‘And yours. And all Tír Chonaill rejoicing to have you home again.’
‘All?’ Hugh raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s not exactly how I heard it.’
‘Well, as many as have any sense.’ Eoghan grinned, but then became serious again. ‘There’s no use to talk, Hugh, the country’s in a bad way. But discussion of that can wait. You’re home, that’s the important thing.’ He hesitated. ‘How is my father?’
‘He’s well,’ said Hugh. ‘Or as well as any man can be and he a prisoner.’ A wave of anger swept over him. ‘He was my father’s right hand, Eoghan, the one man he could always rely on. I feel the want of him already.’
‘All Tír Chonaill feels the want of him,’ said Eoghan. He bit his lip and was silent for a moment. Then: ‘Look,’ he said, lifting his head and pointing skyward, ‘an eagle. There was one hunting over the Fanad Peninsula that day. Remember?’
‘I do,’ said Hugh, following his gaze. He smiled. ‘But I never expected you would.’
‘How would I forget?’ said Eoghan softly. ‘Isn’t every detail of that morning stamped on my mind like words in a book? Every cloud in the sky, every ripple on the water – why, I could number the pebbles on the shore and you asking me.’
Hugh grinned. ‘And Donal saying you hadn’t as much poetry in you as a bull’s backside.’ He prodded his friend in the ribs. ‘He was wrong. You have!’
Eoghan roared with laughter. ‘The devil mend you, Hugh Roe O’Donnell. You have a tongue on you sharp enough to cut a man’s throat. Was that an insult or a compliment?’
Ballyshannon honoured the return if its hero in a manner to rival even Maguire’s hospitality. The feasting and dancing went on into the early hours of the morning and Hugh celebrated the fullness of his freedom on a wave of whiskey-winged euphoria. He woke the next morning with a sore head and an inevitable sense of deflation. MacDunleavy the physician came to examine his feet. He poked and prodded for a long time and Hugh watched him anxiously. ‘Well,’ he demanded at last, ‘are they going to mend? Will I walk again?’
‘I don’t know.’ said MacDunleavy honestly. ‘It is still too early to tell. God willing they will heal, but only if you give them absolute rest.’
‘But –’
‘I mean it, now. Two weeks at least. Not a foot to the floor and I not giving you leave, or I’ll not be responsible for what happens.’
Hugh gave in. Put that way, what option had he? MacDunleavy was not a man to exaggerate. Besides, now that danger no longer lurked round every corner, his reserves of strength had deserted him. He was exhausted. To be able to lie here in comfort, surrounded by friendly faces, lapping up the sounds and smells of liberty. It was an overwhelmingly enticing prospect.
He stretched himself with a luxurious sigh and asked MacDunleavy to send Eoghan O’Gallagher to him. To his surprise, however, it was not Eoghan who stuck his head round the door a short while late. ‘Donal!’ exclaimed Hugh, sitting bolt upright as his visitor entered the room. ‘Donal Gorm MacSweeney! MyGod, is it really yourself!’
‘It is,’ grinned his friend. ‘Ridden like the wild hunt all the way from Rathmullen to make sure you were safe home again. Sure, wasn’t I starting to despair of you.’
‘And you not alone in that,’ said Hugh feelingly. ‘Now, sit down till you tell me everything that is after happening in Tír Chonaill.’
Donal perched himself on the end of the bed. ‘Everything, is it? And where will I ever start? How much is Hugh mac Ferdoragh after telling you?’
‘Enough. I know my father is ill, that the country is split into factions, that the Englishman, Willis, and his men still occupy Donegal Friary. In God’s name, Donal,’ he drove a fist into his palm, ‘why is no one after chasing them out?’
‘Because Lucas Dillon had the truth of it,’ said Donal grimly. ‘We are our own worst enemies. Your father, God save him, is innocent as a child, and little better than a prisoner in what is left of Donegal Castle. Your mother is fled to the protection of The MacSweeney Doe, and the clan leaders, instead of supporting her, fight over the chieftaincy like dogs over a dead rabbit.’
‘I will put a stop to it,’ vowed Hugh. ‘I swear it. As soon as I am well enough.’
