by Aubrey Flegg
CHAPTER 9
Greensleeves
s James ran up the ramp into the castle and thrust himself into the throng in the great hall, he was grateful for his clean-up, and also for Sinéad’s briefing about what was going on. Willing hands pushed him forward to where Father sat in his ornate chair.
Dr Fenton, who hadn’t noticed James’s arrival, was pleading with Father. ‘Sir, I think it would be more appropriate for me, as your secretary, to greet the Lord Deputy. Your son–’ but Father had seen James arrive, and brushed his secretary aside. ‘About time too, James! Where have you been?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I am unable to ride out to greet the Lord Deputy and I am trying to persuade Dr Fenton here that it is appropriate that you, as my son and heir, should ride out and greet our guest.’
James was thrilled. He glanced at his tutor, who apparently was having a change of heart: ‘Of course, of course, Sir Malachy … most appropriate.’
James felt magnanimous. Good old Fenton. And I am prepared. It’s an honour, and it’s time we Irish Normans met the English as equals. He straightened his shoulders. ‘Sir, I would be honoured,’ he said with a bow.
‘Well, go and make yourself respectable, and come back to me immediately for instructions.’
At least Kathleen gave him water to wash in. Then she stood back and eyed him up and down. He tried to imagine how he looked. Father’s riding boots with their floppy, turned-down tops fitted well enough with several extra pairs of socks inside. Then he had a pair of hose meeting maroon-coloured pantaloons, which spread out over his thighs in generous puffs. A clean linen shirt, a rust-coloured doublet, and a broad-brimmed hat, to which Kathleen had hastily sewn some sweeping feathers, completed his outfit.
‘You can doff that hat like a real gentleman, so you can,’ she said. James tried to look superior; but I am a real gentleman, then he cringed as Kathleen added: ‘You’re just gorgeous, you are!’ He clattered down the stairs to present himself to Father for final instructions.
‘You will have the captain of the guard with you. Do as he says, but above all be polite. You know – and they know – that they are not invited, but by greeting them civilly, we can at least preserve our dignity.’ Father looked grim. ‘You may be sure there will be a price to pay. Chichester expects to find Hugh O’Neill here, and will be furious when he’s not, but remember, Uncle Hugh is the rightful Earl of Tyrone. We have done nothing illegal!’ At that, he handed James his sword, the sharp one that had been denied him that morning. James almost felt as if he’d been knighted as he buckled it on proudly. ‘Dr Fenton will advise you on how to address the Lord Deputy.’
James could hear the rat-ta-ta-tat of the drum before the army emerged from the forest road. As he rode out, the captain explained to him how they would present themselves to the advancing force. ‘Remember, Master James, that we’ve come to welcome them, not attack them. Thanks to young O’Neill, we know exactly how many cavalry Sir Arthur has with him, so we match them horse for horse. At the same time we want to keep them together and not have them galloping off around the place, searching for the Earl, or indeed going chasing after him. He’s only an hour ahead of them, after all. I have arranged for archers and some extra horse to remain out of sight along the forest edge with orders to show themselves only if necessary.’
James was grateful for the flow of talk as the captain went on to say: ‘What you have to do is to act the young gentleman that you are, and they will behave like gentlemen – for the moment anyway. If they don’t, we’ll be right behind you.’ James’s mouth was dry. Just now all he wanted to do was turn around and gallop back to the safety of the castle, but the captain leant across and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’ll be just fine. Ride on, now, about twenty paces ahead so they know you are a spokesman, and remember to reach for your hat, not your sword.’ There was a low murmur of encouragement from the common soldiers behind him as James rode forward by himself. He mustn’t let them down.
The small army came into sight, a solid phalanx of marching men, the sunlight glittering on their armour and their swaying pikes. The drum rattled, and a low cloud of dust rose waist deep about them. At their head rode a single horseman, his face concealed in the shadow of his visor. Further horsemen, wearing bright cloaks and broad-brimmed hats, rode loosely on each side of the column. When they saw the castle ahead, they began to urge their horses forward, spreading out on each side, but a barked order from their leader brought them back to the column. One of them, however, seemed to have lost control of his horse and to be intent on charging into the forest, head-on. Two archers stepped silently from the trees, with arrows notched; the man’s horse shied. For a moment it looked as if he would fall off, but one of the archers obligingly caught the horse’s reins, calmed it, and led it back towards the marching men.
