They had marched south to find Don Juan de Aguila and the Spanish troops imprisoned behind the walls of Kinsale. Mountjoy’s army, camped outside the walls, had ravaged the countryside to prevent provisions from being smuggled in to the starving Spanish. Without the Spanish troops the Irish were outnumbered, forcing the O’Neill to return to his old tactics of surrounding the enemy and starving them until they surrendered.
It was very nearly successful. Reports told of horrendous losses, of wasted men and lingering illness. But on Christmas Eve, pleas from the Spanish imprisoned in Kinsale could no longer be ignored.
The night was violently stormy. Lightning flashed from Irish spearheads, and in the darkness the English saw the lighting of their fires. Mountjoy was ready. He launched a furious cavalry attack on the Irish infantry, knocking the men off balance and scattering them to the four winds.
From Rory’s position at the head of his mounted troops, he could hear the cries of battle. Leading the charge, he followed the sounds of shouting men and clashing blades. His sword slew many that day, but in the end it was all for naught. The Irish could not regroup quickly enough and for the first time my father, the great battle tactician, exposed his troops in the open with fatal consequences.
His men were not suited to fighting in the snow-covered fields. They had camped at Coolcarron on the low ground while Mountjoy’s troops had the advantage of a camp at Ardmartin. The Irish had to cross the low ridge and break through the English lines at Camphill or Ardmartin to reach the Spaniards. Our men had been trained to ambush and retreat, melting into the forests like the shadowy ghosts of our legends. The English mowed them down like cattle.
Rory’s command became separated from the rest, and by the time they came around, Irish bodies littered the snow and the Bandon River ran red with the blood of Ireland’s best. He tried to rally as many men as possible to continue the fight, but there were few left to obey. Many a family name disappeared that day, never to recover. The magnitude of such a loss had never before been experienced in Irish history.
In less than three hours the battle was over. The Spanish surrendered and the Irish retreated north with those who had survived.
It was the passing of an era, the end of Irish Catholic supremacy in Ireland, and it was to have consequences more far-reaching than any other event in our history. The Franciscans recorded it in The Annals of the Four Masters far more poignantly than I ever could:
Manifest was the displeasure of God… Immense and countless was the loss in that place; for the prowess and valour, prosperity and affluence, nobleness and chivalry, dignity and renown, bravery and protection, devotion and pure religion, of the Island, were lost in this engagement.
The battle was an even greater disaster for Spain than the loss of her Armada in 1588. With France paralyzed by a religious civil war, Kinsale turned the tide in favor of England. Philip was forced to make his peace with his archenemy. But first the subjugation of Ulster was executed.
For nearly a year after Kinsale, Rory and my father, with a few loyal men, held out in Glenconkeyne and then in the woodlands of Fermanagh. Meanwhile, Mountjoy destroyed our castle at Dungannon and the ancient coronation sight of the O’Neills at Tullahogue.
I cannot speak of that time without a coldness surrounding my heart. The ancient circle of stones where the High Kings of Ulster took up the scepter, walked three times around the stone and placed a gold-cased slipper into the footprint of every O’Neill king who had ever been crowned, came to us a thousand years before Saint Patrick set foot upon our shores. The coronation stone was said to be a living thing. Only when it cried out in the voice of Macha, goddess of Ulster, would a man be recognized as the O’Neill. It had happened so with my father and with his before him and so on in an unbroken line of succession so far back into the mists of time that only Cia’ran, the oldest of our bards, could recite the entirety of our lineage without reading the scrolls.
After Kinsale it was over, the stones scattered, the posts burned, the legacy of our people destroyed. I came to believe during those trying years when my husband was on the run, before my father surrendered to Mountjoy at Mellifont Abbey in Drogheda, that life is more a question of character than a series of incidents and there is little we can do but learn to bear what we must. And so I did.
