Dark of the Moon Page 2

  He shook his head at her. "Hotheaded like all the Irish, I see," he said placidly. "That trait will get you killed faster than pinching purses, my lad. At the rate you're going, you won't live to shave your first whisker. Or bed your first colleen."

  "And what in bloody hell would you be knowin' about it? Damned lily-livered English dog!"

  "Mind your mouth, now. I've taken about all the sass I care to from a half-pint stripling who tried to rob me blind." His brows came together in a fierce V as he scowled at her. Glaring ferociously back at him, both pleased and alarmed by the anger she had at last managed to incite, Caitlyn was quickly reduced to mortification by the loud rumble that came without warning from her in- sides.

  "Hungry, are you?" His frown cleared. "Do you suppose if I feed you, you can keep a civil tongue in your head?"

  "I wouldn't break bread with the likes of you if I was starvin', which I ain't. I just ate," she lied, pride stung again. "Fresh bread and butter, boiled potatoes and fish…"

  "And I'm St. Patrick," he answered amiably. She blinked, frowning in surprise at the unexpectedness of his answer. Before she could respond he set off down the street again with her in unwilling tow. Just past the stone arches of Christchurch, he stopped and cocked his head in the direction of a public house across the way. A sign above it, creaking in the slight breeze, proclaimed it The Silent Woman.

  "I'm for supper," he said. "You're welcome to join me in a bite. It occurs to me that if I buy you a square meal, you might stay off the gibbet for one more day." With that he dropped her wrist, and with a nod at her as if to say the choice was hers, he crossed the street and disappeared into the pub. Caitlyn was left standing stock-still in the crowded street, thoughts awhirl as she stared after him. The bloody English dog had let her go. She was free to take to her heels, to chase after Willie and take up where they had left off. To find some other, hopefully less wide- awake mark and prig his purse… The thought sent a shiver down her spine. Maybe they were cursed by bad luck, as Willie thought. She didn't want to go the way of O'Flynn, face turning blue as she swung, choking, in the wind. But she was so hungry she was nigh sick with it.

  The bloody Sassenach had offered to buy her supper.

  Pride warred with hunger. Curiosity warred with wariness. Generations of racial hatred screamed at her to deny the empty aching in her belly. But, Sassenach or no, her stomach needed filling. As she thought about it, it seemed only just that a Sassenach should fill her emptiness. Were not he and his kind the cause of it, after all?

  II

  Still pondering, she crossed the street, in her distraction almost getting run down by a fanner with a cart. At the public house, a popular gathering place judging by the number of patrons going in and out, she hesitated just outside the carved oak door. All her instincts warned her to turn tail and run. Everyone knew that Sassenachs were not to be trusted. But what could he do to her in such a place, after all? If he'd wanted to turn her over to the authorities, he would already have done so. And whatever else he had in mind-be he devil or mortal, banshee or solid flesh-would probably wait until after she'd eaten. After that, she could vanish like the mist. But if she didn't let him feed her, she would have to feed herself or go without. And after the debacle of her attempt on his purse, her confidence in her abilities was severely shaken.

  Hesitant but increasingly hungry, she pushed open the door and looked into a welcoming room well lit with tallow candles. The hated English were everywhere, their funny, mincing voices filling the room with talk and laughter. The place even smelled funny, sort of like a whore's cologne. She'd never been inside a pub outside the Irish quarters.

  "And what do the likes of you think you're doing in here? Get on out of here!" A plump woman in a huge mobcap with a white apron over her dark gown came bustling out from behind the bar, flourishing a broom at Cait-

  lyn. "The gall of you heathen Papists! Get, now-get out!"

  Caitlyn's eyes flared, and her hands balled into fists. Wisdom dictated a hasty retreat. She was only one person, and a small one at that. The woman descending on her was large and plump and carried a broom. The room was filled with the hated Sassenach.

  "Hold, mistress. The lad's with me."

  He walked easily around the woman and caught Caitlyn by the arm, compelling her to abandon her imminent attack.

  "I won't be eatin' in a room full of bloody Orangemen!"

  "We don't want no Irish trash in here!"

