Fortunate Son (31 page)

By four o'clock, James and Laura were riding again. As before, they were together on the one animal. Dinner, safety, guards, news, all were hours ahead. They passed the time thinking of a good Irish name for that Connemara horse—anything to eschew the thought, the mention, of Seán or the events at the track. They settled on Bhaldraithe, the blind woman's surname, and Laura half-laughed when James spelled it. It had come as no surprise to James when Mrs. Bhaldraithe had proffered the most detailed directions. She had even taken an iron poker and drawn a map on her dirt floor, explaining her cottage was a bit north of Kildangan, a few miles east of Monasterevian, almost to the River Barrow. Thus they “had done been sceedaglin' de wrong way, all considerin' their desired destinations.” That made sense, James reasoned, why Bailyn and his men had not found them. No, Bailyn would be well ahead of them by now. So they rode northeast, passing south of Cherryville sometime after five, and by early evening they were within sight of the hamlet of Kildare. James led Bhaldraithe off the road onto the back cattle trails, then stopped on a hilltop overlooking the stone buildings. Bailyn might be at the crossroads with constables or soldiers, ready to arrest him for trespassing or horse thievery, or worse. James urged the horse along until they were past the town, then doubled back.

“We'll go to the Blue Crow,” James whispered. “Let's see who's there.” He pulled on the reins when they reached Main Street, slowing the hooves to a cautious clop. Several people were walking there, a few on horseback. An occasional carriage passed. As they turned on a narrow street lined with shop signs, he spotted the inn. Neither spoke as they approached. James studied the front door, the front windows, the upper balcony. He saw no one. They stopped. He hopped off and helped Laura down.

“Stay here, please,” he began. “Let me see—”

“I know,” she said, her eyes wide, her fear conspicuously hidden.

He leaned forward and took her hand, kissing it. “Stay here. Be prepared to ride off—”

“I'm not leaving,” she whispered firmly. “I'll be right here.”

He shook his head, sighed through an embracing smile, then turned and walked into the Blue Crow. It was quiet inside. Only a few men were reposed in the tavern room. No guard, attorney or witness for his trial. They didn't appear to know him, and he didn't recognize them. He moved toward the back, to the other room on the ground floor, the room Mackercher used as an office. Two men were in there, smoking pipes, drams in hand: a thin, young Highland guard and one of Mackercher's solicitors. Behind them was Laura's thick-legged aunt.

“M'lord!” the solicitor exclaimed, standing at the sight of James. A perfunctory bow.

“Gentlemen. Madam Kristin,” James said, stepping forward.

“How is Laura?” the woman asked. Her Swedish accent eased like melted butter.

“She's all right,” James said, nodding at the door. “A bit shaken. If ye don't mind, ma'am, will ye go and fetch her? She's awaiting outside.”

“I was so worried. I'll go,” she said, slipping out.

The solicitor continued, “Thought you'd been arrested along with Mr. Mackercher.”

“Where are the others?” asked James.

“Left for Dublin, hours ago. Petitioning the court for a release.”

“Good.” James turned to the Highlander. “Ye were there today?”

“Aye, m'lord. I was with ya outside when—”

“Were ye? Ye escaped arrest?”

“Aye, m'lord. Blessings ya did as well.”

“Mr. Mackercher?” asked James. “Was he hurt?”

“Not hurt, best I could see. I was watching from the racing stalls.”

The solicitor rejoined, “I assure you, we'll have them released come morning.”

James squared the older man. “Where are they?”

“Newbridge, sir. At the garrison.”

“One was shot in the leg,” said James. “Is he with them?”

“Aye, sir.” The Highlander nodded. “Best I could see.”

James turned hearing people enter. Laura came quickly to stand near him. He put a hand on the middle of her back and pulled her close. “Everything is fine enough,” he softly said.

Madam Kristin was beaming. “I'm so very glad ya're both well.”

“Thank ya.” Laura smiled. “For waiting here, Auntie.”

“Of course my dear,” replied the grey-haired woman. “Shall I have tea brought in?”

James nodded, then returned to the young guard. “Tell me, did ye see Captain Bailyn?”

“Only heard ye speak of him. If I saw him, I wouldn't know it.”

“He's short. Skinny face. Red infantry hat.”

The solicitor smirked. “Aye. He came through here an hour ago or so.” Then he said to the Highlander, “He was that ugly one.” He scratched under his wig, then looked at James. “He came in, looked around, and walked out. Said nothing. Has the most dead eyes I've ever seen.”

