The Murderer Inside the Mirror, page 11
As she walked towards the Black Boar, a group of men came running towards her, six or eight of them, shouting the name of Thomas Fitzgerald, imbuing it with derision and vicious hatred – calling him a traitor, an enemy of the King, who must be seized and cast into prison.
‘Hanged, drawn and quartered,’ shouted one of them. ‘That’s what’ll happen to him, the black-hearted villain. We’ll make sure of it – Skeffington will make sure of it.’
‘And his spies with him!’ cried another of the men. ‘And isn’t there one right in front of us now! See her there – the one we marked out in the abbey. The one who tried to follow him and had to be pulled away – we all saw it.’
‘I saw it,’ said another man eagerly. ‘Get her now before she can scuttle away,’ he shouted, and before Catherine realized what was happening, they were around her, grabbing her arm, holding her so tightly it was impossible to pull away. She could smell stale sweat from their bodies and the sour ale on their breath – and what was almost worse was that she could smell their excitement, as well. Fear and panic welled up.
‘Wouldn’t old man Skeffington be glad to have this one,’ said the man who had called her a spy. ‘Grady, will we take her to him now?’
Skeffington. At the name, terror closed around Catherine even more strongly. The man in the abbey had pointed out Sir William Skeffington, saying he was Henry Tudor’s man and Silken Thomas’s fiercest enemy – saying he was looking about him for anyone who might be one of the Earl’s spies.
One of the men was saying there was only one thing to do with spies, but the man called Grady pushed him aside, and in a voice that was suddenly thick and blurred, he said, ‘Two things to do with them.’ He grinned, and his hands came out to Catherine’s bodice, thrusting inside it. ‘Before we throw spies into the dungeons,’ he said, ‘first we warm them a little.’
There was a cheer of assent. ‘Drag her into that alleyway along the side there,’ said one of them. ‘We’ll take turns while the others keep watch.’
‘You first, Grady, but don’t be long about it, for we all want a turn,’ said another, with a wet chuckle.
‘And when we’re all done, we’ll carry her off to Sir William’s men.’
Grady pushed Catherine into the narrow alley that smelled of rotting vegetation, and thrust her against the wall. She could feel his thick fat thighs and a hard warmth pushing against her, and she began to feel sick – it would serve him right if she was sick right in his face.
But she managed to struggle against him, shouting for help, knowing it was hopeless, knowing no one would come to help her, because the men were rough and strong and no one would dare challenge them …
Someone did dare, though. Catherine, her head swimming with panic and confusion, no longer entirely aware of what was happening, heard hoofbeats – several sets of hoofbeats – ringing out on the cobblestones. There were shouts, and then the sound of footsteps running towards her, then Grady was suddenly pulled violently away from her. There were sounds of blows and curses, then Grady was tumbling back, falling against the stone mullions on the side of the building. He gave a kind of grunt, then lay still, blood coming from the side of his head, his face the colour of tallow.
‘Dead!’ cried one of the men. ‘By God, Grady’s dead …’
‘Murdered in the open street …’
‘And would you see who the murderer is, for pity’s sake!’
‘By Christ, there’ll be a reckoning for this—’
Then, through the dizzying mists, the voice Catherine had earlier likened to velvet over steel, was saying, ‘Give me your hand, lady – quickly now, if you value your life and mine. For I believe I’ve killed your attacker, and his companions will be baying for my blood and yours.’
She was lifted as easily as if she was a feather, and carried across the street. There was the feel of leather – a saddle? – and of reins and a bridle being pushed into her hand. Then someone was behind her, and an arm was enclosing her waist to keep her from falling. None of it could be happening – she must have tumbled into a dream; her own or somebody else’s. Because it was as if she had conjured him up to come to her rescue – and in the dream he had pulled her free of them, then scooped her up in his arms, and now he was riding off with her like a knight from an old romance.
