Hugh stared at him. Despite everything, it was all he could do not to laugh. How did the man ever manage to sit down in such a ridiculous outfit? Bermingham, however, appeared to have no idea how absurd he looked. He beamed at his captives as though delighted with his own treachery. ‘So. Three fine birds in one net. And you …’ here he looked pointedly at Hugh’s red locks, ‘you must be O’Donnell’s son – the one they call Red Hugh.’
He smirked, as though he had accomplished some great feat of deduction. Hugh itched to wipe the smile off his face. ‘I am Hugh Roe O’Donnell,’ he acknowledged haughtily, ‘and I demand to be put ashore immediately.’
‘Ah, do you now?’ The smirk became a positive leer. ‘Such pride and arrogance in one so young. But I fear, my young fighting cock, you are no longer in a position to demand anything. You are my prisoner. The queen herself has commanded –’
‘A pox on your queen, and she a howling old hag of a woman! What right has she to be giving orders to the son of O’Donnell?’
‘What right?’ Bermingham’s face was a study in shock and astonishment. ‘Why, how dare you speak so against Her Majesty? How dare you insult your … your …’ he groped for a suitably imposing Irish title – ‘your lawful Árd Rí.’
‘High king, is it? The devil mend you for a liar! I have no high king.’
‘Of course you have – the queen’s grace is –’
‘Is nothing to me. O’Donnell is my chieftain. I will serve no other. I spit on your English queen!’ And he demonstrated.
‘You filthy little animal!’ The merchant’s fat belly quivered with rage. He lunged forward and Hugh, snatching up the wine flagon, flung it at his head. It caught the man flush on the nose. He staggered backwards, his hands clutched to his face, and before he could recover, Hugh dived though the doorway and made a wild dash for the side of the ship. It was madness – he knew it. The deck was high, they were a long way from shore. If he didn’t break his neck he would probably drown. But better that than …
He should have realised, of course. He should have guessed Bermingham would not come unattended. There were half a dozen men outside the door and though his charge took them by surprise, he was not halfway across the deck before they caught him. He kicked and fought and scratched like a cornered fox but they dragged him back to the cabin and threw him down, held him on his knees at Bermingham’s feet.
Bermingham looked down at him. The merchant’s nose was swollen like a piece of bread dough. It dripped blood all down his fancy clothes. He took his belt off and wound the buckle end slowly round his soft, white hand.
‘You may think yourself of great account here in the north, Master O’Donnell,’ he said in a choking voice, ‘but, by the mass, we’ll teach you some humility in Dublin.’ And he raised his arm and slashed the belt down across Hugh’s face.
The leather bit like a branding iron. Hugh gasped and struggled wildly, but his captors twisted his arms behind his back and seized fistfuls of his hair to prevent him from moving. Bermingham raised his arm again. His eyes glittered, little muscles twitched along his jaws and his tongue slithered over his lips like a fat, pink lizard. Hugh watched him helplessly.
The arm flicked. The thong sliced down again – searing, slashing, over and over, until at last Hugh screamed. Only then did the merchant seem satisfied. ‘And that’s only the start,’ he warned, re-clasping the buckle around his paunch. ‘Cross me again and I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.’ He barked something in English to his men, and then repeated it in Irish for the benefit of his prisoners. ‘Take them below and put them in irons. And if they give you any trouble, thrash them.’
They sat in darkness, somewhere in the bowels of the ship. Pain and shock gnawed like rats at Hugh’s mind. ‘That’s only the start,’ Bermingham had said. What lay in wait for him in Dublin? Would they torture him? Were the dungeons as black as rumour reported them? Would he spend the rest of his life chained like an animal in cold and darkness? Oh, God, he thought. He hunched himself into a tight ball and a small sound escaped his throat.
Someone moved in the darkness. ‘Hugh?’ said Donal’s voice. ‘Hugh, are you all right there?’
‘The little bit that’s left of me.’ He tried to make a joke of it, but his voice didn’t sound right, even to him.
‘Misbegotten Saxon swine!’ said Eoghan O’Gallagher. There was a rattling sound as he struggled with his manacles.
