James and Emily never divulged the details of Cirilo’s escape and subsequent assignment to the rebellion. For the safety and reputation of the family, it was important that the cover story and secrecy over his escape was maintained. Walter believed that Cirilo had escaped un-aided and was not aware that James had helped the slave to escape execution in Galway. He was also unaware that had been sent to O’Rourke and the rebels in Sligo.
The MacWilliam had a wish that Emily would fall for Richard Barrett, providing the ultimate alliance, but this was no longer of interest to him. Recent events had changed all hopes. On the other hand, he would never recover from the grief of losing his only daughter. Walter and Ceara would sit each evening by the grand open fire, reflecting on the tragedy and considered how they would react to the shame if the truth became common knowledge. Clan law had assigned Walter as the chief and the clan system could also take the title away if he was considered unworthy. Walter pondered on the changing times and bestowing of Irish titles by the English. Maybe if further capitulation with the English resulted in an Earldom, it would be a way of retaining his lands and title if the clan rejected him. On the other hand though, for a Bourke, such treason would be unthinkable. He hoped that in the fullness of time, his own son William would take the title of MacWilliam. In the meantime, he would need to maintain his status and follow the power that such a title had provided.
Ceara tried desperately to convince Walter to let the matter go as the grief and anger was consuming him. The problem of the slave was unfinished business though and Walter resolved to have him executed as soon as possible if he was still alive of course. Eventually he decided to dispatch a discreet small band of riders. The mission of the Fianna was to seek out Cirilo but was to remain secret. They were to kill him for the honour of the family and to restore some respect to Emily. Maybe, with his death as well as the removal of the baby, she might one day be welcomed back into the family. Walter was very mistaken. Emily would never accept the loss of Cirilo and as long as the birth was without complication, her baby would be guarded with her life. Walter believed that his appearance in a land of white Irish would soon betray his identity therefore he could be easily traced and dispatched. Surely, Cirilo would never hold any other role but that of servant, or kern at best.
In order to keep the details as secret as possible, William was ordered by Walter to lead a gallowglass warrior with two mounted ceithernach (foot troops) on a journey to seek out the slave with the rebels. The gallowglass would need to execute him swiftly without drawing attention to the rebel leaders and William was to bring back his head without delay. This was a task that William dreaded. It was the very activity that abhorred him. Fighting and murder was bad enough, but the idea of decapitation of the body was not something he took on with happiness.
William travelled immediately to Crossmolina to seek out a suitable gallowglass warrior for the task ahead. Many had become integrated into communities in Mayo and surrounding counties after been awarded their lands in payment for service. There were several old gallowglass in the area that would be up to the job no doubt. However, because the Queen had many of them executed, they had built up a modest wealth from previous campaigns and they were becoming more expensive and less willing to declare “Gallowglass” as a title.
William chose to seek out a gallowglass with a particular reputation. He had heard many stories concerning “MacSweeney of the Heads”, a ruthless Scottish mercenary who had worked mainly for the Clanricarde Bourkes in Galway. The Clanricardes had rebelled against Richard the Sassenach many years earlier and paid these killers for their non-political services. MacSweeney’s title was bestowed through reputation and a little drunken legend. Over many years he had become famous for decapitating his victims both during and after death. This man was not chosen for subtlety or tact, but for his skills and reputation as a successful killer.
With MacSweeney’s reputation came a unique trait. He had inherited and crafted a collection of gruesome trophies and artefacts, including a treasured collection lucky brain-balls. Many years earlier, he had come into the possession of what he was told was the brain-ball of a Gaelic king who was killed in battle centuries earlier. The ball was now very small and discoloured dark brown, but heavy and very hard. Brain-balls were crafted by taking the brains from the head of a victim and slowly drying them under the sun or other gentle heat. As it lost moisture, it would be shaped and moulded with the hands several times into a perfect globe and after weeks of drying, it became very dense and marble like. If produced from the brain of an important warrior, the ball was considered a lucky weapon. They would be individually sleeved within a chain mail sock to give added weight and strength for its gruesome task. The weapon was often deployed to crack open the skull of new victims in battle, before seeing them through with a halberd or sword. MacSweeney had used these over many years with great effect and had several brain balls in his armoury and still kept them as a reminder of the glory times.
Since returning from rebellions, MacSweeney was aging and had come to relish a newfound pastime. The art and enjoyment of drinking “Water of Life” as he called it was his latest pastime. Otherwise known as “Whiskey”.
As William progressed through the townland asking villagers for knowledge of MacSweeney, he was told by people on his journey that the old warrior was usually to be found at the drinking houses. His mind raced as he walked up to the drinking house in the church street.
‘I do not want to be here. What if I am attacked before I have my say? Will they ridicule me for my looks and my ways?’
