‘Could we not barricade our door?’ suggested Art.
Hugh shook his head. ‘They’d guess we were making an escape. But if there was some way to bolt the castle door and we safely on the outside …’
Dick Weston frowned for a moment. Then he started to laugh. ‘Ah, you’re as smart as a pet fox, Hugh Roe O’Donnell. Sure and isn’t there a great iron ring on the outside of the castle door, with a chain on it for a man to pull the door shut behind him and he after going out? A bar of wood driven through that ring and across the door jamb would hold it against an army and they trapped inside.’
‘And a rope let down from this window will drop us on the bridge right in front of it,’ added Hugh. ‘But where will we get a stave? We can’t carry one down the wall.’
‘I’ll have a man waiting for you, and he to bring one,’ Weston promised him.
‘But how will he know when we are ready to make our break?’ asked Donal. ‘We won’t know ourselves until the time is right.’
‘He’ll be watching. Once you have enough rope, I’ll have someone near the bridge each evening until you are safe away.’
The boys looked at each other speechless with excitement. ‘Ah, you’re the man in the gap and no mistake,’ declared Donal at last, ‘the hero of the hour. But it’s a great risk you are taking. What do you get out of it?’
Dick Weston grinned. ‘Hugh mac Ferdoragh is generous to his friends,’ he said slyly. ‘And, forbye, it’s little liking I have for the Lord Deputy.’
It was the best Christmas in Hugh’s three years of captivity. The days passed in a whirl of suppressed excitement and he had to struggle at times to hide his elation from his captors. Dick Weston came twice more to see them. Fergus O’Farrell, of Longford, also honoured them with a visit and two of his sons came with Christmas gifts. By the end of the holiday it seemed to Hugh that every man in or around Dublin whom he had ever called a friend had climbed the gate-tower stairs to wish him the blessings of the season. Each visitor brought greetings from Hugh mac Ferdoragh and each left a little thinner than he had come in. By Twelfth Night the knotted rope had grown almost too long for concealment.
It was Weston himself who smuggled in the final length. ‘You’ll be right now,’ he told them. ‘Even allowing for the knots, it should be long enough to put you onto the bridge. Pick your time carefully, and don’t try to go north – they’ll be watching every road from here to Dundalk. Get up into the mountains and make for Glenmalure. Fiach mac Hugh will see you safe.’ He offered a hand to each of them. ‘God speed the journey,’ he said and left as jauntily as he had come, his whistle floating back to them as he went down the stairs.
In the silence that followed, Hugh’s heart turned cartwheels. Could this really be happening? Dare he allow himself to hope? Was it possible that after three years he was finally going to be free? He looked at the others and saw they were thinking the same things. He tried to remember what freedom felt like. Visions of Tír Chonaill crowded his mind – cuckoos calling in the woods of Bearnas Mór, the smell of the gorse round Kilmacrennan, Lough Swilly asleep in the evening sunshine.
Lough Swilly. He recalled it as he had last seen it – the fishing curraghs drawn up on its banks, the eagle above the peninsular, the forests of Inishowen sweeping down to its shoreline-… the dark waters slapping round the hull of the Matthew. How much would it have changed in three years? How much had he changed? He had been a child that day; but his childhood was long gone – buried in a bog on Inishowen with three hundred murdered Spaniards – and all the faery magic of the Sidhe would never bring it back again. He squared his shoulders. If he could not rewrite the past, at least the future was still his. He had a life to live – and debts of honour to repay.
Nine
NOW THEY HAD the means of escape, it was tempting to take their chance that very night, but Donal urged caution. So many things had to be right. They needed a cloudy or moonless night. The streets round the castle had to be empty. There must be time enough for them to get safely out of the city before they were missed. ‘We’ll only have the one chance,’ Donal warned them. ‘We mustn’t waste it.’
So they watched and waited, forcing themselves to be patient, and, at last, a full week after Twelfth Night, everything finally fell into place. It had been a bleak day and darkness came early – an evening of thick cloud and drifting snowflakes.
‘As black as an Englishman’s guts,’ declared Art Kavanagh as he peered out into the gloom from his perch on the windowsill. ‘You’d hardly see your hand before your face with the weather that’s in it, and everyone away home early to their firesides. The streets are deserted.’
