Fortunate Son (9 page)

“He is, m'lady.”

Mary moved her arms around Charity's waist. “Kiss me. Then I must go.” Charity hesitated, then kissed Mary's cheek. Charity smiled as they pulled back, each wiping the tears from the other's face. “I shall miss you,” Mary said. The bells of St. Patrick's Cathedral rang the hour. “As you are remaining, I have a final request of you.”

“As you wish, m'lady.”

“See that this gets to Jamie.” Mary placed her hand on the small chest. “I intended to give it to him.” Her voice drifted away. “At my father's house.”

“Be assured,” Charity said, smiling, “I'll deliver it next I see him.”

“To him directly. To Jamie. No one else.”

“I will.”

“My sweet Charity.” Mary embraced her. “I'm sorry I ever mistrusted you.”

Charity whispered over Mary's shoulder, “I am sorry as well.”

The morning sun's long reaching fingers slipped through the planks of the stable's eastern wall, gliding across the mare's back, across Fynn's face, then down to the dusty floor where they ignited in pools of light. Fynn had woken early that day, tied his hair tight with a brown velvet ribbon, put on his most presentable waist coat, and ridden directly to Mary's house where he anticipated finding her with Seámus. Instead, that morning he had been greeted in the foyer by a bitter tempered Charity standing imperiously in a yellow evening gown. She told him Seámus had disappeared and that Mary had left for England without the boy. Other than that she knew nothing, could be of no further assistance, and asked him to leave. He had then ridden to the stables on Chequer Lane where he was working that week. On the way, he mulled the confusion of facts, the flurry of unknowns. What Charity said fit Seán's account—he too had not found Seámus last night, having given up in the storm. He cursed himself for not going to Christ Church, for having sent Seán instead. He should have gone to Mary directly. Why had he not? She would have received him. This time, he was certain, she would have. Why had he hesitated till morning? When Fynn arrived at the stables, he found he was the first there and was glad for it. He stood awhile in silent slivers of sunlight, a daze of memories and loss. But not sadness—an emptiness beyond depression, a weight that defies all melancholy.

Finally, he started moving, hanging his waistcoat on an iron peg and re-tying his hair. Then he gathered his pick-hammer and cutters, a few shoes and a bag of nails, and prepared to shoe a highbred mare that had been brought in the day before. After looking the horse over, he touched her gently along her back and legs, sending a shiver across her withers. He chose the rear left hoof and straddled it, pulling it up. The horse sidestepped away from him. “Hold still hussy!” he bellowed, grabbing the leg. The horse stamped down, nearly stepping on him. “Nay! Stop it,” he said, hitting its rump with the side of his fist. He walked to the front of the mare, staring her in the eyes. “Ye want t' dance? Do ye?” He grabbed the halter firmly. “I haven't the mind for yer antics. Not today. Settle down.”

The crunch of footsteps on gravel grew louder behind him. He turned to see Seán and Mackercher entering through the giant stable doors. Seán was downcast, holding a cloak in his hands. Mackercher followed, giving Fynn a nod. As Seán came directly to Fynn, Fynn focused on the torn green cloak. He immediately recognized it and took it from Seán. A large russet spot was visible, with holes in the middle of the stain.

“‘Tis Jemmy's, Da.”

“Where did ye find it?” Fynn asked, still studying it.

Mackercher stepped forward. “‘Twas left on the rail in front of the shop.”

“What's it mean Da?” Seán's voice trembled as he stared into his father's eyes, looking for an answer, an understanding, anything.

“I don't know.” Fynn shook his head.

“Is Jemmy dead?”

“Nay son!” He studied Seán's face. “Seámus is fine.”

“That dog, Richard,” Mackercher began, softly, “He's trying to scare ya, Seán. Wants ya to think some injury has come to Master James. That is all.”

“I know,” Seán said, trying to sound brave as his large boyish eyes filled with tears.

“When last ye saw Seámus in it?” asked Fynn, his voice thick as he rolled the fabric between his rough fingers, feeling the texture, examining the holes, reasoning with the dried blood, as if it might talk to him, might tell him something.

“He can't be dead, Da. He can't!”

“When last ye saw him?”

“Yesterday, when I told him about his mum's plan. He was wearing it then. He was.”

Fynn held up the stained part. “And this? Was this there?”

