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.
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.
Caitlin glanced at Seamus, who gazed with feverish concentration at his book of hours. “Daida can’t.”
“You’re as cold as Connemara stone,” Magheen snapped. “You don’t know what it’s like to love a man.”
Ah, but I do, thought Caitlin, closing her eyes for a moment. Ah, I do...
“Caitlin MacBride!”
She opened her eyes to see a familiar figure striding toward her. Light from the yard outside limned his broad shoulders, narrow hips, and mane of curly black hair. Spurs jangled like discordant bells with every step he took. His long beard, parted and braided, brushed against his massive chest.
“Eek!” Magheen leaped to her feet and hitched up her skirts. “Stay away from me, Logan Rafferty!”
“Sure I wouldn’t have you for thirteen head of cattle and two booley huts!” he shouted.
“Well!” Magheen planted her hands on her hips. “You won’t be having me at all.” She started toward the privy apartments at the rear of the hall.
“Don’t you dare leave,” Caitlin said.
“I’ll not be after suffering the insults of this greedy spalpeen.” Magheen walked down the length of the lofty hall, hips swaying, looking over her shoulder in blatant defiance.
Logan watched with longing and regret on his face, but he stood his ground.
From the women’s corner, spinning wheels whirred to a halt. A sense of waiting hung in the peat-scented air.
Shoving aside an inquisitive wolfhound, Logan reached the table and stopped. Caitlin inclined her head slightly. “Logan.” Although he was her overlord, she addressed him informally. To do otherwise would have seemed strange, for she had grown up in his shadow, hitting short of the mark when she could have hit dead center, losing horse races she could have won, stumbling over poems she could have recited perfectly—all to save the vast male pride of Lord Logan Rafferty.
She
