Devil On My Shoulder

by Janet Mary Tomson

Genres: Sagas

Synopsis

As the English Civil War rages in 1642, a young Irish girl called Sorcha O'Neill is separated from her family at the siege of Carrickmain Castle. She fears the same fate as many of her compatriots: death at the hands of the English.

Salvation arrives in the unlikely form of Lieutenant Robert Hammond, who names the girl Dublin, the only word the wild, terrified girl will speak in English. Leading her from the battle to safety, Hammond decides to take Dublin to his family on the Isle of Wight for refuge.

As the two form an unlikely bond, the only certainty is that their lives will never be the same again.

Release date: April 11, 2013

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 416

Sample

Ireland

March 1642

‘Bless you, child, ’tis nothing to be feared of. You’ve had the sign, that’s all. ’Tis your springtime, your growing up.’

Sorcha O’Neill nodded doubtfully at her mother and tried to keep the disbelief from her eyes. That very morning, before daylight had penetrated the cracks in their hut where the rotting door met the splintered frame, she had turned in her bed and felt a strange dampness in the straw beneath her. For a terrible moment she thought: Dear Jesus, I’ve wet meself; then hearing the rain falling with such unrelenting force, she guessed that the cracks in the walls had widened again and water was flooding up and across the floor. The sight of the thin, brown blood on her fingers made her jolt with shock.

Sorcha lay still, her heartbeat whooshing in her head. She should not have washed her hair yesterday. Washing your hair on a Friday was a sin and now she was being punished. She closed her eyes and waited to see what would happen. There was no pain, only a dull ache at the base of her belly. Into the gloom she prayed: Holy Mary, mother of God, please don’t let me die in agony. Don’t let me go to hell. She wondered how long it would take to die.

When her father finally dragged himself from the couch and blundered off to scavenge dead fish and driftwood from the shores of the river, she confessed her terrible secret to her mother.

Dervla O’Neill gave the semblance of a laugh. ‘It means that you’re a woman now. The gods have given you the sign. Tomorrow we’ll light a fire and sprinkle the last of the salt onto it, and drip those few drops of honey into the flames. When the time comes we’ll ask the gods to guide you safe through the dangers of birthing.’ Dervla tilted her head to one side and pushed a dank strand of hair away from her furrowed cheek. Her skin had a dusty, parched quality and was the same colour as the coarse grey apron that covered her tattered skirt.

‘But don’t you be doing nothin’ foolish with the boys.’ She gave her daughter a warning look.

Sorcha shook her head. She dared not ask what sort of thing, guessing it had something to do with the ugly, dangly worm that hung between boys’ legs. At night sometimes, her father would climb over her mother and grunt and push at her. At such times, Sorcha froze in her narrow couch, hoping they would not suspect that she heard them. It was such a shameful ritual, dark and terrible. Then, her mother’s belly would always swell, and after the passing of three seasons, she would undergo the ordeal of birthing. Invariably this was followed by the brief presence of a brother or sister, drawing a few, sad, painful breaths, before being consigned back to the earth gods.

Looking out at the dreary March morning, her mother said: ‘Spring is the rebirth, the season of hope. You must always have faith.’

Sorcha believed in the power of the gods well enough, for hardly a day passed when she did not witness some new proof as to their power to give or to take away. Soon now, the mysteries would be revealed to her. But today, she felt so weary that the idea of hope and rebirth was impossible to sustain.

‘We’ll go to the Mass, too, say a prayer for you. If we can find a coin, we’ll light a candle. Now, go and fetch some water and clean yourself.’

Comforted by the prospect of having so many gods on her side, Sorcha took the pail and set out to fetch water from the ditch that skirted the end of the lane. Yesterday it had been little more than a shallow, smelly trickle. Today it was racing with glistening yellow-brown water.

The alley which ran between the two rows of tumbledown shacks was thick with mud. As she made her way down towards the ditch, slipping and sliding, mud squelched between her toes. She had draped an extra piece of sacking over her shoulders to keep the rain off, but it was too small to cover her head and her brown hair turned black as the long strands plastered across her face. Her thick eyelashes were soon heavy with water, giving her a strange, sparkly look. ‘You’ve eyes of true Celtic blue,’ her father sometimes said, when the drink was upon him.