Seán sniffed, his cheeks streaked with tears. “Nay, Da. ‘Twasn't. I didn't see it.”

“Last night, where'd ye say ye went t' find him?”

“Copper Alley. T'was where—”

“Ye did fine,” Fynn began. He studied the blood, sniffing it. “This is older than that.”

Seán's face flushed. “I tried, Da!” he sobbed. “But then it started raining and….”

Fynn squeezed his son tightly to his side and slowly nodded. How could Seámus be dead? What monster could kill such a boy? His temples tightened. His mind locked.

The sun was already warming the thick air of the between-deck, and Jemmy could feel the heat rising. Blessedly, his swollen ankle remained numb so long as he didn't move it. But his head was rippling with intense pain and holding it motionless didn't help. He had tried rubbing it, pressing it against the post, but the pounding would not leave. As the morning wore on with no food or fresh air, still shackled under the low ceiling with the one-eyed man still rambling and drooling, the pain had only worsened. He was sure his head was about to crack in two. At least the headache had made him forget the pain from the graze across his side, which was open and bleeding again. He felt the warm blood soaking his filthy shirt, wondering how much blood he could lose before he would die. Suddenly, a flash of Juggy's pale face rushed over him—she was falling to the wet dirt, lying dead in the street. He slammed his ankle against a crate and howled at the produced pain, letting it mix with his cleaving headache, welcoming the diversion, willing to take any pain. Anything to keep her dead eyes away.

“Name's John…John MacCullough,” announced the old man, interrupting himself. He had been murmuring for hours about odd things mixed with vile fits against everything English. “What's yers?”

Jemmy glanced at him, unsure about answering, then said, “Master James Annesley.”

“Aye? Master Jim?” The man's good eye rocked toward Jemmy. “Yer a young lord, are ye? M'lord!” he chortled. “
Tiarna Óige
!
Tiarna Óige
indeed!”

“Shut yer gob,” Jemmy breathed. He had not been called
Tiarna Óige
, or “Young Lord,” since Dunmain, where the local Catholic boys had teased him. He wished Seán was there to pummel this old man, as he had helped Jemmy do to some of those boys. No, Seán would think this was all funny.

“Ach, m'lord! Where be me breedin'? Can I get ye anything? Perhaps yer stinkin' arse wiped with me sleeve?” The laughter reverberated against the low beams.

Jemmy's chin fell. He wanted to relieve himself. To eat. To just sleep. “Leave me be, ye old stinkin' cur,” he whispered.

The man became quiet for a moment, then started a bit calmer, “Ye're a little thievin' Irish lad, aren't ye? ‘Tis nothin' t' be ashamed of, Master Jim.”

“Good sir. Please leave me be,” Jemmy pleaded, sighing deeply.

“Good sir? Me?” The decrepit cackling resumed. “Good sir!” he hooted.

“I don't know, Daniel.” Fynn shook his head with resignation. “I just don't know.” They were standing at the entrance of the stables. Fynn was brushing one of the Scot's horses while Mackercher held the reins. Jemmy's blood-soaked cloak was in Mackercher's other hand. Seán was sitting on a stool, staring out. “Richard wants us to think the lad's dead. That's all we know.” The horse snorted softly, and Fynn scratched its large grey jaw.

Mackercher watched and said nothing for a while. He liked Fynn and though he had come to know him the past day, and through all of Joan's letters, he had never realized the depth of Fynn's affection for James Annesley, Seámus, the young nobleman now missing, possibly dead. He handed the cloak back to Fynn. “My friend,” he walked behind the horse, gliding a hand over its rump, “we've both loved the same woman. Now,” he grumbled, “we both hate the same man.”

“'Tis true,” muttered Fynn. He slumped against the animal, his face turned away.

Mackercher continued, “Ya're a good man, Fynn Kennedy. I'd count ya as a brother.” He put a hand on Fynn's back. “But my sister's buried. And I'm held from bringing justice to Richard. And without Master James for a trial—”

“Ye may as well return to Scotland,” Fynn finished the thought. He turned and faced Mackercher. As always, seeing Joan's warm eyes in her brother's face pained him, drawing him yet pushing him away. But this time he held his gaze. It was like seeing from a distance the flicker of a welcoming candle from his own house, only to come closer and realize the roof was on fire. Why not just let this man kill Richard? Because of the million reasons not to, he could not let his mind wallow through it again. He walked to the smithing table and pulled the dirk from behind a box of nails, then turned and handed it to the big Scotsman. “Take this. I don't want it.”