My burdens were light compared to the peasants of Ulster. Mountjoy concentrated on burning fields and seizing cattle until the famine was so widespread there was no relief in sight. I did what I could for our own tenants until there was nothing left in the larder of Dun Na Ghal. It was then that I saw a spectacle so horrible that to this very day I can see the details vividly in my nightmares.
While returning from Newry on a futile quest to learn of my husband’s whereabouts, we came upon a village of women and children so thin they resembled living skeletons. They looked upon us strangely, and I was relieved when they were behind us. We made our way down an embankment and were ready to camp when I noticed a multitude of decaying bodies with mouths stained green. Before I could question my guard, he had reined in his mount to block my path. His breathing was labored and his face deathly pale.
“Please, my lady. Do not pass this way. ’Tis a sight unfit for human eyes.”
“You’ve seen it.”
“Aye, and I wish to God I hadn’t.”
“Move aside, knave,” I commanded him. “We are on O’Neill land. Who better to see what takes place here.”
Reluctantly he pulled back his horse and I looked upon a travesty that surely transgressed every law of God or man be he Protestant or Catholic. Three small children, the oldest no more than six or seven years, sat beside a dying ash-white fire. Before the fire were the remains of half a woman. Her head, torso and arms were whole, although black with death, but her legs were missing and below her waist, her belly and hips looked as if they had been torn apart. In the midst of the fire lay the charred remains of her entrails.
At first I did not understand and then when I did, I would have given much of my share of heaven that I did not. The children, desperate in their starvation, were eating their dead mother’s body. Holy Mother of Jesus. I should have prayed. I should have fallen to my knees for the children, for myself, for Ireland, that her people should be reduced to such atrocity. But I could do no more than slide from my mount, lift my skirts and run behind a thick oak, where my stomach revolted and I heaved up every bit of food I’d taken in since morning.
My escorts indulged in no such weakness, but they were kind enough to ignore mine. I, who had cleaned out maggot-infested wounds, seared flesh, and ordered plague-ridden bodies burned, could not touch these hell-damned children. I ordered that they be fed and put up behind three of the men but Siobhan, my maid, advised against it.
“There are a thousand more just like these, my lady. ’Tis no service that you do them. The men will talk and no woman will take them. Leave them food. We will find a priest in the next village. He will know what to do.”
To my shame, her words brought me great relief. I did not want these children behind the walls of Dun Na Ghal. I did not want these children nor any like them in all of Tirconnaill. “Have you ever seen the like, Siobhan?” I asked, watching her rub the gray from her lips.
“Nay, my lady. But the travelers brought word of women who lured the cowherds from the pastures.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “They killed them, cut them up and cooked them in their soup kettles.”
Once again the gagging feeling clutched at my throat and I turned away. What had our grasping power wars done to our people? Did Elizabeth in the opulent comfort of her palace think of the motherless bairns of Ireland? Did Mountjoy or my father or Rory? Did I? Holy God, perhaps we were past prayer.
Perhaps we were all damned.
*
Tirconnaill, 1605
“Connor Maguire, you are a fool.” Rory’s words, as always, were inflammatory. He would have said more, but the slight pursing of my lips warned him to keep silent.
“Mountj
oy’s treaty with the O’Neill is still good despite Elizabeth’s death,” I said. “Surely, there is no need for flight.”
Maguire slammed his fist down on the table. “Those who fought against us are uneasy, Nuala. They feel slighted and stir King James against us. Your father keeps his lands and strengthens his control over his tenants and subchieftains. But his good fortune cannot last. Fermanagh has been portioned among two hundred freeholders, leaving me with half the land that was mine. Niall Garv holds the lands above Lifford, the jewel of Tirconnaill. Even now there is talk of granting Inishowen to Sir Cahil O’Doherty. Will you watch while Protestants encroach upon us until there is nothing left?”
Again I answered his impassioned speech with a single reasonable question. “Have you proof of this, Connor?”
“My lands are gone. Is that not proof enough?”
