Rory. Ruth Langan

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      Rory saw the flutter of white. Caitlin’s bridal gown.

      It was the only way he could identify her. He picked his way through the carnage and knelt beside her. The gown had been cut away, except for one sleeve that still clung to her wrist. From the marks on her body he could see that she’d been brutalized before her throat had been cut so violently her head had nearly been severed from her body.

      With a cry of pain and rage he gathered her against him and buried his face in her bloody hair. His body shook with great, wrenching sobs that spoke of a heart shattered beyond repair.

      “Rory. God in heaven, Rory.” Conor was the first to find him. He could do no more than weep as he stood, watching his brother silently rage against the horror of it.

      As the others arrived, Gavin O’Neil strode through the carnage to stand over his firstborn son. His voice shook with raw emotion. “The lad, Innis, says the leader was called Tilden by the others. Tall, brawny, with yellow hair and a face disfigured by a scar that ran from his left eye to his jaw. ‘Twill not be an easy face to hide.”

      “I’ll find him.” Rory unfastened his cloak and used it to cover Caitlin’s nakedness. He staggered to his feet, cradling the broken body of the woman who had been his reason for living. This night she would have lain in his arms, in their bed. Instead she would lie forever in the cold, hard earth. He looked up to stare at his family and friends. All were weeping uncontrollably.

      His own tears had dried. His eyes, hard as stone, stared beyond the bloodstained ground. “I give you my word. I’ll not rest until I find the English bastard who did this.”

      His father laid a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll fetch a wagon to take her and the others to be buried.”

      Rory shook off the hand. “No one will touch Caitlin. I’ll carry her. It’s all I can give her now.”

      It was a somber, silent procession that made its way back to the chapel. The guests in their wedding finery were a sharp contrast to the bloody bodies being hauled in hay wagons. At the head of the column walked Rory O’Neil, his tunic and breeches clotted with blood. The body in his arms was completely covered with his cloak, except for a spill of raven hair matted with blood and grass.

      At the chapel he continued to stand and hold Caitlin cradled to his chest as a hole was dug and Friar Malone began the words that would consign the body to holy ground.

      For hours, while the holes were dug and the bodies buried, Rory continued to kneel silently at the mound of earth that covered his beloved. And when the last body had been disposed of, he looked around the grave site, then fixed his gaze on the distance.

      As his family gathered around, he embraced his mother and father, and kissed his sister’s cheek.

      Briana’s cries became great, wracking sobs that shook her slender frame. “You musn’t go, Rory. Please, don’t go. If you do, I’ll never see you again.”

      “Hush now.” He held her close for a moment, whispering against her forehead, “I’ll return. Trust me.”

      Conor clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Will you let me come with you?”

      Rory gave a firm shake of his head. “It’s something I must do alone. You’ll be needed here.” He turned to his mother, who stood behind Innis, her arms wrapped around his thin shoulders. “You’ll see to the lad?”

      She nodded. “He’ll be a son to me, until my own returns.”

      Rory strapped on a sword and tucked a knife at his waist and in his boot.

      His father removed his own cloak, which bore the O’Neil crest, and wrapped it around his son’s shoulders. Lifting his hand in benediction he said, “May God ride with you, Rory, and bring you home to those who love you.”

      Without a word, Rory pulled himself onto the back of his horse. He turned for one last look at Ballinarin. In the distance Croagh Patrick stood guard over the land. The mountain changed color so rapidly it was never the same. Earlier, it had been a harsh gray-green in the misty rain. Now it had softened to a peach hue in the warmth of the fading sun. Its sides were cloaked with stunted, twisted shrubs and trees and at the base, tall conifers and clumps of rhododendron. Waterfalls tossed themselves over the side, spilling down until they reached the river. Torn shreds of clouds drifted overhead. This lonely, savage piece of land held his heart. It was the only place he’d ever wanted to be. But now, the deceptively gentle scene mocked him. Because of the. violence that had occurred here, he would begin an odyssey. An odyssey that could take him far away for years, or even a lifetime, until this thing was finished.

       Chapter One

       County Dublin, 1562

      “So many of them, Rory.” The voice was little more than a whisper on the breeze.

      Half a dozen figures crouched by the banks of the Liffey, watching the English soldiers frolic in the brown water.

      “Aye. I’d hoped for only a dozen or more. There must be close to fifty.” Rory turned to the weathered farmer kneeling beside him. “Why so many?”

      “Now that the English have discovered the healing properties of the boiling spring, this river has become a favorite place for them to congregate.” He wrinkled his nose at the strong odor of sulphur. “It helps them relax after they’ve had the fun of killing a few of us.”

      Rory watched from his place of concealment.

      “You’re certain the one with the scar is among them?”

      The farmer’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the distant figures. “1 haven’t spotted him yet. But he was with this group of bastards yesterday when they caught my little daughter in the fields and made sport of her.”

      His voice betrayed his pain. “She’s only ten and one, Rory. And the things they did to her. The one with the scar demanded to be first. She told me he taunted those who refused to join in.” In a fierce whisper he added, “I want to be the one to kill him.”

      Rory touched a hand to his arm. “I know how you feel, Seamus. But you’ve done enough. Go home to your family now.”

      “I need to see him dead.” The farmer fingered his only weapon, a small crude knife.

      “Your family can’t afford to lose you, Seamus. Go now. Leave the killing to us.”

      “You’ll kill him, Rory? For my Fiona? For me?”

      “Aye. If he’s here, I’ll see the bastard dead.” For Caitlin, he thought, especially for Caitlin.

      Seeing the hatred that glittered in Rory O’Neil’s eyes, the farmer had no doubt that his family’s honor would be avenged. In the past two years, all of Ireland had heard of the quest for vengeance that drove this fierce Irish warrior. Wherever there was a battle between his countrymen and the hated English, Rory O’Neil could be found in the thick of it. He had killed so many soldiers, there was now a price on his head. He was the most hunted man in the land. And the man most despised by his enemy. He was known throughout England and Ireland СКАЧАТЬ