Rory
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Ruth Langan
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Prologue
Ireland, 1560
The chapel at Ballinarin, the ancestral home of the clan O’Neil, was filled to overflowing with family and friends who had come from as far as Malahide Castle in Dublin, and Bunratty Castle in Clare. The mood was festive as they prepared to witness the union of Rory O’Neil, eldest son of Gavin and Moira, and his beloved Caitlin Maguire.
In a small room at the back of the chapel Rory paced while his brother, Conor, stood by the door and watched as the last of the guests filed into pews.
“What’s keeping her?” Rory paused. Sunlight speared through a high window, turning his dark hair blue-black. He was resplendent in black breeches and shirt, with his cloak bearing the O’Neil crest tossed rakishly over his shoulder.
“You needn’t worry that she’s changed her mind, Rory. The lass has loved you since she was old enough to know her own mind. Just be patient.”
“Damn your patience.”
Conor grinned. “Aye, that was never one of your virtues, Rory. But give the lass time to make herself beautiful for her husband.”
“Nothing could make Caitlin more beautiful than she already is. And why should I be patient? I’ve waited a lifetime for this day.”
“Aye. It seems like you’ve been in love with her forever.”
“Since I was ten and two.” He flashed the smile that had caused maidens from Derry to Cork to dream of snagging his attention. But Rory O’Neil had eyes for only one maiden. “I was born for her alone. I tell you, Conor, this day my life will be complete.” He lowered his voice. “Did I tell you that I slipped over to see her last night? I told her I couldn’t wait until today. I wanted to lie with her.”
Conor threw back his head and roared. “Don’t let Friar Malone hear of this.”
“It wouldn’t matter. She refused. She said she wanted to wait for her wedding night. It was to be her special gift to her husband.” He grinned. “Husband. I like the sound of that.”
“And with all this love stored up, I’m sure your wedding night will be one to remember.”
Both brothers turned as the door was thrust in and a slender lass in a gown of pink gossamer hurried inside.
“I was afraid I’d be too late.”
“Too late for what, Briana?” Rory couldn’t help grinning at the sight of his little sister. Her waist-length hair, the color of flame, was wind-tossed. Her cheeks were bright with color. From the sound of her breathing, he could tell she’d just run the entire distance from the keep to the chapel. All her young life she’d been running to keep up with her two older brothers.
“Too late to kiss my brother before he left me for good.”
“You talk as though I’m going away. Caitlin and I will be living right here on the grounds of Ballinarin.”
“Aye. But you’ll be a husband.” She dimpled, and the two brothers knew she’d overheard at least some of their conversation. But it would go no further. Briana could always be counted on to keep a secret. “And in no time, seeing the way you two look at each other, you’ll be a father as well. And you’ll have no time for a sister.”
Rory drew her close and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I’ll always have time for you, Briana. And you can come over every day and help Caitlin with the wee ones.”
“Just how many are you planning to have?”
“At least a dozen. All the lads will be handsome like their father, and all the lasses will have dark hair like their mother, and skin as fair as the crystal water in the River Shannon, and so beautiful that I’ll have to lock them up to keep the local lads from stealing them all away.”
Conor and Briana burst into gales of laughter.
“That’s what I like about you, Rory. When you dream,” his brother said with a laugh, “they’re always such grand dreams. Let’s just hope it isn’t the other way around. After all, your sons could be small and delicate like their mother, and your daughters could all be giants like you.”
“Not a chance. They’ll.” He paused at the sound of a commotion in the chapel and gave a smile of relief. “Finally. I was beginning to think—” At the sudden chorus of shouting voices his smile dissolved.
He hurried from the room, followed by his brother and sister.
A lad of six or seven, clothes torn and bloodied, stood gesturing wildly. “English soldiers. More than a dozen of them.”
Rory’s heart nearly stopped as he shouldered his way through the guests. He recognized the lad as a son of Caitlin’s eldest brother. He knelt down, caught him by the shoulders. “Where are the others, Innis?”
“By the bend in the road.” The boy’s eyes were wide with pain and shock. “My da fell on top of me, pinning me to the ground. All I could do was watch. They’re all dead, Rory.”
“No!” Rory’s voice echoed through the chapel as he released the boy and jumped to his feet, pushing and shoving through the stunned crowd.
Outside he grasped the reins of the first horse he spotted and leapt onto its back, urging it into a gallop. He could hear the sounds of other horses following behind, but he never looked back.
