“Listen to me, well beloved: I am going now, but I will return again. Keep up your heart and practise patience. I will know no rest till I have liberated you and him that we adore and restored you to the hills of the north.”
Tamburlaine turned his rolling eyes upon Owen Joy. With ears pricked forward, he listened to every word. “Lie down, my son,” said Owen, “and wait patiently till I come back,” and he laid his hand upon Tamburlaine's forehead lock.
The horse bent his knees. Owen moved to the door. In the dim light, he saw the whole great bulk sink peacefully to the ground. Softly, he closed the door and swift and silent as a cat sped on his way. As he ran in the shadow, glancing from left to right, his beard on his shoulder, he thought, and he planned.
Coming to the yard of the Black Dog Inn where he and his fellows had a corner of a loft (and thankful to get it, so crowded was the town), Owen Joy opened the stable doors each in turn and looked within: every stall was occupied. The uneasy stir of the horses woke the sleepers above, and a head was thrust out.
“All right,” said Owen. “It's only myself. I'm away to my bed.”
The head withdrew grumbling, and Owen climbed the ladder to his loft. Picking his way among the sleeping forms, he threw himself down at last beside Black Maurice, the trustiest of his men. Quiet he lay for a few minutes while his mind flew here and thither reviewing many places and things, fixing on one after another as suitable to his purpose. Now he remembered: that other tall house beyond was Lord Clancarty's. Now his plans were made. Rolling over, he laid hold of Black Maurice and whispered in his ear.
“Wake, you snoring devil, and tell me where will I get a ball of twine?”
“Holy Virgin!” gasped Maurice in his bewilderment. “Owen, my friend, can it be that you are drunk?”
“Listen, Maurice,” said Owen, and putting his lips close to the other's ear, he whispered long and with less noise than a mouse would make in his corner. Much he said and ended with: “Now, where will I get a piece of twine?”
“Oh, glory, glory, wisha, wisha!” said Maurice. “I seen a good hank in Alexander's waist-belt,” and crawling on his hands and knees and ejaculating all the way, he came to his companion and, cleverly rummaging him over, extracted at last the hank of string from somewhere about his person.
Down the ladder, Owen went like a cat and in at the inn back-door. Two servant maids lay asleep in the back kitchen. Creeping softly, he snatched the can and brush and the lump of ochre and, hiding all under his cloak, set out at a sliding trot back the way he had come. At the entrance to the dark alley, he paused, laid down his bundle and can in a dark corner and turned aside, taking to another lane. Here, for awhile, he lost his bearings, for a knot of quarrelling soldiers came hurling out of a house and sent him off down another alley. At last, as the clocks struck the half hour after one, he reached the great house of the Clancartys. Stealing along by the wall, he came to the stables. The gates were locked but the small man-door was open. Entering, he crept along and laid his ear to each door in turn, and in each he seemed to distinguish the breathing of a horse. Despair filled him. He went the round again. One door led to the biggest stable which had six stalls, he knew. He listened and heard the stir and the munching of more horses than two or three. Still there might be one empty stall. Softly, he pushed back the bolt, and, as he did so, a head was thrust out from a loft.
“Who's that, and what are ye after?”
“Haven't I been,” said Owen, in sulky accents, “sent up from Lisadill with a horse for his Lordship? And three mortal hours I've been looking for Clancarty House, and my man below there is lost standing in the street with a led horse and nowhere to put him.”
“I've heard tell of no horse coming for his Lordship.”
“It's a gift horse and a mighty particular one. I'm to see her Ladyship in the morning about it,” said Owen.
“Well, well, there's a small box on the right of the stalls that's vacant. Put him in there till the morning. Maybe I had better come down.”
“Don't trouble yourself, O steward of the Clancartys,” said Owen. “I'll just have one look at the box, and then I'll go fetch the horse. And may I lie down beside him till the morning?”
“Well, and I suppose you may unless, as you seem a well-spoken man, you would wish to come up and share a place.”
“Don't trouble yourself, sir,” said Owen, “thanking you all the same. In about half an hour's time, if you hear the walk of a horse, that will be me and himself. A great beast it is, and a great tramp he makes.”
