Чтение онлайн

“She may be Mary Magdalene, herself. On Tyrone land, we will bloody well protect all women from English abuse.”

Hugh O’Neill touched his gold spurs to Boru’s sides once more. The stallion charged.

O’Toole yielded ground, wheeling his horse around full circle. With deep regret, he unsheathed his sword and followed, hard on the young earl of Tyrone’s heels, down the cliffside, to the flooded bridge crossing the Abhainn Mor.

Morgana Fitzgerald drove one strong knee into the groin of the soldier attacking her. By the time his womanish howl split the drenched air, she had her blade in hand. With well-practiced efficiency, she slashed the dagger across his throat. He fell to his knees, clutching his throat and his cods, his scream now a dying gurgle.

Morgana bounded to her feet, balanced and ready. She was winded from the fall from her horse, but not terrified, as Kelly wanted her to be. The cut man’s death rattle proved that English soldiers were not made of the steel Lord Deputy Sidney, the governor of Ireland, and his cruel and bloodthirsty adjutant, James Kelly, would have all Ireland believe they were.

She regretted her one reflexive scream, which might have made these soldiers think she were frightened. She knew from experience to act as though she were the one in control. To do anything less would give away her only chance to keep the upper hand.

Unfortunately, she had screamed. Any woman would, when being rudely and deliberately tumbled her off her horse.

Morgana Fitzgerald didn’t have the luxury of pretending she was any woman. If that were the case, Sidney’s soldiers wouldn’t be following her. The second soldier stalked her as she circled the fallen man, edging her way to the bridge.

When she tried to run for it, he darted in front of her, blocking her path. Her knife was no match for the sword in his hand. He feinted at her with it, driving her back as the rest of the English arrived. James Kelly laughed as he dismounted.

In two heartbeats, four men surrounded Morgana, boxing her in, the river at her back. Morgana made a quick search of their crude circle, reading their true purpose in their eyes. Cold-blooded and deadly Geraldine anger calmed and fueled her now. She’d not be raped by a pack of English whoresons without killing two or three of them first.

The one with the drawn sword danced slightly away from the bridge, opening a wider gap in the circle, as he sheathed his weapon. He eyed her nine inches of razor-sharp steel caustically. “Here, now, Lady Morgan, there’s no call for that. We only wanted a little sport.”

“You’ll not take it with me, cur,” Morgana fired back, maddened far beyond mere insult at their game of cat and mouse. These men all knew who she was and why Kelly was after her. They were lower than the scum beneath London sewer rats.

One of them was responsible for poisoning Morgana’s six-year-old brother Maurice. For that, she would gladly kill all five of them. She had arrived in Benburg innocently unaware of the trap that waited there for her. Kelly and his men had been swilling whiskey at the only inn in Benburg all afternoon, idly waiting for Morgana to arrive. The men she’d hired to protect her on her journey north had been slaughtered in a matter of minutes.

She had been so caught up in her secret negotiations with Bishop Moye she hadn’t noticed there was a traitor in her midst. She had also mistakenly thought that Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in Armagh had been untouched by the English order to seize and close all of Ireland’s churches. There was no sanctuary to be gained by fleeing to a church. She’d not make that mistake again, either. From here out, Morgana would trust no one, only herself.

The traitor in Morgana’s escort no longer mattered. The carriage yard at the Kittie Waicke Inn was littered with the bodies of every man Morgana had hired to protect her on her dangerous mission north to Dunluce. Their throats were slit as wide as the dying soldier at John Kelly’s feet.

Kelly bent to revive his man and drew back, appalled. “Sweet suffering Jesus,” he groaned, shocked so deeply he crossed himself. “The bitch has killed Rayburn!”

“You expected less of me, Kelly?” Morgana snarled. “You know perfectly well that anything you do to a Fitzgerald will come back to haunt you. Shall I repeat for these fools the curse Eleanor Fitzgerald laid on your head?”

Captain James Kelly’s mouth twisted cruelly as he straightened. “Save your witch’s curses, and your breath, Lady Morgan. You’ll come with us quietly now. No more of your games and escapades.”

A cold laugh slipped from Morgana’s throat as she brandished her blade. “Don’t count on it.”

“Ah, Morgan, Morgan, don’t tempt me to teach you the lesson I’ve got in mind. Lord Grey cares little about what condition you arrive in when I return you to Dublin.” Kelly wagged his exceedingly dark eyebrows, which stood out in stark contrast against his distinguished head of silver. “Fight me, Morgan O’Malley, and I’ll allow my men to take their pleasure of you, after I’ve taught you a woman’s proper submission to English authority. Now, give me that damned knife. Prove that you’ve had some upbringing, by bending your knee properly to me.”

“I’d kiss the devil’s arse first, you whoreson. We’re in Ulster now. I have it on good authority that the only law here is that enforced by the man called the O’Neill. Begone, John Kelly.”

“Nice try.” He sneered. “But wrong, very, very wrong. There is no man called the O’Neill these days, my dear.”

At Morgana’s look of suspicion, he continued, relishing taunting her in return for her stinging insults. “I personally saw to the destruction of Shane O’Neill several years back. Believe me, clan O’Neill rues the day James Kelly came home to Ireland for good.”

“No.” Morgana shook her head, refusing to believe him.

“Why, my dear Morgan, who do you think it was that severed Shane O’Neill’s head from his body? Or presented it to Lord Grey to display on a stake outside Dublin’s castle walls?”

“Truly—” Morgana shuddered “—I have no interest in knowing the answer to that question.”

“Ah…” Kelly sighed elaborately. “So you would profess no interest in politics beyond the Pale, hmm? But we both know differently, don’t we? I’m the only man alive with the balls to confront an O’Neill. Just as I’m the one who will bring you to heel.” His head twisted on bull-like shoulders, and his eyes beaded inside narrowed lids.

He spun around so quickly for such a big and heavy man that Morgana failed to see the blow coming. His fist struck her in the face, knocking her to the ground. Her head reeled with a vile explosion of pain. Blood filled her nose and mouth.

While she was down, Kelly stamped his left boot at her right arm, trying to kick her knife from her hand.

But she was faster than him, and trained well enough in hand-to-hand combat to wield a knife with either hand. He jumped clumsily back, not quick enough to avoid the cutting path of her blade. She cut his red coat to the hem and gouged a cut in his thigh before he stumbled out of her range. Morgana bounded back to her feet, dazed but in control of her knife.