Enchanting Cold Blood

by Petya Lehmann

  “Half a sheep and four pounds of good oaten bread will suffice,” said Estercel, his eyes shut as he lay in the sun.

  “As you wish, my lamb,” the old woman said turning to climb the hill. Then clearing her throat, she stopped. “That will be for the evening's meal, heart's jewel,” she said. “It is not all in a minute that a sheep can be cooked. But if the hunger is on you, I would counsel you to take something at once to stay your stomach. There is some beautiful flummery jelly above, made of the oaten seeds from Came mill, well steeped, and rich cream. Better could not be had between here and Dublin. And, Sabia, my jewel, the honey is come. Two dishes shall be brought you here on the hill, and you will take your food here in the sun. Mary the Virgin be praised for the weather!”

  “I thank you, nurse,” said Estercel, while Sabia looked joyfully up at the mention of the honey, her tears gone for the moment. “I will be grateful also for a dish of oats for Tamburlaine. Who carries me eats first.”

  “Good, good,” said the nurse; “you shall be served.”

  And the horse who understood his master's language lifted up his head and whinnied after her.

  Sabia, her mouth full of honey and her eyes upon Estercel, forgot for a while the trouble of her heart. But no sooner had she finished eating than sharp sorrow ran like a pain through her bosom, and she uttered a long and bitter sigh.

  “What is the matter, my cousin?” said Estercel, looking at her and perceiving that the water was standing in her eyes.

  “What is the matter?” said Sabia, in a grievous voice. “Terrible war is the matter, and my broken heart, and that you will be going away from Ardhoroe at the bidding of Tyrone tomorrow.”

  “And how do you know that?” said Estercel, putting down the horn spoon with which he had been eating the oaten jelly. In a moment, his face was changed: all the laziness gone, white fire started in the blue eyes, and the tall neck was erected on its broad base.

  “Last night my father told it me,” said Sabia, “that it might so happen that Tyrone would send you as an emissary to Dublin.”

  Estercel leaped to his feet. “What?” said he. “Tyrone take and send me! The O'Neill! Oh, this is too much joy!”

  Sabia looked at the fighting face of him and the ecstasy. She turned pale as death, threw her arms up above her head, then flung herself face downward on the hill-side uttering a low and bitter wail. Estercel was astonished. “Dear, dear, dear, what is the matter?” said he and went softly and picked her up, sorry at the sight of her pale face, all bathed in tears, and the brown curls dabbled. Like a father, he took her on his knee and soothed her with his great hand. But she turned cold and trembled, and drew away from him. Then she looked up into his face with her brown wet eyes.

  “I have tried to bear it, and I cannot, Estercel,” said she. “Listen now. I am alone in life. My father is not loving me very much; he is too busy with his fighting. I have neither mother nor sister nor brother. Is an old nurse of seventy and a couple of aunts sufficient consolation for a young girl? Since ever I could walk, you have been all that I care for. Tamburlaine himself does not love you better than I, and, oh, woe is me, your horse is your dearest.”

  “That is not so,” said Estercel, with much gravity. “There is no one in the world I love as much as you but Tyrone himself. First him, then you, and then Tamburlaine.”

  As he said the words, a white nose came over his shoulder, and the girl was softly pushed aside. At that they both laughed, and Sabia stood up on her feet. Estercel rose also, and the jealous horse came and laid his head fondly down on his shoulder while he talked.

  “Wait now till I tell you,” said the young man. “I am often thinking about you. I see how you are placed. I would protect you if I could. Willingly I would take you for a wife to me one day, were it not for one circumstance.”

  “And what may that be?” asked Sabia.

  “I do believe,” said Estercel, dropping his voice and glancing around, “that I am beloved of a fairy woman. One day of last October, I was sleeping out, and this ring was put on my finger, and I asleep. Now, who could have done that but one of the good people? And I believe the ring is bewitched, for I do assure you I am not the same man since. I often start from my sleep and have strange dreams, whereas before that day evening was morning before I knew, and as it were at a clap. Therefore, if I were to enter into any compact with you, I should fear the anger of the apparition.”

