Yellow Brian had written out these things, sending the letter to the sick general who lay within the castle. His terrible news of Drogheda had created consternation, but already O’Neill’s forces had been sent to join the royalists against the common foe. All Ireland was distraught by war. Royalist, patriot, and Parliament man fought each against the other, and the only man who could have faced Cromwell lay sick unto death.
The Day was passing, the Man was passing, and shadow lay upon all the land.
A man came up and touched Yellow Brian’s arm, with word that Owen Ruadh would see him at once. Brian nodded, following. He was well garbed now, and a steel jack glittered from beneath his dark-red cloak as he strode along. Upon his strong-set face brooded bitterness, but his eyes were young for all their cold blue, and his ruddy hair shone like spun gold in the sunlight; while his firm mouth and chin, his erect figure, and his massive shoulders gained him more than one look of appreciation from the clustered O’Reillys.
He followed the attendant to a large room, whose huge mantel was carven with the red hand and supporting lions of the clan Reilly, and passed over to the bed beside the window. He had requested to see O’Neill alone, and the attendant withdrew silently. Brian approached the bed, and stood looking down at the man who was passing from Ireland.
Sharp and bright were the eyes as ever, but the red beard was grayed and the face was waxen; a spark of color came to it, as Owen Ruadh stretched forth a hand to take that of his visitor.
“Brian O’Neill!” he exclaimed, in a voice singularly like that of Brian himself. “Welcome, kinsman! But why the silence you enjoined in your letter?”
“My name is Yellow Brian,” answered the younger man somberly. “I have none other, general. You know the gist of my story, and here is the rest. I broke with my father, for he would hear nothing of my coming to Ireland. So I cast off his name and left him to his cursed idleness, reaching Drogheda barely in time to take part in the siege. I managed to cut through, as you know, and meant to take service with you—”
He paused, for words did not come easily to him, as with all his race. A low groan broke from the crippled warrior.
“Too late, kinsman, too late! Cromwell is come, and I will never sit a horse again—ah, no protests, lad! How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“By my faith, you look thirty! Lad, my heart is sore for you. I am wasted and broken. I have no money, and Cromwell will shatter all before him; I can do naught save give you advice.”
“I want naught,” broke in Brian quickly, a little glint as of ice in his blue eyes. “Not for that did I cast off my name and come to—”
“Tut, tut, lad!” O’Neill reproved him gently. “I understand, so say no more of that matter. You are Brian Buidh, but to me you are my kinsman, the rightful head of my house. You can do two things, Yellow Brian—either follow my advice, or go down to ruin with all Ireland. Now say, which shall it be?”
Brian gazed at him with thoughtful face. What was the meaning of this dark speech? As he looked into the keen, death-smitten eyes of the man who might have saved Ireland, he smiled a little.
“I see naught but ruin, Owen Ruadh,” he replied slowly. “I care little for my life, having no ties left on this earth—”
“Oh, nonsense!” broke in the other impatiently. “You are young, lad—the bitterness will soon pass, trust me. Now see, here is my advice, such advice as I would give no other man alive. I am dying, Yellow Brian. Well, I know that Cromwell will break down all I have built up, and I can see no brightness for my country. But for you I can see much. You are young, powerful, the last of the old race; you look strangely like the old earl, Brian!”
The younger man started. For the first time in many days he remembered that crazed hag he had met by the Dee water the night of Drogheda.
“Now, harken well. I tell you that our house lies in the dust, Brian; there is no hope for it or for any O’Neill. But for Yellow Brian there is hope. You must carve out a holding for yourself, for you are a ruler of men by your face, lad. Go into Galway, and there, where Cromwell’s men will have hardest fighting of all, gather a force and make head. I have heard strange tales of a man who has done this very thing—they say he has seized on a castle somewhere near Bertraghboy Bay, in Galway, and— But I am getting weak, Brian lad. Hearken well—Ireland is lost; carve out now for your own hand, for the Red Hand of the old house, lad! And take this for my sake.”