‘And the castle gate?’ asked Donal, trying to look over his shoulder.
Art looked down. ‘They’re closing it now. The sentries are all in off the bridge.’ He slid from the windowsill and looked from one to the other of his companions. ‘We’ll not have a better chance, I’m telling you.’
‘Then what are we waiting for?’ said Hugh. He flung open the chest and pulled out the rope.
The others dragged the heavy oak table over to the window and Art secured the rope to one of the table legs. Hugh O’Toole jammed a chair under the handle of the door to wedge it shut. ‘In case anyone tries to come in and we only halfway down the wall,’ he said.
Art tossed the rope out the window. ‘We’ll go in order of age,’ he whispered. ‘You first, Hugh Roe, then Donal, and Hugh and I to follow.’
Hugh scrambled onto the windowsill. He looked down at the bridge. He had never appreciated before what a long way down it was. The thin, silken rope felt absurdly flimsy between his hands. For a moment his heart failed him; then he thought again of Lough Swilly, of the English soldiers in Donegal Friary, of a wrecked ship and three hundred men who should still have been alive. He wriggled backwards through the window, wrapped his legs around the rope and began the long descent.
It took an eternity – his arms ached, his knees and elbows scraped against the wall, the thin rope cut his hands – but suddenly his feet touched stone and he was standing on the parapet of the bridge. He dropped to the ground and looked up at the tower. It loomed over him, blacker than the darkness of the night. Dhia! he thought, did I really escape from there? As he watched, he saw a dark figure squeeze through the window and begin its descent – Donal. Hugh fought down the urge to shout in triumph. They were going to make it – all of them – he knew they were.
But he must get off the bridge, he was too conspicuous. Feeling his way cautiously, he edged along the wall to the safety of the street. There was not a sound from the castle. It was almost too easy. His mind danced – running ahead of him to Glenmalure, boasting to Fiach mac Hugh of their high deeds and daring escapades – then, just as he stepped off the bridge a shadow loomed out of the darkness at his side. Before he could utter a sound, a strong arm flung him to the ground and a hand was clapped across his mouth.
He struggled. A face bent over him and a voice whispered in his ear: ‘Hold your noise. I’m a friend. Cormac O’Hanley, kerne to Fergus O’Farrell of Longford.’
O’Farrell’s man! Hugh could have wept with relief. This must be the guide Dick Weston had promised. He let himself go limp and after a moment the hand was taken from his mouth. ‘Hugh Roe O’Donnell,’ he whispered, feeling extremely foolish.
‘My sorrow, Hugh Roe. It’s no wish I had to scare you, but I dared not let you call out.’
‘And you the wise one.’ Hugh scrambled to his feet. ‘I’ll warn the others as they come off the bridge.’
Before long, all four of them were crouched safely with their guide behind the wall of the moat. ‘We must waste no time,’ whispered Cormac. ‘They’ll be shutting the city gate soon.’ He reached inside his cloak. ‘Here, I have swords for you. And this also – O’Farrell said you would be needing it.’
He put something into Hugh’s hand – something long and smooth and wooden. Hugh did not need to ask what it was. Weston had remembered.
With the stave in his hand and a sword thrust through his belt he crept back across the bridge. His heart thumped as he approached the great door. There was the ring just as Weston had described it. It would take only a moment to secure it. But … Hugh’s ears strained in the darkness. Was that a shout? Had they been missed already? At any moment the door might fly open and spew men onto the bridge with pikes and guns – and himself alone here.
Gritting his teeth, Hugh lifted the stave and drove it through the iron ring. It fitted as smoothly as a hand going into a glove – not a hair’s breadth to spare. Hugh’s confidence soared. Swiftly he eased the pole through till a good half of its length was wedged across the door jamb, then, hugging his triumph, he ran back to his companions.
‘Did you wedge it good and tight, now?’ whispered Cormac.
‘As tight as the truth in a Saxon’s mouth. They’ll not shake it loose and they trying till doomsday.’
‘Good man. Then let’s go.’
