“One at a time, Turlough. They’ll have the gates down in a minute.”
While he waited for the storm to fall, Brian saw that two or three of his men had been hit. He wondered dully that the Dark Master had not made a general assault, and concluded that he must wish to save men. It was a long moment that dragged down on him; then a splash of light burst up, the gates were driven inward and shattered, and with a great roar there fell a rain of riven beams and stones and dirt.
Sheltering in the hall doorway, Brian and Turlough stayed unmoving through an instant of black silence. Out of it broke a wild Scots yell, and in the light of the courtyard cressets a wave of men surged up in the breach. Brian’s linstock fell on a falcon, and the little gun barked a hail of bullets across the Scots; Turlough’s gun followed suit, and the first lines of men went down in a struggling mass.
The Dark Master was not to be beaten this time, however. Another wave of Scots swept up, with a mass of men behind them. While some of Brian’s men tried to get the two falcons reloaded, a storm of bullets swept across the courtyard, and Brian saw Turlough turn and run for it through the doorway, while two of the men fell over a falcon.
But as the first line of men broke into the courtyard, Brian fired the remaining three cannon as fast as he could touch linstock to powder. The bullet-hail tore the front ranks to shreds, but through the darkling smoke-cloud he saw other men come leaping, and knew that the game was up.
On the next instant his men had closed around him, muskets were stabbing the powder-smoke, and Brian fell to work with his Spanish blade. O’Donnells and Scots together heaved up against them, but Brian’s point weaved out between cutlas and claymore and bit out men’s lives until the mass of men surged back again like the backleash of a wave that comes against a wall.
Brian heard the Dark Master’s voice from somewhere, and with that muskets spat from the gloom and bullets thudded around him. One slapped his steel cap away and another nicked his ear, and a third came so close across his eyes that he felt the hot breath of it; but his men fared in worse case than that, for they were clutching and reeling and fallen, and Brian leaped across the last of them into the hall with bullets driving at his back-piece.
As he ran through the hall he knew that his falcons had punished O’Donnell’s men heavily, and that his twenty men had not fallen without some payment for their lives. None the less, Bertragh Castle was now lost to him and to the Bird Daughter; but he thought it likely that he would yet make a play that might nip O’Donnell in the midst of his success.
In this Brian was a true O’Neill and the true luck of the Red Hand had seemed to dog him, for he had lost all his men without suffering a defeat, and now that he was beaten down, he was planning to strike heaviest.
He gained the tower well enough, and found Turlough there to receive him, with food and wine and loaded pistols. They soon had the door of the lower chamber fast barred and clamped, and Brian flung himself down on his bed, panting, but unwounded to speak of.
“Now sleep, master,” said the old man. “They will search elsewhere, and finding this door closed will do naught here until the morning.”
Brian laughed a little.
“It is not easy to sleep after fighting, Turlough. I think that now I will send off that last pigeon, so give me that quill yonder.”
With great care Brian wrote his message, telling what had passed, and saying that he hoped to ride free from the castle next morning. In that case he would be at Cathbarr’s tower before evening came, and he told Nuala to have all her men landed there at once, since she could hope to do nothing by sea against the pirate ships.
When the writing was bound to the pigeon’s wing he loosed the bird through the seaward casement, and bade Turlough blow out their flickering oil-light.
After eating and drinking a little, they lay down to sleep. Men came and pounded at the door, then departed growling; but Turlough had guessed aright. The Dark Master was plainly speeding the search for Brian elsewhere, and since there was no sign of life from the powder-tower, he did not molest this until close to dawn. Then Brian was wakened by ashock at the door, and he heard the Dark Master’s voice outside directing his men. Still he seemed to have no thought that Brian was there, but wanted to get at the powder and into his own chamber again.
Brian took up his pistols and went to a loophole opening on the battlements, while Turlough still crouched on the bed in no little fear. Finding that the Dark Master stood out of his sight, Brian fired at two of the men under the door, and they fell; then he raised his voice above the shouting that came from outside.
