‘It’s a primer.’
‘And where’s the first page? The one with the style and title of the queen on it?’
‘Torn out.’
‘Exactly. And so it is with all the others. Thirty-four most excellent books vandalised of Her Gracious Majesty’s sanction. They’ve had the same trouble at Doneraile. Savages we found them and savages they remain.’
She and Edmund stayed on the steps after he’d gone. ‘Something’s brewing, Edmund. Isn’t it time you paid another visit to your sister?’
His lack of surprise showed he’d actually considered it. ‘But it will not be of any great moment, Lady Betty. Of course they’re infected by the doings of Tyrone, but this isn’t the north. They’ve been subjugated too long; treacherous they may be but they are also enfeebled.’
‘The army’s pulling out.’ She told him what Ellis had said.
He shrugged. ‘We have a strong militia. All our houses are fortified and our own Irish are loyal. We withstood the MacSheehys, we can surely withstand a little rioting.’ She had the uneasy feeling that she had interrupted a process that might have ended in his temporarily evacuating Kilcolman if his stubbornness had not been aroused by her suggesting it. They walked round the ornamental garden towards the lake which was now paved round its banks, the delineation emphasising its strange, crescent shape more than ever. ‘Did you get rid of the frogs?’
‘Indeed. I had the marsh drained of the beasts, though they have begun to be troublesome in the evenings again.’
‘Edmund,’ she said, ‘I’ve got my price for Hap Hazard and would like to get the money to England as fast as possible. My friend’s ship should be arriving again soon, so I intend to set off for Kinsale tomorrow. I wondered if Sylvestris might accompany me?’
‘To England?’
‘Just to Kinsale. I shall come back for a while if I may.’ He pretended to consider, but she knew instantly he wouldn’t let the boy go with her. There had been several indications that he resented the closeness between the two of them; in his own way he was as jealous as Elizabeth. ‘I am grateful to you, Lady Betty, but perhaps it is time that Sylvestris settled down to knowing his new mother somewhat better than he does. He will stay here.’
While she was in the gateroom packing, she heard Sylvestris running up the stairs. ‘Did you get it?’
‘I did. And two thousand more.’
‘Oh, well done. Henry Croesus. And can I come with you to Kinsale?’
‘No. Your father says you should stay with your stepmother. And he’s right.’ There was silence behind her. He was being brave, damn him.
‘You’ll go on to England, won’t you? You’re not coming back.’
She swung round. He was trying to smile at her though tears were coming out of his eyes. ‘I’m coming back. Listen to me, Sir Stayon; today’s, what, the first of October. I’ll be back by the fifth, certainly the sixth. You be here in this room on the sixth of October and I’ll come straight here. If I don’t, it’s because the boat’s delayed and I have to wait for it. Understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I smell trouble. Stay in the grounds and don’t go out unless your father tells you.’
He nodded and helped her downstairs with her wicker hamper. Passing through the hall was Rosh, who paused. ‘Are you away now?’ It was the first time she’d spoken as if Barbary wasn’t a stranger.
‘Just to Kinsale. I’m coming back.’ She was sure Rosh was about to say something else, but at that moment they were joined by Edmund in his riding clothes and a high humour.
‘I’m accompanying you as far as Cork, Lady Betty. I received the summons last night. I understand I’m to be made Sheriff of Munster.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Congratulations, Father.’
She could wish the appointment had been made at some other time. She and Edmund were being accompanied by two of the ex-soldiers he employed as guards; it would leave the house short of valuable men. But Edmund had made up his mind. ‘You trouble yourself too much, Lady Betty. Our people are loyal, the walls are stout and the militia is patrolling the roads.’
Again, once she was ambling through it, the countryside’s look of permanence reassured her; it was difficult to believe in danger among fields and hills that resembled Kent, where a drover taking cows to Mallow knuckled his forehead amiably as they passed through his herd, and a girl milking a goat by the side of the road was singing.
As they neared Mallow they had to go up on a bank and wait as the garrison, reinforced by others, marched along the road north to Limerick to join up with Conyers and proceed against Connaught. Young Henry Norris saluted as he trotted by at the head of the column: ‘Fine day, Master Spenser. I’ll bring you back Red Hugh’s head and you can write a poem on it.’
