Red Hugh

by Lisson, Deborah;

  It seemed ungenerous to discuss these fears with Fiach and Róis, so he brooded on them privately, and it was while he was sunk in gloom one evening that Fiach brought a visitor to him. Hugh recognised the young man immediately – Turlough Buí O’Hagan, Hugh mac Ferdoragh’s message bearer – his eyes, ears and mouthpiece wherever cunning and discretion were necessary. The English had a word for such men; ‘pursuivants’, they called them – something less than a herald yet not quite a spy. And Turlough O’Hagan was a prince among pursuivants.

  Turlough it was who had brought letters and messages from his lord to the hostages in Dublin Castle and, in the case of information not fitted for English scrutiny, procured trustworthy servants to smuggle it into the prisons. Turlough knew everything about everybody, and could judge to the last whisper how much to tell – and to whom. Hugh’s heart leapt at the sight of him – if there was one man who could bring him safe to Tír Chonaill, that man was Turlough Buí O’Hagan.

  O’Hagan seemed equally delighted at their meeting. ‘Doesn’t it do my heart good to see you, Hugh Roe O’Donnell,’ he declared, ‘and you out of that stinking prison and your own man again. Fiach is after telling me the time you had of it, out there in the mountains.’

  Hugh shuddered. ‘It was no banquet,’ he agreed. ‘Are … are you come to bring me home?’

  ‘I am, lad – and beacons burning on every hilltop from Innishowen to the Erne to welcome you.’

  Hugh closed his eyes and a thousand pictures danced behind them. He felt tears of sheer happiness welling up inside him. Then he remembered. ‘But … the frostbite.’ He twitched up the blanket so Turlough could see for himself. ‘I can’t walk.’

  The young man laughed. ‘Sure and haven’t they horses enough in Glenmalure to do the walking for you, and I with money in my purse to buy the best of them?’

  ‘But I mean literally, Turlough – not a step – I can’t even stand.’

  ‘And why would you be needing to? Haven’t I arms to lift you in and out of the saddle – even carry you and it necessary?’

  He made it sound so easy – a journey from one side of the country to the other, hunted like hares all the way, and he was treating it like a jaunt from Beleek to Ballyshannon. His self-possession and easy confidence inspired trust and Hugh felt a load slip from his shoulders. For four years he had waged a lonely struggle – dependent entirely on his own courage. Now Turlough would weigh the risks, make the decisions, take on the responsibility. The relief was intoxicating.

  Turlough seemed to read his mind. ‘We are proud of you, Hugh Roe,’ he said softly. ‘You are after bearing your troubles like a champion. Now they are over. Trust me – I’ll see you safely home.’

  They started out the next day, accompanied by an escort of Fiach’s best men who would see them as far as the Liffey. The English were reported to be watching all the fords, but Fiach knew of a spot, perilously close to Dublin, where, he said, a crossing might be made by anyone bold or desperate enough to attempt it.

  ‘It will mean going back almost to Dublin though,’ he warned, ‘and passing right under the walls of Dundrum Castle.’

  Turlough frowned. ‘You are sure there is no safer route – through the mountains?’

  ‘Not on horseback.’

  They both looked at Hugh and he, looking down at his feet, cursed himself again for a useless cripple. Turlough laughed. ‘Then through Dundrum it shall be, and, sure, isn’t that the very last place they’ll be looking for us?’

  Hugh could only pray he was right. They passed Dundrum Castle just before sunset. It was an experience he hoped he would never have to repeat. In the shadow of the walls, his stomach knotted and his heart thumped like a drum. Surely anyone looking down from those walls must recognise him. But no one challenged them. It was like a miracle.

  Once clear of the castle they turned north-west and continued on until they reached the Liffey. Hugh stared, dismayed, into the swirling water. Was this the ford? Winter rains had turned it into a raging torrent. They couldn’t possibly cross here. Even Turlough seemed taken aback, but Walter Reagh FitzGerald, Fiach’s son-in-law, led them confidently upstream and at last they came to a bend where silt had formed a little spit on either bank and created a crossing of sorts.

  In summer it would have afforded easy enough passage but now, with the river in full flood, it looked anything but safe. Turlough and Walter Reagh dismounted and walked out onto the sand-spit to survey their options. Hugh watched them talking. After a long discussion they returned to the group.

