Flight of the Earls (8 page)

“Finn!”

“Whoa.” The old driver stopped the cart to a creaking halt and was only halfway out of his seat when the woman reached up and embraced him hard enough to cause Finn to stumble out of the wagon.

The woman spotted his passengers, all three of whom were now standing in the back of the wagon. “And what have you here?”

“These are me new companions,” Finn said, who was now standing beside her and brushing some of the dust from his clothing.

She looked up at them with an odd smile. Despite the leathery appearance of her skin and the large wart jutting out of her cheek, her face bore a gentle spirit.

“Welcome. Come down and greet us, won't you? Not every day a lonely woman gets the pleasure of young visitors. Brings joy to me eyes, it does.” Then her face shifted to concern. “I've got some tidying to do.”

By this time, the short man accompanying her arrived. He wore faded black pants peppered with patches and a well-stained white shirt mostly hidden beneath an olive green vest. He had an unlit pipe in one hand and a brown hen struggling to free itself tucked under his other arm.

“Jack,” she barked as she limped over to him. “Hand her to me.”

He objected with a sharp gaze, but then released it to her with some reluctance. The woman grabbed the chicken and scurried down the road in a gait that looked as if it pained her.

Jack shrugged. “My wife fancies visitors,” he said in a way that indicated he did not.

Wanting to walk the aches out of their legs, Clare and the two boys followed behind Finn's rattling wagon the remainder of the way to Jack's house, which was as forlorn as its owner.

Clare was the last to enter the doorway of the weathered shanty, and before doing so, she paused to glance far down the road behind them. In the tapering of light, and amidst the humming of crickets and the flaps of the wind, Clare thought she discerned a voice.

It was whispering for her to return home.

Chapter 6

The Tinkers

Finn was perched on the driver's seat, and he tapped the handle of the horsewhip in his hand. Impatient swine grunted in the back of the wagon. “Supposin' it's time. And the boys. Know where they might be?”

Clare stood at the side of the cart and yearned for the shapes of Seamus and Pierce to appear in the horizon. Last night they had enjoyed a chicken stew with their hosts, and she ended up sharing a straw mattress with Colleen in the dingy confines of the hovel. But the men were sent outside to the barn for the evening, and as they were departing Clare overheard her brother asking the whereabouts of the closest pub.

“'Fraid I do.”

The pig farmer spat. “The market closes at sundown in Cork. Gonna need to press on.”

Clare's mind sped through the different possible outcomes of her options. If she stayed, she would be giving up Finn's generous ride, not only for herself but for the boys as well, as they wouldn't climb aboard without her. But if she went with the old man now, she risked being separated from Seamus and Pierce, and for how long she couldn't know. After several anxious and conflicted moments, she made her decision.

“We'll pass the tavern on the way out, won't we? Yes. I'm sure we'll find them there, or on the way.” She climbed up onto the splintered wood bench she would share with Finn, still uneasy about her choice. The mere thought of her brother's careless laughter caused her to clench her fists.

The old man gave a shout at the two mares, and they responded with a lurch, their warm breath clouding from their nostrils as it blended with the cool air.

The clamor of wagon wheels grinding over the rough road made discussion difficult, and Finn didn't offer much conversation anyway so they remained quiet. Occasionally he would look over to her and blush, obviously pleased with her companionship.

Clare surveyed the road closely in both directions for any sign of the boys, in the chance they were napping in a rain trench. As they went by a sprawling manor, the two were nowhere to be seen, but the fields were replete with laborers feeding the livestock and attending to the garden and hedges.

After a while of passing through the familiar sights leading back to town, she shouted above the wagon's rattle over to Finn. “Your cousin is a fine woman. Very charitable.”

He nodded. “'Tis.”

The crunching sounds of the wood on dirt filled the silence before she braved her next question. “Do you think Jack was displeased with our visit?”

He didn't answer her straight away, and Clare wasn't sure whether he hadn't heard her or if he chose not to respond. After a lengthy minute Finn spoke up. “It was the fowl.”

“The fowl?”

“He was on his way to pay the lease.”

“The lease? I don't understand.”

“My cousin and her husband were on the way to the landlord. Last night in the road when we met them. They were hoping the chicken would give them some time . . . keep them from being evicted.”

“Oh. I see.” Clare's heart dropped with guilt. She didn't inquire further.

After a couple of miles, they entered a small complex of buildings that were just shy of the intersection with the main roadway to Cork. They passed a woman leading a goat by a rope, with two small children struggling to keep pace.

Finn slowed the cart to a halt in front of the tavern, which looked more like a large house. Only the wooden Public House sign creaking in the wind on a post revealed its purpose.

He came down from the wagon, and as he was encircling it, she leaned over the slats of the wagon behind her and buried her pack in straw. She had to shoo away one of the pigs to do so, straining her back in the process. When she turned, Finn had a hand extended to her and she gratefully used it as leverage as she stepped down to the road.

When they arrived at the large oak door of the tavern, they discovered it locked. He rapped several times at the iron knocker, but there was no response. Clare shook the handle of the door in frustration as Finn walked over and stepped on a boulder so he could peer into a small window at the front of the building. She watched him with hope, but his body language spoke before he did.

“No one inside. Only empty tables.”

He stepped down, and as he looked at Clare, she could tell his angst over being delayed had dissipated and was now replaced with compassion for her predicament. “I'm awful sorry.” Finn headed back toward the wagon.