“O’Donnell, are you there?”
The uproar died away, and the other’s voice came to him.
“So you are trapped at last, Brian Buidh! Now yield and I promise you a swift hanging.”
“Not I,” laughed Brian curtly. “There is no lack of powder here, O’Donnell Dubh, and one of my men holds a pistol ready for it.”
At this he glanced at Turlough, who grimaced. But from outside came a sudden yell of alarm, and Brian saw a few fleeing figures, while O’Donnell shouted at his men in furious rage. Brian called out to him again:
“Give me a horse and let me go free with the one man left me, or else I will blow up both tower and castle, and you will have little gain for my death.”
“Would you trust my word in this?” cried the Dark Master. Brian smiled.
“Yes, as you must trust mine to leave no fuse in the powder when I am gone.”
Then fell silence. Brian hated O’Donnell, as he knew he was hated in return; and so great was the hatred between them that he felt instinctively he could trust the Dark Master to send him out free. It seemed to him that the other would sooner have him go broken and crushed than do him to death, for that would be a greater revenge. Moreover, the Dark Master could know nothing of those men at Gorumna and would have little fear of the Bird Daughter.
And it befell exactly as Brian thought.
“I agree,” cried the Dark Master, stepping out in the dawn-light boldly. “You shall go forth empty as you came, Yellow Brian. What of those two-score men you owe me?”
“The time is not yet up,” returned Brian, beginning to unbar the door, and he laughed at the mocking voice.
CHAPTER XIX
BRIAN MEETS THE BLACK WOMAN
“The storm is over, master, or will be by this night.”
“Too late now, Turlough.”
Brian and the old man stood in the courtyard, while the Dark Master was seeing to horses being made ready for them. Drawing his cloak farther about his hunched shoulders, the latter turned to Brian with a mocking sneer.
“Now farewell, Brian Buidh, and forget not to repay that loan, if you can gather enough men together. When you come again, you will find me here. A merry riding to you. Beannacht leath!”
Brian looked at him grimly.
“Your curse would make better company than your blessing, O’Donnell,” he said, and turned to his horse with no more words.
The Scots who were standing around gave vent to a murmur of approval, and Brian saw the black looks passing between them and the wild O’Donnells. The Highlanders had done murdering enough in Ireland since Hamilton brought them over, but they were outspoken men, who had little love for poisoners; and as Brian settled into the saddle with his huge sword slung across his back, he caught more than one word of muttered approval, which the Dark Master was powerless to check.
So Yellow Brian rode out from the castle he had lost, with Turlough Wolf at his heels, and his heart was very sore. Once across the filled-in moat and he saw fifty men at work by the shore, loading the dead into boats to be buried in the bay, for the ground was hard-frozen.
Parties of Scots troopers and the horseless O’Donnells were scattered over the farmlands and country ahead, but these offered no menace as the two horsemen rode slowly through them. For all his bitterness, Briannoted that the four pirate ships had been brought around into the bay before the castle, into which t
he Scots had moved, while a great number of the O’Donnells had landed and were hastily throwing up brush huts on the height above the shore, evidently intending to camp there for the present.
That was a dark leave-taking for Brian, since he had lost so many men and his castle to boot. Yet more than once he looked back on Bertragh, and when they came to the last rise of ground before the track wound into the hills and woods, he drew rein and pointed back with a curt laugh.
“This night I shall return, Turlough, and I think we shall catch the Dark Master off his guard at last. If we throw part of our men on that camp at dawn and the rest upon the castle, the tables may yet be turned.”
“A good rede, Brian O’Neill,” nodded the old Wolf approvingly. At thus hearing his name Brian flung Turlough one lightning-swift glance, then pulled out his Spanish sword and threw it high, and caught it again with a great shout.
“Tyr-owen! Slainte!”
With that he put spurs to his horse and rode on with better heart, striving to forget his troubles in thinking of the stroke he would deal that night. If those three pigeons had won clear to Gorumna, he would find Nuala and her men waiting at Cathbarr’s tower, and before the dawn they would be back again and over the hills.
