Читать книгу Rory - Ruth Langan, Ruth Ryan Langan - Страница 9

County Dublin, 1562

“So many of them, Rory.” The voice was little more than a whisper on the breeze.

Half a dozen figures crouched by the banks of the Liffey, watching the English soldiers frolic in the brown water.

“Aye. I’d hoped for only a dozen or more. There must be close to fifty.” Rory turned to the weathered farmer kneeling beside him. “Why so many?”

“Now that the English have discovered the healing properties of the boiling spring, this river has become a favorite place for them to congregate.” He wrinkled his nose at the strong odor of sulphur. “It helps them relax after they’ve had the fun of killing a few of us.”

Rory watched from his place of concealment.

“You’re certain the one with the scar is among them?”

The farmer’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the distant figures. “1 haven’t spotted him yet. But he was with this group of bastards yesterday when they caught my little daughter in the fields and made sport of her.”

His voice betrayed his pain. “She’s only ten and one, Rory. And the things they did to her. The one with the scar demanded to be first. She told me he taunted those who refused to join in.” In a fierce whisper he added, “I want to be the one to kill him.”

Rory touched a hand to his arm. “I know how you feel, Seamus. But you’ve done enough. Go home to your family now.”

“I need to see him dead.” The farmer fingered his only weapon, a small crude knife.

“Your family can’t afford to lose you, Seamus. Go now. Leave the killing to us.”

“You’ll kill him, Rory? For my Fiona? For me?”

“Aye. If he’s here, I’ll see the bastard dead.” For Caitlin, he thought, especially for Caitlin.

Seeing the hatred that glittered in Rory O’Neil’s eyes, the farmer had no doubt that his family’s honor would be avenged. In the past two years, all of Ireland had heard of the quest for vengeance that drove this fierce Irish warrior. Wherever there was a battle between his countrymen and the hated English, Rory O’Neil could be found in the thick of it. He had killed so many soldiers, there was now a price on his head. He was the most hunted man in the land. And the man most despised by his enemy. He was known throughout England and Ireland as the Blackhearted O’Neil. Despite the fact that his likeness was posted throughout the country, Rory O’Neil was so loved by the people, he could count on being safely hidden in any town or village throughout the land. Everywhere he went, men joined his ragged band in its quest for vengeance.

“Can we take them now, Rory?” one of his men whispered when the farmer was safely gone.

“Patience, Colin.” How odd that he now counseled patience, when he’d had so little of it in his life.

He watched as the last of the soldiers stripped off their tunics and walked into the water. Only a handful of men remained as lookouts, while the others swam and bathed and splashed each other like boys.

“Ready, lads?” he asked as he stood and unsheathed his sword.

His men nodded and did the same.

A ripple of anticipation passed through them, charging each man with almost supernatural fervor. The very air around them seemed somehow changed. No one spoke. No one moved as they waited for the signal from their leader.

“Now,” Rory called in a fierce whisper.

They scrambled down the banks of the river, screaming like banshees. The hapless guards didn’t even have a chance to unsheath their swords before they fell in their own blood.

The English soldiers, who had only moments earlier been laughing and calling to one another, now struggled feverishly to retrieve their weapons. Though they outnumbered the Irish warriors almost ten to one, they had the disadvantage of being caught unawares.

Rory plowed into the water, using his sword with an economy of movement. With each thrust of his blade, another man stiffened, gasped, tumbled headlong into the river. In no time the brown waters of the Liffey ran red with blood. And still the killing went on.

Each time he encountered another soldier, Rory stared into his opponent’s face, searching for the telltale scar. And each time, he experienced the sting of disappointment when he realized this wasn’t the one he sought.

He had long ago stopped feeling the shock along his arm when his sword encountered muscle and bone. And was able to block out the muffled sobs and high-pitched shrieks of the dying. What he couldn’t erase from his mind was the sight of his beloved Caitlin, her body bloodied and battered beyond recognition. This was what drove him. This was what gave him the will to go on, no matter what the odds.

As he stepped over yet another body, he caught a glimpse of a soldier with yellow hair plucking a sword from one of his fallen comrades.

At last, Rory thought. At long last, his quest would be ended. With a cry of pain and rage he lunged through the water lapping at his hips and stumbled forward.

Hearing his voice, the soldier momentarily dropped the sword.