The drinking house was a stone building of two storeys, clad with a turf roof. As William neared the doorway, he could see wet patches against the building, on the seasoned turf and into the road. There was a stench of urine all around the house which permeated into the inside. There was the usual cesspool close by the side of the building, which was larger and more putrid than the usual. Although the house drew men as well as whores to it, it was a house which stenched, compelling the customers into further consummation of the more fragrant whiskey.
William heard the sounds of laughter and cursing within the drinking room as he pushed the door of the house against the uneven stonewall and entered the relative darkness. Groups of men sat on benches around rustic wooden tables. Some were silent, some were in conversation and some were singing, but all were drinking ale or whiskey. Above the stench, he smelled the sickly odour of malted grain and the dampness of the ground which was covered in bark and shavings. It was similar to the smell of the farmyards he had played in as a boy. In his soft, feminine and lisp-like voice, he asked for MacSweeney as he sat down.
‘Is there a man here named MacSweeney?’
No reply.
‘I am here to speak with him over a proposal of employment.’
‘Who said ya can sit there? Did ya not know the pews in here are titled? They belong to others and ya need to pay ya dues now.’
William stood up in the realisation that he was no longer in the domain, protection or influence of his father. He had no idea the seats belonged to others, he had no money and had no means to pay. The room became alive with the sound of laughing. The boy realised he would need to get to the point very quickly if he was to avoid further embarrassment as well as both personal and physical attacks.
‘Where is MacSweeney? I require speaking with him directly and without delay.’
The silence of the room restored as several heads turned towards the darkest corner. A large and powerful figure was sat down against a beam, next to an open turf fire. The only light was from the flickering of the flames through the rising smoke and the slits in the window shutters casting sunbeams across the room. His posture went no way towards betraying his size and it was obvious that this was a large man. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see that he had had wild grey hair and a long beard, which was stained yellow around the mouth from the whiskey and food he had consumed over many weeks. Slamming his pewter jug onto t
he table, in a Scottish accent, the gallowglass demanded to know why he was being pursued by such a “rich lad”.
‘What is ya business with me, pretty boy? Explain yerself!’
These men were kings in their drinking houses. One wrongly placed word would result in a beating. A woman’s voice called from behind the wooden partition that separated the men from the stock of drink barrels.
‘Don’t mind ’em, sire, would you like whiskey or coirm? It is our best Irish ale.’
‘I would like none, madam, thank you. I have no promise of payment, but I am here only on the business of Walter Bourke of Dael.’
The room had already silenced, nothing stirred in anticipation of what would be said next.
Prior to William’s entrance, MacSweeney, like most of the townland had been in discussion with his drinking friends over the new rumours concerning Emily Bourke. Now it seemed that the arrival of William may be connected in some way to the gossip and all ears were listening for confirmation. MacSweeney lost his patience and threw the empty jug in William’s direction. William ducked and the jug rattled off the wall and out into the street.
‘MacSweeney, you have had your sport, now please listen to my proposal and then continue of your banter if you desire it.’
The huge figure beckoned William to sit across the table to him and as he prepared to explain his proposition. The Scotsman knew the conversation would be private and glared at the other drinkers until they averted their attention and returned to their business, although some ears were still open. The noise of the room increased as all, but one of the drinkers resumed their discussions, and William felt a little more at ease with the situation.
‘You have as long as it takes the first man to ask for his next drink before I kick ya into the next street.’
William moved closer to MacSweeney so as not to be overheard as he spoke softly into his ear.
‘It will not take long. My father requests your services to execute a man who has dishonoured the Lochtar Bourkes in Tyrawley. The killing must remain secret, but I will need to witness the event to be sure that the right man is identified before payment in full and to ensure that there is no trickery. You must go to my father for further instruction and agreement of payment.’
‘Odds-wounds! I do believe you have been drinking better liquor than I. For that reason alone, I will see your father.’
‘My father will explain when you see him, but you must come immediately. I can assure you that he has similar refreshment and the dues will pay for much more in the many months to come.’
William’s last statement was the one which drew most attention. MacSweeney’s passion for intoxication was almost as strong as his love for sex and so wasted no time in travelling with attend an audience with Walter Bourke at Dael Castle.
Unknowingly, the men had been followed and were being watched at some distance. A lone traveller took the second turning past Dael to avoid detection, crossed a gulley and bog before taking shelter in a wood where he could watch them.
Both men dismounted, secured the horses and walked to the castle entrance. MacSweeney took nothing seriously and kicked William’s foot, making him trip it against the other. William fell against the wall and dusted himself down causing great amusement. They both entered the tower house by the north door. The young man bolted the door behind him to the passive annoyance of MacSweeney who gave a look of disgust. William was in his own domain and felt a great deal more confident now they were away from the drinking house and in the domain of the Bourkes.
‘This house is a busy place and there are many ears attached to heads with wagging tongues. My business with you is secret and must remain that way. I have bolted the door to prevent anyone entering who might then listen to our business. As you can see, it is only bolted on the inside, there are no key locks and you can leave at any time.’
