Flight of the Earls Page 7

  She was flabbergasted that the battered old man was laughing at his own calamity. But laugh he did, intermittently slapping his legs and then holding his ribs as if in pain. Had the blows to his head caused some kind of madness? But soon she couldn’t resist the draw of his mirth, and she joined him in laughing.

  The fear and angst eased from the core of her being. Yes. They’d both be fine.

  She gave the wiry, old man a hug and got down from the wagon, and he handed Clare her canvas bag. After brushing off the straw, she tossed the pack over her shoulder. The weight of it reminded her how grateful she was when Finn’s wagon first slowed to give them a ride. It seemed like months ago.

  Abruptly, as it was accustomed to do in Branlow, and apparently in Cork as well, rain started to fall in sheets of frigid water. People in the streets shrieked as they scattered for cover.

  “Take good care of yourself, Mr. Finn.”

  “That I will. Good luck to you, young lady. May there be better roads ahead.”

  With that, he snapped his wrists and the cart tugged forward and wheeled its way down the city corridor, passing through frantic people retreating from the rain, some with umbrellas and others simply covering their heads with their hands.

  Sadness swept over Clare as Finn and the wagon disappeared from her vision, leaving her wet, cold, and entirely alone in this crowded square.

  But tugging at her as well was another emotion that began to rise from the depths of her being. Although frightened and feeling abandoned, Clare also experienced a strange flash of exhilaration.

  Chapter 7

  The Wayfarer’s Inn

  Clare found a ledge under a three-story mud-and-brick building where there was refuge from the downpour. How pathetic she must appear. Soaked in her clothing, her long black hair matted against her face, carrying a drenched bag that contained all of her possessions.

  What had she done? Clare had never seen so many people gathered in one place, yet she knew none of them. How obvious was it that she was alone and vulnerable with no place to go?

  People passed by, shapeless, faceless, bumping into her, voices shouting, running to get out of the rain. Yet what made her most uncomfortable was how many souls went by without acknowledging her existence. Clare was used to greeting everyone she locked gazes with in her small town, but doing so here seemed both discouraged and dangerous.

  Across the street, somewhat obscured by the pounding of the rain, two men leaned against a brick wall, feasting on her with their glares.

  She felt a tug on her arm and Clare swung around. A boy of about twelve years stood dry beneath an umbrella. His face was ruddy and he was adorned in a tattered dress suit and top hat, which in its glory days might have been worn by a governor’s son.

  “Lodging, miss?”

  She nodded mutely.

  His face brightened. “Knew so. Always spot ’em miles away. He has a nose on him they say. Master Redmond is me name. But you can call me Pence. All my friends do. You know why it ’tis? They say he’ll do anything for a pence. Well. Look at me being ungentlemanly.”

  The boy handed Clare the umbrella and grabbed the pack from her arms. First stumbling when the burden transferred to him, he gave it a lunge, and though bent over, he steadied it firmly.

  “Follow me, miss. Keep your eyes on Pence as he wouldn’t want to lose you in the crowd and the rain.” He started to walk and waved her to follow. “Come now. Finest lodging for guests you’ll find. Did you come from far?”

  Clare started to answer but didn’t get a chance.

  “First time to Cork? That’s certain. The farmies like yourself, miss. You all stand out like flies swimming in a pitcher of milk, you do. Not meaning any offense. Just pointing it out to you. The farmies only used to come for market, they did. But now it’s off to the harbor to the big ships and far places. Best harbor in the world in Cork right here. At least they tell me so. Someday Pence will go. Who knows where?”

  Surprised at how difficult it was to keep up with him, despite the fact he was carrying the bag, Clare focused on the task. Ever more amazing was his ability to turn his head and hold a conversation while leading them at a swift pace.

  They weaved through streets and alleys that grew darker and more run-down as they pressed forward. As he took her deeper into the bowels of the city, she grew worried, especially as faces peering through doorways and windows seemed more sinister and discontent.

