Kitabı oku: «Grace O'Malley. Machray Robert», sayfa 16
CHAPTER XXII.
“ONLY A WOMAN.”
“What is to be done?” asked Richard Burke.
“We must find out, first of all, where Grace O’Malley is.” It was Eva who spoke, and what she said was true. Our mistress must now be our chief – nay, our whole concern.
“Yes, yes!” cried I, roused to action, and looking with admiration at this weak little woman, who had shown herself so strong.
“Let us call in the woman you spoke of,” said Burke. “She may remember something which will put us on the scent.”
“I fear she has told me all that she knows,” said Eva; “but summon her here.”
While we waited for her I was going over what Eva had told us, and trying also to recall exactly what had been the words used – even more than the words, the manner of Fitzmaurice – when I had parted from him at Tralee. And as I considered the matter the conviction was borne in upon me that he had had some information as to what had happened in regard to Desmond and my mistress, but that he had purposely said nothing of it to me.
For one thing, he had evidently intended to keep me with him, and so to prevent me from returning to Askeaton; and, for another, he had spoken of Grace O’Malley in a way which was little short of an insult, and which I was quick to resent. Then de Vilela had intervened between us, Fitzmaurice had made an apology, and I had left Tralee without opposition or further words.
What had de Vilela said when I had declared that my place was with my mistress? That I had spoken a true word, and I remembered that when he uttered this it was with little of his customary serenity of demeanour.
I concluded, as I reflected on what had passed, that both Fitzmaurice and de Vilela must have been aware – at least, to some extent, of Desmond’s base conduct with respect to her.
Nor was the cause of this silence far to seek. But imperfectly informed, most probably, of the whole circumstances, and what they had heard having reached them from some source favourable to Desmond, they were, perhaps, inclined to lay the blame upon my mistress.
Then, the Earl’s adhesion to the cause was so essential for its success that whoever jeopardised it would be looked upon with hatred, and thus they would be the more prejudiced against her.
Yet Fitzmaurice had himself told me in effect that he was not sure of Desmond, and this before he knew anything of Grace O’Malley. Perchance, however, he had persuaded himself that he believed what he wished to believe.
And de Vilela? He had sprung to the defence of my mistress, but if he knew what had occurred, why had he not spoken out? No doubt, I told myself, it was because, while he was ready to uphold her honour, he deemed that his duty towards his master, the King of Spain, was paramount, and he had therefore submitted to Fitzmaurice, who was his leader, and who had enjoined silence upon him. This, I surmised, was the explanation.
How much did they know?
Could they say, I wondered, where Desmond had put my mistress?
Where was she at this moment?
The tire-woman had now entered the tent, but, although she was most willing to tell us all she knew, she had no knowledge, it appeared, of the place to which Grace O’Malley had been taken.
“A castle a few miles from Limerick,” and no more could we get from her. And Desmond, or the chiefs who regarded him as their prince, had more than one castle answering this description.
The important matter was that Desmond had not at once delivered her over to the President of Munster.
First, he was trying to convince her that his was no empty threat; and, second, to bend or break her spirit. But I knew that, while he might succeed in the one, he never would in the other. And he would see this so soon that I had no doubt whatever that at most not more than two or three days would elapse before she had been lodged in the prison of Limerick, for I was now certain of the complete perfidy of Desmond.
The man who could betray his guest was not likely to be true to any cause. That he had sent Fitzmaurice’s letter to the President was, I considered, a thing not only possible, but in the highest degree probable. Thus the prospect on all sides of us was dark indeed.
Sooner or later, then, Grace O’Malley would be in the power of the English, at the mercy of the President of Munster, a helpless captive in Limerick gaol! She might be there already, for aught we knew, and therefore it behoved us at once to endeavour to discover if she were shut up in Limerick.
And, if haply this were the case, what could we do? What could my mistress look for at the hands of the English? How could we assist her? It might even now be too late, and my flesh crept upon my bones at the thought.
“I will go to Limerick,” said I, as the result of my reflections; but when we had discussed the matter it appeared to be better that someone else should be sent.
