Red Hugh

by Lisson, Deborah;

  For a moment Donal looked as though he were going to argue, but at last he hunched his shoulders in a gesture of resignation. He leaned down and grasped Hugh’s hand. ‘God go with you, Hugh Roe. We’ll celebrate together at Rathmullen.’

  ‘We will, and Eoghan with us. God speed the journey, Donal.’

  Ten

  HUGH WATCHED TILL his companions were out of sight, then settled down to await Hugh O’Toole’s return. He had never felt more alone. The mountains were vast and alien. They were not his mountains, and they stretched out bewilderingly in all directions to horizons shrouded in mist and rain. He had no idea where he was. Which way was Castlekevin? Which way was Glenmalure? And would Hugh O’Toole find his way back to this spot, or would an English search party find the place before him?

  Wet, hungry and chilled to the very marrow, Hugh huddled in his shelter beneath a clump of pines and pulled his cloak more tightly round his shoulders. The confidence he had pretended earlier shrivelled like a flower after frost. He didn’t know which he feared more – being found by the English or not being found at all.

  Above everything he longed to sleep. He didn’t dare to close his eyes, but that didn’t stop him dreaming – weird, hallucinatory nightmares: disembodied heads grinning down at him from the trees, and ghostly figures swirling about him in the rain. When he heard voices, he thought they too were part of the dream. It wasn’t till they surrounded him that he realised they were Irish – and that one of them belonged to Hugh O’ Toole.

  They brought him down to Castlekevin on a litter. He remembered little of the journey – only the comfort of rugs, the voices of his rescuers and the utter bliss of knowing he was safe. At the hall they had prepared him a bed near the fire. Hands stripped him of his wet clothes and he sank into the mattress gratefully. Other hands – or maybe they were the same ones – bathed his feet. Voices spoke reassuringly. He was aware of it all – but only dimly, as if it were happening far away, to someone else. Soon even the faint echoes faded.

  He woke in darkness, ravenously hungry. The fire was still flickering and he could hear voices nearby, arguing softly. One he recognised – it was Felim’s. The other belonged to a woman. She seemed to be trying to reassure Felim. ‘Will you stop your worrying,’ she said. ‘It is all in Fiach’s hands now.’

  ‘I know, but …’

  ‘You are after doing everything you could. No one will blame you, whatever happens.’

  ‘It’s the weather I’m fearful for,’ said Felim. ‘With the rain that’s in it …’

  The sentence was left unfinished. Hugh turned his head to look at the speakers, but they were only shadows in the firelight. The rush mattress rustled as he moved and the woman must have heard it, for she stood up and came over to his bed. She was tall, with strong features and hair that glowed copper-coloured in the firelight. She put him in mind of his mother. He wondered who she was, but somehow it seemed impolite to ask.

  She smiled down at him. ‘So, awake at last. And with a hunger on you to eat an ox and I’m not mistaken?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’ll bring you something.’

  She went away and returned with cold meat and cheese and a loaf of barley bread. It seemed to Hugh the most wonderful food he had ever tasted. He wolfed it down, while his hostess sat on the end of his mattress and watched him. Not till he had licked the last crumbs from his fingers did she speak again. ‘So,’ she said at last. ‘The famous Hugh Roe O’Donnell. And yourself as welcome as the swallows to Castlekevin. My brother has told me much about you.’

  ‘Your brother?’

  ‘I am Róis O’Toole. Felim’s sister.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Hugh. He remembered something else. ‘And Fiach mac Hugh’s wife.’

  ‘For my sins!’ She chuckled. ‘And which of them the greater trouble to me, only the Dear knows.’

  Hugh smiled. He looked across at Felim. ‘God save you, Felim O’Toole, it’s a generous man you are. Wouldn’t I be dead by now and you not fetching me down off that mountain? But I fear I am after bringing you into danger.’

  Felim and his sister exchanged glances. ‘We are honoured to have you, Hugh Roe,’ said Róis quickly. ‘And danger? – sure, don’t we live with that every day? But Castlekevin is not safe for you and that’s the truth of it. The road from Dublin comes almost to our door. The Lord Deputy’s troops will seek you out here eventually as sure as Easter follows Lent.’

