The Rebel Page 2

  A solitary rider tore through the night and joined the group as they emerged, their dark shapes silhouetted by the inferno.

  The ride overland had been hard, and there had not been time to raise help. The attack here had come without warning, without legal proceedings, without justice. The same was happening all over Ireland, and the rider looked out at the burning village. Tomorrow, these same brutes would be pulling down the walls. In a week, they would be digging ditches to enclose the fields. Next spring, there would be sheep and cattle grazing here, and these tenants would be wandering the byways of a dying countryside.

  The desperate cries of a mother rang out across the hills as she ran to the mounted newcomer.

  A moment later, the rider was skirting the edges of the marsh, spurring the steed toward the burning hovels. At the center of the cottages, the infant sat in the dirt with her hands raised to the sky, oblivious to the cinders raining around her.

  Seeing the child, the rider drove the horse through the hellhole like one possessed. A hut collapsed with a loud crash, silencing the infant’s cries for only a moment. The rider dismounted as the marauders approached through the smoke and flames. Gathering the child up, the rescuer climbed back on the restless steed and raced away into the darkness.

  On the hill, the mother ran forward to meet them, her face stained with tears and soot, her throat choked with emotion as she received her screaming babe into her arms.

  “Bless ye, Egan!”

  CHAPTER 3

  Cork, Ireland

  One month later

  The patchwork of tidy, newly harvested fields north of Cork City had long since given way to a wilder, rockier countryside, and the woman looked out the carriage window with an artist’s eye. This land was so different from the relentlessly flat plains around her own native Brussels.

  It was certainly no less green than the lowlands to the south. Indeed, the darker hues of the pines so prevalent here served to set off the more silvery greens of the birch trees. Now tinged with autumn yellows, the birches huddled in groves on the rugged hillsides rising abruptly from the valley floor. Looking at the azure sky above, marred by long scrapes of gray, she thought with satisfaction that they had suffered hardly any rain at all since crossing over from the bustling English port of Bristol.

  The carriage, wending its way along a surprisingly good road, had been following the bends of the river at a leisurely pace. Occasionally passing a small cluster of cottages—some more rustic than others—the woman had also seen a number of handsome manor houses with fields of pastureland spreading out around them. The scattered forests were beginning to grow thicker now, and Alexandra Spencer turned her attention back to her two traveling companions with a content smile.

  Her daughter was speaking with all the exuberance one might expect of a girl of sixteen years, and Lady Spencer broke in when she paused to take a breath.

  “Really, Frances! Hanging from a castle wall…upside down…and kissing a stone just to win some dubious gift of eloquence? What nonsense you spout, young woman!”

  “But it is true, Mother. They believe the stone is part of the Stone of Scone at Westminster. Not just one, but three of the sailors on the ship were telling me about the magic in kissing Blarney Castle’s stone.”

  “Well, I for one have no desire to kiss anything that might have been sat upon by any king…English or otherwise.”

  “Mother!” Frances replied with shocked delight.

  “But more at issue…what were you doing talking to sailors? How many times do I have to tell you that a young woman should never engage in…?”

  “But Nicholas was with me.” The younger woman moved to the seat across in the carriage and looped a hand through her brother’s arm. “There was a prize fight in the hold. I simply followed Nick down to watch the sport.”

  “Nicholas Edward…!” she started to scold, but changed her mind as her son’s sharp gaze moved from the passing countryside to her face.

  Running a hand over the fabric on her skirts, Alexandra Spencer searched for the most appropriate way of expressing her disapproval. A difference of eighteen years in the ages of her two children had certainly been harmless when they were younger, but as Frances was now a blossoming young woman, she needed to find a way of instructing Nicholas on his brotherly responsibilities.

  She gazed at her son as his attention drifted back to the window. When Frances had been an infant, Nicholas had been studying in Oxford. A few years later, when Fanny had started attending school, Nicholas had been fighting his way across the Plains of Abraham during the taking of Quebec. And shortly after that, when her husband had passed away, Nicholas had inherited his father’s title and estate. It was then that Alexandra had decided it was time to return to her own ancestral home across the channel where she could stay clear of her son’s affairs. Of course, she’d hoped he would use the time to start a life…and a family…of his own.

  Well, that hadn’t happened yet, and Alexandra was afraid that she had spent too many years away from Nicholas to be able to exert any kind of control over him now—any overt control anyway.

  Frances started again, not sounding deterred in the least. “They tell me that one can also lie on one’s back now and lean out to do it with a pair of strong arms gripping one’s legs.” She paused with a frown. “I don’t think I should care to rely on anyone else doing that for me but you, Nick.”

  “I don’t believe the world can stand any more eloquence in you, Fanny,” Nicholas replied passively. “You are far too perfect just as you are.”

  The young woman giggled with delight. “You really should save these pretty words for your darling Clara, you know, and not waste them on your sister.”

  “Darling Clara?” Nicholas Spencer asked with emphasis.

  Frances darted a hesitant glance at her mother. After receiving an encouraging nod, she turned to her brother again.

