Ruth Langan - Conor

For John Ryan Langan,

the newest link in our chain of love

And his brother and sister, Tommy and Annie

And his proud parents, Tom and Maureen

And of course, to Tom, the love of my life

Prologue

Ireland, 1546

“Good morrow, young Conor.” The old peasant woman beamed at the son of Gavin O’Neil, the lord of Ballinarin. “Ye’ve come with your family to market, have ye?”

“Aye, Mistress Garrity.” Nine-year-old Conor O’Neil paused at the table laden with rich, delicate pastries.

This was his favorite stop on market day. At a nearby stall his father was sharing a bit of ale with Friar Malone and some of the men from the village. Just across the green his mother and little sister, Briana, were admiring bits of ribbon and lace that a young woman was holding aloft. In the lane his older brother, Rory, was surrounded by a cluster of lads who were pretending to ignore the pretty lasses who were giggling and blushing as they passed by.

All around were vendors hawking their wares. There were stalls filled with pens of squawking chickens, buckets of wriggling fish, wheelbarrows of mussels and other shellfish. Farmers displayed their fruits and vegetables, or bartered lambs for seafood.

“I’ve raised six sons of my own,” Mistress Garrity was saying in that lovely musical voice that Conor loved. “And I know what most appeals to the heart of a wee lad.”

With a wink she handed him one of the pastries. As always he reached into his pocket for the coin. And as always, she added a second pastry with the whispered admonition, “This one’s free. Just to hold ye until ye get home, lad.”

They shared a secret smile. He bit into the pastry and gave a little sigh of pleasure. But before he could take a second bite he felt a hand against his shoulder as he was roughly shoved aside. As he fell to the ground, he looked up to see more than a dozen English soldiers elbowing their way through the crowd.

The happy voices suddenly faded into silence. Even little children, who had been chasing each other around the stalls laughing and shouting, went still as death.

“What do you want here?” one of the farmers demanded.

“We’ve come for food, old man. We’re hungry.” The leader of the band of soldiers kicked over a stall and reached for a pen of squawking, flapping chickens. While the vendor watched helplessly, the soldier tossed it to one of his men and said with a laugh, “While we’re at it, we’ll have your gold as well.”

The soldiers began snatching up buckets of fish, baskets of bread, all the while filling their pockets with coin from the tables.

One of the soldiers spied the pastries and began scooping them up.

“Where’s your coin, old woman?”

Mistress Garrity emptied her pocket, placing three gold coins in his hand.

He caught her by the front of her gown, dragging her close. Through his teeth he hissed, “I want all of them, old woman.”

She hung her head in shame. “That’s all I have.”

“Liar.” He slapped her hard, snapping her head to one side, then gave her a shove backward.

At that a tearful little girl came forward, clutching at the old woman’s skirt as though to comfort her. She was a wee bit of a lass who often played a game of tag with Conor while her family tended their stall at market.

“Hush, now, Glenna.” Mistress Garrity was more concerned with soothing the child than with her own pain. “Yer old grandmother’s fine.”

Seeing this, the soldier snatched up the girl and pressed a knife to her throat. “You’ll give me the rest of your coins, old woman, or you’ll watch your brat’s blood spill right here at your feet. And just to make certain that you never forget, I’ll have my sport with her before I kill her.”

At the soldier’s words Conor, still lying in the dirt, reached for the small, sharp dirk he always wore beneath his tunic. From his youngest days he’d been taught to think like a warrior. It was in his blood, as it was in the blood of all the O’Neils. The soldier’s threat had his blood running hot through his veins. Despite his tender age, he knew what would happen to his young friend, Glenna. The need to stop these monsters by any means nearly clouded his vision. But before he could attack, he looked up to see his father’s hand go to the sword at his waist. Across the lane he saw Rory unsheath his knife.

Conor knew that the sword of one man and the knives of two lads would never be enough against more than a dozen armed English soldiers. It might satisfy the warrior’s blood in them, but in the end it would only incite the soldiers to more brutality.

His own life mattered not to him. But he had the feeling, in that instant, that the fate of his mother and sister, and the entire village, rested in what he chose to do here. He knew, with perfect clarity, that he could save them all with the only weapon he had. And this time, it was not his knife.

Without thinking of the consequences he leapt to his feet and, in a surprisingly strong voice, asked, “Is it true that you swear allegiance to Henry of England?”

The soldier was so startled by the bold question he turned to face the lad, completely forgetting the threat to the weeping lass in his arms. “Aye. And what’s it to you?”

Conor shrugged. Out of the corner of his eye he saw several of the soldiers begin to circle around him and prayed his father would hold his temper for a minute more. Though he knew he was babbling, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing his brave father and brother to these foreigners’ swords. Not when there might be another way, a better way, to win. “Then it can’t be true what I’ve heard about your king.”

“And what might that be?”

“That he’s an honorable man.”

The soldier’s eyes narrowed with fury. “Are you saying he isn’t honorable? Do you dare to slander the King of England?”

“If Henry of England is an honorable king, and if you swear allegiance to him, then how can you justify taking the life of an innocent lass? According to the laws of your own land, stealing food is a crime, punishable by confinement in prison. But the taking of an innocent life is a crime punishable by death.”

At the look of amazement on the soldier’s face, his comrades began to taunt and jeer.

“This bright Irish lad’s trapped you, Ian.”

“Aye, what have you to say for yourself now, man?”

“Better release the girl before good King Henry himself comes seeking vengeance.”

“I’ve heard these Irish are gifted with words,” another soldier jeered. “This lad’s proved it. He’s bested you, Ian.”

The leader of the band hurried forward and, hearing the taunts, said angrily, “I want no trouble here. We came for food and gold, nothing more. When we leave this place, we leave with no blood on our hands. Is that clear, Ian?”

The two faced each other for long silent moments. Then the soldier dropped the girl and she scrambled to her feet and raced, weeping and wailing, into the trembling embrace of her grandmother.

In the silence that followed the soldier turned and caught Conor roughly by the arms, yanking the lad ,up until they were eye to eye.

“You’ve a glib tongue, Irish.”

Conor’s heart was thundering inside his chest. If the soldier felt the knife beneath his tunic, it would be turned on him. But he swallowed back his fear and met the soldier’s stare in silence.

“That’s better. You’d best see that your mouth stays closed if you want to keep that clever golden tongue. Else you may find it cut out by my blade.” With a vicious oath he tossed the lad down in a heap, then whirled away.

Minutes later the English soldiers disappeared into the forest as quickly as they had arrived.