Red Hugh

by Lisson, Deborah;

  ‘Were I High King of Ireland,’ he said dreamily, ‘wouldn’t I build myself a ship like yon and sail to Spain in her? She’d have masts of gold and sails white as the wings of swans and I’d marry the King of Spain’s daughter and carry her over the seas to Tír na nÓg.’

  ‘Then, by God, you’d do it on your lone,’ said Eoghan’s voice from behind them. He sat up as they turned to look at him and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. ‘If you’ve a mind to sail off to the otherworld with the King of Spain’s daughter then leave me out of your plans. Sure, all I want out of Spain is a flagon of their good wine, and it sitting on the table before me in an honest Irish hall. I have a hunger and thirst on me like the Dagda at the Fomorian feast. Do they never remember you have a mouth in this place?’

  ‘Ah, they do then,’ said Donal, spluttering with laughter, ‘though it’s little enough you deserve, O’Gallagher, and you with no more poetry in you than a bull’s backside.’ And still chuckling he led them downstairs to the hall.

  Supper was a lavish and leisurely meal, ample enough to satisfy even Eoghan’s hunger. The MacSweeney Fanad was justly famed for his hospitality. He sat Hugh on his right hand and questioned him with interest about affairs in Donegal.

  ‘So, your father is away to his meeting with Lord Deputy Perrot,’ he said. ‘And The O’Neill will be there also, I hear.’

  ‘And Hugh mac Ferdoragh of Dungannon,’ added Hugh. ‘Let you not forget him.’

  ‘Could anyone overlook Hugh mac Ferdoragh? And what will they talk about, do you suppose?’

  Hugh grinned. ‘What do they ever talk about? The O’Neill will lay complaints against Hugh mac Ferdoragh. Hugh mac Ferdoragh will lay complaints against O’Neill. The Lord Deputy will take them both to task, and then demand again the rents and hostages he says he was promised out of Tír Chonaill. My father will beat his breast and promise to deliver them. Then they’ll all go home and, sure, nobody will believe a word anyone is after saying.’

  MacSweeney laughed. ‘You have the truth of it, I’m thinking; and would you not like to be there yourself – to hear it all with your own ears?’

  ‘And Perrot demanding hostages? I’d be the fool.’

  ‘Ah, you would, you would.’ His host nodded and swallowed a draught of wine. ‘But it’s more than petty squabbles, I’m thinking, is after drawing Sir John Perrot so far from the comforts of Dublin Castle.’ He chuckled. ‘Perhaps he and his English queen are after hearing all the rumours.’

  ‘Rumours?’

  ‘The old prophesy. Isn’t it on everyone’s lips again, and you out of your fosterage. When Hugh succeeds Hugh, lawfully, lineally, and immediately, being formally and ceremoniously created according to the country’s custom, the last Hugh shall be High King of all Ireland and drive all the foreigners out.’

  ‘High king, is it!’ Hugh spluttered into his goblet. ‘And wouldn’t The O’Neill be having words to say on that score – and Hugh mac Ferdoragh. And what of the southern chieftains? Is Fiach mac Hugh the man to be laying his sword before a northern high king?’

  ‘Or before any, if you go to that of it,’ chuckled The MacSweeney, ‘Fiach mac Hugh O’Byrne never had a mind to be ruled by anyone. But I am uneasy over this meeting. I don’t trust the Lord Deputy. It is in my mind that the Saxons have their swords out for us.’

  ‘But why? What are we after doing to anger them?’

  ‘Apart from not paying our rents, you mean?’

  ‘Well, that, to be sure, but, faith, they wouldn’t go to war with us over a few cattle. They have been our friends – our allies against The O’Neill.’

  ‘Ah, and there you come to the heart of the matter.’ Donal was suddenly very serious. ‘For I suspect it is not our allies they wish to be, but our masters. They have it in their minds to govern us, Hugh – to destroy our clan system, to abolish our Irish – Brehon – law and impose their own English customs in its place.’

  ‘But that would be impossible!’ Hugh stared at him. ‘You can’t destroy Brehon law. You might as well try to change the seasons or order a river to run uphill. It’s what makes us who we are.’

  ‘True,’ said his host. ‘But try telling that to Sir John Perrot. The English don’t have laws – only decrees and edicts. And they think what is right for them must be right for everyone.’

  ‘But they never bothered us before.’

