The Maiden of Ireland

“Damn you,” he said quietly.

She had dark eyes and a handsome face he’d once thought kindly. Her chin came up, and she said, “It’s best for the child. Lord Cromwell swore he’d keep her safe and save her immortal soul from your popish training.”

Wesley regarded her over the top of his child’s head. “You lied to me,” he said in a low, deadly voice.

“For the sake of this innocent babe, I had to,” the woman said with conviction. At a nod from Cromwell, she withdrew.

Wesley’s faith in human mercy withered. Cromwell had outbid him for the loyalty of Hester Clench. He buried his face in Laura’s peach-gold hair and inhaled her fragrance of sea air and sunshine. Her soft curls bobbed against his face, and then she pulled back, regarding him through gray-green eyes that were mirrors of his own.

The miracle of holding his daughter in his arms once again brought on a rush of memories. Living as an unordained Catholic novice in England had been a dangerous business. The nomadic life had been hard, the temptations many. Nearly four years before, in High Wycombe, he had strayed from his path and bedded a woman named Annabel Pym.

Months later he had returned to the town to be confronted by the lady Annabel, her belly great with his child, her face a mask of censure. Annabel died giving birth. Her parents, furious with grief, had thrust the baby into Wesley’s arms and summoned the priest catchers.

Those early months on the run passed through Wesley’s mind in a blur of frantic action. He’d engaged a slovenly, illiterate wet nurse, then dismissed her as soon as Laura could tolerate cow’s milk. When people demanded to know what a cleric was doing with a child, he had passed Laura off as a foundling.

Most especially, he recalled the cherished moments—holding his tiny daughter close at night and breathing in her scent, noting the imprint of her ear on his arm when she fell asleep against him. Marveling over each little milestone, whether it be a first smile, a first tooth, her first tottering steps, or the first time she gazed up at him and called him Papa. The pure intimacy had planted a seed of paternal tenderness so deep that nothing could touch it. The seed had flourished into a strong, vigorous, protective love.

“Auntie Clench said I’d never see you again, Papa.” Laura’s voice, calling him Papa, made him believe in miracles again.

“We’re together now, sweetheart.” But for how long?

“I cried and cried for you. Then Master Oliver promised he’d let me see you again.” Laura peered over her shoulder. “Thank you, Master Oliver.”

The words of gratitude knifed Wesley through with fury. But his arms were gentle as he cradled his child, treasured her, felt his heart spill over with love for her.

“Look, Papa,” said Laura, holding out a silver bauble on a ribbon. “Master Oliver gave me a locket. Isn’t it pretty?”

Fury stuck in Wesley’s throat.

While Cromwell and Thurloe conferred over their maps and their plans, Wesley and Laura shared a meal of biscuit, small beer, hard cheese, and grapes. She chattered with the blithe innocence of untroubled childhood, and he listened with a smile frozen on his face. It would serve nothing to let her glimpse the black hatred that gripped his soul, to confess the loathsome thoughts that claimed his mind. To Laura this was all a great adventure. She’d had them with him before, fleeing priest catchers and Roundhead huntsmen, sleeping in haylofts, and bolting down meals in rickety farm carts. She had no idea she was a pawn in Cromwell’s deadly game.

At length the rocking motion of the ship lulled her; she settled her head in his lap and tucked her tiny hand in his.

“I love you, sweetheart,” he whispered.

As she fell asleep in his arms, Wesley felt the walls of the stateroom pressing on him, squeezing at his will. Cromwell had trapped him in a prison more confining than the dank stone walls of Little Ease in the Tower of London.

The Lord Protector broke Wesley’s reverie by calling out an order. Two burly sailors appeared in the doorway.

Wesley drew his arms more protectively around Laura.

“Restrain him,” said Cromwell.

Big sea-hardened hands grasped Wesley by the arms while Cromwell pried the sleeping child from his lap.

A roar of protest rose in Wesley’s chest but died on his lips. If he awakened Laura now, she might forever be plagued by the nightmare of being wrenched from her father’s arms. The less she knew of the sinister plot, the better chance she had of surviving the ordeal.

