‘You did the right thing,’ she said to her husband in a low voice before standing back and allowing the two men to confer.
And of course, she thought, he did do the right thing to allow the boy to go to his death. Not even the best physician in the world could have healed those terrible burns – and even if they could the young man-at-arms would have been blind and dumb for the remains of his life – the more likely possibility, though, would have been that he would have died a few hours later in screaming agony. It had taken courage to do what he had done, and it had taken courage and compassionate understanding for Turlough to stand back to allow him to go over that parapet. But now provision had to be made for the living and all eyes turned towards Turlough.
‘We have no other choice; we can’t just stand here and allow them to raze the castle to the ground; we must sally forth. Let me get my hands on a few of those bastards and I’ll die happy.’ Turlough’s voice was harsh and almost unrecognizable.
‘You’ll die all right, my lord,’ said the captain uncompromisingly. ‘We haven’t a chance. We would have to sacrifice fifty men to their gunfire before we could get near enough to them and even then we mightn’t succeed. None of us knows enough about those guns – or that trebuchet, either – and they have boat-loads of stones; as for the guns, they’ll have brought plenty of ammunition. We haven’t that number of able-bodied men to sacrifice them to a chance of getting nearer – a spear once thrown can’t be recovered and you need to be at close quarters for the throwing knives to work. You know that yourself, my lord,’ he added and then instantly ducked down. Mara did the same; the captain had seen the swing of the giant sling on the trebuchet, she thought, as she cowered into the wall and pulled Turlough close to her, waiting apprehensively for another one of those blazing cauldrons of fire to land amongst them.
But nothing hit the roof. This time the trebuchet lobbed one of those huge rocks. The wall of the tower was hit again and there was another tremendous crashing and the ominous sound of falling stone came to all of their ears. They stayed very still for a moment, feeling the castle tremble and Mara wondered whether this might be the last day for her husband, her son, herself and all of the men and women at Bunratty.
‘There must be something we can do.’ She said the words aloud, but to herself only. Turlough was not listening. Then the door behind her had opened and Enda was with them and she turned towards him with hope that some solution might have occurred to this clever young man.
‘I was thinking,’ he began and then was interrupted by a roar from the men by the trebuchet. A white flag waved and Mara held her breath for a moment. Was it possible that they were going to surrender? One man had climbed up on top of the trebuchet, his head flung back and his arms held out in a gesture that seemed to demand attention.
‘Turlough O’Brien,’ he shouted in strangely accented Gaelic. ‘I call on you to surrender your castle.’ He did not wait for an answer, but continued loudly: ‘Before the day is ended all of your men will be dead and your fine castle will be a heap of stones if you don’t. These are our terms.’ He paused and then said even more loudly. ‘Surrender the castle to us and we will be merciful. All women and children go free. Men will be taken to Limerick prison and you, Turlough O’Brien, so-called chief of your people, will be taken to London to meet the King of England.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Mara. ‘Bargain with him, Turlough. You can’t let yourself be taken to England.’
Turlough snorted. ‘Do you think that I couldn’t outwit that crowd? They wouldn’t get far with me. I’d be a very troublesome prisoner for them to convey to London.’ There was a strange smile on his face and for a big restless man of action, he stood very still, and his eyes wore a thoughtful look.
He’s going to do it, she thought, her heart plummeting. She wished that she and Cormac had never come to this castle. Perhaps the thought of his wife and his youngest son being able to go free had influenced Turlough towards an uncharacteristic decision. She saw the captain look at him with an air of puzzlement.
‘I’ve found a bucket of tar in the basement, my lord.’ Enda interrupted the strange silence. ‘I have it outside the door. Could your men dip their throwing spears in that – I’ve brought up some candles. I’ll light the tar and your men can throw the spears.’
Isn’t it too far for throwing spears, thought Mara and looked to see Turlough’s reaction, but he only patted Enda on the shoulder, and said, ‘Good lad, good lad, good thinking; that will keep them busy. Peader, you organize that.’
‘Five minutes!’ he shouted back to the men on the ground, holding up a hand with five fingers displayed and then grasping his captain by the arm he pulled him back to the other side of the roof. Mara wondered what was going on. It was a strange feeling for her to be relegated to the position of an onlooker whose opinion was of no account. She was used to being the one who decided what action to take at a time of unrest and peril.
Enda, his face glowing, had brought in the bucket-full of cold tar with some candles lying on it and a covered lantern. Quickly he struck a light from his flint and steel and ignited the candle in the lantern and then the stumps of candles stuck into the tar. After a minute the heat from the candles caused the tar to become liquid. The men dipped their spears into it and then waited for the word. Several looked slightly puzzled. Mara thought that they were doubtful of the use of throwing those spears for such a distance. The captain and two other men had left the tower top, but others came across the central roof to join their King.
Turlough stood impassive at the parapet. One large hand with fingers splayed widely apart was held up and his lips moved – counting out the seconds, thought Mara. After what seemed more than a minute he lowered one finger and the bloodthirsty crowd below cheered and whistled.