Hugh felt a wave of guilt. It’s all my fault, he thought, for insulting Bermingham and breaking his nose. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said aloud. ‘It’s my dirty temper that’s after putting us all down here.’
Eoghan chuckled. ‘Ah, but did you see the face on him?’ he gloated, ‘and him bleeding like a stuck pig. Doesn’t it do your heart good to be thinking about it?’
He laughed, and Donal with him, but Hugh could not even raise a smile. He lifted manacled hands to touch his swollen face. What comfort was revenge in a situation like this? It was like a nightmare – only you woke from nightmares. This horror might go on forever. He might rot and die in a lightless dungeon below the walls of Dublin Castle.
Was this a punishment? He thought of his sins – his pride, his willfulness. I’m sorry, he wanted to plead, I didn’t mean it. I’ll marry the oldest and ugliest daughter Hugh mac Ferdoragh has. I’ll put my foot on the inauguration stone tomorrow; I’ll rule all Ulster for you and you wishing it. Only, please, please, make this terrible thing not be happening.
But there was no one to say it to, no one to forgive him, no one to wind back time and let him start again. There was only the darkness, the fetid stench of the hold, and the cold iron around his wrists and ankles.
The hours dragged by. Eoghan and Donal talked listlessly. Hugh sat in silence fighting back fear and nausea. The Matthew had reached the open sea and was lifting and dropping with gut-wrenching monotony.
‘Eoghan,’ Hugh asked at last – anything to take his mind off his misery – ‘Eoghan, you saw him once? What is he like, this John Perrot?’
‘A bull,’ said Eoghan grimly. ‘A great, hulking bull with an ugly face and a temper to match. They say he is old King Harry’s illegitimate son – half-brother to the English queen – but it is not the Saxon way to be recognising bastards, so she sends him over here to keep him out of her way.’
‘No wonder he’s bad-tempered,’ said Donal, and he laughed, but it was a hollow sound.
Hugh shuddered. Be strong, he told himself. You are a chieftain’s son. But it was hard to be brave in total darkness, weaponless and in chains. If he had a sword, or a knife – anything with which to defend himself. He thought about stories he had heard of men who had fought without weapons, bards who had destroyed their enemies with satire, stinging them to death with cruel and biting wit. Was such a thing possible? He was no bard, but he had a tongue in his head and he knew how to use it.
Comforted a little, he finally fell asleep, but his dreams were fitful and he woke feeling more nauseous than ever. The hold was foul – it stank of tar and bilge water and rotting wood. He was sweating despite the cold, his forehead felt damp and clammy and he began to yawn uncontrollably.
‘I’m hungry,’ complained Eoghan suddenly. ‘Are they going to feed us, do you suppose, on this damn voyage?’
‘Hungry?’ said Donal’s voice incredulously. ‘Sure, it’s a stomach like an old billy goat you must have, O’Gallagher! I couldn’t touch food at this moment and you providing it. What about yourself, Hugh?’
Food! At the very thought of it, Hugh’s diaphragm fluttered and his throat muscles went into spasm. ‘Oh, Chreesta,’ he gasped, and he threw up violently.
Three
‘THE MATTHEW HAS docked, my Lord,’ announced a secretary. ‘They are bringing the prisoners up to the castle now.’
‘Excellent,’ said the Lord Deputy. ‘Inform the constable, and tell him to see them lodged in the gate-tower – except O’Donnell’s son. Have him brought to the castle chamber, I wish to question him.’
‘Very good, my Lord.’
The secretary withdrew. Sir John Perrot rubbed his hands and smiled. At last, he thought. This would silence the wolves snapping at his heels. He knew of the plots against him, the whispered tales carried back to the Privy Council in London. Well, let them intrigue – this time, he had outwitted them. In a daring coup, he had taken into his keeping the best hostages out of all Tír Chonaill. The O’Donnell and that Scottish harridan of a wife of his could now be brought to heel. The queen would acknowledge his statesmanship, and Dublin would be obliged to follow suit. Oh, how his enemies on the Council would squirm. They would puke with envy and he would rub their noses in it. He smoothed his ruff, settled the lace at his cuffs and made his way down to the castle chamber.