Mackercher unsheathed the dirk. “
Léargas sa Dorchadas
.”

Seán turned at this and was now watching the men intently. Fynn nodded. “Joan gave it to Seámus. Said it was yer father's.”

“Sight in the Dark,” Mackercher read the inscription. “Been years since I held this.”

As much as Fynn hated the damned thing, he knew it needed to be given to Mackercher, not buried, not destroyed. Joan had said the knife was a Mackercher heirloom—her great-grandfather was given it by a Scottish knight, Sir Alexander Dallas, whom the elder Mackercher had saved in an Aberfoyle battle. Dallas claimed the dirk had been Robert the Bruce's and used at the battle of Bannockburn. Yet now, its lineage meant nothing. Not to him. He loathed it for whom it last killed. He resumed brushing the horse, which leaned into Fynn slightly, no doubt enjoying the extra attention. Fynn hoped he would never see the dirk again, it only made him remember the horrifying image—the bloody hilt protruding from Joan's chest.

“When I see Master James,” Mackercher said assuredly, “I'll return it to him.” Fynn glanced at Mackercher, wondering at his optimism. “Aye. I will meet the lad someday.”

“I'm glad ye think so.”

“I do indeed.”

“Seámus is a son to me, and…” Fynn stopped.

“I know,” whispered Mackercher.

Fynn looked at the light streaming in from the open stable doors, then raised a hand, as if holding a glass, and closed his eyes. “May the road rise to meet ye, Seámus. May the wind be always at yer back. May the sun shine warm upon yer face…” He stopped momentarily, bowing his head. The tears were coming again and he swallowed hard. He sniffed, then raised his gaze once more. “And the rain fall soft upon yer fields. And until we meet again, may God hold ye in the hollow of His mighty hand.” His chin was quivering, his fists clenched.

Mackercher embraced him. “‘Tis a good blessing. Mark my words, friend, we will
destroy Richard Annesley. We'll rip his goddamned heart out.”

Fynn patted Mackercher's shoulder and slowly closed his eyes. “We will indeed.”

Mackercher pulled back, but kept an iron grip on Fynn's arm. “Ya have my word. On my sister's grave, I swear it!”

Fynn knew Mackercher meant every word.

The empty day crept along, and the between-deck became crowded. Crewmen were loading crates, trunks, and large wooden boxes on board. One of them had heeded Jemmy's pleas, unshackling him to let him relieve himself through a porthole. Then he was quickly rechained to the same post. The threadbare man was still rambling and festering but had turned his attacks on the crewmen who slumped into the tight area. They seemed to detest the old creature as much as Jemmy did. Soon Jemmy heard people coming aboard, the clatter of their feet echoing through two layers of thick floors. He looked up, staring at the sounds, studying them, searching through them for her voice. Surely she was onboard by now. He envisioned how it would be—he would yell for her—she would have a crewman bring her down—she would have him unchained—he would be free—the nightmare would end—he would hold her, and she him, and they would never let go. Once more sailors clambered down, hauling more crates, shoving them into the hold, smashing them against Jemmy. He could not see the old man now. Couldn't hear him either as the ship was beginning to rock against the wind, swaying, creaking in protest. Just then, one of the trunks caught his eye. It looked familiar, dark blue with brass riveting—his mother had a trunk like that.

“Dead-eye!” Jemmy called out. “Ye still over there?”

“Name's John.” The shaky voice emanated from the other side of the crates.

“Ye see that blue trunk near ye?”

“Aye, yer high holy lordship. What of it?”

“Anything on its front?” He heard the man's chains rattling. “Perhaps a letter?”

“Aye, Master Jim, I can see it. ‘Tis the letter
B
. Hard t' see. But aye, ‘tis a
B
.”

Mother's up there!
His heart began a hammering pound. “Mother!” he shouted. “Mother! Motherrr!”

“What in God's name!” screeched the old man.

Jemmy ignored him and kept screaming as loud as he could. “Lady Mary Sheffield! Motherrr!” He stopped to listen. Surely she would hear him.