‘A fine lad,’ said Edmund, looking after him. ‘A fine family. Six Norris sons, all in Her Majesty’s service, and one already killed for it in Brittany. Their mother must be proud.’
It took time for the soldiers, about 600, to march by. They must have drained the country of every regular, thought Barbary. Edmund waved his cap and cheered until they’d gone and the pipe and drum faded to be replaced by the shuffle of women following their men to war.
Ellis was waiting for her at the notary’s. Riding on once again, she realised how much she had been worrying about the transaction; now it was completed and Henry was provided for she felt considerably better. She enjoyed the journey to Cork, and the one on the following day to Kinsale, although there she had to wait two irksome days before Cuckold Dick’s ship came in. It was the same ship and captain who had brought her to Ireland three weeks before.
‘You’re late,’ she told him irritably as she stepped aboard. At Kinsale prices, the lodging of herself and the escort had been very expensive. ‘I want this case put in the special whiskey barrel for Master Dick’s special attention, and hand him these papers. Is he trading with Connaught any more this year, do you know?’
‘He’ll have to be quick if he does,’ the captain told her, sniffing the weather. ‘Another month and the seas will be closed. But I’ll tell him.’
‘He can send a message to me at Kilcolman.’ If it was this year, or next, it didn’t matter too much. She was a free woman. For the first time in her life she wasn’t having to react to circumstances, wasn’t cony-catching or being cony-caught. Life’s sea which had tossed her about like an empty bottle had finally entered a calm. There was no urgency about returning to England. She might make a visit to her grandmother first. She could try and contact Will.
She extracted thirty gold pieces from the case for her own use – after all, she’d negotiated more money for Henry than he could have expected and she needed some for herself. She returned to the inn and paid its damned bill, and then in the euphoria of freedom was tempted into shopping. She might as well buy clothes for Connaught here; it wouldn’t be any use turning up there in court dress and high-heeled shoes. She had difficulty in finding what she wanted; Kinsale had English-style clothing for all classes but scorned to cater for mere Irish. Eventually she ran down a stall in the market that sold Irish cloaks and bought herself a good one in warmest wool with a high fur collar, a head-roll, some trews – they were better on shipboard than skirts – and a strong knife. The market tempted her into buying some presents; a rattle for Sylvanus, lace for Elizabeth, a fine handkerchief for Edmund and a book of Irish poetry she unearthed on a stall selling bric-a-brac for Sylvestris. As an afterthought she bought some comfits for Rosh.
On the journey back to Cork a westerly breeze came up. Good, she thought, Henry’ll get his money the quicker. As it got stronger she began to worry; a lot of the boy’s eggs were in that one maritime basket heading back to England, to say nothing of a crew. By the time they were getting near to Cork, she and the escort had to tie their cloaks round them to stop them flapping, but by then there was more to worry about. The roads were heavy with traffic, mostly large coaches containing well-to-do families and
luggage carts, and important-looking horsemen with escorts of household guards. She saw the Bishop of Cork, who had been at her corporation dinner, heading into the city with a train of twenty or more. She dug her heels into her horse and rode alongside him: ‘What’s happening, my lord?’
The rings on his fat hand sparkled as he raised it in automatic blessing: ‘Be at peace, my child.’ Then he recognised her. ‘There’s nothing to worry your little head with. Some insurgents have invaded the province further north and we leaders of our flock are gathering to decide on the appropriate measures.’
‘Is it the O’Neill?’ The appropriate measure the flock leaders seemed to have decided on was getting themselves inside city walls as quickly as possible.
‘No, no. Our information says it’s merely one of his jackals. A renegade beast named Tyrrell. God will judge and defeat him, my child.’
They were swept on into the city. At the gates, she was stopped by a guard of the city’s militia. ‘We’ll need your escort and your horses, lady. Requisition. Take them to that post over there.’
She was bewildered. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Council orders, lady. All able-bodied men and horseflesh to be transferred to the militia.’