“Pick it up, you coward.” Rory’s voice was thick with passion. “Pick it up and face your death like a man.”

Rory saw the soldier grasp the sword as he lifted his own. The thought of victory sang through his blood and misted his vision.

“Now,” he shouted. “Now, Tilden, will you taste the vengeance of Rory O’Neil.”

He could no more stop the thrust of his blade than he could still the waters churning beneath his feet. And yet, in that last moment, he realized his mistake. This man had no scar. His face was unlined. It was the face of a youth. The eyes wide with terror. The mouth round in surprise.

The force of the thrust sent his blade through the lad’s. chest and out the other side. The young soldier was dead before his body hit the water.

With a feeling of horror and revulsion, Rory pulled his sword free and watched as the water around the body turned blood red.

For the first time he stared around at the scene of carnage. Not a single soldier remained. The Liffey and its banks were littered with bodies. Three of his own men were sitting in the shallows, looking dazed. One was tying a tourniquet around his bloody leg. Another was leaning against a tree, retching.

How long had this killing lasted? Minutes? Hours? Time was nothing but a blur.

Had he really been on this quest for two years now? Two years of blood and violence and death. Two years of being hunted, and hiding out in hay barns and accepting food from strangers.

And yet, how could he stop the carnage? In every village he heard the stories of cottages burned and crops destroyed and women and children violated.

He was weary beyond belief. The thought of Ballinarin taunted him, tempted him. At times all he could think of was turning his back on this quest and returning to his home and family.

But then, he would see again in his mind his beloved Caitlin. And he knew, no matter how weary, no matter what the Fates meted out to him, he could never stop until he found the English bastard who had brutalized and murdered his future bride and her entire family. Tilden had to pay.

“Will we stop awhile, Rory?” one of his men called.

“We’ll move on.” He forced the weariness aside as he allowed the water to wash the blood from his sword. Then he sheathed it and stepped from the river. “If we move quickly, we can sleep tonight in Dublin.”

* * *

“I’m sorry I must leave you, AnnaClaire.”

“I understand, Father. You have your duties.”

“But it’s so soon since Margaret.”

The young woman touched a hand to her father’s lips to still his words. “I’ll not deny I miss Mother. As do you. Every day of our lives we’ll miss her. But I can’t ask you to forsake everything and spend the rest of your life holding my hand.”

“The grief is still so raw.”

“Aye. I expect a year from now I’ll still be grieving. But I’ll find ways to stay busy. I promise.”

“I wish you’d change your mind and come with me.”

“We’ve gone over this before, Father. I’m just not ready to leave Mother’s home, her grave.”

“I know. And I understand, my dear. I’ve asked Charles Lord Davis to look in on you. And Lady Alice Thornly is planning a lovely dinner party. She hinted that there would be several interesting men recently arrived who might snag your interest.”

AnnaClaire managed a smile. “You just can’t help yourself, can you, Father?”

“Do you blame me? You need a husband, a family. You’re far from home, without the comfort of your mother, and now your father abandons you as well.”

“You aren’t abandoning me. You said yourself you’ll be back in time for my birthday.”

“And I shall. But I’d feel better if I knew you had a young man looking out for you while I was gone.”

“I’ll have an old one. Lord Davis is a dear.”

“But not quite what I had in mind. No matter.” He turned to see his trunks being unloaded from the lorry and deposited on the docks. “I don’t want you to remain until my ship sails. I’d just as soon you not mingle with the locals.”

He could see that she was about to voice an objection so he gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Go now. Tavis is waiting with the carriage. Stay well, my dear. Stay busy. And do be careful. These are dangerous times.”

“Goodbye, Father. God speed.”

AnnaClaire turned away and began to move slowly through the crowd.

It was market day, and the docks teemed with life. Gnarled, ruddy fishermen sat mending their nets while children, no older than nine or ten, pushed carts piled with cockles and mussels. Old women in faded gowns held up striped sea bass and cod to entice buyers. Chickens squawked in crude Wooden pens. Farmers displayed the bounty from their land. Potatoes, carrots, peas.

The air was ripe with the scent of sea and earth and humanity. Wealthy landowners mingled with the poorest of the poor as vendors vied with one another to sell their wares. AnnaClaire felt a tug at her heartstrings. From her earliest childhood she had always loved the sights and sounds and smells of Dublin.