Cromwell held her in the crook of one arm. He looked so ordinary standing there, an indulgent uncle with a favored niece. Except for the stone-cold glitter in his eyes.

“You know, Mr. Hawkins, it would be beneath me to harm a child. But have you ever considered the fate of foundlings in London?” Without waiting for a response, he went on, “Lost children become virtual slaves.” He gazed tenderly at Laura, smiling at the way her golden eyelashes fanned out above her freckled cheeks. “This one is pretty and could escape the drudgery. It’s said that dwarves and children are used to serve people in brothels because they’re too short to see over the edge of the bed. Then when she grows too tall...we can always hope she’ll stay as pretty as she is now.”

The implied threat hit Wesley like a cannonball. “No, goddamn you—” He strained against his captors. The muscles in his arms braided into taut, trembling cords. Hard fingers bit into his flesh.

“If you succeed in bringing the Fianna to heel, you’ll win your own life, and that of your daughter.”

“You’ll have to put that in writing,” Wesley snapped, his mind galloping ahead. Seeing the expression on Cromwell’s face, he gave a bitter smile. “I’m well aware that you’ve been offered the throne, which means you’ll be guarding your reputation like the crown jewels. I want your sworn and witnessed statement that if I do as you bid, neither I nor my kin will be harmed.”

Reluctant admiration glinted in Cromwell’s eyes. “The Lord Protector always keeps his promises. You’ll have your statement. But if you fail...” His voice trailed off and he backed toward the door, pausing in a flood of sunlight through the hatchway so that Wesley could have a last glimpse of his beloved child.

“You accursed son of a—”

“Don’t let me down, Mr. Hawkins. You know what’s at risk.”

* * *

She had failed again. Caitlin had searched the high meadows for the bullock she’d promised Logan Rafferty. But the shaggy beast had vanished like St. Ita’s stag beetle.

Now Caitlin would have to endure more of Magheen’s strident complaints about being set aside by her bridegroom. Stabbing a shepherd’s staff into the loamy ground, she made her way back to the stronghold.

Springtime blew sweet upon the heaths. On the morrow would come the feast of the planting, and Seamus MacBride had decreed it a high holiday. But what sort of holiday would it be without food?

She found her father in the kitchen, a vast stone room connected to the great hall by a narrow passageway.

“More sage, Janet,” he said, peering over the cook’s shoulder into a bubbling iron pot. “Don’t skimp, now. It’s a feast to be sure we’re having tomorrow.”

“Daida.” Caitlin rubbed her palms on her apron. “Daida, I must speak to you.”

He looked up. Vague shadows darkened his eyes, his mind off on another of his mysterious quests. Then he smiled, giving her a glimpse of the handsome lion he had been in his youth. A lion with the heart of a spring lamb.

“Caitlin.” He spoke her name suddenly, as if he’d just remembered it. “Ah, ’tis a grand day, and praise the saints.”

“Yes, Daida.” Although Curran’s warning hovered like a bird of prey over her thoughts, she forced herself to smile and nod toward the door. “If you please, Daida.”

They stepped outside to the kitchen garden. The tops of Janet’s turnips and potatoes reached desperately for the weak rays of the spring sun. The sight of the sparse planting depressed Caitlin, so she looked out across the craggy landscape, the rise of mountains skirted by stubbled fields and misty bogs coursing down toward the sea. The late afternoon sun gilded the landscape in a rich mantle.

Seamus’s gaze absorbed the view. “Devil so lovely a day as ever you’ve seen, eh, Caitlin? Isn’t it grand, the broadax of heaven cleaving the clouds, and the great skies pouring pure gold into your lap?”

Why was it, she wondered sadly, that the splendor of the land moved her father to poetry, while the privation of his people affected him not at all? “Daida, about tomorrow—”

“Ah, it’ll be fine, will it not, colleen? And isn’t it we Irish that are brewed from God’s own still?”

She rested her hand on his arm. The muscles lay flaccid, the flesh of a man who shunned hard work as a monk shuns women.

“Tom Gandy says you’ve invited everyone in the district.”

“Tom Gandy’s a half-pint busybody, and a sorcerer at that.”

“But you did, didn’t you?”