With Cormac leading the way and Art Kavanagh covering their rear, the young men set off through the silent streets. Hugh had to fight back the urge to keep glancing over his shoulder. How long before their flight was discovered and the shouts of the garrison brought someone from outside to unbar the door? And what if the city gate was closed? Or they were challenged?
Hugh slipped a hand inside his cloak to touch his sword and tried to pretend confidence.
By the wall of Saint Werburgh’s church, Cormac halted his little band. ‘We’ll not all attempt the gate together,’ he said. ‘Hugh Roe and I will go first, and you following us after a few moments.’ He looked at Hugh. ‘Are you ready?’
Hugh nodded. He felt anything but ready, but there was no use putting it off. By the dim glow of the street lanterns, he looked towards the gate and the little bridge over the Poddle. The wall here was an extension of the castle wall. To the east, rising above the church, he could see the massive bulk of the Bermingham Tower. He imagined eyes watching him from its windows – muskets trained on his back as he crossed the bridge. ‘Patrick defend me,’ he prayed, and, gritting his teeth, marched after Cormac.
As if in answer to his prayer, a sudden flurry of snow swirled round his ears. By the time he reached the gate he could barely see Cormac, three strides in front of him. They passed unchallenged. The sentries, huddled in their cloaks, hardly spared them a glance and the few people they passed had their heads down and were too intent on hurrying home to notice two nondescript figures going the other way. Hugh chuckled silently as he offered up his thanks. However much the English might try to forbid the wearing of it, an Irish mantle was a very inconspicuous garment on a winter’s night – even in Dublin.
Once clear of the bridge, Cormac led them at a purposeful but unhurried pace through the outlying suburbs. The streets were empty, but they walked in wary silence. Hugh’s body was still tensed against a half-expected challenge. He kept his right hand on the hilt of his sword and guessed that Art was doing the same.
And then, quite suddenly, it seemed, the last of the houses was behind them and they were in open countryside. They walked on for a while, then Cormac stopped and pointed into the distance. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘The Wicklow Mountains.’
Hugh followed his gaze. The snow clouds that had covered their escape were starting to break up. He could see trees and grassland – the Irish countryside stretching away before him to the black slopes of Slieve Roe. He sucked in a lungful of cold, sweet air.
He wanted to shout and dance, to seize fistfuls of turf and fling them into the wind. He was free! No more locked doors or grey stone walls – he could run as far as he wished in any direction, with nothing to restrain him.
By morning the euphoria had faded. They had walked all night, climbing higher and higher into the mountains, and Hugh was exhausted. Three years in prison had been hardly the best training for such an expedition. Worse still, his shoes were coming apart – they were thin, English shoes, never intended for outdoor use – and his feet were bruised and blistered. He plodded grimly after the others, each step an increasing agony, praying for sleep and daylight and the safety of Ballinacor – Fiach mac Hugh’s stronghold in Glenmalure.
Towards dawn, Cormac halted the party for a brief rest in the shelter of a wood. The clouds had returned – this time bringing rain – and everyone was cold, wet and hungry.
‘How much further?’ grumbled Art, flopping onto the wet grass.
‘Only an hour or so,’ said Cormac. ‘We are near Glendalough. You would see the tower from here – and the clouds not hiding it.’
‘An hour, is it? Dhia, but I’ll be glad to see Ballinacor.’ Donal also dropped to the ground and began to massage his aching calf muscles. ‘I’ve a hunger on me like a friar on Good Friday, and I’ll say this for Fiach mac Hugh – he keeps a grand table.’
‘Ah, he does that,’ agreed Hugh O’Toole. ‘And his wife – my sister, Róis, – the best brewer of ale this side of the Boyne. It will be lashings and leavings for all tonight, I’m thinking.’
Lashings and leavings! Hugh tried to imagine himself snug and warm in Fiach’s hall, with a mug of ale in his hand and a bowl of broth in front of him, but reality kept intruding. Before he could enjoy the hospitality of Ballinacor he had somehow to get himself there – and for the life of him he couldn’t see how his feet were going to carry him.
Perhaps when I’ve rested a bit, he thought desperately. He stretched out on the soggy ground and the relief was almost intoxicating. I won’t sleep, he promised himself, I’ll just lie here till I get my strength back. But his eyes ached. In the end he had to close them – and suddenly Cormac’s voice jolted him out of a dream, urging them all to their feet again.