So they rode onward, and presently came to a stretch of forest, dark against the snow. Suddenly Turlough drew up with a frightened glance around.
“Master—what is that wail? If I ever heard a banshee, that is the cry! Beware of the Little People, master—”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Brian, drawing rein also and listening. He heard a faint, sobbing cry come from ahead, and so mournful was it, so charged with wild grief, that for an instant his heart stood still, and the color fled from his face.
“It is some woman wailing her dead, Turlough,” he said at length, although doubtfully. “Yet I have never heard a caoine like it; but onward, and let us see.”
“Wait, master!” implored the old man. “Let us cut over the hills and go by another path—”
“Go, if you are afraid,” returned Brian, and spurred forward. The other hesitated, but followed unwillingly, and a moment later Brian came upon the cause of that mournful wailing, as the trees closed about them and the road wound into a hollow.
The dingle was so sheltered by the brooding pines that there was little snow, except on the track itself, and no wind. Under the spreading splay-boughs to the right was what seemed to be a heap of rags and tatters, though the wailing cry ceased as the two riders clattered down, with Turlough keeping well behind Brian.
The latter drew rein, seeing that the creature under the pine-boughs was some old crone whose grief seemed more bitter still than his own.
“What is wrong, mother?” he cried cheerily. “Are you from one of the Bertragh farms?”
The tattered heap moved slightly, and a wrinkled, withered face peered up at him.
“Nay, I come from farther than that,” and to his surprise there was a mocking note in her voice, though it was weak. “That is a good horse of yours, ma boucal; he must trot sixteen miles to the hour, eh?”
“All of that, mother,” returned Brian, wondering if the old crone was out of her senses. “Was it you whom I heard wailing a moment ago? Where is your home?”
The old woman broke into a cackle of hideous laughter.
“My home, is it? Once I had a home, Yellow Brian—and it was in Dungannon, with Tyr-owen and Cormac and Art and the noblest of the chiefs of Ulster to do me honor! Have you forgotten me, Brian O’Neill, since we met at the Dee Water?”
Then Brian gave a great cry, and swung down to earth, for now he recognized the Black Woman. But as he strode toward her she tried to rise and failed, and forth from the midst of her rags came a quick gush of red blood. Brian leaped forward and caught her in his arms, pitying her.
“I knew you,” she gasped out weakly, clutching at his shoulder. “I knew you, son of Tyr-owen! You had yellow hair, but your face was the face I once loved, the face of the great Hugh—”
She stopped abruptly, and her words were lost in a choking gasp as blood came from her mouth. Brian swore.
“Mile Mollaght! What has happened here, woman? Are you wounded?”
“Aye, those dogs of O’Donnells,” she moaned feebly. Then new strength came to her, and she peered up with another cackle. “But did I not tell wisely, son? Have you not found Cathbarr of the Ax and the Bird Daughter even as I foretold?”
“Yes, yes,” returned Brian impatiently. “Where are you wounded, mother? We can take you—”
“Peace, avic,” she cried. “They came on me last night, and my life is gone. You shall take vengeance for the old calliagh, Brian—but first I must talk. Do you know who I am, avic—or who I was, rather?”
“How should I know that, mother?” answered Brian. “Old Turlough Wolf, yonder, swears you are some witch—”
“Turlough!” The hag raised herself on his arm, cackling. “So the old Wolf is still living! Do you know me, Turlough? Do you remember the sorrowful day of the earl’s flight?”
Old Turlough, who had ridden closer, bent over and looked down, fear in his face. Suddenly he straightened up again with a wild cry.
“Noreen of Breffny! By my hand, it is the earl’s love!”
“Aye, the earl’s love!” she gasped out, falling back. “I was his love in truth, Yellow Brian, and he loved me above all the rest, though another’s hand closed his eyes and laid him to earth in Rome. I knew you would come, Brian—I saw you at Drogheda, though you saw me not, and I bade you come here into the West, and I have watched over you—”
She coughed horribly, clutching at Brian’s arm. He stared down at her in amazement, for the incredible story seemed true enough. This old hag had been that Noreen of Breffny of whom he had heard much—the fairest maid of the North, whom the great earl had loved to the last, though the church had not blessed their union.