  ‘We’ll cross four abreast – as tightly bunched as possible,’ Turlough told them. ‘And Hugh Roe will ride in the middle.’

  Hugh didn’t argue. The horses were nervous and took a lot of coaxing, but once in the river they proved sure-footed enough. Wedged in the middle of a solid block of riders, Hugh crossed without mishap. The water was deep though, and bitterly cold. It lapped around the flanks of his horse, soaking him almost to the thighs. He couldn’t help wondering what further damage it was doing to his feet. As he emerged on the far bank, the wind pierced his wet clothes like needles. His teeth began to chatter.

  Turlough, who had crossed at the front of the column, was waiting for him. He lifted the boy from his horse and without ceremony stripped him of his sodden trousers and put him into a dry pair. Then he dried Hugh’s feet, swathed them in fresh bandages and slipped over them the clumsy leather bags Róis had fashioned to serve him as shoes.

  ‘Right,’ he said, as soon as this was finished. ‘Let’s be having you back on your horse now. The sooner we are away the better.’

  He hoisted Hugh into the saddle and they were about to ride off when they heard a commotion on the far bank. Hugh looked back in alarm. Walter Reagh and his men, having bid them farewell, had returned across the river – the last riders were just emerging from the water on the other side. The shouts, however, came, not from them but from another man – a stranger – who was spurring up the path towards the group. The man was hollering in English – demanding to know who they were and where they were bound.

  Walter Reagh waited till all his men were back on dry land, then edged his mount a few paces towards the Englishman. The man reined in and watched him suspiciously. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded again, ‘and what is your business here?’

  ‘We are clansmen of Fiach mac Hugh O’Byrne,’ said Walter Reagh, ‘and our business is no man’s but our own. What do you want with us?’

  ‘I have orders from the Lord Deputy to question all travellers. We are seeking the prisoner, Hugh Roe O’Donnell, lately escaped from Dublin Castle.’

  ‘Prisoner is it?’ Walter Reagh laughed shortly. ‘Well you’ll find no prisoners here.’ And he let fly with a string of obscenities that would have singed the man’s ears had he understood Irish – which Hugh doubted. There could be no mistaking the meaning of the words though. Hugh saw the man’s hand drop to his sword-hilt. Walter Reagh laughed contemptuously. He waved an arm to his followers and the whole troop swept past the Englishman and away into the gathering darkness. As they disappeared into the night, Walter Reagh’s voice floated back across the water. ‘O’Donnell abú!’ he shouted. ‘God’s blessing on your journey. Remember me to Hugh mac Ferdoragh.’

  It was a reckless gesture, for the Saxon, recognising the names and sensing the words were not directed at him, glanced for the first time across the river – straight at Hugh and Turlough. Turlough didn’t wait to see what would happen next. ‘Ride,’ he yelled at Hugh. ‘Ride for your life,’ and Hugh didn’t need telling twice. He dug his knees into his horse’s sides and the grey flew down the narrow track with Turlough’s mount hard on its heels.

  Not till they had put several miles between themselves and the river did Turlough call on him to ease his pace. He slowed to a jog and his guide moved up beside him. ‘Is he following us?’ asked Hugh.

  Turlough Buí shook his head. ‘He’d be the fool. No man in his right mind would cross that river in the dark and he on h
is own. But he’ll be away to Dublin as fast as he can ride with news of what he saw.’ He swore softly. ‘The devil mend Walter Reagh and his big mouth. There’ll be no sleep for us tonight now. I’ll not rest easy till I have you safe across the Boyne.’

  They rode for what seemed hours, pushing their horses as hard as they dared. Hugh had no idea where they were going. It was north, and that was good enough for him. For a while the thought of home and the sheer joy of riding unfettered for the first time in four years was enough to keep him going. But it couldn’t last. He was unused to exercise and still weak from his ordeal in the mountains. Long before morning he was falling asleep in the saddle, riding purely by instinct and relying on Turlough to make sure he didn’t fall off.

  At last Turlough called a halt. Hugh lifted his head and saw water in front of him. A river … but surely they had already crossed the river. Why had they gone back again? He tried to ask Turlough, but he was so tired even his voice wouldn’t work. The words slid out sideways and he sounded like The O’Neill after a drinking binge. Fortunately his guide seemed to understand him.