  When she would ask him how close they were, his response was always the same. “Just around the corner, miss. Keep lively.”

  And then he would burrow farther through alleyways, rattling on at a shout about the history of the city, favorite places to eat, marketplaces to negotiate the best bargains, and he even described the architecture of certain buildings, explaining in some cases how he would have designed them much differently. Neither the burden of the bag he was carrying or the pounding of the rain dampened his step or mood.

  Just when she was about to dig in her heels and insist she wouldn’t go a step farther, Clare’s young guide turned to her. “Here we are, miss. Told you it’s a beauty.”

  Down the alleyway where it curved to darkness, a sign that read Wayfarer’s Inn flapped in the wind and rain. They arrived at the entranceway to the building, its outside walls blackened in sections by what once appeared to be flames.

  Sitting on a stool in the archway, just deep enough to be out of the reach of the rain, was a man with a pockmarked face and a bulbous nose.

  Pence removed the bag from his shoulder and placed it gingerly on one of the few dry spots on the floor. Rattling tin buckets lined the hallway ahead as they caught the heavy dripping from the ceiling. “Here you are, Mr. Evans. The lady has come to enjoy your hospitality.”

  The man was cleaning his fingernails with a knife, and he barely acknowledged his guest. “Are you staying for just the night?”

  “Yes.” Clare thought she smelled urine coming from inside. “Most certainly.”

  “Then it’s five pence. In full. Up front.”

  Clare grimaced. The hallway was damp and dark, and she didn’t know how much worse it would get once she got inside. But she was deathly tired, it was pouring outside, and she had no fight left in her.

  “Very well.” She opened the canvas bag and probed her hand blindly past clothes, books, and food until she came to the leather purse her mother had given her many years ago. She pulled it out, and after fumbling through the change, she pulled out five pennies.

  Pence reached out to receive them from her, but the proprietor slapped his hand away and scowled at him. “Where’s your manners, lad?”

  His coarse fingers snatched the coins from Clare’s palm and he inspected them closely, even biting one with his teeth. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he put them in his vest pocket and reached behind for a ring of keys hanging off of a rusted nail on the wall. He unfastened one from the metal loop and handed it to Pence. “Number 12.”

  The boy reached down and lifted Clare’s sack again. “Follow me, miss.” They headed down the lantern-lit hallway, being careful not to trip over any of the buckets. They passed by numbered doors on each side, and Clare could tell by how closely they were nestled to one another that the room would be tiny.

  When they got to the end of hallway, Pence was careful again to set Clare’s sack on a dry spot on the floor, which was not an easy task. He grabbed a lantern from a hook on the wall and used it to illuminate the keyhole. He turned the key, and the door opened reluctantly with a squeak.

  As she followed behind Pence through the door, Clare was pleased to see that although it was barely furnished with only a bed and a table, its floors seemed to be free of moisture and the chamber pot appeared to be mostly empty.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?” Pence stood almost at attention.

 
“No. That should be all. Oh yes, of course.” She opened her purse and withdrew a copper coin and handed it to the boy.

  “Obliged.” He tipped his hat, bowed, and turned to go.

  Clare thought of something, which seemed futile but perhaps worth trying in light of the boy’s knowledge of the city. “Pence. There is something else. I’m hoping to rejoin my brother and his friend here in town. My brother’s name is Seamus Hanley. He is tall with black hair. His friend Pierce is a stocky redhead. How would one go about finding them?”

  Pence brightened. “You just did, miss. Seamus and Pierce, you say? If they are travelers like you, they are as good as found. Pence knows all of the places and the people to ask. They say Pence has a nose, you know.”

  Clare wasn’t hopeful, but she found his confidence charming nonetheless. She reached back into her purse. “Here is another penny for your troubles. And if you find them for me, I’ll have four more for you.”