  Sabia's face became fiery red. “You are mistaken,” she said boldly. “It was not sleeping out you were, but in my father's hall. Nor was it one of the good people that put that ring on your finger, but my nurse did it. And you say truly that it is not as other rings, for there is a charm in it.”

  A look of blank astonishment and then of angry disappointment crossed the young man's face.

  “Your nurse put it upon my finger?” he said at last. “What at all possessed her to do such a thing? — and what charm is in the ring?”

  But Sabia could not answer; she turned away twisting her hands.

  “Answer me,” said he. “What charm has she put on me, for I will know?”

  For all answer, Sabia burst into tears. With an angry gesture Estercel plucked off the ring and flung it at her feet; then stalked away, followed by his horse.

  Sabia sprang up and seized the ring. “Oh, it is still warm, my thanks to the saints!” she cried, and clasping the ring tight in her two hands, she took again her place on the hill-side.

  She had been sad before; she was ten times as sad now. She thought of her convent at Rouen, the stone walls, the stone-paved streets, the high houses, the ordered life that had seemed to her stone bound. Almost she wished herself there again, so loveless was her life among these men of war. To them, a sword was more than love; a battle-axe a finer thing than friendship. Or so, in her present mood, it seemed to her. Whether she looked to the north, where Slieve Gallion, forty miles round, with his sheer precipices, bogs, and quagmires stretched himself in the sun; or southward across the forest to the blue hills that safeguarded the north; or heavenward where the larks spun and chanted, it seemed a cold and weary land, and she took no joy in it. She opened her hand and gazed upon the ring, on the seven bands plaited together, coiled four times about, ending in a bird's head curiously worked, with a curved bill and an eye of green enamel.

  “It is a wise-looking bird,” she said aloud. “And the charm is in it yet. Could I but get it on to his finger once more!”

  Chapter IV. - Ardhoroe's Welcome

  The broad lands of the North were scarce awake the next morning, when the O'Neill, Earl of Tyrone,* came riding to Ardhoroe. As the sun rose above the earth's rim, the shadows of men riding four by four appeared black against the grey, coming out of western Donegal. Hardly had the first white beams enlivened the green of the slopes about the castle, before Tyrone's runner was come, the silver axe on his shoulder and the breath well-nigh out of his body.

  (* Hugh The Great O'Neill /1550–1616/, 2nd Earl of Tyrone (the Great Earl), leader of the resistance during the Nine Years War /1595–1603/ against English authority in Ireland. During this war, O'Neill was considered a King of Ireland.)

  That was the way of Tyrone: up early and late; riding, fighting, training up his men. A thousand at a time he kept at his back. When they were well fashioned into stout soldiery, he disbanded them and took other thousand; and this for years past he had been doing, so that by now few indeed were the men of the North that had not been under his hand.

  All night Ardhoroe had been awake; long before the dawn Estercel had gone out to meet Tyrone on his white horse that loved the dark better than the day. All night there had been baking of cakes of bread and roasting of mighty joints; for the hospitable breakfasting of a thousand is no light matter.

  Sabia, in her good green gown with well-snooded hair, was waiting on the tower-top to watch the riders come in. Winding like a dark serpent among the brown woods they came; now seen, now half seen, now wholly hidden. Far away as yet, the music o
f the war-pipes and the rumour of the hoof-beaten earth came to the tower-top. All living things within the circle of the dawning light awoke to the thrilling sound. Cattle lowed, every lark darted to the sky; the blackbird chose the highest thorn; the sheep and the young lambs cried to each other. Sabia waited on, a still shape in cold morning air, till in the brightening light she could make out the figures of the three leaders that rode in front; not far behind was the white speck that told her that Estercel was there.

  From below came the noise of the shouting of servants and retainers. The barn under the castle hill had been cleared, and sledges loaded with provisions were run down from the kitchens to supply the long tables that were set ready for the men below.

  Taking her gown in her hand, she descended the tower stairs. The dark square stone hall had been hung with hand-woven cloth, dyed by the women to the colour of the foxglove, and round the walls were hung the ancient shields of the O'Neills. The table of black oak, hacked and scored, that twenty men could scarce lift, was polished and set with platter and bowl and shining silver cups; one wrought tankard of gold that stood for Tyrone at the high seat at the table end.