Clare turned around, leaned her back against the door, and put her hands to her face. She was beginning to panic. What would she do now? Where could they possibly be? Trying not to cry, she began to question why she ever left Branlow. She should have stood up to her father and never left the farm. If he was so intent on a trip across the sea, he should have gone himself and left Clare and her siblings to fend for themselves.

“We're closed if it's not obvious.”

Clare removed her hands from her eyes, and a stern-faced woman approached carrying an armful of produce.

“Is this your establishment?” Clare asked.

“If you need to ask, it means you're not from around here.”

Clare brushed off the comment. “Have you seen two young men? One who is tall and the other with red hair?”

The woman put a key into the door and turned it with a click. “Oh, we've seen those two more than we wished. They were here to the wee hours, full of drink and full of themselves. My husband finally sent them off barely fit to walk.”

“Do you know where they headed?” Clare asked.

With her free hand, the woman tucked some of her stringy blonde hair behind her ear. “Away. Which was all I cared about.” Without tarrying for a response, she went into the building and closed the door behind her.

Clare headed back to the wagon in defeat and confusion. It would take her several hours to walk back to Jack and Colleen's farm, and with what she knew about the sacrifice they had already made, she couldn't bear to burden them further.

She also couldn't hinder Finn, even though he wasn't pressing her anymore. He was seated in the driver's seat, with the reins limp in his hands, patiently awaiting her decision.

Clare put her hand above her eyes to shield against the morning sun and scanned the road in both directions one last time, desperate to spot approaching silhouettes. Nothing.

Perhaps she should just go home and beg for her father's mercy and forgiveness. This all seemed too much for her to bear. But this thought lasted only for a moment, and she grasped on to the last strand of her faltering courage. No. She would not go back. She would not quit.

Seamus and Pierce must have decided to head on the road to Cork ahead of them. She climbed up on the seat. “Let's go.”

Finn flashed a smile of relief and didn't allow Clare an opportunity to change her mind. The wagon's joints and wooden planks groaned in protest, and arriving shortly at the main fork in the road, they headed south in the direction of the great port city before them. Behind, the buildings of the small town diminished from her view. Were her chances of meeting up with Seamus and Pierce fading as well?

She closed her eyes as she cried softly. “Lord. Please bring the boys to me.”

They covered the miles, each alone to their thoughts, passing vast acreage of field and farm of rich verdure. Clare was surprised by how many were sewn with potatoes. Her father spoke of how the tuber was being touted as the crop that would bring the tiny nation out of the clutches of poverty, and she could see firsthand the land was lined with believers. If the contagion spread throughout the country, this faith would be repaid with tragedy.

Clare continued to keep a heedful eye in all directions for signs of the boys. If they were on foot, even the plodding wagon would eventually catch them. With each group of sojourners they approached in the road, she would look them over with expectation, but each stranger's face only added to her growing disillusionment.

As they were more than halfway to their destination, and with her resolve well tempered, the road began to lead through a forested area. Clouds gathered ominously above and Clare began to rue her choice. She would be in Cork before too long and then what would she do?

She heard a noise and spun to see two figures running up from behind them.

“Wait! I see them.” Clare's heart lifted as the prodigal sons approached.

“Whoa.” Finn pulled on the reins and the wagon slowed. But when he glanced behind him, his eyes widened and he snapped the reins, clamoring at the reluctant beasts to regain their momentum.

“Why aren't you stopping?” Clare shouted above the sudden frenzy.

“Tinkers!” Finn's complete focus was on the road before him.

Clare turned and saw indeed there were two men gaining ground on them rapidly, and neither of them was her brother or Pierce. Her elation morphed to fear. She heard many stories about gypsies terrorizing the roads of Ireland, but they were rarely seen or heard of in Branlow.

The tinkers drew closer to where she could hear them panting from the chase, and the horses were too encumbered by the load to offer much of a contest. Within a few moments, the men were on both sides of the cart. They pulled back on the bridles and coaxed the horses to a standstill.

Clare's eyes were now wide with dread. She sought strength from Finn, but he appeared defeated.

“What's the hurry, old man?” The tinker gawked at him with dark, penetrating eyes, and flowing from his chin was a scraggly beard. “It appears you've forgotten the toll.”

He brandished a long knife in one hand and stroked his facial hair with the other. “These are hard times. All of these fine animals in your possession and there are children without a clean bone to pick. What justice is in that?”

“Just leave us be.” Finn's lower lip quivered.

The tinker sneered, his blackened teeth showing. “No. No sir. We won't be leaving anyone be. We all deserve to eat.” His voice raised in anger. “Would you have us all starve?”

The hair on Clare's arm lifted as she realized the second man was creeping beside her. His ears sprouted wide from the sides of his head and there was a large gap in his teeth. He gaped at her with hunger.

A chortle came from the bearded tinker. “It seems me brother Orin has taken a fancy to your daughter, old man. Or would she be your grandchild? Don't worry, young miss. Ol' Orin is not much of a talker, but they say he's quite a fine kisser.”

Clare felt her arm being touched, and she drew it back from Orin and glared at him in disgust. His fingers reached up to feel her hair. She heard a crack and he stumbled back with a squeal. A thin line of blood appeared on the side of his cheek. He put his hand to the wetness and red liquid flowed over his fingers.

A shout was heard and Clare turned to see the bearded tinker dragging Finn off the wagon. In a moment, the old man was tossed to the ground, his whip tumbling out of his hand.

Orin came around and both men pounced on Finn, kicking him as he tried in vain to block their blows with his arms.