Ballinakelly, 1667
Maggie stared into the flames and invoked every spirit she could think of. In her fury she called upon the spirits of the wind and the spirits of the sea, those of the darkness as well as the light, and those of the earth and the eternal sky, and she commanded them to rise up against Lord Deverill for the child he had planted in her belly that would never carry his name.
The fire crackled and burned, the golden flames licked the air with pointed tongues, and Maggie was mesmerized. She stretched out her hands to catch the golden sparks that flew like fireflies about the pyre, but they would not be caught. They spun and twirled in tiny dances just beyond the reach of her fingertips. Maggie watched, hypnotized by these small sparks of light, as the small spark inside her grew with a light of its own.
Maggie had boldly knocked on the castle door to appeal to Lord Deverill, but he had refused to receive her. She had stood at his window as the rain soaked through her shawl, and he had seen her there and turned his back. She had shouted out her despair in a language she knew he didn’t understand: I beg of you, have mercy on my child. And he had sent his men to take her away. She had done everything to get his attention, but nothing had worked. Now she would strike at the very heart of his reputation and he would be forced to acknowledge what he had done to her in the woods and take responsibility for his seed.
Maggie gazed into the fire and called upon the Devil himself, for the Catholic God would not approve of her plan.
Lord Deverill left for London, and Maggie roused the men of county Cork. It was not hard to incite a rebellion because the Irish bore a deep hatred for the British, but more powerful than their patriotic fervor was their fear; they believed Maggie to be a witch and a powerful one at that. When she demanded that they burn down the castle, which stood as a symbol of British greed and oppression, they picked up their weapons and lit their flares and marched behind Maggie in an army of five hundred men. It was a cold, damp night, and Maggie imagined that from the castle walls their rabble must look like a burning snake winding its way up the lane toward it.
Maggie stood back and watched with excitement as the first flaming arrows flew over the walls of Castle Deverill. She watched the ramparts catch fire, and she watched the panicked soldiers do their best to defend it when they had been caught off guard and their numbers were few. Indeed, Maggie was sure her mob would burn the castle to the ground. A handful of dozy soldiers was no match for the might of her rebel army. But then the King’s army came with their fine horses and their banners depicting the arms of the Duke of Ormonde, and Maggie’s men scattered like crows.
Maggie did not resist when they captured her. She wanted to be caught. She wanted to be taken before Lord Deverill and for him to see her extended belly and to know that the child she was carrying was his, growing stronger every day. It would not be long now.
Maggie was locked in a room at the bottom of the castle, and because of her condition she was given every comfort. She had a bed and blankets, candles and food and was more comfortable than she was at home in the wood. While she rested she waited for Lord Deverill to return from London. Her anticipation grew because she was certain he’d come and see her now. He’d be furious with her, of course, but he’d see that she was heavy with child, his child, and his heart would soften and he would forgive her. He would no longer be able to turn away.
Yet the child came early. Maggie writhed and heaved and bellowed and cried out as her body labored, and the soldiers brought Maggie’s sister, Breda, to her side to bring the baby into the world. When at last he arrived, Maggie held him in her arms and gazed tenderly into his pink face. “This is Lord Deverill’s son,” she told Breda.
Her sister blanched. “Lord Deverill?” she repeated, unable to comprehend that the English nobleman on horseback had lain with her sister.
“He took me in the wood, and now he’ll take me to be his wife.”
“But he already has a wife,” Breda reminded her.
Maggie turned on her crossly. “I have given him a son!” she retorted.
“A bastard son,” said Breda. “You think he’ll let you keep him?”
Maggie stared at her in defiance. “Of course he’ll let me keep him.”
“He’ll take him away and you’ll never see him again. You think he’s going to let a child of his grow up a peasant?”
“And what about me?”
“You? He’ll have nothing to do with you, Maggie!”
Maggie’s eyes filled with tears. She thrust the boy at her sister. “Take him then. Keep him safe.”
Breda took the baby in her arms. “If Lord Deverill finds out about this I cannot vouch for his safety. He might come looking for him. He might even kill him.” A gasp escaped Maggie’s throat, and the blood drained from her face. “You have to make them believe he died,” Breda continued. “Do you understand?”
“The guard already fears me,” said Maggie. “It will not take much to bend him to my will. You must take my son, Breda, and look after him.”
“I promise,” said Breda. “He’s the last of the O’Leary men. What’ll you call him, Maggie?”
“Liam O’Leary,” she said. “After Father.”
