by Aubrey Flegg
‘Why do you say “you” and not “us” – aren’t you coming?’ Sinéad asked anxiously.
‘I’ll be with you and not with you,’ said Haystacks. ‘Three sparrows can fly through a hedge where an old buzzard like me might get stuck. In the old days the forest paths would have been the best, relying on help from the Irish chiefs, and hidden from the English lion. Sadly, many of the chiefs have turned against O’Neill and might well hand you over to the enemy.’
‘So it’s Irish wolves or English lions!’ declared Sinéad.
‘It is indeed. The good roads will take a day off your journey, and while there is every chance you will be stopped by patrols, you all speak better English than most of the men who may stop you. Keep your Irish in reserve. Remember you have as good a right to travel as anyone, but agree where you are going, why you are going, and why you are travelling alone. In that way, you will all give the same story if you’re stopped. If Con can tie General Chichester in knots, you can.’
‘Listen, now,’ he continued, ‘and I will give you the route you should follow.’
Sinéad listened, but her mind was still on her thoughtless whistle. Perhaps Bonmann’s saddling up to get me even now!
‘… then pick up the road to Newry,’ Haystacks was explaining, ‘but you must turn west before Slieve Gullion. There is a garrison at Castle Roche where you will certainly be stopped.’
Oh do be quick! Sinéad thought, anxious to be away.
‘The Blackwater river will be your next hazard, as every crossing is guarded. I suggest you take the Blackwater fort, as it is a popular crossing. I’ll ride the first miles with you, then you’ll be on your own for a while. Remember, Con must be on that boat, or his life will be in danger. Come, we must go, before anyone else answers Sinéad’s whistle.’
Fion cupped his hands to help Sinéad mount.
‘Did you get all that?’ she asked him.
‘Oh yes,’ he assured her. ‘Don’t forget, this is O’Neill country. I know it well.’
For the first few miles Haystacks led, followed by the others. They rode hard, but Sinéad kept dropping back, her eyes clasping at every familiar thing on the road: the broken-backed cottage where Eileen, the herbalist, lived, the oak they used to climb for mistletoe. I may never see any of this again, she kept reminding herself as tears welled up. She couldn’t think of Mother or Father … not yet … but everything else was like crystal in her mind. When Haystacks slowed to keep her company, she managed a wan smile; he seemed to catch her sombre mood and they rode in silence. After a while she noticed his lips moving ever so slightly, and dared to ask him what he was thinking of.
‘I was thinking of a poem, Sinéad. Long before the birth of Christ, a wandering prince came to Ireland. His name was Amergin, a Milesian they say. He left us with a poem which for me contains the essence of all poems. It begins like this, and he began to intone, half-speaking, half-singing:
I am the wind which breathes upon the sea,
I am the wave of the ocean,
I am the murmur of the billows …
After a short silence, Sinéad said: ‘I like it, I like the sounds, I like what it makes me see. But is it the poet speaking or is it the wind and the wave?’
‘Ha ha!’ Haystacks laughed so loudly that the boys stopped and turned to see what was going on behind them. ‘You shall be my apprentice, Sinéad – sorry – Brian. You have put your finger on the pulse of the matter. You see, the poet’s task is to use his eyes, his ears and his heart until the wind blows through him, and the wave rises inside him, and they all become one – and then he can truly speak as a poet and say: I am the wave of the ocean.’
And then Haystacks recited the whole poem of Amergin, and for a while the terrible happenings of the past days fell away.
When he had finished, Sinéad’s head felt clearer and she was ready to ride on.
‘When we find Con, what then?’ Sinéad shouted across to Haystacks. ‘What will happen to us? We’ve got nothing now – no home, no money – and the only people who want us seem to want us dead.’
He didn’t answer at once. When he did, he said: ‘I wish I’d known your father better, Sinéad. He was a remarkable man. He knew that the safest thing for you to do was to escape from the castle, and he was prepared to trust you. “They are good children,” he told me. “I trust them, but they’ll need help.” It was then that he asked me if I would go with you. I was already committed to helping Fion, so I agreed.’ A sudden smile crossed Haystacks’s face. ‘I never thought I would acquire an apprentice for my pains.’ Sinéad blushed. Then he said: ‘There is more to tell you, but it is difficult to talk like this. I must leave you now as I have business to do. Fion knows your route; trust me – you’ll be all right.’
