In rural Ireland, when playing music was a crime punishable by death, Brigit Murphy plans a wedding celebration which will test the ultimate vow…’Til Death Us Do Part
1765, Killorglin, Ireland
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The rapping on the cottage door sent my sisters scattering like the chickens in the farmyard. Flapping, squawking, straightening garments askew after a day’s work. For we knew it wasn’t the knock of a fellow farmworker, enquiring about our health. Violent and demanding, it was the knock of Doom we Irish expected and feared everyday.
As the oldest, it fell to me to answer. Outside was a tall well-fed man with a dusting of rain on his policeman’s coat and an expression like milk spoiled in the sun.
“Are you Miss Brigit Murphy? A maid at the Ashby cattle ranch?”
“That I am.” I cursed my voice for cracking.
“I’m Sergeant Hugo Ross, investigating a breech of the King’s law.”
The cows in the fields looked over curiously, mooing, as if in warning.
“Get out,” the English Sergeant ordered. My sisters curtsied, faces as red as their hair, then shot through the door. I tried to follow but he gripped my arm. “Not you, Miss Murphy.”
The door clanged shut behind him like a prison gate.
Holding his handkerchief to his nose, he looked me over — regarding my thin form, the spray of freckles across my nose, my flame-red hair contained beneath a cotton cap, but for a rogue strand.
“By order of King George III, I am here to inspect your… ” — he scowled about the one-room cottage — “…abode. There’ve been reports of Irish music in the village.”
“Music?” I shook my head. “No, sir. There’s no music round here.”
“Which, as you know,” he continued, “is punishable by hanging. From the nearest tree. I noticed a few strong trees about the farm which could do the job.”
All Irish knew of the British Penal laws banning Irish culture and music. We couldn’t own land, get an education or any work but serving our British lords. We even had to pray in secret.
Sergeant Ross moved about the room, poking things with his baton, unwilling to soil his fingers. There wasn’t much to see: six beds squeezed together and a table with plates, a basin and jug for washing.
An iron pot hung over the fire, bubbling away. He sniffed.
“What’s in there?”
“Dinner. Irish stew.” I paused. “May I offer some to chase off the cold on this miserable night?”
He nodded. As I prepared the stew, adding a few special herbs, he threw the bed covers onto the dirt floor.
“Which one is yours?”
I pointed to the bed on the left.
“Is this your trunk?” He dragged a heavy box from underneath.
“I share it with my sisters.”
The Sergeant took his time examining the contents, especially the underclothing. As I handed him the stew, he gave me a smile — more chilling than his darkest look.
“Thank you.” His fingers clamped over mine for several skin-crawling seconds.
Slurping the stew, he dumped the trunk’s contents onto the floor and flung something behind. It was a necklace with a cross — all I had of my mother. I flinched but dared not speak.
Slurp. “Not bad,” he said.
“A family recipe.”
“I’m looking for a musician. Seamus O’Reilly. Some call him the Shadow Strummer. I call him scum.” His snake eyes watched my reaction. “Heard of him?”
I shook my head.
“Don’t lie to me, girl.”
“Well, I’ve heard of him,” I admitted. “But I’ve never heard him play. I wouldn’t.”
O’Reilly’s music was said to ignite the Irish spirit of rebellion in all who listened. He’d eluded capture for the past year, a thought which brought a whiskey- warmth to my soul.
“We’ll get him in the end,” said Sergeant Ross. “I look forward to his final music — the choking chorus and the tuneful creaking of the rope.”
Slurp.
“What’s this?” He held up a long stiff string. “For a fiddle, perhaps?”
“No,” I cried. “That’s twine to sew our bedding.” I pointed to the roughly stitched cover over the straw mattress.
He coughed a few times and would have quizzed me further, only he’d spotted something. Something I’d prayed he wouldn’t see.
He held the item towards the candlelight, the better to study it. It was a dress, off-white, with an abundance of lace. “Is this…your wedding dress? It’s your wedding in the village this weekend!”
“Yes sir.” My lips were dry. “It was my grandmother’s. There’s no law stopping Irish weddings, is there?”
“The way you Irish breed, perhaps there should be.” He smirked. “You’ll be knee-deep in sprogs in a few years. Shame to lose that pretty figure.”
He reached for my waist. I stepped back and he began coughing again.
“A drink, sir?”
He nodded and I poured him some ale. He chugged it greedily, careless of how it dribbled onto my gown.
“Tell me,” he said, “will there be entertainment at the wedding?” He jiggled the dress, like a ghost bride dancing. Firelight reflected on the pearl buttons. “Fiddle music, perhaps? Played by the King’s enemy, Seamus O’Reilly?”
“No!” I said. “No music but the cows mooing.”
The sergeant laughed, then coughed. And couldn’t stop. Dark blood speckled the dress. He began to stagger.
“More drink!” he bellowed.
“No, you’ve had quite enough. You’re making a right mess of my dress.” I snatched it from him and wiped off the blood.
His expression morphed to surprise just as mine changed too — into a grin. “Oh, sorry, I’m smiling. I suppose that’s against the law too.” I removed my cap, letting my red hair flow free.
“You are having music at the wedding!” Red drool bubbled from his lips.
He crumpled to the floor. The wolfsbane was taking effect. Soon he would feel his heart slow, then stop. For now, his gaze remained on my face. And my smiling Irish eyes.
“And Seamus O’Reilly, the enemy of England, will be playing!” he spluttered.
“No, Seamus won’t be playing at the wedding,” I said. “He’s the one I’m marrying!”