by Aubrey Flegg
‘We have come to find Con and bring him to his father.’
‘Oh!’ said the girl – then defiantly, ‘Good riddance!’
Sinéad wasn’t fooled, but at that moment the boys bounced in.
‘Well, we’ve found him!’ Fion crowed.
‘He’ll be down from the mountain at first light,’ said Séamus, ‘and then we’ve just got to get him to the sh–’
He stopped. Aoife was taking in every word. Haystacks had insisted: No mention of the ship, even to Sean O’Brolchain himself.
‘This is Aoife,’ said Sinéad, hurriedly introducing the young girl, who tossed her head and marched away, but came back in a minute with two man-sized bowls of stew for the boys. She thumped them down on the table, and walked out.
‘What’s the matter with her?’ Séamus asked, but forgot about it with his first spoonful. ‘Wow, what a stew!’
That night Sinéad lay under her cloak on a huge communal bed in the women’s tent; the wind was soughing in the treetops far above. Later, when she woke, it was to the sound of rain drumming on the thick canvass. I’m glad we’re not out in that! she thought. She noticed then that Aoife had slipped in beside her. It was the first proper sleep Sinéad had had for several days.
However, Con didn’t arrive at first light; in fact, he didn’t come at all.
That very night Henry Fenton looked out from his prison cell at the noose of the gallows swinging in the wind. He rubbed his neck as if the rope was already closing about him. Curse whoever wrote that note! he thought. What damnable luck, one of Bonmann’s men seeing me with the torch before I lit the fire in the castle. For all his lawyer’s cleverness, Fenton had had no defence. It was a military court, and his sentence, ‘death by hanging’, was to take place at first light. Oh, the sight of the gallows! He wiped the sweat from his forehead. Think!
Before that hateful note had arrived, the fortress had been alive with rumours. Now, piece by piece, he put the rumours together: O’Neill is clearly on the move, gathering his wife, Catherine, and their sons together like chickens; it must be a family gathering. Something important is happening … perhaps someone is coming … an army? … an ambassador? … surely that’s it … but no … you don’t gather your family for an ambassador nor yet a general. Think, you fool! Why the family? … why … holy smoke! Fenton leapt to his feet. I’ve got it! It’s not someone coming it’s someone going. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph: Hugh O’Neill’s fleeing!
‘Guard!’ he yelled. ‘Send word to Sir Geoffrey Bonmann that I have information for him that will change his life.’
The guard grumbled off.
Now, before he comes, how do I play my cards? Hints … enough to keep me from the gallows! Then bluff … he must think that I know where the boat will sail from – we’ll find those kids and make damn sure they show us.
There was a jangle of keys.
‘Dwat the man! What does he want to confess? I’m not a pwiest.’
No, but you are a fool, thought Fenton. Then he laid out his baits: the Earl of Tyrone to be captured in flight, sundry lords and ladies as well, rewards and glory for Bonmann, and, as if that was not enough, once he had disposed of the de Cashel children, there would be no one to stop him claiming their castle lands for himself. That should do the trick! thought Fenton. And it did.
There was pandemonium in the O’Brolchain camp. The autumn cattle drive was underway, soon the pens would be full of lowing beasts, and Con had gone missing!
‘I’ll skin that lad when I get him,’ roared Sean O’Brolchain, tearing at his hair. ‘What does Hugh O’Neill want him for, anyway?’
Nevertheless, men were diverted to search for him. Fion and Séamus rode out to join the search, but they dared not go far in case Con suddenly appeared. Minutes, and then hours passed without a sign. When Haystacks rode in, confident that they were all well on their way, he found them kicking their heels beside their saddled ponies.
‘What on earth are you waiting for? It will soon be dark!’ he exclaimed. So Fion had to explain how they had been looking for Con all day.
Haystacks thought long and hard. ‘After all this, to fail!’ he said with a sigh. ‘There is only one thing to do and that is get word to Lord O’Neill that Con is missing; the boat must not be delayed. You, Fion, must leave anyway; and Séamus and Sinéad have no home to go to and are in danger from Bonmann and Fenton – perhaps there will be room for the three of you on the boat. We’ll give Con an hour, then you must leave. I will wait. If Con appears, I’ll follow. Surely someone knows where he’s hiding.’