  ‘Then I must go, as soon as it’s light. I’ll not have you arrested for hiding me.’

  ‘Will you hold your peace and listen to what I’m telling you! We have it all planned out. Felim dare not openly defy the Lord Deputy. For the safety of his household, he is after sending a messenger to Dublin to tell them you are here. But –’ she grinned – ‘sure, wasn’t it a very slow messenger, on a very lame horse; and in the meantime our Hugh is away like the wild hunt to Glenmalure, with news of your predicament. When the Lord Deputy’s troops arrive here, they will learn that Fiach mac Hugh is after attacking Castlekevin and carrying you off by force to his own stronghold.’

  Hugh shook his head. It was an ingenious plan, but far too dangerous. ‘They’ll not believe you. And what if they follow me to Ballinacor?’

  Fiach’s wife threw back her head and laughed. ‘And they remembering what happened the last troop of Saxons who ventured into Glenmalure? They’d be the fools.’ She stood up and took the empty plate from him. ‘“Bloody Monday”, the English call that day – and Dublin still shaking in its shoes at the memory. Trust me – you will be safe with Fiach. Now, lie down and get your rest. With luck he will be here at first light, and you must be ready to ride.’

  Hugh obeyed. It was good to drift into sleep, knowing he was watched over and protected. Once during the night he woke to hear rain beating down on the thatch. Felim had spoken of rain. He had been worried about it – but why, what possible danger could it pose? He tried to think, but he was too sleepy and light-headed. This place was warm and comforting – nothing could touch him here.

  When next he opened his eyes it was broad daylight. His hosts were nowhere to be seen, but someone had put out dry clothes for him and a pair of stout Irish boots. He crawled out of bed. Why had they let him sleep so long? At any moment Fiach mac Hugh would be here to take him to Ballinacor. Hastily he dressed himself.

  He was easing his still tender feet into the new shoes when the door opened and Róis came in. He looked up. ‘Is he here?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Oh, I thought …’ He broke off, staring at her. Something was wrong. Her face was white and strained. She looked as if she were about to cry. But that would be unthinkable. It would be like seeing his mother cry, and the Iníon Dubh, he was positive, was incapable of tears. He felt a prickle of fear. ‘What is it?’ he whispered. ‘Tell me what is wrong.’

  ‘Ah, Hugh.’ She had control of herself again – only the catch in her voice betrayed her pain. ‘It’s the rain, son – all that rain last night.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He could hear her words, he could see a vague black shape of danger behind them, but his mind could not put it into focus. ‘What do you mean, the rain?’ he asked again.

  ‘The river – the Annamoe. With the rain that’s in it, isn’t it in flood and every ford impassable?’

  This couldn’t be happening. He felt a cold fist tighten round his heart. ‘But … but surely there is some other path?’

  ‘My sorrow, there is not. There is no path between here and Glenmalure that does not cross the river.’

  ‘And …’ his voice was a whisper, ‘and to Dublin?’

  She looked at him as though her heart would break. ‘Ah, mo chroí, there is no river crosses the road to Dublin.’

  He had a meal – Róis insisted he should eat – and then they waited. The hours crawled by, like flies dragging themselves through honey. Instinct urged him to run – but how far could he hope to get in his present state? And what punishment might Fitzwilliam inflict on Felim
O’Toole for allowing such a prize catch to slip through his fingers. In the silence, he remembered something old Gráinne O’Malley had once said – and she a guest at Donegal. How on a luckless voyage, a sailor might come on deck one morning and know by the winds and the set of the tide that his ship would be driven on the rocks that night – and he with no recourse but to watch and wait for it to happen. Hugh felt like the master of that vessel. Apart from Róis, none of Felim’s household came near him – not even Felim himself. It was as though no one could bear to look him in the face.

  Just after midday, he heard the horses. He scrambled to his feet. Róis rose also. She put a hand on his arm. ‘Courage, Hugh. Be strong.’

  He felt himself shivering.

  The riders drew up outside the hall. He heard the murmur of voices. Then the door burst open and a big, florid man in English clothes strode into the room, flanked by half a dozen soldiers. Felim O’Toole was behind them. Felim looked at Hugh. ‘I’m sorry, son. This is Sir George Carew. He is come –’

  But the Englishman was already striding forward. ‘So, Master O’Donnell,’ he jeered, ‘run to earth like a fox, eh? And a merry chase you and your friends have led us. I wouldn’t be in your shoes when we get you back to Dublin.’ He hooked his thumbs into his belt and grinned at his prisoner. ‘And where are your friends?’

