The Maiden of Ireland

“I’ll tell you about her some day. It’s a long story.”

“You might not live long enough.” Her laughter cut him like a knife.

They jogged along in silence for a time. Wesley felt the distrustful stares of the others pricking at him. God, what tortures did these men have in store for him?

He had escaped being tortured to death at Tyburn, he told himself. He would escape this disaster, too.

For Laura. Her image, sweetly gilt by a halo of paternal love, drifted through his fading consciousness. God knew what Cromwell would do with the innocent child if Wesley failed. If he failed. If he failed....

The thought kept brutal pace with his every painful footfall. Caitlin refused to slacken the punishing pace. The woods grew thicker with spiny underbrush and rocky ground. Wesley’s foot slammed into something hard and jagged. White-hot pain shot up his leg and coursed like fire through his body. Brilliant light exploded behind his eyes. He was aware of his feet moving, his legs pumping, his pride overcoming the urge to flop to the ground. He felt his mind moving away from the pain, sliding deep into a familiar abyss of warm, white comfort.

He focused on the inner light. His breath slowed to match the rhythmical cadence. Always it happened like this, brilliance pulsing all around him, a burning shield against pain and suffering.

“Mr. Hawkins? Mr. Hawkins!” The strong melody of Caitlin’s voice penetrated the moment.

The blindness peeled away in layers, like living flesh being skinned from a hide. Clenching his jaw against the tearing pain, Wesley opened his eyes. The strange thoughts swirled away before he could grasp them.

The war party had stopped. Reeling with agony and exhaustion, he became aware of his surroundings. They had climbed the foothills west of the lake. Shallow caves, hidden by reedy dry grass and bushes, dotted the cliff sides. Wisps of smoke puffed from one of the larger caves. Caitlin dismounted. A girl scurried forward and took the reins.

“Thank you, Brigid.” Caitlin unwound Wesley’s rope. “See that my horse gets sweetened oats and a fine brisk rub.”

Wesley fell gasping to his knees.

Brigid regarded him with awe and fear. “Is it a Sassenach, my lady?”

“Aye,” said Caitlin, pointedly eyeing Wesley’s blousy pantaloons. “A regular tight pants.”

“I’ve never seen a Roundhead before. But where are his horns and his tail?”

Caitlin laughed. “You’ve been listening to Tom Gandy again.”

Brigid clasped the reins to her chest. “Oh, my lady, he tells such wondrous tales. I do so want to ride with you.”

“Perhaps one day you will, a storin. See to my horse. Off with you, now.”

Glancing over her shoulder, the child led the horse away.

Caitlin plucked a cork out of a leather flask and thrust it at Wesley. “Drink slowly, now,” she said, “else you’ll puke it all back up.”

Even through his agony Wesley’s pride rose up. He did not want her to see him puke. He sucked slowly at the flask, letting the cold, sweet water trickle down his parched throat.

“How far have we come?” he asked in a faint, hoarse voice.

“Some ten miles, I’d say.” Dawn had broken, and the rose-gold light of the rising sun gave her the look of an angel. But the gleam in her eyes reminded him of a fairy demon. “I’m pleasantly surprised by your stamina. I expected you to collapse after a mile.” A strange softness came over her implacable features. “What a pity you aren’t one of us.”

“Aye.” Fatigue crept up to claim him. “A great pity, indeed.” With that, he pitched forward where he knelt.

* * *

Throughout the day, Caitlin kept a surreptitious eye on her captive. Not that there was any need. Rory had tethered Hawkins’s bound hands to a tree, and besides, the man slept the sleep of the dead.

Still, she could not keep her gaze from wandering to the large Englishman lying in the shade of a sycamore tree. She had never taken a prisoner before. Least of all a deceitful Sassenach who had tried to worm his way into her heart.

“I doubt he bites,” said Tom Gandy.

“And what makes you believe I was wondering about that? Don’t you think we’d best have a meeting and plan our next move?”

Tom took out a chunk of beeswax and drew it carefully along his bowstring. “Aye.”

Careful not to betray her weariness, Caitlin walked with Tom to the largest of the caves where the men lounged, some of them sleeping, others quaffing ale and dickering over the meager spoils of the skirmish.

“We’re in luck,” said Tom, sitting back on his heels.

“The Irish are always lucky,” said Rory.

“A fine thought, that,” muttered Caitlin, “if only it were true.”

“I’ve spied out Hammersmith’s army. He’s well supplied with flour and lard. Some livestock, too. He thinks to fool us by putting his train in the vanguard rather than the rear.”

“We’ll take it,” Caitlin said decisively. “Without supplies, our friend Titus Hammersmith will run back to Galway.”

“And you’ll have a fine fat bullock for Logan Rafferty,” said Rory.

“That would be a blessing,” said Caitlin. “Although it would take a bit of explaining to tell him where we got it.”

“Shall we topple the powder and shot into the lake?” asked Rory.

“Yes,” said Caitlin. “It’s of no use to us, anyway, since we have so few guns.”

“We’ll have to get our hands on that food,” said Conn. He rubbed his bandaged side, cursing the cut Hawkins had dealt him in the fight.

She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Refugees, turned out of their homes by the Roundheads, came in a steady stream to the western provinces, bringing sickness, despair, and starvation to the very gates of Clonmuir. “I have an idea,” she said. “Hammersmith’s expecting an attack by land. So we’ll approach—and leave—by water.”

The men broke into smiles as she explained her plan. Under cloak of night, archers would harry the vanguard while the rest crept up from the banks of the lake and toppled the supply carts into the water, seizing stores and stowing them in the swift, light curragh.

“You make a fine chieftain, Caitlin MacBride,” declared Brian. “I only wish you had an army of thousands following you.”

Her gaze moved around the circle of her friends. Broad of shoulder, straggly of beard, in threadbare tunics and battered armor, the men resembled a band of pirates. Yet their loyalty enclosed her in an embrace of camaraderie that made her glad she was alive.

A thickness rose in her throat. “Nay,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “Many’s the time I have considered begging Logan Rafferty for his men-at-arms, or enlisting the Irish soldiers banished to Connaught. But we don’t need them, don’t need their hunger for plunder and revenge, their quarreling factions and their prejudice against following a woman. The Fianna alone can hold its own against the English dogs.”

She lifted a chipped horn cup and saluted them all. “I swear to God, I do not need a single man more. Except perhaps a priest, but they are all gone now.” She drank the bitter ale and smiled through a veil of tears. “Sleep now, my friends, for we’ve hard work ahead come nightfall.”

She stole a nap from the quiet afternoon hours. Visions of Hawkins haunted her sleep, and she awoke feeling groggy and strangely off center. At twilight, the men gathered on the slope below the caves. Caitlin checked on Hawkins. He slumped against a tree, still asleep. The uncommon appeal of his face raised a disquieting clamor in her heart.