by Alex Dylan
“He didn’t, lad,” said Rodrigues quietly. “He was tricked. Mountjoy offered Tyrone safe conduct to Mellifont Abbey to offer formal entreaty. The earl got down on one knee and agreed to a formal surrender in London before he even knew of the queen’s death.”
“To have come so close and still failed…” Heughan looked away, sick to his stomach.
Rodrigues let silence settle back on the table with the dust and the afternoon sunshine before he slipped his question in like an assassin’s blade. “What were you planning, Heughan? You never told me.”
“Gunpowder,” Heughan said morosely. “Enough to take the Castle and if needed, blast it from the face of the earth.”
“What!” Rodrigues protested. “And what precisely did you hope to accomplish with such an act?”
Heughan heard the criticism in his voice and looked up sharply. “Distraction. Destruction. An end to Ross’s meddling. Leverage to bargain with.” He pressed the heel of his hand into his forehead, leaning his elbow wearily on the table. “I just want an end to it. I’m sick of it.”
Rodrigues shook his head disbelievingly but softened his questioning. He talked soothingly in the voice he used to gentle horses when he was trying to break them. “Easy, lad. Talk to me. Tell me about it.”
Heughan spat out disconnected details, “At Kinsale…Jack and Desmond… gunpowder…”
Rodrigues abruptly cut him off. “Kinsale was a disaster. Mountjoy always had the upper hand. Don Juan del Aguila didn’t get his troops and gunpowder. The bad weather blew the Spanish ships off course.” His laugh was hollow. “History repeats itself. God favours irony.”
“I know,” said Heughan quietly. “And I know what happened to the wrecked ships and their cargo.”
“McGuire?” guessed Rodrigues. “Fishing up trouble from the Irish Sea, again?”
“More or less,” agreed Heughan. “Gunpowder is what the lads and I helped salvage. I’ve had Mac’s help to keep it hidden. Now I just need someone who can show us how to use it.”
“Why not just buy guns?” asked Rodrigues.
Heughan shook his head. “Dags are expensive. Big Man Maxwell has a matchlock pistol but he spends more time trying to keep the slow match alight than anything else. Even when he does get a shot off, it’s wild and he’s as like to shoot his own men as anyone else. Besides, Dumfries or Dundee are the only places where they make guns hereabouts, and the Johnstones keep a close eye on who’s buying.”
“Well, why not smuggle them in from somewhere else, instead of gunpowder?”
Heughan shook his head again. “Roddy, do you not think I’ve already asked these questions myself? I’m not as stupid as you think I am. How many times have you told me when we’re buying wine that we need to know the source to know the quality? And how many times have you drummed into me when I’m buying cloth that I have to check the suppliers myself and not take anyone’s word for it? ‘Test the quality between your finger and thumb. Hold it up to the light, look for the flaws. Check the dye is mordanted properly and won’t sweat out.’ I hear your words in my head all the time. If I would take this much care with wine and cloth, how much more careful do I need to be with weapons?”
“Aye, well, that’s true enough,” Rodrigues agreed begrudgingly. “I just never thought you were actually paying any attention to anything I said.”
“Well, I was,” said Heughan peevishly. “So, I don’t want to buy ordnance from some foundry that produces shoddy work and have them jam or explode in my face on the first firing.”
“Mmmm,” said Rodrigues, rubbing his scarred cheek thoughtfully, "that would spoil your pretty looks somewhat, wouldn’t it?
Heughan decided to change tack. “Desmond doesn’t think we need all twenty-two barrels. I thought I could sell off the surplus…”
“Twenty-two barrels!” Rodrigues exploded into interruption. “Madre de Dios, Heughan! There wouldn’t be one stone left standing on top of another.” He remembered the look that had passed between the Irishmen earlier. He narrowed his eyes shrewdly and guessed, “You have twenty-two barrels of gunpowder disguised as wine?”
Heughan laughed guiltily, “Yes. Oh gods, yes, Roddy.”
“Why are you laughing?”
“Because it feels so good just to be able to confess it to you, finally. Isn’t that insane?” Heughan said in a rush of relief.
Rodrigues rolled his eyes to the heavens and held up his hands. “Oh praise the Lord; an honest thief!” he sneered, wiping the smile from Heughan’s face.