English soldiers, fresh from their journey across the Channel, disembarked from Her Majesty’s ship, the Greenley, and shouldered their way through the throng, escorting half a dozen of the queen’s own emissaries. Each month, Elizabeth dispatched more titled English to deal with what was being called “the Irish problem.”

“Out of the way, you fools.” One of the soldiers raised his sword menacingly, and the crowd fell back.

From her vantage point, AnnaClaire felt a wave of disgust. Every time another boatload of soldiers arrived on these shores, the discontent grew. And not without good reason. Some of these crude louts could neither read nor write, yet they seemed determined to prove to the locals that they were superior in every way.

As the soldiers approached, AnnaClaire saw a young woman, heavy with child, grasp the hand of a toddler and try to snatch her out of the way. At the last moment the child pulled free and stepped directly into the path of the marching men.

“Oh, no. Someone please stop her,” the woman cried.

AnnaClaire couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The soldiers continued pressing forward. With the surge of the crowd, the little one would surely be trampled.

Without a thought to her own safety she dashed forward and snatched up the child, sidestepping out of danger only a second before the soldiers marched past.

“Oh, thank you, miss. Bless you. Bless you.” With tears of gratitude the young woman kissed AnnaClaire’s hands before taking the little girl from her arms and hugging her to her heart.

“You’re welcome. I can’t believe they didn’t see what was happening.”

“They saw.” The young woman’s eyes narrowed. “They just don’t care. Our lives mean nothing to them.” Her voice lowered. “But soon, very soon, they’ll feel the sting of the Blackhearted O’Neil.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He’s here.” Now the young woman’s voice was little more than a whisper. “They say he’s here in the crowd.”

“Who is here?”

“Rory O’Neil. The Blackhearted O’Neil. Praise heaven. Come to put an end to the injustice.” Her eyes suddenly widened. “God in heaven. There he is now. Come, miss. We mustn’t tarry. It’s begun.”

AnnaClaire was aware of a murmur going through the crowd. “What’s begun?”

“There’s no time.” Before AnnaClaire could argue, the young woman tugged her out of the way of a band of ragged men wielding swords. Moments later she shoved AnnaClaire down behind a cart heaped with stinking fish. From there AnnaClaire watched in wide-eyed wonder as that small band engaged more than a dozen soldiers in battle.

The scene was one of complete chaos. The soldiers, honor-bound to protect the queen’s emissaries, stood in a tight line, swords raised against the intruders. But instead of falling back, these Irish confounded them by charging directly at them, swords flashing, voices screaming.

Several of the young soldiers, who were engaging the enemy for the first time, looked absolutely terrified. Instead of standing their ground, they turned and fled, ignoring the shouted commands of their sergeant-atarms.

To add to the confusion, many of the cages were upended, releasing squawking chickens and quacking ducks. From her position behind a cart, an old woman began tossing her supply of fish at the English soldiers. Others soon joined in, until the docks were littered with the slimy remains of seafood.

AnnaClaire watched as the leader of the Irish warriors leapt between one of his own men, who was bleeding profusely, and a soldier who was about to run him through with his sword.

“That’s Rory O’Neil,” the young woman beside her said with a trace of awe. “Our Blackhearted O’Neil.”

AnnaClaire couldn’t take her eyes off him. She’d never seen anyone like him. This man looked like the devil himself, leaping, dancing, his sword singing through the air and landing fatal blows with uncanny accuracy. He was everywhere. Deflecting an English sword. Taking a blow meant for one of his men, then retaliating with a powerful thrust of his own blade. When one of his men was wounded, he shouldered him aside and saved him from certain death, before returning to the fray.

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.”

“I was never in any danger. The only one they really wanted was an English soldier named Tilden.”

“Don’t be fooled, my dear. No one is safe around desperate men such as those. An innocent like yourself has no idea what they’re capable of doing. Why, the stories I’ve heard about the fate of fair English maidens at the hands of those animals would make a grown man cringe.”

The dishes in Bridget’s hands clattered.

AnnaClaire glanced at her housekeeper. “You look pale, Bridget. Are you feeling all right?”

The housekeeper backed away. “Aye, miss. Just a bit tired is all.” She turned, clutching the dishes to her chest, and fled the room.

“How about a game of chess, my dear?”

AnnaClaire shook her head. “I’m sorry, Lord Davis. Like Bridget, I’m afraid I’m too tired to offer you much of a challenge tonight.”