He followed the bog road until he came to the bend. Even before he got there, he could hear the strange, eerie silence. No birds sang. No creatures moved. It was as though the entire land was holding its breath.
And then he saw them. The mass of bodies. Animal as well as human. The ground ran red with their blood. The horses had died where they’d fallen, with lances through the neck or heart. The men had fought a fierce battle. Many lay, face up, still holding their swords. But the worst savagery had been inflicted upon the women.
Rory saw the flutter of white. Caitlin’s bridal gown.
It was the only way he could identify her. He picked his way through the carnage and knelt beside her. The gown had been cut away, except for one sleeve that still clung to her wrist. From the marks on her body he could see that she’d been brutalized before her throat had been cut so violently her head had nearly been severed from her body.
With a cry of pain and rage he gathered her against him and buried his face in her bloody hair. His body shook with great, wrenching sobs that spoke of a heart shattered beyond repair.
“Rory. God in heaven, Rory.” Conor was the first to find him. He could do no more than weep as he stood, watching his brother silently rage against the horror of it.
As the others arrived, Gavin O’Neil strode through the carnage to stand over his firstborn son. His voice shook with raw emotion. “The lad, Innis, says the leader was called Tilden by the others. Tall, brawny, with yellow hair and a face disfigured by a scar that ran from his left eye to his jaw. ‘Twill not be an easy face to hide.”
“I’ll find him.” Rory unfastened his cloak and used it to cover Caitlin’s nakedness. He staggered to his feet, cradling the broken body of the woman who had been his reason for living. This night she would have lain in his arms, in their bed. Instead she would lie forever in the cold, hard earth. He looked up to stare at his family and friends. All were weeping uncontrollably.
His own tears had dried. His eyes, hard as stone, stared beyond the bloodstained ground. “I give you my word. I’ll not rest until I find the English bastard who did this.”
His father laid a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll fetch a wagon to take her and the others to be buried.”
Rory shook off the hand. “No one will touch Caitlin. I’ll carry her. It’s all I can give her now.”
It was a somber, silent procession that made its way back to the chapel. The guests in their wedding finery were a sharp contrast to the bloody bodies being hauled in hay wagons. At the head of the column walked Rory O’Neil, his tunic and breeches clotted with blood. The body in his arms was completely covered with his cloak, except for a spill of raven hair matted with blood and grass.
At the chapel he continued to stand and hold Caitlin cradled to his chest as a hole was dug and Friar Malone began the words that would consign the body to holy ground.
For hours, while the holes were dug and the bodies buried, Rory continued to kneel silently at the mound of earth that covered his beloved. And when the last body had been disposed of, he looked around the grave site, then fixed his gaze on the distance.
As his family gathered around, he embraced his mother and father, and kissed his sister’s cheek.
Briana’s cries became great, wracking sobs that shook her slender frame. “You musn’t go, Rory. Please, don’t go. If you do, I’ll never see you again.”
“Hush now.” He held her close for a moment, whispering against her forehead, “I’ll return. Trust me.”
Conor clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Will you let me come with you?”
Rory gave a firm shake of his head. “It’s something I must do alone. You’ll be needed here.” He turned to his mother, who stood behind Innis, her arms wrapped around his thin shoulders. “You’ll see to the lad?”
She nodded. “He’ll be a son to me, until my own returns.”
Rory strapped on a sword and tucked a knife at his waist and in his boot.
His father removed his own cloak, which bore the O’Neil crest, and wrapped it around his son’s shoulders. Lifting his hand in benediction he said, “May God ride with you, Rory, and bring you home to those who love you.”
Without a word, Rory pulled himself onto the back of his horse. He turned for one last look at Ballinarin. In the distance Croagh Patrick stood guard over the land. The mountain changed color so rapidly it was never the same. Earlier, it had been a harsh gray-green in the misty rain. Now it had softened to a peach hue in the warmth of the fading sun. Its sides were cloaked with stunted, twisted shrubs and trees and at the base, tall conifers and clumps of rhododendron. Waterfalls tossed themselves over the side, spilling down until they reached the river. Torn shreds of clouds drifted overhead. This lonely, savage piece of land held his heart. It was the only place he’d ever wanted to be. But now, the deceptively gentle scene mocked him. Because of the. violence that had occurred here, he would begin an odyssey. An odyssey that could take him far away for years, or even a lifetime, until this thing was finished.