“I am too marked a man.” said Burke; and one of his gallowglasses would do as well, for, if Grace O’Malley were in Limerick gaol, there was not a soul in that city who would not know of it, and thus anyone on the spot could easily obtain the knowledge we sought.
I was not persuaded to this course without much difficulty, and Burke himself was most determined at first to go; but there was the same objection in his case that there was in mine. Neither of us could have been long in the streets of Limerick without being recognised. At length, a messenger was despatched, Burke going out from the tent to tell him what he was to do.
No sooner had Burke left Eva and myself alone together, than my dear fell a-weeping, as if her heart would break, all her wonderful fortitude utterly gone. I took her into my arms – these great, strong arms of mine, now weak and trembling like those of a little child – and tried to soothe her grief. Perhaps my love and our common sorrow taught us what to say, yet I spoke not of love at all. But what I said and what she said about ourselves I cannot put into writing – and I would not, if I could, for there are words and there are times which are sacred beyond expression; and such were those words, and such this time.
She was my love and I was hers; and though we spoke not of it, we both knew, and the knowledge of it folded us about like a garment.
Much, too, had we to say to each other about de Vilela and about Fitzgerald, and how strangely they had passed in and out, out and in, of the woof of our lives. She evidently had a kind of affection for them both, and when I was inclined to question her about this she said that they had both been wounded and helpless, and that she had nursed and tended them, and so had come by this feeling. But ever as our talk came back to Grace O’Malley our hearts were heavy.
The messenger whom the MacWilliam had sent to Limerick returned in the evening. He had seen and had spoken to many of the inhabitants of that city, and he could hear of nothing which indicated that Grace O’Malley was there. We took courage from this report, hoping that the worst had not come upon her. But the man had something more to tell us.
As he was on his way back from Limerick he had fallen in with a great gathering of armed men, moving on eastward, some three or four miles to the south of the city. These were Spaniards, he declared, and other foreigners, as well as a large number of the Irish. And there were priests with them, and in the midst of them a banner, all blue and gold, with the figure of the Lord upon it.
This could be nothing other than the army of Fitzmaurice, accompanied by Sanders and the standard blessed by the Pope.
I questioned the man narrowly as to the place where he had seen them, and if he had heard where they were going. He replied that one had told him that they were to camp that night on the banks of the river Mulkern, not far from the Slieve Phelim Mountains, and that when he met them they could not have been above two leagues’ distance from the ground which had been chosen. Feeling fairly certain that Fitzmaurice would be with them, and, perhaps, de Vilela also, I resolved to set out at once for their camp.
If I saw Fitzmaurice, I would try to find out from him where Grace O’Malley was, and, further, I was determined to appeal to him to endeavour to prevent Desmond from carrying out his plans. As my mistress had not been taken into Limerick, the probability was that the Earl had not finally broken with Fitzmaurice, and that negotiations were still going on between them. There was, therefore, a chance that Fitzmaurice might prevail upon him to set her at liberty.
“Tell Fitzmaurice,” said Richard Burke, when I had informed him of what I proposed, “that unless Grace O’Malley is released immediately, the Burkes of Mayo will take neither part nor lot with the Geraldines in this affair.”
This suggested to me a possibility I had not yet contemplated, but I thrust it away from me, telling myself that Burke was too much distraught to know what he was saying. But it kept coming back to my mind, as I rode that night along with a guard of the Burkes towards the Mulkern.
When we were within a few paces of the camp, which we found without any difficulty, we were challenged by a Spanish sentinel. I could not give him password or countersign, and he had raised his piece to his shoulder to fire, when he suddenly dropped it again, saying he remembered my face, having seen me at Limerick and also at Tralee. Having asked him if Sir James Fitzmaurice was here, he replied that he was, as were also the other leaders. When I told him that I had business with Sir James, and when he saw how small was the guard with me, he said he would take it upon himself to allow me to pass within the lines, although it was contrary to his orders. He therefore directed me, pointing through the camp fires, to the spot where Fitzmaurice’s tent had been pitched.