  Hugh said nothing. Carew jabbed him in the chest with one finger. ‘Answer me, you little guttersnipe.’

  ‘Where you’ll never get your stinking hands on them.’

  Carew struck him across the face. He staggered backwards and before he could recover his balance, the Englishman hit him again. This time, he fell. As he struggled to his feet, Carew raised his fist for another blow, but Róis stepped between them. ‘You are wasting your time, my Lord. The boy has no idea where his friends are. They left him for dead in the mountains and it’s only by the grace of God we found him.’

  Carew looked at Hugh. ‘Is that the truth?’

  ‘It’s all you’ll get.’

  ‘God’s death, boy, you try me too far!’ For a moment Hugh thought the man was going to strike him again, but then he seemed to change his mind. His fists uncurled and he laughed – a chilling sound. ‘No matter,’ he said ‘They’ll have the truth out of you in Dublin.’ He turned to his men. ‘Take him outside and put him on a horse. And make sure his feet are chained. He may have made a fool of the Constable but, by God, he’ll not slip through my fingers.’

  The soldiers closed round him. On of them gave him a shove in the back. ‘Move,’ he said.

  Hugh straightened. His hands felt clammy. The muscles in his jaw quivered, tight as the skin on a drum. He looked at Róis and she stared back at him fiercely. Walk, he told himself, hold your head up and walk, don’t give them the satisfaction of dragging you out. He took one step, then another, fighting the panic that urged him to break and run. Prickles of pain ran through his feet. He knew Carew was watching him: he could feel the Englishman’s gaze burning a hole in his back. He took another step, and then – Carew laughed.

  Hugh snapped.

  With a wild cry, he flung aside his escort and bolted through the door. His legs pumped – driving him almost of their own accord. Pain washed up from his feet in burning waves. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, but he could not let them take him. He would freeze in the mountains, drown in the Annamoe before they dragged him back to Dublin.

  He heard yelling behind him, hoof beats. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a horse bearing down on him. He ran faster. A hand reached down and grabbed him by the collar. He was lifted, dragged, dropped again outside the hall. He lay in the dirt, sobbing helplessly.

  There was a silence. ‘Get him on his feet,’ commanded Carew’s voice. Footsteps approached, but it was Róis O’Toole who dropped to her knees beside him. It was Róis who wiped the tears and dirt from his face; whose arms held him; whose voice whispered in his ear.

  ‘Fight them, Hugh, fight them. Don’t let them break your spirit.’

  But he couldn’t. He clung to her as a drowning man clings to a rope. ‘I can’t, Róis. I’ll rot and die in that stinking castle.’

  ‘You will not.’ Her hands were strong about his shoulders, her voice rang like a bell. ‘You will survive, and the English queen will curse the day she ever laid hands on you. You are Hugh, son of Hugh – the prophesied one of the Cenél Chonaill. You were not born to die in an English prison.’

  He shivered. What was she saying? Her hands gripped till they hurt, her eyes stared into the distance. Words flashed across Hugh’s mind: ‘When Hugh succeeds Hugh … the last Hugh shall be Ard Righ of all Ireland and drive all the foreigners out.’ Was that what she meant? Did she, Róis O’Toole, see something that he could not see?

  He gulped. ‘Second sight’. It was an awesome thought – as terrifying, in its way, as the thought of going back to Dublin – and yet, it gave him back his courage. Only time would reveal the truth of her prophecy. But one thing he could not deny: he was Hugh Roe O’Donnell, chieftain’s son of the Cenél Chonaill, and he must keep faith with his father’s people. An O’Donnell did not grovel before his foes.

  ‘Let me up,’ he whispered.

  She released him. He rose to his feet. He could feel the steely strength of her will supporting him. With his head high and his body rigid as a pikestaff, he went forward towards his enemies.

