There were two things that Tamburlaine distrusted, bogs and men. He preferred the high ground, however difficult, eschewed both the walled houses of the invader and the round huts of those they had enslaved. On leaving the paved road, he made along Broad Meadow water, forded it and breasted the rising ground till he neared Caragha. Keeping to the wilder country, he passed the Hill of Tara. Then he stood and looked around him. Smelling the water of Boyne on his left, he coasted along till he saw the Bridge of Slane, the tiny walled town, the monastery, and the castle. Forty miles he had come, and that with a heavy man on his back that was more like a sack of bones than the creature of springing muscles he used to be. He felt himself discouraged. For a long time now, his master had not spoken to him. He had been through scores and scores of difficult places. He had leaped broad ditches and threaded his way through dark woods, he had been often sorely perplexed. Instinct and memory had all but failed him, and more than once. And his master had given him no help. But now he was through a third part of his task and there was the Bridge of Slane that he had crossed on his journey up. His instinct now was to avoid the bridge and the little fort beside it and the town, now sleeping sound. Yet he knew of no ford, and the faint shining river looked broad in the moonlight.
He stood awhile, then cropped a few mouthfuls of sweet grass. Presently, he raised his head and whinnied to his master. The quiet and the silence, and the well-known sound roused Estercel. He moved within his bands. His eyes opened, he was full of pain, confused with it: his bones were working through his flesh. The horse whinnied again, more loudly than before. Estercel put out a hand and touched his neck. The horse turned his head and with his large eyes watched the weak stained hand creep up and down. Loneliness was all about them: very little light, danger waited everywhere, pain had conquered the man, and heavy toil had begun to press upon the horse. Yet such a mutual love was between them that their hearts were at peace and took delight in each other.
Tamburlaine whinnied again. Estercel understood. He tried to turn, but his limbs and his whole body had stiffened, and he groaned in pain. “I'm dying, boy, what's stopping you?” he said. The horse moved sideways on and spoke once more and louder. Estercel raised his head and neck, saw the water and the faint outline of the little town. For a moment, a flame of excitement flickered up in him.
“My God!” he said, “that's the Boyne. That's great. That's great. You've done it well. Good lad, good lad. You can't go by the bridge. I've had enough of prison. You must swim, boy, swim.” His head sank down again as the horse neighed to him in delight at his words of praise.
He had well understood. Down the bank he went, straight and steady; then slowly and carefully into the stream till the water swept him from his feet. Swimming, he was soon across and stood dripping on the other side. Estercel had not escaped the water. The night wind blew on the wet folds that covered his stiff limbs, and he shivered and shook. Only the warm sides of the horse below him kept the life in his body as yet.
Hour by hour passed, hours of lake and ruined forest where the stumps of oak thirty feet round stood out of the ground, and so up into the highlands of Armagh. As Tamburlaine, trotting now, came in the Earliest dawn to cross the hill among the rushes by Cranagh lake, a troop of half-wild horses swept down upon him. Enclosing him in their midst, they played and gambolled mile after mile by his side. They were led by a black mare who was pleased by the white neck of Tamburlaine and angry and spiteful against the strange burden that he carried.
But the heart of Tamburlaine was heavy within him, he was in no mood for fighting or for play. Though he raised up his neck and answered her calling, yet he held straight on his way. Annoyed with this, she threw herself straight across his path and broke his trot. Tamburlaine jerked up his head and, getting round her, started again while the troop in their play circled around him. Once again, the mare came at him, and this time seizing the mantle that covered his burden, she tore it with her teeth.
At this, the eyes of Estercel opened. Hearing the noise of the many hoofs and seeing the press of horses about him and the open mouth and great teeth of the mare near to his face, he thought himself in battle. He opened his mouth and uttered so desperate a battle-cry, that his wounded throat was torn, and the startled mare reared, and then away and off with her at a mad gallop. Tamburlaine knew the shout and rejoiced in it. He forgot his weariness and broke anew into a gallop which took him right on to Benburb and the Yellow Ford, where the very air smelt to him of battle, when on that great day two years back he had seen the Blackwater run red.* The morning was already bright as he crossed it and came dripping and staggering up the further bank. He was nearly spent now, but worn out though he was, his heart was encouraged within him. He knew his ground now, he had fought all over these fields.
