Outside the prison, Caitlyn was half blinded by tears. She clutched Father Patrick's arm as the priest hurried her along toward where their horses had been stabled at a nearby inn. The night was dark and moonless, and Caitlyn reckoned it lacked two hours yet of dawn. Drunken revels were taking place in the street around the prison even at this wee hour of the morn.
With so much activity going on, she paid no attention as a closed carriage rumbled down the street toward them. Only when it stopped did she look up. Two men leaped from the inside, brandishing clubs. Father Patrick stopped short, thrusting Caitlyn behind him.
"In the name of God, begone!" he thundered. "We've naught for you, naught worth robbing!"
" 'Tis not your valuables we're after, ye bloody idolater! We've come for the wench. Hand her over, or we'll split your skull for ye, priest or no!"
"Ye may try!" Father Patrick roared, and lunged at one of the men as he bellowed at Caitlyn to run. But there was no time. The second of the men brought his club down on Father Patrick's head with a sound like a melon splitting. Father Patrick dropped to the street like a fallen tree. Caitlyn, on the verge of flying to his defense, looked up at the men advancing on her and turned to run. She got about two feet before one of them caught her by the flapping tail of the too-big priest's robe and jerked her off her feet.
"Hold her, now! Ouch, watch out, she bites! Get her in the bloody carriage, mate, and quick!"
Caitlyn screamed and fought, but they were big, burly men and she had to have a care for the babe inside her. The drunken revelers camped in front of the prison barely paused in their merrymaking to watch. Such scenes were all too common in Dublin. Until one of them noticed that the man lying unconscious on the ground was a priest…
"Eh, look there, they've bashed a Holy Father, bloody Protestant dogs!"
"A priest? They've harmed a priest? Let's be at them!" The clumsy charge of rescuers came too late. Caitlyn was bundled inside the coach as the drunken gladiators rushed across the road. She heard an outcry, and the sounds of battle, and assumed the two men who had attacked her were themselves under attack. For whatever reason, they were left behind as the coach lurched forward. She fell heavily, hitting her head against the floor. Someone caught her, held her arms. Someone else leaned over her, pressing a foul-smelling rag over her face. Even as she fought for her life, she looked up and saw the face of the man who would suffocate her. She recoiled with horror. It was Sir Edward Dunne!
And then she lost all consciousness.