“I told you before that I just don’t have your talent for playing games, Roddy.”
“Where is it now?” Rodrigues asked suspiciously. “Please don’t tell me you’ve done something stupid, like store it in our wine cellar.”
“I’m not a bloody fool!” Heughan said indignantly. “I sent it to Ross’s cellars, with the rest of his goods on the last delivery.”
For long seconds Rodrigues said nothing. Then he slapped his thighs and howled with laughter until the tears ran down his cheeks. Eleanor came running through from the parlour, concern writ large across her face, but he waved her away with a flap of his hand. She looked bemusedly at Heughan, who shrugged uncomprehendingly, before shutting the door behind her, leaving them alone together.
Rodrigues clutched at his side and wheezed to get his breath back. He sniffed loudly, patting his quilted doublet, feeling for his snuff box. He opened the little silver tin and put a pinch on the hollow on the back of his wrist, snorting it into his nostrils and breathing heavily until he regained his composure.
“Ach,” he said, rubbing the tips of his fingers at the corners of his eyes, where the salt had crusted dry. “You will be the death of me, Heughan. What the hell am I supposed to do with you now?”
Heughan ran a hand through his long hair. “I told you; I have a plan.”
“And I told you, I do the planning,” Rodrigues bantered. “’Twould be better if we worked together. Or at least didn’t get in the way of one another.”
“Capturing the king; that’s my objective. Now more than ever, it’s important. I can barter an exchange for Hugh.”
“And the gunpowder?” queried Rodrigues.
“Security,” said Heughan sternly. “If we don’t need it all, can you find someone to buy the surplus from us? Or can you find us an alchemist?”
“What do you know of alchemy?” asked Rodrigues. He worried about the circuit the conversation was taking. In revealing his past story to Heughan, he might have put himself and others at risk.
“Nothing,” Heughan admitted cheerfully, “which is why I need your help.”
Rodrigues nodded smoothing his moustaches thoughtfully, “Perhaps. There is a man who helped us at Kinsale, but it would take time to get a message to him. You need to have patience. There are others who might yet be turned to the cause if we can find the right arguments. Let’s just say that negotiations are hanging in the balance at present and there’s a delicate tipping point.”
Heughan smiled, “In that case, my future’s in your hands, Roddy.”
Chapter 10: Checkmate
Carlisle Castle, May Day, 1603
The hanged man was not yet dead. He twirled from the rope looped over the cross-beam with a look of benighted surprise on his empty face. He hadn’t expected to die. He had expected to be rewarded. Traitor that he was, they executed him upside down. His payment fell to the ground from his upturned pockets, betraying him twice.
The Hanged Man. The Traitor’s card. Betrayal and surrender. Someone needed to watch their back. This could be a card for any of them. Still, a warning should never be ignored.
Melisande massaged her temples with her fingertips, trying to crystallise the question that she needed answered: what is he doing here?
Six of swords. The Charon card. Like the ferryman of the River Styx, moving the souls of the dead. Meaning? A life lost in the past was influencing the future. This could be card for Heughan. Perhaps he had left a woman behind, and he mi
ssed the intimacy they had shared. That mean she had an opportunity.
The Chariot. Opposing forces pulling themselves apart. A strong man trying to maintain control. He had her zodiac belt about his waist. And the symbols for The Lovers.
Damn. That was a cause for concern. Not quite the opportunity she sought. A message within a message, perhaps portents of things to come? Personal preferences apart, there were strong emotions that had to be wrested under control. Perhaps that too was a message for her.
Melisande sighed her customary blessing of thanks as she put the cards away.
They were thrice busy today: a Truce Day, May Day and a king come calling. Just after dawn and already the solid wheels of the carts rumbled with uneven slowness over the moat bridge, vibrating the ground like buried giants snoring blissfully. This was, after all, a land of giants. The undulation of their sleeping forms gave shape to the great hills, surrounding the Castle like soldiers around a campfire. Melisande envied the forgotten, who could sleep endlessly; she, like others, had work to do.
Heughan kept up front with the drays, urging the big horses on and minding where they put their heavy feet. The horses were wont to become impatient, Duarte Stobart, the drover, even more so, and it was not the day to watch an accident unfold.