  ‘They never feared us before.’ He frowned. ‘It is our friendship with Hugh mac Ferdoragh they distrust – and he married to your sister and like to be the next O’Neill when old Turlough Luineach finally drinks himself to death.’ He shook his head. ‘Think of it, Hugh. O’Donnell and O’Neill, the two greatest families in the land, united for the first time in living memory. No wonder Perrot is shouting for hostages.’

  Hugh scowled. ‘And he has a mind to betroth me to one of his daughters from his first marriage,’ he said morosely, remembering a recent conversation he had not been meant to overhear.

  ‘Who does? Perrot?’

  ‘No, you great amadán, Hugh mac Ferdoragh.’

  ‘Ah, does he now? Which daughter?’

  ‘Does it make a difference?’

  The MacSweeney chuckled. ‘Speak for yourself, Hugh Roe, but were it myself they were marrying off, wouldn’t I want to know who was to be sharing my bed?’

  ‘But I don’t want to be married off. Not till I’m at least –’ Hugh projected his mind as far as he could imagine into the future ‘– till I’m at least thirty,’ he finished decisively.

  Donal MacSweeney roared with laughter. ‘And how old are you now? Fourteen?’

  ‘Fifteen – next month. And when – if – I ever marry, sure, it will be to a lass of my own choosing.’

  ‘Then you had best keep yourself out of Hugh mac Ferdoragh’s clutches.’ The MacSweeney chuckled, clapping his young guest on the shoulder. ‘Now, will I call my bards to entertain us, or do you have it in your mind to sit lecturing me all night?’

  MacSweeney’s bard took his place by the fire. Hugh sat with his chin in his hands staring into the dancing flames as he listened. The songs were old ones. They told of the Tuatha dé Danann – the ancient gods of Ireland: of the Dagda, keeper of the cauldron of plenty, whose prodigious appetite had once bought precious time for his people in their war against the Fomors. Of Lugh the sun god, of the hideous, red-haired Morrigu, the hag goddess of battles. They told of the great Manannán mac Lir, son of the sea and guardian of Ireland, who rode the waters in his chariot, ‘the wave sweeper’. And lastly they sang of human affairs: tales of war, love – fulfilled or unrequited – battles and bravery and the high deeds of legendary heroes.

  The notes fell from the harp like raindrops onto water – sometimes gentle, like the patter of a spring shower, sometimes loud and fierce as a winter storm. There was wind, too, in the music. It wept with the children of Lir, turned into swans by a cruel stepmother. It keened for Deirdre and the sons of Usnach. It howled round the ears of the legendary hero Finn mac Cumhaill and his warrior Fianna as they rode in pursuit of Finn’s runaway wife, Gráinne, and her lover, Diarmuid.

  Hugh closed his eyes and tried to imagine the Ireland of those songs. Where had it gone to? Where were the heroes of Ulster now, when she so needed them? His father was old and ruled by a woman. The O’Neill was a drunkard. Even the great Hugh mac Ferdoragh – he whom the English called Earl of Tyrone – wore English clothes, it was said, whenever he went to Dublin, and came to heel like an obedient hound when the Lord Deputy snapped his fingers.

  Would the heroes of old have done such a shameful thing – King Conor mac Nessa of Ulster, or his champion the mighty Cúchulainn? And Conor’s adversary – the fierce, bloodthirsty Queen Maeve of Connaught – would she have yielded her country to the old, red, English queen? Was I born too late, he wondered, as he made his way upstairs to bed. Has the hero-light died in the heart of Ireland?

  He stood by the window and looked down for a moment at the sleeping lough. The waters were calm
, peaceful in the moonlight – but they were dark, you couldn’t see into them. And the little waves were restless. They sucked and slapped around the gunwales of the English ship and the noise of them was like the bubbling of the Dagda’s cauldron – as if, somewhere beneath the surface of the lough, something alive was struggling to emerge.

  Two

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, The MacSweeney Fanad dispatched a messenger to the Matthew, requesting wine for his guests. The man returned, bringing the skipper, Nicholas Barnes. Barnes had unwelcome news. ‘The wine merchant, Master Bermingham, is most sorry to disoblige your honours,’ he reported, ‘but I am to tell you he has sold all his wine and is preparing to sail.’

  ‘What?’ bellowed MacSweeney. ‘And he after telling me he had plenty for all comers?’