And with that, Owen disappeared into the stable. Presently, he came out again and whistled till the head appeared in the upper window frame.
“What can I do about the gates?” said Owen. “You can't bring a horse through a man-hole.”
The man above rubbed his head perplexed.
“It is a great pity that my sleep should be disturbed in this way. And I not at all well in myself this week past. I sorely need all I can get,” he said at length in a stifled whisper.
“Don't be troubled,” said Owen in the same voice, “leave it all to me. Suffer me to keep one side of the gate unbarred for a short half hour. After I have placed the horse in the stall, I will bar it again before I lie down.”
The gate ajar behind him, Owen sped forth like an arrow from a bow. A lean strong runner, he bounded noiselessly at a greyhound's pace till he came to the alley where he had left his bundle and can. A stray dog was smelling them who started aside as Owen came up to him with a yelp that set all the other dogs around howling. Owen sank on the ground in the dark corner, his head on his hand, planning his way. The noise of the dogs died away; the stillness became complete; it was the dead hour of night. The moon was now descending the sky, and soon her light would be quenched. A wet touch on his hand made him start. There was the stray dog again who leaped backwards a yard when Owen lifted his head. He held out his hand, and the dog came and sniffed upon it. Owen felt in his pocket for a piece of stale bread and, breaking it in half, gave a piece to the dog who ate it ravenously. Presently, it came close and timidly lay down beside him. Owen put his hand on its head, and something of the love and sorrow and longing that was in the man's heart reached the dog's.
At last, Owen rose up and took the bundle of cloth. Pointing to the can, he whispered to the dog, “Watch it,” and then stole away.
Coming to the gate, he found it bolted on the inside when he had left it merely closed. Owen was worn with grief and watching. A brave man, he was seized with unreasoning terror. That part of him which he could not control told him that on the other side of the gate death waited for him. Owen had faced ten foes at once in battle. He felt he would rather face them again than thrust his arm through that hole. It must be done. He bared his arm to the shoulder, measured his distance on the here side of the door, then with a wonderfully rapid and silent movement shot back the bolt and withdrew his arm. As he did so, he heard a movement in the yard. There was someone behind the door.
Owen laid his ear to the crack. He was not a hunter for nothing. His ear soon told him all that his eye wished to know. A large dog lay crouched there panting hard and ready to spring. Owen smiled. He pulled off his cloak and wound it round his left arm. He drew his long knife from his belt, no need to feel the edge, for he knew its sharpness. Collecting all his force till the whole of him was strung like a bent bow, he pushed the door with his foot and sprang into the yard. The bloodhound leaped. Owen thrust his left arm in his throat and drove his long knife between his ribs. In that one silent moment of strife, a noble dog was dead.
Owen lifted the dead body that was as heavy as a calf into the dark corner of the wall, drew out the knife and wiped it on the dog's hide. Then he stood in the shadow, listening, motionless as a statue, till the clock struck two. Whoever it was that loosed the dog must have gone back to his rest. There was no sound in the yard save the occasional stirring of the horses. But in all that time, there was no sound from Tamburlaine's stall, and Owen's heart was
heavy in his breast. Was he gone? Or was he dead that he knew not when Owen was by?
Waiting a few moments till the last vibration of the striking clocks had died upon the air, Owen crept to the stable door. His spirit rose, for it was as he had left it; the lock closed, but not fastened. He slipped within. There lay the great white beast calmly asleep, as Owen could see from the heaving of his sides.
“Ah, poor fellow, poor fellow,” murmured Owen. “He was worn out with sorrow. His heart was at rest once he had talked to me.”
He bent down and whispered: “Wake, beloved; wake, but lie still.” The large eye opened; the horse had dreamed of Estercel and woke to look upon Owen.