‘Carry on, lads,’ said Turlough in a low voice, still maintaining his stance at the parapet. The hand that he held aloft was steady and he gazed out towards the river impassively, the prominent O’Brien nose making his face look like a carved statue.
Enda worked like a demon. He had brought with him an iron poker and he continually prodded the tar and relit the candles until it flowed like honey and completely coated the tips of the spears. The day was still and what breeze there was hardly stirred the flame of the candles and behind the half-closed steel shutter of the lantern the flame of the large candle burned steadily. Mara hoped with every fibre within her. If only they could damage the trebuchet. That was the real problem. The castle had a well; it was richly provisioned with food-stuffs; they could withstand a siege more easily that the attackers could stay out in the wet and the cold of mid-winter.
But wasn’t it unlikely that the Knight of Glin would allow his trebuchet to be set up within reach of throwing spears or knives?
‘Three,’ said Turlough, folding down the third finger and Mara realized that she had missed one of the minutes. Time was going faster that she could cope with. There was a feeling of unreality about the scene.
The declaration of ‘four’ came more quickly. All now was in readiness, so Mara guessed that Turlough was counting more quickly. Fifteen men stood with spears coated in liquid tar and tiny flames were beginning to flicker from the iron bucket. The captain had returned, though not the two men who had accompanied him.
And yet something was happening outside. There had been a few shouted commands and then many footsteps had thudded on the stairs, coming up, a sound as though something was being dragged around the spiral staircase. And there had been an angry exclamation. And then the men had reached the doorway, but had not come in. They were waiting outside the door, she thought and wondered why.
‘Five!’ shouted Turlough. ‘And rot in hell the whole breed and seed of you all!’ and then he stood back. From where she stood, Mara could see that the white flag lowered and the men begin to pile more stones in the sling of the trebuchet. The castle and its occupants might now be fated. She felt a sense of relief that Turlough had not surrendered to them, but puzzle
d at his sudden change of attitude.
‘Go on, lads!’ said the captain. Four men dashed to the embrasures between the four upright merlons and launched their flaming spears. Three fell short, but the fourth, thrown by a very tall, very powerful-looking man, reached the small crowd near the trebuchet and scattered them. There was a shout, and a yell of pain which brought a grim smile to the men’s lips, but no great injury, thought Mara, as she noticed one man leave his post and dip his arm into the river.
‘And again!’ shouted the captain, while the first four went back and picked up new spears. By now the routine of setting them afire had been established, but Mara’s eyes went to the pile of spears in the corner and she wondered how much time this could gain them. She had little hope that the trebuchet could be injured. Some of the Knight of Glin’s men had run forward and held up shields, English shields; long, heavy shields, unlike the small round shields of the Irish; each one of these shields was about the size of a man. They held them up in front of the trebuchet, the deadly besieging weapon. Just two of the third lot of flaming spears pierced the wood shields, but they were easily plucked out and thrown into the river to quench the flame. The other two fell short and blazed uselessly on the marshy ground. The attackers began a scornful chant in English and Turlough stood very still in grim silence.
When there were no more spare spears left, he made a signal to the captain, who brought forth a piece of torn white material – rather like what Shona had been using down in the great hall for bandaging wounds. He handed it to Turlough, who waved it aloft. Instantly there was a wild cheer and faces appeared from behind the huge shield; even a few wounded men, lying on the bank, raised their heads and supported themselves on an elbow.
‘Knight of Glin,’ roared Turlough. The cheers and catcalls were cut off at a signal and a squarely built, short man stepped forward.
‘I am the Knight of Glin; what do you wish to say to me,’ he said in English.
Mara quickly translated.
‘Lived in this country for the whole of his miserable life and doesn’t speak a word of the language,’ said Turlough with disgust. Once again he spoke but this time to Mara’s astonishment he quoted in Latin from the Bible.
‘But thou, O God, shalt bring them down into the pit of destruction: bloody and traitorous men shall not live out half their days.’
There was a puzzled silence from the attackers. Heads turned. The Knight of Glin conferred with his captain. Turlough stood very still and said no more, just gazed straight ahead and down at the River Shannon which had kept the castle at Bunratty safe for over seventy years.
And then the door behind Mara opened and a cluster of men came in, dragging something amongst them.
For a moment Mara thought that they had captured one of the attackers – a medium-sized man, his face bleeding, his lips drawn back over his teeth – and then she realized that this was Maccon MacMahon. One of the men held a rope coiled in his hand – and the other end of the rope was around the neck of the prisoner. Mara stared in horror. Turlough’s face was a grim mask. He watched as MacMahon, chains on both hands and feet, noose around his neck was dragged roughly forward. The captain made a neat loop on the free end of the rope and slung it over one of the merlons and forced the man to stand beside the embrasure. The sun struck that spot, illuminated the bowed figure, the noose and bore down on the bald patch in the middle of the man’s head. Somehow there was something about that bald spot, almost a tonsure in shape and size, which seemed to make the situation almost unbearably pathetic.