The cavalcade wound up Castle Way until, eventually, Heughan passed under the shuttered portcullis. The courtyard beyond was awash with activity. Heughan marvelled at the mass of people scurrying to and fro, absorbed in the business of preparation. May Day excited everyone’s passions. Heughan paused only briefly to confer with the carter before he jumped down. Rodrigues’s man would see to the unloading and obtain the necessary bills of sale from Jon O’the Ward. It was probably best if Heughan discretely kept out of everyone’s way.
He hadn’t been inside the Castle to oversee a delivery since the start of the raiding season, Michaelmas Truce Day it had been. The weather then had been bad, an ominous warning of the winter that was to follow. They all should have paid more attention. He stared with interest at the bustling scene laid out before him.
The Outer Ward was a huge area, almost a town within the Castle confines. Cattle, goats, sheep and horses grazed on a central commons. The military barracks and stables shouldered together against the northern walls, where the threat from the Scots was ever-present. There was a forge, smithy, workshops and cookhouses ranging down the West Walls to meet the armoury, kennels and the stump of the West Tower; the grizzled and battled-scarred survivor of previous conflicts.
The half-moon battery up the other end, thrusting into the courtyard, protected the triple towers of the Inner Ward. The Captain’s Tower guarded the gateway. Lady Mary’s Tower was a private domain lurking in a corner. The massive dominant Keep stood defiantly between them. Only those on the Warden’s business were admitted to the Inner Ward.
Few of the garrison on duty seemed to pay him any attention but Heughan noted those who noted him. The really trustworthy were completely ignored. Outwardly, some merited the briefest nod, eyebrows tipped up, head twitch like a horse loosening the reins. Others got a wink or a half smile. He was just another arrival, waiting to offload, but within five minutes he had assessed everything and knew to a man who was friend or foe. The tally was in his favour.
Aside from the militia, there was the dairy, buttery, brew house, wash-houses, stables, stores, wells and a family of ramshackle huts all huddled around the grazing. As Heughan turned to look around, he saw women sat on low stools plucking chickens. Escaping feathers floated like thistledown in the wind when the children couldn’t gather them up fast enough to stuff them into sacks. Girls stitched greenery together into long garlands to hang inside the halls and galleries. Maids beat the hangings and turkey rugs with all the effort of Drake repelling the Armada, raising a dusty storm cloud big enough to blow the fleet all the way back to Cadiz.
Butchers and cooks cannibalised an entire litter of piglets, stuffing them with their own sausages, puddings and sweetmeats before threading them onto long skewers, ready for the spit. The rangy Castle dogs begged under the tables, optimistically dreaming of growing a little fatter on the discarded entrails before someone’s boot could kick them away. Messengers scurried backwards and forwards, tripping over their own feet, running into the flapping hands of Jon O’the Ward. Jon O’ batted pot-boys back and forth, smacking them in all directions like human tennis balls.
Commerce swirled around Heughan as he turned full circle back to De Ireby’s Tower and the Gatehouse, where had entered through the portcullis. Heughan quickly realised he’d get no answers from the busy quartermaster. Everyone was absorbed with their own small domestic missions and when he asked, they all said the same thing: ask the chatelaine, ask Lady Melisande. He scowled at the memory of her.
Melisande had not seen him and was distracted with organising a flustered goose-girl. The young girl was barefoot, unlike her charges. They had been forced to walk through hot tar and then sharp grit to equip them with shoes to protect their feet during a long walk from some outlying farm. Melisande called up a page from the kitchens and gave him the girl’s switch to guide the geese away to a waiting pen. He seemed reluctant to undertake the quest handed to him but could not well refuse a lady, so with a knuckle to his forehead, he made a polite obeisance to her and shuffled off, uncertainly accompanied by a hissing protest.
Melisande stooped to pick up the girl’s leg, like Heughan would have examined a horse. She frowned with disapproval at the rawness of the girl’s blistered feet before, Heughan watched in astonishment, lifting her kirtle and ripping a strip of linen from the underskirt. She bound the girl’s foot before gently leading her away beyond the Captain’s Tower. He didn’t follow.
