Ruth Langan - Rory

How long had this killing lasted? Minutes? Hours? Time was nothing but a blur.

Had he really been on this quest for two years now? Two years of blood and violence and death. Two years of being hunted, and hiding out in hay barns and accepting food from strangers.

And yet, how could he stop the carnage? In every village he heard the stories of cottages burned and crops destroyed and women and children violated.

He was weary beyond belief. The thought of Ballinarin taunted him, tempted him. At times all he could think of was turning his back on this quest and returning to his home and family.

But then, he would see again in his mind his beloved Caitlin. And he knew, no matter how weary, no matter what the Fates meted out to him, he could never stop until he found the English bastard who had brutalized and murdered his future bride and her entire family. Tilden had to pay.

“Will we stop awhile, Rory?” one of his men called.

“We’ll move on.” He forced the weariness aside as he allowed the water to wash the blood from his sword. Then he sheathed it and stepped from the river. “If we move quickly, we can sleep tonight in Dublin.”

* * *

“I’m sorry I must leave you, AnnaClaire.”

“I understand, Father. You have your duties.”

“But it’s so soon since Margaret.”

The young woman touched a hand to her father’s lips to still his words. “I’ll not deny I miss Mother. As do you. Every day of our lives we’ll miss her. But I can’t ask you to forsake everything and spend the rest of your life holding my hand.”

“The grief is still so raw.”

“Aye. I expect a year from now I’ll still be grieving. But I’ll find ways to stay busy. I promise.”

“I wish you’d change your mind and come with me.”

“We’ve gone over this before, Father. I’m just not ready to leave Mother’s home, her grave.”

“I know. And I understand, my dear. I’ve asked Charles Lord Davis to look in on you. And Lady Alice Thornly is planning a lovely dinner party. She hinted that there would be several interesting men recently arrived who might snag your interest.”

AnnaClaire managed a smile. “You just can’t help yourself, can you, Father?”

“Do you blame me? You need a husband, a family. You’re far from home, without the comfort of your mother, and now your father abandons you as well.”

“You aren’t abandoning me. You said yourself you’ll be back in time for my birthday.”

“And I shall. But I’d feel better if I knew you had a young man looking out for you while I was gone.”

“I’ll have an old one. Lord Davis is a dear.”

“But not quite what I had in mind. No matter.” He turned to see his trunks being unloaded from the lorry and deposited on the docks. “I don’t want you to remain until my ship sails. I’d just as soon you not mingle with the locals.”

He could see that she was about to voice an objection so he gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Go now. Tavis is waiting with the carriage. Stay well, my dear. Stay busy. And do be careful. These are dangerous times.”

“Goodbye, Father. God speed.”

AnnaClaire turned away and began to move slowly through the crowd.

It was market day, and the docks teemed with life. Gnarled, ruddy fishermen sat mending their nets while children, no older than nine or ten, pushed carts piled with cockles and mussels. Old women in faded gowns held up striped sea bass and cod to entice buyers. Chickens squawked in crude Wooden pens. Farmers displayed the bounty from their land. Potatoes, carrots, peas.

The air was ripe with the scent of sea and earth and humanity. Wealthy landowners mingled with the poorest of the poor as vendors vied with one another to sell their wares. AnnaClaire felt a tug at her heartstrings. From her earliest childhood she had always loved the sights and sounds and smells of Dublin.

English soldiers, fresh from their journey across the Channel, disembarked from Her Majesty’s ship, the Greenley, and shouldered their way through the throng, escorting half a dozen of the queen’s own emissaries. Each month, Elizabeth dispatched more titled English to deal with what was being called “the Irish problem.”

“Out of the way, you fools.” One of the soldiers raised his sword menacingly, and the crowd fell back.

From her vantage point, AnnaClaire felt a wave of disgust. Every time another boatload of soldiers arrived on these shores, the discontent grew. And not without good reason. Some of these crude louts could neither read nor write, yet they seemed determined to prove to the locals that they were superior in every way.

As the soldiers approached, AnnaClaire saw a young woman, heavy with child, grasp the hand of a toddler and try to snatch her out of the way. At the last moment the child pulled free and stepped directly into the path of the marching men.

“Oh, no. Someone please stop her,” the woman cried.

AnnaClaire couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The soldiers continued pressing forward. With the surge of the crowd, the little one would surely be trampled.

Without a thought to her own safety she dashed forward and snatched up the child, sidestepping out of danger only a second before the soldiers marched past.

“Oh, thank you, miss. Bless you. Bless you.” With tears of gratitude the young woman kissed AnnaClaire’s hands before taking the little girl from her arms and hugging her to her heart.

“You’re welcome. I can’t believe they didn’t see what was happening.”

“They saw.” The young woman’s eyes narrowed. “They just don’t care. Our lives mean nothing to them.” Her voice lowered. “But soon, very soon, they’ll feel the sting of the Blackhearted O’Neil.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He’s here.” Now the young woman’s voice was little more than a whisper. “They say he’s here in the crowd.”

“Who is here?”

“Rory O’Neil. The Blackhearted O’Neil. Praise heaven. Come to put an end to the injustice.” Her eyes suddenly widened. “God in heaven. There he is now. Come, miss. We mustn’t tarry. It’s begun.”

AnnaClaire was aware of a murmur going through the crowd. “What’s begun?”

“There’s no time.” Before AnnaClaire could argue, the young woman tugged her out of the way of a band of ragged men wielding swords. Moments later she shoved AnnaClaire down behind a cart heaped with stinking fish. From there AnnaClaire watched in wide-eyed wonder as that small band engaged more than a dozen soldiers in battle.

The scene was one of complete chaos. The soldiers, honor-bound to protect the queen’s emissaries, stood in a tight line, swords raised against the intruders. But instead of falling back, these Irish confounded them by charging directly at them, swords flashing, voices screaming.

Several of the young soldiers, who were engaging the enemy for the first time, looked absolutely terrified. Instead of standing their ground, they turned and fled, ignoring the shouted commands of their sergeant-atarms.

To add to the confusion, many of the cages were upended, releasing squawking chickens and quacking ducks. From her position behind a cart, an old woman began tossing her supply of fish at the English soldiers. Others soon joined in, until the docks were littered with the slimy remains of seafood.

AnnaClaire watched as the leader of the Irish warriors leapt between one of his own men, who was bleeding profusely, and a soldier who was about to run him through with his sword.

“That’s Rory O’Neil,” the young woman beside her said with a trace of awe. “Our Blackhearted O’Neil.”

AnnaClaire couldn’t take her eyes off him. She’d never seen anyone like him. This man looked like the devil himself, leaping, dancing, his sword singing through the air and landing fatal blows with uncanny accuracy. He was everywhere. Deflecting an English sword. Taking a blow meant for one of his men, then retaliating with a powerful thrust of his own blade. When one of his men was wounded, he shouldered him aside and saved him from certain death, before returning to the fray.