by Mary Shelley
The morrow brought no diminution to the zeal of his partizans. The first measure of the day was his attending high mass, surrounded by the mayor and citizens: when the holy ceremony was finished, he took oath on the Gospels, that he was the man he had declared himself. The eager people clamoured for him to assume the name of King; but that he said he would win with his good sword, nor, till he possessed its appanage, assume a barren title: he was the Duke of York, until at Westminster he received his paternal crown.
From the church the mayor and citizens attended his council at the Castle, and here Richard more fully explained to them the projects of Lord Barry, his hopes from the Earl of Desmond, and his wish to attach to his cause the Earl of Kildare, Lord Deputy of Ireland. He learned the changes that had taken place but a month or two ago before: some suspicion having entered Henry’s mind, the Earl of Kildare had been dismissed from his high office, and Walter, Archbishop of Dublin, substituted in his room. The Baron of Portlester, who had been treasurer for forty years, was obliged to resign in favour of a Butler, hereditary and bitter enemies of the Geraldines, while the exaltation of Plunket, from the office of Chief Justice to that of Chancellor, only proved that he was entirely gained over to the Lancastrians. The acts of this new government tended to mortify the late deputy, who bore ill his own degradation and the triumph of his enemies. On various occasions brawls had ensued; and when Sir James of Ormond, wished to place a creature of his own in a castle over which Kildare claimed seignory, the latter defended it by arms. This turbulent state of things promised fair for the adventurer; and his first deed was to dispatch letters to the Earls of Kildare and Desmond, soliciting their assistance, setting forth the ready zeal of the city of Cork, and the promises and attachment of Lord Barry, whom he daily expected to see arrive.
In all that the English Prince did, nothing spoke louder for him to his Irish friends, than his fearless confidence, and artless, yet not undignified reliance on their counsels. He had gained a warm friend in the former Mayor, O’Water, a man reverenced throughout Munster. In his youth he had served in the army, and his spirit was hardly yet tamed to the pacific habits of a burgher. He was sixty years of age; but he bore his years lightly, and remembered, but as the occurrence of yesterday, the time when the Duke of York, grandfather of young Richard, was Lord of Ireland. He had attached himself particularly to his person, and followed him to England, returning to his own country after his patron’s death. He saw in the descendant of his chief, his rightful lord, to refuse obedience to whom was a sin against the laws of God and man. He fervently swore never to desert him, and dispatched emissaries on all sides to spread the tidings of his arrival, and excite the partizans of the White Rose to his active assistance.
When the letters were written, council held, and a course of conduct determined on, still the caravel of de Faro did not appear, and Richard grew weary of his state of indolence. A week passed; and during the second, at the conclusion of which, the answers from the noble chieftains were expected, the Duke of York announced to O’Water his intention of visiting Buttevant, the seat of Lord Barry, where, in the Abbey of Ballybeg, he hoped to find the Abbot of Kilmainham; a man, who in exile and poverty, exercised great influence over the Irish Yorkists. He had been insolent and cruel towards his enemies when in power, but he was endowed with popular qualities for his followers; while among his friends, he was valued for his boldness, sagacity, and undaunted courage. His career had been turbulent: he had supported himself against his sovereign by acts of lawless violence, till, obliged at last to yield, he found himself, in his old age, a poor brother in a distant monastery, obliged, for safety’s sake, to veil his lofty pretensions in the obscurest guise. Lord Barry had offered him an asylum in the Abbey of Ballybeg; venerating, with the blind admiration of a soldier, the learning and craft of the priest, conjoined, as it here was, to dauntless courage. O’Water, on the contrary, disliked the subtle prior, and endeavoured to dissuade the Prince from the journey; but he spurned the city laziness, and in spite of his friends’ entreaties, and their fears for his safety among the followers of Desmond, Barry, and Macarthy, departed on his intended visit, attended only by Hubert Burgh, the foster-brother of Lord Barry.