She nodded and rode towards the post where there was a chaotic queue of coaches, horsemen and angry notables. She took one look at it and slipped past to go into the city. They were having no horse of hers; let ’em take the bishop’s. She glanced behind her. They were.
There was feverish activity everywhere, but no panic. She was relieved to see that requisitioning was only going on at the gates; there were still plenty of horses around, though most of them were dragging carts of supplies and ammunition to the wall towers. In one of the squares, pikes and firearms were being handed out to a crowd of apprentices. Housewives were crowding the shops and coming out loaded as if for a siege. Good God, they were expecting a siege. She had to find Edmund.
She ran him to earth in the municipal council chamber, though she had to brush aside functionaries who said he was too busy. He came to the door when she called to him.
‘Thank God, Lady Betty, at least you are safe.’
‘What’s happening?’
He was white and tired, but he too wasn’t panicking. ‘Tyrrell’s arrived in the Aherlow at the head of a strong force.’
‘Who’s Tyrrell?’
‘One of O’Neill’s captains.’ Edmund’s self-possession broke for a moment. ‘And God curse him, he’s an Englishman.’
‘I don’t care if he’s Chinese. What are you doing about the family?’
‘Messengers have been sent to Norris to take them into Mallow. God preserve them, I can’t leave here. There’s danger the Geraldine clan will rise now. There’s a pretender to the dead traitor Earl of Desmond’s title; if he can raise the Irish, insurrection will break out all over Munster.’
Sod Munster. ‘I’ll ride to Kilcolman now.’
‘No.’ He was stern. ‘Sir Thomas will see to them. We can’t spare Peter and Oswald to ride with you. Go to Richard Boyle’s house, he’s Elizabeth’s uncle and will give us shelter. Wait for them there.’
‘Very well, Edmund.’ In a pig’s eye, she thought. Whoever this Tyrrell is, he’s a damn sight too near Spenser Castle. The Aherlow was the terrible valley where she and Rob and the undertakers had been led by Captain Mackworth through the howling MacSheehys all those years ago. It was the route to the Ballyhouras and Spenser Castle and Sylvestris. She should never have left him, she should have listened to her nose which had more sense to it than these pillocks and their strong militias and loyal Irish. If everything was so strong and loyal, why were so many of the bastards scurrying into shelter?
What racked her was that she’d promised him she would return. ‘I’ll get you back,’ O’Hagan had said to her, and hadn’t. So much for men. A little boy was expecting her to get him back. And, Jesus, she would. Organisation was breaking down. Who knew what was going to happen now? She did. She was going to go to Sylvestris. Her horse was still outside, although there was no sign of her escort. She rode to the north gate and smiled at the guards who barred her path. ‘I know you need my horse, good fellows,’ she said, ‘but I believe I dropped my purse a furlong back, and my cousin, the mayor, has given me permission to venture outside and quickly look for it.’ It had to be something frivolous. Order rule: when all else fails, revert to the ridiculous.
‘You got your head, lady, don’t worry about your purse.’
‘Just a look? I’ll be back immediately.’ She fluttered her eyelashes. And they let her through with the amused, chin-jerking exasperation that men bestowed on the reassuring female persistence to be feather-headed in times of war.
* * *
It was late and dark by the time her horse limped her into Mallow, but there had been no trouble keeping to the route; as evening had come down, she’d been lit by the flares of carts and coach lamps going towards Cork, and, for the last ten miles, by flares and lamps going in to Mallow. She was amazed at how easily the provincial nobility were beginning to abandon their homes on the basis of a rumour. Nobody knew anything, just that a renegade called Tyrrell was come to the Aherlow Valley, and that the Geraldines of the south might rise.
She stopped at Mallow Castle long enough to ascertain that the Spenser family wasn’t in it. A crowd of men were questioning the guard. Should they be bringing their families into the walls? What was happening? What was happening?
The guard was reassuring. Sir Thomas Norris was out with the militia, bringing in such families as felt in need of security, but there was no need for panic. He said it so often, Barbary began to panic. ‘Has he gone in the direction of Spenser Castle?’