But it was not a dream. It was happening. Thomas of Kildare, Silken Thomas, the Rebel Earl, had his arm around her, and with them rode a small detachment of the gallowglass soldiers, and they were galloping away from the men who had been about to rape her before carrying her off to dungeons as a spy.
The journey was the wildest Catherine had ever known. The wind was in her face, whipping her hair into disarray, and overhead, clouds were massing like huge purple bruises. The horses’ hooves were pounding on the ground; she had lost all sense of time, and she had no idea where they were going.
As if he had picked up this thought, the man with the velvet-on-steel voice said, ‘I’m taking you to safety, lady.’
‘Where—?’
She could not see his face, but she had the sense of a sudden reckless grin. Then the Rebel Earl said, ‘We’re going to a place where the people who believe in my fight can be safe.’ A pause, then he said, ‘You do believe in my fight, don’t you? In my cause? You are for Ireland?’
The frantic gallop through strange countryside was snatching the breath from Catherine’s lungs, but she managed to gasp, ‘The cause – Ireland … Oh, yes, yes, I am. I do believe in it.’
The arm that was holding her tightened briefly, and she thought he said, ‘I knew you were with me.’
She managed to say, ‘Where—?’
‘To my stronghold. To Maynooth Castle.’
And either by sheer good fortune, or because the fates were with him, with the words the castle seemed to rear up in front of them – as if out of nowhere. It was surrounded by the thickening twilight, but even from this distance Catherine could see lights burning inside it – warm, glowing oblongs that might be candlelight or lamplight or even firelight. She thought: I’m being taken to a dark castle, and I’m in the power of a man who I don’t know, except that he’s defying the King of England and rousing up the people to fight.
Then they were riding hard across a narrow bridge, towards what was presumably a portcullis, although Catherine had never seen one in her life, and it was being raised for them, and beyond it was a courtyard. People were running out to take the horses – the one that Catherine and her rescuer had ridden, and also those of the soldiers who had followed them – and there were shouts for food to be brought, rooms made ready, fires to be banked up, and sharp about it, for the master was home.
Catherine was lifted easily down to the ground, and the eyes that had blazed with such fervour in St Mary’s Abbey were smiling down at her.
‘Thomas Fitzgerald of Kildare at your service, my lady.’
In a voice she scarcely recognized as her own, Catherine said, ‘My name is Catherine Ó Raifeartaigh. And I’m very grateful indeed to you, sir.’
THIRTEEN
Inside the castle it was warm and there was a feeling of life and liveliness. Catherine was taken by a maidservant to a large bedchamber with a deep soft bed, rich hangings at the windows, and copper jugs of hot water set out for her.
The sense of unreality was increasing with every moment, and it almost overwhelmed her when she found herself with her host – her rescuer – in a stone-flagged hall, with a huge fire burning in the immense stone hearth. There were carvings over it, and as Catherine inspected these, tracing the letters with a fingertip, her companion said,
‘One of my family’s mottoes. Non Immemor Beneficii. It translates, more or less, as, “Not forgetful of a helping hand”. The Fitzgeralds don’t forget those who help them.’ He raised his wine as if in tribute.
Catherine sat down at the table, facing him. She said, very firmly, ‘I can’t stay here – sir – sire …’ She broke off, realizing she had no idea how she should address him.
He seemed to understand, because he said, ‘Between the two of us, Catherine, I am Thomas.’
‘It seems disrespectful to call you that,’ said Catherine dubiously, and he laughed.
‘Respect is something I care very little for.’
‘Then – Thomas – I can’t stay here for very long. My brother—’
‘You have a brother? And other family? No? But a message can be sent to your brother without delay. Where is he? And can he be trusted to keep secret that you’re here?’
‘He can be trusted completely,’ said Catherine, at once. ‘He’ll be at the Black Boar still. We were to stay there until tomorrow. Our home is in Westmeath.’