As she dipped the pail into the tumbling water, Sorcha thought about what was happening inside of her, this sign from the gods that she was now a woman. She felt taut with a sense of expectation, that something momentous was bound to follow … yet when she considered the women about her, they offered little inspiration. All, like her mother, were drained, used up, old before their years. Whatever the secret of womanhood might be, it seemed to have by-passed these women of Dublin. In a moment of rebellion she thought: It’s not going to happen to me.

Back inside the hut she wiped herself clean with a piece of rag, then started to make a soup with some stinking fish her father had brought home the evening before. The scales had a strange, rainbow hue that belied the ugliness of the decaying flesh. Sorcha’s insides contracted with a mixture of nausea and hunger and she knew that however bad the smell, she would still eat the fish.

A moment later Kathy O’Connell from next door barged her way into the hut, a baby bouncing on her hip. ‘Bejasus, Dervla, we’re moving out; all of us. Your man’s on his way back. We’re going to fight the English.’

‘Where? I don’t …’

Kathy O’Connell shook her head impatiently. ‘Don’t be asking me. ‘Tis your man that knows all the answers. He says the English are coming to take the castle at Carrickmain. There’s been a call to arms. Everyone round here is going.’

‘But it’s miles away!’

‘Not so far, I think. Four miles straight.’

Sorcha drew back into the corner, afraid that Kathy might see her and stop. Already her pulse was racing with a mixture of excitement and fear.

Her mother asked: ‘But what are we going to do there?’

Even as she spoke, Ciaran O’Neill pushed his way past the woman in the doorway. He was breathing heavily, his own Celtic blue eyes bright with excitement. He answered for her. ‘Get your scarf, woman, there’s no time to be wasting. King Charlie’s boys are invading our shores. We won’t stop until the very last Englishman is dead.’

To Sorcha, who had never before left the confines of her native city, the journey to Carrickmain seemed long and fraught with danger. She had a heavy load to carry and the roads were rutted deep beneath the puddles. Soon the jagged stones cut into her feet and added to her general sense of unease.

All along the route there were signs to watch out for – a mangy dog with three legs, two crows in an oak. Only her mother could interpret what they meant, but she was saying nothing. Dervla’s mouth was drawn tight, and now and then she rested her hand in the small of her back as if to help herself along. As she glanced round to check that her daughter was following, the swell of her belly protruded against the greasy rag of her skirts. She was near her time.

‘Come along, child. We must get there before night.’

Sorcha’s father walked with the men. As she watched, Ciaran stopped in his tracks, waving his hands about. She knew that he was arguing some point of belief. Short, wiry of build, eyes aflame with zeal, he raised his voice loud so that all could hear. The enemy were coming to take their land and they must fight to the last man to rid Ireland of the cursed English. This was why they must fly to the defence of Carrickmain.

After a few hours they reached their destination. The castle stood guard on the road to Dun Laoghaire. Massive and forbidding, it looked out across the dense hills of Dalkey, Killeny and Ballybrack where patriots hid in the sheltering woods. It reminded Sorcha of an ogre, motionless, terrifying. As they drew near, she instinctively did not want to go inside. This was a bad place where evil spirits waited for the likes of poor families such as her own.

The rest of the party crossed the moat in a continuous stream like Noah’s beasts into the towering Ark. There were some two hundred of them. Left alone, Sorcha had no choice but to follow.

They found themselves in a deserted square yard. Some dilapidated buildings flanked the walls and the earth beneath their feet was pitted with broken stones. High walls surrounded the courtyard and from the battlements a few men greeted their arrival. They looked gaunt, skinny – hardly human – and Sorcha had a powerful feeling that these were demons waiting to feast upon her flesh. It was hard to distinguish their shaggy heads from the thick furs they wore for protection because both were caked with mud. They alone held the fort against the unseen enemy.

When the men came down from the ramparts they spoke in Gaelic and Sorcha realised that they were ordinary mortals like herself. One even winked at her, and a surge of pleasure mingled with disapproval gave her a sudden sense of power.

In one corner of the courtyard stood a tower from which it seemed the whole of Ireland could be seen. In the distance was Dublin Bay and beyond that, Wales.

They made camp on the damp earth, clearing the stones, setting their belongings about them. There was no cover and little food. Sorcha was sent to collect kindling for a fire. At the thought of warmth and having something to do, she jumped to her feet, anxious to obey.

‘Stay within sight,’ her mother warned.