Their road had been rising, and now broke free of the forest, and they could see Dundalk and the sea. They slowed to let the ponies catch their breath. Séamus, who had nicked his finger while trimming a hazel switch, stemmed the flow of blood with his kerchief.
‘That’s Slieve Gullion ahead,’ Fion pointed out. ‘I came near here when hunting for cattle that time for Uncle Hugh and your father, and beyond is Newry – and somewhere up there is Roche’s Castle. Come on, let’s go.’
As the road was now wide enough for conversation, Sinéad rode up between the two boys. She wanted to take their minds off the horrors they had all experienced. ‘Haystacks was telling me about that castle as we came along,’ she told them. ‘It was built by a Norman lady called Rohesu to keep you wild Irish’ – she glanced at Fion – ‘under control. She had pots of money, but she couldn’t get anyone to come up here into the wilds to build the castle for her. So, in the end, she offered herself in marriage to whoever would build her a castle. But they didn’t exactly fall over themselves – she wasn’t young, she was ugly as sin, and she had a fierce temper. Eventually, one brave architect, with more of an eye for her fortune than for herself, took up the offer and built her the Castle Roche, which Haystacks says means “castle on the rock” in French. Well, the marriage took place, and the feast was over, and they were climbing–’ Here she had to break off as they had come to a crossroads.
‘I think we should turn left here,’ said Fion.
‘Oh no, look, there are soldiers down there and coming this way. There’ll be another turn surely,’ said Séamus. ‘Let’s go on. You were telling us about the castle,’ he added.
‘So I was! Once up the stairs the not so lovely Rohesu leaned out of the bedchamber window, combing her hair – if she had any – and called to her new husband to come and take a close look at all the land he had got by marrying her. Poor soul, he came like a lamb and leaned out of the window beside her, whereupon she tipped him out and onto the rocks below, just to give him a closer look!’
‘So, that was the end of him!’
‘Oh no. You can see him any moonlit night standing in the bedchamber window – only it’s bricked up now.’
They chuckled appreciatively, then Fion clapped his hand to his forehead, ‘Which reminds me, have we got our story ready if we’re stopped? You, Sinéad, or rather Brian, had better be Séamus’s younger brother. I’ll be a cousin, because I’m fair. So, why are we on the road, and where are we going?’ They had only just settled on their story when they heard marching feet catching up with them from behind.
‘Soldiers!’ exclaimed Sinéad, looking over her shoulder. They urged their ponies on till they topped a gentle rise, and there, on the opposite side of a shallow valley, rose the towering walls of a castle, Castle Roche surely, perched like a panther ready to spring from its craggy outcrop. ‘Now we’re caught between the Devil and a rock!’ This was no fortified house, but a proper fortress with a high curtain wall glinting with armed men. The red cross of St George flew from the keep and cooking smoke rose from hidden buildings within the walls.
‘That’s a long, long drop for a new husband!’ said Sinéad in awe.
At that moment a voice roared out behind them: ‘Hey t
here! Stand clear. You don’t own the road!’
‘We do actually – a lot more than you do!’ snarled Fion under his breath, as they drew onto the verge. ‘Now we’re for it! It’ll be us for the long drop!’
The column of soldiers ground to a halt. The officer, a brawny man with a drooping moustache, eyed their sturdy ponies and well-made harnesses.
‘Well, now, what are you three lads roaming the country on your own for, eh? Running away? I’ll bet your folk don’t know where you are.’
‘Oh yes, sir, they do, sir,’ said Séamus in his best ‘Fenton’ English. ‘They sent us away. We are to go to relatives in Newry, sir. They … er … er … couldn’t come.’
‘Couldn’t come? That’s a bit lame. You’d better come with me to the castle and explain yourselves.’ The three or four cavalry men who were attending the officer moved forward as if to take the reins from the children.
