by Aubrey Flegg
‘It was my fault, riding ahead.’ Con’s voice sounded small.
Sinéad turned on him. ‘No, Con, it was not your fault! We all rode down that hill like mad things. We’re all to blame. The only one who showed any sense was Haystacks. I wonder if he got away? Surely if they’d caught him they’d have brought him down here. You’re right, Séamus, we mustn’t give up, and the best thing is for us to be prepared. What did grouchy Ronan say? “Eat up, scrub up, and shut up?” I’m going to scrub up first. You gentlemen can start breakfast – but leave me my share.’
They washed in turns, and Sinéad blessed her boy’s-length hair – at least she could comb it. Hearing Calum whistling outside, they called for more water, and got it. He had just put down the bucket when he caught sight of Sinéad and blinked: ‘Hey laddie, where’d you get that pretty face?’ With a shock she realised she’d parted her wet fringe like a girl. She blew him a raspberry and hastily tousled her hair again.
They had no knives, so all the food had to be broken up by hand. As Sinéad cracked an egg, she remembered the last cooked meal she’d had, that memorable stew in the herdsmen’s camp, with Aoife watching every spoonful. ‘I wish I could have a bowlful of that stew Aoife gave me at the O’Brolchain’s,’ she said wistfully.
Con looked up, an anxious look on his face: ‘You didn’t eat it, did you?’ Then he shook his head. ‘You know, Sinéad, that stew was the self-same stew I was given the day I arrived with them three years ago. You see, each day, we throw in whatever comes to hand – a fist-full of oats, a hat-full of barley, bits of cow, chunks of deer, gobbets of sheep, wild boar, hedgehogs – prickles off, if we have time – badgers, squirrels … let me think: snails, frogs …’
‘Ah go on with you!’ laughed Sinéad. ‘Why don’t you tell the others about the crab-apples and the English scouts?’
As the day wore on they ran out of stories to tell and listened instead to the wind rising outside.
‘How do you get to Spain?’ Con asked, glancing anxiously up at the tossing branches they could see through the grille.
‘They will sail down the length of Ireland and then south across the Bay of Biscay,’ Fion replied. They looked at each other; they all knew about the Bay of Biscay, birthplace of storms, and wondered about Uncle Hugh’s boat, battling with wind and wave.
As the light outside faded, the roar of the clan gathering upstairs grew until eventually it drowned out the sound of the wind. Calum and Ronan came in, carrying a length of chain.
‘Stand close together and put one foot forward,’ Ronan ordered. The two then clamped ankle-rings around the children’s legs, and linked these onto the chain. ‘This little fella here could nearly step out of his ring!’ Calum observed. ‘Don’t disgrace me by running away, son, will you?’ Con told him it would be a pleasure, and blinked at the smell of strong drink off him. ‘Carry the chain between you as you walk,’ the man ordered.
Off they went in a line up the steep flight of stairs from their dungeon, through a pointed church-like arch, and into a hall already thronged with men. To their left was a high table, with a canopied chair for the chief. They were to sit at a side table looking diagonally across at the chief’s chair. They had to shuffle in, in front of their bench, on account of their chains. The air was full of the smell of damp clothing, smoking torches, and the more welcome smell of food, much of which was already set out on the tables where the feasters would soon help themselves. Only the high table had servers. Two tall, longhaired Gallowglass warriors in padded jerkins and bright mail stood on each side of the chief’s chair, their fearsome battleaxes flashing as they moved. The seated men had beakers of mead to hand, the few ladies held glasses of wine.
There was a stir as Domhnall MacSweeney strode in. Everyone rose, including the children. He placed his lady to his right, and then stood in front of his carved chair. He cut a fine figure with his spade-like beard washed and combed. Both he and his wife were richly dressed in embroidered silks, and she flashed with jewels. As they took their places, a young man with a glowering expression and a newly bandaged head sat down on their left.
Calum, who was standing behind the children, bent to whisper in Fion’s ear, ‘That’s Domhnall Óg, his son. Now there’ll be the toast; you’d best drink too.’
