Hugh sighed and didn’t answer. He could appreciate Hugh mac Ferdoragh’s caution, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
He didn’t have to wait long, though, before receiving a visit from his champion. Hardly had Turlough settled him in his new quarters, when the door opened and the man himself stood in the doorway. Hugh looked at him, suddenly shy and tongue-tied. He owed everything to this man – his freedom, possibly even his life. How could he begin to thank him.
His host grinned at him. ‘Well, Hugh Roe, am I after keeping my word?’
‘You are. My soul, but you are.’
‘And Turlough is after taking good care of you?’
Hugh turned to look at the man who had smuggled him halfway across Ireland, under the very noses of his jailers. For the first time he noticed how tired Turlough looked, and realised with a twinge of guilt that his guide had probably barely slept in the last few days. Turlough had been like a rock. He had never chided, never complained, never once shown the least sign of anxiety, yet there must have been times when he had feared for both their lives. Hugh reached out to grasp his friend’s hand. ‘Turlough Buí O’Hagan,’ he said, ‘is a man to make Finn mac Cumhaill look small. There is nothing I could ever give him that would be payment enough for what he is after doing for me.’
Hugh mac Ferdoragh nodded. The gleam in his eye told what value he put on those words – and on the man who had earned them. ‘And a champion needs his food,’ he declared. ‘Away to your supper, Turlough, and a good night’s rest. Tomorrow I will thank you properly.’
Soon after Turlough had left, two servants came in bringing food for Hugh. If the Lord of Dungannon was obliged to keep his guest hidden, he clearly had no intention of keeping him unfeasted. There were lashings and leavings and Hugh did justice to everything. His host did not eat, but shared a flask of wine before departing to his own supper. ‘They’ll miss me in the hall and I not there to eat with them,’ he explained. ‘Have you everything you need?’
‘I have,’ said Hugh.
His host smiled. ‘Then let you rest now. We’ll talk further in the morning. In the meantime, I’ll have someone come to bathe your feet, and change those bandages. And later I’ll send a man to pass the night here. You can call on him and you needing anything.’
Hugh lay back on his pillows, soaking up the sheer luxury of rest. No more disguises and secret journeys; no more cold, silent rides through night-time forests. When he left here, it would be under the protection of Hugh mac Ferdoragh, and with a company of his host’s own bodyguard for an escort.
He looked around the room. It brought back memories of another night in an Irish castle. Rathmullen – was it still as he remembered it? Were the little waves still restless on Lough Swilly, did the eagle hunt above the peninsula? Soon he would see for himself. Soon he would sit again in the banqueting hall with Donal Gorm MacSweeney and listen to the songs of the MacSweeney bards. He would watch snow fall over Bearnas Mór, return to his foster home at Castle Doe and hear mass again in the friary on Sheephaven Bay – Sweet Jesu, to smell incense again and hear the sound of plainchant! He closed his eyes and let the music follow him into his dreams.
The clunk of a door opening and closing brought him out of a deep sleep. He opened his eyes. A girl was standing by the bed looking down at him. She held a bowl and a jug of steaming water and at first he thought she must be a servant – but her clothes were not those of a kitchen maid and there was an air about her that said she was more used to giving orders than obeying them.
She set the jug and bowl down on the bedside table and smiled at him. He smiled back, foolishly. Her gaze embarrassed him – almost as though she were seeing him naked.
‘So’, she said, and her voice had a gently mocking ring. ‘The great Hugh Roe O’Donnell honours us with his company. My father tells me your feet are in need of bathing.’
‘Your father?’ Hugh gaped. He felt the blood rush to his cheeks. ‘Your father! Then you … I mean … You must be …?’
‘I am Róis O’Neill.’
Holy Columcille! The girl he was supposed to be married to! He tried to think of something intelligent to say, but his mind seemed to have shrivelled like a dried-up cowpat. ‘I … ah …’ he stumbled, ‘I … um … that is … we’re not after meeting, I’m thinking. Your father never brought you to Tír Chonaill.’
Her smile gave nothing away. ‘My father has many daughters. It is not his way to be taking them on idle journeys.’