‘Sir … I think perhaps you shouldn’t come close, sir. You see …’ and with this, Séamus appeared to catch his breath and he began a cough, which rapidly developed into a paroxysm of coughing which he tried to stifle with his kerchief. Sinéad and Fion watched in admiration as the fit shook him from head to toe. Suddenly, however, their admiration changed to alarm as he took the cloth away from his mouth to show it spattered scarlet with fresh blood! There was an audible gasp from the men, who drew back involuntarily.
Sinéad, who hadn’t expected this extra bit of drama, had to gather her wits in a hurry, but now her rehearsed lines came to her rescue: ‘Please, sir, please don’t make him speak. You see, that’s why we’ve been sent away. It’s because … of … of … the sickness at home.’ She too, quite involuntarily, drew back at the sight of Séamus’s bloody handkerchief. They’d talked of her bursting into tears, but she remembered just in time that ‘Brian’ would have died before weeping in front of the soldiers. The message, however, had got across and soldiers were already backing away.
‘Plague, by God! I’ve got a hundred men in that castle, and you dare to come near us with the plague!’ the officer accused them. ‘It’s the last thing we want! I should shoot you now, but then I’d have to bury your diseased corpses. No thanks. Go on to your family in Newry and give it to them if you must, but keep away from the castle.’ He raised himself in his saddle. ‘Sergeant! Quick – march!’ And they set off as if they had a rabid dog at their heels.
‘I only thought of the blood when I’d started coughing,’ Séamus laughed. ‘You see, I’d folded my kerchief bloody side in.’ To his surprise, the others were almost cross with him at having scared them as well.
‘All my horror wasted on a mere cut finger!’ grumbled Sinéad. ‘Let me look at it!’ Séamus held it out. ‘Pah! Don’t expect any sympathy from me next time!’
All at once their eyes met, and with a splutter of delight they burst into laughter, the sound bouncing off the hills around.
At that precise moment, in the privacy of his old home, close under the reeking ruins of the de Cashel castle, Dr Henry Fenton was doing his best to persuade Sir Geoffrey Bonmann that he should chase after the children.
‘But don’t you see, Milord,’ he squirmed, ‘only the boy – James – stands between you and your claim to these lands through marriage to the girl. Get rid of him, get her – and it’s all yours!’
‘But there was no agweement with her father!’
Fenton’s reply came as an exasperated whisper. ‘So much the better! Wake up, man – we will make up an agreement. I wasn’t de Cashel’s secretary for nothing. But first we must find James.’
‘And what will we do with him?’
‘Leave that to me, Milord.’
‘Perhaps I should mawwy the girl, after all …’
‘By all means!’ said Fenton, thinking: Over my dead body! Once he had got rid of the boy and the girl there would be nobody to inquire about who had started the fire. Murder was easy to him now. I must get this oaf away before he starts wondering who nearly fried him too. ‘Come, sir, we must go while their trail is warm.’
The children were united now in their urgency. Hours passed in a routine of walking, trotting, galloping – and for backsides that were beginning to glow uncomfortably from hours in the saddle, welcome hills where they had to dismount and lead their tiring ponies. Eventually they reached a stream banked with fresh grass, where the ponies could graze and they could flop down and investigate their packs for food.
‘A little and often is best,’ said Séamus, quoting Father, as they inspected their rations.
‘God bless Kathleen!’ said Sinéad as she unwrapped a solid lump of mutton, as well as bread and hard cheese. Knowing Sinéad had no dagger, Kathleen had included a sharp knife, as well as a flint and steel and tinder to catch the spark if they needed a fire. Typical! Dear Kathleen, I wonder if she’s alive? I’ll miss her terribly. Just think, when Kathleen packed this, Father and Mother were alive … and now – STOP! I mustn’t cry!
They watched the ponies drinking, their mobile lips sucking at the water and listened for the swoosh of water inside their necks as they lifted their heads.
If it’s good for them, it’s good for us, they all agreed, and drank deeply from the stream themselves, cupping the water in their hands, and watching the scatter of diamond drops falling back onto the surface. They leaned back against their packs and closed their eyes and tried to relax, but their own private tragedies made it easier not to think, better to drive on.