  ‘It’s all right, lad,’ he chuckled. ‘We’re after reaching the Boyne. Soon you’ll be able to rest.’

  Rest! He swayed in the saddle and dreamed about it. But if this was the Boyne … ‘A town,’ he faltered, ‘should there not be a town here?’ and he tried to dredge the name out of his memory.

  ‘Drogheda,’ agreed Turlough. ‘But we are not going through the town. They may have the bridge watched.’

  Drogheda … through the town … Snatches of memory flickered past him. He giggled light-headedly. ‘Eoghan,’ he mumbled. ‘Eoghan O’Gallagher – like the pox through an English castle.’

  ‘What?’ Turlough rode closer and peered into his exhausted features. ‘God help us, Hugh Roe, you have the face of a man at his own funeral. Here, give me your reins and let you hold on to the saddle. It’s not much farther now.’

  Obediently, Hugh passed them over. It was easier to let Turlough lead him. He closed his eyes and when he next opened them he found they had stopped again. He could see a small dwelling on the bank of the river and a fisherman’s curragh pulled up on a strip of sand at the water’s edge. Beside it stood Turlough, deep in conversation with the man who, presumably, was its owner. As Hugh watched, the two men shook hands. Turlough came back to the horses.

  ‘I’m after striking a bargain,’ he said. ‘Your man there will row us across the river, then bring the horses through the town for us.’

  Hugh looked at the fisherman, who was already dragging his boat into the water. Can we trust him? he wondered. He looked harmless enough – stooped and careworn, with the shuffling gait of the very old – but looks could be deceptive and the heavy cloak that wrapped him from top to toe could have disguised almost anything. Suppose he was not really a fisherman at all? Suppose he was an agent of Fitzwilliam’s sent to trap them?

  But Turlough trusted him. And this man had a boat. It was all too complicated and anyway, Hugh was too tired to argue. He slid from the saddle into Turlough’s arms, and once in the curragh, promptly fell asleep.

  He woke as Turlough was carrying him up the bank on the other side. ‘There now,’ said his guide, settling him beneath the skeleton of a hawthorn tree. ‘Let you rest here a moment. I want a quick word with your man here before he goes back for the horses.’

  Hugh watched him walk down to the water’s edge. He was too far away to hear what passed between the two men, but he saw Turlough put something into the other’s hand and watched the fisherman pull out into the stream and begin to row back across the river. He shivered. Was he imagining it or was there was something sinister about that shrouded figure?

  Turlough came back up the bank. ‘Well, he has one half of what I promised him. Please God, he’ll come back for the other.’

  He smiled, but Hugh was sure he was more anxious than he let on. He wanted to ask him how he had found the man – how he knew they could trust him – but he held his tongue. Turlough had promised to bring him safely home – he had to believe in him.

  It wasn’t easy though. As the hours crept by with no sign of the fisherman, doubts tormented him. What if the man did not return? What if he was stopped and questioned at the bridge? And what if he was in the pay of the English? Hugh was convinced he had seen the old man before – and where could that ever have been but in Dublin Castle? Perhaps, even now, he was leading Fitzwilliam’s soldiers to their hiding place.

  Hugh glanced at his companion. Turlough was pacing up and down the river bank. It is all going wrong, thought Hugh. It is Castlekevin all over again. Fear, colder than the waters of the Liffey, washed over his body. This time they would surely hang him. But before they did, they would want to know who had aided him. They would drag him back to that room beneath the castle and then … Oh Chreesta! He pressed both hands to his mouth to choke back a sob of terror.

  Turlough hurried back to him. ‘Ah, come on, lad. Have faith. Your man won’t let us down.’ He lifted his head to gaze at something behind Hugh’s shoulder and his face creased into a smile. ‘Look,’ he said softly. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’

  Hugh turned. There, coming out of the shadows towards them was the muffled figure – alone – riding one horse and leading the other. Hugh choked back a cry of relief. Turlough ran forward to greet their champion. The old fisherman dismounted. Hugh heard the murmur of voices, saw a purse change hands. He watched Turlough take the reins of the horses and begin to lead them back. The old man hunched his shoulders against the wind and started back the way he had come. How frail he looked, thought Hugh, with a sudden stab of guilt. How long and cold his journey would be on foot, back through the town to that little hut on the other bank. He felt ashamed of his unfounded suspicions and hoped Turlough had been generous. He cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘God keep you safe,’ he called.