(* Battle of the Yellow Ford, 1597.)
Leaving Benburb behind him, he made on; the mountains were before him. Far, far away, he descried the flat top of Slieve Gallion. But a great need was on him for rest. The bones of his master were hard and weighed heavily, they galled his back and the tight bands oppressed him. Estercel appeared to have slipped on one side, and his head was hanging down. Since he had uttered his battle-shout, he had not spoken or moved again. It was about half-past five in the morning when he entered the yard of the old farm-house of Tyhallon. There they had stopped, and he had eaten corn on his way up.
No one was in the farm -yard as he entered, so he stood patiently. And what a sight the pair of them made! All about them was the windy brightness of the morning, the young May green of the bushes shone with clear light. Like the laughter of a thousand fairies the birds sang in the trees. The little house was well tended and kept. Away in the meadows sounded the call of a girl's voice gathering in her cows.
And there in the yard was this fearful pair. Over both of them, black wings seemed to hover, and the morning was less bright because they stood there. Patiently, the horse stood, his forelegs spread apart, his nose nearly on the ground, so heavily did his head hang down. His eye was red and glazed; foam and blood dripped from his mouth. His white coat was rough and bristled and stained besides with a hundred travel stains. As for the man on his back, the rough head with its dark and matted hair, once golden, hung down by the horse's shoulder. The lower part of the face covered with a young beard, the mouth was open, and the swollen tongue was visible. The large skeleton hands hung down too and shook to the breathing of the horse. Under the stains on the face was a pallor like that of death, and the great eye-pits appeared vacant of any eyes. There was not a sound to be heard but the panting of the horse and the sound of the feet of the cows coming nearer, and of the girl's voice calling to them still. The heart of Tamburlaine took a little comfort as he listened to the pleasant song.
The cows came in. Seeing the strange apparition, they would have backed out again, but the girl behind drove them in and followed them. She was a young girl: very slim, with a brown face and pale gold hair, and a willow switch in her hand. When she saw the horse, she uttered a cry and ran forward and looked straight into the face of Estercel. A fearful scream broke from her mouth, another and another. Out of the house, a man and a woman came running who also looked and uttered loud cries. The woman tossed her brown arms above her, uttering loud and terrible death-wails. The horse was distracted: he had looked for kind and friendly treatment, and not for yellings in his weary ears. He recovered himself and lifted up his head; he gathered himself up together and backed down the yard. He had an old dislike of cows, and he was angry at these people. His heart was not broken, his spirit was still stout. He backed away from the fools who screamed at him and the shoving cows. The man ran forward to seize his bridle, but Tamburlaine would not be touched. He showed his teeth and laid back his ears, he sidled to the door of the yard, the man still following and speaking softly now while the women held their breath. A moment more, and he was out of the yard and sidling away over the field. Yet still he longed for help and stood wistfully looking at the pleasant house.
(* Irish barley liquor.)
Hastily, the mother drew some milk from the nearest cow, and with that and a leather bottle of spirit in her hand, the girl left the yard and approached the horse. When she got near, she curtsied and spoke respectfully.
“I mind your name well, sir. Tamburlaine, it is. I don't want to lay a hand upon you at all, but, for the love of God, let me see is there anything I can do for the poor young man upon your back?”
