Safe Home (The Tipperary Trilogy)

by William Patterson

  ‘But wood’ll rot,’ he protested meekly.

  ‘Wood was what Liam loved and it’s what he’d have wanted,’

  ‘It’ll be wood, so,’ Jamie pronounced, ‘the very best I can carve.’

  Roisin shook her head, ‘No, lad, something modest, Liam was a simple man.’ As soon as she said the words, she realised it wasn’t quite that way. Liam had indeed lived simply, without any great needs, but he was as complicated as anyone could be. Her husband had been a complete paradox, sophisticated and crude, a believer and a blasphemer, and, most of all, a dreamer and a practical man. Her tears began to flow silently again and she wondered if she would ever be able to think about her poor dear Liam without crying.

  Before they reached the cottage, Robert called Mick Sheridan aside.

  ‘I need to speak to you,’ he told him. A look of fear crossed Mick’s face. ‘Don’t worry, you’re not in any trouble, Mick. I have need of your expertise in a matter concerning horses.’

  Mick was relieved. ‘I’m at yer service, sir,’ he said.

  ‘I need to buy a pair of horses for a specific purpose.’

  Mick was intrigued. Whenever he was talking about horses, he was entirely comfortable. ‘What’ll ya be needin’, so, sir?’

  ‘I need two mountain horses, about fifteen hands tall. I need animals with endurance, horses that can put on a burst of speed with a rider on board. They have be able to live for a couple of weeks on a sparse diet and still keep up their strength.’

  ‘Ah, yeah.’ Mick smiled now. ‘Yu’ll be needin’ a horse with some arse t’ get uphill, an’ a pair o’ shoulders on ‘im fer getting’ down. It sounds t’ me like ya need Hobbies but dere ain’t any Hobbies around here anymore.’ Mick scratched his chin and thought for a moment. ‘Dere’s an’ auld feller up in Folly dat’s got a couple wit’ d’ bloodline. I don’t know if he wants t’ sell ‘em, dough.’

  ‘Money’s no object, Mick. If those horses fit the bill, I want them.’

  Mick looked quizzically at the sheriff. No one had ever asked him to buy a horse without first setting a budget on it and he felt the responsibility weigh heavy on him.

  ‘I’ll go check d’horses first t’ing in d’ mornin’, sir.’

  ‘They’ll need to be dead broke, and fit to ride as soon as you can get them ready, Mick.’

  Mick scratched his head now. ‘A week,’ he said, ‘maybe two. Would dat be soon enough fer ya?’

  ‘As soon as you can is as soon as I want those animals,’ said Robert slipping a pound into the big man’s hand.

  Mick looked down at the coin. ‘Beggin yer pardon, sir, but dat ain’t gonna be anywhere near enough t’ buy dem creatures.’

  ‘That’s for you, Mick, for your trouble. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon, then you can tell me what the price is and we’ll make the deal.’

  Mick held Robert’s gaze for a moment. ‘Yer goin’ after Mikey, ain’t ya, sir?’

  ‘I am, Mick, and I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it under your hat, at least until a couple of days after I’ve left.’

  They had reached the cottage now and the two men went inside to eat dinner with the others. When the meal was finished, Robert announced that he had some business back in Nenagh and that he would return the next afternoon. Roisin was surprised. It wasn’t usual to see the sheriff more than once or twice a month, and then only briefly. He was a busy man. But then, nothing was usual anymore, so much had happened in such a short time.

  True to his word, Robert arrived the following afternoon, dressed in his uniform and riding the big chestnut charger. He stopped by the cottage briefly. He had a satchel with him and he placed the leather sack on the table.

  ‘I’m leaving this with you for safekeeping, woman,’ he said.

  Roisin heard the metallic sound of coins as Robert put the sack down. ‘How much is in the bag?’ she asked.

  He smiled. ‘Enough to live on for two lifetimes,’ he said. ‘I’ve made a lot of money as High Sheriff, and as a soldier of fortune before that. You’re to keep it for me and, if I need any of it, I will send for it.’ With that, Robert strode out of the tiny cottage, mounted his charger, and headed at a gallop down the road, toward Micks house. Roisin was alone with the satchel and she eyed it suspiciously, as if it might bite her. She tentatively lifted the flap and gasped as she peered inside the leather pouch. She had never seen so many gold coins in one place in all her life. She lifted up her goose feather mattress and stuffed the pouch deep underneath.