Brashly she ventured back out across the moat to gather sticks from beneath the canopy of oaks. It was strangely silent. All the time she tried to gauge whether she could outrun any attacker back to the safety of the fortress. She did not know which was worse, fear of the foreign soldiers, or of the hungry spirits of the woods. With every second, panic rose until the very hordes of hell seemed to be stalking in her wake. Suddenly she could hold back no longer. With a gasp of terror she began to race, sticks falling from her arms, becoming entangled in her legs, stumbling, fuelling her own nightmare.

Once inside the castle gates, she stopped, panting with relief. It took minutes to get her breath back. She looked up hopefully at the sky. What cloud there was moved fast away to the west. There was too much wind to permit more rain and yet the southwesterly brought its own discomfort.

‘Help me,’ said her mother. They busied themselves building the fire. It took many attempts to light it, for the gusts blew out the infant flame time and again, but finally the courtyard was muffled in smoke billowing and guttering at the whim of the wind.

Sorcha’s father returned with a sheep’s haunch. He and the menfolk had raided the neighbourhood. Her tongue could already taste the smokey meat, feel the texture of the flesh. She had good teeth and could chew the toughest carcase. Her mother stripped, tore and then skewered the meat over the fire. It took forever to cook and she tasted it a thousand times before the juices finally trickled over her tongue.

They slept in the open and from time to time one of the band roused themselves to stoke the blaze, for by night it was bitterly cold. Strange animal noises echoed across the forest, hungry, merciless. Once darkness fell, Sorcha was grateful for the safety of the castle, snuggling into her mother for warmth.

The next day Dervla O’Neill rose with the first, fragile grey of morning light. ‘Come.’ She took her daughter outside the walls.

‘Where are we going?’

She did not reply.

Outside it was silent. The distant trees seemed to be waiting for their approach but Dervla strode ahead with purpose. After crossing the damp chill of the surrounding pasture, they moved into the woodland.

‘Where are we?’

‘Glendruid.’ Her mother’s tension, her stealth made the girl refrain from asking more.

The woods became increasingly dense, darkening. A long way off a dog, or maybe a wolf, howled. Malicious, disembodied eyes spied on them. Sorcha held on tight to her mother’s sleeve on the pretext of helping her along but in reality afraid to be lost.

Of a sudden they came to a clearing. Grass grew short and pale beneath the trees, splashed by dappled sunlight. In the very centre, rising stern and ancient as life itself, was a stone. Dervla put her hand to her lips. From the folds of her shawl she produced the last of the mutton, reverently laid it in offering at the base of the column, then fell to her knees. Her forehead touched the ground. The stone was so black and awesome it might surely strike her dead. So much power poured forth from the grained and gritty surface.

Dervla began to chant, a strange toneless sound older than the Gaelic. She was oblivious to everything. Not knowing what else to do, Sorcha clasped her hands together in an attitude of prayer, willing God, any god to protect her. To these woodland spirits belonged the power of life and death since long before the coming of the Cross.

After an age her mother rose and bowed to the stone then rested her lips against it. She nodded to the girl and reluctantly she followed suit, feeling the gritty coldness against her mouth. Now the stone owned her. Perhaps it would keep her there for ever.

They turned and Sorcha gripped hard to her mother’s arm expecting at any moment to be pulled back by some invisible force. She was almost running in her haste to escape but nothing barred the way. Dervla said not a word and her daughter asked no questions. The magic of the stone was too potent, too frightening to give a name.

They remained at the castle for several days. At one point, foreign soldiers came.

‘There’s nothing to fear,’ said Ciaran O’Neill. ‘They are no more than a raiding party, too few to cause trouble.’ He spoke with such authority that Sorcha felt no fear.

Everyone climbed to the battlements to look down at the men below. Sorcha knew that they were English. It was not just the thick protective buff coats and high leather boots, the deep-brimmed felt hats; there was another, indefinable something to do with height, pallor, the uniform brown of their hair. Encouraged by their scant numbers, the besieged peasants shouted insults. Sorcha rushed down to the courtyard to arm herself with broken masonry then joined in the fun, throwing stones. How they laughed when the soldiers ran away.

The enemy knew that there were too many inside the castle so they set up camp outside and waited. Inside the Irish waited too, aimlessly. Some of their men amused themselves by taking pot shots at the besiegers. An occasional scream told of their success. All the while Sorcha’s mother maintained a calm expectancy as if she awaited some answer to her prayer.