Brian’s old Irish nurse had often told him of the “Breffny lily,” and it was bitter and hard to realize that this ancient hag, withered and shrunk and done to death by the Dark Master’s men, had been the fairest maid in Ulster. She gasped out a little more of her story, and Brian found that his wild surmises had been true; after seeing him and recognizing him for one of the earl’s house, she had instantly led his mind to this part of the country, being aware of the strife between O’Donnell and Nuala O’Malley. It had been a crazed notion enough, and since then she had kept as near to him as possible in the half-sane idea that she might help him.
How she had managed to do it ever remained a mystery to Brian, since his marches had been none of the slowest, but she had done so.
“Where are—your men?” she exclaimed after a little. Brian told her what had chanced at the castle, and she broke out in a last wild cackling laugh.
“Tyr-owen’s luck!” she cried. “Betrayed and blasted, betrayed and blasted—but the root of the tree is still strong, Yellow Brian—give me your blessing, master—give Noreen your blessing before you go to Rome, Hugh mo mhuirnin—”
Brian’s face blanched and his hands trembled, for he saw that her wandering mind took him for his grandsire.
“Dhia agus mhuire orth,” he murmured, and with a little sob the Black Woman died.
Silence fell upon the dingle, as Brian gazed down at the woman his grandfather had loved, and whose love had been no less. Then Turlough pushed his horse closer, looking down with a shrewd leer.
“Said she not that it would be a black day when you met her again, master?” he queried with awe in his voice. “I think—”
“Keep silence!” commanded Brian shortly. “Get down from that horse and dig a grave.”
“But the ground is frozen—” began old Turlough in dismay. Brian gave him one look, and the old man hastily dismounted, crossing himself and mumbling.
Brian joined him, and they managed to scoop out a shallow grave with knife and sword, laid the old woman in it, and covered her up again. It was a sorry burial for the love of the great earl, but it was th
e best they could do.
Shaken more than he cared to admit, Brian mounted and rode on in silence. As he had thought, there was nothing supernatural about this weird Black Woman, except, perhaps, the manner in which she had contrived to keep close to him. She had warned him at the Stone Mountain, and she must have been keeping close to Bertragh ever since, unseen by any, with her unhinged mind driving her forward relentlessly.
“Poor woman!” he thought darkly, gazing into the hills ahead. “There has been little luck to any who ever followed an O’Neill or loved an O’Neill! And now it seems likely that the same ill luck of all my family is to dog my heels, bringing me up to the heights, only to cast me down lower than before. Well, I may fall, but it shall not be until I have dragged down the Dark Master. If I fall not I may yet best the ill-luck and conquer Millhaven for my own.”
With that his mind leaped ahead again as the plan outlined itself to him. The O’Donnell pirates must have brought their whole force to the Dark Master’s aid, and if he could but cut off that camp of theirs between the castle and the shore, Nuala O’Malley might bring her two ships against the weakened four and take them all.
Then, when the castle had fallen, he could sail north to Millhaven, reduce the stronghold there, and let fly his own banner at last. It was a good plan, but it hung on many things.
With a short laugh at his own fancies he turned in the saddle as the voice of Turlough broke into his musings.
“I mind the last time I saw the poor woman back yonder, master. It was just before the great flight, and I mind now that she was not so ill-looking even then, though she was well past her youth, and that was forty years ago. Tyr-connall’s bag-pipe men were blowing as we marched to Lough Swilly, and two earls rode in front when the poor caillinrushed out and flung herself under Tyr-owen’s horse—oh, Mhuire as truagh, Mhuire as truagh for the old days! And when the earl died, her name was on his lips, and I came home again to find her disappeared. Oh, what sorrow for the old days! Would that I had died in Rome with the princes—”
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 76