  If it had not been for the gentleman's iron hold on her arm, Caitlyn would have fallen on the woman and rent her limb from limb there and then. As it was, she was pulled protesting from the pub with the serving woman following after them, brandishing the broom like a weapon and calling curses down on the heads of the Papists. Caitlyn's answering abuse was vulgar and explicit.

  "Enough, bantling." His voice was quiet, but there was in it that steely authority that silenced her continued fuming. She glared up at him, trying to wrest her arm from his grip as he dragged her down the street.

  "Bloody Sassenach!" The woman's insults had brought all her hatred of the race, forced into abeyance by the needs of her stomach, flooding back.

  Those strange light eyes glinted at her. "I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I'm growing weary of listening to your insults, my lad. Now get yourself in here and keep your bloody mouth shut. Or I'll be likely to shut it for you with the back of my hand."

  Caitlyn found herself seated inside another pub before she had a chance to sneer at its lily-white English patrons. Unlike the first place, this one was small, dark, and filled with smoke. No one was paying the least bit of attention to her, she discovered as she cast a belligerent look around. Her eyes caught the narrowed ones across the table from hers, and something about that look from those devil's eyes caused her to keep her unruly tongue under a semblance of control as the barmaid came over to their table. Under the gentleman's continuing impaling gaze, she sat in silence as he ordered a meal for both of them, firing up only briefly when the serving maid's eyes raked her with contempt. But the girl left before aught was said. Caitlyn was left glaring suspiciously at the man seated across the scrubbed pine table. In the dim light of the candle on the wall, it was hard to make out his expression. But she thought she detected a brief glint of amusement behind the warning look in his eyes. She bristled, but he spoke before she could put tongue to her feelings.

  "Have you a name, halfling?"

  "What bloody business is it of yours?"

  He grinned suddenly, unexpectedly, white teeth gleaming at her through the darkness. "Charming lad, aren't you? You can thank your patron saint that I have a fondness for scrawny gamecocks. I could have handed you over to the authorities back there, you know. Most would."

  "So why didn't you?"

  "As I said, I have a fondness for scrawny gamecocks." The meal arrived then, thick bowls of beefy stew with hearty slabs of fresh bread and foaming glasses of ale. Caitlyn's traitorous stomach rumbled loudly again. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment even as her mouth watered at the succulent aroma. Her eyes lifted from the chunks of tender meat and potatoes floating in the rich brown gravy to stare suspiciously at the man. He appeared not to have heard the latest insubordination from her in- sides.

  "I'll not be payin' for this. Not in any way, if you catch my meaning."

  He had just put the first forkful of stew in his mouth. Before he answered, he chewed it judiciously, swallowed, and washed the whole down with a mouthful of ale. Then he looked at her. Caitlyn shivered at the impact of those eyes. The sudden spurt of apprehension ignited her temper anew. Feeling better now that she was armed with comforting anger, she glared at him. She would not let herself think of the meal until all was straight between them.

  "Eat, lad. There're no strings to the food. I know what it's like to be hungry." Despite those unsettling eyes, his voice was gentle.

  "You?" She stared at him with disbelief. Then pride reared its head. "Anyways, I ain't that hungry. Like I said before, me pals and me, we
just had tea. Boiled potatoes and…"

  "I'm sure you can manage something. Just so as not to be rude."

  She looked at him for a long, wary moment. But the aroma of that stew was not to be denied.

  "All right. I guess I owe you something, seein' as how you didn't hand me over back there."

  "Indeed." If there was just the faintest touch of dryness to his voice, his face was perfectly bland. There was no offense to be taken there.

  After one final, suspicious look at her companion, Caitlyn picked up her fork and dug in. The first hot, cooked meal she'd had in weeks was so delicious that, after the first bite, she quite forgot the Sassenach who had provided it and wolfed it down like the starving child she was. When she had finished, the last crust of bread used to sop up the last drop of gravy, she sat back, replete, to find him watching her. The look on his face told her nothing, but she felt herself flushing. She'd made a right pig of herself, despite her fine words. And before a Sassenach.

  "You keep pinching purses, you're going to hang. You're not that good at it." His tone was one of impersonal warning.