The way from Cork to Buttevant was not far, but more desolate than Granada during the Moorish war. Summer and the sun adorned that smiling land, casting a verdurous mantle over her deep wounds, painting the rude visage of war with brilliant hues. The forests, dark hills, and uncultivated wilds of Munster, showed nakedly the deep traces of the sovereign ill. But lately this neighbourhood had been the seat of war between the Earl of Desmond and the Chief of the Macarthys; the latter had fallen in battle, but his brother and Tanist had succeeded to him, and was already gathering together his sept for a more desperate struggle. Never in Spain had Richard seen such wild strange figures, as crossed his path during this short journey: whether it were the native kern, wrapt in his mantle, disguised by his glibb, or long shaggy hair, or the adherents of Desmond, who affected the state of an Irish chieftain, whose leather-quilted jackets, long saffron-coloured shirts, cloaks and shaggy mustachios, riding without stirrups, bearing spears, formed objects not less uncouth and savage: the very women bore a similar appearance of incivilization. And as a comment on such text, Burgh told, as they rode, the history of the late wars of Desmond with O’Carrol, Prince of Ely, and with Macarthy; and, a still more dread tale, the incursion of Murrogh-en-Ranagh, an O’Brien; who, rising first in Clare, spread through the country, overrunning Munster, and bold from success, advanced into eastern Leinster. All these accounts of battle were interwoven with tales of feuds, handed down from father to son, of the natural hatred of the native chiefs to the lords of English origin; interspersed with such strange wild tales, where the avowedly supernatural was intermingled with deeds of superhuman prowess and barbarity, that the English-born Prince, nursling of romantic Spain, felt as if he were transplanted into a new planet, and stopped the speaker at each moment, to obtain some clearer explanation, or to have interpreted words he had never before heard, the names of customs and things found only in this land.
Thus entertained, the way to Buttevant, or as the Irish called it, Kilnemullagh, which was about twenty miles, seemed short. One thing was evident in all these details, that it was easy to rouse the English lords in Ireland to any act of turbulence and revolt; but that it would be difficult nevertheless for their ill-armed followers, and undisciplined bands, to compete with the soldiery of England.
CHAPTER XV.
Sisters, I from Ireland came.
— COLERIDGE.
The Duke, immediately on his arrival at the Castle of Buttevant, dispatched Hubert Burgh to the Prior of Kilmainham, with a message from himself and a token from Lord Barry, announcing his intention of visiting him at the Abbey the next day. But Keating feared thus to draw the eyes of some enemy upon him, and appointed a meeting in a secluded dell, near the bank of the Mullagh, or Awbeg, the river which Spenser loves to praise. Early in the morning Richard repaired alone to this rural presence-chamber, and found Keating already there. Hearing of the priest’s haughty pride, Richard, with a sensation of disgust, had figured a man something like the wretched Trangmar, strong of limb, and with a ferocious expression of countenance. Keating appeared in his monk’s humble guise; his light eyes were still lively, though his hair and beard were snowy white; his brow was deeply delved by a thousand lines; his person short, slender, bent; his step infirm; his voice was silver-toned; he was pale, and his aspect in its lower part sweetly serene. Richard looked with wonder on this white, withered leaf — a comparison suggested by his frail tenuity; and again he almost quailed before the eager scrutiny of the prior’s eye. A merchant at a Moorish mart he had seen thus scan a slave he was about to purchase. At length, with a look of great satisfaction, the monk said, “This fits exactly; our friends will not hesitate to serve so goodly a gentleman. The daughter of York might in sooth mistake thee for a near kinsman. Thou comest from Portugal, yet that could not hav
e been thy native place?”
Richard started. This was the first time he had heard an expression of doubt of his veracity. How could he reply? His word alone must support his honour; his sword must remain sheathed, for his injurer was a priest. Keating caught his haughty glance, and perceived his mistake. It was with an effort that he altered his manner, for he exchanged with pain a puppet subject to his will, for a man (prince or pretender) who had objects and a state of his own to maintain. “Pardon the obscure vision of an old man,” he said; “my eyes were indeed dim not to see the true marks of a Plantagenet in your appearance. I was but a boy when your princely grandsire fell; nor has it been my fortune to visit England or to see your royal father. But the Duke of Clarence honoured me with his friendship, and your cousin de la Poole acknowledged my zeal in furthering his projects. I am now neither prior nor commander; but, poor monk as I am become, I beseech your highness to command my services.”
