“Well, and if not we'll have the glory of beating them on Irish ground,” said O'Neill. “Good news you have brought me, Owen, for each day of delay is a day of gain for us. You shall be rewarded. Go now and rest yourself. Now, Kieran, what of the camp?”
The old blind harper moved a couple of paces further into the hall and bowed towards the voice that he heard.
“From the camp, my Lord? — ay, I come from the camp! Camp! Saving the honour due to your presence, it is not a camp, but a hog-pound. There was I, singing and harping to them. Now and again, one of the afflicted ones would rise up and deliver me a kick, and so I would move round and round, one time listening to the groans of the sick and the fighting, and the sound of the lash; another time hearkening to the tales of the horse-boys. My Lord, there is scarcely a sound man among them. Their clothes are ragged. They lie on the ground in the mud and the dirt. Their food is bad; barrels of stinking salt fish their chief repast. Their clothes and their pay, and their food are stolen from them by the officers and there is no redress. Every day, they die cursing and unregarded.”
“Are the council making preparation for the armies of Essex?” said the chief.
“No, my Lord: and many speak strangely of the council and their care of the camp. Anyone would think they were breeding plagues there of set purpose.”
“Hasn't he had his turn and more than enough of speaking?” said the old woman boldly pushing forward. “Is my voice never to be heard?”
Tyrone laughed. “Come on, old Ronnat,” said he, “ever the keenest of my messengers. How thrive the fine gentlemen of the Pale?”
“I'll soon tell you that, my Lord,” said the old woman; the strength and the range of her voice was marvellous; the leap of an octave was nothing to her, and up and down the length of two it ran.
“Did ever you see, any or all of you gentlemen, a man with one foot on a stone and one in a boat, and he humouring the boat on the water with his foot, ready for land or sea, ready to stay or go? That's the way they are, the men of the big houses; one eye and one hand for Essex on the seas; one eye and one hand for Hugh, King of Ireland. Many's the hearth I have sat beside, and while I supped the cold meal coldly given, my ears were open to the talk. Far and wide have I travelled, not a great house but I have been inside it; for I have a charm for the dogs, and your Greatness knows that my tongue can wile the birds off the bushes.”
“Take care, old Ronnat,” said Hugh Maguire with a broad smile. “Take care of the sin of pride and vainglory. The saints are ever humble.”
The old woman instantly changed her manner to one of deep humility. “God knows, Hugh Maguire, I have nothing to be proud of. I'm not like yourself that can pull a man off a horse and skiver him to the ground as soon as look at him. What in life is there to be proud of more than the power of the fight and a skinful of big bones?”
A laugh went round the table, but Tyrone lifted a hand, and all were silent.
Old Ronnat looked keenly at the face of Tyrone and, seeing its sternness, changed her tone.
“What I'm after saying concerns only the big houses and the people of no pedigree arrived from God knows where at the back of beyond. The heart of the real people is yours everywhere, O'Neill. You can put out your hand and take it as I might gather a flower.”
“I have a letter here that came yesterday from Sir John McCoghlan, a man that owes me a thousand benefits; did you call at his house, Ronnat?”
“Ay, did I,” said the old woman with a chuckle. “He's one of the two-faced sort. I saw the messenger leave with the letter, a long yellow-faced lad with a brown coat and yellow belt. Was that the one? I thought he'd get here before me. And from the front door, there went a man on horseback at the same minute with a broad letter for the council at Dublin.”
“Ay, and is that so? I will deal with him straight. Owen, an ink-horn and a pen,” he called. With great rapidity, he wrote for a minute. Then lifting the paper, “How do you like this, my councillors?” said he and read aloud:
“Hugh, Earl of Tyrone, to Sir John McCoghlan: We commend us to you. We have received your letter, whereby we understand you intend none other but use fair words and by delays win time. For our part of the matter, who takes no part with us to defend the right, we take that man to be against us. Wherefore deal for yourself, and for us the worst you may, and we accordingly use you to the uttermost of our power.”