There was a long pause. Donal fiddled with the cuff of his shirt and didn’t look at him. ‘That may not be soon enough,’ he said at last, softly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The Council in Dublin is already making mischief – each man of it desperate, no doubt, to avoid suspicion over your escape. They are urging Fitzwilliam to send an English sheriff into Tír Chonaill and he to support Hugh mac Hugh Dubh for the chieftaincy. We have to act now, Hugh, drive Willis out. We have to show our strength – your strength.’
‘But …’ Hugh lifted his hands helplessly. ‘I can’t yet, Donal – I daren’t. My feet – if I lose them I lose everything, and MacDunleavy says …’
‘I know – I am after speaking with him. But –’
‘And even Hugh mac Ferdoragh said I must not make a move till I was well. Surely, were things so bad …’
‘Hugh mac Ferdoragh is not in Tír Chonaill. He does not see the things I see – hear what I hear.’ Donal raked his hands through his hair. ‘Ah, Hugh. Am I the reckless one? Am I Eoghan, to be urging you to rashness? The risk is terrible – I know it – but you have no choice. You are running out of time.’
Hugh bit his lip. ‘But suppose … I mean, even if … what use would I be and I crippled like this?’
‘You would be there – the returned hero, a champion for the clans to follow. You can still ride a horse.’
‘Who will back me – apart from you and Eoghan?’
‘O’Boyle would – Willis is after taking his castle too – and The MacSweeney Banagh.’
‘Donchadh MacSweeney? But he supported Hugh mac Calvagh against my father. And my mother had mac Calvagh killed. The man must hate my guts.’
‘Not as much as he hates Willis’s. You are not after burning his homes and pillaging his cattle – and you don’t have his hostages.’
‘Hostages? Willis has hostages?’
‘From every chieftain south of Bearnas Mór. How else would he be getting away with what he does?’
Hugh closed his eyes. He thought of his injured feet – of what might happen if he ignored the physician’s warning – and weighed that against what Donal had told him. Then he thought of his father. He thought of a bog on Inishowen and the hostages in Donegal Friary. He knew there was no choice.
‘Fetch Eoghan to me,’ he said grimly, ‘and send out the call to the clans. We will ride before the week is out.’
Donchadh MacSweeney Banagh, encamped before the walls of Donegal Friary, came out of his tent to greet his newly arrived allies.
‘A hundred thousand welcomes, Hugh Roe O’Donnell,’ he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘It’s glad we are to have you here – and you after travelling a rocky road to join us.’
Hugh steadied his horse and returned the man’s stare. He wished that he could not feel his exhaustion stamped across his face for all to see. MacSweeney is testing me, he thought. Any sign of weakness and I am lost. Thank God I am on horseback, and he not knowing the truth of things.
‘I am not here to join you, MacSweeney,’ he said loudly. ‘I am here to lead you.’
‘Are you now.’ The man’s lip twitched sardonically. ‘And you with all the experience of your nineteen years – and four of them spent in an English prison.’
‘And my father’s blessing on me, and half the country at my heels.’ Well, it was close enough to the truth. His army did outnumber Donchadh’s. And he had another advantage – or two to be precise – he had his champions. With Eoghan on his left hand and Donal – calm, dependable Donal – on his right, he could have stood unflinching before the gates of hell. ‘The Unholy Trinity,’ Eoghan had gleefully proclaimed them the day they rode out of Ballyshannon – and he had the truth of it. They had been through so much together, knew
each other so well, they were like three sides of the same triangle.
He could feel their support, even without turning to look at them, and suddenly, as if reading his mind, Donal spoke. ‘Is it for us to be arguing among ourselves?’ he urged The MacSweeney, gently. ‘And Willis’s dogs watching us from yon walls? Hugh Roe has the truth of it – he has the larger force – but there’ll be honour enough for all, I’m thinking, before this fight is over.’
MacSweeney didn’t answer. His gaze flickered slowly over Hugh’s assembled army and then shifted to take in his own camp. Hugh pressed home his advantage. ‘How many of your people,’ he asked, pointing towards the friary, ‘lie hostage behind those walls? What counsel would they give and you asking them?’
For a long time the chieftain hesitated, but at last he shrugged his shoulders. ‘You have the truth of it,’ he conceded. ‘Hugh mac Calvagh was my lord, and I’ll not forget how he was murdered. But for now … sure, I can’t fight two battles at the one time.’
