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of Jemmy. “So whose child ya say he is?”
    â€œAh, m’lady,” Richard began. “I’d think you’d be the Betty t’ answer that.” Juggy’s face tightened, her cheeks growing red.
    â€œDamn ye!” Fynn erupted. “I’ll not stand for yer insults against the lady or the lad.”
    â€œLady, say you?” Richard spurred his horse sideways, placing his pistol against Fynn’s temple, knocking off Fynn’s hat. “I told you, maggot, step away.” As Fynn took one deliberate step back, Richard grabbed Juggy by the collar, dragging her to his saddle, pressing her smooth face against the leather. He leaned down to her ear, his eyes and pistol still aimed at Fynn. “As you’re aware, I speak true when I say the knave is the son of a whore. Aye, Mistress Mackercher?” He released her with a slight shove.
    As Juggy stumbled back, Jemmy charged. “Ye’re not my uncle! I have no uncle!” Just as he bolted by the third horseman, the man kicked out a spur, slicing Jemmy’s right cheek, knocking him to the mud. He clutched his jaw, blood streaming through his fingers. Juggy was to him but he was already on his feet, backing up, refusing her, glaring at everyone.
    â€œNow hear me, all of ye!” shouted Richard, straightening in his saddle. “This bastard boy goes by the name James Annesley, claiming to be the son of the widow Mary Annesley, once Lady Anglesea. But as you all well know, my brother was a drunken whoremonger and this boy is but a whore’s son. He is a charlatan. An imposter and a liar. I am Lord Richard Annesley, the one and true Earl of Anglesea. And so help me, I’ll hang the one of ye who says otherwise.” He pointed his pistol at Jemmy. “Starting with you.”
    Jemmy stared back, eyes narrowing.

Chapter 3
Catharine MacCormick, examined — “Lady Anglesea miscarried about six weeks after her coming to Dunmain. I heard it from Mrs. Charity Heath, her woman, who said that her ladyship would be as fruitful a woman as any, but for ill-usage by his lordship. About two months after I heard that Lady Anglesea was again with child. I was told so by Mrs. Heath, who mentioned to me, with a great deal of pleasure, that she had good news, that my lady was certainly with child again.”
    â€” trial transcript, Annesley v. Anglesea, 1743

Alas, my Love! Ye do me wrong
To cast me off discourteously;
And I have loved ye so long,
Delighting in yer company.

Greensleeves was all my joy,
Greensleeves was my delight;
Greensleeves was my heart of gold,
And who but Lady Greensleeves.

— “Greensleeves, ”Anonymous, 1581

    Misty fog, aglow in the morning’s half-light, settled over St. Stephen’s Green, the vast open land on the western edge of Dublin. In a remote corner a meandering creek murmured along, slicing through a pale meadow, dividing trees—trees which sheltered the moist grass and the damp rocks which had tumbled from stone walls overgrown with ferns. It was early, yet the blackbirds were already beginning to fuss and caw. Time crept by, as had the five months since the funeral dirge that continued to play. Jemmy was sitting against one of those enormous oaks. He was focused, his mouth agape, the pink scar etched along his right cheek pointed to his hands where he was trying to count the legs of an orange centipede—he had not made it past seventeen. He would get the poisonous creature to cling to a small stick, its crittery back coiled into a tight ball. Then he would start counting. But whenever he would get to about seventeen, the vermin would uncurl, crawling quickly to the other end of the stick. With no desire to hold the thing, he would quickly invert the stick and begin counting yet again. “Ah, ye little turd,” he whispered as it touched his hand, spawning a cold shiver. Hearing the sound of someone approaching, he peered around the trunk. It was