In politics, disagreement was inevitable.
If differences became truly irreconcilable, people simply left and formed another party. But when circumstances made that impossible, opposing views had no choice but to coexist within the same organization.
O'Connell's Repeal movement had not yet reached that stage.
Still, the signs were beginning to appear.
"William Smith O'Brien is one of the men leading what people are starting to call the Young Ireland faction," O'Connell said. "You seem to know a little about them already. They're a group whose ideas differ somewhat from mine."
"I've heard some people say your methods are too slow," Killian replied.
O'Connell smiled faintly.
"I believe violence should never be used under any circumstances. Some of the younger men find that… frustrating."
The Young Ireland faction was exactly what its name suggested: young, passionate Irish nationalists.
In the original course of history they would not emerge for several more years. But with O'Connell's rapid rise, their formation seemed to have been accelerated.
"Considering everything you've achieved," Killian said, "it's difficult to argue your strategy has been ineffective."
"They wouldn't dare say that to my face," O'Connell replied. "But as our influence grows, some think we should push harder—be more aggressive."
He chuckled softly.
"Young men always have hot blood."
"From where I'm sitting," Killian said dryly, "it sounds more like childish impatience. Are there many in the party who support them?"
"No," O'Connell said immediately. "If there were, I wouldn't simply be watching. Aside from O'Brien, perhaps John Mitchel and Osborne Davis. And even among them, O'Brien is the most extreme."
"He openly advocates violence?"
"Yes. And he has very little support."
That explained why O'Connell had not intervened.
If the faction had been large enough to threaten the party's unity, he would have crushed it immediately. But if O'Brien's views were marginal even within the faction, there was no reason to escalate the matter.
When an organization grew large enough, all sorts of voices inevitably emerged.
And O'Connell was not the kind of leader who would silence every minor disagreement by force.
"Still," Killian said, "O'Brien holds a seat in the House of Commons. Even without broad support, publicly opposing your approach seems… dangerous."
"Advocating violence is unacceptable, of course," O'Connell said. "But not every disagreement is so simple."
He sighed.
"For example, there's the language question."
Killian nodded.
"You support expanding English education."
"Exactly," O'Connell said. "The younger men insist Ireland should abandon English entirely and revive Irish alone."
Killian understood the dilemma.
Language and nationalism were inseparable.
From a purely emotional perspective, it was strange for a leader demanding Irish independence to insist on mastering the language of England.
But O'Connell's reasoning was practical.
English was becoming a global language. Rejecting it outright would weaken Ireland rather than strengthen it.
The younger nationalists disagreed. In their view, learning English would inevitably erode Irish identity.
Both sides had a point.
At least on this issue, neither position was entirely unreasonable.
"And O'Brien?" Killian asked.
"He's one of the loudest critics."
O'Connell studied him for a moment.
"But why bring this up now? What does it have to do with the Whigs attacking me?"
Killian smiled slightly.
"That's what I intend to find out."
"I see."
"If I want the full story, I'll need to hear it from O'Brien himself," Killian continued. "And unfortunately, I doubt he'd be eager to speak with me."
From the perspective of the Young Ireland faction, Killian was practically a traitor.
Someone obstructing Ireland's independence.
Cold logic might suggest otherwise, but extremists rarely cared about logic.
"Should I arrange a meeting?" O'Connell offered.
"No."
Killian shook his head.
"If you do that, the Whigs will know immediately. And if the conversation goes badly, O'Brien might reveal everything."
"So you'll handle it yourself?"
"Yes. But I may need to use certain… methods."
O'Connell narrowed his eyes.
"You're not planning to harm him, are you?"
"Of course not."
Killian smiled politely.
A refined gentleman like himself would never directly assault a fellow Member of Parliament.
He would merely create a situation where the man felt a slight sense of danger.
After all, if someone argued that violence might sometimes be necessary, surely they were prepared to be on the receiving end of it.
And if they weren't—
Well.
Then they were about to learn.
* * *
London, July 1837.
Three weeks had passed since the death of King William IV.
The funeral was held at St George's Chapel in Windsor Castle, conducted with solemn ceremony.
By tradition, the reigning monarch did not attend the funeral of the previous sovereign. Thus Victoria remained absent.
The absence symbolized the end of one reign and the beginning of another.
Instead, the Duke of Sussex led the procession behind the coffin on the Queen's behalf.
The chapel was filled with the empire's elite: nobles, members of the House of Lords, and every Member of Parliament.
The Archbishop of Canterbury delivered the eulogy.
"…His Majesty devoted his life to the service of his country, guiding the nation through reform and progress. May King William IV find eternal rest beside the Lord, and may God bless the reign of our new Queen…"
As the choir began its hymn, William Smith O'Brien struggled not to laugh.
What a ridiculous spectacle.
The king of England had died.
And yet the entire Irish delegation—including himself—had been forced to attend and pretend to mourn.
Of course, it was customary to send representatives when a neighboring monarch died.
But that was not what this was.
Ireland was now considered part of the United Kingdom, and Irish MPs were expected to attend as loyal subjects.
That was nothing more than the logic of conquerors.
Anyone truly concerned with Ireland's future should at least protest.
Yet most simply accepted it.
O'Connell's approach has limits, O'Brien thought.
Some people accused him of opposing O'Connell.
That was nonsense.
O'Connell was a great man—one worthy of respect.
But Ireland had grown stronger. Its influence had expanded.
The time had come to change strategy.
Otherwise opportunists like Killian Gore would continue to thrive.
O'Brien's gaze drifted across the chapel.
