Orick fell silent, and the eyes and ears of every sheriff were upon him.
“What happened next?” Grits asked.
“I can’t be sure,” Orick answered. “At that moment, I turned and ran from Clere for my life. It was in the first dawnlight of the morning when I took off, and I didn’t stop running until the moon set that night, and even then, I hid. I went to the Salmon Fest, and from there I’ve heard stories the same as you-about how Gallen O’Day came back that day at dusk, with the sidhe warriors at his back, and the Angel of Death himself walking at his side, and then hunted the demons until nightfall. Some say that the sidhe chased the demons back to hell. Others say that the two sides are still fighting in Coille Sidhe. All that is sure is that no one has seen any sign of the demons, or of the sidhe, but Gallen O’Day rests easy in the village of Clere and is making plans for his wedding day.”
“And other folks say that it’s Gallen O’Day who opened the door to the Otherworld in the first place, at Geata na Chruinne,” the scar-faced sheriff said. “They say that in order to save his own life, he prayed to demons in Coille Sidhe and opened the doors to the netherworld.”
Orick considered the threat implied by that story. If these men believed Gallen was consorting with demons, they’d put him to death. Orick wondered if he might be able to turn these men from their course. “I wouldn’t believe such talk,” Orick said, hoping to calm them.
“It’s true enough,” Scarface said. He nodded toward a small fat man that Orick hadn’t noticed before. “Tell him.”
The fat man looked uneasy, bit his lip. “A-aye,” the fat man stammered. He had a bowl of stew in his hands, and he tried to set it down out of sight, as if he’d just been caught pilfering it. “It’s true. Me and my friends were planning to rob Gallen O’Day’s client, but he-Gallen-put four of us down before we could defend ourselves. It was only a lucky blow from one of us that felled him, and then that Gallen, he began praying long and low to the devil in a wicked voice. That’s when the sidhe appeared.
“I–I know it was wrong to try to rob a man, but if we’d known a priest would die from our wickedness.… Now, now I just want to wash my hands of it.”
Orick looked at the greasy little man and imagined sinking his teeth into the rolls of fat at the man’s chinless throat. The robber was glancing about, as if daring someone to name him a liar. Orick would have shouted the man down if he dared, but he knew that now was not the time.
Scarface said, “We intend to arrest Mister O’Day and put him on trial. Bishop Mackey signed a warrant”-he nodded toward the town’s inn-“and the Lord Inquisitor himself has come with us, along with two other witnesses who will swear that Gallen O’Day prayed to the Prince of Darkness. Aye, this O’Day is guilty of foul deeds, all right. And we’ll not let any southern priests conduct the questioning-not with their soft ways. We’ll wring the truth from him, if we have to skin him alive and salt his wounds.”
Orick raised a brow at this, then licked his snout. A full Bishop’s Inquisition would involve days of torture and scourging. They might even nail Gallen to the inverted cross. And though Gallen had a lot of heart in him, even he couldn’t endure such punishment. The lad would have no recourse but to fight these men for his life.
“Are you sure there’s enough of you to take Gallen O’Day?” Orick asked. “They say he’s a dangerous man himself. He’s killed more than a score of highwaymen and bandits. And if the Angel of Death is on his side, you’ll need more than thirty men to take him-even if you have the Lord Inquisitor to back you.”
Some of the younger men looked about to the faces of those around them. Fighting against Gallen O’Day was foolhardy enough. But no one would want to be found fighting against God.
“Hmmm …” Scarface muttered, squatting on the ground to think. “Things to consider. Things to consider.” He got a wineskin from his pack, filled a bowl, then looked up at Orick darkly, his thick brows pulled together, and said, “You’ve earned yourself more than a little supper. Sit with us tonight. Drink and eat hearty, Mister …”
Orick did not like his probing look.
“Boaz,” Grits answered quickly. “And I’m his friend, Grits.”
“Keep those bowls filled,” Scarface ordered his men, and he offered the wine to Orick.
Orick thanked him and began lapping at his bowl of stray lamb stew. He intended to eat his fill. He’d need the energy later tonight, when he ran to Clere to warn Gallen of the danger.
* * *
Chapter 2
“Maggie,” a man’s voice called. “Maggie Flynn? Are you in there?” His voice trailed to a garbled string of words Maggie couldn’t make out. She knew everyone in town, and whoever was hollering for her was a stranger.
Maggie looked up from sewing ivory buttons onto the back of her wedding dress, stared up toward the door of the inn, expecting the stranger to enter at any moment. It was a bitter cold day in early fall, with a sharp wind-sharp enough so that the fishermen of Clere had dragged their boats high onto the beach. A dozen of them were lounging about the fire, drinking hot rum.
Danny Teague, a stable boy who had shaggy hair and a fair-sized goiter, opened the door and looked out. A horse cart had drawn up outside the door. Its driver was a stranger in a gray leather greatcoat, a sprawling battered leather hat pulled low over his face. He had piercing gray eyes and a neatly trimmed sandy beard going gray. Still, at first glance, Maggie knew that it was his moustache, waxed so that the ends twirled in loops, that she’d remember when he was gone.
“I’m calling after Maggie Flynn,” the stranger shouted at Danny. “You don’t answer to that name, do you, man? What’s the matter with you-did your father marry his sister or something?”
Danny closed the door and sort of stumbled back under the weight of this verbal insult, and Maggie shoved her wedding dress up on the table.
“It’s all right, Danny,” she said with obvious annoyance. “I’ll have a word with Mr. Rudeness out there!”
Already, several fishermen had got up from their seats by the fire and were rather sidling toward the door. If the stranger had hoped for an audience-and folks who stood in the street and hollered usually did want an audience-well, he had one. And whatever Maggie said to him now was likely to be talked about in every house tonight-as if the town didn’t have enough to gossip about after the past few weeks: with demons and angels and fairies battling in the forests outside of town, the priest and innkeeper murdered.
Maggie got up, straightened her green wool dress and a white apron so that she looked the part of a matron who kept an inn-albeit a very young matron. Her long dark red hair was tied back.
She went and opened the door, gazed into the biting wind that smelled of ocean rime. The man’s wagon was old and battered, and it was drawn by a bony horse that looked as if it hoped to die before it had to plod another step. The blacksmith’s hammer had quit ringing across the street, and he stood squinting from the door of his shop. Elsewhere, an unusual number of people suddenly seemed to have business on the streets.
The stranger set the brake on his wagon and greeted her. “Damn it, Maggie, you look too damned much like your mother.”
She studied him. Since he spoke so familiarly, she thought she should know him, but she’d never seen his likeness before. “I’ll thank you to speak more reverently of the departed, Mr.…?”
“Thomas Flynn. Your uncle.”
Maggie glared at him, trying to consider what to say. Her mother had been dead for three years. Her father and brothers had all drowned a year and a half before that. And in all of that time she’d not seen so much as a whisker of Thomas Flynn’s beard nor got a single message expressing his sympathy.
“That’s right,” Thomas said, “your only kin has come to call. You can close your mouth now.”
From across the street, the blacksmith cracked a huge smile that barely showed through his bushy black beard. “Will you be giving us a song, Thomas?” he called.