by Aubrey Flegg
‘Thank you, thank you, sir. I could never have found my way through on my own.’ A mischievous grin flicked across Con’s face, ‘Thank you, Mr Haystacks, sir!’
It wasn’t long before he began to regret that he hadn’t listened more carefully to the poet’s instructions.
CHAPTER 5
Bearding the Lion
inéad had begun to run towards the castle when she remembered Saoirse circling high in the sky. She put two fingers in her mouth and emitted a whistle that caused the soldier on watch on the castle above to turn. To her pride and relief, she watched Saoirse, a dot in the sky, turn and fall like an arrow in a single swoop, to land a few feet from her. He stood there disdainfully, as if to say he had been coming anyway. She enticed him on to her wrist, trying not to hurry him, and then from her wrist on to his stand. Here she secured him with his jesses, stroking him and praising him as she slipped on his hood. She hated to leave him here, but she must hurry, and he’d have the boys’ birds as company. At last, tucking up her skirts, she ran, taking shortcuts through the huts and houses that clustered about the castle. A chicken flew, squawking, from under her feet, and a woman threw a pail of slops from the door of her house across her path. She jumped over the stream of muck. ‘Missed!’ she shouted, and ran on. When she arrived at the castle steps she paused to listen. She could hear the boys in the guard room arguing with the Master at Arms. ‘… but the fencing master said we could…’ Liars! she snorted to herself.
She stepped into the great hall. The huge oak table, polished
from the grease of a thousand dinners, gleamed in the pale light from the only big windows in all of the castle walls. The casements were thrown back to let in the air. A partition was drawn across the far end of the hall to form a temporary room where Father slept and held council with visitors and people from the estate. She listened; she heard a soft snore. No, she wouldn’t disturb him. The only other person she could turn to now was Uncle Hugh, but did she dare? He was the one person, after Father, whom the boys would listen to. He’d been angry enough when he’d been disturbed over Con’s disappearance that morning, and the servants were all in awe of him and his rages. But he’d always been nice to her, though that had always been when he’d been at leisure. She asked the guard if he had gone out, and was told no. She would have to be brave, so.
Gathering her skirts once again, she set off up into the gloom of the spiral stairs, moving in and out of the narrow shafts of light from the occasional slit windows.
She arrived at the fourth floor, panting, and pushed open the door to the family room. This was considered the safest part of the castle. There were three rooms up here, the largest being the family room, where most of the family slept and lived. Opening off this was the master bedroom, where Mother and Father used to sleep, but where Sinéad now kept her mother company, and then there was the guest room, now occupied by Uncle Hugh. Ominously, his door was closed.
Kathleen and Mairead, the two maids who were sweeping the wooden floor of the main room, were unusually silent. Kathleen, an incessant chatterer, put a finger to her lips and tipped her head towards the guest-room door. ‘He’s writing a letter!’ she whispered, in awe.
They had been tidying up after the night, rolling up the bedding and putting it into the chests that, during the day, served as seats around the walls. Bright tapestries of hunting scenes covered the plastered walls. Even in summer a fire smouldered in the cavernous fireplace, useful for drying things, and for any small cooking jobs. Sinéad fixed her gaze on the guest-room door. Courage! Now to beard the lion in its den! She crossed to the door, trying to look braver than she felt.
Kathleen’s eyes were popping. ‘You can’t go in there!’ she mouthed. Sinéad made a face at her, raised the latch and pushed open the door.
There was a roar from inside. ‘Can’t you knock, wench!’ She nearly fled. There was Uncle Hugh, bristling with rage, his beard and whiskers aflame in the light of the two candles framing him, one on each side of the table. In his hand was a ragged, well-sucked quill, its top bent over. In front of him was a sheet of paper, black with crossings-out. ‘Oh, it’s you, Sinéad,’ he growled, jabbing the quill into his ink pot. ‘Do you realise what you are doing?’ He scowled dramatically. ‘You are disturbing the Earl of Tyrone in a moment of history, writing to His Most Glorious Majesty King James of bloody England!’ His voice was rising.
‘I’m sorry, sir, it’s the boys–’ she began.