  *

  CHAPTER 6

  Robert rode to Mick’s cottage, his mood strangely upbeat. Trees lined the side of the road, their branches meeting overhead to form a green, leafy tunnel, and the hoofbeats of his big chestnut horse resounded as they pounded the road with the rhythm of a bodhran. He felt more alive than he’d felt in a long time.

  Robert Flynn D’Arcy had lived through a hundred, maybe a thousand, adventures in his life and he had thought those days were gone. Now, here he was, about to embark on another, perhaps the best one of all. He felt the long-forgotten tingle of excitement, like a charge of electricity, as the adrenaline coursed through his veins. He felt young again.

  Robert had already decided to leave the office of High Sheriff when he returned from his quest. He had grown weary of sitting behind a desk and, although his hair was still dark, his beard had become grizzled with age and the wrinkles on his face deepened with each passing day. He had forgotten the thrill of the chase, until now. He had eliminated any local banditry long ago, and considered that he’d probably already hung every interesting person there was in North Tipperary. His job had become little more than that of a desk clerk, writing reports and shuffling papers and, for a man like Robert Flynn D’Arcy, the mind-numbing occupation of an administrator was fatal.

  He reined the chestnut to a trot, then to a walk, as he approached Mick’s paddock. Mick’s horses whinnied a greeting at the approach of the big steed and Robert’s horse nickered in reply. Sheridan was waiting for him.

  ‘Howaya!’ he called.

  The horse had barely come to a halt when Robert swung himself out of the saddle. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, I got some good news, an’ I got some bad news.’

  ‘Give me the bad news first.’

  ‘The bad news is dat ‘e wants eight pounds each fer d’ two geldings.’

  Robert gave a slight smile through gritted teeth. ‘He can take ten for the both of them.’

  Mick looked sceptical, ‘Ah, I don’ know, now. Callahan’s a slick aul’ horse trader.’

  ‘I’m telling you, he’ll take ten for the both. C’mon, Mick, saddle up, we’re going for a ride.’ Robert watched impatiently as the big man saddled a nicely-built paint cob.

  ‘Dis is Aoife,’ he informed Robert, stroking the horse’s neck. ‘I named ‘er after a mare I had donkey’s years ago.’ Robert nodded. He was anxious to get started so they could negotiate the deal for the horses.

  The ride to Folly didn’t take much more than fifteen minutes at a relaxed canter but, even so, the horses were breathing heavily when they arrived at a whitewashed, mud cottage. An old fellow stood outside waiting for them. He was thin with a pot belly, and it occurred to Robert that he looked like a length of rope, with a knot tied in the middle of it. The man’s jaw dropped when he saw the sheriff.

  ‘Let’s go and inspect the stock’, said Robert and, as he was led to the pasture where the two geldings were grazing, he heard Callahan whisper to Mick,

  ‘Jayzus Christ, man! Ya never tol’ me dat d’ buyer was d’ sheriff!’

  As they got closer to the horses, Robert could see that the two bays were put together well, straight-legged and short-backed, deep-chested and well-muscled about the hind quarters and shoulders. The three men approached and Mick examined the feet and teeth of each, running his ham-sized hand along each of their backs and legs. Robert thought he was almost tender in the way he handled the animals.

  ‘Alright, let’s see ‘em move,’
said Mick decisively, giving a piercing whistle and throwing his arms in the air.

  Callahan was startled and jumped at the sound, ‘Jayzus, man! I almost shit meself,’ he yelled.

  ‘Almos’ don’t count,’ said Mick. ‘Ya eider shit yerself, or ya don’t.’ Robert stifled a grin.

  As the horses galloped around the small pasture, Robert scrutinised their gait. They appeared sound, and they could certainly put on a burst of speed to match even his own heavy horse, but they looked able to sustain it for much longer.

  ‘They’ll do,’ said Robert finally. ‘Give me a price.’

  Callahan looked the sheriff up and down, then looked at the two horses, then back at Robert, scratching his head as if pondering on the price which he’d already decided on.

  ‘I want eight pounds apiece,’ he said, ‘but I’m willin’ to sell ‘em both t’ ya fer fifteen.’

  ‘It’s illegal for an Irishman to own a horse worth more than five pounds,’ said Robert, ‘and you don’t look like a thief to me, so I’ll give you ten for the both of them.’ Now Mick understood why the sheriff had worn his uniform to come and buy horses.