“Perhaps.” I spoke gently. Connor Maguire was not a man to offend. “There is also the possibility that it is our company you wish for on your journey to Spain. I am not certain that a military career in the service of Philip of Spain is in Rory’s best interests.” I smiled at him. “’Tis nothing which must be solved tonight. Come, Connor. Sup with us. At last there is enough for everyone.”
Rory was not deceived by my diversionary tactics. We would speak of Connor’s visit later. He had given me food for thought.
I came to him later that evening, wrapped in wool against the chill of an early autumn. “What would you have us do, Rory?”
He grinned and shook his head. “In many ways you are predictable, my love. You decide what we shall do and pretend that the idea came from me.”
“That isn’t true,” I protested.
He sighed. “What are your thoughts on the matter, Nuala?”
“We are greatly beholden to Spain, and I cannot believe that Philip will reign for long.” I twisted the fringe of my shawl. “We have gold in Rome and we owe no one there. Rome would be a better home for us.”
Dismay showed on his face. I hurried on, not allowing him to speak until I finished. “I know the pain it must bring you to leave Ireland, Rory. But since we were born we have known how it would be. Three hundred years ago, when the first Red Hugh O’Donnell acknowledged Henry of England to be his overlord, the Irish chieftains were doomed. You have done more than any man in Catholic Europe to hold this land. But you are not God. ’Tis time to give up the fight and live a life that does not include bloodshed.” I fixed my eyes on his face, forcing him to meet my gaze. “Do you ever sleep without a sword by your bed or a dirk beneath your pillow? When have you closed your eyes for an entire night? ’Tis time, Rory. I fear that if we do not go now there will be no life for us at all.”
He knew that everything I said was true, but he did not answer immediately. It seemed a long time before he stood and rested his hands upon my shoulders, testing the small bones beneath his large hands. “What of you, Nuala? It has been many years since we have lived together as man and wife. Will you come with me to Rome or will you stay in Ireland?”
The golden light of the candle danced in the blue of his eyes. “Have you been faithful to me, Rory?”
“I have loved only one woman, Nuala, and she stands before me now.”
I sighed. “’Tis not precisely what I asked you.”
“It is to me.”
“Then why—” my voice broke.
He folded me into his arms. “Don’t cry, beloved,” he whispered into my hair. “When you told me of Niall I felt as if my heart had been torn from my body. But I never stopped loving you.”
My voice was muffled against his shirt. “I am no longer your wife.”
His arms tightened around me. “You will always be my wife. Having you beside me, even when you are angry and willful, is better than not having you at all. You are everything to me, Nuala.”
I lifted my head, my eyes burning from the tears I would not release. “I will not go to Rome with you, Rory, unless we go as man and wife in every sense of the word. It is more my choice than it is yours.”
“Aye, love.” Gently he put me from him. “You are still very beautiful, Nuala. I understand your reasoning, and you must understand mine. Without you I will never leave Ireland.”
“Then we will stay.”
“So be it,” he said. “There is nothing I would not give you, Nuala, nothing except this.”
I did not weep. I never wept. Instead, my lip curled contemptuously and I pulled the wool shawl close around my shoulders. “You are a fool, Rory. No woman on earth would choose the life of a clam over the dance of the firefly.”
The night we left for Rome, Rory burned Dun Na Ghal Castle to the ground. I watched the rashes catch fire, sending the shooting flames across the wooden floors to the tapestry-lined walls. I had set great store by my Flemish tapestries. Greedy flames licked at the costly thread before gobbling them completely. The fire leaped to the roof. Walls, weak from fire, collapsed, while chairs, tables, footstools, bedstands, mattresses, portraits, everything that was mine, fell down around me.
It seemed that not even the loss of his children caused Rory more pain than losing this place where centuries of O’Donnells had walked, slept, mated, and given birth. To be forever known as the last O’Donnell chief, the one who had lost Dun Na Ghal, shamed him sorely. Only the Norman tower remained standing when he rowed the boat across the Eske to where the vessel that was to carry us to Rome waited. We had lost it all. Never had we needed each other more.