‘Don’t interrupt me, child,’ he barked. ‘I am writing to King James to tell him once and for all to get that dog Chichester OFF MY BACK!’ And he hit the table such a thump that his quill went skittering off across his letter, leaving a comet-trail of ink-spots on the page. ‘Now, look what you made me do!’ He leaned back, fuming. Sinéad stood poised, ready for flight.
But suddenly he softened and turned his attention to Sinéad. ‘Come, my dear, let me examine you,’ which he did – critically – for a long moment, then he chuckled, and said in English, ‘My not so plain Jane!’ Then, back into Irish, ‘But you have grown, my dear, you’re quite a young lady! Come here, sit on the bench beside me. You’re too old to sit on my knee now.’ He sighed. ‘Tell me about yourself.’ The last thing Sinéad wanted at that moment was a cosy chat, but she knew her Uncle Hugh. She came around the table dutifully.
‘So, how old are you now, Sinéad?’
‘I’m twelve, sir. But it’s about James and–’
He held up his hand. ‘James is your twin, isn’t he? Ergo, he’s twelve too. He should be able to look after himself.’
‘But not with swords, sir!’ She bounced on the bench with impatience.
‘Don’t jig up and down, child. Just tell me, who is he squabbling with, and what they are squabbling about?’
‘It’s with Fion, of course.’
‘Ah, so young James de Cashel, of ancient Norman descent, is having words with my nephew Fion O’Neill, who is ancient Irish – and, at a guess, the cause of the trouble.’
‘Yes, I mean no, but Uncle … please! It started when James said we should join the English!’
‘Good lad!’ Uncle Hugh stated. ‘I’ve joined the English more times than I can remember. So?’
‘He said that the English were honourable and would let us keep our lands and protect us from the “wild Irish” – and I think he means it.’
The Earl took a deep breath. ‘I love the English, you know, Sinéad – their great houses and their fine manners. Didn’t I spend my childhood fostered to an English family? And they loved me too, just as a shepherd loves the lamb he suckles with a bottle. But then – surprise, surprise – I found they wanted my fleece; they called me an Earl but took my lands, and now, damn it, it looks as if they want me as mutton chops as well.’
‘Uncle Hugh, that’s what the boys are doing now, making mutton chops of each other. They are taking sharpened swords from the armoury. Sharpened! You understand. You can stop them, I know you can!’ She could feel tears brimming in her eyes as she turned to him.
‘And I sit here doing nothing?’ he said.
‘YES!’ she screamed, and launched herself at him, butting him and hammering at his shoulders as she had done when she was little.
All at once he stood up; the bench clattered back behind them and she found herself swept up and carried towards the door. ‘Enough of your idle chatter, Sinéad! Damn King James and all his lackeys.’ She held on tightly as he threw open the door. There was a startled squawk as Kathleen and Mairead, who had had their ears to the door, were scattered. Still holding Sinéad in his arms, he strode across to the top of the stairs. ‘We’re eloping,’ he yelled at the open-mouthed girls as he set her down. Then, to Sinéad, ‘Run ahead, my sweetheart, and clear the stairs for me.’
He unhooked his sword from the back of the door and followed her, bellowing, ‘Clear the stairs for the Earl of Tyrone!’
For a solid man, Hugh O’Neill could move surprisingly quickly.
‘Well, where are
they, girl?’ he demanded as he emerged from the castle door. His change of mood was as sudden as their emergence from dark to light.
‘In the exercise yard, sir,’ she said. ‘It’s where they normally practise; no one will question them fencing there.’
‘Well, lead on. Quick now!’
She darted off around the sheds and workshops that leaned against the castle walls. The cobbler had left a bucket of water containing strips of shoe leather to soften outside his door. She sent it flying. He cursed her roundly – she shouted an apology, but ran on. The exercise yard was just beyond the forge. She heard clanging – Dear God they’ve started! she thought, but it was the armourer hammering out a new pike head. She flinched at the heat of his furnace as she ran past. When she came to the entrance to the exercise yard she slowed, frightened at what she might see. The yard was a rectangular space between the castle wall and the summer banqueting hall. It was reserved as a place for training the men in arms. She looked in. Thank God they were both still standing.
Against the towering wall of the castle, the boys, circling each other now, looked small and insignificant, nothing like warring warriors. They reminded her of the small fighting cocks that the men would set to fight each other while they laid bets on the winner.
Uncle Hugh was just behind her, watching the boys with interest.