  Callahan looked startled. He realised he could be in a serious predicament and he hummed and hawed a little.

  ‘Could ya ever see yer way to making it just a wee bit more?’ he whined.

  ‘I could,’ replied Robert, ‘but then I’d be a criminal too and, as well as arresting you, I’d have to turn myself in. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll give you the ten pounds for the horses and another pound as a gift, so you can buy yourself a jug of poteen to salve your wounds.’

  ‘Will ya make it two pounds?’ the skinny man bellyached. ‘Dem wounds is fierce deep?’

  ‘Mick, confiscate the horses. They’re evidence in this crook’s trial.’

  ‘Noooo, no, no!’ interrupted the horse trader. ‘Let’s not be hasty, now. I t’ink me wounds is healin’ already. Ten pounds an’ a jug’ll do just grand.’

  The two men shook hands and the money was exchanged. As they led the horses away, Robert heard the old fellow say, ‘I hope d’ horse t’rows him on ‘is arse.’

  The sheriff stopped and turned slowly around. ‘Did you say something, Callahan?’

  Callahan gave a little bow. ‘Ah, I was just sayin’ dat if you need anudder horse anytime, just ask.’

  Mick took the saddle off his own horse and placed it on one of the bay geldings to give it a trial, and they led the animals down the road towards Gortalocca. The animal was spirited and tried a side pass as they cantered down the lane. Mick gathered the horse and smiled.

  ‘Dis one’s grand and frisky,’ he said. ‘He has some vinegar in ‘im.’

  ‘You’ll need to sweeten him up, Mick. I might have to depend on him for my life.’

  Mick nodded. ‘I understand, sir. I’ll get d’ edges polished off in a few days, no bother.’ As they rode, Robert led the other two animals while Mick began schooling his own mount. By the time they reached Mick’s place, the horse had settled down.

  ‘I have some work to attend to in Nenagh,’ said the sheriff, ‘but, God willing, I’ll be back in a few days,’

  ‘Yer doin’ God’s work, sir,’ replied Mick, ‘so I’m sure He’ll be willin’.’ As he turned and began rubbing the horses down, Robert wheeled own horse around and headed west, towards the market town. God’s work, he thought. It was a long time since anyone had accused him of doing God’s work, in fact he’d been damned by many men with their dying breath. He closed his eyes now and let the sun shine on his face. His horse knew the way, but it slowed instinctively as they neared Liam and Roisin’s cottage.

  ‘Not this time, old fella. We have some work to do before we get home.’

  He crossed the bridge over Nenagh River at Ballyartella’s mill and the horse wanted to keep going towards town. Robert pricked the animal’s side with his left spur and pressed his thigh against the creature’s flank. The horse turned abruptly right at the cue. He reigned it to a halt, dismounted, and tied the reins to a ring which had been set in the wall of a small, stone building. He drew his sabre from a scabbard which hung from the saddle, and he ducked through the low door of Matt O’Brien’s forge. The smell of charcoal brought back memories of being with Liam, back in his own da’s smithery. Neither Matt nor Jamie looked up. They were busy building wheel rims, and the constant hammering at the anvil had partially deafened them, so they didn’t hear his approach. When Matt looked up at the man with an unsheathed blade in his hand, he put his hand out to stop Jamie working and they both took a step backwards. Robert realised that he’d unwittingly unnerved them and he placed the sword down on a work table near the door.

  To diffuse the tension, Robert spoke first. ‘Good day to you, gentlemen. I have a task that I would like you to perform’. The two smiths opened their eyes wide with surprise. Robert turned, picked up the sabre and held it towards them, handle first. ‘Here, I’ll describe my requirements. I want the blade shortened to sixteen inches. It will no longer be a slashing weapon, so I want the tip to be sharp. You have to lighten the hand guard too, so that it balances right in front of the hilt. I don’t want it to be shiny so you’re to take the polish off it, and brown the blade and basket like a musket.’

  Matt spoke now. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon sir, but dat blade’s the finest I’ve seen. It’ll look like shite if we do what ya ask. Anyway, why don’cha take it t’ d’ armourer in d’ castle?’ Jamie had taken the blade and hefted it slightly. It was so beautiful that he forgot, momentarily, how deadly it could be in the wrong hands.

  ‘Can you do it, or not?’