This swift change of language but ill satisfied the pride of Richard, and in reply he briefly recounted such facts as established his right to the name he claimed. The noble artlessness of his tone conquered the priest’s lurking suspicions: in a more earnest manner he besought the Duke’s pardon; and a cordial intercourse was established between them.
The place where they met was secluded and wild; a bower of trees hid it from the view of the river, and an abrupt rock sheltered it behind. It was apparently accessible by the river only, and it was by its bank that the Duke and Prior had arrived. Nothing could equal the picturesque solitude around them. The waving of the leafy boughs, the scream of the water-fowl, or the splashing they made as they sprung from among the sedge and darted across the stream, alone interrupted the voiceless calm; yet at every moment in his speech Keating stopped, as if listening, and cast his keen eyes, which he libelled much in calling dim, up the steep crag, as if among its herbage and shrubs some dreaded spy or expected messenger might appear. Then again he apologized to the Duke for having selected this wild spot for their interview. A price, he oberved, had been set upon his head, and his only safety lay in perpetual watchfulness and never-sleeping caution. “My zeal in your Highness’ cause,” he added with a courtier smile, “cannot be deemed a strange frenzy, since your success will not only assure my restoration to the dignity of which I have been unjustly deprived, but prevent an old man from perpetually dreaming of the sword of the slayer, or the more frightful executioner’s axe.”
Again the Prior fixed his eyes on a fissure in the rock, adding, “I had appointed to meet one in this place before your message was communicated to me; and in good time: for methinks the object of your visit may be furthered by the intelligence I hope soon to receive. Your Highness must have heard at Cork of the war carried on by the great Earl of Desmond and a native sept of this region. Macarthy, their chief, fell during the struggle, but his successor and Tanist mustered his broken forces to avenge him. The Earl is impatient of this resistance, for his presence is necessary in Thomond to drive the O’Carrolls from that district. At his invitation he and Macarthy meet this day to parley but a few miles hence. I was to have made one among them; but a boding raven told me that danger was abroad.”
The tidings of the near presence of the Earl of Desmond were unexpected, and most welcome to the Duke. He immediately resolved not to lose the golden hour. He eagerly asked where the meeting was to be, and how speedily he might reach the spot.
As he was thus earnestly expressing his desire, a slight rustling caught the Prior’s ear: he looked up; a human form hovered as in midair, scarcely, as it were, alighted on the precipitous rock; quickly, but cautiously, it threaded its steep and tortuous path. A large mantle was wrapt round the mountaineer, a large white kerchief enveloped the head in the manner of a turban, yet the Prince caught the outline of a female figure, which soon descended to the little plain on which they stood and advanced towards them; she was evidently very young, but weather-worn even in youth: her wild picturesque dress concealed the proportions of her form; her large white sleeves hid her arm, but the emaciated appearance of her face and hands and bare feet struck Richard with pity. She seemed astonished at seeing him, and spoke to his companion in the language of the country, which he did not understand: the Prior’s face darkened as she spoke: there dwelt on it a mixture of disappointment and ferocity, of which it could hardly have been deemed capable by one who had hitherto seen it only bland and smiling; swiftly, however, he dismissed these indications of passion, and addressed the Prince calmly. “I cannot go,” he said; “my time is still to be deferred, though it shall not be for ever lost. How does your courage hold? if you are not afraid of going alone with a guide whose very dialect is a mystery to you, through a country torn by opposing factions; if you do not fear presenting yourself friendless to a haughty noble who deems himself sovereign in this domain, I will contrive that, ere four hours elapse, you shall find yourself in Desmond’s presence.”
“Fear!” the Prince repeated. His eye glanced with some contempt on the priest’s cowl, which alone could suggest pardon for such a thought; yet he checked himself from any angry disclaiming of the accusation, as he said, “Whatever in my presumption I may hope, sage forethought tells me that I walk a road strewn with a thousand dangers; leading, it may be, to an early death. Not for that will I deviate one furlong from my path. Sir Prior, where is the guide you promise?”
