The Maiden of Ireland

Impatience tautened the cleric’s mouth. “You’re as insincere a priest as they come. Why play the martyr?”

“Better to die a martyr than to live a traitor.”

“Then you’ll suffer the full agony of the sentence. I shall pray for your everlasting soul.”

“Do that, and you’ll surely send me to hell.” Wesley turned to the executioner and sketched the sign of the cross. “For what you are about to do, I forgive you.”

“Aye, sir, you’ll not trouble my sleep.” The hangman had a deep voice muffled by the hood, and an East London accent. Wesley wondered what the man thought about, what he did with himself when he wasn’t torturing people to death. Did he stop off at the Whyte Harte for a pint of the plain, rocking back in his chair and regaling his cronies with morbid tales?

The giant removed Wesley’s filthy cloak and shirt. Cool air tingled over his bare chest and arms. Sighs gusted from the women, whether at the scars from the lash or at the musculature of his stomach and chest, he couldn’t tell.

The hangman flung the garments out of the cart. Feminine hands grappled for the clothing. As his wrists were tied behind his back, Hawkins winced at the pain. He heard the sound of rending fabric, shrill voices arguing. Each scrap of his cloak and shirt would be sold off as a holy relic.

Saint John Wesley Hawkins. It had an interesting ring. He would be made patron of something, but what? Liars and cheats? Gamblers and skirt chasers? Defrocked priests?

Through the slits of his hood, the hangman eyed Hawkins’s belt. The tooled leather, several layers thick, had ridden at his waist for many years. It was a beautiful piece, but that had little to do with its value. Inside the belt were several slim compartments, waterproofed with wax, in which he carried falsified documents, secret messages, and money when he had it.

The belt was empty now. “It’s yours if you want it,” said Wesley.

The giant shrugged. “Wouldn’t span me gut.” He took hold of the noose.

Thick rope pressed on Wesley’s shoulders; twisted hemp scratched his neck. The hangman stepped down from the cart. Wesley’s thighs tightened. He expected the mule to bolt any moment.

The executioner raised his hand to slap the beast and urge it forward. But he didn’t strike the brown flank yet.

Four women Wesley remembered from his cavalier days sidled close to the cart. He knew their intent was to rush forward and hang on his legs, speeding the strangulation so the rest of the sentence would be performed on a corpse.

Near the rear of the crowd he spied five masked and mounted men. Cromwell’s own, judging from their buff-colored coats and hooked halberds. For too many years, those evil hooks had buried themselves in the chests of royalists and men of reason and justice. Wesley tried to hate the Roundheads but couldn’t. They had supported the Commonwealth out of genuine concern for order and fairness. But in just ten years, Cromwell had made butchers of them.

The cloaked man, who had been wrestling his way through the throng, had been waylaid by the sheriff. They argued heatedly, their arms making sharp, angry gestures.

Hawkins inhaled the tang of springtime: the fragrance of new leaves and freshly mown fields, the heavy scent of blossoms wafting from the orchard beyond the hill, the smell of Tyburn Creek, so fresh compared to the sewage stink of the Thames.

Even the most vociferous weepers quieted during the drawn-out moment. Somewhere, a bird chirped and bees hummed. A baby cried and fell silent. A horse grunted, a sound like a man clearing his throat. A sound of impatience.

The time had come to speak.

He had rehearsed a lofty tirade for days. Before this mass of thousands he would utter truths so profound that the Londoners couldn’t help but be moved. His words would go down in history.

For the life of him, and it did come down to that, Hawkins could not remember a word of his wonderful speech.

That was the moment panic set in, a beast leaping out of the dark and clawing at his soul.

A whisper in the back of his mind rescued him: Say what is in your heart.

“God save England!” His voice had been the envy of Douai seminary. The bell-like clarity, the deeply resonant tones, and the rounded vowels were those of a gifted priest.

“God save England,” Hawkins repeated. “And God save Charles Stuart, her rightful king!”

Gasps exploded from the crowd.

Thaddeus Bull’s hand swung sharply downward.

Laura. Wesley clasped the thought of her to his heart. I love you, Laura. Will you remember me?

Bull’s palm clapped against the mule’s flank.

And John Wesley Hawkins, former king’s cavalier and reluctant Catholic cleric, felt the cart lurch out from under him.

One (#ulink_e27d65fb-bfca-5704-9f41-8e6ecdb624e1)

Castle Clonmuir, Connemara, Ireland

“He’s thrown me out!” Magheen MacBride Rafferty’s wail keened through the great hall, startling lazy hounds and drawing stares from the castle folk. “’Tis a mad and cruel man he is. My husband of only a fortnight has cast me from his house!”

Caitlin MacBride folded her hands on the blackthorn tabletop and regarded her sister. “What do you mean, Logan’s cast you out?”

Magheen spread her arms in a gesture of high drama. She reminded Caitlin of a young willow, albeit one with a temper. “Sure amn’t I here?” Lifting the back of her hand to her brow, she sank to the bench opposite Caitlin. “I would rather fall down ice cold and eternally dead than come to you, but he left me no choice. You must help me. You must!”

“Why did he send you home?” Caitlin asked, her voice low because of the avid listeners. Tom Gandy, the steward and self-styled bard, looked on with the interest of a bettor at a cock fight. Rory Breslin, who served as both armorer and marshal, set aside the harness he was braiding. Liam the smith put his finger to his lips to shush the brood of children who cavorted with the shaggy wolfhounds at his feet.

Only Seamus MacBride, chieftain of the sept and Caitlin’s father, paid no heed to the drama at the round blackthorn table.

“He sent me home because I refused to share his bed,” Magheen stated loudly.

“And you blame him for sending you back?” called Rory Breslin. The other men chuckled in agreement.

Magheen gave a magnificent toss of her head.

Caitlin pressed her hands hard on the table and prayed for patience. “Why? I thought you loved him well.”

“I do! What woman wouldn’t? The fault’s upon your head. You should have told me what Logan demanded as dowry.”

“I didn’t think you’d be interested,” Caitlin said calmly.

“You knew I’d be affronted,” Magheen shot back. “Twelve head of cattle and a booley hut besides! Sure that’s the price a man demands to take a lesser woman to wife. Logan should be satisfied with me alone.”

“Logan Rafferty is a great lord and a man of business,” said Caitlin. “Even for you, he asked a dowry.” And he was a blessed fool to divulge the amount, she reflected.

Magheen buried her face in her slim white hands. Her shawl slipped back, revealing a sleek blond braid coiled over her head. She was as comely as a primrose, as demanding as a queen.

“Did you ask him to waive the dowry?” Caitlin inquired with a twinge of hope. She had pledged more than she could afford to Logan and despaired of paying it.

“Of course. But he won’t listen to me. You’ve got to put reason in that big thick knob of his.”

“The problem is between you and Logan.”

“Then the MacBride must settle it,” said Magheen.