  “Well, we are headed to Woodfield House, are we not? You have accepted the invitation of Sir Thomas Purefoy, Clara’s father, to stay a fortnight on their estate in this ravishing country, have you not?”

  “Frances, I do wish you wouldn’t use the word ‘ravishing’.” Lady Spencer put in.

  “And you did escort that extremely attractive young woman to no less than three social functions this past spring in London, did you not? Shall I go on?”

  “Don’t pressure me, Fanny. I can feel the noose tightening without any help from you or our esteemed mother.” He ran a finger inside the high collar of his crisp white shirt. He looked meaningfully from the younger to the older woman. “We are making this trip for the benefit of the two of you, not for me. In spite of some contrary opinion, it is important in a young woman’s education that she be introduced to members of society outside of the circle of spoiled brats you’ve been associating with so exclusively at school.”

  “Liar!” Frances slapped him on his arm.

  Nicholas shrugged. “Very well. Have it your way, then. We’re here for me…because of my love of horses. Sir Thomas is reputed to have one of the finest stables…”

  “That is so incredibly unmannerly, Nick,” Frances scolded, a practiced pout breaking across her young and beautiful face. She withdrew her hand and slid to the farthest end of the seat. “I must tell you that in lying the way you do, you are ruining the very fine image I cherish of my only brother. There is no help for it…I shall not speak with you for the rest of this holiday.”

  Seeing Nicholas’s obvious satisfaction with the state of affairs, Alexandra reached out and touched her son’s knee. “Pray resolve this right now. If she is not talking to you, then it means she will be complaining endlessly to me. So if you cannot make up with the little vixen, I would just as soon have you let me out at the next coach stop, where I shall find my way back to London without the two of you.”

  For a longer span of time than his mother liked, Nicholas appeared to be considering the second threat. He finally turned to his sister, and his tone told Lady Spencer t
hat all joking had been put aside.

  “I have been very careful not to create any misunderstandings with regard to Clara and my intentions toward her. The girl is nearly half my age.”

  “She is not half your age!” Fanny corrected, sliding over to her brother’s side. “Clara Purefoy turned eighteen this past winter. You are thirty-four. At no time since you’ve known her you have been twice her age.”

  “By ‘sblood, what does one do with a child of eighteen?”

  Lady Spencer arched a brow. “From the steady stream of rumors reaching me in Brussels, I might have been led to believe that you are quite proficient in managing women of all ages.” Alexandra patted her frowning son on the knee. “Your uneasiness, my dear, stems from the thought of marriage and commitment. Clara’s age is only an excuse, and you shall quell your fears quickly.”

  “Truly, Nick…” Frances chirped from his side. “She is everything that you could possibly want in a wife.”

  “And as an only child, Clara brings with her a great fortune.”

  “Not that you need it,” his sister cut in.

  “But considering your lifestyle, my dear, it never hurts to have a little more.” Lady Spencer gazed out the window, not wanting to pressure him too much at one time. “A matter which I find highly endearing, though, is how smitten with you the whole family appears to be.”

  “But Mother, everyone knows how advantageous it is when a daughter marries someone with a title. After all, even a baronet with a reputation as bad as Nick’s is…”

  “It isn’t that!” Alexandra waved off her daughter impatiently. “It is your brother’s warm personality that has charmed them. His education. His exemplary military service. His respectability… ”

  “Before the age of twenty.”

  Lady Spencer directed a severe glare at her daughter. “Frances Marie, you will mind your tongue.” The older woman smoothed out the imaginary wrinkles on her skirts again and turned her full attention to her son, who was once again enthralled by the passing scenery. “Where was I?”

  “You had just expressed your wish for me to stop this carriage,” Nicholas suggested darkly. “So that you both can find your way back to London.”

  ***

  The old bishop and his secretary watched in terror as several of the white-shirted rebels whipped the flanks of the horses and sent the driverless carriage down the road. The bishop’s half-dozen attendants, who’d been forced from their places when the carriage was stopped, ran off down the country road after the horses.

  “You cannot get away with this, you filthy ruffians.” The bishop’s voice shook with anger and some fear. “Your masks and your devilish linen shirts shan’t do you a bit of good when they put ropes about your necks and send you off to the Lord’s judgment. ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’”

  Five men on horseback looked on as twenty on foot encircled the two clerics. The silence of the group was unnerving. Before the bishop could speak again, his secretary—a portly younger man with flushed cheeks—saw one small opening in the ring of attackers. Seizing the opportunity, he dropped the satchel he’d been clutching to his chest and ran. A thick leather binder filled with papers and a very healthy looking purse of coins spilled out onto the road. No one bothered to stop the terrified secretary.

  “I know every one of you behind those masks,” the bishop bluffed. “I know your kin and I know the filthy hovels you each live in.”

  A number of the assailants moved forward menacingly, forcing the old cleric back against a tree at the edge of the road.

  “You touch me, you dogs, and I’ll call down God’s wrath on all of you. I am the servant of righteousness, and you are the spawn of devils. You are…” He gasped as a rope looped around his middle from behind, yanking him hard against the tree.

  “This is for forcing the payment of the tithe on the tenants north of Kinsale who lost their crops to the tempest last month.”