Why was she teasing him! Couldn’t she see how awkward he felt? God alone knew, four years in an English prison was no way to acquire social graces. Was she angry with him? Did she think the so-called marriage had been his idea? He wanted to defend himself, but the words just would not come. He could only stare at her, knowing full well how ridiculous he must look.
‘Are your feet bad?’ she asked, still with that enigmatic smile on her face. ‘Will I bathe them for you?’
‘I … I’d like that. Thank you.’
She moved to the foot of the bed and began to unwrap his bandages. Suddenly, her expression changed. ‘Holy Mother of God! What in the world are they after doing to you?’
‘It’s frostbite,’ he explained. ‘They look worse than they are.’
‘Even so … Will I have our physician see to them?’
He shook his head. ‘There’s no need. They’ll keep till I get home. MacDunleavy will know what to do for them.’
She made no reply to that, and he wondered if he had offended her; but he could not tell her his real reason for declining her offer – that he was simply too afraid of what her physician might tell him.
Róis worked deftly and unhurriedly, sponging his swollen feet, drying them and re-bandaging them with clean linen. ‘There, now,’ she said at last, securing the last strip. ‘Does that feel better?’
It did. ‘Thank you,’ he mumbled, wishing desperately he did not feel so clumsy.
She began to gather up the soiled linen and drop it into the bowl. Say something, urged his mind. For the love of God, speak to her now, before she goes. You may not get another chance. ‘Róis,’ he stammered. ‘Róis, I … I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ She straightened and regarded him with amused eyes. ‘And what in the world have you to be sorry for, Hugh Roe O’Donnell?’
‘For … ah, you know. Your father … and what he wrote to Walsingham … and …’
She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, and then she laughed – a warm, merry sound. ‘Let you not fear, Hugh Roe. I am my father’s daughter, and no more to be commanded than he is. When I marry, I will choose my own time and my own partner.’
And with those words she picked up her bowl and jug and departed. Hugh lay on the bed and gazed at the door she had closed behind her. He felt more confused than ever. Had that been a reassurance or a rejection?
He stayed at Dungannon for four days and each morning Hugh mac Ferdoragh came to talk with him. The picture he drew of the state of affairs in Tír Chonaill was not comforting. ‘The sad truth is,’ he told Hugh, ‘your father is no longer fit to hold the reins. He is senile. The Cenél Chonaill must have a new chieftain and every man within bowshot of the title is trying his strength to see will it be him.’
‘But Hugh mac Hugh Dubh is the elected tánaiste. Why do they not choose him?’
His host looked at him sharply. ‘Why do you think?’
He hesitated. ‘My mother?’
‘You have the truth of it. What power still remains with The O’Donnell, she exercises, and she will have no one but you. Two men she is after sending to their graves already, let you remember. But now your uncle, Hugh mac Hugh Dubh and your cousin, Niall Garbh, are both pressing their claims and the clans are split in their support.’
This was not the homecoming Hugh had dreamed about. He looked helplessly at his host. ‘I never wanted this. I never asked to be chieftain. I would serve happily as tánaiste to Hugh mac Hugh Dubh.’
‘I believe you. But neithe
r he nor Niall Garbh is strong enough to unite Tír Chonaill now. The clans are tearing themselves apart and, in the meantime, the Englishman, Willis – and his men, holed up in Donegal Friary – rampage through the country from Lough Erne to Glen Columcille, and no one is able – or willing – to prevent them.’
The words turned in Hugh’s heart like a knife. He thought again of the desecrated friary – of its guardian, gentle Tadhg O’Boyle, murdered in his own cloister. ‘I’ll have them out,’ he vowed. ‘I’ll raise an army and drive them back to where they came from.’
‘You will not,’ said his host sternly. ‘Not until you are fully well again. Tomorrow I am sending you to the Maguire at Enniskillen. He will see you safely to Ballyshannon and there you will rest until your physician says you are fit for action. You’ll be no use to anyone and you unable to walk.’
