The Maiden of Ireland. Susan Wiggs

Tower Gate and London Bridge if not for the tender mercies of myself and our Lord Protector.”

      The cobwebs began lifting from Wesley’s mind. He remembered himself moving, as if he were galloping toward an eternity of regrets, of half-finished business. The terrible journey had taken him past the fair-haired child he had left behind, past words he should have said, past a crown he had tried to defend.

      He asked, “Cromwell arranged a pardon?”

      “A stay of execution.”

      A memory flashed through Wesley’s mind: the hooded giant, the weeping masses, the jolt of the cart. His feet kicking at empty air, the wheel of green leaves and blue sky overhead, the burn of the rope around his neck.

      After that, a muddle of pain. His body dragged to the block, the black hood looming into view, a blade glittering against the clear sky, steel slicing toward his bare flesh.

      Then a shout: Hold thy stroke!

      An ugly blur followed: horses’ sweaty hides, soldiers’ buff livery, clenched fists and muttered curses. Questions, protests, speculation spoken over his limp body. A dark robed man arguing with the sheriff at Tyburn.

      “It was you, wasn’t it?” he asked Thurloe. “You stopped the execution.”

      “I did.”

      “I can’t say I’m fond of your timing. You might have come earlier.” Wesley cocked an eyebrow at Thurloe. The wind plucked at his wispy brown hair arranged in a tonsure around the balding top of the man’s head. “Just a stay?”

      “That will depend on you, priest. Or should I say Hawkins?”

      Damn. “Who’s Hawkins?” he asked.

      “Don’t be lame, sir. Several of the ladies present called you Wesley. Lucky for you, I quickly deduced the truth.” Thurloe spun in a shimmer of dark velvet and brass buttons. He set a hat on his head. Wesley recognized the tipped brim fastened with a palm-sized brooch. “Come with me.”

      Wesley dragged himself up on wobbly legs. The ship strained at her cables. His vision swam, then resolved into a view of a narrow deck and an aftercastle rising beyond a web of rigging.

      To his left the sea swelled out endlessly. To his right, a small town huddled a stone’s throw away.

      “Milford Haven,” said Thurloe.

      “Milford Haven! My God, that’s two hundred miles from London,” said Wesley. Lost miles, during which he had imagined being borne to hell in the devil’s chariot.

      “You see, we’ve not even left port.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because not all of us are going with you, Mr. Hawkins.”

      “Going where?”

      Thurloe made no response, but led the way down a hatch and through a companionway that smelled of wet timber and moldering rope. Two men descended on Wesley with soap and a razor. Fifteen minutes later, he found himself thrust before the Lord Protector of England. The sight of Oliver Cromwell freshened Wesley’s fears that he had gone to hell, after all.

      Framed from behind by a bank of diamond shaped stern windows, Cromwell stood at a burl writing desk. Reddish brown hair, cropped to his shoulders, framed a bold-featured face ornamented by a curling mustache and pointed beard. The Lord Protector’s eyes had the gleam of ice-coated rock.

      “Bit of an improvement.” His gaze sharpened on Wesley. “Ah, Mr. Hawkins. I’ve got you at last, after all these years.”

      In the wells of the desk sat an array of crystal ink bottles with silver stoppers. The gilt-edged blotter and the straight-backed chair bore an imprint of the lions of England. The trappings of royalty.

      Wesley planted his feet on the red Turkey carpet of the stateroom. “What ship is this?”

      Cromwell’s lips tightened as if he found the question impertinent. He drew himself up proudly. The pose looked faintly ridiculous on the Lord Protector. His plain cloth suit appeared to be the work of a country tailor. “It used to be called Royal Charles but it’s been rechristened Victory.”

      “And where are we going?”

      “You are sailing west as soon as I’ve given you your instructions.”

      “You’re sending me into exile?”

      Beneath the legendary ruby nose, a controlled smile tugged at Cromwell’s mouth. “Exile? Too easy for the likes of you.”

      “You obviously want something from me, else you’d not have spared my life,” Wesley reminded him. The truth hit him suddenly, a swift blow to his empty belly. He was alive! Laura. Laura, darling. The thought of her clasped him in an embrace of both joy and dread.

      “You royalists are always so astute,” said Cromwell, his voice sharp as an untuned viol.

      Wesley ignored the taunt. He had been astute enough to elude Cromwell for six years.

      “Sit down, Mr. Hawkins.”

      As the Lord Protector lowered himself to the richly carved chair, Wesley took a three-legged stool opposite him. Thurloe poured brandy into small glasses.

      “The Irish problem.” Cromwell pressed his palm to the map before him. The chart depicted the island, with stars drawn at the English-held ports and hen-track markings tracing the route of Cromwell’s dread Roundhead army.

      Ireland? Wesley frowned. Perhaps the pressures of his office were weighting Cromwell’s reason.

      “I know nothing of Ireland,” said Wesley. Almost true. A hazy memory came to him, filtered by the years. His parents’ stern faces and cold eyes as they informed him that England was not safe for Catholics. His banishment to Louvain on the Continent, where Irish friars had put him to work printing outlawed books in Gaelic. The kindness of the brothers had almost filled the void in his heart. And the strange, lyrical language of the Gaels had lingered like a never-to-be-forgotten song in his mind.

      “You stand to learn more than any civilized man ought to know.” Cromwell jabbed a thick finger at the map. “Dublin, Ulster, all the major ports belong to us. The Pale is ours. We gave the rebels a choice of hell or Connaught, and most of them made the mistake of choosing Connaught. And that’s where the problem lies.”

      The west of Ireland. Wool, peat, herring...what else? He could not think of a commodity that would induce Cromwell to risk his men. But that was the Lord Protector: all-powerful, enigmatic, consumed by ambition, and unwilling to explain his motives.

      “Galway,” said Wesley, deciphering the upside-down word near Cromwell’s finger.

      “Aye, and the entire coast of Connemara. I’ve garrisoned troops at Galway. The Irish were driven out of the city long ago. But we’ve had resistance.”

      The Lord Protector looked as if he could not comprehend this defiance. Why, Wesley thought ironically, wouldn’t the Irish wish to give up their age-old way of life, their tradition of self-rule, and their Catholic religion in order to embrace a revenue-hungry Protestant conquest?

      Wesley realized he knew more about the Irish than he had thought. He took a drink. The brandy dropped like hot lead in his empty stomach.

      “The heart of the resistance,” said Thurloe, “is a band of warriors called the Fianna. Do you know the legend?”

      “No.” Wesley suspected it had to do with dark magic, fey folk, and shadowy deeds.

      “It’s a medieval order of warriors, bound by blasphemous pledges and initiated in pagan rites. They fight like devils. Our captains swear the villains hold their horses under a spell, so fierce are the beasts.”

      One corner of Wesley’s mouth lifted in a half smile. “I think your captains have been in the bogs too long.”

      “They do God’s work,” Cromwell retorted.