Susan Wiggs - The Maiden of Ireland

“So you understand the way the Fianna works.”

“Aye. Bastards always go after the supply carts, that’s why we’re riding behind them. They won’t be expecting that. Pillaging natterjacks. Stealing the food from our very mouths, they are.”

“Probably because they’re starving.”

“That’s the whole idea, eh?” Ladyman peered through the damp green gloom. “We’re safe hereabouts, ’deed we are. They never strike in daylight, sneaking bloody kerns.” A drop of rain gathered on the tip of his nose. With a curse, he wiped it on his sleeve.

“So why do you carry on?”

Ladyman regarded him with astonishment. “The friggin’ booty, what else?”

“Any booty to be had in these parts has surely been picked over by now.”

“I’m speaking of Clonmuir,” Ladyman replied. “There’s a treasure in that castle worth a king’s ransom.”

“Who told you that?”

“It’s all the talk, has been for years.”

Wesley shook his head and stared downward. Between his aching thighs, the sodden body of his cavalry mare plodded with patient stupidity. A shame he could not reveal that he had been at Clonmuir.

Ladyman had been deceived, as had every other man who believed the tale. The advantage to Hammersmith was obvious. By enticing the men with the promise of rich spoils, he kept interest high and the desertion rate low.

Ladyman rode with the careless ease of a professional soldier. The fool. There was no treasure at Clonmuir.

Ah, but there was, he corrected himself. There was Caitlin MacBride. More precious than gold, she was a fiercely beautiful woman desperate to protect her own.

He didn’t want to think about her. He had deceived her about his purpose. Now he was marching toward her home with an army. He couldn’t afford to harbor tenderness toward her.

But thoughts of her dogged his path each day and plagued his sleep each night. In fact, he was dreaming of her one night as he slept in his damp bedroll near the banks of Lough Corrib. She stood on the strand amid a tumble of rocks. Proud and vulnerable, a look of stricken wonder on her face, the breeze blowing her tawny gold hair in billows about her shoulders. Her loose blouse seemed exotic in its simplicity; her feminine lines needed no molding by stays. He could sense her need, her desire, because within him burned an answering need of equal intensity.

She lifted her arms and stepped toward him, reaching, smiling, as if he were the answer to her most cherished wish. He brushed his lips against hers, just so, increasing the pressure until she surged against him and cried out—

“Guards!”

Wesley sat straight up and blinked into the darkness.

“Guards!”

Scattered campfires burned low, throwing the huge shadows of hurrying men against a wall of woodland.

“Guards!” The furious shout came from Hammersmith’s command tent. “Smith! Bell! Lamb! Front and center!”

By the time Wesley reached the tent, the commander had lined up the night watch outside and was pacing in front of them, a quirt slapping his thigh. “Not one of you heard anything?”

“Not a sound, Captain. I swear it, nary a peep. Naught but the whir of bats’ wings.”

“Then how, pray,” said Hammersmith sarcastically, “do you explain this?” Between his thumb and forefinger Hammersmith dangled a freshly picked shamrock.

“Why, these grow like weeds in Ireland, sir?”

“Not on my chest while I sleep they don’t!” Titus Hammersmith roared. “Some sneaking Irish left it as a sort of sign, or—or—”

“Warning?” asked Wesley. He moved toward the rear of the tent, which faced the rock-rimmed lake. He touched the canvas and saw where it had been slit with a knife. A grown man could never fit through the opening.

Puzzled, Wesley entered the tent through the front. Torchlight from outside threw eerie shadows on the canvas. Hammersmith’s cot stood several feet from the opening. It was not simply a matter of reaching inside, then.

“Here’s where the intruder entered.” Wesley indicated the sliced-open canvas. “Was anything else disturbed?”

Hammersmith gave a cursory glance around. “No, I—” He tugged distractedly at a sausage curl. “Cut!” he roared, making Wesley jump. “By God, the Irish devil has cut a lock of my hair!” He stumbled back as if he’d been mortally wounded. “I’ve heard the old Celts use human hair in their spells.”

“It could have been worse,” Wesley murmured. “The intruder could have slit your throat.” But he was beginning to understand the Irish character. They were warriors, not cold-blooded murderers.

“Jesus, Captain,” said his lieutenant. “D’ye think one of ’em’s havin’ ye on?”

“Shut up,” snapped Hammersmith. He whirled on Wesley. “Find the devils. Find them now.”

* * *

Wesley led a score of mounted warriors northward. The darkness hung thick around them, and the urge to light one of the pitch torches they had brought along was voiced by more than one soldier.

Like the troops of cavalry, Wesley wore a buff coat of thick leather over back and breast armor, and the menacing iron headpiece which gave the Roundheads their name. In addition to the torches, they carried swords, pikes, and pistols.

The latent sense of decency that had driven him to the seminary at Douai tiptoed up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. With an effort, he shrugged it off. Now was no time for scruples.

They came to a great spill of rocks that rolled down toward the lake. The horses balked and had to be led around the rockfall. Wesley paused to search for a sign. Squinting in the gloom, he studied the dead grass that grew in the crevices.

Before long he discovered a barely discernible depression in the mud, made by a small, broad foot. Christ, had the Irish enlisted children now?

An owl hooted a breath of song into the night. A badger rooted in the damp leaves.

“We’re going the wrong way,” muttered one of the men.

Wesley leaned down to inspect a gorse bush. One branch had recently been broken. “No, we’re not,” he said.

The hill rose to a ridge along the lake. The rocks formed a bowl around a small clearing, sharp peaks thrusting through the mist with a weird, stark beauty that captivated Wesley. For a moment he fancied himself gazing at a castle fashioned by giants. The lake lapped with a steady swish at the reedy shores.

And over all hung a thick, pervasive, unnatural quiet that Wesley didn’t like in the least. As he reached up to pluck a swatch of flaxen fabric from a low-hanging branch, he understood why. He straightened and turned, apprehension clutching at his belly.

His gaze darted over the area. Most of the Roundheads had descended to the clearing. Moonlight threw their shadows against the wall of rock opposite the lakeside. Directly ahead grew a thick forest, nearly as dark and impenetrable as the granite.

The wind keened across the lake, carrying the smell of fresh water and something else, a faint animal scent. Guiding his horse down from the ridge, he joined his companions.

“Well?” asked Ladyman.

“The trail’s too obvious,” said Wesley.

“Not to me,” said another soldier, scratching his brow beneath his round helm.

“They want us to follow them.”

“But why the devil would the bastards want that?” Ladyman demanded.

Another Roundhead uncorked a bottle and took a drink of beer. “Hammersmith’s nervous,” he said. “He’s starting to believe in all those heathen Irish superstitions.”

“I mislike this darkness,” a third man said, grabbing a bundle of torches and striking flint and steel.

“Douse that!” Wesley ordered furiously. “For God’s sake, you’ll give away our pos—”