London, 1667
Most of the Court had arrived to attend the opening night of John Dryden’s new play, The Maiden Queen, in the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane. The richly dressed aristocrats sat in the boxes in their brightly coloured silks and velvets, powdered wigs and face patches, like exotic birds of paradise, resplendent in the light of hundreds of candles. The ladies passed on the Court gossip behind their fans while the lords discussed politics, women and the King’s many mistresses. Lord Deverill sat in the box beside his wife, Lady Alice, daughter of the immensely wealthy Earl of Charnwell, and his friend Sir Toby Beckwyth-Stubbs. He swept his eyes over the pit below where ladies and gentlemen sweltered in the heat and whores and orange girls squawked and flirted with the fops in the thick, heavily perfumed air, like a pen full of libidinous chickens.
The King arrived with his bastard son, the Duke of Monmouth, and his brother the Duke of York. The fops in the pit clambered onto chairs and women hung over the balconies to watch the royal party enter, and Lady Alice looked out for the King’s mistress, the buxom and wanton Barbara Palmer, Countess of Castlemaine, the most fashionable lady in the country.
They muttered and chattered as the royal party settled into their seats with the rustle of taffeta and the swishing of fans. Lord Deverill found the scene distasteful. The Court of Charles II had turned out to be a sink of licentious frivolity with Catholic undercurrents and he was almost starting to miss the evil Cromwell. Deverill was only here to seek an audience with the King to procure more men and arms to keep the peace in West Cork. The construction of Castle Deverill was now completed and it stood as a formidable bastion of English supremacy, but the Irish were a riotous lot and they gnawed on their grievances like wild dogs on bitter bones. While London had staggered from the Plague to the Great Fire the year before, Lord Deverill had taken refuge at his Irish seat where the clouds that hung over him were of an entirely different kind: the haunting memory of Maggie O’Leary’s curse and the threat of rebellion from the Irish over the Importation Act that prohibited them from selling their cattle to England.
As he had sworn that day on the hill above Ballinakelly he was good to his tenants. Their rent was reasonable and he was tolerant of their papist church. His wife and her ladies fed the poor and clothed their children. He was indeed a beneficent landlord. His loyalty to the Crown was unwavering, but he was furious about the Act which the King had signed. Distracted by his own domestic problems, flirting too closely with the King of France and preparing to fight the Dutch, the King hadn’t wanted to upset Parliament by using his power of veto. Lord Deverill feared there would be another rebellion like the one in ’41 and was determined to warn the King of danger.
Lord Deverill thought of Maggie O’Leary often. He was a religious man and he did not take curses lightly, indeed Sir Toby had insisted that her threat was an indirect threat to the King himself and was adamant that she should be burned at the stake. But Lord Deverill did not want to incite further hatred by killing a young woman – a beautiful young woman – be she a witch or otherwise. It was not her curse that followed him like a shadow, but her strange, unsettling beauty and her almost pungent allure.
He had only seen her twice. Once when she had publicly cursed him in the road in Ballinakelly, the second time when he had been out hunting. Accompanied by Sir Toby and a retinue of attendants, he had been galloping through the forest in pursuit of a deer. Suddenly, as the deer headed off through the thicket to his left he had spotted through the tangle of trees on his right a stag, standing on the crest of a knoll. Without time to inform his men he swerved his horse to the right and quietly trotted towards it.
Alone in the wood he pulled on the reins and drew his beast to a halt. It was quiet but for the chirruping of birds and the whispering of the wind about the branches. The stag was magnificent. It stood with the dignity of a monarch, watching him haughtily with shiny black eyes. Slowly, not to frighten the animal away, he pulled out his musket. As he loaded and aimed, the stag suddenly disappeared and in its place stood a woman. Lord Deverill lifted his eye from the gun and stared in astonishment. She wore a cloak but beneath her hood was the unmistakable face of Maggie O’Leary. He put his gun down and gazed upon her, not knowing what to say. Her loveliness stole his words and yet he knew, even if he had managed to speak, that she would not have understood him. Her green eyes were wide and enquiring and her berry-red lips curled up at the corners in a mocking smile. At once he was overcome with lust; quite out of his mind with desire. She lifted her delicate hands and removed her hood. Her hair fell about her shoulders in thick black waves and her pale face bewitched him like the face of the full moon.
He dismounted and walked towards her. She waited until he was almost upon her and then turned and floated down the hill, moving deeper into the forest. He followed, encouraged by the coy glances she tossed him over her shoulder. The trees grew closer together. The branches were a mesh of twig and leaf, the light reduced to thin, watery beams that sliced through the dimness. Even the birds had ceased to sing. The sweet smell of decaying vegetation rose up from the earth. She stopped and turned round. Lord Deverill did not wait to be invited. He pushed her against the trunk of an oak and pressed his lips to hers. She responded hungrily, winding her arms around his neck, kissing him back. A low moan escaped her throat as he buried his face in her neck and inhaled the scent of sage that clung to her skin. His fingers tore at the laces of her bodice until her breasts were exposed, white against his brown hands, and his lust was intensified by the warmth of her naked flesh and by the intoxicating smell of her. Maddened by desire he lifted her skirts. She raised a leg and wrapped it about him so he could more easily enter her. She gasped with satisfaction and her eyelids fluttered like moth’s wings as he slipped inside with a groan. They moved as one writhing beast, their faces clamped together, their breaths staggered, their heartbeats accelerating as they took their pleasure greedily.
They reached the pinnacle of their enjoyment simultaneously then fell limp in a tangle of limbs, clothes and sweat onto the soft forest bed. At length Maggie rolled away from him and pulled down her skirts to cover herself, but she left her laces hanging loose at her waist and her breasts exposed. She fixed him with wide, brazen eyes, as feral as a wolf’s, and held him in her thrall for a long moment. Then she spoke. Her voice was as silky as a spring breeze but Lord Deverill did not understand her native language. He frowned and she seemed to find his bewilderment amusing for she burst into peals of mocking laughter. As Lord Deverill’s frown deepened she turned onto her knees and crawled towards him on all fours with the speed of a cat. She climbed astride him, pinned his wrists to the ground and pressed her mouth once more to his. She took his bottom lip between her teeth and bit down hard upon it. Lord Deverill tasted the blood on his tongue and recoiled. ‘By God you’ve hurt me, woman!’ he exclaimed but Maggie just laughed louder. Her black hair cascaded in thick tendrils over her exposed breasts and her bruised mouth twisted into a secretive smile, but it was her eyes, her wild green eyes, which looked at him with a sudden coldness that froze the blood in his veins. Suddenly she was pressing a dagger to his throat. Lord Deverill’s breath caught in his chest and he stared back at her in horror. A gush of bubbling laughter rose up from her belly as she leaped to her feet. She smiled at him again, this time with playfulness, then she was gone, as quickly as she had come, and he was left alone and bewildered in the middle of the forest.
He was jolted back to the theatre by a sharp jab to the ribs. ‘Barton!’ It was his wife, Alice. ‘The King is waving at you. Wake up!’ Lord Deverill turned towards the Royal Box. Indeed the King had raised his white glove. Lord Deverill bowed in response and the King beckoned one of his attendants with a flick of his fingers. The attendant bent down and the King whispered something in his ear. ‘I believe you will get your meeting with the King,’ said Alice, smiling with satisfaction. ‘King Charles will always remember those who were loyal to his father.’ Lord Deverill turned back to the stage just as the performance was beginning, and passed a finger absent-mindedly across his lips.