  His mouth opened in surprise but then straightened, as if he didn’t want her to think she was overpaying. He flipped the coin she gave him in the air and caught it deftly. “Five pence. Consider it done.” With that, he put his hat back on his head and spun, the tails of his coat lifting up.

  The door closed behind him and the lantern went with him, leaving her in darkness. She probed her way to the door, and by the time she found the handle and opened it, he was gone from the hallway as well. Too tired to protest, she retreated back inside and lay down on the bed, fearful to know the condition of the linen.

  For Clare, who had shared a bed with her siblings her entire life, this lonely room offered a touch of luxury. And before she could enjoy her independence, her eyes closed and she was gone. Her dreams replayed the past week’s events to her, albeit in raw and distorted fashion. Rather than the pictures of tranquil retreat she usually enjoyed in her sleep, these were fraught with worry and hopelessness.

  She woke sometime later with a start, her face flushed and her body sweaty.

  Clare was not alone.

  Chapter 8

  A Tale of the Woods

  Clare’s eyes opened to the moist blackness of the room and her heart pulsated. So much so she feared the pounding in her chest could be heard. She lay still in terror and listened with all her flesh.

  There was the sound of snoring and labored breathing near her bed. She strained her eyes, hoping they would adapt in the darkness.

  Should she risk moving? What could she use as a weapon?

  Raising her head inch by inch, Clare pressed up from the bed with her arms. A creak and then a groan sounded from the old mattress.

  She froze again. Waited. Listened. If only the room wasn’t so dark.

  Sliding from under the blanket, she pivoted until her feet touched the ground. Pause. Then she rose as silently as possible, but the bed betrayed her with a squeak ripping at her tattered nerves.

  The snoring stopped. A shadow moved and Clare let out a yelp as her body propelled toward the direction of the door. But her legs got caught in a mass on the floor and she tumbled to the ground. Arms reached out to grab her. She began to scream and a hand covered her mouth.

  “Clare. Clare. It’s me.”

  She recognized the voice instantly and the terror waned.

  Suddenly, light filled the room and Clare saw she was in her brother’s arms. Pierce held a lantern in his outstretched arm, his tired eyes filled with concern.

  Clare’s panic shifted toward rage. “What? How did you—?”

  “The little man in the suit,” Seamus said. “He brought us here.”

  “Pence?”

  “Who?”

  “Pence. The boy. That’s his name. He actually found you?”

  “Found us, he did,” Seamus said. “And he tried to shake us for five pence. Says you told him it was fair bounty. I paid him well with a twist of his ear.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “I did. And I would have done the other ear if the boy hadn’t turned and run.”

  Clare sighed as she climbed to her feet and embraced Seamus. “Well, I suppose it’s good to see your faces. I thought them for lost.”

  A pounding noise interrupted them.

  They exchanged perplexed looks. “Who is it?” Clare asked.

  No answer. A key turned in the lock and the handle of the door turned. The door cracked open to the splashing light of a lantern. Soon the bulbous nose of the innkeeper emerged, followed by the man himself.

  “What’s the racket in here all about?”

  Pierce stepped forward between the man and Clare. “What manners are there in barging into a lady’s room without permission?”

  The innkeeper raised his lantern toward Clare and then glared toward the boys.

  Clare was grateful she had slept in her clothes. “This, sir, is my brother and his friend.”

  “Yes. Certainly they are. But regardless, it will cost you another two pence each for your . . . relations.”

  Before her brother could protest, Clare grabbed her purse, pulled out four coins, and handed it to the man. “Very well. Now would you be kind enough to let us be?”

  Stubby fingers reached out to grab the coins. “Unless yer planning on staying another night, it’s time for you all to leave. It’s well past morn.”

  Surprised to hear day was already upon them, they offered no opposition and the innkeeper retreated out the door.

  It took the three of them only a few minutes to gather their belongings. Clare noticed the filthy pillow she had been sleeping on all night. The light filtering into the room revealed more dirt, cobwebs, and strange fluids spilled on the floor, and she couldn’t bear staying for another moment.

