Fortunate Son Read Online Free

dark little pockets of self-appointed supremacy. To Jemmy they were more like clumps of black peat. The sun had broken through the grey sky at last, and Jemmy squinted trying to spot Fynn.
    â€œJames Annesley!” a voice thundered.
    â€œAye?” Jemmy looked up, shielding his eyes from the brightness.
    â€œJust what do you think you’re doing here, knave?” The man was advancing on horseback, two other horsemen close behind.
    â€œWhat business do ye have with the lad?” Fynn was at Jemmy’s side. Jemmy could now see the man, mounted high, haughty and proud, the angular face scowling down at them. He saw the man’s gold cravat, cropped wig, blue three-corner hat. Nothing dark, no mourning clothes. The only black was in those eyes.
    â€œMy business is none of your concern, stable boy,” the man growled at Fynn. “Remove your nasty heretic arse from this holy yard.”
    â€œB’God ye’d best declare yerself, if ye wish t’ survive yer tongue!”
    â€œA challenge!” The man spun his spirited mount on the churchyard turf, the hooves spattering wet clumps of mud on Fynn and the people crowded around.
    The big Irishman, John Purcell, charged, brandishing a walking stick. “Get yer English arse down!” His guttural boom reverberating off the stone walls. Just as quickly, the other two Englishmen spurred their mounts toward him. Shouts and neighing erupted in Jemmy’s ears. He stepped back from the commotion, seeing the glint of a steel scabbard, hearing the ring of a blade slipping free. Silence descended. Everything stopped. Except the bells which continued their tolling far overhead. Fynn was once again beside Jemmy, John Purcell was being held back by the tip of a rapier, and Seán was standing wide-eyed on the far churchyard wall.
    â€œNow,” began the man. “Now that you’ve closed your Catholic gobs, I’ll speak t’ the young runt.” Infused with anger, a hint of brogue slid through the man’s efforts to maintain his English composure.
    Juggy stepped forward, clasping Jemmy by the elbow. “What do ya want with the young lord? He’s just buried his father, so he has. Tis that not enough? Or didn’t ya know?”
    â€œAye, so he’s just buried his father.” The man smirked, lowering his voice to a whisper. “But what do you know of it?” His lips curled to a grin. “I am the corpse’s brother.”
    â€œRichard Annesley,” Fynn said, reciting the name flatly.
    â€œM’da has no brother,” Jemmy said. “He—”
    â€œAye, but he did, Seámus. He did indeed.” Fynn was slowly advancing. “So Richard, where’s yer black beard? Or aren’t ye hiding behind no more?”
    â€œStand back!” Richard drew his pistol, cocking it. “Stand back, Irish cur!”
    Fynn stopped, then raised his arms, smiling. “Wouldn’t want t’ be upsettin’ ye. Ney. That wouldn’t do—now would it? Considering how upset ye must be over the loss of yer dear brother.” Richard shifted in his saddle, but kept his aim steady. “Let me think on this,” Fynn continued, now feigning contemplation. “If I be right, ye’ve come t’ claim the title and property of the Earlship for yerself. Aye?” He turned, patting the rump of the horse beside Richard. “And this here must be the arse of Captain Bailyn.”
    Bailyn jerked his horse around. “Get yer b’deviled hand off m’horse!” He spat at Fynn through two crooked yellow teeth. His thin face was pale, unshaven, smallpox scarred.
    Fynn smirked. “Good God, Bailyn, ye’re more ugly than last we saw ye.”
    Richard motioned Bailyn back. “Kennedy, the boy is a bastard. Ye know ‘tis so.”
    â€œI am not!” Jemmy burst.
    â€œYe say he is, do ye?” said Fynn. “Of course ye do.”
    Juggy stepped in front