“Here, Owen,” said Tyrone to his secretary, as the captains murmured applause, “let this be copied and send letters in the same sense to these gentlemen also,” and he scribbled down a list on a sheet of paper. “Thank God we can do without half-friends. We are not so poor in hearts. Now, Donal, your message.”
The muddied rider came forward and handed on his knee a parchment roll tied with a silk cord and a hanging seal. Tyrone cut the cord and read. Then raising his head, he struck his clenched fist upon the table.
“My God, gentlemen, they have thrown the last honest man, the last friend Essex had, out of the council. Let him name who he will, Cecil will throw him out. Two of them only have sworn in faith to me; the rest are Cecil's. Gentlemen, when two dogs are fighting, it were odd if the third dog did not come by the bone.”
He laid his broad hand across his brow and meditated, then leaned forward, his eyes flashing blue light while his councillors caught fire from his excitement.
“By God, I see the plot. The Queen and the common folk of England are lovers of Essex. Therefore Cecil, who is James of Scotland's man, is bound to destroy him. And here in this country, he will strip him of honour and of life if he can. Therefore, we must make ourselves strong, ten times stronger than before. All Ireland shall come in to our banner. When the hand of Cecil is at Essex's throat, we will lay bare the plot to him; Essex has the whole power of England at his back. One mighty push, and he leaps to the throne. What is the goggle-eyed, knock-kneed fool that is son of Mary Stuart to Elizabeth and the people of England? And once Essex is on the English throne, we are his allies, slaves no longer: Ireland is free!”
With a shout, the men rose to their feet, their strong countenances lit by passion turned all to the leader.
“Who now will go for me and take my message to Essex, ay, speak with him face to face, in the midst of the enemy?”
“We are known, O'Neill,” said the captains, looking at each other and doubtfully shaking their heads. “We should be taken in an hour.”
Sabia's father made a motion of the hand in direction of a half lit recess where the figure of Estercel, who waited out of earshot, was leaning against the rough stone of the wall; a goodly and noble presence, though but a youth.
“All the thews and the muscles are there, I see,” said Tyrone with a smile. “And an evident valour? But how about his wits? He seems to me but a simple youngster.”
“His simplicity is great,” said Magnus Joy, “but he is no fool for all that. I have never known him lay a thing down that ever he planned to do.”
The eyes of Estercel turned to Tyrone. He felt, though he could not hear, that this moment was to decide his fate. A deep pallor overspread his face, and his eyes turned black, while the light swirled in them and then shot forth. That look was seen by Tyrone, who never failed in his judgment of men.
“Right,” said he, “he goes. I will devise a plan by which he may have speech of Essex and deliver my message. Now, my captains, the times and the fates are propitious. The ends of the salmon net are in our hands: one mighty pull, and the water is swept clear. Look, now, the word is ride and ride, from north to south. They must come in, they shall come in: all Ireland shall stand under one banner and free. If it were to be only for a day, that day would be worth a lifetime, worth our lives. To our marching orders then, and as quickly as may be.”
Chapter VI. - As Iron Sharpens Iron
Two hours after the council broke. Cups of mead were served and cakes of bread, and the mounted made ready to ride away. As the chief was leaving the hall, his eye fell again on the young girl whose cold
and unfriendly looks had been more than once noticed by him. He took her by the hand, and waving aside those that followed him, he led her within the embrasure of the narrow window. The raw stone was left and right of them, cold to the touch. Before and below them, the deep purple woods that shone in the sun and shook in the wind. In their ears was the rumour of noise of men and horses.
“Noble girl,” said O'Neill, “what is the matter with you that you are angry with me?”
“I wonder that you would take notice, my Lord,” said Sabia. “What should ail me to be angry with so great a man as you?”
“I leave no half-quenched coals behind me when I march,” said Tyrone. “Yours is the only enemy's face in this house. And why is it so?”
Sabia turned whiter still and trembled where she stood.
“What matter is it of a girl?” she said. “What matter if all goes from me, and I am left alone? What matter if my life goes from me? With your ridings and your fightings, your horses and your feathered bonnets, what care should you all take of one girl?”
