood turned to ice, and a groan ripped from his throat. Cursing, he crumpled the letter and tossed it into a brazier. As he watched the paper burn, he tried to control his frustration.

  Damn Cromwell. Damn Titus Hammersmith.

  For a few weeks, Wesley had managed to put them from his mind. To fool himself as he had imagined he had been fooling them. Evidently Titus had decided to call his bluff about the profits gained from transporting wenches. Wesley should have known the threat wouldn’t last.

  Twenty Clonmuir horses, the letter had commanded. To be given over to the English cavalry.

  Tomorrow.

  Regrets crushed his chest. Just when he had come close to winning over Caitlin and the men of Clonmuir. Just when they were about to extend the hand of acceptance to him.

  Send the horses, Clonmuir’s one priceless treasure, and lose Caitlin. Ignore the order and lose Laura.

  He made a fist and jammed it against his chest as if to keep his heart from tearing in two.

  Then he pondered a third possibility. A way to appear to follow Hammersmith’s orders while actually deceiving him. Yes, it could work. Caitlin didn’t trust him yet, but the men of Clonmuir would help.

  Wesley smiled and made his way to the chapel.

  Kneeling before the altar, he folded his hands and raised his eyes to the smiling Virgin. An old feeling swept over him, a remnant of simpler times, when kneeling in the house of God had brought him close to a state of grace.

  Caitlin skidded to a stop when she saw him. Unnoticed by Wesley, she moved silently up the side aisle and settled on a kneeler several feet away.

  A pained, pleading expression transformed his rough features. Deep shadows molded the hollows below his cheekbones, giving him the aspect of a statue. And yet vibrancy glowed from him, the warmth of life rather than cold stone. His hands clasped each other, and she had a sacrilegious thought of those hands on her body, that mouth on her mouth.

  Wesley spoke. “Make me a part of this place. Make me a part of Caitlin. Please, God, I love her so.”

  Caitlin’s jaw dropped. She quickly slipped into the shadows of a round pillar, where she reeled with the impact of the declaration.

  He had spoken to her of love before, had sworn it. But she had been skeptical, thinking it simply another of his lies.

  But would he lie to the Almighty?

  God, I love her so.

  She pressed her back to the pillar and inhaled the subtle fragrance of burned-out incense. A feeling of joy rose through her, coursing upward like a fountain of light, bathing her heart and her mind in splendor.

  She wanted to run to him, to fling her arms around his neck and cover his face with kisses.

  She was the MacBride. Other men respected and obeyed her.

  John Wesley Hawkins loved her.

  She was inches from reaching out to him when hurrying footfalls sounded.

  “Wesley, there you are.” Tom rushed up the aisle. “Come, we’re about to begin.”

  Wesley rose and turned. Caitlin caught her breath. He looked much as he had the first time she had seen him: imposing, confident, bathed in hero-light.

  Tom, too, seemed struck by his appearance. “Lord, but you’re in the high state of grace. I was about to wish you luck, but I can see you’ll not be needing it.”

  Wesley laid his arm across Tom’s shoulders as they walked out. “Wish me luck anyway, my friend.”

  Sixteen

  Wesley stood bare chested in a waist-deep hole, a plain wooden shield in one hand and an arm’s length of hazel wood in the other. His hair had been intricately braided close to the scalp and woven with leather and beads.

  Tom had explained in unsparing detail what must be done. Wesley had prepared for the trials to come. He had girded himself with prayers and self-confidence.

  The rite smacked of paganism, and always at the back of his mind lurked the reality of Hammersmith and Cromwell. If this savage rite didn’t kill him, Wesley would find himself committing the ultimate betrayal against Clonmuir and Caitlin. He prayed his plan to thwart the English would work.

  Nine warriors armed with sharpened spears formed a circle around Wesley. Rory posed the greatest threat, his red hair wild and his long beard flaming on the wind.

  “God’s grace be with you,” said Father Tully.

  Wesley nodded in thanks but his eyes stayed fastened upward on the pointed weapons. A spear hurled by a brawny Irish warrior could stave him through like a spitted pig.

  A stir of movement caught his eye. Caitlin joined the circle of warriors. She wore her hair loose, and a tunic bearing the golden harp of Clonmuir encased her figure. As regal as a queen and as mysterious as an angel, she regarded him solemnly.