  Barnes shook his head sympathetically. ‘It is indeed unfortunate,’ he agreed. ‘Master Bermingham had not expected to sell his cargo so quickly. But what little we have left is needed for the voyage home. The merchant has asked me to convey his deepest apologies.’

  ‘Apologies! What use, in the devil’s name, are apologies and I with a houseful of guests? Isn’t The O’Donnell’s son after riding all the way from Donegal to buy wine for his father?’

  ‘So I have learnt from your messenger. And Master Bermingham would indeed be grieved to offend The O’Donnell or his son. He cannot sell wine to the young man, but he bids me say that if Hugh Roe and his companions would do him the honour of visiting our ship, he would be delighted to entertain them.’

  MacSweeney refused to be mollified. ‘The O’Donnell’s son will consider your invitation,’ he told Barnes coldly. ‘But it is no joke to him to be coming all this way for nothing.’

  Barnes made another eloquent gesture of apology and took his leave. The MacSweeney turned glumly to his guests. ‘My sorrow,’ he said. ‘I am after offering what I could not supply.’ He looked shattered and Hugh felt for him. To fail in hospitality was the greatest shame a chieftain could suffer.

  ‘Don’t be slighting yourself, Donal,’ he urged. ‘What journey could be for nothing and yourself at the end of it?’

  The MacSweeney only shook his head. ‘You are generous, Hugh Roe, but I promised you wine and I have none to give you. I am ashamed.’

  ‘Ah, come on, man. How could you know the English merchant was a braggart and a liar?’

  His words had little effect. Hugh hated to see his host so mortified. He looked at his companions – maybe they could help. Donal Gorm looked as glum as his father, but Eoghan O’Gallagher’s face lit up wickedly. ‘Cheer up,’ he said, ‘and I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll accept your man’s invitation – all three of us. We’ll visit his stinking ship and drink up every drop of wine he has left. We’ll show that misbegotten son of a sow what it is to offend The MacSweeney Fanad.’

  They all laughed. Even MacSweeney had to smile. ‘And what if he does not offer you all he has?’ he asked.

  ‘How would he be refusing us – and we sitting in his own cabin and our tongues hanging out with the thirst?’ Eoghan looked at his companions. ‘Well, are you for coming with me?’

  ‘I am, surely,’ said Donal Gorm at once.

  ‘And I,’ agreed Hugh.

  The MacSweeney looked doubtful. ‘Well … I don’t know. Wasn’t the invitation really for Hugh Roe? – and himself a bit young I’m thinking to be downing all that wine.’

  ‘I’ll not have much, Donal,’ promised Hugh, alarmed at the thought of spoiling everyone’s fun. ‘I’ll drink very slowly, and the others will look after me, won’t you?’

  ‘Like hawks,’ Donal Gorm assured his father; ‘and he to do everything we tell him.’

  ‘Well,’ The MacSweeney relented, ‘but mind you keep your word, now. Bring him home drunk and I’ll tan your hides and make belts out of them.’

  ‘Rest easy, Father,’ promised Donal. ‘We’ll have him back sober as a friar.’

  A local fisherman, one of MacSweeney’s tenants, rowed them out to the ship in his little curragh that afternoon. ‘Huroo, the Matthew,’ bellowed Eoghan, as soon as they were within shouting distance. ‘Hugh Roe O’Donnell has it in his mind to come aboard and sample your hospitality, and with him are the son of The MacSweeney Fanad, and the son of Eoghan O’Gallagher of Ballyshannon.’

  The names must have sounded suitably impressive, for as the curragh came alongside, ladders were lowered and sailors helped the boys to scramble up onto the deck.

  Nicholas Barnes received them effusively. ‘It is indeed a privilege,’ he purred, ‘to welcome Sir Hugh O’Donnell’s son and his friends aboard my ship. Master Bermingham will be honoured to entertain you and bids me say he has refreshments prepared for you in his cabin.’

  He turned to lead the way aft. As the boys followed him, Hugh glanced around, puzzled. However great Master Bermingham’s delight in their company, the merchant was clearly not planning to enjoy it for long. The others might not have noticed – too busy dreaming of Spanish sack, no doubt – but to Hugh it was obvious the vessel was being made ready to sail. There were men everywhere on the decks. Even Barnes seemed preoccupied. As he spoke to his guests, his eyes darted from side to side, checking the activity around him, and every now and then he was obliged to break off in the middle of a sentence to bellow orders to his crew. The sense of urgency made Hugh a little uneasy, though he could not have said why.