‘Uncle, the swords!’
‘I see them,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Don’t worry, they won’t kill each other.’
‘But they’re sharp! Do something!’ She grabbed his hand, prepared to bite him to get some action. He stooped as if to say something, but at that moment there was a clash of swords and he straightened and shouted out, ‘Come on, James! Come on, Fion! Close up, close up – get tore in there, lads.’
This time she did bite him. ‘Stop them. Oh, stop them.’
He put an arm around her shoulders, but yet he seemed to be intent on the fight, like those horrid soldiers watching a cock fight. Without taking his eyes off the boys, he said to her, ‘Watch the dust fly! It’ll do them good.’
If the boys were surprised to hear his voice, they didn’t show it. He, after all, was the very reason for their fight. With a zing of steel on steel, they closed. Sinéad watched a bright spark, struck from one of their blades, hang for a second above their heads as they reeled back from their clash. Then they went at each other like demons, cutting, thrusting and parrying. Now they were circling each other again, each looking for a way past the other’s guard. No smiling, no courtly bows, just intense concentration. A strike above! A strike below! Both parried, then, with a grunt, they closed in, chest to chest, their swords crossed above their heads, the muscles on their necks standing out like cords. Sinéad could see Fion blinking as the salt sweat streamed into his eyes. She knew enough to know that the first to break would be wide open to a cut from the other. Dear God, she prayed, please don’t let either of them be hurt or killed.
Uncle Hugh watched intently. ‘Look,’ he whispered, ‘watch Fion’s blade. James is trying to get it into the notch on his sword – if he does, he’ll disarm him.’ Sinéad felt as if her eyes were welded to those two crossed blades. Despite his efforts to hold it back, Fion’s blade was being forced inexorably closer and closer to the hilt of James’s sword. There – she heard it! A click! James gave a mighty wrench – and Fion’s blade was flying through the air, broken off at the hilt. The boys reeled apart. Fion, smiling, looked ruefully at his broken hilt.
Sinéad let out a whoop of sheer relief. Now, surely, the quarrel was over. She looked up at Uncle Hugh and was taken aback to see a look of thunder on his face.
‘Well, don’t just stand there, James,’ he roared. ‘You have disarmed your man. This is not war – give him the victor’s touch. Your quarrel is over, boys. We don’t want bad blood remaining between you.’ Sinéad remembered this ritual at games, how the winner would touch the shoulder of the loser with his sword, confirming that he had won, but also as a sign of honour and respect that told the world the quarrel was over. Sometimes they would even embrace.
Fion was waiting. James, however, was breathing heavily, as if struggling with indecision. Then, without acknowledging Fion in any way, he threw his sword into the dust of the exercise yard and shouted, ‘That was no fight! Keep your toys!’ – and he walked away.
Sinéad watched Fion’s face drain of blood. She ran a few steps forward, trying to fill the gap between them, her arms out. But the damage was done. Fion also turned to leave, but in the opposite direction to James. Mystified by what James had said about toys, she walked over, carefully picked up his sword and felt its edge. It was as blunt as a piece of wood – it was only a practice sword. So the Master at Arms had refused them their sharpened blades. She turned to Uncle Hugh. ‘You knew!’ she accused.
‘Yes,’ he said, spreading his hands. ‘I knew the moment we walked in. I let them at it because I thought it would be the end of their quarrel, but now I’m not so sure. There is more to this spat than meets the eye.’ He frowned deeply. ‘You told me about their quarrel, Sinéad. It seems to run very deep. Is it possible that there’s a rotten apple here in the castle, someone who has been whispering in your brother’s ear?’ She shook her head, wrinkling her nose involuntarily. He laughed. ‘Rotten apples don’t always smell, you know.’
‘I can’t think of anyone, Uncle,’ she said.
He nodded slowly and said, more to himself than to her, ‘It could be a sign.’
‘A sign?’ she questioned.
Uncle Hugh looked at her and smiled, but it was a smile that had more sadness than gaiety in it. He touched her cheek, and said, ‘A sign that your old Uncle Hugh should go somewhere and think.’
He turned and she watched him walk away, suddenly an old man carrying something heavy on his back.
