Karen Robards - Dark of the Moon

"Have you a name, halfling?"

"What bloody business is it of yours?"

He grinned suddenly, unexpectedly, white teeth gleaming at her through the darkness. "Charming lad, aren't you? You can thank your patron saint that I have a fondness for scrawny gamecocks. I could have handed you over to the authorities back there, you know. Most would."

"So why didn't you?"

"As I said, I have a fondness for scrawny gamecocks." The meal arrived then, thick bowls of beefy stew with hearty slabs of fresh bread and foaming glasses of ale. Caitlyn's traitorous stomach rumbled loudly again. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment even as her mouth watered at the succulent aroma. Her eyes lifted from the chunks of tender meat and potatoes floating in the rich brown gravy to stare suspiciously at the man. He appeared not to have heard the latest insubordination from her in- sides.

"I'll not be payin' for this. Not in any way, if you catch my meaning."

He had just put the first forkful of stew in his mouth. Before he answered, he chewed it judiciously, swallowed, and washed the whole down with a mouthful of ale. Then he looked at her. Caitlyn shivered at the impact of those eyes. The sudden spurt of apprehension ignited her temper anew. Feeling better now that she was armed with comforting anger, she glared at him. She would not let herself think of the meal until all was straight between them.

"Eat, lad. There're no strings to the food. I know what it's like to be hungry." Despite those unsettling eyes, his voice was gentle.

"You?" She stared at him with disbelief. Then pride reared its head. "Anyways, I ain't that hungry. Like I said before, me pals and me, we just had tea. Boiled potatoes and…"

"I'm sure you can manage something. Just so as not to be rude."

She looked at him for a long, wary moment. But the aroma of that stew was not to be denied.

"All right. I guess I owe you something, seein' as how you didn't hand me over back there."

"Indeed." If there was just the faintest touch of dryness to his voice, his face was perfectly bland. There was no offense to be taken there.

After one final, suspicious look at her companion, Caitlyn picked up her fork and dug in. The first hot, cooked meal she'd had in weeks was so delicious that, after the first bite, she quite forgot the Sassenach who had provided it and wolfed it down like the starving child she was. When she had finished, the last crust of bread used to sop up the last drop of gravy, she sat back, replete, to find him watching her. The look on his face told her nothing, but she felt herself flushing. She'd made a right pig of herself, despite her fine words. And before a Sassenach.

"You keep pinching purses, you're going to hang. You're not that good at it." His tone was one of impersonal warning.

Stung, her eyes widened with indignation. "I'm bloody good! I've been doing it for years and never been nabbled! Afore, I mean! You…"

"You're slow, and I felt your hand in my pocket like a lead weight. If you haven't been caught before, it's sheer good luck."

"What the bloody hell do you know about it?"

"I know a poor thief when I'm robbed by one. A poor, stupid thief. Because you're not going to quit until you're caught, are you? You'll hang higher than Christchurch's steeple." He sounded disgusted.

'Then you can come cheer at the hangin', can't you, you bloody pious Orangeman?" Her voice rose on the last word. Buoyed by a sudden surge of rage, she jumped to her feet. Men turned from the bar and swiveled in their seats to look. The gentleman sat back in his seat, his eyes narrowed as he took in her anger for a long moment with no reaction whatsoever. Then, reaching across the table without a word, he twisted his hand in her coat front and yanked so hard that she abruptly, found herself sitting on the wood bench again. Her first reaction was to rub her tender behind, which had just suffered a severe bruising. She managed to control the impulse while she blinked at him.

"You'll curb that temper with me, my lad, or I'll curb it for you, understand? I've had some considerable experience with hotheaded bantlings." He paused, his eyes glinting at her. Then he said abruptly, "You know aught about sheep?"

"What's to know about sheep?" Her response was surly, but she remained seated.

"Answer the question!"

Caitlyn's eyes narrowed. "I love the little beggars like they was kin." It was a lie, and a brazen one at that. The closest shed ever been to a sheep was to sleep in a barn with one once. But his arrogance deserved a lie.

"Think you can cut peat and muck out a stall?"

"Depends on why it needs doing."

He chose to ignore her insolence. "I've got a sheep farm in County Meath. I can use another lad about the place, if he's willing to work hard and behave himself. Of course, I was picturing someone a little meatier, stronger…"

"I'm strong as an ox, I am!"

"Three hot meals a day, a bed in the barn, lots of fresh air, and hard work is what I'm offering. Unless I'm mistaken, it's more than you have here."

"You offerin' me a job? Why? I just prigged your purse-almost." Honesty forced her to add that last, while suspicion shone out of her eyes as she looked at him. His expression was unreadable.

"Because I used to know a lad who was a lot like you. A hotheaded, ready-for-anything gamecock. I had a fondness for him."

The look he gave her seemed honest enough. But she had seen a lot of honest looks in her time, and most of them came from the biggest liars around.

"I'm no' interested."

He shrugged, standing up. "Suit yourself. I'll be at the Brazen Head in Lower Bridge Street. I'm leaving at first light tomorrow. If you want honest employment and a safe berth, be there. If not, good luck to you."

He laid some coins for the meal on the table, nodded at her, and walked out of the pub. Caitlyn chewed her lip as she watched him go. A job-he was offering her a job? She'd never had a job as such before. And, he'd said, a safe berth. A loud burst of laughter from the bar distracted her from her thoughts. She was an Irishman in a bloody Sassenach pub, which was not at all a good thing to be.

As she got to her feet her eyes chanced to fall on the table. Hesitating, she looked around to find herself unobserved. Then with a lightning movement she scooped the coins he had left from the table and into her pocket and swaggered out the door.

O'Malley! And here was I thinkin' you were hanged for certain sure!" Willie stood up to greet Caitlyn as she ducked into the tumbledown shanty that served as home to a fluid group of eight or so lads. Made by their own hands of discarded lumber and tin, it leaned against the back wall of the Royal Hospital. Dozens of such tiny structures had been erected along the stone walls of the building. They were regularly torn down by dragoons and just as regularly built up again by the residents. It was a way of life.

"Ah, you know I've the luck of the Irish, Willie." Caitlyn basked in Willie's amazement at her escape as she crouched to warm herself at the tiny peat fire. The smoke the fire gave off was malodorous, but she scarcely noticed. From birth she had been exposed to the awful stink of Dublin's slums. Sewage ran raw in the gutters, at least in the Irish quarters. Garbage rotted in the streets, breeding enormous rats and cockroaches the size of fat mice. After a pair of hours spent in the Protestant sections of the city, Caitlyn felt even more keenly than usual what the interlopers were robbing them of. Protestant Dublin had wide streets, beautiful brick homes and shops, and a semblance at least of law and order. Catholic Dublin was menaced by roving gangs of beggars and thieves. The pinkindin- dies, as they were called, roamed about the mews after nightfall, slashing and robbing their victims, raping women in the streets, breaking into shops and homes almost at will. Homelessness, hunger, and brutality of the worst sort were part of daily life. Liffey fever was rampant. People died of it every day, their corpses dumped into the gutter with the sewage and garbage if they had no kin to arrange a burial for them. Surviving was the sole employment of thousands, and it made them as vicious as wild dogs.