  Eleven

  THE JOURNEY BACK to Dublin felt to Hugh like a funeral procession – a journey to the graveyard, and himself nailed down in the coffin, still alive. He tried to feed his courage on Róis’s prophetic words, but it was hard to feel confident surrounded by your enemies, with chains on your hands and feet and the reins of your horse given into the keeping of one of your captors. Carew’s threat kept coming back to him. ‘I wouldn’t be in your shoes when we get you back to Dublin.’ What would they do to him? Fitzwilliam, facing the wrath of his queen, must be furious. And Maplesdene, the new Constable who had replaced Seagar some eighteen months earlier, was not a man to forgive easily either. As they rode over the castle bridge, Hugh looked up at the trophies above the gate and knew a moment of sheer terror.

  In the courtyard, Carew dismounted and swaggered off to report his success to the Lord Deputy, leaving his prisoner in the charge of the Constable. ‘And kennel him securely,’ Carew said. ‘I have better things to do than chase round the countryside after runaway puppies.’

  Maplesdene looked at Hugh grimly. ‘He’ll not slip his leash again,’ he promised. He flicked a hand at the guards. ‘Take him away and lock him up.’

  Without ceremony, Hugh was dragged from his horse and hustled across the courtyard – not back to the gate-tower, as he had hoped, but to another building next to the hall. Through a door he was led, and down many flights of stairs, till at last he found himself in a long, dank corridor. It was cold and dark, lit only by a few torches set in sconces in the stone. Little runnels of water trickled down its walls.

  His captors slid back the bolt on a thick, iron-studded door. Beyond it Hugh saw a tiny cell – a stone vault, hardly bigger than a tomb. It was dark and damp; its walls were slippery; it stank like a duck pond. It was the dungeon of his worst fears.

  He shrank back. A hand shoved him in the back and he stumbled into the vault. The door slammed. A bolt thudded home. He was alone in utter blackness. He crawled into a corner and sat there, his knees hunched to his chin, fighting hysteria, straining his eyes for some glimpse of his surroundings. A minute sliver of light, thrown by the torches in the corridor, crept underneath the door, but it was not strong enough to relieve the blackness – only to add deeper, grotesque shapes to its depths.

  He tried to retreat into memories – those delirious hours of liberty: the smell of rain on the mountains, the fireside at Castlekevin, the strong, motherly arms of Róis O’Toole. But each time his mind wandered. Coldness, or some sick, unearthly sound from beyond his tomb, would jolt him back to reality. The darkness began to worm its way into his bones. Occ
asionally he did drift into sleep, but his dreams were so ghost-ridden it was almost a relief to wake again.

  It was impossible to judge the passing of time. It might have been hours, it might have been days before the door opened at last and one of his jailers entered the cell.

  ‘Out!’

  Hugh was in no state to argue. Stumbling and half blinded by the sudden light, he allowed himself to be hustled back along the corridor and into another room – a long, stone-flagged hall. Four soldiers guarded the door – two outside, two inside. Others were posted around the walls. A fire flickered in a brazier in the centre of the floor, and there was a table where things of iron were laid out in rows – implements at whose function he could only guess. The room was cold despite the brazier, and it stank of something undefinable – sweat or stale urine or … or blood.

  They will have the truth out of you in Dublin.

  Fight, screamed his mind. Run. But his body was powerless, frozen like a wild duck caught in the ice of a winter pond.

  The guards stripped him, dragged him across the room and shackled him, spread-eagled, to iron rings set in the wall. Too late, panic galvanised him and he began to struggle. He sobbed and cursed and wrenched at his bonds till his wrists and ankles bled, but it was a waste of time. When exhaustion had finally brought him to a standstill, he lifted his head and saw that the Constable had come into the room.

  Maplesdene looked at him in silence for a long time. ‘Well, Master O’Donnell,’ he said at last, ‘you see how little your foolish efforts have availed you. Now you have some accounting to do.’

  Hugh shuddered. He wanted so desperately to be brave – to spit in the man’s face and shout defiance at him – but he couldn’t. He knew if he uttered one word he would be done for. He would weep and plead and babble like a child and tell them everything they wished to know. Other men – older, stronger men than he – had marched into this room arrogant in their courage, and crawled out broken and submissive. What hope was there for him where they had failed? He was not heroic. Any courage he might have possessed had died in the darkness of his dungeon.