the lord of the manor, who had brought a wagonload of servants to survey the carnage. “And there’s another one of them.”
“Aye. Bloody Englishman. A pity, what he’s become. I knew his grandfather. Now there was a true and loyal son of Ireland.”
“You can’t say the same for his father.”
“Nay. A wastrel, true enough. And now his son has returned as a titled gentleman. The only reason he came home was to claim his inheritance. With his father dead, he’ll take the fruits of our labors back to England, to live as his father before him, like royalty.”
“The bloody English will soon enough own all the land and everyone on it.”
Though Keane O’Mara couldn’t help but overhear the mutterings of the villagers, he gave no indication as he moved among the dead. On his face was a look of complete disdain. It was the only expression the villagers had seen since his recent return to his childhood home.
When he came upon a body that had not been claimed, he paused.
“How many, Vinson?” he asked his servant.
The old man hobbled closer. “I’ve counted a score and ten, my lord.”
Keane struggled to show no emotion. Thirty men, women, even a few children. All caught by surprise, apparently, while tending the fields. With nothing more than a handful of weapons among them with which to defend themselves.
He’d come upon this sort of thing so many times lately, he’d begun to lose count of the bodies. The bloody scenes of carnage had begun to blur together in his mind, so that they all seemed one and the same. And yet, each was different. Each time, he was reminded of the families who would grieve. The widows who would never again see their husbands. The orphans who would grow up without knowing their parents. He winced. The parents who would carry the loss of their children in their hearts forever.
“Has Father Murphy finished the last rites?”
The old man nodded.
“Order the servants to begin loading them into wagons for burial.”
“Aye, my lord.” Vinson shuffled off, and soon a staff of servants began the terrible task of lifting the bloody, bloated bodies onto carts and wagons for burial in the field behind the chapel, on the grounds of the family keep.
Many of the villagers had brought their own carts, and they now trailed behind in silence, unable to give voice to their grief. Only the anguish in their eyes spoke of their pain and sorrow.
As Keane approached yet another bloody section of field, his servant looked up. “These five were not of the village, my lord.”
“You’re certain?”
“Aye, my lord. Neither the priest nor the villagers has ever seen them before. They must have been strangers, who were just passing through.”
“A pity they chose this time.” Keane turned away. “Before you bury them, examine their cloaks and weapons. Perhaps you’ll find a missive or a crest that will tell us the name of their village.”
He hadn’t take more than a dozen steps when the elderly servant called excitedly, “One of these lads is alive, my lord.”
Keane returned and stared down at the figure, crusted with mud and dried blood, the face half hidden in the folds of a twisted hood.
“You’re certain?”
“Aye, my lord.” Vinson leaned close, feeling the merest puff of warmth from between lips that were parched and bloody. “There’s breath in him yet.”
“From the looks of him, he put up a bit of a fight. Take him to my keep and see to him, Vinson.”
“Aye, my lord.” The old man got to his feet. “Though his heartbeat’s so feeble, he might not survive the trek.”
Keane gave a sigh of disgust. So many wasted young lives. “All we can do is try. And hope he survives.”
A servant approached, leading the lord’s stallion. Keane pulled himself into the saddle and began the long sad journey to the chapel, where he would try to give what comfort he could to the grieving villagers. If he were his grandfather the villagers would accept what he offered. But because he was viewed as an outsider, his attempts would be rebuffed.
All along the way he prepared himself for the storm of anger and grief and bitterness that would be expressed. There was a groundswell of hatred festering, and for good reason. There would come a time, he knew, when it would spill over into war. And when it did, there would be even more death and destruction. For the English would never give up their hold on this land and its people. And though he understood the need for vengeance, he also knew the futility of it. Despite the growing tide of sentiment against the English, this small, poor land was no match for England’s armies.
Hadn’t he learned the lesson well enough? And hadn’t he already paid the supreme sacrifice for his devotion to the wrong cause?
The thought of his loss brought an ache so deep, so painful, it nearly cut off his breath.
Aye. He’d paid. And he’d learned. But that didn’t mean he’d given up hope. It just meant he’d mastered the art of patience. For a while longer he would bide his time and get his father’s affairs in order. And then he would leave this sad land, with its sad memories, and try to make a life somewhere. Anywhere. As long as he would no longer have to remember the past with all its bitterness.
“Good even, my lord. Mistress Malloy has kept a meal on the fire for you.”
Keane shrugged out of his heavy cloak and shook the rain from his hair. “I’ve no appetite, Vinson. Bring me a tankard.” He started toward the stairs, favoring his left leg. He only gave in to the pain when he was too tired to fight it. At the moment, he was on the verge of exhaustion. “I’ll be in my chambers.”
“Aye, my lord.” The old servant cleared his throat and Keane paused, knowing there was something important Vinson needed to say. It was always the same. When the old man needed to speak, he first had to clear his throat and prepare himself for the task.
“Perhaps, my lord, you could step into the chambers next to yours on your way.”
Keane gave a sigh of impatience. The events of the day had dragged him to the depths, and all he wanted was to wash away the bitter taste with ale. “I’m sure there’s a good reason?”
“Aye, my lord.” The old man carefully hung the damp cloak on a hook, then picked up a tray on which rested a decanter and a silver tankard. He climbed the stairs behind his master.
At the upper hallway Keane gave a fleeting glance at the door to his chambers, then resolutely moved past it to tear open a second door. Inside a serving wench looked up from the figure in the bed, then stepped aside to make room for the master.
“Ah. The lad.” Keane walked to the bedside. “With all that transpired this day, I’d nearly forgotten about him. I see he survived, Vinson.”
“Aye, my lord. But…” Vinson cleared his throat again.
Keane