Hugh shut his mouth mutinously. Nothing is changed, he thought. Here I am, not two weeks out of prison and everyone giving me orders again. He was happy though, to be going to Enniskillen. Hugh Maguire was his cousin and a man he had idolised since childhood – a bold, laughing giant of a man, who lived life with an enthusiasm that bordered on recklessness. Great tales had filtered back to Dublin of the doings of Hugh Maguire. When the Lord Deputy had threatened to put a sheriff into Fermanagh, wasn’t Maguire reputed to have told him: ‘Send one, by all means, but be sure to let me know his blood price first, and I to levy it on the clans when they kill him.’ Yes, it would be a joy to renew his friendship with Hugh Maguire.
Eager though he was to move on, he still found himself a little nervous when the day came for his departure. Mounted in the midst of his escort, he cast a long, final glance round the courtyard of Dungannon Castle. He had felt safe here, but the future to which he was riding seemed suddenly very uncertain. He hoped his apprehension didn’t show in his face.
Hugh mac Ferdoragh had come to see him off, so had Turlough – and so, somewhat to his embarrassment, had Róis. Turlough had once more been obliged to lift him into his saddle and it embarrassed him that Róis should have to see him so. She had not been back to his room since that first evening, and he still did not know how she felt about him.
He felt his face redden as she stepped forward to say goodbye.
‘God speed the journey Hugh Roe,’ she said solemnly, and then she smiled. ‘They tell me you are to be the new O’Donnell.’
‘It … it seems likely.’
‘Well now,’ she put her head on one side and looked at him. ‘The Lady O’Donnell – sure and wouldn’t that be a grand title.’ Then, before he could answer, she laughed and added. ‘But wouldn’t your mother be having to surrender it first, I’m thinking.’
He could only gape at her, amazed at both her boldness and perception. She held out her hand and he took it and raised it to his lips. Then she turned and went back to her father. Hugh mac Ferdoragh raised his own hand. ‘God’s blessing on you, Hugh Roe. Remember me to the Maguire – and mind what I said now about resting.’
Hugh smiled and mumbled a pretended promise.
His host signalled to the leader of the escort and the company moved off through the gates. Hugh turned once to look back at the castle, but Róis had already gone inside.
If Hugh mac Ferdoragh had found it necessary to entertain his guest in secret, the Maguire felt no such constraint. Enniskillen Castle threw open its doors to the escapee. Every man, woman and child of Maguire’s household came down to the gates to welcome him. A skirl of pipes greeted him as he was borne in triumph to the banqueting hall, and if trumpeters could have been found to proclaim his coming from the battlements, then doubtless, thought Hugh with amusement, Maguire would have had them, too.
The hall was a blaze of light and colour. Torches flared, firelight glinted off the shields and weapons displayed around the walls, banners hung from every beam, and the air was pungent with the aroma of cooked meat and new-baked bread. Servants ran to and fro with jugs and platters and every table was piled high with food. Hugh felt light-headed. His mind reeled with the sheer extravagance of it all. His cousin plied him with food and drink. Hugh tried to answer all his questions, but the Maguire talked so fast and leapt so bewilderingly from one topic to another, it was difficult to keep up with him. His exuberance reminded Hugh of Eoghan O’Gallagher, who would be waiting to greet him tomorrow in Ballyshannon.
One more day and he would finally be home again – his heart quickened at the thought.
Around him, the chatter in the hall died to an ambient hum as everyone applied themselves to the serious business of eating. At last even the most prodigious appetites were sated. Noise levels rose again and eyes turned towards the high table. It was time for the entertainment. Hugh Maguire jumped to his feet. ‘A health!’ he shouted. ‘A health to Hugh Roe O’Donnell, and he after laughing in the face of danger and coming safe to Enniskillen, despite every English soldier between here and Glenmalure.’
‘Hugh Roe O’Donnell,’ echoed the company.
Hugh felt a bit of an imposter. He wanted to protest that all he had done was follow orders: others had done the planning and taken most of the risks. But he needn’t have worried, the Maguire was only warming to his theme. Over the next half-hour they drank to Hugh mac Ferdoragh and Turlough Buí, to Fiach mac Hugh, to Róis O’Toole, to Walter Reagh, to Garrett Moore; to everyone who had aided Hugh’s flight in any way. They even drank to poor, dead Art mac Shane.
