Ruth Langan - Rory

As the battle wore on, only three English soldiers remained standing. But when the queen’s emissaries began to flee, Rory’s voice stopped them.

“We have not come to harm you. The one we were seeking is not here. We wish only that you carry this message to your queen. All we desire is to live in peace. But know this. We will not lay down our arms until those soldiers who have harmed our innocent women and children have paid. Beginning with the one called Tilden. He is the one we seek. He brings shame to his queen and country. Do you understand?”

The titled men glanced nervously at one another before nodding their heads.

Satisfied, Rory lowered his sword. “Now tell your soldiers to lower their weapons, and we will take our leave of this place.”

As the three soldiers began to comply, a voice from behind them shouted, “Cowards. You will not surrender to these barbarians.”

A burly soldier stepped into their midst. His yellow hair hung nearly to his shoulders. A wide, puckered scar ran from his left eye to his jaw. At the sight of him the crowd of Irish onlookers gave a collective gasp before falling eerily silent.

AnnaClaire turned to the young woman beside her. “What is wrong? Who is that?”

“He is the soldier they came seeking. His name is Tilden. But most call him Lucifer. Especially those who have tasted his cruelty.”

“What sort of cruelty?”

“Beyond anything you can imagine. He enjoys torturing our men before finally taking their lives. He despoils our women and children, and often forces husbands and fathers to watch the brutality before killing them. And he has vowed to be the one to stop our Blackhearted O’Neil.” The woman’s lips trembled. “But if there is a God in heaven, Rory O’Neil will prevail. Else, all in this fair land are lost.”

AnnaClaire decided it was best to keep her thoughts to herself. But she wondered what possible chance one exhausted, bloody, wounded Irish warrior could have against a soldier who had just stepped afresh into battle.

“He is mine,” Rory shouted as he charged toward the laughing soldier.

The throb of passion in his voice sent shivers through the crowd. But before he could confront Tilden, more than a dozen soldiers stepped from their places of concealment and brandished swords. Rory found himself fighting for his life.

Once again the crowd fell back and watched in silence as Rory and his small, wounded band fought valiantly. It was an amazing sight to see men leaping, lunging, the blades of their swords running red with blood. And though the ragged band of Irish warriors was now beyond exhaustion, they never gave up, never fell back.

Amazingly, they fought until the last of the soldiers fell to the ground. Then, bleeding from half a dozen wounds, Rory looked around for the one he’d come seeking. Though his right arm hung limply at his side, and his clothes were soaked with blood, the blaze of fury was still in his eyes.

“You cannot hide, Tilden. Show yourself, coward.”

One of his men threw an arm around his shoulders. “Come, Rory. We must flee. There are more soldiers aboard the English ship. You can be certain a coward like Tilden wouldn’t fight alone. He’s surely gone for reinforcements.”

“I want him. I’ve come too far to turn away now.”

“Nay, friend. Come. You’ve lost too much blood. We must flee now, while we can still walk. Thus will we live to fight another day.”

As Rory was led away he stumbled, righted himself, then moved numbly through the crowd.

AnnaClaire watched as the people surged forward, forming a protective wall of humanity so that their hero and his ragged band could melt away in the crowd.

“Well. That was quite a spectacle.” She got to her feet, dusting off her skirts. “I can see why Rory O’Neil is called the Blackhearted O’Neil. But I.” She turned toward the place where the young woman had been kneeling beside her. But she and her child were gone.

AnnaClaire frowned. All these people, it would seem, had a habit of simply disappearing into thin air.

“Thank you, Tavis.” AnnaClaire watched as her driver hung the pen holding the chicken at the rear of her open carriage.

It had taken more than an hour to make her way through the milling throngs, especially since she’d been forced to wait until one of the vendors retrieved his scattered chickens.

“I hope Bridget is sufficiently grateful for all we went through to bring home supper.”

“Aye, my lady. But when you taste what my Bridget can do with one little chicken, ‘tis you who’ll be grateful.”

She laughed as Tavis Murphy gave her a hand up. She settled herself comfortably, arranging her skirts as the carriage jolted ahead. She gave a glance around. “I believe we’ve lost my lap robe.”

“Nay, my lady. The day is warm. I set it in back, out of the way.”

“Thank you, Tavis.”

He nodded in acknowledgment. “‘Twill be slow going, my lady.” He pulled back on the reins and brought the horse and carriage to a walk.

“I don’t mind. After all I’ve seen today, I’ll just sit here and catch my breath.”

“You saw the battle then?” He steered around a cluster of men and women who were still talking and gesturing.

“It was right before my eyes.”

He half turned. “You saw our Blackhearted O’Neil?”

She nodded. “I saw him.”

“Handsome devil, I’m told.”

“Some might say that. The devil part at least. I’d call him dangerous. And violent.”

“Aye, he’s violent. A man of deep passion, I’ve heard. But with good reason. His bride-to-be was brutalized and murdered on their wedding day.”

She felt a quick jolt, then swept it aside. “From what I saw today, he’s more than made up for one woman’s death. Do you know how many English women will weep and mourn the loss of husbands and sons this day?”

Tavis held his silence, and concentrated on urging the horse through the maze of carts and wagons and people.

AnnaClaire recognized his silence as disapproval. She studied her driver’s profile. Though Tavis and his wife Bridget were paid handsomely for their services to her father, she had no illusions about their loyalty. This was their land; these were their people. And though her mother had been born and raised in Dublin, AnnaClaire was considered an outsider. Her mother, Margaret Doyle, had married an English nobleman, and had educated her own daughter in London.

“Here we are, my lady.” Tavis brought the carriage to a halt and helped her down. “I’ll see that Bridget gets the chicken right away.”

“Thank you, Tavis.” She turned toward the door, then turned back as the carriage jolted ahead. “Oh, wait. My lap robe.”

“I’ll bring it in after I’ve rubbed down the horse and cleaned the carriage,” he called over his shoulder.

“But I…”

The carriage was already rounding the corner of the drive. She stood a moment, watching the way her robe, mounded on the back platform, fluttered in the breeze. With a shrug of resignation, she turned away and entered the lovely manor house, Clay Court, that had been in her mother’s family for six generations.

Her first order of business would be to wash away the stench of fish that clung to her skin and clothes.

Then she would make herself presentable for her visit with her father’s oldest friend.

“Bridget, the dinner was lovely.”

“Thank you, miss. Will you have more tea?”

“No. Lord Davis? More tea? Or perhaps a bit more ale?”

The old man patted his stomach. “Not another drop, my dear. I fear I’ll explode.”

“It was kind of you to come by tonight and keep me company.”

“I knew you’d be feeling lonely with your father gone. And I was concerned when I heard about the fighting that went on at the docks today.” He wiped his mouth, set his napkin aside. “If I’d known you were anywhere near those barbarians, I’d have been there to personally escort you home.”