Con O’Neill wasn’t hiding, he was sitting on his pony on the summit of Sawel mountain looking down on the O’Cahan herd below. All summer he had wanted to ride up here, to where Tyrone country and O’Cahan country met, but he hadn’t been allowed. ‘I bet they’ll be gathering their cattle up there now,’ he had told Aoife. ‘Don’t tell a soul, but I think they owe us a cow, the traitors.’
‘Macha, a chroí, we may have to run for it,’ he murmured now to his pony as he tried to decide on which animal to single out. ‘You see that young heifer there that’s wandering up in our direction? We’ll round her up. If we get her into Tyrone territory, I win; but if we don’t – I lose, and I’ll forfeit my gold pebble to Aoife to stop her plaguing me for it. Let’s go!’ Cattle pole at the ready, he trotted forward.
O’Cahan’s herdsmen were strangely slow to spot the one-boy cattle-raid that was taking place under their noses. Con circled the heifer without being noticed and was now making good progress up the hill. Just a hundred yards more and they would be over the summit, into Tyrone territory, and that would be one in the eye for the O’Cahans. At that moment, however, there came a roar of rage from the herdsmen below.
‘This is it, Macha! Seventy yards more.’ He could hear horses’ hooves closing on him. Fifty yards. ‘Come on, my darling!’ he shouted at the heifer. Twenty-five yards; the top of the hill was close, but the heifer was slowing. It had never occurred to Con that they might shoot at him, but it was the bang of a pistol that won the race for him. Whether or not the bullet had actually stung the heifer he would never know, but with a toss of her head and a kick of her heels she was off and over the top into Tyrone territory before he could blink.
Amazingly, his pursuers stopped at the border – perhaps they suspected a trick – but Con kept going until he was out of range of their pistols. Then he turned, doffed an imaginary hat, and gave the heifer a slap on the rump that sent it back home. His point had been made. He then rode off with all the dignity he could muster; he was already rehearsing a colourful version of the tale for Aoife.
Sinéad went to find the girl. I bet she knows where Con is, but how do I get her to tell? Sinéad imagined that she was Aoife: I’ll stick by Con no matter what – I know where he is, but I swore not to tell anyone, least of all these bossy children who want to take him away.
As she’d guessed, Sinéad was met with a clamped jaw and shuttered eyes. But she was imagining herself as Aoife now, loyal to her small heart’s core, and in that moment knew that only one thing would unlock her mind – and that was the truth. It was a monumental risk, but she knew now that Aoife would guard their secret as if it were Con’s once she knew why. So Sinéad told her everything: about the ship, the waiting Earl, and the danger to Con. Little by little the shutters lifted and Aoife began to tell her about Con, until finally … finally, she told Sinéad where Con was. When Sinéad gave Aoife a final hug, the child was as stiff as a board again; not even torture would get a word of O’Neill’s flight out of her now.
Keeping to the ridge, Con followed it west; his planned route was to cross the valley directly opposite the O’Brolchain camp. The wind was still strong, and a blast of rain momentarily blanked out any view further than the few yards of heather ahead of him. He pulled his hooded cloak over his head and bent into the rain. It cleared almost as soon as it had come; he raised his head, and pulled Macha to a halt. Who on God’s earth are those? One, two, three po
nies and a man, in my territory; I can’t leave them unchallenged. Lowering his cattle pole like a lance, he whistled a loud challenge and charged down the slope towards them.
Sinéad’s heart was sinking. There was still no sign of Con, and they were up in the mountains wasting time. Rain lashed at them. Then suddenly, from high above them, came a piercing whistle. They looked up, and there, flying down the ridge at them, holding his cattle pole as if to run them through, came a boy on a pony.
‘Con!’ they exclaimed as one.
Sinéad put her two fingers in her mouth and gave her own challenging whistle. That brought the boy’s head up. He seemed to be having second thoughts about running them all through, and raised his pole in the air. Ignoring Haystacks, he rode up to challenge the children.
‘Which one of you whistled?’ he demanded.
