The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  “Paint him,” ordered O’Donnell.

  Again Murrough went to the fireplace, and returned with a long white-hot iron which had lain among the embers. This he touched to Brian’s right shoulder, so that the stench of scorched flesh sizzled up in a thin stream, and followed the iron down across the white breast and thigh, until it stopped at the knee, and there was a swath of red and blackened flesh down Brian’s body. Yet he had not moved or flinched.

  Then Murrough touched the iron to his left shoulder and drew it very slowly down his left side. One of the watching men went sick with the smell and went out vomiting. A second swath of red and black rose on the white flesh, and beneath it all Brian felt his senses swirling. Try as he would he could not repress one long shudder, at which a wild yell of delight shrilled up—and then he fainted.

  “Take him away,” said the Dark Master, smiling a little, as he leaned forward and saw that Brian had indeed swooned with the pain. “To-morrow we will paint his back with the whip.”

  So they loosened him from the iron rings, and four men lifted him and carried him out. As they passed across the courtyard another came by with a pail of sea-water, which they flung over him; the salt entered into his wounds, washing away the blackness from his scalp, and slowly the life came back to him after he had been chained again in his tower-room and left alone.

  He was sorry for this, because he thought that he had died under the iron. He found a pitcher of water beside him, and after drinking a little he spent the rest in washing out the salt from his flesh, though every motion was terrible in its torture. So great was the pain that gasping sobs shook him, though he stared up dry-eyed at the stones, and a great desire for death came upon him.

  “Slay me, oh God!” he groaned, shuddering again in his anguish. “Slay me, for I am helpless and cannot slay myself!”

  As if in answer, there came a soft laugh from somewhere overhead, and the voice of the Dark Master.

  “There is no God in Bertragh Castle save O’Donnell, Brian Buidh!”

  The blasphemy shocked him into his senses, which had wandered. Now he knew that from some hidden place the Dark Master was watching him and listening for his ravings, and upon that Brian sternly caught his lips together and said no more, though he prayed hard within himself. A cloak had been laid near-by him, and when he had covered himself somewhat against the cold, though with great pain in the doing, he lay quiet.

  The cold crept into him and for a space he was seized with chills that sent new thrills of pain through his burned body, for he could not repress them. After a time he relapsed slowly into numbed unconsciousness, waking from time to time, and so the hours dragged away until the night came.

  Then men brought him more food and wine and straw, and he managed to sleep a bit during the darkness, in utmost misery. But after the day had come, and more wine had stirred his blood redly, Murrough fetched him to his feet and bade him follow. Brian did it, though walking was agony, for his pride was stronger even than his torture.

  He was halted in the courtyard, found the Dark Master and his men gathered there, and knew that more torture was to come upon him. After a single scornful glance the Dark Master ordered him triced up to a post, which was done. Brian saw a man standing by with a long whip, but gained a brief respite as the drawbridge was lowered to admit a messenger mounted on a shaggy hill-pony. O’Donnell bade him make haste with his errand.

  “The word has come, master, that five hundred of Lord Burke’s pikemen are on the road from Galway and will be close by within a day or so.”

  “And what of Cathbarr of the Ax?” queried the Dark Master. Brian’s heart caught at the words, then his head fell again at the response.

  “They have scattered in the mountains, it is said, master.”

  “Murrough, have men sent to meet these royalists with food and wines, and if they are bound hither we will entreat them softly and send them home again empty. Now let us enjoy Brian Buidh a while—though he has stood up but poorly. It is in my mind that we will nail him up to-morrow.”

  With that Brian felt the whip stroking across his naked back. His muscles corded and heaved up in horrible contraction, but no sound broke from him; again and again the hide whip licked about him until he felt the warm blood running down his legs, and then with merciful suddenness all things went black, and he hung limp against the post.

  “Take him back,” ordered the Dark Master in disgust. “Why, that boy we cut up the other side of Clifden had more strength than this fool!”

  “His strength went out of him with his hair,” grinned Red Murrough, and they carried Brian to his prison.

