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 Anna- Claire'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."
&nb
sp; "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-at- arms.
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.
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 v
endors 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 calf 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."