Brenda Joyce - The Prize

IT WAS HIGH NOON WHEN THEY arrived atop a ridge that overlooked the British fort at Kilmallock. Devlin’s spirits faltered as he looked past the wood stockades and over a sea of white tents and redcoats. Flags marked the commanding officer’s quarters, well in the midst of the fort. Immediately, Devlin thought about how he and Sean, two young boys, could enter the fort. Had he been taller, he would have killed a soldier for his uniform. However, now he considered the possibility that they could simply walk through those open front gates with a wagon, a convoy or a group of soldiers, as they were both so small and unthreatening.

“Do you think she’s all right?” Sean whispered. His color had not returned, not even once, since they saw their father so gruesomely murdered. He remained frighteningly pale, his lips chewed raw, his eyes filled with fear. Devlin worried that he would become sick.

Devlin put his arm around him. “We’re going to save her and make everything right again,” he said firmly. But somehow, deep in his sickened heart, he knew his words were a terrible lie—nothing would ever be right again.

And what had become of little Meg? He was afraid to even think of the possibility that she had burned in the fire.

Devlin screwed his eyes shut. A terrible stillness slid over him. His breathing, for the first time, calmed. The churning in his insides steadied. Something dark began to form in his mind. Something dark, grim and hard—something terrible and unyielding.

Sean started to cry. “What if he hurt her? What if…what if he…he did to her…what he did to Father?”

Devlin blinked and found himself staring coldly down at the fort. For one moment, he continued to stare, ignoring his brother, aware of the huge change that had just affected him. The ten-year-old boy had vanished forever. A man had appeared in his place, a man cold and purposeful, a man whose anger simmered far below the surface, fueling vast intent. The strength of his resolve astonished him.

The fear was gone. He wasn’t afraid of the British and he wasn’t afraid of death.

And he knew what he had to do—even if it took years.

Devlin turned to Sean, who was watching him with huge, tearful eyes. “He didn’t hurt Mother,” he heard himself say calmly, his tone as commanding as their father’s had once been.

Sean blinked in surprise, and then he nodded.

“Let’s go,” Devlin said firmly. They scrambled down the hill and found a boulder to hide behind just off of the road. After an hour or so, four supply wagons led by a dozen mounted troops appeared. “Pretend we want to welcome them,” he whispered softly. He had seen so many peasants waving and obsequiously greeting the British troops, and fools that the redcoats were, they never knew that after they had passed, the smiles were replaced by leers and taunts.

The boys stepped onto the road, the sun high now, warm and bright, to smile and wave at the troops as they approached. Some of the soldiers waved back, and one tossed them a piece of bread. As the wagons passed, the brothers continued to wave, their smiles fixed. And then Devlin dug his elbow in Sean’s ribs and they took off, racing after the last wagon. Devlin leapt onto it, then turned and held out his hand. Sean leapt up and caught it and Devlin pulled his brother up. They both dove behind sacks of meal and potatoes and then they huddled closely, looking at each other.

Devlin felt a small, savage satisfaction. He smiled at Sean.

“Now what?” Sean whispered.

“We wait,” Devlin said. Oddly, he was coldly confident.

Once the wagon was safely inside the front gates of the fort, Devlin peered out from their hiding place. He saw no one looking and he nudged Sean. They jumped to the ground and dashed around the side of the closest tent.

Five minutes later they were lurking outside the captain’s tent, hiding behind two water barrels, mostly out of sight and, for the moment, safe.

“What are we going to do now?” Sean asked, wiping sweat from his brow. The weather remained pleasant, although the gray clouds far on the horizon threatened more rain.

“Shh,” Devlin said, trying to think of how to free their mother. It seemed hopeless. But surely there had to be a way. He had not come this far to let her fall into Captain Hughes’s clutches. Father would want him to rescue her—and he would not let him down again.

The ghastly memory returned—his father’s severed head upon the ground, in a pool of his own blood, his eyes wide and still enraged, although lifeless.

Some of his newfound confidence wavered but his resolve hardened imperceptibly.

Voices were raised. Horses approaching at a fast gait could be heard. Devlin and Sean got to their knees and peered around the barrels. Hughes had stepped outside of the tent, looking quite content, a snifter of brandy in his hand, apparently also interested in the commotion.

Devlin followed the direction of the captain’s gaze, looking south through the open front gates of the fort, the way he and Sean had come. He started in surprise. A horde of riders was approaching at a hard gallop, and the banner waving above the outrider was cobalt, silver and black, its colors painfully familiar. Beside him, Sean inhaled sharply, and he and Devlin exchanged a look.

“It’s the Earl of Adare,” Sean whispered with excitement.

Devlin clapped his hand over his brother’s mouth. “He must have come to help. Quiet.”

“Damn the bloody Irish, even the English ones,” Hughes said to another officer. “It’s the Earl of Adare.” He tossed the brandy, snifter and all, onto the ground, obviously annoyed.

“Shall we close the gates, sir?”

“Unfortunately the man is well acquainted with Lord Castlereagh, and he has held a seat on the Irish Privy Council. He was at a dinner of state, I heard, with Cornwallis. If I close the gates, there will be bloody hell to pay.” Hughes scowled now, and red blotches had appeared on his neck above the black-and-gold collar of his red military jacket.

Devlin tried to contain his excitement. Edward de Warenne, the Earl of Adare, was their landlord. And although Gerald had leased his own ancestral lands from Adare, the two men were, in fact, far more than lord and tenant. At times, they had attended the same country suppers and balls, the same fox hunts and steeplechases. Adare had dined a dozen times at the manor at Askeaton. Unlike other landlords, he had been fair in his dealings with the O’Neill family, never rack-renting them, never demanding more than his share.

Devlin realized that he and Sean were holding hands. He watched breathlessly as the earl and his men cantered toward the captain’s tent. They never slowed and soldiers ran to get out of their way. Finally, abruptly, the riders halted before Hughes and his men. Instantly a dozen redcoats armed with muskets formed a circle around the newcomers.

The earl spurred his black mount forward. He was tall and dark, his appearance distinct and formidable, his presence emanating power and authority. But his face was a mask of rage. “Where is Mary O’Neill?” he demanded tersely. A navy-blue cloak swirled about his shoulders.

Hughes smiled tightly. “I take it you’ve heard of O’Neill’s untimely demise?”

“Untimely demise?” The Earl of Adare launched himself to the ground and strode forward. “Murder is more like it. You’ve murdered one of my tenants, Hughes.”

“So now you are a papist? He was fated for the gallows, Adare, and you know it.”

Adare stared, trembling with fury, and finally he breathed low. “You bastard. There was always the chance of exile and a royal pardon. I would have moved heaven and earth to make it so. You arrogant son of a bitch.” His hand moved to the hilt of his sword.