  The Dark Master had spoken truly, however. Brian’s strength lay not so much in brute muscles, though he had enough of them, as in his nervous energy; and the slow horror of his burning hair and of that iron which had twice raked the length of his body had come close to destroying his whole nervous system. Other men might have endured the same thing and laughed the next day, but Brian was high-strung and tense, and while his will was still strong, his physical endurance was shattered.

  With the next morning, this fact had become quite evident to the general disgust of all within Bertragh Castle. The Dark Master himself visited the cell, and upon finding that Brian was lost in a half stupor and muttering words in Spanish which no one understood, he angrily ordered that he be revived and finished with that afternoon.

  Red Murrough set about the task with savage determination. By dint of sea water externally and mingled wine and uisquebagh internally he had Brian wakened to a semblance of himself before midday. Then food, oil, and bandages about his wounds, and in another hour Brian was feeling like a new man.

  He was under no misapprehension as to the cause of this kindness, but cared little. So keenly had he suffered that he was glad to reach the end, and he walked out behind Red Murrough that afternoon with a ghastly face, but with firm mouth and firmer stride, though he was very weak and half-drunk with the liquors he had swallowed.

  His fetters were unlocked and he was led to the doorway of the great hall, with the Dark Master and his men watching eagerly. Red Murrough, with an evil grin, pressed his back to the door and held up his left arm against the heavy wood. Brian was half-conscious of another man who bore a heavy mallet and spikes, and whose breath came foul on his face as he pressed something cold against the extended left hand.

  Then Brian saw the mallet swing back, heard a sickening crunch, and with a terrible pain shooting to his soul, fell asleep.

  CHAPTER X

  IN BERTRAGH CASTLE

  Now, of what befell after that nail had been driven through his hand, Brian learned afterward; though at the time he was unconscious and seemed like to remain so. Hardly had he sagged forward limply when two men came riding up to the gates demanding instant admittance. One of these was of the Dark Master’s band, the other was a certain Colonel James Vere, of the garrison which held Galway for the king.

  O’Donnell, who suddenly found himself with greater things on hand than the nailing of a prisoner, ordered Brian left where he lay for the present, and had the drawbridge lowered in all haste. Colonel Vere, who had late been in rebellion against his gracious majesty, was now joined with Ormond’s men against the common enemy, and was in command of that force of five hundred pikemen which had been marching to the west.

  Knowing this, the Dark Master made ready to set his house in order, since it was known that Vere’s men were only a few hours away. Hardly had the garrison gone to their posts, leaving Brian in the center of a little group about the hall doorway, when Colonel Vere rode in and was received in as stately fashion as possible by the Dark Master. It was not for nothing that O’Donnell had trimmed his sails to the blast, since he was on very good terms with all in Galway.

  “Welcome,” he exclaimed with a low bow as Vere swung down from his saddle. “Your men received the provision I sent off yesterday?”

  “Aye, and thankful we were!” cried the other cheerily, for he was a red-faced man o
f forty, a Munsterman and half-English, and loved his bottle. “Hearing certain news from one of your men I made bold to ride ahead in all haste, O’Donnell.”

  “News?” repeated the Dark Master softly. “And of what nature, Colonel Vere?”

  “Why, of one Brian Buidh, or Yellow Brian.” At this the Dark Master began to finger the Spanish blade he had taken from Brian, and for a second Vere was very near to death, had he known it.

  “What of him, Colonel Vere?”

  “Why, the rogue had the impudence to come down on a convoy of powder and stores, last week, going from the Archbishop at Ennis to Malbay, for our use. Not only this, but a hundred of our rascally Scots deserted to him, he slipped past us at Galway, and I was in hopes you could give me word of him when I hit over this way. You’re something of a ravager yourself, sink me if you aren’t!” and he dug the Dark Master jovially in the ribs.

  “Yes,” murmured O’Donnell thoughtfully, “so they say, Colonel Vere. But only when Parliament men come past, you understand. So you heard that this Yellow Brian was here?”

