Ballinakelly, County Cork, 1667
Charles II, six feet tall, black-eyed, black-haired, swarthy and as handsome as the Devil, was in his apartments in the rambling, ramshackle rabbit warren that was Whitehall Palace. Attended by his mistress, Countess of Castlemaine, his friend the Duke of Buckingham, and his pack of spaniels, which he referred to as his “children,” he was sitting at the card table when Lord Deverill strode into the room and bowed low. “Your Majesty,” he said.
“Oh join us, Deverill,” said the King without looking up. “Take a hand. What’s y’ stake?”
The King liked winning money off his friends and Deverill tossed his into the middle of the table and sat down. “How are the girls out there in godforsaken Ireland, Deverill?”
“Bonny,” Lord Deverill replied. “But my mind isn’t on the girls, Your Majesty, but on the rebels . . .”
The King waved his hands and the large jewels on his fingers glittered in the candlelight and the intricate lace ruffles of his sleeves fluttered about his wrists. “We’ll send you some men, of course, speak to Clarendon,” he said, and that was as much business as the King wanted to discuss. Lord Deverill knew there was a strong chance that reinforcements would come too late, if at all, because the King was more concerned about the threat of invasion from the Dutch. “How considerate of you, Deverill, to marry a beautiful woman,” the King continued, his lips curling into a languid smile as the Countess stuck out her bottom lip and gave a loud and irritated sigh. “We’re all terribly tired of looking at the same faces and gossiping about the same people. You really must bring her to Court more often.”
“She would like that very much,” Lord Deverill replied. The King was unable to resist the allure of a beautiful woman and had been given the nickname “Old Rowley” after a lecherous old goat that used to roam the privy garden. Lord Deverill did not believe he would wear a pair of horns well and decided that the sooner he took his wife to Ireland the better.
However, this was not the occasion to take her to Castle Deverill. Barton left his wife in the safety of their house in London and headed for home. It was a long and arduous journey across the Irish Sea, but the weather was favorable and he reached the mainland without a hitch. With a small escort of the King’s men who had met him at the port he galloped over the hills toward Ballinakelly.
The wind blew in strong gusts, propelling him on, and oppressive gray clouds gathered damp and heavy above him. Spring was but a few weeks away and yet the landscape looked wintry and cold and the buds already forming on the trees remained firmly shut. Still, in spite of the bleak light and dreary skies, Ireland’s soft beauty was arresting. Her green and gently undulating fields appealed directly to his heart and Lord Deverill feared the scene of devastation that would welcome him home.
With trepidation he cantered to the crest of the hill and looked down into the valley where his castle stood, overlooking the ocean. His heart plummeted to his feet as he gazed upon the manifestation of all his ambitions, now a grisly wreck, still leaking a ribbon of smoke into the wind. Fury rose in him then like a latent beast suddenly awoken by the sharp prod of a sword. He dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks and galloped down the track. His gut twisted with anguish as he approached the scene of battle. Although the castle was still standing, it had taken a terrible battering and the eastern tower had been completely lost to fire.
He recognized his friend, the Duke of Ormonde’s colors at once and when the soldiers saw him they were quick to take him to their captain. “Lord Deverill,” the captain said as Barton strode into the hall.
“What the devil has happened?” he asked, his feverish eyes scanning the room for damage and finding none. At least they hadn’t fought their way into the building, he reflected.
“His Grace rushed to your aid as soon as he heard the news. We arrived just in time to secure the castle. Your men were on the back foot. Had it not been for His Grace’s quick response you wouldn’t have had a home to come back to.”
“I cannot express my gratitude. I am forever indebted to the Duke,” said Lord Deverill quietly. As loyal supporters of King Charles II during his exile in France, the Duke and Lord Deverill had become firm friends. At the restoration Ormonde had recovered his vast estates in Ireland confiscated by Cromwell and been reinstated Lieutenant of Ireland, a position he had held under King Charles I. He was consequently the most powerful man in the country. An important ally most certainly but he was also a trusted friend; when Lord Deverill had needed him most Ormonde had not let him down.
“Who’s behind this?” Lord Deverill growled. “By God I shall have their heads.”
“Those who survived are imprisoned in the stables. You can be sure that the Duke will see that they are severely castigated. This is not simply a rebellion against Your Lordship, but a revolt against the King, and they shall be duly punished.”
“We must make an example of them,” said Lord Deverill fiercely. “Let the people of County Cork see what happens when they rise up against their English lords.”
The captain rubbed his chin and frowned. “There is a woman at the heart of the plot, Lord Deverill, and she will be tried as a witch.”
Lord Deverill’s face drained of color. “A woman?” he said slowly, but he knew very well who she was.
“Indeed. A pagan woman called O’Leary, my lord. It is she who started the rebellion. The men are quick to accuse her of bewitching them. After all, this was her land, was it not, Lord Deverill, and it has been reported that she cursed you and your descendants. There are many who witnessed it.”
Lord Deverill didn’t know what to say. He could not deny the curse and any word in her favor could be counterproductive, considering what he had done to her in the woods. He pictured her face, as it appeared to him in daydreams and night terrors, and nodded sharply. “She did,” he replied. His mind searched wildly for a way to help her, scurrying about his head like a rabbit in a pen, but found nothing. His jaw tensed at the thought of her inciting rebellion, at the horror of his ruined home and at her betrayal. He had no business in helping her, no business in loving her. Yet she had crawled beneath his skin and insinuated herself into his heart like an exquisite caterpillar, exploding upon his consciousness like a beautiful butterfly. Perhaps that was witchcraft too?
“What will become of her?” Lord Deverill asked.
The captain pulled a face and shrugged. “She’ll most likely burn,” he replied and his words made Lord Deverill wince.
“Most likely?”
“Aye, it’s the decision of His Grace, His Majesty’s representative, and yourself.”
“Very well,” he replied with a shudder, knowing there was no decision to be made; no reason to save her that would not expose him. “I will leave it to His Grace. I have no wish to see her.” He didn’t want her throwing accusations at him, although he doubted anyone would believe them; he was ashamed of having taken her in the wood.
“She was pregnant, Milord, almost to term.”
“Pregnant?” Lord Deverill repeated, making a great effort to keep his voice steady. But the panic that suddenly gripped his stomach was as potent as a physical blow.
“Aye, but she lost it,” the captain added. “She’ll be tried now and God save her soul.”
Lord Deverill took his bottom lip between his teeth and ran his tongue along the soft inside part where she had bitten him. He could still almost taste the blood. The thought of laying eyes on her, bound like a captured animal, made him recoil. He was afraid, not just because she was a witch, but because he was frightened of his own heart and what it might rouse him to do. “Then let it be done,” he said and left the room.