“I didn't see him,” continued the guard.

James inhaled, then let it go. He saw Laura close her eyes. He sniffed, then looked at the floor. “Probably kicking himself for not shooting me today.”

“But we heard ya shot one of them, m'lord,” the guard said. “A constable at that.”

“What?”

“Ya shot him dead, ya did. Right? With a bussy?”

“Dead?” James felt his gut kicked in.
Not Seán!
“Who said that?” he snapped.

“A man that'd been wagerin' there.

“Don't repeat such,” barked the lawyer. “Mr. Annesley shot no one. He—”

“The man shot,” James stared, “was he my age? My height?”

The guard shrugged, then saw James's deep frown. “Sorry, m'lord.”

The older man was still glaring on the younger. “We can't have rumors such as that. If you hear it again, you say it was Captain Bailyn that did the killing. You understand?”

“Probably was Bailyn,” James added softly.

The guard nodded, then tried, “Wish it'd been Bailyn, instead, I mean, that was killed.”

“Aye,” James growled, turning. He bit his bottom lip, then let it go. “Soon he will be.”

A servant woman entered carrying a tray of teacups and saucers, Madam Kristin close behind. Everyone took a cup, pouring their tea into their saucers and starting to sip. James took one sip then set his down and leaned near Laura. “I must go find Seán.”

She inhaled. “Why you?”

“They don't know him. If he's hurt, or worse, I'll need to bring him back.”

“He's alive,” offered Laura, forcing a small smile. “I believe he is.”

“We can only hope.” He picked up his hat and popped it straight.

Laura pressed, “Why don't ya vait till Mr. Mackercher's men arrive tomorrow?”

“Because it may be too late.”

“Then take these men here. Please, James. Take them with ya.”

“Nay, Laura.” He raised his voice to be certain the other two heard. “These gentlemen will stay here and protect ye and Madam Kristin.” He turned, giving them a determined look.

“Aye, yar lordship,” they replied in near-unison. The younger added, “With our lives.”

James gave Laura a quick kiss on the forehead. “I'll be back late tonight or in the morning.” Her tears were welling. “I will,
Acushla
,” he promised, squeezing her hand. Again, he kissed her forehead, as if not knowing what else to do. Then he stood straight, pulled his hat on firmly, winked at her nervously, and turned, walking quickly through the open door. He kept his face forward and firm, belying nothing of the knots contorting within him. Within seconds he was on Bhaldraithe, galloping away

But he didn't turn to the south, toward the Curragh. Rather he slowed two blocks up and surveyed around. No sign of Bailyn. He turned up a muddy alley—the Huntsman Inn just ahead. He was tired of running, hiding, playing the fool. Richard had done his damage, certainly, but the Dublin trial would right that, would settle that score. But Bailyn had killed his father, then Juggy and Higgins. And now Seán. James touched the dirk's sheath against his leg. It was there. He felt his rapier hilt. It was a good one. Sufficient for the task. A pistol. He had one, but it was not loaded. Perhaps he should load it. He gave the horse a slight nudge. He could not face burying Seán without knowing Bailyn was dead. Now he approached the Huntsman. The street was nearly empty, the inn quiet, its paned windows dark. He dismounted and tied off the reins. Then stepped up the porch. The heavy door creaked wide. Inside he slowed, his eyes adjusting to the lack of candles. The evening light glowed faintly on everything, yet illuminated nothing, giving the parlor a deep bluish haze.

“James Annesley. Ye're late, I must say.”

“Damn ye,” James growled, his eyes focusing. The man was alone at a table near the side wall. No one else was around. The whole inn seemed eerily empty. Except for Bailyn.

“I sent them away,” said Bailyn, sneering.

James stepped closer, dropping his hand to the hilt. “Who?”

“Ah, ye know, James. Yer other lawyers. Everyone.”

“Did ye arrest them as well?” James slipped his coat off and laid it aside.

“Who? Them? Nay, just turned ‘em out.”

“Turned them out? On whose authority?” Now he was unbuttoning his waistcoat.

“Oh, a friend of a friend of Lord Anglesea owns this old place. Ye know how it is.”

“Nay,” said James, “I don't know how it is.”

Captain Bailyn smirked, then shrugged, saying, “Sure ye do.”

“And Mackercher?” James pushed his sleeves up as he came to the edge of Bailyn's table. “Where's he?”