CHAPTER 6
Things Falling Apart
inéad stood bewildered, alone and deserted in the exercise yard. She took a few steps after James but hesitated; then she turned to follow Fion, but faltered again. This was a boy’s quarrel. But why was Uncle Hugh so upset when they wouldn’t make it up? She made peace with the cobbler whose bucket she had knocked over, but being good didn’t make her feel any better. There were chores to be done, but Uncle Hugh remained in her mind, his broken look, his hunched walk. Eventually she said to herself, I’ll find him, and I’ll find out!
Dodging places like the kitchen and laundry, where Mother might be directing affairs, she slipped into the castle and hurried up the spiral stairs. There was no one in the guest room. Where’s he hiding? she wondered. Try the battlements. She went back to the stairs and followed the spiral up to the roof.
When she stepped out into the bright sunshine of the castle top she looked around. In front of her the slated roof stretched the width of the castle, like an up-turned boat. The slates sloped down on each side to a narrow walkway which ran right around inside the battlement, a low wall over which soldiers could shoot arrows or even fire muskets down on invaders below. Every few feet, the wall was built up high to make a shelter behind which the defenders could hide from the enemy. She was considering climbing to the turret where the watchman would be standing when she saw, half-concealed by a battlement, the familiar figure of Uncle Hugh leaning on his elbows staring out over the fields and forest below. She couldn’t see his face for the gorse-bush fuzz of his beard and hair. At another time she would have tiptoed towards him and pounced on him, or pretended to push him over from behind, but now something held her back. The broad shoulders were shaking as if he was laughing; it was then that she heard a sound – a small, deep sound that made her want to back away: Surely Uncle Hugh can’t be crying? She turned to go, but in doing so she clicked one of the slates on the roof, and heard his voice, as thick as leaves on a forest floor.
‘Don’t go, child, I know you’re there.’ He took out an enormous handkerchief, buried his face in it, and blew loudly. ‘Come, there’s room for you beside me.’ And he moved over to make room for her between
the battlements. She came and rested her elbows on the warm stone and looked down on the familiar scene below. This was where she had learned to imagine herself flying like Saoirse. She looked at Uncle Hugh and followed his gaze out to the place they called the ‘gathering ground’. It had been one mass of men that dreadful day a few years ago when they had gathered to head for Kinsale where the Spanish had landed to help them fight the English. Black and gold, saffron cloaks and kilts swaying like daffodils in a merry dance. The de Cashel soldiers mixed in with the Gaelic tribes. Beside them the awesome Gallowglasses – warriors for hire – huge men with long hair and body-long battleaxes.
‘They have all sworn to die rather than surrender,’ Fion had said in awe.
Then came the cavalry, with mail coats and flashing breastplates of steel.
‘Our cavalry are better than yours,’ James had boasted to Fion. ‘We have stirrups for our feet. Your lot just fall off in a charge.’
There’d been a brisk scuffle.
The bulk of the army was made up of kerns, foot soldiers with swords, and spears that they could throw to split a wand at twenty paces. But most exciting of all for the boys were the troops of musketeers. Sinéad remembered clasping her ears as they fired off a volley to clear their barrels.
Uncle Hugh turned to look at her now. ‘Do you remember them, all those men – those brave men, Sinéad?’ She nodded. ‘Well, that winter I took them off to war. I walked them the length of Ireland like heroes, through rain and frost, all the way down to Kinsale. We had the English trapped, and if we’d had patience we could have starved them out in a few days – they had no food, you see. But Red Hugh said, “Attack them!”’ He sighed. ‘I loved young Red Hugh O’Donnell like a son, and I gave in to him. In two hours we had lost the battle and half the brave lads that you saw down there were dead. Isn’t it right that I should weep for them?’ Sinéad pressed close to him, and he put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Now we’re back to our bad old ways, fighting each other while the English stir the pot. Divide and rule. And we fall for it every time.’ He sighed. ‘Seeing the boys fighting just now brought it all back to me. I let them fight as a way to make up their quarrel, but it didn’t work. Perhaps the old ways don’t mean anything any more? Perhaps there is more to their quarrel than meets the eye?’ He turned and looked into the distance. ‘They’re good lads, Sinéad, you must find out what’s between them. Remember Sinéad of the Even Hand?’ He chuckled. Then, clapping his hand to his forehead, he said, ‘Damn me! I nearly forgot; I’ve left a small gift for you with your mother. I hope it fits.’