Ruth Langan - Rory

“Hush now.” He held her close for a moment, whispering against her forehead, “I’ll return. Trust me.”

Conor clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Will you let me come with you?”

Rory gave a firm shake of his head. “It’s something I must do alone. You’ll be needed here.” He turned to his mother, who stood behind Innis, her arms wrapped around his thin shoulders. “You’ll see to the lad?”

She nodded. “He’ll be a son to me, until my own returns.”

Rory strapped on a sword and tucked a knife at his waist and in his boot.

His father removed his own cloak, which bore the O’Neil crest, and wrapped it around his son’s shoulders. Lifting his hand in benediction he said, “May God ride with you, Rory, and bring you home to those who love you.”

Without a word, Rory pulled himself onto the back of his horse. He turned for one last look at Ballinarin. In the distance Croagh Patrick stood guard over the land. The mountain changed color so rapidly it was never the same. Earlier, it had been a harsh gray-green in the misty rain. Now it had softened to a peach hue in the warmth of the fading sun. Its sides were cloaked with stunted, twisted shrubs and trees and at the base, tall conifers and clumps of rhododendron. Waterfalls tossed themselves over the side, spilling down until they reached the river. Torn shreds of clouds drifted overhead. This lonely, savage piece of land held his heart. It was the only place he’d ever wanted to be. But now, the deceptively gentle scene mocked him. Because of the. violence that had occurred here, he would begin an odyssey. An odyssey that could take him far away for years, or even a lifetime, until this thing was finished.

County Dublin, 1562

“So many of them, Rory.” The voice was little more than a whisper on the breeze.

Half a dozen figures crouched by the banks of the Liffey, watching the English soldiers frolic in the brown water.

“Aye. I’d hoped for only a dozen or more. There must be close to fifty.” Rory turned to the weathered farmer kneeling beside him. “Why so many?”

“Now that the English have discovered the healing properties of the boiling spring, this river has become a favorite place for them to congregate.” He wrinkled his nose at the strong odor of sulphur. “It helps them relax after they’ve had the fun of killing a few of us.”

Rory watched from his place of concealment.

“You’re certain the one with the scar is among them?”

The farmer’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the distant figures. “1 haven’t spotted him yet. But he was with this group of bastards yesterday when they caught my little daughter in the fields and made sport of her.”

His voice betrayed his pain. “She’s only ten and one, Rory. And the things they did to her. The one with the scar demanded to be first. She told me he taunted those who refused to join in.” In a fierce whisper he added, “I want to be the one to kill him.”

Rory touched a hand to his arm. “I know how you feel, Seamus. But you’ve done enough. Go home to your family now.”

“I need to see him dead.” The farmer fingered his only weapon, a small crude knife.

“Your family can’t afford to lose you, Seamus. Go now. Leave the killing to us.”

“You’ll kill him, Rory? For my Fiona? For me?”

“Aye. If he’s here, I’ll see the bastard dead.” For Caitlin, he thought, especially for Caitlin.

Seeing the hatred that glittered in Rory O’Neil’s eyes, the farmer had no doubt that his family’s honor would be avenged. In the past two years, all of Ireland had heard of the quest for vengeance that drove this fierce Irish warrior. Wherever there was a battle between his countrymen and the hated English, Rory O’Neil could be found in the thick of it. He had killed so many soldiers, there was now a price on his head. He was the most hunted man in the land. And the man most despised by his enemy. He was known throughout England and Ireland as the Blackhearted O’Neil. Despite the fact that his likeness was posted throughout the country, Rory O’Neil was so loved by the people, he could count on being safely hidden in any town or village throughout the land. Everywhere he went, men joined his ragged band in its quest for vengeance.

“Can we take them now, Rory?” one of his men whispered when the farmer was safely gone.

“Patience, Colin.” How odd that he now counseled patience, when he’d had so little of it in his life.

He watched as the last of the soldiers stripped off their tunics and walked into the water. Only a handful of men remained as lookouts, while the others swam and bathed and splashed each other like boys.

“Ready, lads?” he asked as he stood and unsheathed his sword.

His men nodded and did the same.

A ripple of anticipation passed through them, charging each man with almost supernatural fervor. The very air around them seemed somehow changed. No one spoke. No one moved as they waited for the signal from their leader.

“Now,” Rory called in a fierce whisper.

They scrambled down the banks of the river, screaming like banshees. The hapless guards didn’t even have a chance to unsheath their swords before they fell in their own blood.

The English soldiers, who had only moments earlier been laughing and calling to one another, now struggled feverishly to retrieve their weapons. Though they outnumbered the Irish warriors almost ten to one, they had the disadvantage of being caught unawares.

Rory plowed into the water, using his sword with an economy of movement. With each thrust of his blade, another man stiffened, gasped, tumbled headlong into the river. In no time the brown waters of the Liffey ran red with blood. And still the killing went on.

Each time he encountered another soldier, Rory stared into his opponent’s face, searching for the telltale scar. And each time, he experienced the sting of disappointment when he realized this wasn’t the one he sought.

He had long ago stopped feeling the shock along his arm when his sword encountered muscle and bone. And was able to block out the muffled sobs and high-pitched shrieks of the dying. What he couldn’t erase from his mind was the sight of his beloved Caitlin, her body bloodied and battered beyond recognition. This was what drove him. This was what gave him the will to go on, no matter what the odds.

As he stepped over yet another body, he caught a glimpse of a soldier with yellow hair plucking a sword from one of his fallen comrades.

At last, Rory thought. At long last, his quest would be ended. With a cry of pain and rage he lunged through the water lapping at his hips and stumbled forward.

Hearing his voice, the soldier momentarily dropped the sword.

“Pick it up, you coward.” Rory’s voice was thick with passion. “Pick it up and face your death like a man.”

Rory saw the soldier grasp the sword as he lifted his own. The thought of victory sang through his blood and misted his vision.

“Now,” he shouted. “Now, Tilden, will you taste the vengeance of Rory O’Neil.”

He could no more stop the thrust of his blade than he could still the waters churning beneath his feet. And yet, in that last moment, he realized his mistake. This man had no scar. His face was unlined. It was the face of a youth. The eyes wide with terror. The mouth round in surprise.

The force of the thrust sent his blade through the lad’s. chest and out the other side. The young soldier was dead before his body hit the water.

With a feeling of horror and revulsion, Rory pulled his sword free and watched as the water around the body turned blood red.

For the first time he stared around at the scene of carnage. Not a single soldier remained. The Liffey and its banks were littered with bodies. Three of his own men were sitting in the shallows, looking dazed. One was tying a tourniquet around his bloody leg. Another was leaning against a tree, retching.