Finally, when everyone had run out of inspiration, the tables were cleared and the dancing started. Hugh shivered as two harps struck up the first air and the hall dissolved into a swirling mass of dancers. The music ran through his veins like blood. This was his heritage – his birthright – the life he had hungered for over four bitter years. This was what it meant to be Irish.
The musicians started with a gentle measure but gradually the tempo increased. Harps sang, pipes wailed, bodhráns thundered a compulsive beat. And dozens of feet stamped patterns on the floor. Faster and faster they trod and faster and faster played the musicians.
Hugh glanced at his cousin, sitting beside him. Hugh Maguire’s eyes were shining, his fingers drummed a tattoo against his thigh. Suddenly, as if he could contain himself no longer, the Maguire sprang to his feet with a triumphant yell and leapt into the midst of the dancers.
The music quickened. The men circled their chieftain. Dance had become ritual, the display a contest. For a big man, Maguire was incredibly agile. He leapt, he turned, his feet drummed fiercely on the floor. It was as though the music had possessed him. One by one the other contestants dropped out, but still Maguire danced. His face shone, his brown curls flew wildly round his head, beads of sweat glistened on his forehead and spread in damp patches across the back of his shirt. Finally he had the floor to himself. The music rose in one burst of demonic fury – and collapsed in on itself with a mighty wail. Bereft of its support, Hugh Maguire collapsed also, laughing.
He sprawled on the floor, flat on his back with arms outspread, still laughing and gasping and shouting for a jar of ale to revive him, and the audience rose with a spontaneous roar.
Hugh Roe too leapt cheering to his feet. But pain knifed through them, dropping him back into his chair. He looked down at his feet. Soft and useless as a couple of sea-sponges – would he ever again leap into a ring of dancers and stamp his feet to the rhythm of a goatskin drum? Would he even walk again? He remembered something Hugh mac Ferdoragh had said: ‘You’ll be no use to anyone and you unable to walk.’ It was brutally true. The law was absolute. If he could not walk he could not be The O’Donnell. No clan would elect a chieftain and he maimed.
Sixteen
SMALL FISH SCALES of light danced across the surface of Lough Erne and the air was so clean it almost hurt Hugh’s lungs. He sucked in a great breath and, from his seat in the prow of the boat, stared about him in amazement. How could he have lived so long in the midst of all this beauty and never noticed it? Did you have to be deprived of something before you could appreciate it?<
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The rowers dipped their oars and the boat sliced silently through the water. They were making for the mouth of the lough – the narrow neck where it became a river. He was almost home now – on the further shore an escort would be waiting to fetch him to Ballyshannon. He stared across the water with narrowed eyes and imagined he could see figures on the bank.
Another few moments and wishful thinking became reality. A large company of horsemen had come out of the trees and was drawn up along the shoreline. With each stroke of the oars, Hugh could make them out more clearly – their banners, their horses, the colour of their clothes. The man leading them wore a sky-blue mantle. He was tall and broad shouldered and his long, fair hair streamed in the wind each time he moved his head. Hugh recognised him immediately. His heart began to thump. He cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘Eoghan!’ he yelled. ‘Eoghan O’Gallagher!’
Eoghan raised clasped hands above his head and shook them triumphantly. His voice drifted back across the water. ‘O’Donnell abú! A hundred thousand welcomes!’
The entire company took up the cry and Maguire’s oarsmen began to cheer as well. They quickened their stroke and the boat shot forward like a hunting otter. As they neared the shore, Eoghan leapt from his horse and waded out knee-deep into the freezing water to meet them. ‘God bless the day,’ he exclaimed, ‘and I afraid I’d never see it. Is it really yourself, Hugh Roe?’
‘It is,’ laughed Hugh, ‘unless they’re after swapping me for some other man along the way, and forgetting to tell me about it.’ He reached out a hand to his friend. ‘Ah, Chreesta, it’s good to see your ugly mug again, Eoghan.’
Red Hugh Page 14