“All right.” He stood, then held her chair as she got to her feet. “Perhaps another night.”

“I’d like that.” She led the way from the ornate dining hall, then tucked her arm through his as they walked together along the corridor toward the front door. “Will you be going to Lady Thornly’s dinner party?”

The old man nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it. Though in truth, the food won’t be nearly as tasty as what we enjoyed tonight.”

Outside, his carriage and driver were silhouetted against the night sky. The old man leaned close and brushed a kiss over her cheek. “I bid you good night, my dear. And tell Bridget those were the best fruit tarts I’ve ever tasted.”

“I believe you told her. Three times.”

He chuckled. “That’s so she would return three times to offer me more. If you aren’t careful, I’ll steal her from you.”

He was helped up to the carriage. When he was settled he doffed his hat. “Sleep well, AnnaClaire.”

“And you, Lord Davis.”

She waved until the carriage pulled away. Then she went inside and made her way up the wide staircase to her suite of rooms on the second floor. Within minutes she had shed her clothes.

“Would you be wanting anything else, miss?” Bridget hovered by the door to AnnaClaire’s bedchamber. The little maid, Glinna, was busy turning down the bed linens and gathering up assorted skirts and petticoats. By morning they would be washed and ironed and carefully returned to the wardrobe.

“No, thank you, Bridget.” AnnaClaire yawned behind her hand. “As I’m sure you’ve heard, it’s been quite a tiring day.”

“Aye, miss.”

AnnaClaire looked at her a little more closely. A worried little frown furrowed the housekeeper’s brow. Her skin seemed to have lost all its color. “Are you certain you’re feeling all right?”

“Aye, miss. I’ll be fine after a bit of sleep. If there’s nothing you need, I’ll say good night now.”

“Good night, Bridget.”

AnnaClaire waited until the housekeeper and maid had departed, then blew out her candle and climbed into bed. But sleep wouldn’t come. She rolled from one side to the other, unable to find a comfortable position. She was simply too stimulated by all she’d seen and heard this day. Determined to sleep, she closed her eyes. At once she was assaulted by the image of the darkly handsome Rory O’Neil. She had never seen a man quite like him. Such a commanding presence. So fearless in the face of almost certain death. He was either the bravest man she’d ever seen or the most foolhardy.

And that voice. Just the thought of all that rage and passion had her trembling again. She sat up, shoving a tangle of honey curls from her eyes. There was no point in trying to sleep. Instead, she would make herself a cup of tea and then write a letter to her father.

Slipping out of bed, she caught up a warm shawl and tossed it over her nightshift, then padded barefoot from the room. Candles in sconces along the hallway sputtered in pools of wax, casting eerie shadows along the walls.

She made her way to the kitchen and placed a kettle of water over the glowing coals of the fire. As she waited for the water to boil, she noticed her lap robe tossed carelessly over a bench. Odd. It wasn’t like Tavis to be so casual with her things. As she picked it up, she felt something damp and sticky. Lifting her hand to the firelight, she frowned. It appeared to be red as blood. It must be the glow from the coals fooling the eye.

She held a candle to the flame until the wick caught fire, then lifted it high and studied the cloth more closely. Dear heaven. It was blood. Not just a drop or two, but great wet rivers of it staining the entire robe. She dropped it as though the touch of it burned her.

At the sound of a footfall behind her she spun around. And went deadly still at the sight that greeted her.

Rory O’Neil had pulled himself from the shadows and was leaning heavily against the table. “I’m sorry about that fine robe. I seem to have ruined it.”

Blood still oozed from his neck, his chest, his arm, soaking the front of his tunic, staining his breeches and boots. In his right hand he held his sword aloft.

His eyes narrowed as he studied the vision before him. A vision that seemed to shimmer and shift. In the glow of firelight the woman appeared to be bathed in a halo of light.

He slowly lowered his sword. “So. That’s it then. I’m dying.” His voice, still rich and deep and passionate, seemed to warm as he smiled.

At that moment his sword clattered to the floor, and he gripped the edge of the table with both hands. The blood drained from his face. He slowly sank to his knees, then slid bonelessly to the floor.

As AnnaClaire stood over him he muttered, “I feared I’d be damned to hell for the path I’d chosen. It’s happy I am to give up my life, now that I’ve met one of heaven’s angels come to escort me home.”