After several minutes, Gavin O’Neil finally managed to swallow back the knot of fear that had been threatening to choke him. “How did you come by the things you said to the soldier, Conor?”
Conor shrugged, prepared for his father’s famous temper to explode. “I know not. The words just seemed to come into my mind. I knew that if I didn’t stop the soldiers with words, you would be forced to stop them with your sword. And Rory with his knife.”
“It is our duty to defend those we love. You know that I’m a skilled swordsman, as you and Rory are skilled with a knife.”
“Aye, Father. But sometimes words are better than swords. Especially if they can prevent bloodshed.”
Gavin glanced over the lad’s head to where his wife, Moira, was standing. A look passed between them. And in that instant they both knew. Though Gavin believed in the power of the sword, he had just witnessed an even greater power. An unbelievable power.
There were places of learning in Spain, in France, in Italy, where a lad with a fine mind could be given every advantage. Fed by the writings of the world’s scholars, a fine mind could be honed until it might equal or even surpass an army of swordsmen.
Could it be that this, their middle child, might prove to be the answer to a nation’s prayer? A prayer for freedom from their hated oppressors?
There was no doubt Conor would be as skilled a warrior as his father and brother, for he had the fearlessness, the steady hand, the vision. But if he could become equally skilled as an orator, he would be a formidable foe indeed.
They owed it to him, to their family, to their country, to do everything in their power to make it so.
In the years that followed, there was much to discuss around Ballinarin. There was the power of Conor O’Neil’s words, for he had become a famed orator. But as skilled as he was, another was even more acclaimed. A mysterious, hooded warrior had begun waging a solitary war of vengeance against the cruel bands of English soldiers that roamed the countryside. A warrior who spoke not a word as he slit the throats of soldiers caught in the act of brutalizing helpless women and children. Because he always dressed in the garb of a monk, with the hood pulled down to his eyes, and the cowl pulled up to hide the lower half of his face, he’d become known as Heaven’s Avenger.
Emma Vaughn was small and slight for her age of ten and two. Dusk had already settled over the land when she began making her way home from the village apothecary. Her beautiful mother had never regained her strength after a difficult childbirth. But Emma was determined to see her mother fully recovered. This day she carried a pouch of special herbs and potions said to have healing properties. They had taken longer to prepare than she’d anticipated, and she was anxious about the lateness of the hour. But her mother’s health was worth any amount of time.
The sound of horses coming up behind her had her turning in alarm. When she caught sight of the band of English soldiers, her heart leapt to her throat, and she cursed herself for her carelessness. She knew, as did every woman and child in Ireland, what these hardened soldiers considered sport.
Hiking her skirts above her knees, she veered off the path and raced across the meadow, hoping the tall grass would slow down those in pursuit. She heard a roar of laughter as the horsemen caught sight of her and began to give chase.
Her chest heaved, the breath burning her lungs as she pushed herself to the limit. But as she headed toward a line of trees, hoping to hide herself, she saw a second group of soldiers emerge from the cover of the forest and advance toward her. She paused. Turned. Then realized, with growing panic, that she was surrounded. The circle of soldiers narrowed as they moved in on their target, who darted from one side of the meadow to the other, like a creature of the wild bent on escape.
“I’ve got her.” One of the soldiers reached down and scooped her up like a rag doll, holding her imprisoned in his arms as he nudged his horse toward the cover of the woods.
The others were laughing and cursing as they made their way to their encampment.
The one holding Emma slid from the saddle. “Since I caught her, I claim the right to be fiat. The rest of you can have what’s left.” He gave a mocking laugh. “From the looks of this scrawny wench, I doubt she can pleasure me much. But I’ll have to make do.”
The others joined in the laughter as a cask was opened and ale was passed among them.
“She’s no more than a child,” one of the men complained.
“All the better. We’ll teach her the ways of a woman. Maybe, if she pleases us, we can keep her around.” The soldier kept a firm grasp on Emma as he dragged her across the camp toward his blankets. Along the way he snagged a tankard of ale, tipping it up and draining it as he walked.
When he reached his bedroll, secured beside a fallen log, he tossed her down, then fell on top of her. Her screams died in her throat. She nearly gagged on the stench of ale and sour breath as her mouth was covered by his.
It was impossible to move. She was pinned beneath him. Still, panic gave her strength she’d never known she possessed. Her hand reached out blindly and encountered a rock. Her fingers curled around it, and she struck the back of his head with all the strength she could manage.
He gave a grunt of pain. “Little witch. I’ll teach you.” He grabbed both her hands, holding them above her head in one of his. Then he slapped her so hard stars danced behind her eyes. “Now you’ll pay.”
Emma braced herself for what was to come. But as he fumbled beneath her skirts, he suddenly went rigid with shock. She caught sight of a flash of silver as the soldier’s eyes went wide, then seemed to glaze over. Blood streamed from a gaping slash across his throat in the moment before he slumped forward, pinning her beneath his dead weight.
With a sense of panic she pushed and struggled to free herself. Her hands, her gown, even her hair were smeared with his blood.
Suddenly his body was yanked roughly away. Standing over her was a figure clad in the garb of a friar, with the cowl pulled up over his mouth, and the hood pulled down to his eyes. And the bluest eyes Emma had ever seen. They glowed in the moonlight like sapphires.
“Who...? What...?”
He shook his head and touched a finger to her lips. Then, without a word, he turned away and began to crawl toward the encampment, where the voices of the drunken soldiers could be heard.
Kneeling up, Emma watched in amazement as the hooded figure moved among them, silently slitting each throat. He moved so quickly, none of his victims had time to notice his approach, or to offer any resistance.
When he returned, she was weeping in relief. Big wet tears that spilled down her cheeks. He lifted her face and wiped the tears with his thumbs. In his eyes she could read both simmering anger and heartfelt compassion for what she was suffering. Without a word he picked her up and carried her to his waiting horse. She could feel the ripple of muscle as he climbed easily into the saddle, all the while holding her against his chest.
“Thank you,” she murmured when she could find her voice. “I know... I know what would have happened if you hadn’t come to my rescue.”
Again he touched a finger to her lips to silence her words. Then he gathered her close, allowing her head to rest on his shoulder. They rode across the meadow in silence. In fact, it seemed to Emma, the whole world had gone suddenly silent. No breeze stirred the leaves of the trees. No night birds sang. Even the frogs in the pond made no sound as the horse splashed through the water, then climbed the embankment and headed toward her village in the distance.
In the circle of this stranger’s arms she felt warm and safe. No harm would come to her, she knew, as long as he held her like this.
When they reached the village he slid from the saddle and set her on her feet.
“I need to know your name, sir, so that my father can properly thank you.”
He