‘Listen to me, ya runt. D’ya thinks that I have any fear for ma safety in the presence of a nancy? I could snap ya neck with one blow and every person living here before I drew ma next breath.’
William was now beginning to find MacSweeney’s swagger a little tedious. After bolting the door behind him, he led MacSweeney up the stone steps of the tower to the first floor and the living quarters of his father, where they were both to receive a further briefing on the specifics of the task they were required to carry out. William announced the identity of the gallowglass but quickly realised that no introductions were necessary.
‘It is good to see the MacWilliam after so many years. Is this boy really your tanist?’ Walter gave no acknowledgement other than an upward nod.
‘MacSweeney, William has directed you here so that I may ask you to complete some important business for the clan. I have some work that only you or your like can complete.’
MacSweeney kicked his sword forward and sat down on a wooden chair.
‘I need you to track down and slay a Spanish slave who has invaded the honour of my family and the Clan Bourke. He is a black man and when you locate him, there would be little notion that you have the wrong man.’
Among the rumours circulating the townlands of Tyrawley, one suggested Emily had been with child after falling in love with a Spanish slave. It was this gossip that was rife in the drinking house earlier. Many tales and falsehoods were told and provided much entertainment for the small communities. However, the notion that the daughter of a clan leader would become pregnant to a slave had seemed too unbelievable to many and was considered outrageously untrue. The stories were therefore treated with a certain degree of caution. Because of Walter’s request and with a little encouragement from alcohol, MacSweeney now believed that the stories could have some substance. The gallowglass adopted a casual posture folding his arms before resting his boot on a mud scrape. Not only a killer, but a gambler and a man of daring character, he decided he would ask Walter for his reasons.
‘What has the slave done to meet with ya wrath, sir? Has he taken that which is not his? Has he defiled a woman? Or maybe he deserted his duties? Perhaps he has done all three.’
‘I will not explain to any Scottish redshank why I will charge the death of a slave and pray you do not ask me again even after the deed is done. You will either accept the proposal with the generous payment or you will decline and I will find another. If you accept, then you must execute the task with loyalty, gratitude and concealment. On completion of the undertaking, you will hand the head to my son William, whereupon he will return it to me.’
‘If ya want him that much and the terms are good enough, then I can tell ya that I’ll bring back his head with no mistakes.’
‘That pleases me, MacSweeney, because if you decline, then you will need to look for new employ and leave these parts. I believe there is not much you can do in Tyrawley to earn your fill of drink and you’ll not be a welcome man of the Bourkes. I have the notion that any leader would decline the services of an older gallowglass when younger heroes are on offer and at a lower charge. So your contract with me is sound and sensible.’
After some further negotiations, MacSweeney agreed to the proposition. Since he had been in the employ of Walter for some years, it was in both party’s interest to agree. MacSweeney was not a man Walter wanted working for the opposition, especially when he knew so much.
‘You and your kern will be equipped well for your trouble but must set on your way to track him down and you will be escorted by my son William. He will make sure that you kill the right man. After the separation of the head from the body, William will pay you the balance and he will bring the trophy to me.’
‘I will do the deed, make no mistake about that, sire.’
‘Oh, and just two more things, MacSweeney. You will ensure the safety and protection of my son William, and you will also refrain from mocking him.’
MacSweeney creased up a reluctant smile as if to imply that his amusement had been banned.
‘I will if you will let me leave these locked doors.’ MacSweeney left to prepare for hi
s next task.
Despite Emily’s pregnancy, James had refused to speak of the affair to his father, so there was very little information that would indicate where Cirilo was or what he was doing. Walter made it clear that MacSweeney would not be expected back unless he succeeded in separating Cirilo’s head from his body. To fund it, Chief Walter paid only one quarter of the agreed fee with the final seventy-five per cent on presentation of the head to William and hence, Walter. There were very few black people and probably no others tattooed as slaves. As Walter implied, identification would not be a problem if they were lucky enough to find him. Walter planned to show Emily Cirilo’s head and her reaction would confirm their success.
Templeboy – The Road to Sligo
MacSweeney, William and the two kern set off from Dael on horseback in heavy rain. Across the field in the cover of the woods was the stalker. After they were almost out of sight, he returned to his mount at the back lane and followed them.
MacSweeney suspected that Cirilo had headed out on the road to Belleek following some gossip he heard in the drinking house in Crossmolina. This narrowed down the search area and eliminated the south, Ballycastle and Erris. The possibilities were now either Ulster or Dublin directions. Notwithstanding the orders of the Queen’s deputy, it seemed unlikely that a survivor of the armada would be going to Dublin, where many Spanish were being condemned to death. It seemed more likely that Cirilo would be heading to join the rebels at Sligo. Still, MacSweeney needed more proof before he set off in what could be the wrong direction.
The Welshmen of Tyrawley Page 15