Red Hugh

by Lisson, Deborah;

  ‘Ha! An empty threat. I am after sending better men than you to their graves.’

  ‘Will you sit down and hold your peace, the pair of you,’ ordered The MacSweeney. ‘Whose cause does it serve but the Lord Deputy’s and we fighting among ourselves? Can we not discuss this without quarrelling?’

  The two adversaries scowled at each other. For a moment neither moved, but at last they both, reluctantly, resumed their seats. ‘The Earl of Tyrone may do as he pleases,’ sneered the Iníon Dubh. ‘But if he will not help us, there are others who will. I’ll go to Scotland. I’ll hire mercenaries – I’ll lead them to Dublin myself – before I’ll see a child of mine eat his heart out in an English prison.’

  Hugh mac Ferdoragh raised one eyebrow. ‘Very touching. Your devotion to your eldest son does you credit – but weren’t you quick enough, two years ago, to offer his brother in exchange for him?’

  ‘I offered cattle, too. What signs of them did you see in Dublin? There is a wealth of difference between promise and intent.’

  They continued to glower at each other, then suddenly Hugh mac Ferdoragh put his head back and laughed. ‘Ah, you’re a fine, fierce woman, Finnoula McDonnell. Another Maeve of Connaught and you holding Tír Chonaill together against all the odds these three years or more.’ He spread his hands, palms upward. ‘God knows, if there were any way … I love that boy almost as dearly as you do, but –’

  ‘Spare me your pity,’ said the Iníon Dubh coldly, ‘and look more closely at your own danger. You need my son. You will never call yourself O’Neill without help from Tír Chonaill, and The O’Donnell, God save him, is senile now and little better than a prisoner in Donegal. What will happen when he dies?’

  The man did not answer.

  ‘You do not know? Well, let me tell you then. Before his corpse is cold, Niall Garbh and Hugh mac Hugh Dubh will be at each other like a pair of stags and every man who ever dreamed of putting his foot on the stone will start hiring mercenaries. The English will play one off against the other, just as they did in Monaghan, and … and …’ her voice faltered as she struggled to control it. ‘And Hugh Roe O’Donnell will go the same way as Hugh Roe mac Mahon.’

  The others stared at her. ‘God Almighty,’ breathed MacSweeney. ‘You don’t really believe they would execute him?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘But he is a prisoner – a hostage in their care – what reason could they give?’

  ‘None that they could not invent to suit their purposes. Or he might meet with a convenient accident – fall from a window and he trying to escape, or drown in the moat.’

  And so he might – easily. There was a chilly silence. The Iníon Dubh looked at Hugh mac Ferdoragh. ‘And here is something else I’ll tell you for nothing. As long as Art and Henry mac Shane remain in Dublin Castle your position will never be secure.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? What Fitzwilliam holds he can loose – at any time he chooses – and with a company of English soldiers at their heels to march against you and back their claim to the chieftaincy.’

  O’Neill chewed his lip.

  ‘But if they escaped, now, and you abetting them, where could they run to but back to Ulster? Have you not prisons – or thorn trees – enough in Dungannon to take care of them?’

  ‘Thorn trees!’ The allusion was so blatant even MacSweeney gasped.

  Hugh O’Neill only chuckled, however. ‘Ah, and well you know it was no thorn tree,’ he protested. ‘Hugh Gavelach mac Shane was legally executed – and I miles away at the time.’

  ‘That is as may be. Nevertheless, he is dead, and what happened one brother may easily happen them all. It’s a long, rocky road from Dublin to Ulster.’

  Hugh mac Ferdoragh shook his head. Chreesta, he thought, this woman has a mind like a dagger. He turned her words over in his head. She had the truth of it. The mac Shanes would be far less troublesome in his own keeping – and if he had the guiding of their escape … As she said, it was a long way from Dublin to Dungannon – anything might happen on the road. As for Hugh Roe – again, his mother was right. Without him, there would be chaos when old Hugh Dubh died and Turlough Luineach would take advantage of the upheavals.

  No, a strong and friendly Tír Chonaill was crucial to his own survival – wasn’t it for that he was after marrying The O’Donnell’s daughter? Her recent death had weakened that alliance. Maybe he should think about forging another.

  ‘He is my son-in-law,’ he had told Walsingham when making his first plea for Hugh Roe’s release. Perhaps the time had come to turn that lie into reality. He looked round the table. ‘Very well,’ he conceded. ‘I will try again to get him out.’

