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