And now I must put on record, as carefully as I can, what passed between Fitzmaurice and myself, so that all men can judge whether Richard Burke, Grace O’Malley’s lover, and I, Ruari Macdonald, her servant, were justified in what we afterwards did, or not.
When Fitzmaurice saw me he was unmistakably surprised, for he started violently as I entered his tent. Perhaps he had thought I was still immured at Askeaton, and so out of the way; but that I know not. Besides, when we had last parted it had been in no very friendly fashion. Whatever his feelings now were, he put on a garb of welcome as soon as his first surprise was past.
“Greeting – a thousand greetings!” said he. “You have come to join us? How many men have you brought with you?”
“Greeting!” said I, then I fixed my gaze sternly on him, for if I was right in the opinions I held all words of welcome were out of place between us; and continued, “Sir James, I have not come to join you – not at present, at any rate. That is not the business which brings me here. I have come to ask you if you know where my mistress, Grace O’Malley, is?”
I was in no humour to pick and choose what forms of speech I should use, and I spoke out sharply.
“Sir,” said he, frowning, all his cordiality disappearing instantly, “what should I know of your mistress, Grace O’Malley?” And there was a trace of mockery in the way he uttered the last four words.
“Answer me, Sir James,” said I again. “Nay, you need not, for I can see that you do know.”
“I have heard something,” said he, at length.
“Do you know how the matter stands between her and Desmond?” asked I. “Do you know that she was his guest – invited by him to Askeaton? Do you know that she has tried to bind him to the cause? Do you know that he has told her that he has a passion for her, that he holds her as a prisoner in one of his castles because she will not submit to him, and that he has threatened to give her up to the English, and to make common cause with them against you, if she will not yield herself to him?”
Fitzmaurice said nothing, but sat scowling at me, and biting his lip.
“Have you no answer?” asked I. “You say you have heard something; perhaps you knew all this before I left you at Tralee.”
Then changing my tone to one almost of entreaty, I said, “Sir James, bethink yourself before it is too late. Nothing but evil can come from these acts of Desmond,” and I gave him the message with which Richard Burke had charged me. “Grace O’Malley,” I concluded, “must be set free, and that at once. Do you know where she is?”
“Ruari Macdonald!” thundered he with curses, “you always had a proud stomach! Who are you to speak to me in this fashion? What have I to do with your mistress? What if I do know where she is? What affair of mine is it? Go and seek Desmond.”
But he had said enough.
“You know where she is,” cried I, wildly. “Tell me, and I will go and find Desmond.”
“Ay, and ruin all,” said he half to himself. “No, I will not tell you; that would be but to add to the mischief. No! Grace O’Malley must yield to Desmond, and then all will be well.”
“Yield to Desmond!” exclaimed I. “She will never do that.”
“Ay, but she will be forced to do so,” said he, with a horrible smile.
“Never!” said I. “I know her better than you do; she will die rather than submit.”
“Then,” said he, fiercely, “let her die!”
“Is that your last word?” asked I, furiously.
He rose up at me like an angry beast, and, shaking his outstretched hand at me, shouted, “Curses on you both! Who is your mistress, as you call her, and what is she to stand in the way of a Desmond? Who is she to come between us and the deliverance of Ireland? Shall a woman block up the path – only a woman!” And on he went in his wrath, saying many injurious things of Grace O’Malley, until at last he applied to her the vilest of names.
As his rage swelled, and his language became more and more insulting, I grew calmer, until I was possessed by a very devil of deadly coldness. But when he used the expression I have hinted at, I could keep my peace no longer.
“You lie!” said I, and out came my sword. Nor was he less ready; and there we stood for a second facing each other, with the candles flickering this way and that between us. Then he thrust his sword back into its sheath, and saying, “What need of this fool’s blood!” shouted loudly to someone outside the tent. There was the quick tramp of men, and in came some Spaniards, with de Vilela at their head.
“You here!” cried de Vilela, when he saw me.
“Secure him, bind him,” said Fitzmaurice, pointing at me.
De Vilela looked from one to the other of us, his face very grave, but did not stir.
