Cecil absorbed all of this, his brow furrowed. “A trio of visitors at St. Leger House. What in God’s name are FitzGerald and his wife up to now? Who would dare to ally himself—or herself—with FitzGerald?”
Cecil did not expect his agent to respond, and he continued, speaking very much to himself. “FitzGerald has yet to reconcile himself to eternal exile from that wretched land he calls his home. I doubt he ever will. And now this—new players.” Cecil faced the spy. “You will instruct your men that St. Leger House is to be watched at all hours. If these visitors return, I must learn their identity.”
The agent nodded and left.
Cecil spoke to the empty room, grim. “God’s blood! Visitors in the night must mean a conspiracy—and FitzGerald conspires yet again against the queen! But who dares to conspire with the Lame Earl now? Who could be so foolish—or so bold?”
Cecil had grown very thoughtful. He was so sick to death of the Irish problem, a never-ending problem of defiance and rebellion, carried out by half-mad, savage Celts; it was a problem that had to be solved. The queen had to have complete control over Ireland. Otherwise England’s enemies would establish a toehold there. And had he not said from the very beginning that it was madness to remove FitzGerald from Ireland? And he had been right. The proof of that was one too-clever lunatic, the leader of the rebels, James FitzMaurice, already supported by France, Spain, and the Pope.
Sir William was determined to learn the identities of the new conspirators. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was an opportunity here—one that might please everyone, one that might solve everything.
The man screamed.
The soldiers were impassive as they watched his body being stretched out upon the rack. When the unholy screams had faded, one stepped forward, in red doublet, pale hose, and a sword that was clearly not ceremonial. The castellan of Tilbury Castle put his face close to the man’s. “Come, sailor, surely you can speak now? Why did you and your friend come upon Tilbury Beach? Who did you bring? For whom do you wait? You have a scant minute to tell me what I will learn from you. The next time the wheel turns, your arms will be torn from your body, perhaps your legs as well.”
“Please, God have mercy, no!” the sailor sobbed. “I speak, I speak!”
The castellan nodded. “Out with it.”
“We—we come from theSea Dagger.”
The castellan’s eyes widened. “TheSea Dagger?Liam O’Neill’s ship?”
The sailor made a guttural sound that was obviously affirmative.
“O’Neill is here? At Tilbury?”
“No, your lordship. We’re waitin’ fer him. To take him back to his ship.”
The castellan began to chuckle. He rubbed his hands together in real glee. “God’s blood! ’Tis my day of fortune! How pleased the good queen will be when I deliver her the sea’s most notorious master!”
Abruptly he turned to the sailor still stretched out upon the rack. “Where did O’Neill go? What mission does he perform?”
The sailor whimpered. “I don’t know.”
Displeasure crossed the castellan’s face and he signaled to the man cranking the wheel of the rack. The sailor screamed. And screamed, and screamed.
They cantered up the road, Tilbury Castle looming ahead of them. Katherine was so tired she could barely stay in the saddle, so tired now she could no longer think. Her body screamed in aching protest, her sore muscles badly abused from the many hours she had spent in the saddle that day. But the sight of the castle, etched against the blue sky, gave her strength. Although she was being taken to her doom—the pirate ship—she was far too exhausted to care about anything other than getting down from her mount as quickly as possible. After she had rested, she would face her future. Until then, she must cling to the knowledge that Hugh was alive. For that knowledge gave her another choice—and it gave her hope.
Liam suddenly stiffened in his saddle; his hand tightened upon his sword. “Mac,” he murmured. “Something is amiss.”
Macgregor reached for his pistol, and a second later they were set upon by a horde of swordsmen.
A dozen infantrymen erupted from the woods and swooped down upon them. Katherine screamed as swords clashed and sang. Liam did not dismount, driving his horse forward as he thrust and met his first attacker, instantly thrusting past the man’s blows to wound him in the chest.The man went down, blood blossoming on his jerkin. Swiftly Liam slashed yet another assailant, and then another, and then another. His mount screamed shrilly, nicked by a sword, beginning to bleed.
Katherine’s terror did not diminish when she realized that she had been boxed in by both Liam and the Scot, as if they were protecting her. Liam parried still, with the same results, slaying or wounding another soldier. Meanwhile Macgregor had tossed his pistol aside, after killing one assailant, and now wielded his sword with the same kind of stunning skill his captain displayed. Katherine clutched her reins, watching in abject fear as Liam and Macgregor fought off their numerous attackers. Already the ground around them was littered with gray doublets. It did not seem possible, surely not, that Liam and Macgregor could actually fight off these troops? Yet it seemed that victory was soon to be theirs.
And then Katherine saw the reinforcements—musketeers. Her heart lurched. The musketeers came charging down the road, cloaks flying, their doublets red. Katherine opened her mouth to warn Liam—too late.
A musket ball whizzed past his head. And then another screamed by. Liam was still engaged in a sword fight with his last two adversaries. Katherine had never imagined that any mortal man could fight so effectively, so lethally, slaying his opponents one after the other. Then a third musket ball pierced Liam’s shoulder, leaving a hole in his cloak. Liam grunted, still parrying with one of the last remaining swordsmen. Katherine watched as the hole in his cloak turned red. He had been hit in his left shoulder, on the back. Had it been his right, he would have been lost.
But as it was, his right arm moved with lightning speed, slashing down his last opponent. And suddenly it was over, just minutes after it had begun. For the musketeers had surrounded them, a dozen deadly muskets primed and raised, ready to blow off their heads.
Liam lowered his rapier. So did Macgregor. Both men were panting, sweat streaking their faces. Their hands and arms were covered in blood. Katherine looked at thebloody patch of wool on Liam’s back. Her stomach threatened to disgorge itself. Her entire body was shaking.
A man detached himself from the troops, riding forward to face Liam. His red doublet was gay with gold braid and black ribbons. His plumed black hat was set at a severe angle. He held his rapier in a gauntleted hand almost casually. But there was nothing casual about his black eyes and hard expression. “I am Sir Walter Debrays, castellan of Tilbury,” he announced. “Lay down your blade, Captain O’Neill. You are my prisoner.”
Liam held his gaze for another heartbeat, then laid down his weapon.