Mara took an impulsive step forward. ‘Turlough,’ she said softly, ‘you can’t do this. The man has committed a crime, but he must be tried for that crime and the verdict of the court must be accepted – if guilty he will be punished. You cannot do this deed. It goes against every tenet of the law that we both believe in.’
But Turlough did not even look towards her. He stood, immoveable, at the battlements and gazed down. Rosta, the cook, white-faced but seeming unaware of his injury, looked from Mara to his master. Then he looked back at Mara and slightly shook his head. Leave him alone the gesture seemed to say and Mara closed her mouth on the legal argument that she was about to utter. Somehow, here in the middle of the bloody battle scene, there was, she knew, a feeling that what had this man had done, in betraying his King and in betraying all the clans who owed allegiance to this King of the three kingdoms, what this man had done was beyond forgiveness; that there was only one possible penalty and that was the biblical one – a life for a life.
But the Bible was full of savagery and Brehon law respected life and sought to avoid bloodshed.
And every fibre within Mara cried out against this deliberate killing of a man of the kingdom. She had spent almost her entire life – ever since the age of five – in the study of a law which had been drawn up in order to keep peace between neighbours and members of the same kingdom by providing a bloodless penalty for every possible crime. What this man had done was wrong, evil, and he and his clan should pay for that. There should be a heavy fine, but not a death. She could not countenance that; but could she help it? And she felt suddenly quite sick and powerless. There was a tense silence now from the attackers, no whistles, no cheering. The Knight of Glin gazed upwards and although Turlough spoke in Gaelic now, his gaze and his words were directed at that stocky figure of the Knight of Glin. And it seemed as though their meaning was instantly understood. The Knight looked upwards, and his very stillness and the angle of his gaze seemed to ask for more information.
‘The man, your agent, this renegade MacMahon, will be hanged – his troubles will be over quickly,’ continued Turlough, ‘but yours are only beginning. What do you think will happen to you? Will any other clan leader be willing to join with such a treacherous race as the English and their bastard half-castes?’
There was an angry murmur of talk after that. The man who had spoken first was at the Knight of Glin’s ear. He must be translating Turlough’s words into English. Mara strained her ears but could not hear much that made sense to her. They were perhaps wondering whether Turlough was bluffing, whether he would, in fact, carry out his threat to hang a friend, a tenant, a man whose family and clan were related to the O’Briens, bound to them by ties of blood and of marriage. The MacMahons had given their allegiance to the O’Brien kingship from time immemorial. They were descended from the brother of their great ancestor, Brian Boru. And through the five centuries that had elapsed since then, the bond between the MacMahons and the O’Briens had remained, had grown stronger and firmer.
Mara looked down on the attackers. The buzz of words rose louder and she prayed for the words to continue. While they were talking, no action would be taken. She had a great belief in words.
Let’s hope it all spends itself in talk, she thought. She hoped that Turlough had not given offence by his reference to bastard half-castes. The Knights of Glin, under English law, were descended from an illegitimate line of a previous Earl of Desmond. Brehon law, of course, took no notice of such things – a son, no matter who was the mother, once acknowledged by his father, according to the law, had equal inheritance rights with all other sons. The English, however, had different views and Turlough’s sneer was probably deeply insulting to the Knight of Glin. There had been a tense silence after those words. Mara moved a little closer and gazed down. The group of men seemed to be talking together, seemed to be arguing. From time to time their glances went up to the tower roof – they did not appear to be looking at Turlough, but at the rigid and immobile figure of the man who had betrayed him to the English foe. Maccon MacMahon was a traitor and a money-hungry blackguard, but he was no coward and he stood, very straight, looking down at the River Shannon, thinking, no doubt, how that river flowed in front of his own castle in west Thomond. Did he think about his motherless children, she wondered – about Shona, who had been neglected and abused by a man who should have cared for her, about the intelligent, angry Cael and Cian, who hung around stables and got little
attention from his father? Did he ever regret that he had betrayed the man who had been his friend for almost forty years – and his King for twenty of these years? Nothing could be told from that immobile figure.
Mara moved restlessly. The tension had broken in the group behind her. Some sort of decision had been taken. The movements and gestures of those on the ground had been read and a verdict was anticipated.
From the corner of her eye Mara saw the captain speak softly to the group of men. One by one they slid out of the door; even Enda went with them, leaving on the tower roof only Turlough, the captain, and herself – and the man with the noose around his neck.
There had been no dramatic counting of the minutes this time. And yet it seemed as though both parties were working to an invisible clock, because suddenly everything began to happen. The attackers loaded rocks onto the trebuchet and Turlough’s men burst from the tower, running at full tilt and launching knives flaming with pitch at the enemy. It was a brave try, thought Mara, watching with clenched hands. They hoped to surprise the enemy, but the guns were aimed at them almost instantly. The shots rang out and Mara saw two men fall.
And then her eyes went to her husband. He was not looking downward. As soon as his men burst out from the gate and had begun to run towards the river, Turlough had lifted his hand in a signal. Mara looked towards him, horrified.
‘Turlough, no!’ she exclaimed.
Verdict of the Court: A mystery set in sixteenth-century Ireland (A Burren Mystery) Page 18