‘Dwatted horse!’ James heard the rider curse, as the archer released it.
He could see the face of the leader now, his beard jutting out over his breastplate; he did not seem amused at the incident. So, this must be Sir Arthur Chichester, the most powerful man in Ireland. But Fenton had assured him that he was just waiting to welcome families like James’s back into the English fold: ‘Remember, James, they are gentlemen – harsh, cruel perhaps, but just and true.’
James straightened his back; this was his moment. Rehearsing his greeting in English, he rode forward and reached for his hat. The general, seeing his advance, raised his right hand; behind him a sergeant bellowed ‘Halt!’ and the marching men stopped as one. The drum rolled, then stopped, and the dust drifted away.
When James was a horse’s length from the general, he swept his hat from his head and with a deep bow said, ‘My Lord Chichester, Lord Deputy of Ireland, on behalf of my father, Sir Malachy de Cashel, I bid you welcome to our castle and to our demesne.’
‘Where is your father, boy?’
‘He sends his apologies; he is at present unable to ride.’
‘A bullet in the leg at Kinsale, if my memory serves me, fighting on the wrong side.’
‘We have Our Gracious Majesty, King James’s pardon, my Lord, and are looking forward to greeting you in the castle.’
‘Our Gracious Majesty, indeed.’ James felt the general’s eyes boring into him. ‘Are you the lad that Henry Fenton is tutoring?’
‘Yes, sir, Dr Fenton is indeed my tutor.’ How can someone like Sir Arthur Chichester know about Fenton and me? Does he know everything? But Father had said: Leave his questions to me. James bowed. ‘May I take you to my father, sir? Perhaps we can provide you with some refreshment?’ As he wheeled his horse around by way of invitation, he thought of the turmoil in the kitchens – the ox, and the barrels of wine fresh broached in the undercroft. Sir Arthur raised his hand, the sergeant barked, the drum beat, and James felt as if he himself was the general riding ahead of the army.
‘You seem to be prepared for my coming, lad. What is your name?’ asked Sir Arthur.
‘James, sir. Your fame goes before you, sir.’ James had just thought of this compliment and was rather pleased with it.
He was rewarded with a grunt. ‘You speak English, boy, but you have the slippery tongue of the Irish.’ James blushed to the roots of his hair. Don’t try to be too clever, you fool! he told himself, but Chichester went on: ‘There’s a young lad, rides a pony – yellow shirt, red hair – have you seen him?’
James recognised Sinéad’s description of young Con at once, but he himself hadn’t seen Con so he could say without a blush, ‘No, sir, there’s no one like that here.’ The eyes that glinted from under the general’s visor forced him to look away. Thank God they were now approaching the castle where he could busy himself calling for grooms for their horses, while his own captain invited the English sergeant to dismiss his men and bring them over to where the roasting ox was already emitting inviting smells. James dismounted, and, carrying his hat, led the English general and his fellow officers up the ramp and into the great hall of the castle. He hardly recognised it.
Torches blazed from the sconces about the walls, and the floor was freshly strewn with rushes. Seated under the canopy that shaded his great oak chair sat Father.
James led the visitors forward, and, as rehearsed with Dr Fenton, announced: ‘Sir Malachy de Cashel, may I present Sir Arthur Chichester, Lord Deputy of Ireland.’
The general, who had removed his helmet, came forward, and with a stiff bow, greeted Father. He then introduced his lieutenants who, in turn, stepped forward, bowing and sweeping their plumed hats low in front of them. Foremost of these, to James’s surprise, was the officer whose horse had bolted for the forest.
‘Sir Geoffrey Bonmann!’ growled the general.
‘Sir Geoffwey, at your service,’ the man said with an elaborate bow. James had to suppress a smile.
The company was then released to make free of the castle while final preparations for dinner were made.
The roar and clatter of conversation, the reek of smoke from the torches, and the hurried steps of servants serving the top table, was as heady as the wine and ale that was liberally served. The banquet was well advanced, and James had hardly had a bite, partly out of excitement, but partly because Father had called on him to act as his squire.