‘No need to panic, lady,’ said the guard again. ‘Yes, he’s heading for Kildorrey and sending out scouts to see what’s happening in the Aherlow. No need to panic.’
She calmed down. She could head across country by the bridle path that led through the Roche estate, past Ballybeg Abbey and Hap Hazard, join the Buttevant road and get to Spenser Castle that way . The militia would be between her and the insurgents; if Kilcolman had been evacuated, she could come back.
The wind kept cloud scudding across the moon, darkening the way, but she knew it well. It was a shortcut she’d used often going back and forth to Mallow market, and besides, the tired horse would have to be walked for most of it. She supposed she was tired too, but her anxiety drove her on.
Leaves leaped up in her path like small animals writhing in agony. Hedges leaned back and forth. The wind was distracting, making branches clack together in dry applause at her progress, sometimes sounding like distant screaming. There was a light burning in the ruins of Ballybeg Abbey. Was the old poet, Tadg O’Lyne, still alive and living here? She didn’t care enough to find out, but she stopped in the circle of light outside an ivied wall and took the Clampett out of her bag and primed it. Whether the cartridges had any explosive power left she couldn’t be sure, but she felt safer. While she was about it, she took off her court cloak and wrapped herself in the new Irish cloak. Now she was safer and warmer.
The damned horse had rested long enough, she was more tired than it was. She clambered up onto its back and rode along the track to Hap Hazard, emerging near the back of the house where the beechwoods had once stood. The wind was screaming again, more lifelike than ever. Oh God, it was a woman. The sound led her round the inner wall that, a long time ago, she had bullied Rob’s mason into building and to the gates that were open, banging with a soft thud against each other, their ironwork casting some solid, some curled patterns onto the light gravel of the drive.
You pillock, it was nothing. It had been the wind all along. There was no light anywhere. Yes, there was. Somebody with a flare was coming up on a mule. She took the Clampett from under her cloak and put it away again as she recognised one of Ellis’s boys. ‘Richard, is it?’
‘Robert.’ He held the flare to her face to see who it was. ‘I’m looking for my ma and da
, Lady Betty. I thought Father’d be out with the militia, but it’s just passed me – I’m farming my own place over Buttevant now – and Sergeant Clancy said as he hadn’t reported.’
‘Have you seen the Spensers?’
‘Passed me minutes back. The militia was taking them into Mallow.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yes. Mistress Spenser said as she’d go on to Cork and join her husband.’
She could have kissed him. ‘I shouldn’t worry about your pa, Robert.’ Men like Ellis were always all right. ‘He’s taken your mother to safety and is out there somewhere telling the Irish to sit up straight. There’s nobody at the house, it’s dark.’
She saw his teeth in a flash of grin. How Ellis had produced a nice family like this she’d never know. ‘Better lock up the gates then,’ he said. ‘It’s not like Da to leave them open.’
‘It’s a lot of fuss about nothing,’ she said; her relief that Sylvestris was all right extended a security over everything. She got off the horse to shut the gates for him while he fumbled for a key, but they wouldn’t meet together. She ran her hand down the flange to find the obstruction and touched cold flesh. She jerked away from it and the gate swung back. It took an effort of will to push it open again and walk round. It had to be Ellis, she knew, but the moon was behind a cloud and all she could see was a lump, an extra emblazonment against the one he had been attached to. Then the cloud passed.
In many ways it was worse than finding Mackworth, because whoever had killed him had been playful. They’d wired Ellis’s ears to the ironwork, passed wires through his hands and feet, and stuffed an apple in his mouth.
She closed her eyes and heard Robert Ellis step to her side. After a minute he began turning round and round, screaming: ‘Ma! Ma!’ She ran after him up the drive to search. The moonlight intensified the black and white frontage of the house out of its pleasantry into something ferocious. The door was open. She should have gone in with him, but cowardice held her back; she didn’t want to find Mrs Ellis. Instead she made herself wander busily round the house, the Clampett held uselessly in her shaking hand, and saw the livid shape of a white sack lying on the tilled black earth of the vegetable garden. ‘I don’t want to look. It’s just a white sack.’ But you didn’t stick carving knives into sacks.
The Pirate Queen Page 64