  A well-built-up fire of logs flamed on the hearthstone that was eight feet long by five feet broad and two feet thick. The logs were skilfully laid on a broad base below rising to a point; the darting flames drew from right and left to the centre and sprang gorgeously up against the smoke-blacked wall.

  There was nothing of the heroic spirit in the girl that leaned by the door-post awaiting the coming of the troop. Many and many a princess and queen of men had come of her house, women heroic and firm-eyed, who had not scrupled in the old days to lead their men into battle when the need arose. But Sabia was as tender as the she-dove; fear and pity were her portion in time of war. A longing for the sweetness of love filled her heart and mind. Her face was pale and still under the leaping light of the fire, and despair of love unnerved the hands that hung down along her dress. Her heart gave no welcome to the leader whose bonnet and feather even now emerged from the dark wood paths: with her two hands she could have pushed him from the door.

  The ill moment comes even while we watch. Soon, the shouting of the captains filled the air. The men turned out of the ranks at the foot of the hill. The tramp of the horses, tired though they were, thrilled in the stones of the wall. Winding up the hill-slope, on foot came the little company of gentlemen, some twenty in all; at their head, the big brown-bearded man in cloak and bonnet, on whom the eyes of Europe were fixed. Was he not going to dare the lioness Elizabeth who balanced all the reigning powers with her two hands? As Sabia stood cold in the doorway, with a rush and a scream the women of the house went by her, and the men after them. Down in the dust they threw themselves, kissing the feet of Tyrone and the borders of his cloak. Not one dared to lift lip or eye even as high as the fingers of his hand. For a moment, he stood and smiled as he listened to the cries of blessing that invoked the light of God about him while he walked the world, and Heaven for his bed when this life was done. And then to see the women when he moved on! To see them down upon their knees scraping up the precious handful of dust on which his foot had trod! Not one of them would turn to her work till she had tied up in safety this treasure which each of them would carry to her grave.

  And all the while Sabia stood silent by the door.

  Chapter V. - Tyrone's council

  Like a magnet, the person of Tyrone drew to him a concourse from all quarters of the compass wherever he might be. If you had stood upon the castle-top all that morning, you might have seen dark specks come creeping up from the sky's circle, friends and messengers, Scotch, Spanish, and French, returning emissaries; all converging upon one point, the Tower of Ardhoroe. Riding, running, marching, hobbling they came. Old blind women, yet of so much poverty and simplicity of aspect that none might take them for political agents. More than this, if you had the wing of a strong bird and could have risen high in air above the tower, you would have seen more than one runner by wood and hill path coming from the south-west: further yet, on the rocky headlands of Louth, you might have seen the watchers standing; further yet and there were the sails of Tyrone's fast skiffs upon the sea, one signalling the other, coursing like greyhounds upon the waves, all to carry news to the leader of the coming of Essex and the English fleet.

  He, the centre of it all, sat at the high table in the hall of Ardhoroe. Behind Tyrone stood his squires, each one in turn serving him on the knee. Sabia leaned by the side of her father's chair and waited upon him. Loud was the talking, jesting, and laughing. Men-servants and women-servants hurried up and down the hall. The dogs sat back silent, looking on, watching the beloved faces of their masters and waiting their turn to be fed. Tyrone talked but little. Now and again, he said a word to the short dark man beside him — Sabia's father — then leaned again back in his chair, glancing from face to face as a man reads line after line of a printed page.

  That eye of his, the leader's eye! As the burning sun is the central point of the heavens round which the stars move obediently, so did that eye of Hugh Tyrone's command the eyes of these men that followed him.

  When the meal was over, the board was cleared. Sabia and the squires withdrew, all save Estercel, who was bidden to stand as guard but out of earshot. The rabble of men and women servants, onlookers and dogs departed. As the last sound of hurrying and scuffling feet had died away, the chiefs assembled round the table in council. Among them, Tyrone's state was plainly that of a king, with his massive form and powerful bearded head against the tall chair's back, one hand clenched upon the knee, the other, clenched too, resting on the chair-arm; the broad forehead frowning while the wide and weighty thoughts ranked themselves within.