‘James,’ he would say, leaning back to where James was standing behind him, ‘Sir Arthur’s glass!’ and James would take a jug from one of the servants and see that the great man’s glass was topped up; then he would see to the glasses of the other guests at the top table. Of them all, Chichester drank the least. The seating had been arranged by Fenton, who seemed, in some mysterious way, to know where everyone should sit according to their rank. ‘Dr Fenton knows about these things,’ Father had said with a mysterious chuckle. James picked up snatches of conversation: at one minute Chichester was asking Father about his harvest, and then next was turning to Mother to tell her of changes in fashion in London since Elizabeth, the old queen, had died. Not a word about past battles, not a word about Hugh O’Neill. It was all just as Fenton had said it would be – fine words and good manners.
Outside, the common soldiers were happily eating their way through their roasted ox. Inside the castle, however, the meats on offer were just the finer cuts.
‘I’m sorry the beef’s so fresh, Sir Arthur,’ Father shouted over the swell of voices. ‘If we’d known you were coming we’d have had it hanging for you this past week.’ Then, beckoning to James, ‘What else do we have to offer, son?’
‘We have venison – that’s really ripe, sir – then there’s pork, and, of course, mutton; and I believe a suckling pig is on its way. We have fowl too, if you’d prefer a lighter meat.’
‘I’ll stick with the beef. As an old campaigner, Sir Malachy, I’ve found that most meats cooked within an hour or so of slaughter eat remarkably well.’
James called to the servers to bring beef. ‘Fillet for Sir Arthur!’
At the high table they ate off silver plates, while ‘below the salt’ the meat was served on bread trenchers. James’s mouth watered; he preferred a trencher any time – ‘loved by boys and dogs’ grown-ups would laugh. The delicious gravy would soak into the bread to be eaten last or thrown to the dogs.
What’s Sir Arthur saying to Mother? He leaned forward. ‘Your daughter is quite a charmer, madam, and dressed in the height of fashion, I see.’ James followed his gaze to where he could see Sinéad in animated conversation with two of their visitors. He’d not had time to appreciate her new dress. In this setting, the transformation took him by surprise. He’d never thought of his sister as pretty, let alone a charmer, but just now she did look – well – quite stunning he supposed, and very grown-up. Sir Arthur was chuckling. ‘She seems to have caught young Bonmann’s eye.’
‘Ah, she’s only a child! But he’ll regret it – she’d talk the legs off a donkey!’ smiled Mother.
‘She might be doing just that,’ said Sir Arthur, with a small, tight smile. As if Sinéad had become aware of the eyes on her from the high table she blushed and got up to leave the room.
Father turned to James. ‘Go, boy, get yourself something to eat,’ and James went off willingly enough; he was starving. He couldn’t see Sinéad, but he did notice that the officer called Bonmann was making his way after her towards the door. His own priority now was food.
Up to this moment, Sinéad had loved the plumed hats, the silk doublets and coloured hose of the men, the colours all varied in the ruddy glow of the torches on the walls and the yellow glow from the candelabras on the tables. She had been frightened for James when he had ridden out to meet the army, but they seemed friendly; she had imagined something much more formidable. Now Father had cleverly turned the incident into a party, and she was loving it. Perhaps James was right and the English didn’t all have horns and tails. For the first time in her life, she found herself the centre of attention among a group of men who were treating her as if she really were a young lady, not just a child in a pretty dress. She responded by simply being herself, answering their questions and laughing at their jokes, most of which she didn’t really understand. They were like children themselves; when she admired their plumed hats and embroidered doublets, they would blush and preen like peacocks. Rather tactlessly, she told how they had once had a peacock that had been eaten by their wolfhound! They complimented her on her English, laughing when she slipped in an Irish word by mistake.