They got through Armagh without challenge, and Fion told them how the remnants of Marshal Bagenal’s army had gathered here after Uncle Hugh had beaten them at the Battle of the Yellow Ford only nine years before.
‘Why do all the exciting things in history have to happen before my time?’ Séamus complained.
‘What d’you think this is?’ snapped Sinéad.
With Armagh behind them, they had made great time, but their ponies were getting weary now, so they walked beside them more and more.
‘We must cross the Blackwater before night, then it’ll just be a sprint for the Sperrins in the morning,’ urged Fion. ‘We’ll definietley find Con in time then.’
The thought of sprinting was almost too much for Sinéad as she eased herself into the saddle once more. But soon the ground levelled out, and across the meadows they could see trees that clearly flanked a river. Rising above the meadows, to the right of the road, were the earthworks and palisades of a fort, the cross of St George again showing it was in use. Blackwater Fort, Sinéad remembered.
A cart, piled high with wood for winter firing, lumbered towards them. The driver shouted across: ‘Forget it, lads! They’ve closed the bloody bridge,’ and he spat with disgust.
‘Why? What’s happening?’ Séamus called.
‘God knows. You’d think they’d seen the Devil himself walking on the water!’ He cracked his whip and the cart lumbered on.
They met other travellers who had also been turned back, but none of them had any information. When they got to the bridge, they saw that a massive gate had been swung across to close it off. Soldiers from the fort were turning back anyone who approached. ‘Only locals, and that’s orders!’
‘Well, what do we do now?’ wondered Sinéad.
‘Look, there’s a path beside the river,’ said Fion. ‘Let’s follow it. Try to look as if we know where we’re going. Maybe we’ll find somewhere where we can hole up for the night and get some hay for the ponies.’
After a quarter of a mile or so they did find a cottage with a barn, where they were told they might sleep, and, for a halfpenny, buy hay and a bag of oats for the ponies. They were worn out, so after a sparse supper there seemed to be nothing to do but settle for the night.
Séamus, however, was restless. ‘Do you think Haystacks will be looking for us? I’m going to wander back to the bridge in case he’s following us.’ But what he really needed was somewhere to think, so he turned up-river to where a narrow path led down through the reeds to a little wooden jetty. There was a boa
t there, sunk to its gunwales, half-hidden in the reeds. It looked a wreck, but the rope that tied it to the jetty was new. He sat down. An otter appeared on the bank below him, looked upstream, then down, called once and slid into the water, where it rolled on its back to watch its three full-grown kits slip in to join it. Only that morning, Séamus realised, he had been pinning his hopes on Chichester. How did I let myself be so fooled by Fenton? Of course my loyalty must be to Uncle Hugh now! If we don’t find Con, and the English do, they’ll hold him hostage until Uncle Hugh surrenders. I need to prove my loyalty, and the best way to do that is to find Con.
The light was fading fast when he reached the bridge where the soldiers had lit torches and a brazier to keep warm. He tried them in English first, but soon found that they were Irish conscripts, so it wasn’t long before he was holding his hands out to the brazier, happily talking about army life. After a bit, he thought it safe to ask why they were blocking the bridge. ‘It’s not falling down on us, is it?’
They laughed, but they dropped their voices. ‘A constable in the village reported seeing a party of well-dressed travellers passing through late last night, and some idiot started a rumour that it was the Earl of Tyrone! Bloody nonsense. Everyone here knows he’s off to London in chains to have the head eased from his shoulders. Anyway, they want the bridge closed – maybe they think there’s more rebels on the road.’
For a while now, Séamus had been aware of the sound of approaching hooves. Haystacks, he thought hopefully, but this was a whole group of horsemen.
The soldiers were listening too. ‘Here comes the Earl and all his ladies!’ one of them joked. Séamus backed away into the darkness. He should leave, but he was curious. It was a group of five horsemen: three men at arms behind two vaguely familiar figures on horseback.
‘Halt, sir! The bridge is closed,’ the sergeant called out.