Almost whispering the last words, Owen Ruadh took from his finger a signet graven deeply with the Red Hand of Tyr-owen. Brian accepted it gravely, kissed the hand that gave it, and with tears choking his throat, left the chamber of the man who was passing from Ireland.
He had been there a brief fifteen minutes, yet it seemed that an age had passed. Both he and the sick man had said much in few words, for they were both men who spared speech and did much. But Brian had received a great wrench.
As he had said, he had cast off his father, for the grandfather’s blood ran riot within him, and had kindled to burning rage against the sluggard who had made his name a thing of reproach in all lands. With the overstrong bitterness of youth he had meant to die sword in hand, fighting for Ireland. The few burning words of Owen Ruadh had stripped all this false heroism from him, however, and had sent a flame of sanity into his brain.
Brian returned slowly to the round tower, and stood looking out over the waters, for the castle was built on an island in the lake a mile from shore. It was nearing sunset, and snow was in the air—the first snow, for this was the end of September.
“Ruin—the storm of men!” He repeated unconsciously the words of the hag who had stopped him by the Dee water. “What shall I do? Which is the part of a man, after all; to fall for Ireland or to hew out new lands and found a new house in the west? By my hilt! That old hag told me truly after all!”
At that thought he stood silent, his eyes troubled. What was this fate which seemed to drive him into the west, instead of leading him to the flame of swords as he had so long hoped and dreamed? Death meant little to him; honor meant much. All his life he had lived in Spain, yet it had been a double life. He had ridden and hunted and learned arms with the young nobles of the court, but he had talked and sorrowed and dreamed with the old Irishwoman who had nursed him.
After all, it is often the dreams of the youth which determine the career of the man, he reflected.
Which path should he take? As he stood there struggling with himself, his hand went unconsciously to his long, powerful jaw; it was a gesture habitual with him when in deep thought—which he seldom was, however. Now the youth in him spoke for death, now the sanity which had flashed into his brain from that of the sick man spoke for the life of deeds and renown which lay in the west.
An incident might turn him either way—and the incident came in the shape of a very tall old man who wore the Irish garb of belted, long-sleeved tunic and woolen hose, with iron-soled shoes. The old man’s face was cunning, but his eyes were bright and keen and deep gray; his gray hair hung low to conceal his lopped ears, and there hung about him an indescribable air of shrewdness faced with apparent openness of heart.
Brian glanced at him, remembered that he had heard him called Turlough Wolf, and looked away carelessly, absorbed in his own thought. But the old man halted abruptly with an exclamation:
“Corp na diavul! Where got you that face and that gesture, Drogheda man?”
Brian looked at him, frowning.
“What mean you, Turlough Wolf?”
The other stared, his thin jaw fallen.
“Why—why,” he stammered, “I thought it had been The O’Neill come to life again! When I was a boy I have seen the earl hold his hand to his chin—often, often! And—and you look like him, Brian Buidh—-”
“Nonsense!” Brian forced a laugh, but as he folded his arms again the glitter of O’Neill’s ring on his finger caught the sharp gray eyes.
Turlough Wolf started.
“Listen!” he said,
coming forward insinuatingly. “Yellow Brian, no man knows who you are, nor do I ask. But Turlough Wolf knows a man when he sees one, a chieftain among men. I owe no man service; but if you will need a swift brain, a cunning hand, and an eye that can read the hearts of men, I will serve you.”
Brian looked down into the shrewd face in wonder, then waved an impatient hand.
“No use, Turlough Wolf. I have no money to pay for service, and to-night I must ride out to seek I know not what—nay, whether I ride west or east or south, I know not!”
He turned abruptly, wishing to close the matter, but the old man laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.
“I seek no money, Yellow Brian. I seek only a master such as yourself; a man who is a master among men, and whom I can set higher still if he will heed my counsels. I am old, you are young; I know all parts of the land by heart, from the Mayo shore to Youghal, and I am skilled at many things. Take my service and you will not regret it.”
