Karen Robards - Dark of the Moon

"Should it come to that, you may be sure I'll get her away. But it may not come to that. 'Tis what else I have to tell you. There's a chance…" And Father Patrick went on to detail what he hoped would come to pass on the morrow. When he had finished, Connor's eyes were bright with hope, and his hand was wrapped tightly around Caitlyn's.

"Father, if this works, I will personally travel to Rome and petition the Holy See for your canonization." A crooked smile at Father Patrick was so familiar that it near stopped Caitlyn's heart. The scheme had to work. She could not live in this world without Connor.

"Remember the signal; 'twill be the cannon."

"Aye, I have it. I'll be ready."

"In that case, my son, we'd best be on to other things. Caitlyn, forgive me for the suggestion, but should things not fall as they should tomorrow, you will want Connor to be prepared. 'Tis a precaution, you understand, no more."

Though Caitlyn looked blank, Connor nodded, his hand tightening on hers before he released her. "I must admit 'twould comfort me to mount the scaffold knowing myself at peace with God."

"Then let us begin, my son."

Caitlyn, understanding at last, moved to a corner of the cell to give them privacy. Connor knelt and made his confession. Then Father Patrick recited the service for the dying over him. The familiar sound of the last rites struck deep into Caitlyn's soul. Closing her eyes tightly, she prayed with all her might that Connor would be spared. She knew just how chancy were the plans for his rescue, but surely God could work a miracle one more time.

It was done quickly, the words a soft patter against the muted background of prison noises. When it was over, Connor got to his feet.

"Thank you, Father."

"I've something for you, my son. 'Tis yours, I think, and your father's and grandfather's before you."

Caitlyn crossed to Connor's side and was enfolded against him by a hard arm as Father Patrick reached beneath his robe and pulled out an intricately wrought Irish Cross that dangled from a silver chain. Connor stared at it, then held out his hand. Father Patrick laid the medallion in his palm. Connor's fist closed slowly around it. For a moment he held the cross tightly, looking down at his clenched fist. Then he opened his hand, brought the cross to his lips, kissed it, and slipped the chain around his neck. The medallion gleamed brightly in the candlelight, its magnificence at odds with his tattered finery and unshaven jaw.

"You shall live or die as the Dark Horseman, beloved by all true Irishmen, and in your true faith," Father Patrick said, as if in benediction. "Whatever comes to you tomorrow, take comfort from that."

"Whatever happens, I am grateful for all you've done. Now, what of my brothers? And Mickeen?''

"All fine." Father Patrick shook his head. "Though they are wild with worry for you, of course. Still, I have them convinced of the need for caution, I think."

"Give them my love. Tell them-if aught goes wrong tomorrow and I in truth pass from this life-tell them that my last request of diem was that they care for Caitlyn and the babe."

"Connor…" Caitlyn pressed closer against him, shuddering as her arms slipped around his waist. He bent his head to touch his lips to her hair even as the sound of a key sliding into the lock galvanized them all.

"Take care of yourself, wife, and our babe," Connor whispered in her ear as he put her from him.

She just had time to mouth "I love you" before the guard was opening the door. It was Connor who had the presence of mind to pull the cowl back over her head. When the guard got the door open, he saw nothing but two priests comforting a condemned man.

"Time," he said sourly, reaching for the candle. Caitlyn looked at Connor, tears brimming in her eyes. He smiled at her. Father Patrick made the sign of the cross again, said, "Be of stout heart, my son," and, putting his hand on Caitlyn's shoulder, half pushed and half led her from the cell.

Outside the prison, Caitlyn was half blinded by tears. She clutched Father Patrick's arm as the priest hurried her along toward where their horses had been stabled at a nearby inn. The night was dark and moonless, and Caitlyn reckoned it lacked two hours yet of dawn. Drunken revels were taking place in the street around the prison even at this wee hour of the morn.

With so much activity going on, she paid no attention as a closed carriage rumbled down the street toward them. Only when it stopped did she look up. Two men leaped from the inside, brandishing clubs. Father Patrick stopped short, thrusting Caitlyn behind him.

"In the name of God, begone!" he thundered. "We've naught for you, naught worth robbing!"

" 'Tis not your valuables we're after, ye bloody idolater! We've come for the wench. Hand her over, or we'll split your skull for ye, priest or no!"

"Ye may try!" Father Patrick roared, and lunged at one of the men as he bellowed at Caitlyn to run. But there was no time. The second of the men brought his club down on Father Patrick's head with a sound like a melon splitting. Father Patrick dropped to the street like a fallen tree. Caitlyn, on the verge of flying to his defense, looked up at the men advancing on her and turned to run. She got about two feet before one of them caught her by the flapping tail of the too-big priest's robe and jerked her off her feet.

"Hold her, now! Ouch, watch out, she bites! Get her in the bloody carriage, mate, and quick!"

Caitlyn screamed and fought, but they were big, burly men and she had to have a care for the babe inside her. The drunken revelers camped in front of the prison barely paused in their merrymaking to watch. Such scenes were all too common in Dublin. Until one of them noticed that the man lying unconscious on the ground was a priest…

"Eh, look there, they've bashed a Holy Father, bloody Protestant dogs!"

"A priest? They've harmed a priest? Let's be at them!" The clumsy charge of rescuers came too late. Caitlyn was bundled inside the coach as the drunken gladiators rushed across the road. She heard an outcry, and the sounds of battle, and assumed the two men who had attacked her were themselves under attack. For whatever reason, they were left behind as the coach lurched forward. She fell heavily, hitting her head against the floor. Someone caught her, held her arms. Someone else leaned over her, pressing a foul-smelling rag over her face. Even as she fought for her life, she looked up and saw the face of the man who would suffocate her. She recoiled with horror. It was Sir Edward Dunne!

And then she lost all consciousness.

The streets were lined with armed Volunteers. Behind them, ragged peasants craned their necks and jostled for position with better-dressed shopkeepers and lawyers and doctors. Above street level, the windows were packed with spectators. Ladies waved handkerchiefs, serving maids their feather dusters and bare hands. Grenadiers carrying Irish battle-axes marched behind the open cart in which Connor rode. Drummers pounding out a deafening rhythm on their huge kettledrums strode ahead. Here and there Straw Boys with green scarves tied around the ends of their shillelaghs broke through the ranks of the stolid Volunteers to yell Gaelic words of encouragement and wave their embellished staffs. More often than not, the outraged Volunteers rewarded their efforts with a split head.

Heavy artillery had been broken out for the occasion. It rolled with an escort of mounted dragoons behind the Grenadiers, the guns decked out incongruously in multicolored ribbons. Farther back came a band of Calvinists, who marched under a banner stating: "Open thou our mouths, O Lord, and our lips shall sing forth thy praise." A line of flutists was followed by a quartet of bagpipers. Their music trilled and swirled through the chill of the morning, competing with the booming of the drums, the thud of marching feet, the rattle of wheels, and shouts, catcalls, and raucous singing from the crowds. Last of all came an army of ragtag marchers who fell in behind the procession willy-nilly, fighting and carousing as they followed the condemned to the gallows.