He opened his eyes. It was full daylight now – though the clouds made it difficult to tell – and the rain was coming down more heavily than ever. He shivered and pulled his sodden cloak around him, Cormac had the truth of it – they had to keep moving. The English would be scouring the countryside for them by now. But … he closed his eyes again. Oh, God, for just a few more moments – a few precious seconds before he needed to walk again.
He felt a hand shaking him by the shoulder. ‘Hugh,’ said Donal’s voice, ‘Hugh, get up. We have to be going.’
Swaying like a drunk, he dragged himself to his feet. Donal stared at him anxiously. ‘Are you all right?’
He nodded, but when he tried to take a step it was like walking on needles.
‘Jesu!’ exclaimed Donal. ‘What’s on you, Hugh Roe? Are you sick?’
He shook his head. ‘My feet,’ he croaked.
Donal lowered him to the ground and pulled off his tattered shoes. ‘Holy Mother of God! Why didn’t you tell us?’ He lifted his voice. ‘Cormac! Come here till you see this.’
Their guide turned and came hurrying back. Hugh looked down at his feet – blistered and bruised, bleeding from innumerable scratches. Panic seized him. He couldn’t possibly walk as far as Glenmalure in this condition. What in the world was he to do?
He looked helplessly at his friends. Donal and Cormac looked at each other. ‘Will we bandage them,’ suggested Donal doubtfully.
‘It might help.’ Cormac pushed back his cloak and ripped off one of his voluminous shirt sleeves. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘use this.’
Donal tore the linen into strips and he and Cormac set about bandaging Hugh’s feet. Hugh felt very foolish. ‘It is my own shirt you should be using,’ he protested, but Cormac pretended not to hear.
‘There now,’ he said, when at last they were finished. ‘Let’s have you up now and see can you walk again.’
They helped him to his feet and, with his arms around their shoulders, set off again. For a while Hugh managed to ignore the pain, but it grew steadily worse. Before long they had to stop and let him rest again.
‘This is hopeless,’ he gasped, as they lowered him to the ground. ‘You’ll have to leave me here.’
‘We’ll do no such thing,’ retorted Donal. ‘Are we Saxons to be turni
ng our backs on one of our own?’ He looked at his companions. ‘We’ll carry him if we have to, won’t we, lads?’
‘We will,’ they agreed, but Hugh could see how worried Cormac looked. Time was slipping away and time was the one thing they did not have. Fitzwilliam would have search parties all over the mountains by now. How would he live with himself if they all got caught because of him? Donal had already been cheated of freedom once.
‘You’ll not carry me,’ he said. ‘I’ll not let you. Leave me here in the shelter of these trees and send someone back for me when you reach Ballinacor.’
They looked at each other doubtfully. ‘It might be safest,’ admitted Cormac, ‘for Hugh as well as for us. We’ve a rocky road ahead of us yet.’
‘Then I’ll stay with him,’ said Donal.
‘You will not,’ said Hugh.
‘Ah, try and stop me.’
They glowered at each other.
‘Will you hold your row, the pair of you,’ broke in Hugh O’Toole. ‘Haven’t I a better plan, entirely. We’re only a mile or so from Castlekevin – my brother’s stronghold. I can be there and back while a cat would be licking its paws and fetch help for Hugh Roe, while the rest of you go on to Glenmalure.’
They all turned to look at him. ‘I know it’s not as safe as Ballinacor,’ he continued. ‘But Felim will see us right. He promised us help at any time and we asking for it.’
‘So he did,’ agreed Hugh. ‘And Felim O’Toole is a man of his word.’
Donal still looked unhappy. ‘I don’t like to split up the group,’ he protested. ‘Maybe we should all make for Castlekevin.’
Hugh shook his head. ‘I’ll not give Felim more trouble than I have to.’
‘But someone should stay with you,’ persisted Donal.
‘Am I a child? I’ll manage fine, and one man hiding among these trees will be harder to spot than two. Will you go now. Every minute you stand here, doesn’t it bring the English closer?’
Red Hugh Page 8