  “Aye, and that you were doing him to death,” coolly responded Vere, and his eyes flickered to the white form on the stones. “Zounds! What’s this?”

  “Yellow Brian,” responded the Dark Master dryly. “What do you want with him?”

  “Eh? Why, I’ll take him back to Galway and hang him! I’ve a dozen of the Scots he was fool enough to let loose, and when my men come up they’ll identify him readily enough.”

  “Unless he’s dead,” chuckled O’Donnell. “Well, if you want him you may have him and welcome. So now come in and sample some prime sack I took from the O’Malleys last year.”

  “With all the honors,” responded Vere gallantly, and as they strode past Brian the Dark Master hastily directed that he be washed and tended and brought back to his right mind as soon as might be.

  This order, and the conversation preceding it, gave Red Murrough some cause for thought. So it was that when Brian wakened once more in his cell, as evening was falling, he found the fetters on him indeed, but Red Murrough had bound up his wounds, dressed his sundered hand-bones, and was sitting watching him reflectively. It had occurred to the Dark Master’s lieutenant that there might be something made out of this man, who seemed wanted in several places at once.

  Therefore it was that while Brian made an excellent meal for a man swathed from crown to knees in bandages, Red Murrough poured into his ear the tale of what had chanced in the courtyard, and why it was that he was not at this moment nailed to the castle door. Brian collected his energy with some effort.

  “Well, what of it?” he asked weakly.

  “Just this, Yellow Brian,” and Murrough stroked his matted red beard easily. “O’Donnell will make a good thing out of handing you over to the royalists, who mean to hang you in style, it seems. Now, it is in my mind that it might advantage you somewhat if you were not moved thence for a few days—indeed, you might even escape, for I think you are not without friends.”

  “Eh?” Brian stared up at him wonderingly. “What does it matter to you?”

  “Nothing, whether you live or die. But you are in my care, and if I report that you are in too bad shape to be moved—which you are not—then this Colonel Vere will camp outside our castle until you are handed over to him. You will gain a few days in which to get your wits back, and the rest is in your hands.”

  “I had not thought you loved me so much,” and despite his agony Brian forced out a bitter laugh.

  “Not I! Faith, I had liefer see you nailed—but a service may be paid for.”

  “I have no money,” Brian closed his eyes wearily.

  “No, but you have friends,” and Murrough leaned forward. “Promise me a clerkly writing to the Bird Daughter’s men, or to your own men, ordering that I be paid ten English pounds, and it is done.”

  “With pleasure,” smiled Brian wryly. “Also, if I escape, I will spare your life one day, Red Murrough.”

  “Good. Then play your part.” And Murrough departed well pleased with his acumen.

  And indeed, the man carried out his bargain more than faithfully. One visit assured the Dark Master that this broken, burned, cloth-swathed man was helpless to harm him further, and after that he gave Brian little thought.

  As Murrough had reckoned Brian’s swoop on the convoy had given him some notoriety, and more than once Brian himself remembered Cathbarr’s dark presage after he had let the ten Scots go free to Ennis; Colonel Vere was anxious to carry him back to Galway for an example to other freebooters, and he was quite content to bide at Bertragh Castle until his prisoner could travel.

  For that matter the other officers of his command were quite as content as he himself, since all were men from the south-country who loved good wines, and the Dark Master had better store of these than the empty royalist commissariat.

  As for the Dark Master, Murrough reported to Brian that he also was well content. Cromwell was sweeping like an avenging flame from Kilkenny to Mallow and Ormond was helpless before him; both king’s men and Irish Confederacy men were pouring out of the South in despair, but the two had finally joined forces and the final stand would take place in the West. In fact, it seemed that things were dark for Parliament, despite Cromwell’s activity, and the Dark Master was only one of many such who counted strongly on the rumors that the new king, Charles II, was on his way to Ireland with aid from France.

  And indeed he was at that time; but Charles, then and later, was more apt at starting a thing than at finishing it.