One morning there was something different. Ciaran O’Neill put it into words: ‘The enemy have brought up reinforcements. Today will see it happen.’

Sorcha did not ask what, because she did not want to hear the answer. She wandered instead to a point high on the castle walls where there was a view of the pasture below. It was like a tableau – diminutive men, horses, tents, a pattern of life frozen in activity, framed by a stockade of trees. Occasionally a voice drifted up to her, and she strained her ears to understand. She’d heard the English spoken often enough in the streets of Dublin; in the shops where she sometimes went to stare – though never to venture inside; in the kitchens where her mother had once worked for an English lord who owned the land as far as the eye could see. She understood sufficient to know that these men intended to stay.

In the field below were pinpoints of orange where camp fires flared and smoked, scattered like sparks from an ember. The rain eased and men peered hopefully from beneath buff coats and blankets, shaking off the crystal beads that dripped from their hats and sleeves. They called to each other in the heathen English, laughing, certain. Sorcha was suddenly afraid.

Her eyes focused on a thatched wooden cabin where a group of soldiers gathered. They seemed better dressed than the rest. In the early morning sun some had removed their coats and wore embroidered jerkins. Their shirts were soft and full-sleeved, and their hair and beards were recently washed and trimmed. Sorcha thought of her father’s shaggy head and her confidence ebbed.

In their midst somebody gave orders and she wondered if he was their Commander. Her father said that his name was Sir Simon Harcourt and she tried the alien name on her tongue. Even as the thought came to her, there was a flash and an echoing report from a firepiece. Simultaneously the same man jerked back as if he had been surprised by the noise then, slowly and gracefully, he fell to the ground. Others bent over him. She watched in fascination. Never before had she seen a man die. It looked painless, easy.

Within seconds everything changed. Outside the walls soldiers ran in all directions. One young man hardly past youth took up the call and sprang to the saddle. His buff coat flapped open and his long waving hair, darker than many of his companions’, streamed in the sudden uplifting of a breeze. Round his hat he had an orange sash and in his hand he carried a standard raised high above his head. ‘Revenge!’ he screamed. ‘Give no quarter!’

Like washing roused to wakefulness by a frisky wind, other standards began to ripple across the valley and the whole army surged forward as one.

Inside the walls, men scrambled everywhere to find an advantageous position. Through the narrow slits of the keep, over the castellated walls, musket-shot, cannonballs and arrows raced each other down the valley, knocking the advancing army aside. The discordant noise of men, horses, guns, fear and pain, hurt Sorcha’s ears. Within moments nothing could be seen beyond a blanket of smoke that formed an outer wall between the Irish and the enemy. It was sulphurous, suffocating, and she ran to find somewhere safe to hide. Suddenly she wanted her mother.

‘Here, girl, find anything you can to stuff the cannon with – stones or turf will do.’ She hardly looked at the man but raced to do his bidding. Now that she had a role her panic faded. There was now a breech in the castle wall. Cavalrymen poured through it with speed and ease. As one fell so five more took his place. In a sudden frenzy she gathered up lumps of masonry and ran back to the soldier.

‘More!’

As she turned away there was a report so loud that for a second she could hear nothing more. Looking back, she saw that the cannon was now a black smoking wreck, its nose buried into the bank, the wheels of the carriage blown jaggedly apart. The soldier, what was left of him, lay raggedly on the ground. He had no head.

She ran. She did not stop until she was deep down a passageway, crushed into the narrowest crevice. Slowly the sounds of battle returned but they were different now. Uppermost was the hated heathen tongue, jubilant, crazy. Somewhere in the midst of the castle other sounds froze her blood.

One hope sustained her. Her mother knew magic. She would ask the totem at Glendruid to strike them all dead. But Dervla O’Neill was not here. She was out there, somewhere in the seething inferno of the courtyard.

Suddenly someone was there, dragging her out of her niche, towering above her, holding her fast. In the darkness she could feel the fabric of his buff coat, smell a powerful blend of gunpowder and horses. Sheer terror overwhelmed her. He held her so tight that gasp as she might, she could not draw enough air into her desperate lungs. Dimly she saw his face, long, young, clear-eyed. In his hand he held a sword. He was going to kill her.

