A Man of Honour
Chapters (73)
- Cover
- Dedication
- PART ONE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- PART TWO
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- PART THREE
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- PART FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- PART FIVE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- Keep Reading …
- About the Author
- Also by Barbara Taylor Bradford
- About the Publisher
Cover
Dedication
To the memory of my beloved husband,
my darling Bob. Always my joy and
inspiration and in my heart forever.
PART ONE
Flight of the Eagle
North Kerry, Ireland
1899
ONE
It was very windy on the top of the cliffs. He hadn’t expected that, to be sure. And it was a strong wind that buffeted him forward. It was as if two strong hands were pushing him. Mighty hands at that.
He staggered and flayed about, and attempted to stay upright. Somehow he managed to do so, but he was suddenly afraid. The cliff top was a dangerous place to be on this cold morning.
It was Monday 8 May in the Year of Our Lord 1899, yet, despite the month, the weather was icy. What bad luck he had in choosing to come here. Daft, I am, he thought, that’s a certainty.
His bright mind was racing as he continued to be battered about, and so he threw himself on the ground, deeming it the best place to be as this gale raged around him.
Once down on the ground, he began to crawl across the grass, heading for the formation of boulders grouped together. He knew these cliffs well, and there was a crevice between them. He could squeeze in there and be protected until the wind settled down or disappeared. If I be lucky, he thought miserably.
It was some relief when he reached the rocks and managed to get comfortable in the crevice. Sitting back, he pulled his overcoat around him and stuck his hands in his pockets. Although he was still shivering, being sheltered from the wind helped. He warmed up a bit.
His name was Shane Patrick Desmond O’Neill but the whole world called him Blackie. He lived in a hamlet in North Kerry these days, with his cousins Michael and Siobhan O’Brien. They had invited him to come and live with them in their cramped thatched cottage after his sister Bronagh had died a few months ago.
The twins were employed by the wealthy Anglo-Irish Lassiter family, who lived in the mansion up on the hill above the hamlet. Huddled against the rocks, his thoughts stayed with his cousins.
Michael was a gardener and Siobhan a housemaid. They were not paid very much; he knew that only too well, sure enough he did. Yet they managed better than their neighbours. He mentally hugged them to himself, because they were so caring of him in his time of dire need. His heart ached for his sister – his whole family. They were all dead now. Killed by this fearful land they lived in.
How he longed to leave this place. If only he were a bird he could take flight … soar up and away … be free of pain and sorrow.