Stephen Seagar, the Constable of Dublin Castle, escorted the prisoner in. ‘Master O’Donnell, my Lords,’ he announced, thrusting into the room a bundle of rags that looked – and smelt – as if it had been plucked off the nearest dunghill.
The company stared and dabbed scented handkerchiefs to their noses. Perrot blinked in amazement. There must be some mistake. Could this creature really be Hugh Roe O’Donnell, the golden child around whom those ridiculous prophecies had been spun? It looked more like a drowned rat, fished out of a cesspit.
He sighed. One forgot sometimes, here in Dublin, how savage the untamed Irish really were. Scratch any one of their so-called princes and you’d find a fleabitten wolf underneath. ‘Faugh!’ he said disgustedly. ‘He stinks like a polecat.’
‘He has been confined for several days in the hold of a ship, my Lord,’ one of his Councillors, Sir Lucas Dillon, pointed out reasonably. ‘In chains … and probably seasick.’
‘Hmph!’ Perrot was unconvinced. Dillon was his friend – indeed, his chief stay on the Council – but he had Irish blood. He probably felt compelled to defend this little animal. Perrot knew better. He could not imagine any English gentleman allowing himself to sink into that state, no matter what the circumstances.
Wrinkling his nose, he moved forward to inspect his catch more closely. The brat had his head down and was wrapped from head to foot in one of those barbaric Irish mantles. All Perrot could see of him was a tangle of red hair and one thin hand that had crept out to hold the edges of his cloak together. He was shivering, but whether from fear or cold, it was impossible to tell.
After a moment the boy looked up. His other hand came out from his cloak and scraped the matted hair from his eyes. For the first time Perrot saw his face. God’s death! The little guttersnipe had been brawling, too. His left eye was swollen shut and both cheeks were a mass of welts and bruises.
Clearly, there could be little intelligence in such a creature. ‘I bid you good day, Master O’Donnell,’ Perrot said brusquely. ‘I am sorry your father’s intransigence has obliged us to bring you here by force.’
The silent figure gave no indication of having understood or even heard his words. Lucas Dillon translated them into Irish. The boy looked at Dillon. He seemed to be thinking. Then he looked at Perrot. He fixed the Lord Deputy with his one good eye and said clearly and carefully: ‘And that is the first lie. You have neither sorrow nor shame. You rejoice in your perfidy.’
Latin! The disgusting little animal spoke perfect Latin – the result, no doubt of a Popish education. Perrot thought rapidly. He would have to pick his words with care. It was entirely possible the little savage spoke the language better than he did, but Perrot could hardly insist that Lucas Dillon translate everything. He hesitated a long time before speaking again. ‘It ill becomes you,’ he said at last in Latin, ‘to speak of perfidy, Master O’Donnell, when I have it on good authority that your own father is planning to disinherit his eldest son – who has done him no wrong that I ever heard of – in order to make you his heir.’
The boy looked baffled. ‘You speak in riddles,’ he said.
‘Have you not an older brother?’
‘A half-brother. What of it?’
‘By law he stands before you in line of succession.’
‘By whose law?’
‘By English law; by the law of all civilised kingdoms.’
The boy laughed softly. ‘A foolish law indeed, my Lord Deputy, that disinherits strong men and gives power to women and weaklings. Our Brehon law gives authority to the ablest man.’ He paused and looked Perrot full in the face. ‘Even bastards.’
Perrot felt every eye in the room turn to look at him. His prisoner smiled. Perrot wanted to wipe the insolence off his face. He restrained himself with an effort. ‘And what does that accomplish,’ he asked coldly, ‘but to set every man within bowshot of the title against his rivals. Uncle against nephew, cousin against cousin – why, men murder their own brothers over your Gaelic titles.’
‘But they do not execute their wives,’ said Hugh Roe O’Donnell softly. ‘Two, wasn’t it? Anne Boleyn? Catherine Howard?’
It was too much. John Perrot, bastard son of King Henry VIII, roared like a baited bull and swung a blow calculated to snap the boy’s neck. But Lucas Dillon stepped in at the last minute. ‘Let it go,’ he urged, seizing the enraged man by the arm. ‘The boy is angry and exhausted. He does not know what he is saying.’