  The man stopped. He turned, his back straightened. The years seemed to drop away from him. His whole figure was suddenly imbued with strength and vitality. He lifted his head, still hidden in the hood of his mantle and looked directly at Hugh. ‘A blessing on your journey, son of O’Donnell,’ he said and he raised his hand in benediction.

  Hugh gasped. He knew that voice! And then he noticed something else. The stranger’s cloak, that had seemed grey in the darkness, was grass green in the dawning light, and the raised hand was pale and translucent, with bones that moved in it like fronds of seaweed.

  Fifteen

  TURLOUGH CAME UP with the horses. He was smiling broadly. ‘So, are you fit to ride again? We are no more than a few miles from Mellifont now, and there you will be able to rest.’

  Hugh nodded. Turlough lifted him back into the saddle and, mounting his own horse, gathered both sets of reins into his own hands. Hugh made no protest. His mind was still in a daze. ‘A blessing on your journey,’ the stranger had said. Not ‘God’s blessing,’ but ‘a blessing’ – as though he had some power in himself to bestow it. What manner of man could do that? An angel, maybe – a guardian angel sent from heaven to protect him? Such a miracle was not beyond thinking of, but surely even an angel could only bestow blessings in God’s name?

  And how was it that Turlough had noticed nothing unusual? Hugh shot a sideways glance at his companion – Turlough Buí O’Hagan, so competent, so down-to-earth, so … so unastonishable. Perhaps, he thought with shock, Turlough was not meant to know – just as he himself still did not know the stranger’s name. They had met twice – in his dream on the mountain and now here at the Boyne – he had an odd feeling that they would meet again. One day it would all make sense, but for the moment it was enough that the stranger had given him back his courage.

  He was convinced now that he would not be caught. The stranger had practically guaranteed it. Had he declared in so many words, ‘You are under my protection,’ he could not have made his promise more emphatic. As they continued their journey northward, Hugh’s heart bubbled over with joy. Every step now was bringing him closer
to home, and though the miles sometimes seemed endless, though his feet hurt abominably and his whole body often ached with exhaustion, nothing could destroy his confidence.

  Even two days later when they reached Dundalk, and English patrols on all the lesser roads obliged them to pass right through the town itself, still he did not falter. He held his head high and sat his horse with an assurance that amazed his guide. ‘My soul, Hugh Roe, it’s the impudence of an outlaw you have,’ Turlough chuckled, as they finally left the town behind. ‘And in those English clothes, don’t you look the very picture of some arrogant Saxon lordling.’

  Hugh laughed and looked down at the outlandish garments given him by Sir Garrett Moore, in whose home – Mellifont Abbey – they had rested the previous night. Mellifont had been an astonishing experience. The young Englishman had treated them royally – and he with a father on the Privy Council. Hugh mac Ferdoragh’s influence, it seemed, reached even into the heart of the English administration. Hugh had come away utterly confused. Perhaps all Englishmen were not irrevocably damned after all. Maybe, here and there, one or two of them had managed to escape the misfortune of their birth.

  He turned and glanced back at the town. Once, long ago, Dundalk had been Cuchulainn’s stronghold. Now it marked the boundary of the English Pale. They had passed through it into Hugh mac Ferdoragh’s country and every mile from now on would bring them deeper under his protection. Defiantly, Hugh snatched off his hat, and shook free his hair to stream like a bright red banner in the wind. ‘Lámh Dearg abú!’ he yelled: Cheers for the Red Hand – the war cry of the O’Neills.

  Turlough grinned at him. They both knew it was not for Turlough Luineach that he cheered.

  Hugh had looked forward to a hero’s welcome from Hugh mac Ferdoragh. It was a great disappointment when Turlough led him cautiously through the gates of Dungannon Castle and whisked him off to a secluded apartment well away from the main hall. He was tired of skulking and hiding – he had escaped and he wanted to celebrate his triumph. Turlough only smiled at his complaints. ‘Sure, it’s not by taking foolish risks your man here is after living so long with one foot in each camp,’ he said. ‘Didn’t Fitzwilliam write to him – and you not two days out of prison – demanding his help to recapture you. Is he the fool to be flaunting your presence under his very roof?’