“Bind him! I command you,” said Fitzmaurice.
De Vilela stood still.
“What!” shouted Fitzmaurice.
De Vilela said slowly, “May I ask, señor – ”
“You may ask nothing,” yelled Fitzmaurice.
De Vilela went white to the lips; but he spoke with that habitual courtesy of his, as, pulling out his sword and offering it to Fitzmaurice by the handle, he said —
“I cannot do this thing, for this man is as my brother! I am your prisoner also, señor. Do with me as you will!” Then this loyal gentleman added, turning to the Spanish soldiers, “Long live the King!” and they, too, said, “Long live the King!”
“Take mine!” cried I, holding out my sword to him – so moved out of myself was I.
“Nay; that I cannot do either,” said he.
“Are you mad?” asked Fitzmaurice of de Vilela. “You must be mad. Has that woman bewitched you too?” And he wrung his hands.
“Señor,” said I to de Vilela, “words have passed between Sir James Fitzmaurice and myself about my mistress that can only be wiped out in one way,” and I glanced at my sword.
De Vilela sighed.
“Señor Fitzmaurice will, I am sure, not refuse?” asked the Spaniard, courteous as ever.
“No, I will not refuse,” said Fitzmaurice. “All men know me; but it cannot be now.”
“Yes,” said de Vilela – Fitzmaurice had not taken the proffered sword – ”no one will impugn your courage. But if you do not refuse, you will not seek to detain this man?” And he looked searchingly at Fitzmaurice, who did not answer, but curtly nodded assent.
“Go, Señor Ruari!” said de Vilela; but I stood firm.
“Go,” said Fitzmaurice. “Do not fear, we shall meet again!”
“To meet again, then,” I said, and went out from the tent.
Summoning my men, I returned, darkly brooding over these strange happenings, to the camp of the Burkes. I had failed entirely to compass the object for which I had set out, for I was no nearer knowing where Desmond had taken my mistress. But Fitzmaurice knew, and when I recalled what he had said my heart overflowed with bitterness.
I would be just to this man, if I could. I can see now, looking across the grave of the years, that he viewed my mistress solely in the light of an obstacle in his path, and so he cared not what her fate was, so long as she was out of the way.
“Only a woman!” he had said of her, and that she was only a woman doubtless increased his sense of injury. But he forgot that it was for “only a woman” that men have ever fought and died.
When I arrived at the camp, Richard Burke was waiting for me. When he had heard me to the end, he said, “You should have killed him!” I had had the same thought myself, but de Vilela and the Spanish soldiers had come too quickly upon the scene for that. Besides, we should meet again, and thus I comforted my soul.
“Let us to sleep,” said I.
“I cannot sleep,” said he, and I heard him pacing up and down through the rest of what remained of the night, for though I shut my eyes, no sleep came to me either.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
I have seen a great swell of the sea, a mountain of a wave – caused by some violent storm which has spent its worst fury many leagues away – roll in from the ocean, lift a ship from her moorings, and dash her to pieces on the rocks.
As I rose in the morning and stepped out of the tent into the dewy freshness of the day, I thought we were not unlike that ship. For I could not disguise from myself that our affairs had suffered shipwreck.
Grace O’Malley was a prisoner, and I was unable to deliver her. I, her servant, was bound before anything else to try to free her from her captivity, and I did not even know where she was; and when I had sought to find it out, it had been with the result that a furious quarrel had sprung up between Fitzmaurice, the leader of the Irish, and myself.
He had not only refused to help me to obtain her liberty, but he had slandered and contemned her to my face. Not under such a man could I or the O’Malleys fight. Nay, there now could be nothing between us but the deadliest feud.
And yet we had all come to Kerry to stand by the side of this man and his Spaniards in the rising against the Queen! That, at least, was now impossible. How could we support one who had spoken of our mistress and chief as he had done? And the Burkes were in the same position as we ourselves.
As I paced along the ground, Richard Burke, gaunt and hollow-eyed, joined me. Burning with resentment and indignation, he was eager for instant action, and made the wild proposal that I should immediately bring all the men from the galleys, and, having made a junction with him and his forces, march against Fitzmaurice.