But it was obvious the brat knew exactly what he was saying. He stood there wrapped in his filthy blanket and stared at the Lord Deputy with all the arrogance of an emperor. Perrot struggled with his rage. He choked on it, gurgling like a man cut living from the gallows. His fists clenched and unclenched convulsively.
At last, with a supreme effort, he mastered himself. ‘Out,’ he roared. ‘Take him from my sight before I kill him.’
Seagar didn’t wait to be told twice. He seized his prisoner by the shoulders and propelled him towards the door. The boy twisted in his grasp and lifted his head to hurl a parting insult, but Seagar clapped a hand over his mouth and shoved him through the door before he could speak.
‘Ah, didn’t you tell him, though,’ chuckled Eoghan O’Gallagher, still gloating two weeks later over the perceived humiliation of their captor. ‘And him with his pride all over him like muck on a pig’s back.’
Hugh sighed. Eoghan’s way of coping with captivity seemed to be to treat it like a game – a verbal hurling match, with every insult a goal for the Irish side. But Eoghan had not confronted the Lord Deputy. Hugh knew the truth. They were powerless – Perrot could do whatever he liked with them. His own bravado in the castle chamber had been no more than the courage of a mouse, squeaking insults from between the jaws of a cat.
He stood up restlessly and went to look out the window. At least, so far, they had been spared the underground dungeon of his nightmares. They were housed in a room at the top of the gate-tower and though they were locked in for much of the time, it was a pleasant enough prison, decently furnished and with windows, overlooking the bridge.
From his perch on the windowsill, Hugh looked north towards the River Liffey to watch the comings and goings between the castle and the wharves. He had never seen a large town before and if they were all like Dublin he never wanted to see another. It was so dirty. The streets were grey, the houses were grey, even the sky seemed permanently overcast, and the breeze blowing off the river carried with it the stench of the wharves – a mixture of fish and sewage and rotting vegetables.
There was another smell also, when the wind was in the right direction. None of the boys ever spoke of it, but they knew what it was. On the way up from the ship, Seagar had pointed out to them the spikes above the castle gate and the trophies impaled on them – the grinning, sightless heads rotting in the weather. Irish heads, the Constable had told them – a warning to any would-be rebels of the fate that befell all traitors to the crown.
Today the wind was in the east so they were spared the lesson. Hugh shivered. ‘It’s raining again,’ he said, peering down.
Eoghan laughed. ‘And why wouldn’t it? Even the sky spits on Englishmen.’
‘But does it have to spit on us as well? They’ll not let us into the y
ards today, and it raining.’
Eoghan shrugged. He lifted a playing piece from the board on the table and plonked it down again triumphantly. ‘There, get out of that, Donal – if you can.’
His voice almost cracked with glee, and, despite himself, Hugh felt his interest rising. He had yet to see Donal lose a game of ficheall. He slid from the window seat and came over to watch. Donal frowned. He studied the board for a moment, then reached out and shifted one of his own pieces. ‘You spoke too soon, Eoghan,’ he said quietly. ‘Two moves there are open to you now – and you a dead man whichever way you jump.’
‘Nonsense!’ Eoghan’s hand shot out confidently, but then faltered and hovered uncertainly above the board.
Donal chuckled.
‘Ah, to hell with it for a stupid game, anyway,’ said Eoghan. He pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. ‘Where’s the skill in pushing counters round a board?’
‘You are too fiery, Eoghan,’ Donal told him. ‘You rush into battle without studying the field and doesn’t it bring you down every time?’
Eoghan snorted and muttered something uncomplimentary, but his friend only laughed. ‘You’ll learn,’ he said. He held the pieces out to Hugh. ‘Will you try your hand, Hugh Roe.’
Hugh shook his head. In the mood he was in, he would be no match for Donal. He wished he had the young MacSweeney’s temperament. Donal had adapted to captivity better than any of them.
He went back to the window. Donal cleared the board and set himself up a practice game. Eoghan paced the floor. ‘I’m sick of this damn room,’ he exploded.
As if on cue there was a knock at the door. They looked at one another hopefully. It must be a visitor, for which of their jailers ever bothered to knock? ‘Come in,’ said Hugh, and the door opened to admit Sir Lucas Dillon.
Red Hugh Page 3