Breda kissed her sister’s cheek. “I’ll keep Liam safe until you come home. You will come home, won’t you, Maggie?” she asked fearfully. She had heard what people were saying: that Maggie was a witch and she would burn at the stake.
“Of course I’ll come home,” said Maggie.
But Fate thought otherwise.
Maggie waited to see Lord Deverill. She waited and she waited and she waited some more. She waited for weeks, but Lord Deverill never came. She wondered whether he was somewhere in the castle above her, oblivious that she was below, locked in a room, waiting for him to receive her.
Maggie was put on trial for witchcraft, and it didn’t take long to sentence her. She had cast a spell on the men of county Cork and incited them to rebel. Every surviving man had confirmed it, and as a reward for their information they had been spared. As for Maggie, the punishment for witchcraft was death by fire. She smiled grimly as she recalled the spirits she had invoked with fire. What had begun in the flames would end in them, she thought. They asked her if she had anything to say. I want to see Lord Deverill, she said, and they laughed and took her away. She was incarcerated in the village of Ballinakelly and the day of her execution was set.
When that day dawned the sky was slate-gray and the wind was cold, as if it carried within it blades sharp enough to tear the skin. Crows and rooks cawed from the rooftops as the great pyre was built in the square and the people slowly gathered to watch the spectacle. In her cell Maggie prayed. She didn’t pray to her pagan spirits and she didn’t pray to the Devil; she prayed to God and asked for His forgiveness. She didn’t fear death because she knew it was false and that the soul lived on. Yet she feared the pain of burning in the fire. She feared that more than anything.
They came to fetch her. They tied her like a pig and lifted her into a cart. She knelt in a white robe a good woman had given her and looked out through the curtain of knotted, dirty hair that hung in front of her face. She swept her eyes over the faces of the people she had known all her life, many of whose broken hearts she had healed by passing on messages from the dead, and many of whom had fought beside her father and brothers against Cromwell’s mighty armies. Maggie saw their fear, raw and unconcealed, as they watched the cart move slowly past them. No one said a word. No one jeered. She wondered whether they were too frightened that she’d wield a final spell or two before dying—or that she’d come back after she had gone and harm them then. They stood back and formed a clear path that led directly to the pyre.
Still Maggie looked for Lord Deverill. She was certain he would come. She was certain that if he knew of her execution he would come and stop it.
Just as she was lifted off the cart a young boy bolted out of the crowd and ran at her. He was small and nimble, and the soldiers were slow to react. He fell against her and thrust a small leather bag into her hand. Before they could catch him he had scampered away. Maggie squeezed the bag tightly behind her back and wondered what was in it.
They tied her to the stake and bound her hands behind it, and they seemed to be so afraid themselves that they didn’t notice the bag in her grasp, or, if they did, they chose to ignore it.
Maggie did not resist. There was no point. She was in God’s hands now.
The priest read out her crime and then said a prayer in Latin, which Maggie did not understand. A soldier came with a flare and lit the pyre. Maggie raised her eyes above the crowd. Then she saw him. She saw him there, and her heart gave a leap of hope.
Lord Deverill was mounted on his horse in his fine clothes and plumed hat. He was accompanied by his men, but Maggie saw only him, watching her impassively, one gloved hand on the reins, the other on his thigh. He did not move. He just stared at her, and she did not know what he was thinking.
She thought then of their son, of Liam O’Leary, and hoped that he was safe. She hoped he would grow up strong and have a better life than she’d had. Then the flames began to grow and the smoke began to billow out from the pyre and the heat began to intensify beneath her. She did not withdraw her eyes from the man she loved. From the man she loved and loathed in equal measure.
She gazed at Lord Deverill and he gazed back, but although he had the power to stop the burning, he did not.
The flames reached her feet, and she gave a low moan. The moan became a scream that pierced the air. Maddened with agony she lost all reason. Then the little bag of gunpowder exploded in her hand and she was released.
MAGGIE STOOD BESIDE the pyre and watched the remains of her body burn. Then she saw Lord Deverill turn away. She knew he had given the boy the gunpowder, but that was little consolation now that her life was over. He led his horse back through the hamlet, back to the castle and back to his wife, leaving her ashes to scatter on the wind.
Maggie searched for the light, but it never came. She listened for God’s calling, but it never came. The world was dark and gloomy, and her spirit seemed to be stuck in it. She wondered how long she’d have to stay in this limbo. She wondered what she had to do to free herself.