Brian hesitated. After all, he considered, the thing came close to being uncanny. The Black Woman by Dee water; Owen Ruadh himself, and now this Ulysseslike Turlough Wolf—whither was fate driving him? Was he really to meet such persons as the Bird Daughter and Cathbarr of the Ax, or were they only the figment of a crazed old woman’s brain?
So he hesitated, gazing down into those clear gray eyes. And as he looked it seemed to him that he found strange things in them, strange urgings that touched the chords of his soul. After all, adventure lay in the west, and he was young!
“Good!” he said, gravely extending his hand. “To-night we ride to the west, you and I. Come; let us see O’Reilly about horses.”
And this was the beginning of the storm of men that came upon the west.
CHAPTER III
THE DARK MASTER
“There are two things, Yellow Brian, for you to mind. First, you must have men at your back who know you for their master; second, you must stand alone, giving and receiving aid from no man or party in the land.”
Brian nodded and stored away the words in his heart, for in their three weeks of wandering he had learned that Turlough Wolf was better aid than many men. It was his doing that, when they had chanced on a party of ravagers beyond Carrick, Yellow Brian had been led into strife with their leader. The upshot of that matter was that there was a dead rover; Yellow Brian had a dozen horsemen behind him and money in his purse, and of the dozen none but feared utterly this silent man who fought like a fiend.
To the dozen had been added others—four Scotch plunderers strayed from Hamilton’s horse and half a dozen Breffnians from Ormond’s army, who had been driven out of Munster by the rising of the Parliament men there. They were a sadly mixed score, of all races and creeds, but were fighting ruffians to a man, and were bound together by Brian’s solemn pledge that he himself would slay any who quarreled. The result was peace.
So now, with a good score of men behind him, Yellow Brian had ridden down into Galway, was past Lough Corrib and Iar Connaught, and was hard upon Connemara.
There was a thin snow upon the hills, and the bleak wind presaged more; but the score of men sang lustily as they rode. Two days before they had come upon a dozen strayed Royalist plunderers, and had gained great store of food and drink—particularly drink. So all were well content for the time being.
“Turlough,” asked Brian suddenly, as they rode side by side, “did you ever hear of one called the Black Woman?”
The Wolf crossed himself and grimaced.
“That I have, Yellow Brian, but dimly. They say she deals in magic and sorcery, and no good comes of meeting with her. But stop—there are horsemen on the road! Scatter the men, and quickly; let us two bide here.”
There was cunning in the advice, for the two had come to a bend in the road and the men were a hundred yards behind them. Brian drew rein at sight of a score of men a scant quarter-mile away and riding up the hill toward them. He knew that they must also have been seen, but his men would still be out of sight, so he turned with a quick word:
“Off into the rocks, men! If I raise my sword, come and strike. Off!”
As he spoke he bared that same huge cut-or-thrust brand he had borne from Drogheda and set the point on his boot. Instantly the men scattered on either side the road, where black rocks thrust up from the snow, and within two minutes they and their horses had disappeared.
The riders below came steadily forward in a clump, and Brian saw old Turlough staring with bulging eyes. Then the Wolf half caught at his bridle, as if minded to fly, and his hands were trembling.
“What ails you, man?” smiled Brian. “Are they magicians and sorcerers, then?”
“No, fareer gair—worse luck!” blurted out the other. “Look at the little man who rides first, Yellow Brian!”
Brian squinted against the snow-glare, and saw that the leader of the approaching party seemed indeed to be a little man with hunched shoulders and head that glinted steel.
“A hunchback!” he exclaimed. “Well, who is he?”
“The Dark Master—O’Donnell More himself! It is in my mind that this is a black day, Brian Buidh. O’Donnell More is the master of all men at craft, and the match of most men at weapons. Beware of him, master, beware! I had thought that he was still under siege at Bertragh Castle, else I had never taken this road.”
“Nonsense!” laughed out Brian joyously, drinking in the clear afternoon air. “So much the more honor if we slay him, Turlough Wolf! Let him match me at weapons, or you at wits, if he can!”
