Susan Wiggs - The Maiden of Ireland

Heartsore, Wesley picked through pitted streets and neglected buildings to the house in Little Gate Street where Captain Titus Hammersmith kept his headquarters. The good stone town house had two chimneys, a neat kitchen garden on the side, and a guard posted on the stoop.

Where was the family Hammersmith had turned out in order to set himself up in comfort? Probably wandering in exile, possibly begging a meal and shelter at the gate of Clonmuir.

A sergeant-at-arms let him in and led him down a dim corridor. The house was overheated—Hammersmith complained loudly about the damp Irish cold—and smelled of burning peat and cooked cabbage. Wesley entered a well-lit library. Hammersmith stood at the desk, poring over maps spread out before him.

The Roundhead commander turned, his well-fed bulk filling the space between the desk and wall. It would be a mistake to assume him soft, though. In the middle of his thick body dwelt a heart as cold and immovable as Connemara marble. His one vanity was a profusion of glossy brown ringlets that gave him the look of a cavalier rather than a Roundhead.

“Ah, Hawkins,” he said. “You’re back.” His gaze slid from Wesley’s drooping hat to his damp boots. “Hard journey, was it?”

“I had to walk.”

“What happened to that little coracle I gave you?”

He had given the sailing vessel to a down-at-the-heels fisherman in the Claddagh who had lost his own boat to English thieves. “Battered on the rocks,” he said.

Wesley studied the maps. They were copies of the ones Cromwell had shown him, but these had been crisscrossed by battle plans. “So it’s true. You are planning an advance.”

“How did you know?”

“I heard at Clonmuir.”

Hammersmith’s jowls quivered. “You were at Clonmuir! But you’ve been gone less than a fortnight.”

“I told you, I work quickly.”

“You’re living up to your reputation. I’m surprised that mad MacBride woman didn’t roast your bald parts on a spit.”

She did worse than that, thought Wesley. She stole my heart.

“How’d you get out alive?”

“I overwhelmed her with my personal charm,” said Wesley.

Hammersmith’s eyes narrowed. “Are your papers still in order?”

Wesley patted his stomacher. The wide belt was stiff from the inner pouch of waterproof waxed parchment. “I still have my safe conduct from you, and my passport and letters of marque from Cromwell.” He frowned down at the maps. “You shouldn’t have planned to march without consulting me. An advance at this time would be ill-advised.”

Danger speared like a shaft of light in Hammersmith’s eyes. “And why, pray, is that?”

“I told you. They know about it at Clonmuir.”

“Impossible! It was in the strictest of confidence that I—” Hammersmith clamped his mouth shut. “They can’t know.”

“They do.”

“What else did you find out at Clonmuir?”

“The identity of the leader of the Fianna.”

Hammersmith’s eyebrows lifted, disappearing into the lovelocks that spilled over his brow. He held himself still, waiting, a snake about to strike. “And...?”

“Logan Rafferty, lord of Brocach.”

The eyebrows crashed back down. The cruel face paled. “Impossible!” he said again.

“I’m fairly certain,” said Wesley. “He has great influence in the district, and seems a man made for fighting. He’s also married to a daughter of the MacBride.”

“Is that all you offer me?”

Wesley recalled his dance with Magheen, the conversation interrupted by Caitlin’s well-placed foot. “His wife practically admitted he’s involved.”

“Then she was having you on.”

“I can find out for certain quickly enough,” said Wesley. “I know where Rafferty’s stronghold is. With a small party of—”

“I can spare no men.” Slamming the subject closed, Hammersmith gestured at the sideboard. “Will you have something to chase away the chill?”

Wesley hesitated, trying to see past the guarded look in the soldier’s eyes. “Please.”

As Hammersmith went to pour, Wesley lifted a corner of the map and scanned the sea chart. Inishbofin, an island off the coast of Connaught, was marked with a crudely drawn cross. Putting down the map, he turned his attention to what appeared to be a bill of lading half hidden under the leather desk blotter. Instead he saw that it was a list of women’s names and ages, each followed by a number. A census roll? Wesley wondered. Common sense told him that it was; the finger of ice at the base of his spine warned him otherwise.

Quick as a thief, he snatched the paper and slipped it into his belt. It would bear pondering later.

At the sideboard, Hammersmith splashed usquebaugh out of a crystal bottle. The bottle had a silver collar bearing the claddah, two hands holding a heart, oddly surmounted on a badger.

Accepting the large glass, Wesley took a long drink. The amber liquid slid over his tongue and down his gullet, heating his stomach.

Seeing the expression on his face, Hammersmith gave a satisfied nod. “Mild as new milk, eh? The Irish make good whiskey and comely women.”

Wesley was disinclined to pursue the topic. “Why do you insist on marching now? Wouldn’t it be safer to take Rafferty first?”

Hammersmith slapped his hand over the papers by the map. “New orders. I tell you, you’re wrong about Rafferty, and I can spare you no men. Cromwell’s son, Henry, wants that port now.”

For God’s sake, Wesley thought, isn’t the entire east of Ireland enough?

“We’re to garrison an abandoned stronghold on the western shore of Lough Corrib,” said Hammersmith. “After that’s established, we’ll march up from the south and take Clonmuir in a pincer movement.”

Crushing Caitlin MacBride’s home like a grape in a winepress, raping the women, and turning the battle-maddened survivors out to starve.

“Damn it!” Wesley slammed his empty glass on the desk. “Rafferty’s your man! Take his stronghold instead.”

Lifting an eyebrow up into his lovelocks, Hammersmith studied his guest. “What is it about Clonmuir that fires your passions?”

Wesley immediately saw his mistake. Never show you care, he reminded himself. He should have learned that lesson with Laura. He evaded the question with one of his own. “Have you been sent reinforcements?”

“No.”

“Then what makes you think your march will succeed this time?”

Hammersmith’s smile was the cold curve of a brandished blade. “Don’t be modest, my friend. This time, I have you.”

* * *

“Pissing Irish weather,” muttered Edmund Ladyman, a soldier riding beside Wesley.

A clod of mud flung up by a horse’s hoof struck Wesley on the knee. “I’m with you there,” he said as the mud slid down into his cuffed boot.

The roadway had been churned up by hundreds of hooves and the iron-bound wheels of supply carts. A thick mist surrounded the plodding army, turning the woods into a dark, dripping prison of lichened trees. Since the reign of Elizabeth, Englishmen had set themselves to the task of deforesting Ireland. But even the most greedy of shipbuilders hadn’t yet made a foray into the untamed western lands.

Galway lay miles behind them, but the difficult part of their march still loomed ahead, in the crags of Connemara where secrets wafted on the wind and wild warriors hid in the fells.

Wesley disliked Ladyman, a thick-lipped, foul-mouthed Republican from Kent. Wesley found that he disliked most of the English soldiers. But they had their uses. “Were you on the last march, Ladyman?” he asked.

Ladyman tugged at the towel he wore beneath his helm to keep the rain off his neck. “Oh, aye. And the four bleedin’ marches before that as well.”