“That mongrel Scot?” he muttered. “He's just like his Scot farts: raisin' a stink all ‘round, then won't go back where he came from.” He reached for his tankard. “I should've shagged his sister when—”

James slapped the cup from Bailyn's hand, sending it rattling against the wall, its contents splashing to the floor. “I'll stand for no more of yer mouth, yer vile affronts.”

Bailyn was quiet for a moment, expressionless, a fixed stare straight ahead. “Yer lawyer was arrested, as ye no doubt know, with that whole lot of Jacobites. Yer alone, or didn't ye know?” He turned, glaring up. “And yer poor friend. I reckon ‘bout now the crows are havin' an eyeball feast.”

Fire roared over James. He surged, grabbing Bailyn by the collar, lifted him into the air, then threw him away from the table. Bailyn smashed a chair, splintering it to pieces, and slid six feet before coming to a stop.

Recovering quickly, he stood and drew his rapier. “So, lad, ye're ready to die now are ye?” he snarled, wiping blood from a cut on his forehead, smearing red across his eyebrows.

“Ye've killed yer last.” James pointed at the man. “‘Tis yer turn now.”

“We'll see.”

James continued. “I know why ye want to kill me. ‘Tisn't just Richard that drives ye mad. ‘Tis cause ye know I'm right. Ye know I'm the Earl. That ye're in bed with the devil. And ye know that when I come into my title, ye'll have nowhere to hide. Ye'll be hanged for murder the very day.”

“Keep mouthin' yer last words.” Bailyn removed his coat, shifting the rapier between his hands as he did. “Better make ‘em count for something.”

James circled him, keeping an eye on the man's weapon. “What'd ye think? Thought ye'd whack my head again? Ye think I'm still a boy, do ye? Ye're an arse. Look, now ‘tis your head that's bleeding.” He smirked, then finally pulled his rapier. Then with his left hand came the dirk. “Ye recognize this?”

For a moment, Bailyn forgot himself and frowned at the weapon.

James flicked it, as if summoning Bailyn closer. “Let me show ye what's written on it.”

“Ye gonna fuck with me all eve? Ye won't do anything ‘cept shit yer britches. Ye're a milk coward. Ye'll run, just like yer wee da did. Ye'll be out in the mud dead, just like him. What are ye waitin' for?”

James stepped closer. “Just deciding the best way to kill ye.”

“Shame yer whore's not here to watch ye die.” They continued to move.

Though clearly fomented, James held it in. “Trying to provoke me?”

“I can see it's eatin' at ye.”

“Nah, yer guile means nothing t'me. ‘Tis yer time to die. And I think ye know it.”

“Then what are ye waitin' for?” Suddenly Bailyn hurled himself forward, lunging. James jumped clear, a first twinge of fear jolting through him. Again they faced each other, blade tips neck high, eyes locked, feet stepping sideways, shoving chairs from their paths, moving in a slow circle, tracing that most ancient of dances. Seeing an opening, James thrust hard, but Bailyn parried with a bellguard clang of steel, then reposted swiftly. James recoiled as the other sword flashed by, slicing a large swath through his waistcoat. Grasping both blades in one hand, he jerked the garment off and flung it away.

They recovered their stances, both sweating in the dim, sultry room. James studied Bailyn's movements looking for a tell, anything that might betray the next lunge, the next thrust. Bailyn's right foot shot forward then down as he took a much longer step and lunged. James responded with a parry, then a repost that missed its mark. They disengaged, then rushed forward at the same time, their bellguards bashing together, both rapier tips gliding past their targets. James tried to stab with the dirk, but only slammed an elbow into Bailyn's nose, all before Bailyn could get his blade around. The man's upper lip turned red as blood flowed from his nose, and his eyes grew wide and wet. Another thrust, followed by another parry, then a riposte and more chairs crashed over, both men grunting, breathing hard. James retreated slightly, searching for a chance to rebut. Suddenly a glancing slash sliced cloth and flesh across his chest. He staggered, his wig falling off, then quickly regained his stance, his long blade up. He shoved another table with his hip, then saw Bailyn had a dagger drawn—that is what had cut him. He scolded himself for not seeing the weapon come out. Warm blood ran down his belly, soaking the white shirt. The pain came sharp, but caused his mind to narrow into a single focus. Bailyn grinned, his left hand up, palming the dagger, his thumb and finger two inches apart. “Just that close, Jemmy-boy.” He pointed. “Next time, ‘twill be yer heart.”