  ‘I knew you’d not desert us.’ The Iníon Dubh flashed him a look of mingled triumph and gratitude. But even as he returned her smile he felt his heart sinking. Talk was easy, but how was the thing to be done? She hadn’t seen that room in the Bermingham Tower. Money might buy rope – it might even unlock fetters – but what use was that and every window barred?

  He sat in silence groping for ideas. His mind walked every square inch of Hugh Roe’s prison – counted every stud in the door, every stone in the walls. He could see no chink, no weakness anywhere. And then he remembered something. He began to laugh and his companions looked at him, startled. ‘Chreesta, but it might work,’ he said, half to himself. ‘Isn’t it the one thing they’d never think of.’

  ‘The privy!’ snorted Henry mac Shane. ‘He expects us to climb down the privy?’

  ‘Will you keep your voice down,’ hissed Art. He glanced at the young serving lad who had brought them the letter. ‘Do you want to have all the guards in – and your man there after risking his life for us?’

  Henry’s scowl deepened. ‘And how do we know we can trust him?’ he jeered. ‘Anyone can devise a letter. How do we know it’s not an English trap?’

  The young man flushed angrily. ‘I am an O’Byrne,’ he said, ‘clansman to Fiach mac Hugh of Ballinacor. The O’Byrnes do not practise deceit.’

  ‘Then why would one of them be serving in an English castle – fetching and carrying for Saxons?’

  ‘Why else but to gather information. Fiach mac Hugh has ears and eyes in many places where he cannot go himself.’

  Henry mac Shane sniffed disbelievingly but his brother nodded. ‘I believe you,’ he said. ‘A shrewd man, is the Raven of Glenmalure.’

  ‘And the letter is genuine,’ added Hugh, whisking it out of Henry’s grasp and studying it again himself. ‘That is Hugh mac Ferdoragh’s hand, and his seal – I’d know them anywhere.’

  ‘And he offering us a way out of this stinking hole,’ said Art. ‘What the devil is on you, Henry? You don’t have to like the man, but–’

  ‘I don’t trust him, and no more should you. Why would he do anything for us, and he after murdering our brother?’

  ‘He wouldn’t – you have the truth of it – but he’d do it for Hugh Roe; and we to profit from his company.’

  ‘Ha!’ snorted Henry, and then, determined to have the last word: ‘And isn’t he after taking long enough about it.’

  Art and Hugh smiled. Hugh read through the letter again. He could hardly take it in. A rope, a guide, horses to carry them to Glenmalure – could it be possible? He tried not to dream – not to allow himself to hope. Last year’s nightmare was still etched into his memory. He looked at the messenger. ‘How …’ he began, but the lad shook his head.

  ‘Don’t ask. When the time comes you will have everything you need.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll not be back myself, but there will be others – I am not the only ears and eyes about this castle.’ And he went out, locking the door ostentatiously behind him.

  The three young men stared at each other. There seemed nothing adequate to say. Then Henry broke the silence. ‘But down the privy,’ he wailed. ‘Chreesta, I’ll come out stinking like a turd.’

  Hugh bit back the obvious retort.

  During the Christmas h
oliday, the letter had promised. For the next two weeks the hostages waited anxiously, but there was no further message. Hugh’s confidence began to wane. Something must have gone wrong, he thought despondently. He didn’t say anything to the others but he didn’t need to – Henry was vocal enough for all of them.

  Then, on Christmas Eve just before supper-time, two of Maplesdene’s minions carried a chest into the room. ‘For Master O’Donnell,’ they announced. ‘A gift from his mother, the Iníon Dubh, which the Lord Deputy has graciously consented to his receiving.’ Hugh tried not to stare at it – or at his friends. He was terrified the guards would read his thoughts. But the moment they had gone, the three prisoners fell on the chest and flung the lid open.

  There was a long silence as they stared at the contents. Then: ‘Bed linen!’ exploded Henry. ‘Nothing but stupid sheets and coverlets!’ He rummaged in the chest like a dog digging in sand and tossed linen about the room disgustedly. ‘What did I tell you?’ he crowed bitterly. ‘It was all talk. He’s after abandoning us.’

  ‘Is there even a note in there?’ asked Art, not sounding very hopeful.