Years ago when I left Tyrone for the wind-hammered beaches of Dun Na Ghal, I left behind the trappings of childhood. The earl of Tirconnaill wanted a woman of courage, a woman of O’Neill blood descended from the High Kings of Tara, a woman who would instill honor and wisdom in the warrior sons she would bear him.
From that first moment when he lifted his head, I stared in wonder at the sun-dark skin and flashing smile, at the strong neck rising from his saffron shirt, the blue flame vivid in his eyes, the shoulder-length fall of moon-bleached hair, and my mouth went dry. I vowed to have him, no matter the price. And the price had been more than dear.
Rarely, during those sorrow-filled years, had I succumbed to tears. Not on all the dreadful nights when Rory left to fight with my father or when Niall Garv O’Donnell captured Dun Na Ghal Castle, not on Midsummer’s Eve when the priest prayed over the last two of the nine wee bairns I had borne to Rory and buried them beneath the salt-laced soil of the tower cemetery, nor when my lord and love, fearing for my life, said there must be no more children.
I was Nuala O’Donnell, countess of Tirconnaill, daughter and granddaughter of chiefs, descended from Brian Boru, Lion of Ireland, greatest of Tara’s High Kings. If I no longer served my husband in all things, I knew he needed me still, and I had prepared well. There was gold waiting in Rome, O’Donnell gold, and land as well. The O’Donnells would live on, but not here, not in this faerie land where every stone, every plot of soil, every silver lough carried its tale of Irish blood.
It was over, eight hundred years of O’Donnell history, eight centuries of Catholic dominion, lost to the bold sweep of a woman’s quill, a woman who had never borne a child or taken a man inside her body, a bastard queen, spawn of a lecherous Tudor king and a greedy woman who rotted in the fields behind the Tower of London.
I stared straight ahead, seeing much more of the kingdom of Tirconnaill than the mists allowed. Fog hung thick as smoke, shrouding trees, stables, thatched roofs, and castle turrets in a suffocating blanket of dreary gray. The only sound breaking the hushed stillness was the steady slap of ship’s oars parting the waters of the River Eske in uniform precision, irrefutable evidence that with every groan of the mast all that was familiar and beloved slipped farther and farther away.
I narrowed my eyes, straining to catch a final glimpse of Mainistir Dhun na nGall, the monastery below the castle on the left bank of the Eske where a century ago another O’Donnell chieftain had conceived the idea of The Annals of the Four Masters. Unable to contain his excitement, this warri
or king, known for his wisdom, his generosity, and his tolerance for spirits, commissioned Michael O’Leary, a Franciscan friar, to write the story of Eire. After nearly five years, forty centuries of Irish history, documented in painstaking detail, was scripted for all to see. Rory’s story was there, and mine too.
Behind the monastery, flames licked at the mist, burning through the gray, leaving a sickening bile-colored glow. A desperate guttural sound escaped my throat. How could I leave it, my home, my children’s’ graves, the glorious memories of sun-steeped afternoons and those early years when Rory and I had loved with one mind and body? A strange burning rose beneath my eyelids. I fought against it. My vision blurred, and tears, harsh and long overdue, welled up in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks.
Without warning, strong arms pinned my cloak to my sides. Instinctively, I rested my head against my husband’s shoulder, waiting for the feel of his lips against my throat. I shivered, allowing the familiar heat to claim me. If only I could have this for a while longer, until I was old and the fire within me had ebbed. I leaned into him, fitting my body to his.
He cursed and pulled away, breathing harshly. “By God, Nuala. Why do you torment me this way?”
I smiled bitterly. He wanted me still. At least there was that. Drawing a deep breath I faced him. He was thin, his skin dark and tight across the high bones of his cheeks. The hollows beneath were deeply shadowed, and the lines around his startling blue eyes spoke of worry and sleepless nights.
I lifted my chin. His suffering was no greater than mine. Five and thirty years was not old enough for a woman’s life to be torn from her. I nodded in the direction of the castle from which we had come. “Why did you burn it?”
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