With rapid movements, the bundle was now unrolled. Taking one of the four pieces of cloth, Owen began to muffle a hoof, padding it with straw and binding it with string around the pastern, neat and tight. Tamburlaine raised himself on his shoulder that he might look on. He had been muffled before and understood there was need of silence. Soon the four feet were trimmed and ready and, “Rise, good horse,” said Owen and stood off from him with circumspection. Tamburlaine got upon his fore hoofs, raising up the hinder part of his body afterwards, without lashing or struggling. Then standing upright, he laid his chin on the shoulder of Owen in token of affection and obedience.
Owen opened the door and looked out: all was empty and silent. He crossed the yard and opened the door. Tamburlaine had followed of his own accord, stepping like a shadow on his muffled feet. Owen went back and shut the stable door, then the yard door. Softly as they went, still he thought he heard a sound somewhere behind him. He sped up the alley, the horse after him, till he came to where the can was, the dog watching it. He snatched it up, then leaped on the horse's back. “Trot soft, boy,” he whispered. The great horse put himself in motion, the dog following behind. Owen guided him, as he had often done before, with a hand on his neck. To Owen, the beat of Tamburlaine's feet was as loud as thunder, and his own heart beat almost as loud. So near a half safety, yet he was sure that he was followed, that danger was behind. Three-quarters of the way along Back Lane was a timber yard, just before the turning into Nicholas Street. Arrived opposite, Owen slipped from the horse's back and ran before him through the timber to a low pile at the back of the yard.
“Down!” he said to horse and dog, and in a moment, all three lay crouched together. The hind-quarters of Tamburlaine stuck out and shone in the moonlight. Owen took off his cloak and spread it over them. The horse turned his head to look, and Owen could have sworn he laughed. For full five minutes they lay hidden. Then two men came running round the corner. They stopped on seeing the timber, stood still and listened. One of them, a tall man in leather jacket and breeches, with a reddish head and a big nose that shone in the moonlight, came forward and looked behind the nearest stack. The hair on the neck of Tamburlaine stiffened, and his sweat broke out under Owen's hand. He began to move and stir himself, when suddenly the little dog, who had been lying quiet as a mouse, rushed forward barking. Owen felt as though his heart would burst at the noise, but it was well for him in the end. The men kicked the dog aside and, thinking it belonged to the yard, went on. Owen waited till the sound of their feet died away as they went past Clancarty House. Crossing and blessing himself, he arose and, with the horse at his heels, ran soft and cautious along Back Lane and round the turn into Nicholas Street. All was empty and silent. Without waiting a moment, he turned in at the gate, Tamburlaine following; he dared not remove the muffles outside. Deep thankfulness was in his heart as he let down the iron bar on the inside and let Tamburlaine into the empty stall. Once there, he turned about, laid his arms on the horse's neck and broke into a sob. Then he pulled himself together, went out, fetched water and worked hard as dyer and painter for the rest of the night. By morning, it was a chestnut horse, and not a white one, that stood in the stall.
“It's the queerest colour of a chestnut ever I beheld,” said Owen as he regarded his work in the morning light. “God send the weather may not wash away the ochre and leave him only the good sea-weed dye. What man has ever seen a pink horse from the beginning of the world up till now? A strawberry roan is what I'll call him from this out.”
Chapter XVI. - Essex and his Council
Out of doors in the sweet May weather, there was liberty and delight. The morning wind blew fresh from the sea. Grey clouds travelled fast across, turning and rolling and changing their shapes. Below in the sea, fish darted and swam in their silver armour, all pleased and happy in the young light of day. Above in the air, the grey-spotted crows turned somersaults from pure glee. Loudly and hoarsely, they talked to each other as they amused themselves about the walls of the castle, those old walls, four square and of incredible thickness, nigh four hundred years old. Fair and green every inch of the way, the creatures of the leafy kingdoms rose up to meet sun and rain. In peace and freedom they grew, and stretched up their stalks and branches, tossing and nodding in the free wind.
From sea to sea there was unrest and misery among the races of men. The ancient inhabitants panting with rage and fear, looking on their beloved meadows and their herds that would soon be snatched from them. The soldiers of the camp, slaves to the officers, herded like wolves, to be loosed like wolves to savage ends and brutish deeds, in obedience to the inevitable necessity that was at the heels of them all.