  The bishop looked fearfully at the masked man to his right who had spoken the words. Last spring, he’d heard of a papist priest who had been left tied to a tree near Kildare. The bugger had gone for two days without any food or water before someone had found him and let him go. There had been another incident involving a curate near Caher Castle not three weeks ago. He didn’t care to think of that one. Of course, neither of the clerics had been killed—only badly mistreated and frightened half to death.

  Two men grabbed the bishop’s hands and tied a rope around his wrists.

  “This is for refusing to baptize bairns in Ulster simply because the kin couldn’t afford your higher fees.”

  “That was not I! I have no say what goes on up…” The bishop’s protest trailed off weakly as his bravado turned to fear. Another member of the group approached with a rope and dropped it deftly over his head. “No! I beg you…!”

  Instead of shirts of coarse white linen and the faces made unrecognizable by the masks, the clergyman’s mind conjured images from the meeting he’d had with the magistrate, Sir Robert Musgrave, not three days earlier. He’d been promised that all priests would be protected against such attacks by the Whiteboys. As a concession, he’d offered to support the landowners around Youghal who were forcing their farm tenants out to make way for pasturing, and in the end, his own safety had been guaranteed. Guaranteed! Where was that bloody magistrate now?

  “Do you wish to say a final prayer, Your Excellency? Do you wish to ask forgiveness of the Lord for staining His good name? Perhaps for your shameful acts of greed?”

  The clergyman’s eyes focused on the rope dangling from his neck. The clerics abused before had been simple parish priests. He was a bishop. He couldn’t help but wonder if these people would actually kill him to send their message loud and clear across the land.

  The words that began spilling out were indeed prayers. Prayers asking forgiveness for exactly the things he was being accused of.

  ***

  As the carriage suddenly slowed, Nicholas put his head out and looked beyond the horses. He’d heard that travelers occasionally encounter highwaymen on the roads—here as at home—but this was the strangest looking outlaw he’d ever seen.

  Beyond a fork just ahead, where one road bent sharply to the right, a fat clergyman was puffing toward them, his arms waving madly in the air, his piteous cries nearly incoherent from his lack of breath.

  Nicholas shouted to the driver and stepped out as the carriage rolled to a stop.

  “Whiteboys…bishop…killing…there…there!” The man appeared nearly out of his mind with terror, grabbing onto him for support. “Save me…help…bishop!”

  Nicholas detached the man from his arm, handing him over to his valet, who’d been riding behind on his master’s horse. He motioned to Frances to remain in the carriage as she opened the door to step out. He glanced in the direction that the clergy had come. The wooded slope running up to the west was dark and densely forested. There was nothing to be seen from here.

  “’Twould be safest, sir, for the ladies if we was to keep moving,” the driver offered from his perch on the carriage. “Locals call ‘em Shanavests. That’d be Irish for Whiteboys. They’re a troublesome bunch…if ye be asking me.”

  The cleric, who was slumped against the carriage and trying to catch his breath, suddenly straightened. “But…but you cannot simply…simply leave him…they’ll kill him.”

  “May be,” the driver agreed. “But these boys’d be armed to the teeth, sir. Rebels through and through, to be sure, and they always travel in fair sized numbers. ‘Twould be dangerous…for the ladies, of course…not to be going.”

  “How many?” Nicholas addressed the priest.

  “Five on horse…I’d say about two dozen on foot…I don’t know if I saw all of them or not.”

  Nicholas took the reins of his horse from the valet.

  “Can I come with you, Nick?”

  He turned in time to see his mother pull the carriage door shut with a bang, squashing Fanny’s attempt to step out. As
Nicholas directed the driver to go straight to Woodfield House, the valet took a place on the back of the carriage.

  He turned to the cleric. “You…inside.”

  Mumbling words of undying gratitude, the bishop’s secretary yanked open the carriage door and jumped inside with more nimbleness than his size warranted.

  “The new magistrate, Sir Robert Musgrave, has a bounty set on the heads of these boys,” the driver said in confidential tones to Nicholas. “Word is, he’s planning to hang every Shanavest he catches in the old Butter Market in Cork. Now, if ye be asking me, that’s the wrong approach, what with most of the popish farm folk loving those rebels as their own. But I’m just a whip man…so what do I know?”

  Lady Spencer poked her head out of the window before the carriage pulled away. “You can walk away from a fight, Nicholas. I am concerned for you. There are too many of them…and this is a strange land.”

  “No need to be concerned, Mother. I only intend to get near enough to keep a close watch.”

  “Then why not wait until the following wagon arrives? With the servants to help you…”

  “I’ll be fine.” He motioned for the driver to move on. “Just keep a firm hold on that sister of mine.”

  Nicholas waited until the carriage disappeared along the bend of the road before climbing on his horse. Drawing his sword, he spurred the animal down the road.

  ***

  The edge of the knife’s blade formed a thin white line in the ruddy wrinkled skin of the man’s throat.

  The terrified bishop had offered everything he could think of in exchange for his life—from having bags of coin delivered wherever they wished…to waiving every church fee in the diocese for an entire year. Baptisms, marriages, funerals…everything.