  There was, but the seal had been broken and there was no word in it unfit for English scrutiny. It merely expressed the Lady O’Donnell’s affection for her son, urged him to maintain his courage and hoped he would have good usage from her gift. Hugh read it and handed it silently to Art. He could not bring himself to speak. Henry was right. It had all been talk. There would be no escape. The Iníon Dubh was a canny woman – a Scot – she would not be after sending him a gift and she knowing he would never use it.

  ‘Bed linen!’ jeered Henry again. ‘And is it fine feather beds she thinks we have in that cell we sleep in?’ He scrunched one of the sheets into a ball and threw it at Hugh. ‘The only good you’ll have from that is to use it in the privy.’

  ‘The what?’ Hugh stared at him. A light flickered in his mind. He looked at the sheet, then at Art. They both turned to look at Henry.

  ‘Ah, no,’ said Henry, realisation slowly dawning on him. ‘Ah, no – it can’t be.’

  But it could. ‘And we the fools not to be thinking of it before,’ said Art. ‘What did your man say? “You’ll have everything you need when the time comes”.’ And he began to laugh.

  Hugh wanted to laugh as well – and to cry and shout and sing, all at the same time. His heart felt wrung out – torn between new hope and the terror of disillusionment. Only Henry remained sceptical. ‘And what about these?’ he demanded, sitting on a chair and waggling his leg irons at his companions.

  Art laughed louder. ‘When the time comes, remember? Have faith, you great amadán.’ He began to gather up the linen and stuff it back into the chest. ‘And now let’s get this stuff out of sight before they come to fetch us away to our supper.’

  Over the next few days they tore the linen into strips and knotted them together. They took turns, one keeping an ear to the door while the others worked, and the finished rope was coiled neatly back in the chest, hidden by a coverlet.

  ‘Will it hold our weight, do you think?’ asked Art anxiously.

  Henry looked at his brother. ‘Sure, it will hold me well enough, and Hugh Roe here has no more meat on him than a raven’s bit. But we’ll send you down last, I’m thinking, Art, just to be on the safe side – and I wouldn’t be eating anything between then and now and I were you.’

  Art smiled, but it was plain the jibe had hurt him. Hugh felt angry. Art wasn’t fat, just a little on the plump side; and if he was slow and clumsy, wasn’t it from the wounds he had received fighting to avoid recapture after his last escape? Hugh added another spike to the grievance he was nursing against Henry mac Shane.

  Once the rope was finished, there was nothing to do but wait. The anticipation nearly drove them mad. One by one, the twelve days of Christmas came and went and never a word from their would-be rescuer. They began to grow restless and to question their optimism. Had they made a mistake? Had hope caused their imaginations to run away with them? Henry began grumbling again and Hugh found it hard to keep his temper. Even Art was morose and fidgety.

  On the afternoon of the eleventh day – the eve of the Epiphany – they were taken down to the courtyard for exercise. The castle was still in holiday mood and in the stableyard some of the young horseboys had started an impromptu hurling match. Hugh watched them enviously. How often had he engaged in similar romps at Castle Doe with his foster brothers. Freedom had been something he took for granted then. How could he have imagined it would all end like this? Even walking in leg irons was an effort.

  Depressed, he sat down on a low wall to watch the game. Most of the garrison seemed to have turned out, too, and there was a lot of good-natured cat-calling going on. ‘What team would you have your money on?’ Art shouted in his ear, but he only shrugged. It was all one to him.

  The game see-sawed up and down the yard, with neither side able to gain the upper hand. Then, suddenly, one of the players made a wild slash with his stick that sent the ball hurtling out of play and smack into the wall beneath Hugh’s feet. Half a dozen youngsters dashed over to retrieve it. There was a wild scrimmage and in the midst of it one of the players managed to get his stick tangled in Hugh’s chains. Almost before the boy realised what was happening, he was jerked from his perch and thrown to the ground, tumbling over and over beneath a forest of arms and legs and sticks.

  ‘Sorry,’ gasped the player who had dislodged him. ‘Hold still now and I’ll have you up again.’ Elbowing off the pack, he grabbed Hugh by the shirt front and hauled him back to his feet. As he did so Hugh felt something drop down inside his shirt – something cold and hard. ‘There now,’ said his unknown friend. ‘You’ll be right now,’ and he winked and disappeared into the mêlée without a backward glance.