  At the door of Bermingham’s cabin, Barnes halted. ‘Please to enter, your honours,’ he said, throwing it open, ‘and make yourselves at home.’

  Eoghan and Donal obeyed eagerly, but Hugh hesitated for a moment. Turning, he looked back towards the Fanad peninsula. In the sunshine, the lime-washed walls of Rathmullen Castle stood out sharply, white against the dark green of the surrounding forest. The tops of the trees quivered in a puff of air and, above them, an eagle soared on barely moving wings.

  Hugh watched it, one hand shading his eyes. It quartered the sky patiently, till some movement below seemed to catch its eye. Then it dived deep into the trees like a tern plunging into water. After a moment it ascended again and beat away towards the west. Hugh followed its flight with envious eyes. Now, there was freedom! Would anyone give orders to eagles or tell them how to live their lives? He watched it till it was no more than a speck in the distance, then turned, half regretfully, and followed his friends into the cabin.

  It was gloomy inside after the sunshine. The windows had been boarded up, as though against a storm, and that, too, was odd, for the water was calm and the sky blue and almost cloudless. The only source of light was a horn lantern swinging from a beam above the table.

  Hugh blinked, trying to accustom his eyes to the shadow, and his unease heightened to a mild alarm. There was a wine flagon on the table, and Eoghan and Donal both had drinks in their hands, but of Bermingham or his promised feast there was no sign. He took a step forward then hesitated. The door shut behind him with a solid clunk, blotting out the last chink of natural light. He spun round and heard a key turn in the lock.

  ‘Dhia!’ Frantically, he flung himself at the door, rattling the handle. Nothing happened. He hammered and kicked at the wood and yelled with all his strength. ‘Let me out! Open the door, you swine! Let me out!’

  The others stared at him. ‘What the devil is on you, Hugh Roe?’ asked Eoghan O’Gallagher.

  ‘They’re after locking us in.’

  ‘What?’ They rushed over and added their weight to his own, hurling themselves repeatedly against the door. But the timbers were solid oak – they didn’t give an inch. They tried to prize open the windows, but Barnes and Bermingham had been thorough and those boards had been designed to withstand the fury of Atlantic gales.

  They were trapped.

  On the deck outside, the sounds of activity rose to a crescendo. There was an ominous creaking noise as the anchor cable started to come in. The boys listened to it, their hearts cold with fear. ‘What are they doing to us?’ whispered Hugh. No one answered him.

  Snatch
es of conversation echoed in his mind. ‘Would you not like to be there yourself – to hear it all with your own ears?’

  ‘And Perrot demanding hostages? I’d be the fool.’ Chreesta, but wasn’t he though? – a blind, trusting fool who had walked, simple as a calf, into the trap laid by Perrot’s oily-tongued agents. How they must be laughing up there on deck – Barnes and that merchant Bermingham. Anger and frustration boiled up inside him and he hurled himself at the door again, hammering on the wood and screaming abuse at his captors till his voice cracked and his knuckles were raw and bleeding.

  In the end Eoghan dragged him forcibly away and thrust him into a seat with a beaker of wine in his hand. ‘Will you shut your gob and get that into you,’ he said. ‘You’ll help no one and you acting like a madman.’

  Hugh took a long gulp and looked about him more steadily. He felt the ship swing round and begin to make way.

  ‘She’s going up the lough,’ said Donal, lifting his head and calculating. ‘She has the full of her sails of wind and it blowing from the south-east.’

  ‘Then we’ll be beating into it all the way to Dublin,’ said Eoghan grimly.

  He lapsed into silence and the others retreated into their own gloom. There was really nothing to talk about, and one flagon of wine between the three of them was not sufficient to dull their misery.

  For half an hour or so they sat in silence, then Hugh heard footsteps outside the cabin. A key turned, the door opened. The man standing in the doorway had to be the merchant, John Bermingham. The bland face and pudgy hands suggested money and soft living. The man’s dress was extraordinary – though probably the height of English fashion – a short, ermine-trimmed cloak, a heavily embroidered velvet doublet and a pair of trunk hose so short and padded they made him look as though he had crammed his backside into a giant puffball.