Struggling to face the unthinkable, Sorcha sank beneath a blackening wave of fear, and darkness claimed her.

For two days, Ensign Robert Hammond sheltered with his troops beneath the dripping canopy of leaves outside Carrickmain. Rain dripped relentlessly, splashing onto his hat, soaking his long dark hair and forming a steady cascade past his eyes. From time to time he shook his head to send the spray flying in an arc off the brim. An icy trickle seeped down his neck and his buff coat weighed heavy on his back.

Some of the regiment were more fortunate. The Commander and certain chosen officers had located a thatched cabin and passed the night inside, but many of the foot soldiers were camped in the open forming a miserable, untidy circle around Carrickmain Castle.

Robert struggled to be stoical in the face of such discomfort. This was his first experience of action. He was not sure what to expect but knew that he had to put up a good show, live up to the high hopes of his uncle, Captain Thomas Hammond and his godfather, the Earl of Essex.

Last evening, reinforcements had finally arrived from Dublin. Like all those present, Robert offered up a prayer in the hope of being spared in the battle to come. He could not conceive that he might die. There was still so much to experience, not least the proposed marriage to Mary Hampden. At the thought of this marriage settlement a glimmer of satisfaction warmed him. Within the next two months, he would reach his majority. Soon he would be wed. John Hampden, his future father-in-law, was held in such high esteem – a man who had defied the King and refused to pay ship money for the illegal raising of a navy.

Robert felt a mixture of pride and unease. Whilst revering the King’s person, he had his own misgivings about recent events. Yet he personally would never have the courage to defy King Charles – better to get on with the job in hand and leave affairs of state to others. Anyway, God willing, it would soon be settled.

Cold morning light filtered across the horizon and the word was passed: ‘It’s on.’ Lieutenant Hammond tightened his grip on the butt of the pistol. This was no time to be thinking of home. Using what shelter there was, he picked his way across to where the officers stood.

Over the past two days the enemy had amused themselves by taking pot shots at them. There had been casualties. Now it was time to turn the tables.

As Robert drew near to the cabin, Sir Simon Harcourt, Commander of the King’s forces, stepped out into the damp morning. ‘You all know what you have to do,’ he said. Heads nodded.

As the officers made to disperse, a shot rang out. Robert saw the blurred flash and almost simultaneously, Sir Simon leaped back as if he had been prodded by some heavy, invisible object. He staggered several paces and fell to the muddy ground. Robert jumped from his horse and was the first to reach him. A darkening puddle of blood oozed from a ragged wound in his chest. Dear God, Robert thought.

Sir Simon started to struggle to his feet and Robert took his weight, helping him towards the cabin but the injured man’s legs gave way and he slumped back. ‘Go on!’ He nodded in the direction of Carrickmain. ‘God go with you.’

The young Ensign hesitated a moment then swung back into the saddle, the awful image of the gaping wound still before his eyes. Anger replaced the shock.

‘Revenge! Give no quarter!’ He raised his pennant and spurred his mare forward, charging towards the castle gateway. His action was like touch paper, a moment of stillness and then the angry booming of men as they advanced. Pikemen alternated with musketeers, the one offering cover to the other as they struggled noisily up the slope towards the castle walls.

Answering fire rained down on them but sheer force of numbers bore them on. Meanwhile, their own cannon were concentrating fire on the outer wall. Although in the lead, Robert had difficulty in seeing as the pall of smoke closed around him. His chest began to tighten from the suffocating fumes. The cloud cleared momentarily and he saw that a breach had been made in the wall.

‘This way!’ Taking his chance he cantered forward, other cavalrymen close behind him.

The noise was deafening. Every man present was shouting, whether from fear, excitement or the pain of savage wounds. The thunder of cannon, the firecracker reports of muskets, the terrified whinnying of horses created a hell on earth.

There was no time to think. He aimed his pistol and brought down one of the Irish rebels. The man seemed to fall in slow motion, his half-raised arm continuing its arc and then gently falling away. Although Robert could not distinguish the sound, he watched the man’s mouth open wide, the eyes grow large with surprise and the sudden spasm of pain claim him as he fell. It was the first man that he had killed.

He could not dwell on this sobering moment. Thrusting his pistol into his belt, he drew his sword the better to strike down more rebels who, now that the castle was entered, fought like demons. It all seemed unreal, the ducking, driving forward, meeting fear-crazed eyes.