  Their gazes locked and held. And then a miracle occurred.

  She smiled at him. It was a smile such as he had never seen grace the countenance of Caitlin MacBride. There was something fresh and new about it, soft as mist, compelling as a whispered endearment.

  She mouthed the words “Good luck.”

  Wesley knew then that he would succeed.

  A goatskin bodhran rattled. The warriors turned their backs on Wesley, measured off nine paces, and faced him.

  He gripped the hazel branch and shield. Gandy shouted something in Gaelic. Nine spears sailed down at Wesley.

  Time seemed to slow. The sharpened tips drove toward his heart. His shield came up to deflect them.

  The sound of cracking wood burst in his ears. Wesley moved by instinct, seeming somehow to know the paths of the spears before they flew. The branch met them and turned their flight. Moments later, he found himself surrounded by broken spears and grinning faces.

  Feeling as proud as he had the day he had first held Laura in his arms, Wesley climbed over spent and splintered spears. He caught Caitlin’s eye and gave a jaunty salute. The peculiar glow still lighted her face. She reminded him of a woman who guarded a delicious secret. He longed to take her in his arms and kiss the mysteries from her lips.

  Instead he turned his mind to the next trial, a pursuit through the murky forest. Mounted on his pony, Tom trotted along at Wesley’s side. “Mind you follow the path we laid out last night,” he said. “And do be remembering you’ll have to jump a branch as high as your head, and pass under one level with your belt. Neither branch nor twig must disturb the weave of your lovely braids.”

  “I’ll remember.” With mock vanity, Wesley patted his hair.

  “If even one of the warriors draws blood,” Tom went on, “you’ll fail.”

  The warriors girded themselves for the chase, strapping on sword belts and gripping new spears. The fire in Rory’s skeptical eyes seared Wesley with fortitude. “I’ll outrun them,” he vowed.

  “Hold a minute,” said Tom. “I’ll be having those boots from you. You’re to run the gauntlet barefoot.”

  Wesley drew off his boots and handed them over. The sandy earth of the yard felt soft under his feet. If anyone had told him a few months earlier that he would be running half-naked through the mou
ntains of Connemara, he would have declared him touched in the head.

  But then again, if anyone had told him he would lose his heart to an Irish warrior woman, he would have declared himself touched in the head.

  He stopped at the fringe of woods. He sensed a magic in the moment, in the land that unfolded before him, full of sun and shadow and the secrets of warriors whose courage had been molded by half a millennium of fighting.

  What vanity to think himself worthy of the giants who had taken their strength from the rugged land, their music from the sharp plaints of seabirds swooping over the fells, their poetry from the song of the wind through the green-draped vales.

  “They were all just men,” said Tom, sensing Wesley’s thoughts. “Their power came from their human hearts.”

  Wesley nodded. Already he had begun to empty his mind, as he had learned to do long ago on the eve of battle, when the Parliamentarians and the Royalists were fated to meet at Worcester. Determination sharpened his instincts to a blade edge.

  “Ready?” asked Tom.

  Wesley made the sign of the cross.

  Caitlin drew up on the black stallion. Bright hope danced in her eyes. “Luck be with you, Wesley,” she said.

  The bodhran drummed a rolling tattoo. Pipes whistled in crescendo and peaked at an earsplitting note.

  Casting one last look at Caitlin, Wesley plunged into the forest. Sharp rocks cut into his feet. Thorny branches whipped past his face. And from behind, drawing closer, sounded the dread thunder of pursuit.

  A hand ax sailed by, slicing the air dangerously close to his ear. “Jesus!” Wesley gasped.

  The path rose steeper, littered with stones. Ahead loomed the alderwood branch that would test his agility.

  He felt himself flagging, the agony in his bleeding feet rising like fire through his body. The branch drew closer...unassailable, impossibly high. A mere length of wood became the measure of his character.

  He could not leap it.

  In his mind’s eye he saw himself slamming into the stout wood, dropping like a wounded deer, entangled in brambles and thorns. He would forfeit all, lose Caitlin and Laura.

  The pain of that thought lashed at him like a spiked whip. And then a flash of blinding light cleaved through his consciousness. He was lost, sucked into a burning white nothingness.