LITMIR.BIZ

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where do these warriors come from?” asked Wesley.

      “Some are Connemara men. We know this because of the unique horses they ride. The Irish call them ponies, but the beasts are as large and thick as cavalry horses. Other warriors might have been recruited from the exiles of Connaught to the north.”

      “And your army can’t contain them?”

      “My army has righteousness on its side,” Cromwell insisted. “But they’re not trained in dirty, sneaking, bog-trotting tactics.”

      And you think I am, Wesley silently observed. He took another sip of brandy. Resurrecting an ancient order was, he decided, an act of political genius, a clever way to remind the despairing Irish that they were the sons of warriors.

      “They have a weakness,” Thurloe said.

      Cromwell picked up a quill pen and brushed it over the map. “They have a blind, pagan devotion to their leader.”

      Thurloe nodded. “The man has already achieved the status of legend. Our soldiers hear ballads sung about him. His Fianna will follow him to the very gates of hell and beyond.”

      “Who is he?” asked Wesley.

      “No one knows.” Thurloe’s sharp, Puritan features drew taut with chagrin. As master of protectoral intelligence, he prided himself on knowing the business of every last mother’s son in the Commonwealth. He resented the elusiveness of the Fianna. “We suspected the hand of popish priests in this, but we’ve culled every cleric from the area, and still the rebels ride.”

      Cold distaste turned the brandy bitter in Wesley’s mouth. England was not the only dangerous place for the Catholic clergy.

      “I want the devil taken.” Cromwell’s ruddy fist crashed down on the leather blotter. Crystal ink bottles clinked in their wells. “I want his head on a pike on London Bridge so all England can look upon an Irish thief and murderer.”

      Wesley winced at the contempt in Cromwell’s voice. “He’s only a man fighting for his life and his people.”

      “Bah! Honest Englishmen lived for years among the Irish, who enjoyed equal justice from the law. The rebels broke that union, just when Ireland was in a state of perfect peace.”

      “Or perfect suppression,” said Wesley.

      “I did not bring you here to debate questions of justice. I can drastically shorten your stay of execution.”

      “Sorry.”

      “Once this chieftain is taken,” Thurloe continued, “the Fianna will disintegrate.” A tight smile played about his mouth. “The Irish are sheep who lose their way without their shepherd.”

      “Then from Galway we’ll take all the coastal districts of Connemara,” Cromwell stated with an air of finality. “We’ll put a noose around the rebels in Connaught.”

      Wesley no longer wondered why Cromwell had cut him down from Tyburn Tree. He knew.

      “Mr. Hawkins,” said Cromwell, “do you value your life over that of a murdering outlaw?”

      I’m a Catholic, not a madman, thought Wesley. “Absolutely, Your Honor.”

      “I thought so,” said Cromwell. “You’re to find the chief of the Fianna and bring his head to me before the year is out.”

      The ship’s timbers creaked into the silence. The smell of brine and mildew pervaded the air.

      “Why me?” asked Wesley. “I’m a king’s man, and one of the few left in England who’s not afraid to say so.”

      “Where’s Charles Stuart now, eh?” Cromwell sneered. “Helping the man who helped him escape Worcester?” He planted his elbows on the table. “He’s wenching on the Continent, Mr. Hawkins, and doesn’t give a damn about you.”

      Wesley wouldn’t let himself rise to the taunt, wouldn’t let himself think of the night spent in an oak tree with a frightened young prince. “What makes you think I’m your man?”

      “I’ve learned much about you. Your parents sent you overseas for rearing among papists. You returned to England to become a thief taker, growing rich on bounties and blood money.”

      Tightening his muscles, Wesley fought to govern his emotions. Few knew of his parents or of the deeds he had done, tracking thieves, hauling them kicking and screaming to justice.

      “Then you threw in your lot with the royal tyrant,” Cromwell went on. “We lost track of you. But we knew you were in England, spreading sedition and popish idolatry.”

      “I seem to have been a busy man,” Wesley said wryly.

      “It’s your reputation for tracking that put the idea on us,” said Thurloe. “Men swore you were capable of finding the path of a snake over stone, or a bird’s flight through a cloudy sky.”

      “I think that’s overstating my talents a little.”

      “In your time, you were the most successful thief taker in England.”

      “There are others who have given their loyalty to you.”

      “True, but you’re fluent in Gaelic. From your training in Louvain.”

      Wesley made no reply. This was no bluff, then. Thurloe was conscientious indeed. He had done his research.

      “Ah, and one final thing.” Cromwell smiled, the drawn-back grin of a viper about to strike. “Your success with women. Even as a postulant you couldn’t resist.”

      Wesley went cold inside. He wondered how much the Lord Protector actually knew of his lapse.

      He found out when Thurloe presented him with a letter. “From William Pym,” the Secretary of State announced in a voice hot with venom. “You seduced his daughter, Annabel, and she died three years ago birthing your bastard.”

      Wesley closed his eyes as shame scoured his soul. Here was his penance. He forced his eyes open. “I comported myself poorly. How will that help me corner an Irish outlaw?”

      Thurloe produced another letter. A whimsical script danced across the page. “There is a reference to the Fianna in this, from a woman of Connemara to a Spanish gentleman in London.”

      “You intercepted it?” Wesley asked.

      He nodded. “The woman’s name is Caitlin MacBride. She’s mistress of a coastal stronghold called Clonmuir.”

      “An excellent place to start your conquest,” Thurloe put in. “The attacks of the Fianna began not long after the English burned the fishing vessels of Clonmuir.”

      “If you can sweet-talk your way into her bed as easily as you did into the beds of English ladies,” said Cromwell, “you’ll be able to coax secrets from the Irish whore.”

      “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, my lord?” asked Wesley.

      The Lord Protector lifted his glass. “An unenviable task. Irishwomen are Amazons—dirty and ugly—and this Caitlin MacBride will likely be worse. She’s twenty-two and unmarried despite her holdings. But you’ll put up with her barbaric ways. Knowing your proclivities, you’ll probably find her interesting.”

      “I cannot seduce a woman,” Wesley stated with a rush of guilt. The appearance of Laura in his life had made him swear off meaningless dalliances.

      “You’ll do as I say now, my friend,” said Cromwell.

      “And if I fail?”

      Cromwell smiled grimly. “You won’t. My commander in Galway is Captain Titus Hammersmith. I sent letters ahead, explaining what is expected. You are to cooperate with him in every way.”

      “I can’t work with Roundheads breathing down my neck.”

      “Believe me, Mr. Hawkins, you won’t have to.”

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