‘The MacSweeney!’ roared the two Gallowglass warriors. The children reached for the ale that had been provided for them and drank.
Then Domhnall MacSweeney turned towards them with a tight smile. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, a toast to our young guests, who had the misfortune to miss their boat last night!’ There was a ripple of laughter as all eyes turned on the children, some hostile, more just curious; they drank.
‘I’d watch that smile,’ whispered Calum, who seemed to have taken on the job of keeping Fion informed. ‘Domhnall’s got something on his mind. There’s trouble brewing.’
Sure enough, the chief had another toast to make: ‘To my son, Domhnall Óg, for his valiant attack on the Earl of Tyrone’s watering party.’
Fion looked closely at the young man with the bandaged head, who was now scowling at the gathering. There were uncertain grins, but everyone drank. Fion leaned back and whispered to Calum: ‘What’s going on? Mocking his own son?’
Calum grinned. ‘Domhnall Óg happened on a party from that French boat yesterday; they were filling barrels with fresh water for their voyage. There’d been some talk about the French stealing a cow, so he decided to attack them, but he botched it and only just got away with his life. Domhnall senior is not pleased; imagine a son of The MacSweeney routed by a watering party?’
‘Do you know the chief well?’
‘Been with him since I was a pup, my mother was his wet nurse. Though a free man, I’m a common kern, but the chief and I are almost blood. I know him and he knows me. He knew the Earl was sailing – he’s not blind – all these grand folk rowing across at dead of night. We could have stopped them, just as we stopped you, but old loyalties are still strong. Red Hugh O’Donnell, your Uncle O’Neill’s closest ally, was our chief’s foster brother. You see how it goes. When he learned that Red Hugh’s brother, Donal, was on board he decided not to betray them. So the boat’s gone, but the English will demand a price.’
‘Us?’ queried Fion.
Calum nodded.
‘What will the chief do with us?’
‘Give you over to the English, at a guess. The little redhead lad,’ he tipped his head towards Con, ‘the Earl’s son – he’ll be worth a purse or two of gold and perhaps a knighthood for the chief, one day! It’s a shame, though, to put a young lad in the Tower of London. They’ll be along quick enough when they hear about the ship, so having you and the young lad to hand over will take the sting out of it. I reckon, though, he wants the clan’s support for handing you over before we all get too drunk to think. I better do some serving.’ Calum got up stiffly from where he’d been squatting.
Sinéad, who had been listening, glanced at Fion beside her. ‘They won’t split us up, will they?’ she asked. ‘You’d be worth a purse of gold too, you know.’
Fion gave an unconvinced shrug. ‘I think not; who’d want me?’
‘Well, I would!’ she said, so strongly that she blushed. We all belong together. Is there no one to help us? Her eyes swept the room, and then stopped. There, among all those faces, was one she recognised. Yes! She gripped Fion’s arm. ‘Don’t look now,’ she whispered, ‘but we have a poet in our midst! It’s Haystacks, and he’s free – but what can he do?’ Her eyes moved to Domhnall. The chief was glancing at his bodyguards; the business was about to begin. Come on, Haystacks! Whatever it is – do it now!
The warriors stepped forward, one on each side of their chief, and roared for silence. Domhnall MacSweeney rose to his feet and quenched any remaining conversation with a look.
‘Gentlemen, before we break bread and while our heads are clear, we have a small matter to decide – or, to be accurate, four small matters.’ Heads turned to the children. ‘Let me pre
sent to you Con O’Neill, son of Hugh O’Neill, the Earl of Tyrone.’ People moved, craning to look. ‘Con, pray stand.’ Con stood, sparking defiance, ready at any second to give this MacSweeney a piece of his mind. Sinéad kicked him, and their shackles clanked. Con tossed his head. ‘Next we have Fion O’Neill, a nephew of Hugh O’Neill.’ Fion rose and bowed. ‘And finally we have Séamus and Brian de Cashel, Norman followers of the Earl.’ They both stood. ‘Yesterday, for reasons beyond their control–’
‘Beyond our–!’ Con’s indignant squeak was again cut short by Sinéad, this time by a dig in the ribs.