‘Maguire shall take a message to the Black Boar without delay,’ said Thomas. ‘If your brother is not there, he can go to Westmeath.’ He went to the door and called out to someone, and when Catherine made as if to protest, Thomas said, ‘Maguire, too, is to be trusted. He’s worked well and loyally ever since he came into my service, and … Ah, come in, Maguire.’
Maguire, who had what Catherine thought of as a face like a bloated ferret, glanced at her, and listened to what was required of him.
‘You’re to take a note to the Black Boar in Dublin – to a gentleman by the name of Ó Raifeartaigh,’ said Thomas, then paused, looking at Catherine, who said,
‘Liam. Liam Ó Raifeartaigh.’
‘You’re to set off at once, and you’re to make sure you place a note I shall give you into his hands.’ As he spoke, Thomas crossed to a massive desk in an alcove by one window, and reached for paper and inkhorn. ‘You know the Black Boar, I daresay?’
‘I do.’
‘If Ó Raifeartaigh has left when you get there, you’re to travel to Westmeath to find him …’ Again the look of enquiry to Catherine.
‘He’ll be at our home – Westmeath House,’ said Catherine, who was feeling as if she was being swept along by a whirlwind. ‘It isn’t very far.’
Maguire said he knew the road to Westmeath. His rather small eyes regarded Catherine in a way she did not much like. It was as if he was studying her, almost trying to decide if she could be made use of. But Liam must certainly be told where she was – he must be told what had happened and reassured that she was safe, and of course Thomas’s servant could be trusted. Thomas had said so.
‘Westmeath House, you hear that, Maguire?’ said Thomas. ‘And you must make sure Ó Raifeartaigh has the note without delay.’
‘I understand.’ Maguire waited respectfully, and Catherine thought that after all it had only been the firelight that had cast that curious expression over his face.
Thomas folded the note, held a stick of sealing wax over a candle flame for a moment, then allowed a few drops to fall on-to the paper, pressing his signet ring onto the softened wax.
‘Don’t fail me, Maguire. Don’t fail this lady.’
‘No, sir.’
As Maguire went out, closing the door behind him, Thomas said, ‘I explained to your brother that I had rescued you from a group of ill-intentioned ruffians. Villains who had taken it into their heads that you were a spy. That I had injured – perhaps killed – one of them, but that the others had got away, and so for your safety I brought you here. I also said that your brother had my word you were safe, and I would look after you – oh, and that on no account was he to come here, in case it led a trail for the men to follow, and to find you.’ He regarded her, then said, ‘Those accusations, that behaviour; they would all be intended to harm me, Catherine. They would be my enemies – there are people who want to stop me from what I’m hoping to do.’
‘Reclaim Ireland,’ said Catherine, softly.
‘Yes. You understand about that, don’t you?’
The firelight was behind him, so that he was silhouetted against its glowing brilliance. The light seemed to have got into his eyes, exactly as it had done in the abbey, and the radiance from the wall sconces seemed to be pouring over his hair and the glossy beard that framed his face, turning them to melted copper …
With a huge effort, Catherine said, ‘Yes, I understand. But – Thomas – if that man was killed, wasn’t I part of his murder?’
‘If anyone was a murderer today, Catherine, it was me,’ said Thomas, sitting down next to her.
He had a way of saying her name that sent little rivulets of delight scudding across her skin. Catherine thought: his voice, his eyes, his very presence are like no one’s I’ve ever met.
She said, ‘They thought I was a spy. Your spy.’
‘Yes. That is why it might be safer for you to remain here for a while,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Until matters in Dublin are calmer. Can you do that?’
‘I can.’ Catherine would not for worlds have said she would have walked into hell and taken up residence with him there if he had asked her to.
‘If you write to your brother more fully tomorrow,’ said Thomas, ‘Maguire can take the letter to him.’
‘I should do that. Thank you.’ Liam would worry, but not as much as if Catherine was at home in Westmeath where the King’s men might march in and accuse her of being a spy for the Rebel Earl. He would believe her safe inside Maynooth Castle.