  Red Murrough lost no time in getting his “clerkly writing,” luckily for himself. On the morning after his agreement he brought Brian a quill, and blood for lack of ink, and sheepskin. Brian wrote the order for ten pounds, promising to honor it himself if he escaped.

  This, however, did not seem likely, and even Murrough frankly stated that it was impossible. But Brian was tended well, and his perfect health was a strong asset. His head had been little more than scorched, and the scalp-wound stayed clean; after the first day there came a festering in his broken hand, but Murrough washed it out with vinegar which ate out the wound and cleansed it, after which he bound it firmly in wooden splints and it promised well.

  More than once Brian laughed grimly at the care he was getting, to the simple end that he should hang over Galway gates as a warning to the City of the Tribes and to all who entered the ancient Connacian town. For in that day Galway was a second Venice, and its commerce made rich plundering for the O’Malley’s both of Gorumna and of Erris in the North, though the war had somewhat dimmed the glory of the fourteen great merchant families.

  Brian wondered often what had become of Cathbarr and his two hundred men, and Murrough could give him little satisfaction. It was known that the force had slipped away from Cathbarr’s tower and had vanished; Brian guessed that Turlough had either led them north, or else into the western mountains where the O’Flahertys held savage rule. However, it was certain that neither the Dark Master nor the royalists had scattered them as yet.

  So Brian lay in his tower four days and might have lain there four-score more by dint of Red Murrough’s lies, had it not been that on the fourth evening Colonel Vere managed to stay unexpectedly sober. Being thus sober, it occurred to him that he had best make sure he had the right man by the heels. So he ordered his ten Scots troopers in from the camp outside the walls, and the Dark Master sent for Brian to be identified.

  “I’ll have you carried down,” said Red Murrough on coming for him. “Play the part, ma boucal, and when these royalists get into their cups again they’ll forget all that is in their heads. Here’s a cup of wine before ye go, and another for myself. Slainte!”

  “Slainte,” repeated Brian, and went forth to play his part.

  When the four men, with Red Murrough at their head, carried him down into the great hall, Brian found it no little changed. Tables were set along the walls, each of them being some ten feet in length by two wide, of massive oak, and in the cent
er was another at which sat O’Donnell, Colonel Vere, and one or two other officers. Besides these there were a score more of the royalist officers mingled with the Dark Master’s men, and it seemed that there would be few sober men in that hall by midnight, from the appearance of things. Only the ten Scots stood calm and dour before the fireplace.

  After that first quick glance around, Brian lay with his head back and his eyes closed, careful not to excite O’Donnell’s suspicion that he was stronger than he seemed. He was set down in front of the ten Scots, and there was an eager craning forward of men to look at him, for his name was better known than himself.

  “Zounds!” swore Vere thickly. “The man has a strong and clean-cut face, O’Donnell! Strike me dead if he does not look like that painting of O’Neill, the Tyrone Earl, that hangs in the castle at Dublin! Though for that matter there is little enough of his face to be seen. You must have borne hardly on him with your cursed tortures.”

  “I fancy he is an O’Neill bastard,” returned the Dark Master lightly. Brian felt the red creep into his face, but he knew that he was helpless in his chains, and he lay quiet. “Is he your man, Vere?”

  “How the devil should I know?” Vere turned to the troopers and spoke in English. “Well, boys, is this the fellow we’re after? Speak up now!”

  “It’s no’ sae easy tae ken,” returned one cautiously. “Yon man has the look o’ Brian Buidh, aye.”

  “Devil take you!” cried Vere irritably. “Do you mean to say yes or no? Speak out, one of you!”

  “Weel, Colonel,” answered another cannily, “Jock here has the right of it. I wouldna swear tae the pawky carl, but I’d ken the een o’ him full weel. An I had a peep in his een, sir. I’m thinkin’ I’d ken their de’il’s look. Eh, lads?”

  Since it seemed agreed that they would know Brian better by his hard blue eyes than by what they could see of his face, the exasperated Vere commanded that he be made open them if he were unconscious.