The anger of Tamburlaine faded away. The girl came gently forward and set down the pail by him, then went forward to Estercel. The height of the horse made it difficult for her to reach, but standing on tip-toe she managed to lift up the head of Estercel and lay it on the horse's neck. In fear and horror, she chafed his forehead and hands, speaking kindly to him and the horse. Standing on tip-toe and using the tin dipper, she poured the warm milk down the throat of Estercel. The cavernous eye-pits opened, and the eyes of a dying man looked at her. At this moment, the girl's father, who had thought it would be a fine thing to come up behind her and take the horse unawares, suddenly ran out and snatched at the rein. But Tamburlaine was too quick for him. He jerked up his head and kicked out with one heel. Wheeling, he was off again in a sprawling gallop on legs that felt like four tree-stumps beneath him — past Dungannon, where stood Tyrone's great castle on its limestone rock, guarding within it the mystic crown of Phoenix feathers.* On towards the mountains and home. Every foot of ground was known to him now, every bush and every path. Ten miles more …
(* During the Nine Years War, Pope Clement VIII sent O'Neill only a “phoenix feather” and his blessing, but no other help.)
Chapter XXIV. - The Messenger
Heavenly spring lay like a green mantle over the woods about Ardhoroe. A short while ago, and all was winter brown. Now the last year's birds were so amazed at the new green bowers of this, the first spring they had seen, that they sang themselves silly from morning till night.
early, early in the dawning light, the old and the sick were on their way to Ardhoroe, hobbling and groaning along the wood paths, coming to Sabia to be cured. When Sabia rose at six of the clock on the 9th of May and looked out of her window, there they all were, ranged along the courtyard wall, waiting for salvation. The custom was to serve them first with good oaten cakes and wooden bowls of milk as they sat by the wall, and then to call them in one by one to the hall where Sabia sat in the great chair, her nurse standing beside her.
The first to come in was a hearty stout woman with red hair, her head slewed round on one side in a most unnatural position.
“The Virgin be merciful, Molly O'Halloran,” said Sabia sweetly, “what's the matter with your neck?”
“I've got a blast,” said Molly hoarsely. “There's a ratching in my spine and a ketching in my ribs. And the saints know what it is that has tied down my head to my shoulder. O'Halloran himself has to turn me in my bed, for I never could rise without assistance.”
“Indeed, ma'am,” said Nurse Phaire, popping from behind Sabia's chair, “it's a bad blast you have and no mistake. But we'll soon cure you of that. Rowl yourself in red, ma'am, and I'll give you a bottle of the white cure to rub well in. Haven't I the good rhyme for that: 'Rub her in white and rowl her in red, for twice the sun's round, let her lie in her bed.'”
“The people are saying,” said Molly, “that the Lady Sabia has the fortunate touch, Now if she was to touch my neck, maybe she might loosen the blast off me.”
“With all the heart I have,” said Sabia, and rising at once, she went to the woman and gently rubbed the stiff neck with her kindly delicate hands. Believe it or not, the woman went out with her head straight upon her shoulders, uttering loud praises.
The next to come in was a little wizened man about sixty, with a face of the colour of a gold watch.
“Saints of God!” cried Nurse Phaire, “what's turned ye? It's a meadow-frog you have the appearance of, and no other creature.”
The man sat down, panting and looking proudly about him. “Ay, that's what they're all saying,” said he. “I'm the very colour of the net of lemons that came into the country last year on the Spanish ship.”
“What's turned you such a colour at all?” said Nurse Phaire suspiciously. “It's in the blood, it is. Is your heart took bitter at anything? Has some misfortune come upon you, or has someone done you an ill turn?”
The little yellow man twisted and rolled his hands one upon another. His chin trembled and shook, but he uttered not a word.
“Come,” said Sabia, “we are all friends here. If there is anything on your mind, say it out. We cannot help you unless we know your full complaint.”
“All my children are taken against me, all,” said the little yellow man at last, trembling from head to foot. “They're all wishing me dead. That they may broil for it in hell!” and he began to scream and splutter.
Nurse Phaire went round and patted his back. “Easy, easy, now,” she said. “Tell it all out, there's a good man. Ye'll be better after. But mind your manners before a daughter of the O'Neills.”
