“Well, there is Maggie here,” Seamus said with a wink, and Gallen saw that he’d been planning this all along. With Gallen and Maggie sitting so close together, it was a perfect opportunity to torment them both. No one in town could have missed the glances they exchanged, and Gallen had just about decided that Maggie was the one for him. “Now, Maggie has it all-she has her wit, she’s a charmer, and she works as hard as three people.”
“True, true,” Father Heany agreed.
“And looks!” Seamus said. “More men come here to look at Maggie than ever came in for a drink! Why, if some boy were to marry her, it would deal a horrible blow to John Mahoney’s business. Sure, you’ll not find a better catch in all of County Morgan than Maggie Flynn.”
“But …” Father Heany said with a sigh, “she’s too young. The poor girl is only sixteen.” He said it with such finality, Gallen knew it was more than a casual thought, it was a verdict. Father Heany was only repeating aloud in front of Gallen the things that others in town had decided in private.
“Too young?” Seamus argued. “Why, she’s but two months away from her birthday!”
The priest held up his hands. “Sixteen-even an old sixteen-is marginal, very marginal. Marrying a girl so young borders on sin, and I’d never perform the ceremony!” he declared. “Now, if you ask me-and I’m sure the scriptures would back me up on it-eighteen is far more respectable! But if you make a woman wait until she’s twenty, then it seems to me you’re sinning the other way and ought to be roundly chastised for making the lady wait.”
Seamus raised his brow, gave Gallen a look that said, “You can’t argue with a priest,” then drained his glass. Maggie got up to refill it, but Seamus shooed her away with a wave. “So, that’s how you feel about it, Father Heany,” Seamus said as he hitched his pants and strolled to the bar. “Well, all I can say is that it’s growing mighty cold in this corner of the room, so I think I’ll sit me by the fire and leave the young ones be.”
Seamus filled his mug, then sat at a table nearer to the fire. Father Heany and Orick followed, leaving Gallen alone. Father Heany took up a fiddle and began playing a mournful tune appropriate for a cold night. Maggie sat down next to Gallen. He put his arm around her shoulders, and as soon as Seamus had his back turned, she glanced around the room quickly to make sure no one was looking, then nipped Gallen’s ear.
“Gallen O’Day,” she whispered fiercely, “why don’t you come up to my room? I’ll let you play on my feather bolster, and you can undress me with your teeth.”
“What?” he whispered, feeling blood rush to his ears. “You’ve got to be joking! You could have a baby from that. You wouldn’t want to get tied down with children so young.”
“I’m old enough to cook and clean from sunrise to sunset for a bunch of dirty beggars who give me no consideration and don’t know enough to take off their muddy boots before they flop onto a bed. Taking care of a husband and a couple of sweet young ones would be a holiday after this.”
“Ah, Maggie,” Gallen said, “you heard Father Heany. Give yourself another year or two to grow up.”
“I’ll have you know, Gallen O’Day,” Maggie said, “that most men in these parts think I’m old enough already. You should see my backside: I’ve been pinched so many times that it looks like I’ve been sitting in a bowlful of black currants!”
Gallen knew a threat when he heard one. She was saying, either you pay more attention to me, or I’ll find someone who will. And she wouldn’t have to look far. Gallen took a thick oak stick from his pocket and began simultaneously twisting and squeezing it, an exercise he used to strengthen his wrists. “Hmmm …” he said, “maybe I should take a look at your backside.” He felt her warm breath on his neck.
“You’re not a religious man, are you?” she asked. “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m just after fornicating with you. If you would rather have a priest and some vows first-”
“No, it’s not that,” Gallen assured her, yet marriage was exactly the problem. She was so young that no honorable man would propose to her, yet she couldn’t bear the thought of working here for another two years. So, if she happened to turn up with a child in her belly, the whole town would just wink at it and hurry the wedding. It was an odd turn of events, Gallen thought, when the town would view a shameful wedding as somehow being more noble than an honorable proposal.
“If I were to propose right now,” Gallen said, “it would hurt us in the long run.”
“In what way?”
“I want to have a political career,” Gallen said. “Father Heany is right. I’ll never make a living by selling my escort services around here. I’ve killed too many highwaymen. Next year, I plan to run for county sheriff. But I can’t do that and go tumbling in bed with you. It would bring shame on us both. I beg of you, give yourself time to grow up.”
“Is that a promise you’re making me,” Maggie asked, her shoulder muscles going stiff in his arms, “or are you just trying to brush me off like a gentleman?”
Gallen looked into her dark eyes, eyes such a deep brown that they were almost black. She smelled of good honest sweat and lilac perfume. Outside, a fierce gust of wind howled and sleety rain spattered against the windows with such startling ferocity that Gallen and Maggie turned to glance at it. The window rattled so loud, Gallen had been sure that someone had pushed against it. He turned back to Maggie. “You’re a sweet girl, Maggie Flynn. I beg you, be patient with me.”
Maggie pulled away, disappointed, perhaps hurt. He still hadn’t promised himself to her, and she wanted a commitment, even if it was informal.
The inn door swung open, and a sheet of rain whipped into the room. At first Gallen thought the wind had finally succeeded in blowing the door open, but after a moment, in walked a stranger in traveling clothes-a tall fellow in riding boots and a brown wool greatcloak with a hood. He wore two swords strapped over his cloak-one oddly straight saber with a strange finger guard on its hilt, and another equally long curved blade. By wearing the swords over the cloak in such a downpour, the stranger risked that his blades would rust but kept his swords handy.
Only a man who made a living with his weapons ever wore them so.
Everyone in the alehouse stopped to stare: the stranger must have been riding in the dark for at least five hours, a sign that he had urgent business. Furthermore, he stood at the door without removing his hood, then silently inspected each person in the room. Gallen wondered if he might be an outlaw. He didn’t seem to want his face to be seen in town, yet his roving eyes appraised each person in the room as if he were a hunter, rather than hunted.
At last, he stepped aside from the door so that a slender waif of a woman could enter the room. She stood in the doorway for a moment, erect, head held high with her hood still covering her face. Gallen saw by his tense posture that the man was her servant, her guard. She wore a bright blue traveling robe trimmed with golden rabbits and foxes. Under her arm she carried a small harp case made of rosewood. She hesitated for a moment, then started forward and her hood fell back.
She was the most beautiful woman Gallen had ever seen. Not the most voluptuous or seductive-just the most perfect. She held herself with a regal air and looked to be about twenty. Her hair was as dark as a starless night. The line of her jaw was strong and firm. Her skin was creamy in complexion and her face looked worn, tired, but her dark blue eyes were alive and brilliant. Gallen recalled the words to an old song: “Her eyes kindle a fire for a lonely man to warm himself by.”
Maggie boxed Gallen’s jaw playfully and said, “Gallen O’Day, if your tongue hangs out any farther, all you will have to do is wag it to clean the mud off your boots.”