Turlough muttered something and drew back behind Brian’s steed with pallid face. Yellow Brian, however, having a sure trust in his own right arm and his hidden men, scanned the approaching O’Donnell curiously, seeking what had inspired such unwonted fear in the old gray Wolf.
He could find nothing ominous in that hunched figure, save its mail-coat and steel helm. Yet the face was peculiar. Over a drooping mustache of black flared forth two intense black eyes. Brian noted this, and the thin, curved nose and prominent chin, and laughed again.
“Who is this Dark Master, Turlough?”
The other shivered slightly. “He is an O’Donnell from the north, come here some ten years since—he seized on Bertragh even as we intend seizing on a stead, and has since done evil things in the land. Now hush, for they say the wind bears him idle talk.”
Brian’s thin lips curved a trifle scornfully, but he kept silence, watching the approaching men. At fifty yards’ distance they halted. Their leader eyed the motionless pair for a moment and then slowly rode on alone, waving back his followers. And Yellow Brian made a strange figure, with his ruddy hair streaming from beneath his steel cap and the bright, naked sword rising up from toe to head beside him.
“Well?” O’Donnell More’s voice was deep and harsh, though Brian afterward found that it could be changed to suit its owner’s mood. “Who are you thus disputing my passage?”
“I am Brian Buidh,” came Brian’s curt reply. “As for dispute, that is as you will.”
“Yellow Brian?” The black brows shot up in surprise. “A strange name. Whence come you, and seeking what?”
“I seek men, O’Donnell More.” Brian swiftly determined that this was a man who might give him aid, a man after his own heart. “Whence I come is my affair. Give me men, and I will repay with gold.”
“What need have you of men, Yellow Brian,” came the sardonic answer, “when your own lie hidden among the rocks?”
Now indeed Brian started, whereat the other smiled grimly.
“How knew you that?”
“If you recognized me from afar, you had not stayed to meet me unless you had men,” stated O’Donnell shrewdly enough.
“True,” said Brian, and laughed out. “Well said, O’Donnell. I have a score, and want another score. I will match mine against yours, or make a pact, as you desire.”
The Dark Master sat fingering his sword-hilt and considered. With the black brows down and the black eyes fixed on him, Brian suddenly began to like th
e man less.
“I will give you service,” returned O’Donnell at last.
Brian smiled. “Men serve me, not I them.”
At this curt answer O’Donnell looked black, then fell into thought, his shoulders hunched up and his head drawn in like the head of a turtle. Brian wished now that he had struck first and talked afterward.
Finally the Dark Master looked up with a slow smile.
“Welcome to you, Brian of the hard eyes and hollow cheeks,” he said. “Slaintahut! I will not give you men, but I will give you the loan of men if you will do me one of two favors. Ten miles to the south of here there is an old tower on a cliff, and in the tower dwells a man with certain companions who sets me at naught. On an island out near Golam Head is a castle where a woman rules, who has also set me at naught. Go, reduce either of these twain, and I will lend you twoscore men for three months.”
Brian sat his great horse and looked at the Dark Master. He would have sought advice from Turlough Wolf, save that he did not like to turn his back on those burning eyes. After all, the pact was not a bad one.
“These enemies of yours—who are they, and what force have they?”
The Dark Master chuckled, and his head shot out from between his shoulders.
“The man is called Cathbarr of the Ax, and he is a hard man to fight, for he has ten men like himself, axmen all. The woman cannot fight, but she has a swift mind, many men, and her name is Nuala O’Malley, of the O’Malleys of Erris.”
“I had sooner fight a man than a woman,” returned Brian slowly. “Also, this Cathbarr of the Ax has fewer men. I will do you this favor, O’Donnell Dubh.”
He gave no sign of the wonder that had shot into his mind at the name of Cathbarr, except that his blue eyes seemed changed suddenly to cold ice. The Dark Master saw the change, and his smile withered. Brian, watching him, reflected that this malformed freebooter could be venomous-looking at times.
“I have passed my word,” O’Donnell the Black made curt answer. “Fetch either of the twain to Bertragh, dead or alive, and you have the loan of twoscore men for three months, free. Is it a pact?”
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 60