  Stung, her eyes widened with indignation. "I'm bloody good! I've been doing it for years and never been nabbled! Afore, I mean! You…"

  "You're slow, and I felt your hand in my pocket like a lead weight. If you haven't been caught before, it's sheer good luck."

  "What the bloody hell do you know about it?"

  "I know a poor thief when I'm robbed by one. A poor, stupid thief. Because you're not going to quit until you're caught, are you? You'll hang higher than Christchurch's steeple." He sounded disgusted.

  'Then you can come cheer at the hangin', can't you, you bloody pious Orangeman?" Her voice rose on the last word. Buoyed by a sudden surge of rage, she jumped to her feet. Men turned from the bar and swiveled in their seats to look. The gentleman sat back in his seat, his eyes narrowed as he took in her anger for a long moment with no reaction whatsoever. Then, reaching across the table without a word, he twisted his hand in her coat front and yanked so hard that she abruptly, found herself sitting on the wood bench again. Her first reaction was to rub her tender behind, which had just suffered a severe bruising. She managed to control the impulse while she blinked at him.

  "You'll curb that temper with me, my lad, or I'll curb it for you, understand? I've had some considerable experience with hotheaded bantlings." He paused, his eyes glinting at her. Then he said abruptly, "You know aught about sheep?"

  "What's to know about sheep?" Her response was surly, but she remained seated.

  "Answer the question!"

  Caitlyn's eyes narrowed. "I love the little beggars like they was kin." It was a lie, and a brazen one at that. The closest shed ever been to a sheep was to sleep in a barn with one once. But his arrogance deserved a lie.

  "Think you can cut peat and muck out a stall?"

  "Depends on why it needs doing."

  He chose to ignore her insolence. "I've got a sheep farm in County Meath. I can use another lad about the place, if he's willing to work hard and behave himself. Of course, I was picturing someone a little meatier, stronger…"

  "I'm strong as an ox, I am!"

  "Three hot meals a day, a bed in the barn, lots of fresh air, and hard work is what I'm offering. Unless I'm mistaken, it's more than you have here."

  "You offerin' me a job? Why? I just prigged your purse-almost." Honesty forced her to add that last, while suspicion shone out of her eyes as she looked at him. His expression was unreadable.

  "Because I used to know a lad who was a lot like you. A hotheaded, ready-for-anything gamecock. I had a fondness for him."

  The look he gave her seemed honest enough. But she had seen a lot of honest looks in her time, and most of them came from the biggest liars around.

  "I'm no' interested."

  He shrugged, standing up. "Suit yourself. I'll be at the Brazen Head in Lower Bridge Street. I'm leaving at first light tomorrow. If you want honest employment and a safe berth, be there. If not, good luck to you."

  He laid some coins for the meal on the table, nodded at her, and walked out of the pub. Caitlyn chewed her lip as she watched him go. A job-he was offering her a job? She'd never had a job as such before. And, he'd said, a safe berth. A loud burst of laughter from the bar distracted her from her thoughts. She was an Irishman in a bloody Sassenach pub, which was not at all a good thing to be.

  As she got to her feet her eyes chanced to fall on the table. Hesitating, she looked around to find herself unobserved. Then with a lightning movement she scooped the coins he had left from the table and into her pocket and swaggered out the door.

  III

  O'Malley! And here was I thinkin' you were hanged for certain sure!" Willie stood up to greet Caitlyn as she ducked into the tumbledown shanty that served as home to a fluid group of eight or so lads. Made by their own hands of discarded lumber and tin, it leaned against the back wall of the Royal Hospital. Dozens of such tiny structures had been erected along the stone walls of the building. They were regularly torn down by dragoons and just as regularly built up again by the residents. It was a way of life.