  Dead silence reigned as the flames rose and sank. Round the table were the members of his council; nearest him the two Hughs, his two fighting lieutenants: Red Hugh O'Donnell, famous in history, and Hugh Maguire. The picked men of Ireland these were — and it was great to see them there, leather-coated, steel-jacketed, hardy and keen-faced men. In deep silence, Tyrone sat on. At last:

  “Friends of my heart,” said he, “I have great matters to lay before you. Trust me — before much time is gone the world will be astonished, and with good cause.”

  He motioned to his secretary, who placed a heavy leather pouch on the table beside him. Out of it, he drew some papers and opened them out on the table before him.

  “Gentlemen,” said he, “this war is not what it seems. They that watch affairs know well that a great matter wears two faces: one is the outer mask that the world sees; the other, the inner and true face, that is most often of another complexion. In the face of the world, there are but two in the fight, Essex* and myself, who am Ireland. In very deed, there are three, and the third is the hunchback, Robert Cecil. And he fights not with me but with Essex. To destroy the Earl, they have sent him here. Now mark well what I say! Although in the open day Essex and I are enemies, as secret allies we may overthrow the world.”

  (* Robert Devereux, 2nd Earl of Essex /1565 – 1601/ — an English nobleman and a favourite of Elizabeth I, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland during the Nine Years' War 1595-1603.)

  “I don't like that word 'allies,'” said old Magnus Joy. “There is no possible alliance between us and the Saxon but the alliance of the sword's with the quick flesh.”

  “Nay, Magnus, policy is more than the sword point. I don't think in those terms of my Lord of Essex. As you know, I was many years his companion in South Wales at my Lord of Leicester's Castle of Lamphey. Many and many a time has he wept on my neck, not knowing how to contain his heart within him that burst with hatred of the Lord of Leicester, for that he had murdered his father by poison and taken his false mother to wife. Ay, and he loathed the presence of his mother, knowing not truly whose son he was. And worse and many more matters behind, suspicion on suspicion of those plots between the Queen and Leicester and the base Lady Essex, his mother, till the lad was like to destroy himself. Nay, I cannot forget; E
ssex is noble; the one man of all the court who held it a shame to deceive his enemy, to use craft and poison and treachery.”

  “It is in his blood, though,” shouted old Magnus Joy; “it is in his blood. Did not his father slay by deceit and poison here in Ireland men, and women, and children? Do we think a shame to take foxes in traps? So they look upon us, curse them. There is not an Englishman of them all but is false as Judas when he kissed his master. Give me the sword and the spear, and the arquebus, I say, and let us have no treaties with hell.”

  There was silence for a moment after Magnus had spoken. Long years of training in the house of Leicester, who was a king in power and policy, though not in name, had trained the O'Neill. His face was quiet and his brow smooth as he sat in silence thinking his own thoughts. Then he turned a kindly eye upon the old man.

  “Always a noble fighter have you been, Magnus, my friend. Tomorrow is your day, the day of war. Today is mine, the day of fore-thinking and the plan of the battle. I am he that leads.”

  A murmur followed his words, the deep sound in the men's throats proclaiming their fast adherence to his decision. At the same moment, a rapping came on the door without, and a servant stood within and said:

  “Four messengers more to see the O'Neill.”

  “Let them come in,” said O'Neill.

  Through the open door filed a string of strange figures. First came a long, lean, exhausted youngster, pale as death and reeling in his gait. After him came two, linked hand in hand, a white-bearded harper, blind, tall, and blanched, and an old woman featured like an eagle with black beady eyes, indescribably ragged. Last of all, a spurred rider with mud of ten differing tints upon him.

  “A mug of wine to Owen there and set him in a chair till he gets breath,” said Tyrone. There was silence till the man had drunk. “What news of the fleet, boy?” said he.

  “I passed the day on the cliffs of the Head of Howth. Towards evening, Neil Malone brought his pinnace within shout of me. The good winds hold and the ships are beat back to where they came from. Along the shore, the women are out on their bare knees is rows like the gulls of the sea, praying the good winds may blow hard and drown them all. They are saying their prayers are blowing them backwards. God grant they may send them to the bottom all out.”