  They went down the dark hallway and returned the rusted key to the keeper, and in the bright sunlight and midday street activity, they winnowed their way toward the center of the city.

  They passed children playing in the streets, mothers hanging bedding and clothing from second- and third-story windows, pigs wandering on cobblestone roads, and vendors proclaiming their wares.

  Clare reveled in the rediscovered security of being with Seamus and Pierce, but she wasn’t ready to forgive them for the torture they put her through yesterday. “So what happened to the two of you? And how did Pence find you?”

  “Pence?” Seamus took off his hat and brushed back his hair. “Oh, your little man.”

  “He found us at a pub,” Pierce said. “Not much to it. The story is in how we found the pub.”

  “’Tis.” Seamus nodded. “It was a favorite of your dear friend Mr. Finn, the pig farmer. He took us there himself.”

  “The old man?” Clare shifted her pack to relieve some of the pressure from her shoulders. “Tell me you didn’t trouble him to bear you all the way back to Cork?”

  “Trouble him we did,” Seamus said. “But not before we got his pigs returned to him. The ones you lost.”

  Clare stepped out of the alleyway to stand clear of an old woman pushing a cart of potatoes. “How did you go about doing this?”

  Seamus went to grab a tater from the cart as it went by, but the woman stopped and stared him down. “Sorry, miss.” He lifted his hat before turning back to Clare. “The pigs? That’s a story there, I’ll tell ya.”

  “Seeing as you left with our ride, we were on foot when we came upon the old man,” Pierce said.

  “Ah, he was a sad sight to see.” Her brother readjusted his pack on his shoulders. “Almost to tears, he was, the horses too, believe it. Of course, after proper greetings we had inquiries about your whereabouts, and that’s when he told us of the tinkers.”

  “We were near abouts where it happened,” Pierce said.

  “Aye. And we jumped in and Finn rode us there, and sure enough if we didn’t see one of them tinkers, sitting at the side of the road, a
s innocent as the day.”

  “Finn was aiming to stroke him with his whip.” The redhead motioned with his arm. “But your brother had a better plan.”

  “That I did. Finn told us about this tinker being a bit slowish and taking a liking to you. Orin remembered you well, and I asked him if he was looking to marry soon.”

  “You did not do anything of the sort.” Clare folded her arms across her chest.

  “And I told the poor fella that as your kin, I’d agree to it if he would only return the pigs as part of a fair trade. A dowry of sorts.”

  “A fair trade, indeed.” Pierce smirked.

  Seamus put his arm around Clare. “Overpriced if you ask me, but a trade offered nonetheless. So, sure enough, the fellow walks us right through the woods to a pen with all of Finn’s lovelies, putting their noses in the air like they were seeing their mammy. Your man even helped us herd them and load ’em up.”

  “What about the nasty tinker?” Clare asked. “The hard-spirited one.”

  “Didn’t see ’em,” Pierce said. “Which was disappointing as I had words to share with him.”

  “As it is,” Seamus said, “your man is probably still waiting on the road with flowers in his hand, wondering when his bride will be coming around the bend.”

  “As if I can believe any of that tale.” Clare withheld a smile, which would only encourage them further. But she did hope at least parts of their story were true, especially when it came to Finn reclaiming his pigs.

  They turned a corner on the pathway, and it spilled out into the main vein of the city—a bustle of horse-drawn carriages, fruit wagons, peddlers, ladies wearing imported fashion sharing steps with the shadiest of street urchins and thieves.

  “What now?” Pierce said.

  They all froze, Clare feeling small against the frame of grandeur. None of them answered for a few minutes, and they took off their heavy packs, propping them against the wall of a three-story, brightly painted yellow building.

  “We should probably split up in two.” Seamus took off his hat and ran his fingers through his black curls. “I’ll go to the port to get the passages and you two can provision up.”