The chief managed a tight smile. ‘As I say, for reasons beyond their control, they were unable to join the ship that sailed yesterday. We would naturally like to offer our young guests hospitality here, but it is my opinion that in view of their high birth it would be more proper for them to be guests of King James.’
Calum’s right – he’s handing us over to the English! thought Sinéad.
‘However, gentlemen,’ The MacSweeney continued, ‘I need your wise counsel and approval before I proceed. Pray, speak up.’
The silence stretched and stretched. No one was going to go against the chief. Also, they were hungry.
Where are you, Haystacks? It’s now or never. Do something, please, and quick! Sinéad was getting very anxious. The men were losing interest, their mouths were watering, they wanted to eat. Domhnall’s chosen this moment on purpose! Now he was bending forward as if to pick up the heavy mace that lay on the table in front of him, presumably to mark the end of clan business. At long last, a loud, clear voice rang out from the bottom of the hall, and Sinéad nearly collapsed with relief.
‘My Lord! I crave permission to address you and your noble clan.’
Heads whipped around in protest; surely not now, while meat was on the table! But Sinéad’s glance was for the chief, who looked perplexed.
‘We know you not, sir,’ MacSweeney replied, ‘nor by what right you assume to speak at this gathering.’
‘I have no right to speak here except the right granted to my profession as a poet. I have, however, something to say on the past greatness of your clan.’
‘Well, can’t it wait until we have our business done and have eaten our fill?’
‘No, sir, because what you propose to do with these young people does not sit easily with the greatness of which I speak. I merely ask that your decision be postponed until I have had my say.’
‘According to tradition, I must welcome you as a poet, but I dare not keep these people from their meat. We will postpone our decision, but you too will have to wait until our hunger is satisfied.’ At this the chief turned to his wife and began talking to her loudly about his dogs; the noise in the room rose as everyone’s attention turned to the food in front of them.
For a while Sinéad couldn’t even think of eating, but then, seeing Haystacks tucking in, she too set to. He had won the first round – no decision had been made.
Eventually the flow of conversation eased, men pushed the debris of their meal away, or threw it to the dogs. Legs stretched comfortably under the tables and faces turned in anticipation to this unknown poet, who was now thanking them for their hospitality. Sinéad watched, fascinated, as Haystacks gradually wooed their attention before launching into a tale as old as the clan itself.
‘Hear you, men, young and old, descendants of Niall – Niall of the Nine Hostages – open your ears because while swords make history, it is the poet’s word that makes history live.’
They must have heard this story a hundred times, because the MacSweeneys claimed descent from the mythical Niall, but it was as if everyone in the room was hearing it for the first time. Young Niall, returning as a man to his father’s court, where his stepmother and her four favoured sons ruled the roost, lived again in the listener’s minds. Which of the king’s sons would succeed his father when he died? Niall was favoured by the people, but his stepmother naturally favoured her sons, and so she engaged Sithchenn, a clever druid, to test them. Sithchenn gave the five boys a task: to save just one object from a burning forge. Sinéad could almost feel the heat and smoke of the fire when Haystacks described how Niall struggled out carrying the anvil, judged the most sensible thing to have saved from the forge.
Next, Sithchenn sent Niall and his half-brothers out to hunt. All day they ran through the forest without drink or rest, until their tongues swelled in their mouths and their legs would hardly carry them. One after the other, they came to a clearing in the forest where a spring of the purest water bubbled out of the ground, but as each approached the spring he found himself confronted by a hag so ugly, so repulsive that his stomach turned. ‘One kiss, my boy, just one kiss, and you can drink your fill,’ the hag cackled. One after another the boys approached, only to turn away, retching in disgust. Lastly Niall stepped forward and their lips touched (Sinéad’s face wrinkled in distaste); he kissed and did not flinch, and at that moment he found in his arms the fairest maid in all Ireland.