There was a rich chuckle at his elbow and La’l Willie behind him said, “Aye, well done, ma bonny cutty sark. She lapped it wi’ a fine clout, she did.”
Heughan snorted. “She could’ve used a rag, like the rest of us.”
“Aye, but dinnae fash yersel’, laddie. She’s making the job easier for you. She’ll have noo skirts at all by the time yer gets round to liftin’ them with yer pyntle!” Willie laughed and dodged out of the way before Heughan could cuff him.
There were so many extra folk at the Castle that Jon O’the Ward had ordered trestle tables arranged in the Outer Ward. Hungry labourers, servants and retainers grabbed a moment’s respite, a quick bite to eat and a stoup of water or ale. Heughan was inconspicuous amongst so many. He ate his mutton pie slowly and watched sharply. A couple of ladies caught his eye and he waved them over.
“Well, girls,” he smiled pleasantly. “Are you working the crowds?”
Kitty giggled and Bridie, ever taciturn, merely arched an eyebrow at him. “What’s it to you, Heughan?” she said.
“Nothing,” he shrugged, “just taking an interest in the scenery.”
His eye roved to a girl with hair the colour of sunset-tinged sandstone. Heughan always noted redheads. In his experience, they were fiery in more ways than one. He had loved to smooth the cream of Molly’s skin and find her freckles in interesting places. Such a shame he’d had to send her back to Drogheda.
“One of yours?” he asked.
Both girls followed the direction of his gaze.
Kitty shook her head, “Well, she would’ve been if Lady Muddlemore hadn’t got there first.” She yelped as Bridie pinched her on the fleshy part of her arm and rubbed at the tender spot. “What d’ya do that for, you scabby wench?”
Heughan grinned cheerfully at Bridie and patted the seat beside him, “Sit here, Kitty, and tell me all about it. Bridie’s clearly got some place else she wants to be.”
Bridie scowled at the pair of them as Kitty tucked herself securely into Heughan’s outstretched arm. He flicked her a coin, which she caught deftly.
“Go on, clear off and give a man some privacy. I’ve paid for her time,” he said dismissively.
Bridie looked down at the coin as though she might argue. She gave them both a hard stare befor
e stalking off in the direction the other girl had taken.
Kitty giggled again, “You might have wasted your money. That’s one miss you won’t be bedding soon, Heughan. I reckon Bridie’s gone to warn her off. That little pigeon has a high price on her head now. You should’ve made your move sooner, when you had the chance.”
She nodded to herself with the confidence of having made a wise pronouncement and sipped Heughan’s ale.
Heughan withdrew his arm from round her waist. “What are you babbling on about, woman? I’ve never seen the maid before.”
“Nay,” disagreed Kitty in genuine surprise. “Sal’ bought her a while back, hoping to auction her off, before your shenanigans put paid to that.”
She kicked at Heughan’s foot and leaned out sideways, looking at his leg. Spreading her hand over his thigh, she slid it upwards from his knee, until he abruptly caught at her wrist and stopped her.
“Lady Meddlesome cut you deeply, didn’t she?” she asked slyly, meeting Heughan’s eyes. “Why do you call her those names?” Heughan changed the subject, a few suspicions falling into place in his mind.
Kitty laughed boldly.
“Not me, boyo. They’re the Spaniard’s nicknames for her. I’ve overheard him talking to Sal’ about her many times. She’s a’ways making trouble, that one.”
“Aye, she is that,” Heughan agreed easily.
He reached up and caressed her earlobe. Kitty softened and flexed her neck coyly towards him, until Heughan stiffened his arm to hold her tight, still gripping her ear.
“You’ll find yourself in much more bother if you don’t learn to keep your big ears away from closed doors and private conversations. Take a look at Half-Lugs Elliot over there. You’ll not look nearly so pretty when you’ve nothing to tuck your curly brown hair behind.”
Kitty glanced at grizzled Jock Elliot seated on a nearby table. Tufts of spiky hair sprouting at odd angles from his scabby head were signposts for the chewed remains of flesh where his ears should have been. His battle-worn featured slumped across a grotesquely wizened face. If man was formed from clay by the Creator’s hands, then Jock Elliot looked like he had been spun round the potter’s wheel by a giddy apprentice. Kitty wriggled uncomfortably.