The Maid of Ireland Read Free Page B

hearth is open to such as us.”
    Caitlin nodded. Behind her, she heard the sounds of plates and utensils. The scenario had been repeated so many times that the servants needed no instructions. “Warm yourselves by the fire,” she invited.
    As the family trudged past, she looked into their nearly senseless eyes. In the hollowed depths she saw suffering beyond imagining, sorrow beyond bearing, horrors beyond believing.
    And she knew, with a painful twist of her heart, that these wretches were the lucky ones.
    The unlucky ones lay in ditches, prey for wolves or—aye, she’d heard it said—starving Irish.
    Damn the English. The curse trembled silently through her. “Still taking in strays, are you?”
    She turned to Logan. “And what would you have me do?”
    “I’d have you meet my price, Caitlin MacBride, or the marriage is off for good.” With that he strode out into the yard, whistled for his horse, and rode toward his home of Brocach, twenty miles to the north.
    Caitlin rubbed her temples to soothe away a dull throb of pain. Unsuccessful, she went to see to the needs of her guests.
    Ten minutes later a youthful voice called from the yard. “My lady!” Hoofbeats thudded on the soddy ground.
    “Curran,” she said, picking up the hem of her kirtle.
    She rushed down the long length of the hall, past the women at their spinning, past her father, past a group of children playing at hoodman blind. Not one of them, she knew, felt the pounding sense of trepidation that hammered in her chest.
    She felt it for them as she always had. They never feared news from Galway, even in these dangerous times. In every sense save the formal one she was the MacBride, chieftain of the sept, and she wore their fears like a postulant wears a hair shirt.
    A fast ride and a sharp wind had whipped up color in Curran Healy’s already swarthy face. He swung down from his tall, muscular pony and bowed slightly to Caitlin.
    “What news, Curran?” she asked.
    “I’ve been to the docks,” Curran said in a strained tone. He was but fourteen and lived in dread of his voice breaking.
    “Devil admire you, Curran Healy, I told you never to stray to the docks of Galway. Why, if a healthy lad like you fell into the hands of the English, they’d geld you like a spring foal.”
    He shuddered. “I swear not a soul marked my passing. I saw merchants—”
    “Spanish ones?” she asked on a rush of air. Anticipation thrummed through her so sharply that it hurt. Months, it had been, since she had heard from him...
    “English.” He rummaged in his satchel. “My lady, and the great God forgive the sin upon my head, but I stole this.”
    She snatched the sealed parchment from his hand. “This is a bonded letter.” She whacked the youth on the chest with the packet. “Great is the luck that is on you, Curran Healy, for I should have you flogged for endangering yourself.”
    He pulled at the pale sprouts of hair growing on his chin. “Ah, my lady, sure there’s never been a flogging at Clonmuir.”
    Defeated by his logic and her own curiosity, Caitlin opened the letter. “It’s from Captain Titus Hammersmith to...” She bit her lip, then spoke the hated name. “To Oliver Cromwell.”
    “What’s it say, my lady? I don’t read English.”
    She scanned the letter. On feet of ice, apprehension tiptoed up her spine. I shall extend every courtesy to your envoy who is coming to solve this great matter...The covenant of this mean tribe of Irish is with Death and Hell! By the grace of God and with the help of this excellent secret weapon, the Fianna shall be as dust beneath the bootheel of righteousness...
    “What’s an envoy?” asked Curran.
    Fear tugged at her stomach. She forced a smile. “It’s something like a toad.”
    “Can’t be. Legend is, that if you bring a snake or toad to Ireland by ship, the creature will flop over and die.”
    “No doubt Cromwell’s toad will do just that.”
    “And if he—it—doesn’t?”
    She shook