Flight of the Eagle by Peter Watt Read Free Book Online Page A

learning more about the history of this county, George,’ Eamon said brightly. ‘No doubt to add to his understanding of the Fitzgeralds and the Duffys.’
    Patrick had noticed that the priest used the old man's name in the familiar and guessed rightly they were firm friends – despite the difference on opinion over religion, and Ireland's political future.
    ‘Then he has arrived at an opportune time, Eamon,’ George replied. ‘I am having a dinner for a few guests tomorrow night. Amongst my guests is Professor Clark who I have been corresponding with about our hill. He feels it may be well worth undertaking a dig.’
    ‘We saw Catherine there on our way here,’ Eamon said quietly.
    Patrick thought he noticed a fleeting shadow of disapproval cross the old man's face. But Fitzgerald made no comment, except to frown. ‘Catherine has probably as good a knowledge of the history of this region as her grandfather and I,’ Eamon added, as if attempting to defend the girl's presence on the strange, dome-shaped hill. ‘She is fluent in Gaelic and somewhat an authority on the old stories of the country. Especially those relating to the Celtic heroes and Druidic customs.’
    ‘She neglects her French to achieve her fluency in that language,’ her grandfather growled as he threw back the last drams of whisky and soda. ‘I fear she has an unholy interest in the myths and towards that purpose she studies the old texts.’
    Father Eamon O'Brien had to agree with his friend. The pagan ways of Old Ireland were steeped in savagery with dark sexual undercurrents always present, a licentiousness of the warrior cult where the strongest took all they desired. As if conjuring the old gods by speaking of their existence in the mists of Celtic mythology, Patrick was suddenly aware of another presence in the room.
    The pungent smell of dog and the sweeter scent of crushed flowers came to him on the whisper of a breeze. Catherine's barefooted entry into the library had been so silent that the men had not noticed the big oak door swing open behind them.
    The two male hounds were impressive creatures, each two and a half feet tall at the shoulder with their long wiry grey coats giving them bulk. Patrick had heard of the legendary dogs of Ireland – the Irish wolf hounds – which had graced the halls of the Celtic kings. He remembered that they had been used to hunt wolves and deer, and the two that had accompanied Catherine certainly looked as big as any deer they might hunt.
    The two giants padded across to the hearth and plonked themselves before the fire at George Fitzgerald's feet. ‘Catherine, we have a guest Father O'Brien has brought from the village,’ her grandfather said. ‘Captain Patrick Duffy.’
    Patrick rose, turning to exchange his introduction and was struck as surely as a heavy lead bullet from a Martini Henry carbine might fell him. Standing before him and framed by the ancient timbers of the doorway was the most beautiful young woman he had ever seen. Her fiery red hair unencumbered by combs or ribbons, flowed about her shoulders. Her milk white complexion was flawless and her deep green eyes almost glowed in the dim light of the library, such was their startling clarity. She wore a blouse in peasant European style – similar to those worn by gypsies – and her long skirt swirled around her ankles as she crossed the room. Patrick fought to recover his composure. ‘Miss Fitzgerald, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,’ he stammered. He was annoyed to see the flicker of haughty amusement cross her face. The damned girl knew she was beautiful! How many other men had she devastated with her beauty?
    Catherine continued to hold his rapt gaze. ‘I have been expecting you to come, Captain Duffy,’ she said quietly with her faint smile. ‘From the hill I saw you with Father O'Brien.’
    ‘I also saw you, Miss Fitzgerald,’ Patrick answered, recovering his composure. ‘Then you seemed to disappear.’
    ‘I can do