Rocking himself, with suppressed curses, out came the long tale. His married son had taken his plough, his darling Ellen had married against his will. His young son Dominic had gone away for a soldier, he being unwilling. And now Bride was going against him, his darling, his youngest.
Sabia looked on him with sad pity while he relieved himself. Nurse Phaire shook her head muttering:
“Yellow forsaketh his fellow.”
She looked in the drawer of a tall oak chest. Presently, she came over with a piece of yellow cloth in her hand.
“Hang this,” she said, “in your window, look on it when the morning sun smites it. Go abroad in the sunshine, not when the weather is dark. Make a tea of tansy and camomile flowers and the yellow marigold. Make your confession to the priest and sign the cross upon heart and mouth, and the yellow fires of your blood will die down.”
The man listened attentively and took the cloth, saying, “God reward you.”
Sabia went and took his hand: “I will come myself and see you and your daughter Bride, and decide between you,” she said. “Pray you to God that He may make you better to be loved.”
Hanging his head with a subdued look, the little man hobbled out of the room. He went, and there came a sound of shuffling feet in the passage and a woman's voice, saying: “Howld up now, darlin'. Howld up your head.”
Two women entered, supporting between them an emaciated but still beautiful lad. His feet trailed behind him, his white face hung mournfully down. Sabia rose from her chair and ran forward to him.
“John Joy,” said she, “whatever is come to you?” and she helped to place him in a seat.
The boy looked wistfully up at her with sea-blue eyes, then down again at his coat of white homespun which he stroked and folded in his fingers.
“So runs the wave upon the shore, fold on fold,” he was idly thinking. “And why can't they let me alone?”
Sabia went back to her chair; she was pale as death with pity. Nurse Phaire stooped down and whispered in her ear: “The sign's on him, Miss Sabia. Do you see the sign upon him? We can do nothing.”
But the mother of the boy was talking away: “The very day he was taken I can tell you. It was in the autumn and nothing would serve him, but he would go down by the bogs. And he told me himself when he was got as far as the water meadow. A cold wind blew out of the ground upon him, and he's been not to say well ever since. But he's better today, aren't you, Johnnie, my lamb?”
But the boy only sighed. To himself, he seemed to be piling up pebbles on the shore by a blue sea, while the others thought he was only playing with his fingers on his knees. The tears ran down Sabia's face.
“Indeed, ma'a
m,” said Nurse Phaire, “it's not safe to be abroad these times. There's them goin' about that could wish a stick or a straw into your backbone, to torment you till ye die.”
“Holy Virgin!” cried the woman, casting up hands and eyes. “Is it as bad as that with him, Mrs. Phaire? Sure I thought he was lookin' a bit better today, or I wouldn't have troubled to bring him along. What will I do for him, now tell me, Miss Sabia, my child, don't I see the blessed holy tears of sympathy upon your face? Consider, Miss Sabia, and the right cure will come to you. Look at him, my beautiful one, perfect in every limb, great at the learning; is the hope of our house to die?”
But Sabia could only stutter, words she had none. The old nurse came forward and laid her wrinkled hand on the boy's clammy forehead and felt the damp wisps of his honey-coloured hair.
“Ah, dear,” she said, “the last of them that could save him is gone from Ireland, gone five-twenty years ago. The old skill is no more, and much do I grieve there is no doctor's house of the ancient sort to put him into. It was they that were wise and had the great invention. Four big walls had the doctor's house of old and a door in each wall. Whichever way the wind blew, on that side the door was shut, and on that only. The house itself was built over a running stream. Day and night, the clean water ran through the house carrying the sickness away with it.”
“I would put him in a place like that, God knows, could I find it,” said the woman, “but failing the house with the water and the doors, what will I do for him?”
“I'll tell you that,” said the nurse. “But I'll not hide it from ye, ma'am, that he's very near death, unless God wills to save him. Let the daughter of Ardhoroe make the sign of the cross on his forehead and his breast. Take him home easy. Have you a horse for him?”
“We have an ass,” said the woman, “a quiet animal.”
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