The Maiden of Ireland

The Charm School

The Horsemaster’s Daughter

Halfway to Heaven

Enchanted Afternoon

A Summer Affair

The Maiden of Ireland

Susan Wiggs

Refreshed version of THE MIST AND THE MAGIC,

newly revised by author

www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)

Contents

Cover (#uacc27e3d-136a-5e1a-bc9d-dcbb71be0524)

Back Cover Text (#ufbea0ef6-8865-57f3-a532-4ee71b1adf04)

Praise (#u6c6283ff-f7ce-5b88-a614-1cb2cf901eb9)

Booklist (#u6b383d45-42f2-5b9e-b46a-647712d8dc2e)

Title Page (#u635e3dcb-9c7e-51e5-a065-1ad02fb4861d)

Prologue (#u552e7faf-acf4-5024-958b-f986b3ece649)

One (#ueabd5d06-558c-5f60-95b4-0880d3b204f4)

Two (#u09b37f69-ac38-5d5f-8b3d-fbc812114851)

Three (#u6030de42-857d-5fc4-b2c3-5ec6cfd41687)

Four (#u8fe8ddc5-ae55-5a58-b2ab-da45e636bbee)

Five (#u613da3dc-1432-5efc-9cec-13000ce6f0c0)

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Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

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Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

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Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Afterword (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue (#ulink_8181a552-b62c-5021-a2a8-c9cd3fcf7a84)

Tyburn Hill, 1658

The executioner wondered why so many women had come to watch the priest die. Were the ladies of London so bored, then, that the spectacle of a poor wretch being tortured to death lured them from their bowers?

Thaddeus Bull scratched his head through his black hangman’s hood. He had never understood the fascination of the Londoners. Give him a pint of ale, a joint of mutton and a smiling maid; that was all the entertainment he needed.

Strangely, these women represented every layer of society. Masked noble ladies in boxy coaches held pomander balls to their noses. Country maids in faded dresses moved their lips in silent prayer. Tradeswomen and merchants’ wives whispered behind their hands.

A bevy of seasoned Southwark whores brayed at one another in their sharp, rough speech. One of them elbowed a path toward Bull, tossed him a coin, and said, “Please, sir, be merciful!”

Bull ignored the plea and the coin. Only in lean times would he stoop to accepting a bribe from a whore. Thanks to Lord Protector Cromwell, present times were not lean.

Through the black rim of his woolsey hood, Bull caught a flash of silver from a woman’s throat: a crucifix or a Lamb of God, no doubt, worn in defiance of the ban on popish idolatry.

Guards flanked the road leading to the gallows where the priest would hang. Like Bull, Cromwell’s soldiers seemed struck by the abundance of female spectators. Their hard gazes roved over the throng, resting on a comely maid here, a buxom gentlewoman there.

Thaddeus Bull heard the unmistakable scraping noise that heralded the arrival of the prisoner. He glanced at the noose, swinging in the brisk spring wind. Thick hemp for this one, the sheriff had ordered. Thin rope strangles a man instantly and spares him the agony of the drawing and quartering.

The authorities, Bull knew, wanted Father John to feel every moment of slow strangulation, every stroke of the sword. Bull’s gaze moved to the blade of his knife. Specially wrought in Saxony, the weapon was designed to slit a man cleanly from gullet to crotch. He had honed the edge parchment thin, for he was no butcher to hack away at a poor sod, priest or not.