In the council chamber within the castle walls, there is enough of talking and jesting. Good stories are told. Now come in the Lords Justices Loftus and Gardiner, in their scarlet robes. With them comes the squire of Cockington in Devon, Sir George Carey, the new Treasurer at War. A big lusty man, with an air of good humour; a born calculator behind that merry eye. Already he is revolving how to make his own profit out of this campaign. Soon he will come to his great idea of collecting sacks full of the worthless leather tokens that are passed as money on the people of Ireland and forcing his sovereign mistress to relieve him of the said sacks at their full money value. But no man is more alive than he to the corruptions of the captains and the cheats put on Her Majesty by the army chiefs. A bald-headed lawyer has him now by the lace of his doublet, while he bends a willing ear.
“Listen here, my Lord Treasurer, pay no money to the captains on account of their companies, for they will have their profit of it. Let your clerks see instead that each man has his pack, in especial two good shirts, a strong sheet and blanket. Better let them want a blue coat than go without a shift. I tell you that in this country I have known Her Majesty's soldiers forced to wear the same clothes for three months without a change, sleeping on the bare ground, so that they are ragged and diseased, and we say that they are shadows not men. Small wonder that they are unfit for Her Majesty's occasions.”
There is quite another sort of talk where the men of war are gathered together at another end of the apartment. Chief among them is Sir Warham St. Leger, like the war-horse always ready for battle, who has with difficulty been brought into the plot and only consents through jealousy of Essex.
“Good company?” says he. “In faith, there is little of it to be had in the south. You will find rogues and bastards out of England putting on the great gentleman.”
“Aye,” says Sir Anthony Standen, “and they are so imperious that every gentleman would be in commission of the peace.”
There was a stir caused by the entrance of the Earl of Ormond, a noble and powerful old man in a splendid dress. He was to be captured that very summer by McRory's men and dragged about from house to house, and from cabin to cabin in a long and bitter captivity while his wife and much beloved daughter made vain efforts to relieve him. By the end window, Sir Edward Moore had buttonholed Lord Justice Gardiner. The talk of all these men was of the south, of the people they were likely to come into contact or collision with.
At this moment, a shout was heard in the corridor, followed by the sound of an approaching hum of voices. The door of the council chamber is flung wide. With gorgeously-clad officials walking backwards before him, the Earl Marshal of Eng
land and Lord Lieutenant of Ireland makes his entry. There is an instant commotion and breaking up of groups. Elizabeth still loved him, and her presence seemed to preside where he was. This was the deciding moment of his fate as he faced the council, practically alone. If the man himself had been resolute, if the strength of his heart had corresponded with the strength of his position, he would have forced their hands, taken his own course and triumphed. But even as he entered, he was torn by useless passion, and there it was written black upon his brows.
Where were his friends Blount and Southampton? Thrown out of the council through the machinations of his enemies at home, an intolerable affront, which now, as he faced the room, he realised to the full. So sensitive was the nature of Essex, that the air of the council chamber affected him unpleasantly. It seemed to him as it were charged with some inimical element. He was soon to realise the nature of the opposition that he was to meet, which was far other than he expected. Very smooth and suave are the salutations of those that greet him, some of them are even uneasy, for a great man may yet break loose and confound his enemies.
Prayers once over, down sits Essex in his chair, the councillors upon their stools, and business begins.
“Nay, but, my Lord, your Lordship's Grace does not know the country.”
“Pardon us, my Lord, but to march against Tyrone at this season of the year were madness! There is no grass for the horses; there is no corn in Ulster; or if there is, that desperate rebel will burn all before him.”
“We have no beeves in store, my Lord, without which the army cannot march.”
“Let this season pass, my Lord, till the new grass be grown.”
“Listen to this, Excellency: the troops are weak from the diseases of winter. Wait till their health grows sounder with the summer months.”
“Nay, my Lord, the rebels be now proud in insurrection, confident of your coming, and all prepared. It were better to make an expedition into the warmer south. One blow driven home there will strike terror into the north, and you will come upon them then of a sudden and take them unprepared.”
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