There he was.
Killian stood among the Conservative MPs, eyes closed in prayer.
That filthy traitor.
A man with Irish blood who had chosen to become England's most obedient servant.
If Ireland ever achieved independence, O'Brien swore he would personally see Killian hanged.
The worst part was the man's growing influence.
Northern Ireland had practically become the Gore family's domain.
Even in the south, admiration for Killian was spreading.
And now his aunt Cecilia had entered the royal family as Duchess of Inverness.
Many Irish people saw this as proof that an Irishman could succeed in Britain.
It was dangerous.
Extremely dangerous.
I have no choice but to accept their proposal.
If Ireland was to be saved, drastic measures were necessary.
Even if it meant betraying the man he respected most.
Surely O'Connell would understand.
Surely he would bear that cross for Ireland.
Having convinced himself of this, O'Brien left Windsor Castle the moment the ceremony ended.
He had no desire to remain in such a place a second longer.
He entered the carriage waiting outside and closed his eyes, reviewing his plans.
He would meet the Whig representative next week to finalize matters.
Everything was already prepared.
Now the only task was avoiding suspicion.
Then something felt strange.
O'Brien glanced out the window.
"…Wait. This isn't the road we came by."
The driver said nothing.
"Hey! Did you hear me?"
The carriage screeched to a halt.
O'Brien lurched forward, smashing his face into the seat.
"What the—"
He opened the door.
And froze.
Several masked men were waiting outside.
"William Smith O'Brien?"
"Do you know who I am?" O'Brien snapped. "I'm a Member of the House of Commons—"
"Good. We got the right man."
One of the men raised a pistol.
"If you try anything stupid, you die."
Even O'Brien could hardly believe it.
Kidnapping a sitting MP.
In broad daylight.
Outside Windsor Castle.
Only two types of people would dare such a thing.
Men with immense power—
Or absolute lunatics.
Either way, resistance was pointless.
O'Brien stepped down from the carriage.
His driver lay unconscious nearby.
Who are these people…?
For now, he had only one option.
Cooperate.
And learn who was behind this.
* * *
Kidnapping a Member of Parliament was not something anyone could survive if discovered.
Anyone capable of such an act had to appear powerful enough to face the consequences.
Which was why the scene had been prepared carefully.
A vast underground chamber designed to resemble the headquarters of some enormous secret society.
A screen hid the leader's face.
O'Brien was dragged into the room.
Killian had thoroughly investigated his carriage routes, his driver, and his daily habits.
The abduction itself had been easy.
"Finally," Killian said from behind the screen, lowering his voice.
O'Brien stiffened.
"You must realize silencing me won't solve anything," he said coldly. "You've interfered with the Parliament of this country."
Killian chuckled.
"The Parliament of this country?"
"I thought you spent your days shouting that Ireland must leave Britain."
"And yet now you claim the authority of the British Parliament."
"How convenient."
"What did you say?"
"You speak endlessly about Ireland," Killian continued. "But the moment you feel threatened, you hide behind Britain's authority."
"Do you not see the contradiction?"
O'Brien's eyes blazed.
"Contradiction?"
Killian laughed softly.
"And that is precisely why you're here."
"So that's it," O'Brien said. "You're not after money."
"Who sent you? The Conservatives?"
"Or perhaps O'Connell's overzealous followers?"
He straightened defiantly.
"Whoever you are, I will say nothing."
Killian snorted.
"You misunderstand."
"We didn't bring you here for information."
"We brought you here to execute a traitor."
"…Traitor?"
The word clearly took O'Brien by surprise.
Killian had studied men like him before.
This type was not motivated by personal gain.
They acted out of conviction.
Threatening their lives would not break them.
But insulting their beliefs—
That was different.
"You sold Ireland's future to protect yourself," Killian said coldly.
"We are brothers who exist to punish men like you."
The final sentence was delivered in flawless Irish.
O'Brien froze.
"What nonsense are you talking about?"
"You dare call me a traitor?"
"No one in Ireland has the right to say that!"
Killian laughed mockingly.
"Still denying it?"
"You think we would do this without evidence?"
"We have eliminated many traitors already. Accidents. Illness."
"But you…"
Killian's voice hardened.
"You made a secret agreement with the Whigs before the election."
O'Brien's face went pale.
Other Irish MPs had rejected the Whigs' approaches.
But O'Brien had continued meeting them.
That fact alone was enough.
"We cannot allow such a danger to live," Killian said.
"Your death will serve as a warning."
One of the men raised a pistol to O'Brien's head.
"Wait!" O'Brien shouted. "You're mistaken!"
"Everyone we've killed said the same thing," Killian replied calmly.
"Someday, when Ireland is free, your name will be remembered as a traitor."
The pistol cocked.
O'Brien finally broke.
"No! Listen!"
"I met the Whigs for Ireland's sake!"
"If you're going to investigate, do it properly!"
"Listen to me first—then decide whether I'm a traitor!"
Killian smiled behind his mask.
Just as expected.
Men like O'Brien did not fear death.
But they could not tolerate having their convictions denied.
The gun lowered.
Killian stepped out from behind the screen.
"Very well," he said.
"Explain."
"But if I believe you're lying, you die."
O'Brien glared at him.
"And if I prove I'm not a traitor, you will apologize."
"And you will help my plan."
Killian nodded slowly.
That was exactly what he wanted.
He sat down across from O'Brien.
"Speak."
O'Brien exhaled.
"Fine."
"Listen carefully."
Killian leaned back with quiet satisfaction.
Confessions were always far more entertaining than torture.