  Matt hesitated for a moment but Jamie leapt in. ‘We can, sir, o’course!’ The smith looked at Jamie dubiously, but the young man continued. ‘It should be straight and pointy, so’s it won’t hang up when ya stick somebody. An’ it must have a blood groove, t’ lighten d’ blade wit’out givin’ up d’ strength. Da guard should be t’ick at d’ front, in case ya have t’ fight a man wit’ a sword, or break somebody’s jaw.’

  Robert smiled. ‘You could be an armourer yourself, lad,’ he said. ‘You just described precisely what I want.’

  Jamie’s face flushed and Matt scowled at him, he didn’t appreciate being upstaged by his student. ‘As ya know so much about swords,’ he told Jamie, ‘you c’n do d’ job yerself, an’ den, if dere’s any complaints, d’ sheriff can cut off yer ear!’

  ‘There won’t be any ears cut off, Mr. O’Brien,’ said Robert. ‘In fact, here’s ten shillings for the job, and I don’t care what you do with the steel from the half blade you cut off.’

  Matt was elated at receiving this unexpected payment and some quality spare steel, but Jamie blurted out,

  ‘I’ll make anudder knife for ya, sir, a long skeane, so’s ya c’n keep it hidden mostly.’ Another cloud crossed Matt O’Brien’s face. He’d already decided he would make a knife for himself out of the extra metal.

  ‘Yu’ll do dat job too, so,’ he groused, and went back to furiously pounding the wheel rim. Jamie shrugged and grinned at Robert, who remembered how infectious his brother, Liam’s enthusiasm had been too.

  ‘I’ll be back in a few days to check on the progress of the labour, and I hope I can trust you two gentlemen to keep this in confidence.’ Matt looked up from his work and grumbled. Jamie nodded enthusiastically.

  Not long after Robert had ridden away, Matt’s foul mood had been replaced by one of curiosity,

  ‘What d’ya suppose yer man is up to?’ he said, watching the doorway where Robert had exited just minutes before. It had been a rhetorical question but Jamie offered a reply.

  ‘I t’ink he’s goin’ t’ find Mikey.’

  ‘Sure Mikey is probably as dead as his auld man by now.’

  Now it was Jamie’s turn to curdle. ‘Roisin said he’s not dead, an’ Liam always said dat Robert got every man he hunted down.’

  ‘Agh! You an’ yer Liam dis an’ yer Roisin dat. Dat feller’s got as much chance of finding d’ stupid boy as
he has of findin’ a snowball in dat fire d’ere.’

  Jamie ignored him and began work on the blade.

  *

  CHAPTER 7

  Less than a hundred miles away, as the crow flies, another young smith was beating a piece of iron on an anvil. At the same time, he was wrestling with his own internal demons. It was a crisis of faith and a contest he couldn’t win.

  His name was Michael Hogan and his smithy was in the village of Ballyshee, in the west of County Cork. It was the perfect place for a body to re-invent himself, nestled as it was in a little valley amongst fierce and almost uninhabitable mountains. There was only one road to it, and that lay mostly ignored by the authorities. There was hardly ever a stranger to be seen in Ballyshee and, if one did make a wrong turn on the way to Macroom or Bantry and wander in, they left as soon as they’d obtained directions back out.

  Mikey had arrived here two years before, a skinny, sandy-haired boy of twenty, carrying with him a sack containing the grey frock of a Franciscan. He was the son of a carpenter and, in his previous life, his name had been Michael Francis Flynn. He had assumed his grandfather’s surname of Hogan in his efforts to protect the family he’d left behind in Tipperary.

  Ballyshee’s village smith had died of consumption four years before, and the village had gone without, until Michael came. They had also been without a priest for almost as long, since he’d been caught saying Mass in Gougane Barra. There were spies everywhere, and priests were hunted as if they were wolves. It was a new witch hunt but this time, Catholic priests were the quarry.

  Michael wasn’t an ordained priest. After the two years he’d spent in the seminary, it had been closed by the authorities and the teachers arrested. Only a few students had managed to escape, and they dispersed themselves throughout the country. He wasn’t even a proper blacksmith, having left Matt O’Brien’s forge before he’d completed his apprenticeship. Nevertheless, he was the best the little village of Ballyshee could get until someone more qualified came along. None of those things were a problem for Mikey, he could live with them. Michael Francis Hogan’s problem was that he had fallen in love.