There was a sigh of satisfaction from the whole company. Sinéad sighed too, opened her eyes, and found herself looking directly into the eyes of Domhnall MacSweeney. The mocking smile was gone – could it mean indecision? But the moment passed, the eyes clouded over, and the tight smile returned. Now came a crash at the far end of the hall. The door was thrown back and a man, glistening from the storm outside, staggered in, thrusting the drunken revellers aside.
‘My Lord!’ he cried. ‘The English are on the road!’
There was pandemonium in the hall. Sinéad watched as Domhnall MacSweeney rose to his feet. He’s got us now, hasn’t he, all neatly chained, ready to trade, she thought bitterly. The intensity of his gaze almost burned, but now Haystacks was on the move, thrusting men aside until he and The MacSweeney stood face to face across the high table. Sinéad saw their eyes meet and lock. The guards stirred uneasily, but Haystacks fought with words, not steel. Just three words, delivered like dagger thrusts: one, two, three.
Domhnall MacSweeney visibly winced as the words struck home. Sinéad half-expected him to fall stricken, but no, on the contrary he seemed to grow taller, gathering strength as he grew, suddenly magnificent.
He turned towards the children, pointed at them and roared: ‘Calum! Get the chains off those children and get them the hell out of here!’
And he turned to Con with a curt nod: chief to son-of-chief. Con returned this with dignity.
‘Does that mean you’re to slit our throats?’ Fion asked as Calum plunged about at his feet undoing their shackles.
‘Not this time, sir.’ The man was grinning from ear to ear. ‘He’s done what’s right, and he knows it. Him and me, we didn’t share life’s breakfast for nothing.’ Even the grouch Ronan grinned as he grumbled, struggling with Calum to undo their chains.
Despite her delight, Sinéad suddenly felt uneasy, She felt eyes on her, predatory eyes! Who could have an interest in us now? she wondered. Then she saw him, staring at them with a fierce intensity – Domhnall Óg MacSweeney.
It took them barely ten minutes to pack their saddlebags and be ready for the road again. ‘Where’s Haystacks?’ Fion asked as they pushed their way up the stairs and out through the still crowded hall. Hefty pats on the back helped them on and out into the courtyard. There, in the flickering light, stood Haystacks, anonymous again in his shaggy mantle, holding his horse and a fistful of reins. Sinéad wanted to run up and hug him, but remembered just in time that she was still Brian.
They heard Calum whistling and then he came mounted on a jennet to go with them. ‘All I could get,’ he said.
Once again they were on their way, facing north-west, the English behind them, and a fresh gale in their faces.
Between the Devil and the sea, thought Sinéad.
CHAPTER 20
The Final Pursuit
alum had to return to the priory, but they would be safe for a while in the fisherman’s hut he had found for them. As he opened the door to leave, the sound of wi
nd and wave rose to a crescendo; both he and his whistling seemed to be snatched away by the wind. A single wick, floating in a saucer of seal oil, was their only light; it fluttered and then recovered. For the first time since their mad dash into MacSweeney’s ambush, they were free and alone together, this time lounging on piles of fisherman’s nets, dry because the storm had put paid to all fishing.
Séamus propped himself on an elbow and turned to Haystacks. ‘How did you do it?’ he asked. ‘I am still convinced MacSweeney was going to hand us over to the English. What did you say to him?’
‘It can’t have been more than four words,’ said Fion. ‘I was watching.’
‘No, three!’ said Sinéad triumphantly. ‘Don’t tell them, Haystacks. I want to guess.’ She kept them waiting, then said: ‘KISS … THE … HAG! Am I right?’
Haystacks laughed. ‘Well done, Sinéad!’
There were murmurs of appreciation until Con complained: ‘Will somebody please tell me what’s going on?’
They all started to explain until Sinéad cut in: ‘It’s like this, Con. In his heart of hearts MacSweeney wanted to let us go – he’s an Irish chieftain, after all, and it’s a matter of honour – but the temptation to sell us to the English was too strong. The temptation was his “horrible hag” like in the Niall story, that turned into the fairest maid. And when Haystacks told him to “kiss the hag” he was saying, “Do what you know is right” – like what you did when you sent Aoife your gold pebble.’
