Rory. Ruth Langan

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      “Can we take them now, Rory?” one of his men whispered when the farmer was safely gone.

      “Patience, Colin.” How odd that he now counseled patience, when he’d had so little of it in his life.

      He watched as the last of the soldiers stripped off their tunics and walked into the water. Only a handful of men remained as lookouts, while the others swam and bathed and splashed each other like boys.

      “Ready, lads?” he asked as he stood and unsheathed his sword.

      His men nodded and did the same.

      A ripple of anticipation passed through them, charging each man with almost supernatural fervor. The very air around them seemed somehow changed. No one spoke. No one moved as they waited for the signal from their leader.

      “Now,” Rory called in a fierce whisper.

      They scrambled down the banks of the river, screaming like banshees. The hapless guards didn’t even have a chance to unsheath their swords before they fell in their own blood.

      The English soldiers, who had only moments earlier been laughing and calling to one another, now struggled feverishly to retrieve their weapons. Though they outnumbered the Irish warriors almost ten to one, they had the disadvantage of being caught unawares.

      Rory plowed into the water, using his sword with an economy of movement. With each thrust of his blade, another man stiffened, gasped, tumbled headlong into the river. In no time the brown waters of the Liffey ran red with blood. And still the killing went on.

      Each time he encountered another soldier, Rory stared into his opponent’s face, searching for the telltale scar. And each time, he experienced the sting of disappointment when he realized this wasn’t the one he sought.

      He had long ago stopped feeling the shock along his arm when his sword encountered muscle and bone. And was able to block out the muffled sobs and high-pitched shrieks of the dying. What he couldn’t erase from his mind was the sight of his beloved Caitlin, her body bloodied and battered beyond recognition. This was what drove him. This was what gave him the will to go on, no matter what the odds.

      As he stepped over yet another body, he caught a glimpse of a soldier with yellow hair plucking a sword from one of his fallen comrades.

      At last, Rory thought. At long last, his quest would be ended. With a cry of pain and rage he lunged through the water lapping at his hips and stumbled forward.

      Hearing his voice, the soldier momentarily dropped the sword.

      “Pick it up, you coward.” Rory’s voice was thick with passion. “Pick it up and face your death like a man.”

      Rory saw the soldier grasp the sword as he lifted his own. The thought of victory sang through his blood and misted his vision.

      “Now,” he shouted. “Now, Tilden, will you taste the vengeance of Rory O’Neil.”

      He could no more stop the thrust of his blade than he could still the waters churning beneath his feet. And yet, in that last moment, he realized his mistake. This man had no scar. His face was unlined. It was the face of a youth. The eyes wide with terror. The mouth round in surprise.

      The force of the thrust sent his blade through the lad’s. chest and out the other side. The young soldier was dead before his body hit the water.

      With a feeling of horror and revulsion, Rory pulled his sword free and watched as the water around the body turned blood red.

      For the first time he stared around at the scene of carnage. Not a single soldier remained. The Liffey and its banks were littered with bodies. Three of his own men were sitting in the shallows, looking dazed. One was tying a tourniquet around his bloody leg. Another was leaning against a tree, retching.

      How long had this killing lasted? Minutes? Hours? Time was nothing but a blur.

      Had he really been on this quest for two years now? Two years of blood and violence and death. Two years of being hunted, and hiding out in hay barns and accepting food from strangers.

      And yet, how could he stop the carnage? In every village he heard the stories of cottages burned and crops destroyed and women and children violated.

      He was weary beyond belief. The thought of Ballinarin taunted him, tempted him. At times all he could think of was turning his back on this quest and returning to his home and family.

      But then, he would see again in his mind his beloved Caitlin. And he knew, no matter how weary, no matter what the Fates meted out to him, he could never stop until he found the English bastard who had brutalized and murdered his future bride and her entire family. Tilden had to pay.

      “Will we stop awhile, Rory?” one of his men called.

      “We’ll move on.” He forced the weariness aside as he allowed the water to wash the blood from his sword. Then he sheathed it and stepped from the river. “If we move quickly, we can sleep tonight in Dublin.”

      * * *

      “I’m sorry I must leave you, AnnaClaire.”

      “I understand, Father. You have your duties.”

      “But it’s so soon since Margaret.”

      The young woman touched a hand to her father’s lips to still his words. “I’ll not deny I miss Mother. As do you. Every day of our lives we’ll miss her. But I can’t ask you to forsake everything and spend the rest of your life holding my hand.”

      “The grief is still so raw.”

      “Aye. I expect a year from now I’ll still be grieving. But I’ll find ways to stay busy. I promise.”

      “I wish you’d change your mind and come with me.”

      “We’ve gone over this before, Father. I’m just not ready to leave Mother’s home, her grave.”

      “I know. And I understand, my dear. I’ve asked Charles Lord Davis to look in on you. And Lady Alice Thornly is planning a lovely dinner party. She hinted that there would be several interesting men recently arrived who might snag your interest.”

      AnnaClaire managed a smile. “You just can’t help yourself, can you, Father?”

      “Do you blame me? You need a husband, a family. You’re far from home, without the comfort of your mother, and now your father abandons you as well.”

      “You aren’t abandoning me. You said yourself you’ll be back in time for my birthday.”

      “And I shall. But I’d feel better if I knew you had a young man looking out for you while I was gone.”

      “I’ll have an old one. Lord Davis is a dear.”

      “But not quite what I had in mind. No matter.” He turned to see his trunks being unloaded from the lorry and deposited on the docks. “I don’t want you to remain until my ship sails. I’d just as soon you not mingle with the locals.”

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