He held out his hand and Hugh accepted it. A cheer went up from both armies, but Hugh was under no illusions. MacSweeney disliked him, the agreement would not be a lasting one – but at least it was a start. His first test of strength, his first victory.
That evening they held a council of war in Hugh’s tent.
‘I say we attack them,’ declared Eoghan. ‘We have the numbers. We could rush the gates.’
‘A good move,’ agreed MacSweeney. ‘Or we could burn them out. Aren’t they after strutting long enough like cocks on a dunghill?’
‘And they after killing Brother Tadhg O’Boyle,’ added Eoghan. ‘Let you not forget that. Like a dog they cut him down and he in his own cloister. Let them pay for it. Let them feel the taste of cold steel in their bellies.’
He looked at Hugh and Donal, as if seeking support. Donal said nothing. Hugh felt his pulse quicken. Yes, he thought. Yes! Attack! Strike at the hated English, wipe out the humiliation of captivity – and let every blow be a knife in the gut of the English queen. But then he remembered something – the truth he had first understood that terrible day in Fizwilliam’s torture chamber. This was not about him. It was not about honour or personal revenge. It was about survival. If he slaughtered Willis and his company, he would bring the English howling down on Tír Chonaill like the hounds of the Morrigu, and Tír Chonaill, faction-ridden and leaderless, would crumble like a burnt-out log.
He needed time – time to formalise his authority, to put his foot on the inauguration stone on Carraig na Dúin. Only then could he begin to forge unity among the warring clans. Yet, somehow, he had to confront Willis, and he had to win.
‘This place is a house of God,’ he said slowly. ‘And a house of hostages. I will not spill Irish blood on consecrated ground.’
‘Then what will you do?’ jeered Donchadh MacSweeney.
‘I will wait. We have them sealed inside those walls like rats in a barrel – we will starve them out.’
‘Ha, the coward’s way!’
‘What!’ Hugh sprang to his feet but immediately collapsed again. Before anyone else could move, Donal had risen in his place, and his sword-tip hovered at MacSweeney’s throat. ‘You will take back those words,’ he told his kinsman in a voice as brittle as an ice shard, ‘or I will force them down your throat, one by one on the point of this blade.’
MacSweeney’s eyes bulged like a toad’s. His face went from red to purple as he choked on his rage, but gradually he regained his self-control. ‘My sorrow,’ he said, unconvincingly. ‘I am a proud man and quick to anger, it is not my way to be playing a waiting game.’
‘Nor mine,’ said Hugh, ‘but bravery without brains is a dangerous virtue. This is not some cattle raid we are engaged on.’ He looked at Donal. ‘Put your sword up, Donal. The MacSweeney is sorry for the words he used. Is that not right, Donchadh?’
‘It is,’ conceded MacSweeney, though, once again, the message did not quite reach his eyes.
Donal sheathed his weapon and the conference continued, but the tension was still there. How long could this alliance hold? wondered Hugh. Would it be long enough to starve Willis into submission? Gambling had never been his favourite pastime and he had certainly never played for stakes this high.
The days dragged by. Boredom set in and everyone became tense and twitchy. MacSweeney said nothing but his thoughts were stamped across his face and written into every gesture of his body. The men grumbled among themselves and even Eoghan chafed at the inaction and kept pressing Hugh to change his mind. Only Donal remained his calm, unruffled self. How long dare I let this continue? wondered Hugh as each night followed another uneventful day. How far can I stretch them before I am forced to act?
Then seven days later, just when it seemed tensions must reach breaking point, the end came – quietly and undramatically. A man emerged from the friary carrying a flag of truce, and asked leave for his master to come seeking terms.
‘Terms, is it?’ roared The MacSweeney. ‘I’ll give him terms. I’ll carve them out of his filthy hide and stuff them into his gizzard till he chokes on them.’
Eoghan backed him. ‘They are beaten,’ he urged. ‘Now is the time to press our advantage – wipe them out like a nest of rats.’
Hugh and Donal looked at each other and shook their heads. ‘Do you want to end up fighting the whole English army?’ asked Hugh. ‘Besides, they have prisoners. Would you risk their lives to satisfy your blood-lust?’