He became aware of another sound, higher-pitched, hysterical. There were women in large numbers within the castle walls. Even as he registered the fact, he saw a girl pass a loaded musket to a rebel crouched beneath a buttress. At that very instant Robert’s horse gave a scream of surprise. She staggered, nearly unseating him. For an eternity she seemed to be trying to stay on her legs but they finally gave way beneath her. Robert leaped from the saddle to avoid being crushed as she fell. Sadness sent him cold. He was fond of the mare.

On foot he felt defenceless. He raised his sword and drove it hard into the man beneath the buttress. The Irishman spat at him in some heathen tongue. His hair was a startling red and his pale eyes were pinpoints of hatred. It took strength to withdraw the weapon and the man grunted as the blade finally slipped away. It dripped warm and crimson onto the rocky pathway. Robert felt an insane desire to apologise.

A sea of army banners filled the courtyard. The damp ensigns of the night before now fluttered victorious in the breeze. From the east the sun illuminated the carnage. The castle was full of English victors, breathless, exhilarated.

Robert halted, panting, waiting for the order to cease fighting. It did not come. Foot soldiers advanced along corridors and parapets, into the cluster of tents in the courtyard, down into the bowels of the castle dragging wretched human dross into the open.

The noise changed. Excitement echoed in the shouts of the raiders. Terror rent the air as women and children were pulled from huts and crannies. Robert was transfixed with disbelief. There, before public gaze, men tore the tattered clothes from their female victims and entered them unashamed, one, two, maybe up to six of them, immune to their victims’ screams. When a woman was too bloodied to be of use she was despatched by the cutting of her throat, the disembowelling of her swollen belly. The surviving officers looked on.

‘For pity’s sake, call a halt!’ Robert could no longer contain his disgust.

The Captain standing nearest shook his head. ‘Never try to do what you cannot achieve. Their blood is up. Deprive them of this and you’ll have a riot on your hands.’

‘But the women, children …’ Even as he watched, a small child, little more than a babe was carried aloft, skewered on a broadsword, a terrible trophy held high for all to see. ‘For God’s sake!’ Robert cried again.

Another officer shook his head warningly. ‘These are Irish. Vermin. Leave one man alive and you’ve left yourself an enemy for tomorrow. Spare one woman and you’ll have another brat before the year is out. Show mercy to a child and it will stab you in the back when next you meet. You’re too soft, my dear Robin. Your tender heart does you credit but serves you badly.’

Robert turned away and with the flat of his sword began to knock soldiers aside. Quickly he despatched a wretched woman whose breast had already been sliced off in the bloodlust. He gagged on his own disgust.

Pushing blindly down a narrow passageway, intent on getting the stench of blood from his nostrils, he stumbled against an object pressed hard into the wall. At his touch it whimpered. He dragged the creature up to reveal a child. Her shoulders were hunched against assault and her clenched fists hugged her chest to defend herself. The eyes that met Robert’s were large, vivid blue, terrified. Her mouth opened but no sound emerged and for a second she swooned against him. He guessed that she was about twelve or thirteen years of age.

As her eyes flickered open he raised his hand to his lips, cautioning her to silence. Suddenly the path was blocked by three infantrymen. They had the wild, sated look of drunks. As one their eyes homed in on the girl.

‘We’ll see to her,’ one of them said. He licked his lips and reached for her.

‘No, you don’t.’ Robert pushed his protégée behind him and formed a barrier with his body. The plunderers jostled uneasily.

‘You’ve no right. Anything we find is ours. Hilty here hasn’t had a go yet.’

The man referred to as Hilty looked shamefaced but could not resist trying to peer past Robert to get a sight of his proposed reward.

‘The man who touches this child is dead.’

‘Want her for yourself, do you?’

Robert brought the blade of his sword down hard across the man’s chest, sending him crashing back into his companions. Before they could extricate themselves, the point of the blade rested against the neck of the spokesman. ‘Go now or say your prayers.’

Grumbling, they scrambled up and retreated the way they had come. Robert closed his eyes to draw strength. As he turned back the child was staring at him. She was very still, her thick brown hair tumbling across her shoulders, her mouth set, her expression defying him to move. In her hand she held a dagger.

The words of the Captain echoed in his brain. This was an enemy, an Irish peasant brat, a nothing. For a moment he tho