‘Me! The person who taught you how to whistle yourself, Con O’Neill, son of Hugh. Don’t you recognise a lady when you see one?’
Con’s bewilderment was comic, a mixture of bluster and apology, first that the smaller of the boys was a girl, and then to recognise her as the girl who had indeed taught him to whistle. They all dismounted. When Con recognised Haystacks as the man who had helped him through the plashing, he became almost polite. But this was no time for lengthy explanations.
Fion formally delivered Hugh O’Neill’s command for Con to join him on his ship at Rathmullan no later than tomorrow evening. Con’s expression changed from disbelief to consternation, and then to delight as Haystacks told him what this meant. ‘New adventure’ was written all over the boy’s face. Haystacks then said: ‘We have very little time, and you will want to collect clothes for the journey, and make your farewells.’
Clothes? Farewells? Nonsense! ‘But I can come now, as long as I have Macha to carry me,’ he said airily. ‘I don’t need anything.’
‘Good,’ said Haystacks, ‘but we must get word to your foster family that you have been found; you will want me to greet them on your behalf.’
‘Oh it doesn’t matter – the O’Brolchains are just herdsmen, you know.’
Sinéad gasped. You arrogant little prig! You may not care for them, but they care for you! ‘Herdsmen or not,’ she said tartly, ‘there is someone there who admires you more than you will ever deserve. Have you nothing, no token, no keepsake for her? She knows what loyalty means, even if you don’t!’
For a second or two Con pretended he hadn’t understood what Sinéad was saying. Then he dropped his eyes. ‘There’s Aoife, of course,’ he said. There was a long pause while Con remembered that he had won the bet over the heifer … Finally, reluctantly, he reached inside his shirt, pulled out a small leather pouch, and extracted a pebble from it.
‘This is for Aoife, so,’ he shrugged, ‘a keepsake.’ He dropped it onto Haystacks’s palm. They all bent forward to look. At first glance it appeared to be just an ordinary water-worn pebble, but as Haystacks turned it over, bright flecks and ribbons of real gold flashed from its surface.
‘It’s heavy,’ murmured Haystacks.
‘Here, take this too,’ Con handed him the pouch, ‘else she’ll only lose it.’ Well done! thought Sinéad. Con then gave Haystacks a gracious message of thanks for the O’Brolchains.
Haystacks turned away. ‘I’ll catch you up,’ he said. ‘You’ll be easily followed – and I hope it’s just me that will be following.’
‘Dwat them anyway!’ exclaimed Bonmann. ‘This is the second time we’ve been given wong diwections!’
‘That’s because you treat them like dirt,’ said Dr Fenton. ‘Next time, you stand back and I’ll ask in Irish!’ Pity they haven’t put a spear through you already, he thought.
Con managed to look superior for about a mile, riding beside the others as if they were low company. Damned girl, dressed up as a boy … how was I to know! Then he thought of Sean and Maire O’Brolchain – kind but tough – who beat him as regularly as they beat their dogs, which wasn’t often, but always well deserved. He blushed. I didn’t really mean it about them being just herdsmen. He looked up at the receding mountain, not wanting the others to read his thoughts. Then he thought of Aoife and a sudden lump formed in his throat. But I did give her my pebble, he thought, and she’s wanted it since the day I found it. Gradually he felt better about himself and able to think about what was happening. I can’t believe it – going with Father on a ship to Spain! How do they know about this plan and how did they know where to find me? He looked across at the two boys. He was not normally bothered by people older than himself, but he was still feeling a little bit small. Then he remembered the boy/girl’s name, Sinéad. She’d looked like a proper girl then and had surprised the life out of him by whistling like Father. Better than that, she’d taught him how to do it too. Perhaps she’d tell him more about Father’s message; he pulled Macha over to her side. It was not long before he was entertaining her with tales of his recent adventures in the mountains.
Light was fading fast when they reached the river Foyle. Con respected his companions now. They could ride like demons; but Macha had had a day on the hills, while their ponies were rested. They halted and watched people plodding homeward after a day at the market. There was a patrol stopping people and looking into their bags and baskets. Was this normal? Were the soldiers extra vigilant?