  Hugh stumbled away, his arms wrapped across his chest. He could feel something like a small iron bar sitting on top of his belt, beneath his clothes. His head was reeling. It had all happened so quickly. Even Art, who had been leaning over the wall beside him, appeared to have seen nothing. But he knew what had been given him. He drew his cloak around it and kept his head down, terrified his face might betray his excitement. Not till he was back in the safety of their room did he dare to draw his treasure from his shirt.

  ‘A file!’ spluttered Art. ‘Mother of God, a file! Will you look at it.’

  ‘Where in the devil’s name did you get it from?’ demanded Henry.

  They both began to fire questions at him, but he was too busy to answer them. Speed was essential now – in less than two hours they would be taken down to the refectory and then to their cell for the night. Sitting on the floor he began to work frantically on his fetters.

  It seemed to take forever, but at last both his legs were free. Tossing the file to Henry he dragged the linen rope out of its chest and carried it into the privy. There was a small, barred window almost directly above the shaft and he tied the end of the rope to one of the bars. He returned to the others in time to see the older mac Shane pulling off his shackles. ‘Here,’ said Henry, standing up and passing the file to his brother, ‘and hurry up, for Christ’s sake – we haven’t time to wait for you.’

  Art’s hands were clumsy. The harder he tried, the less progress he seemed to make. ‘Let me do it for you,’ said Hugh. He knelt beside his friend and began to saw at the iron. It yielded slowly, but eventually he had one ankle free and then the other. ‘Done!’ he said triumphantly. ‘Now, let’s be off.’

  They ran into the privy. Henry was nowhere to be seen. ‘Selfish pig,’ said Art disgustedly. ‘Could he not even wait for us?’

  It was the first time Hugh had heard him criticise his brother. He grinned. ‘Ah well,’ he said, ‘somebody had to test the rope.’ He looked at Art. ‘Will you go next?’

  Art shook his head. Hugh knew he was thinking about Henry’s taunts. He wanted to reassure him, but there was no time to argue. Swinging his legs over the edge of the privy shaft, he looked for the last time round his p
rison. He had expected to feel elation, but all that came to him was heaviness – a terrible and overwhelming sense of waste.

  He had been a child when they brought him here – and now he was a man. Four years they had stolen from his life – four years of love and laughter and education – of hunting on Fanad peninsula with the MacSweeneys, of cattle raiding into Breifne with Eoghan mac Toole. Well, he would learn to laugh again. He would hunt, and fight, and somehow get the schooling of which they had cheated him. But nothing would ever bring back those four lost years. There was a great, black hole, somewhere in his being, and all the possibilities of the future would never fill it.

  He looked at Art mac Shane. ‘I’ll make them pay,’ he said. ‘One day I’ll make them pay.’ And he lowered himself into the murky shaft.

  Thirteen

  THE WIND PROWLED like a hungry wolf through the Wicklow Mountains, chasing the snow into frenzied squalls and snapping at the ears and fingers of the weary fugitives. They had been travelling for almost twenty-four hours now and Hugh was on the edge of exhaustion.

  How could everything have gone so wrong? When he had crawled out of that stinking privy shaft onto the bank of the moat, freedom had seemed no more than an hour or so away, but since then there had been one disaster after another. First Art had injured his leg climbing down the privy. Then the promised horses had not arrived – taken from the stable at the last minute by somebody else – and finally at the foot of the castle wall, Henry mac Shane had deserted them.

  ‘What signs of a fool do you see on me,’ he had sneered, ‘to be trusting the likes of Fiach mac Hugh O’Byrne – and him an ally of Hugh mac Ferdoragh? I’d as soon trust the devil. I’ll find my own way home.’ And, turning his back on his companions and the guide sent by Fiach to escort them to Glenmalure, he had gone off into the night, leaving them to fend for themselves.

  On foot, with no food for the journey, and without their cloaks – which they had been obliged to discard before squeezing down the privy – Hugh and Art had set off with their guide for Glenmalure. The trek had quickly turned into a nightmare. Even the weather seemed to conspire against them. Art had collapsed hours ago and they had been carrying him ever since. Now Hugh was wondering how much longer he could keep going himself. His clothes had started to freeze on his body. His hands were crippled, twisted into feeble claws by the icy wind; his feet felt like solid lumps of clay. He had no idea where they were or how far they had come and could only stumble forward, with Art a dead weight on his shoulder, trusting blindly to the knowledge and stamina of Fiach’s guide.