Tyrone's dark blue eyes looked down upon the troubled countenance of the young lady. For one moment in his secret heart, he laughed — it was to him just as though a hen partridge had flown in his face. Then, he bent his mind to consider seriously the creature that stood before him. His keen insight discerned in her the presence of that extraordinary thing, an overmastering passion; the strange possession that moves the mother and stirs sometimes in the father's heart, that shakes the lover till he trembles like a woman, that, turned to grief, gnaws and devours like fire in the breast, making death seem sweeter than life. Those who have once stood helpless in that stress recognise the marks in another. Tyrone looked on the girl and felt for her.
“Noble girl,” said he, “grieve, if grieve you must, but do not be angry. It is true I seem to be taking away your father and your cousin; but, look now, am I my own master? I tell you I myself am driven by whips and God knows to what fate. And what care I so I can save my country from ruin? If you could see what I have seen, see the horsemen riding down upon women and children, see them driving their swords among them, see them hanging the young women upon trees with many a torture, see them burning the bright homes and firing the thatches, you would not grudge a man's arm to the war.”
Sabia's eyes hung upon the leader's countenance; the bitter look died away. Pale she was, but no longer angry.
“How sore a thing it is to live!” she uttered, breathing the words so that they could scarcely be heard.
“No,” said Tyrone, “it is a great thing, if your heart is strong. When I lived at the English court, how I languished! Now every day goes like the sound of a trumpet and as brief. Pluck up your heart, girl! There is much you can do. Heed me well now,” and while speaking, he lifted Sabia's hand and looked at its small fingers, “when I was wounded in the leg and came near to losing my life, it was a woman's hand that saved me. Is there no one that can teach you the art of healing? Ere long, every woman of Ireland may have a man's wounds to staunch.”
“Your notion is a good one. There is something in it,” answered Sabia steadily. “What you advise, that I will do. And I thank you, my Lord, for speaking words of sense to me and not empty follies that only sicken a wounded heart.”
Tyrone's eye brightened. “Well spoken, girl,” said he. “There is some comfort in dealing with your sort. Good-bye now, and heed what I say. You are small, but you are keen. Ride abroad and with your eyes open. Keep this hill free of spies, a safe retreat in case of danger. And now, good-bye to you, noble daughter of Ardhoroe!”
He stooped and left a brother's kiss upon her forehead and in a moment was gone through the door. Outside waited his captains; below at the foot of the hill stood the men. At equal distances on the downhill path were ranged the pipers, fine fellows and tall, their heads set on their necks like pine-crowns upon the stem.
As O'Neill came down, his captains about him, the fearful throbbing scream of the war-pipes announced his coming. Every passion and terror was in the sound. Only nine notes on the chanter of the war-pipes, yet the voice of it climbed the heavens and struck down to hell below. Exultation was in it and wild joy, the passion of the patriot, the demon rage of slaughter. “The red devil gripping you by the throat,” said a foreign soldier of it once.
As O'Neill passed by, the pipers, two by two, turned in after, as gallant in their going as stags, in spite of the great breaths they drew. And as the sound was increased by each couple that joined in at the back of O'Neill, Sabia fled to her chamber covering her ears with her two hands from the scream of it.
Chapter VII. - By the Salmon River
Everywhere and always the young have to suffer. Dead mothers may well stir in their graves and come up out of them to help. Though the thorn of bitterness was gone from Sabia's heart, the wound remained. That night she could not sleep. She wandered in the moonlight round her chamber. Unable to bear the weight of the roof above her head, she passed out into the cold blue night. For a while, she walked the turf below the wall, then wandered down to the river and sat upon the little bridge, listening to the chiming of the waters upon the stones, the sliding waters that cast back the pale rays of the moon. The living silver salmon leaped in the moonlight. The joy of the fish seemed strange to her, whose heart was so heavy, half broken in her youth.