‘And what of the friary?’ put in Donal. ‘Are we to hand it back in ruins to its rightful owners?’
For many hours the argument continued, but in the end common sense won out. Willis was ordered to appear before them and Hugh spelt out to him their conditions. ‘You will leave with nothing but what you came with,’ he decreed. ‘No chattels, no livestock, nothing taken from this country. And the hostages you are after seizing – if I find even one of them harmed in any way …’
‘They are alive and well,’ Willis assured him hurriedly. ‘And … and if we agree to all this, you guarantee to let us pass safely into Connaught?’
‘You have my word on it.’
The Englishman eyed him suspiciously. ‘How do I know I can trust you?’
‘Am I a Saxon? When I give my word I keep it.’
‘I will consider your terms,’ said Willis.
Hugh was confident he would not refuse them.
Sure enough, a couple of hours later a messenger emerged to announce acceptance. There were wild celebrations in the Irish camp and, next morning, Hugh watched in silence as Willis and his men rode out. Dhia, he thought, if it could always be so easy. But he didn’t deceive himself. He had won a minor skirmish, not a war. He tried to stir up a sense of triumph but all that came to him was exhaustion – and he had still to return to Ballyshannon, and a challenge of a different kind.
‘I warned you,’ said MacDunleavy gloomily. ‘Rest, I said, and you charging off to Donegal instead. I told you I’d not be held responsible.’
‘You did,’ acknowledged Hugh. ‘No one is blaming you. But –’ he bit his lip, ‘how bad are they?’
The physician shook his head. ‘I’ll not lie to you. It does not look good. The feet themselves I can save – I think – but those toes …’ He shook his head again and touched one of Hugh’s great toes with a pin. ‘Can you feel that?’
Hugh shook his head.
‘Or there? Or there?’
Nothing.
‘They are dead,’ said the physician. ‘My sorrow, Hugh Roe, but they are beyond curing. I shall have to remove them.’
His toes – only his great toes. Hugh felt a surge of relief. Why did the man sound so concerned? He could live without two toes if he had to. He shrugged. ‘Ah well, if you must, you must. Cheer up man. They’re no use to me as they are, and sure there’s not a glimmer of feeling in them. At least I’ll not have any pain.’
‘You don’t understand.’ MacDunleavy’s voice was grim. ‘They are starting to putrefy – like meat gone bad. If I l
eave any dead flesh, it will poison your whole body. To take them cleanly, I will need to cut back to the quick.’
Mother of God! Hugh’s stomach cramped. He jerked back his legs instinctively.
‘I’ll be as swift as I can,’ promised the physician, ‘and you’ll have whiskey to deaden the pain.’
‘And Donal and I will be here with you,’ promised Eoghan. ‘One each side and you to hang onto us if it is bad.’
‘Wait! Stop!’ Hugh’s head was reeling. It was all happening too fast – another horror closing in on him, taking over his life. ‘I’m not after agreeing yet,’ he stammered. ‘It’s my decision.’
‘But you must agree.’ Eoghan stared at him open-mouthed. ‘You haven’t any choice – you know it.’ He turned to the physician. ‘You tell him again.’
‘He has the truth of it,’ urged MacDunleavy. ‘There really is no other way.’
‘Stop!’ Why couldn’t they let him be? Everyone telling him what to do again – knowing what was best for him. It was easy for them – they weren’t facing the knife.
‘Will you hold your peace, the pair of you,’ said Donal suddenly. ‘Hugh Roe has the truth of it. Sure isn’t he O’Donnell in all but name? Is it our place to be telling him what to do?’
The others stared at him. Ha, that’s telling them, thought Hugh. But as the seconds passed, he realised it was no lifeline his friend had thrown him. Donal was right, the decision was in his hands – but with choice came responsibility. Power was a double-edged sword – it could cut your own throat and you not using it carefully. Terrible things had been done to him in Dublin, but he had been a prisoner then and powerless. This time he must choose for himself. He must consent to this or he must die, but nobody could force him.
He lifted his head and looked into Eoghan’s anxious face. He looked at MacDunleavy and thought of the knife and all the pain. Finally he looked at Donal. He took a deep breath.
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