It was actually remarkable how safe she did feel, particularly when she remembered that it was such a very short time since she first set eyes on Thomas Fitzgerald.
‘Do you care for music at all?’ he said, suddenly.
The question startled her, but she said, ‘I – yes, I do. Very much.’
‘Then we shall have some,’ said the Rebel Earl. ‘To calm us after the disruptions of today.’
He went over to a hook near the stone hearth, and took down a lute whose polished surface gleamed. Catherine remembered Liam saying he was an accomplished lutist.
‘Come and sit with me by the fire,’ he said, his hands already moving over the strings as if he knew and loved them. Catherine thought: how would it feel if those hands slid over me in the same way?
When he began to play, it was as if the music drifted out of the firelight of its own accord, and filled up the room. It was not music Catherine recognized, but it was music that beckoned, and that you wanted to reach out and cup between your hands and keep forever. This, then, was the other side of the man who could stir rebellions and challenge kings – this was the poet and the spinner of dreams.
When finally he stopped playing, the silence stretched out, and for some moments there was only the crackle of the fire.
Then he said, softly, ‘You enjoyed that?’
Catherine said, ‘How can I put into words how very beautiful it was?’
He came to sit next to her, and somehow his arm was around her waist, and his free hand was in her hair.
I mustn’t allow him to do this, thought Catherine. I’ve only just met him. I certainly ought not to be feeling exhilarated, and I definitely ought not to be looking forward to whatever happens next. Except there mustn’t be any next. I should go back to Westmeath – to the things I know, and once I’m there, life will go quietly on as before. Because of course nobody will follow me and shout that I’m a spy and try to drag me into an English dungeon.
But she knew she would not do any such thing. She knew that she would do anything Thomas wanted, tonight, now, here in this very room. This was shocking and exciting.
When he bent to kiss her, it was as if a star exploded within her, and she clung to him, and wanted him never to stop. But at last he removed his lips from hers, although one hand remained within her hair. Catherine felt as if she was inside a dream.
‘And now,’ he said, softly, ‘don’t you think it’s time for me to take you to your bedchamber.’
Her heart lurched all over again. Had it been a question? Was it a signal that they would both go to her bedchamber?
But he said, ‘And to wish you goodnight, Catherine,’ and she knew it had not been a question at all, it had been a dismissal. He was telling her there was to be nothing more. She did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
They walked through stone corridors and up a narrow winding flight of stairs, his arm around her waist again. ‘You’ll be safe here,’ he said. ‘There’ll be no danger.’
‘Thank you,’ said Catherine, who had been starting to hope that one very particular kind of danger would happen to her. ‘Goodnight, Thomas,’ she said.
The bedchamber was welcoming and already familiar. Even with the door closed, she could hear distant sounds of footsteps, doors opening and closing, people coming and going. But there must be a great many people in this castle who she had not seen. Tomorrow she would explore it a little. Probably it would be all right to do that, and probably she would not need to stay here for more than a few days, anyway.
She took off the blue gown, pleased she had worn it today, because it was certainly the most becoming garment she possessed. The package with the silk material and the fringing and lace had been placed on an oak settle – seeing it brought an unexpected sense of security. She would not be here for long enough to need another gown, of course, but it was comforting to think she had the means to fashion one if she had to.
The bed was deep and soft and comfortable. It was very wide, too – easily wide enough for two people – no, that was a dangerous way to think.
As she drifted into sleep, she heard somewhere below voices and the sounds of horses’ hooves and the jingling of harnesses, and she felt a jab of fear, in case the men from Dublin had followed her here after all, or had sent William Skeffington’s men. But even as the question formed, the conviction came that – whatever happened – Thomas would protect her.
And she could hear now that the voices below were friendly. There was a burst of laughter, followed by a snatch of someone singing what Catherine suspected might be a bawdy verse. They would be Thomas’s soldiers or his servants down in the courtyard – this room must overlook it, but she was too warm and too comfortable to get out of bed and look through the window.