Keating, after a few minute’s reflection, instead of replying, conversed again with the girl, and then addressed the Duke: “This hapless child is a victim of the wars; she was born far hence, and is the last surviving of my foster-sister’s once blooming family. Her mother saved my life. This child, barefoot as she is, guided me hither. Is not a Keating fallen, when he cannot give succour to an offspring of his fosterer’s house? And she, poor girl! she has walked far for me to-day; but she will not slacken in her toil when I bid her proceed. She shall be your guide, and your Grace may rely upon her; the dog you fed from its birth were less faithful. Now, at the hour of noon, Desmond meets Macarthy of Muskerry, on Ballahourah. But for the bogs and streams that cross your path, it is not far; at the worst, you can reach Mallow, where the Earl will lie to-night. It is best not to delay; for, if there is peace in Munster, very speedily Desmond will be on his way to Thomond.”
This was a fresh spur to Richard. He accepted the proffered guide, who listened attentively to Keating’s instructions given in her native tongue. He followed the girl but a short distance ere he looked back; the Prior was gone; the solitude of the wild crags and shrubs alone met his eye. Meanwhile his companion stepped forward, motioning him to follow. They plunged into the brake; the sun rose high; the birds winged their glad flight among the trees. Now toiling up a steep, now wading a stream, now entangled in a thicket, now stepping lightly over boggy earth; now meditating on Andalusia, and now wondering at his present position, Richard followed his swift and silent guide through the wild country between Buttevant and Mallow.
Already the meeting between the Earl of Desmond and Macarthy, the Chief of Muskerry, was at an end. They parted with fair words and exasperated thoughts. The native Lord could ill brook the settler’s haughty assumptions; nor Geraldine endure the obstinate pride of the conquered native. Still their relative positions enforced a peace.
They had separated, and after a hasty repast spread on the heathy side of Ballahourah, the Earl proceeded towards Mallow. He was surrounded by warriors, who all claimed the Geraldine name, and who variously distinguished themselves as the White Knight, the Knight of Kerry, and the Knight of the Glen. There was Lord Fermoy, his father-in-law, and others of the Roches. Nor did all the native chiefs absent themselves. One sister of the Earl had married Macarthy Reagh; another an O’Brien, whose daughter had intermarried with an O’Carroll — all this in defiance of the English law, which forbade such alliances, through which the father of the present Earl was beheaded in the year 1467. Their antique costume, tight truise, saffron tunics, and flowing robes distinguished them from the Saxons; yet these had n
ot followed the fashions of the times, but dressed in the garb used by the courtiers of Edward the Third.
Maurice, tenth Earl of Desmond, was brave even to a proverb. He loved war, and deemed himself rather King of Desmond, than a chief of English descent. To extend and secure his possessions, rendering them at once independent of his sovereign and of the native chieftains, was the aim of his life. He now meditated the invasion of Thomond; but Macarthy’s angry demeanour showed that he must not be left unchecked in his rear. “Where is my cousin Barry — where the Lord of Buttevant — the Chief of the Barrymores? Flying before a slip of parchment indited in far London, as if my sword held not better sway in these regions than a Parliament attainder! Were he here, the O’Carrolls should hear the thunder of my arms ere this moon waned. Muskerry could make no gathering in the vales, while Barry sat on his perch at Buttevant.”
The Earl had time to waste in thought, as he was borne along — at the age of fifteen, pushing rashly forward in an assault, he received a wound in his leg, which lamed him for life, so that he was carried about in a litter, and went by the name of Claudus; yet he was not deemed the less an experienced and gallant warrior. With the virtues of a chieftain he possessed the defects: Munster was his world; his universe was peopled by the Geraldines, the Macarthys, the Barrys, Donegans, Barretts, Roches, O’Briens, O’Carrolls, and the rest; he disdained his noble brethren of the pale. He considered it a mark of distinction to be exempted by a law from attendance of Parliament and the government of the land; he saw in the King of England, not his monarch, but the partizan of Ormond, and therefore an enemy. This, and ancient alliance linked him to the cause of the English outcast Prince, who solicited his aid; he had replied favourably to his request; but his interests and the conquest of a kingdom must be delayed, while he subdued the halfnaked septs who insulted his power.