There was one of them she didn’t like, however, as he had an irritating habit of touching her as he spoke – her hair, her cheek, her shoulder. His said her English was ‘Wemarkable’. As she didn’t understand the word, she queried it: ‘Wemarkable?’ she asked. And for some reason this caused a gale of laughter from all the others. That was the moment that she noticed the people at the high table looking in her direction and decided that perhaps she should leave. There were screens along the walls so the servants could come and go without disturbing the feast, so she ducked behind these and moved towards the door. Then, suddenly, her way was blocked. It was the young man with the funny way of speaking. Bonham, that’s his name, she remembered. Perhaps he’s looking for the garderobe?
‘Over there,’ she said, pointing towards the opposite corner, and moved to pass him, but as if by accident he stepped in her way. They both laughed, she nervously. She tried again, and this time it was no accident. He was deliberately blocking her way. Quite suddenly she just wanted to get away from him. There was a gap between the screens, so she squeezed through, back into the banquet area, and made for the castle door, where she breathed in great gulps of the clean night air. The camp-fires of the visiting army glowed and sparked. There were shouts, followed by gales of laughter; occasionally a voice would be raised, but it seemed no wilder than on a normal holiday night. At least her heart had stopped thumping … At that moment an arm was laid over her shoulders and she froze.
‘No place for a pwetty little girl like you!’
She tried to move away. His hand tightened on her shoulder.
‘Don’t wiggle, my sweetheart.’
Sweetheart! That was a word she hated. ‘Your men seem to be enjoying themselves,’ she said. Oh, how can I get away? she thought.
‘Not as much as I am enjoying you, my sweetheart.’
She elbowed herself around in a fury, thinking, I’m nobody’s sweetheart! – and she moved to walk past him, but he put his hand under her chin, and forced her to look up. Now his face was looming closer and closer – his wet lips – she wrenched her face to one side, as his meagre moustache brushed her cheek.
Then, from just behind her, came a voice: ‘Are you all right, Miss Sinéad?’ The rough voice of the guard was music to her ears. It startled the young man, who loosened his grip on her shoulders. She tore herself free, ducked under his arm, and fled for the stairs and the safety of her bedroom.
It was there that James found her twenty minutes later. ‘What on earth are you doing up here?’
‘I’m hiding from him!’
‘Him?’
‘That creep, Bonham.’
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‘It’s Bonmann, not Bonham. A bonham’s a piglet in Irish, as you well know – and he’s a gentleman! He can’t be a creep! Do you know he’s the son of the Earl of Middlesex, for God’s sake! If he was teasing you, you deserved it. I saw you flirting with them all quite shamelessly!’
‘Flirting! I wasn’t flirting. It’s just they started laughing over some mistake I made in English. Then, when I saw you all looking at me from the high table, I went to get some air, and he followed me. It was horrible, James. He kept touching me and even tried–’
‘Oh nonsense, Sinéad. Think how Uncle Hugh tickles you and throws you around.’ Sinéad thought wistfully of Uncle Hugh, how just today he’d pretended they were going to elope, but this had been quite different. James was going on, ‘It’s Uncle Hugh’s fault anyway, dressing you up like a fast woman.’
Sinéad slapped him for that, but there was no force behind it; she didn’t have the energy. ‘Anyway, what are you doing up here yourself?’ she asked.
‘A harper’s turned up. Why do we have to entertain the English with bog music?’
‘Oh I love a harper! Why didn’t you tell me? I wonder …’ Could this be Con’s poet?
‘What do you wonder?’
But she didn’t tell him. ‘Oh just mind your own business; you don’t know the half of what goes on here. I’m going down, and you can be my protector.’
They arrived back in the hall to hear a polite patter of applause as the harper finished his first piece. Sinéad cursed herself for having missed him. He was younger than she expected, a trim beard, with just a wisp of grey in the hair that was clasped behind in a ponytail. His face was dark, as someone is who spends much of his life on the road. She edged closer to him, trying to read his face. Serious, she thought, but those are laughter lines about his eyes. He was wearing the traditional poet’s gown; they kept a spare one in the castle for musicians and poets of the proper rank. The hum of conversation was growing again, but he seemed lost in his own world, his hands running over the strings of the harp like two butterflies barely touching the strings. One of the visitors turned to him and asked him a question in English; he smiled and shrugged apologetically, indicating that he didn’t understand English. A servant was passing with a jug of mead, so Sinéad got him a mug of the golden honey brew and carried over to him.