  "Ah, you know I've the luck of the Irish, Willie." Caitlyn basked in Willie's amazement at her escape as she crouched to warm herself at the tiny peat fire. The smoke the fire gave off was malodorous, but she scarcely noticed. From birth she had been exposed to the awful stink of Dublin's slums. Sewage ran raw in the gutters, at least in the Irish quarters. Garbage rotted in the streets, breeding enormous rats and cockroaches the size of fat mice. After a pair of hours spent in the Protestant sections of the city, Caitlyn felt even more keenly than usual what the interlopers were robbing them of. Protestant Dublin had wide streets, beautiful brick homes and shops, and a semblance at least of law and order. Catholic Dublin was menaced by roving gangs of beggars and thieves. The pinkindin- dies, as they were called, roamed about the mews after nightfall, slashing and robbing their victims, raping women in the streets, breaking into shops and homes almost at will. Homelessness, hunger, and brutality of the worst sort were part of daily life. Liffey fever was rampant. People died of it every day, their corpses dumped into the gutter with the sewage and garbage if they had no kin to arrange a burial for them. Surviving was the sole employment of thousands, and it made them as vicious as wild dogs.

  "Doyle and the others've gone to the pub for a dram. I didn't feel like going with 'em. I-I thought never to see you again, O'Malley."

  "Holy Mary, Willie, don't start blubberin' like a babe. You should've known a bloody Sassenach couldn't hold me.

  Willie gave a watery grin. "Aye, I should've known it. How'd you get away, O'Malley?"

  Caitlyn stood up, her hand going to her pocket where the Sassenach's money was tucked well down into the farthest corner. She'd meant to tell no one of her windfall. If word got out, the coins would be taken off her before she could say bloody England and her throat likely slit for their trouble. But Willie was her friend. When her mother had died in childbed, after having been turned off from her position as maidservant at Dublin Castle because she was increasing (through no fault of her own; she'd been forced by a drunken lord), young Willie, orphaned like Caitlyn, had been the first to stand her friend. Although he was younger than she, he'd been on the streets all his life and was wise in their ways. It was he who'd shown her the ropes. For a long time Caitlyn had been haunted by memories of her beloved mother, shamed and with nowhere to go but the streets, racked with coughing spells that had left her so pale and thin that the sunlight had almost shone through her except for the increasingly swollen mound of her belly. The end had come some eight years ago at the self-same Royal Hospital against which Caitlyn's shanty now leaned. Kate O'Malley had died in the charity ward, frightened and in pain, without so much as a pillow on which to rest her head. Caitlyn, with her until the end, had been left with her mother's blessing and naught else. It was while she lay dying that Kate O'Malley had insisted that her daughter begin to dress as a lad to protect her from th
e predators that were men. Caitlyn, with a horror of suffering her mother's fate, had not resisted, and by the time she had met Willie sheltering under a bridge she'd almost forgotten that she'd been born a lass. Willie and the others had no inkling of it.

  In those early weeks, Caitlyn had cried at night, frightened and missing her mother. Willie had comforted her then when the others had laughed, his thin young arm hugging the shoulders of the lad he'd thought her to be. Remembering, Caitlyn looked at Willie, who was the closest thing to family she possessed. Her mother's thin face seemed to float before her.

  "Take a chance, Caitie. 'Tis likely the only one you'll get." The words were as clear as if they'd actually been spoken. Caitlyn blinked, crossing herself reflexively. The vision had been so real, only Willie's tear-marked face convinced her that she'd imagined it. Earlier that day she'd come face to face with the evil eye, and now she was seeing banshees. It was unsettling.

  "Come, Willie, I Ve a wee surprise for you," she said, draping an arm around Willie's shoulder in an unusual gesture of affection and leading him from the shelter. "I've somethin' to talk over with you…"

  IV

  Caitlyn stood uneasily outside the Brazen Head in Lower Bridge Street the next morning. Only a few people were up and about, servants mostly, stoking up fires and seeing to animals. The day was dawning sluggishly, the sun seeming reluctant to poke its head through the floating curtain of gray mist. Rain threatened. The clouds overhead were so low that they looked ready to settle on the rooftops. The smell of dampness was in the air.

  A shaggy Connemara pony pulling a well-laden farm cart plodded around the corner and was pulled up at the hitching post not far from where she stood. The scrawny ostler shed seen earlier jumped down from the seat and walked stiff-legged to hitch the animal to the post. That done, he straightened and looked her over with glum disapproval.