‘I think we should split up and attach ourselves to different groups,’ Fion said. ‘Look, Con, see that woman with a bundle of sticks, why don’t you offer your pony to help her with them over the bridge? We’ll meet up at the next turn after the bridge.’ They watched while Con charmed a toothless smile from the old woman, and then gave her an arm as he led his pony straight past the soldiers and across the bridge. Fion quietly hitched his pony to the back of a laden cart without the owner noticing, and then walked across with a group of apprentices from the tannery. They stank from their work, and were waved through quickly, as they laughed at the soldier who was holding his nose. Fion was relieved to find his pony still behind the cart when it caught up with them.
‘You’re grubby enough to be a serving boy, Sinéad,’ said Séamus. ‘Why don’t you lead the ponies while I ride,’ he suggested.
‘Pah!’ said Sinéad, taking the reins and slouching across the bridge in front of her ‘young master’. ‘You’ll pay for this!’ she warned.
When they were all safely across, Fion took the lead again. ‘We’ve got to press on. If we do, we should reach Rathmullan early tomorrow, let’s go!’ When they got to the village of Ballindrait they paused to ask the way of a garrulous old man at the bridge. ‘You’d best be quick, my little lords, if it’s Milord O’Neill you want. He’s a good hour ahead of you – he with his lady, and our own chief, Caffar O’Donnell.’
‘Which road did they take?’
‘The Letterkenny road,’ and the old man winced as he pointed. ‘Me joints is all seized up,’ he complained.
‘If Caffar O’Donnell’s your chief, and if you are true to Ireland and Hugh O’Neill, you’ll tell no one that you saw them on the road tonight,’ said Fion, handing him sixpence, a handsome reward for silence. At that, they spurred their ponies over the bridge. ‘We must keep going – they could sail the moment they reach the ship, Con or no Con. Come on!’ Fion urged.
Soon, however, they slowed to a more sensible pace, reminding themselves that they still had many miles to go. They were followed by a fleeting moon as they rode through the night. It was still dark when the road dipped down to cross the Swilly river just short of Letterkenny. The town gates were just being opened by sleepy-looking guards.
‘Well,’ said Fion, ‘no sign of Uncle Hugh. Either they got through before the gates closed or they have taken another route.’
‘Oh come on!’ urged Con. ‘The boat may be sailing now.’
‘We must be careful!’ said Fion.
‘Rot!’ said Con. ‘You’re wimps, the lot of you. If we take it at a gallop, they’re so dopey we’ll be through and gone while they’re still scratching their backsid
es.’
At that moment there was a flash, a spurt of smoke, and a boom from the guard post beside the gate. The children ducked instinctively, but no ball whistled past.
‘What was that?’ exclaimed Con.
‘One them scratching his backside, I suspect,’ said Fion acidly. A man came out of the guard-post, stretching. ‘I think it was just the signal to say that the gates are open now. Let’s be sensible for a change, Con. Séamus, why don’t you ride ahead, followed by Sinéad, but riding far enough back to give Con and me warning if Séamus is stopped. I bet Uncle Hugh took some other route – I wish we had now.’
Séamus called out to the guards that they’d been out hunting, and they trooped through. Sinéad held back as Séamus went ahead.
Séamus was just thinking that they would be through without trouble when a figure lurched towards him and grabbed his pony’s bridle. His first thought was to lash out with his reins, but then he realised that this wasn’t an attack. He looked down. There in the centre of a mass of bristles – hair, eyebrows, beard, it was hard to say – were two red-rimmed eyes.
‘God help me. Ye must be Red Hugh O’Donnell ris’ up from the grave,’ said the man, swaying, and using the bridle for support. ‘Had black hair, you know … just like you. Betrayed he was by that red-haired Tyrone man, O’Neill, down at Kin… Kinwhatever… the swine.’ Séamus thought of Con’s hair, like a flaming torch, behind. He groped for a coin, extracted it, and – oops! – he’d dropped it! Down went the beggar on hands and knees, letting go of the bridle, and Séamus rode on. The beggar was still groping as the others trotted hastily by.
The road rose steeply out of the town so they had to walk the ponies for a mile or two, and were just about to mount when Fion held up a hand. ‘Listen! We’re being followed!’