Estercel had not been able to sleep either; he was mad for joy. Chosen by his chief, and he to meet with the Lord Essex, his message to be delivered by word of mouth only: the morning, his good horse, the riding of the long road, the thanks of his leader, all the great adventure of life lay before him. Still, there was a bare and naked place on his finger, and a sore spot in his heart that worried him in a small degree. Therefore, when he saw a shadow straying down the Castle Hill, a tall wolf-hound close behind, what did he do but follow also. The noise of the stream softened the sound of his footsteps. His shadow fell on the water, and Sabia looked up.
Estercel sat down on the bridge by her side. There is something curious in the light of the moon: that cold blue radiance transfigures things from their daily semblance. If there were any land on which the light of the moon fell only and never that of the sun, what strange flowers, what strange souls might grow there. Whether it was the pale light, the sad passion of the girl's face, or the sense of the changing life that now was flowing so fast for him, Estercel began to have curious sensations, the like of which had never happened to him before.
“Sabia,” said he, “tell me truly now, what charm was in the ring? Oh, Mary Virgin, what a fish was that: eight pounds' weight at the least. Oh, that I had him at the end of a line.”
Sabia looked coldly upon him. “Is it concerning the ring or the fish you would wish to converse with me, cousin?” she said.
“Do not be foolish, Sabia,” said Estercel. “I asked you a plain question about the ring, which I would have you answer. As for the fish, there is not a man in Ireland that could behold such a fish unmoved. You were not used to quarrel with me in this manner.”
“Indeed, Estercel, it is you that have quarrelled with me and thrown the poor ring away in which there was no harm at all.”
“But there was magic in it, that I know; for there is a cold draught playing around my finger since I threw it away.”
“Only a white charm, cousin, indeed. Could anything be more innocent than a little bird? Is there any harm in kindness? I will tell you all, if you will promise not to despise me for my foolishness?”
“God forbid that I should despise the meanest of his creatures,” said Estercel with solemn kindness.
Sabia's eyes flashed upon him for one moment. Then seeing all his simplicity, she said, sweetly enough:
“Cousin, I will tell you truly of my great foolishness. I put the ring into a bird's nest in the spring-time, that by their affection a charm might be wrought in the gold. There I left it (in the fairest and best-made nest I could find) till the young were ready to fly and the charm had passed into the ring. Then I do confess t
hat my old nurse put it on your finger, hoping to render you more kind and gentle. But it has been all in vain!”
“Never say so,” said Estercel. “That is very harmless magic, and I grieve that I threw your ring away. Twice have I since been upon the spot to search for it, but no ring can I find.”
“Is that so?” answered Sabia. “Well, and it is little wonder.” She turned away her head to hide the tides of scarlet that were running up into her face. “For I picked the ring up before it was cold, and the charm is in it yet. Will you have it, will you wear it, Estercel? Maybe it will shield you from all the terrible danger into which you must run.”
“Willingly will I wear the ring,” said Estercel, looking down into the face of the girl that was turned up to him. The unfamiliar radiance of the moon lit it strangely up. Gleaming from amid the dark curls, it appeared like the face of the fairy woman of his dreams. A thrill ran through his great frame. The girl was new-created before him. From a far country she seemed to have come, and her eyes held a new language with his soul.
Sabia had taken the ring from her bosom and now held it warm in her hand. “See,” she said, “it has never got cold. Perhaps, it will save and protect you. Estercel, in my dreams I know there is danger coming upon you. Avoid water; my dream is always of a round pool and some horrible creature that moves below the water, threatening to spring forth upon you. And you, you do not see it at all, and ever in my dream you are stooping to drink, and as soon as I cry upon you, then I awake.”
“It is natural for you to fear,” he answered, “being only a woman, and a small one at that; and something weak in the spirit also. Now, do not be vexed and make witch's eyes at me. I am but telling you that I, as a man, a man moreover of great size and strength (to God be the glory for that same), do not fear danger. That day at the Yellow Ford when rage came upon me and I slew and slew! Fifteen stout soldiers fell under my hand!” He was going on when Sabia laid her hand upon his mouth.
Enchanting Cold Blood Page 56