At the first blush of the thing I had almost said yes; but a little cool reflection showed me that not only were the odds against us overwhelming, but that, even if we were successful, I should be no nearer my main object, which was the release of Grace O’Malley. So far as I was concerned, all the considerations had to bow to that.
Nor could I readily bring myself in a moment, as it were, into an attitude of hostility to Fitzmaurice, for he represented our cause against the English, and to fight him was, in effect, to help the enemy.
Having told the MacWilliam all that was in my mind, and having won him over to my way of thinking, we considered how we should now proceed. It appeared to me to be best that we should all return to the ships, for the camp of the Burkes, being in the heart of Desmond’s country, was very open to attack from the Geraldines, who could no longer be regarded as friends, and so might easily be surprised and taken.
There was also the strong argument that, if any disaster overtook the galleys in our absence, we should be completely cut off from any way of getting back to Connaught, and our situation would become desperate and well nigh hopeless.
Another reason was that we could, with even greater advantage than from the place where the Burkes were camped, send out from the galleys scouts and spies, with a view to ascertaining where Desmond was.
To that I now bent my whole energy, for I felt sure that so long as Grace O’Malley was not in the gaol of Limerick – if she were, then would she be harder to come at than ever – she would be confined in some castle which the Earl occupied with his forces, and where he would remain until he was convinced that he could neither bend nor break her will. For that, I knew, would be the end.
Having struck our camp, we marched to the westward, so as to avoid Askeaton; then, going to the north, were safely on board the galleys by the evening, having only encountered on our journey several small bands of the Irish on their way to Fitzmaurice, whom we suffered to pass on, having first asked them if they had any information as to where Desmond was. They had been told, it appeared, that the Earl had raised the standard of revolt, and was in camp with Fitzmaurice on the Mulkern. Nor did we undeceive them.
For a week I kept the galleys sailing up and down the Shannon, stopping every mile or two and sending men ashore – sometimes going myself – to speak with the inhabitants; but never a word could we hear of Desmond, though occasionally we heard of Fitzmaurice, who had not moved from the position he had taken up.
Each evening of that terrible week found me less hopeful and more despondent; in truth, I would have despaired had it not been for the constant solace of Eva, who seemed to have changed herself into another person, so brave and steadfast was she.
Hitherto I had kept well away from Limerick, but now I resolved to bring the galleys as close up to the walls of the city as I dared. Limerick was a great and strongly fortified place, and, therefore, to be avoided by us; but it was the centre of all that part of Ireland, and there might be opportunities in its neighbourhood of hearing more fully what was going forward. I was encouraged to do this, also, by the fact that there were singularly few ships in the river – no doubt owing to the presence of the Spaniards in the country.
When we were yet perhaps a league from the walls we saw a small boat with a sail coming towards us. I looked keenly at her, and even as I looked at her she was suddenly put about, and was headed back for the city, for they evidently did not like our appearance.
Two of the men in her seemed to be soldiers, and I signalled Tibbot, whose galley was leading, to capture her – which he did after a short chase, the occupants of the boat surrendering without any resistance.
I had the two soldiers, as they proved to be, brought on board of The Cross of Blood, and having assured them that I intended them no harm, asked how matters stood in the city. The first words they uttered were enough to stun me.
“Grace O’Malley,” said one of them, “was brought into Limerick yesterday, and delivered up to Sir Nicholas Malby.”
“Grace O’Malley in Limerick,” I cried, “and Sir Nicholas Malby there also!”
The fatality of the thing completely broke down my control, and I could not speak for some minutes. I had somehow felt all along that my mistress would be given up to the English by Desmond, but to be told that this had actually come to pass was none the less a crushing blow. And to Sir Nicholas Malby, the Colonel of Connaught, our implacable foe!
The two men gazed at me curiously, seeing how overcome I was.
“How comes Sir Nicholas Malby to be in Limerick?” I asked, pulling myself together. “Connaught is his government, not Munster; how does he happen to be here?”
“You surely must know,” said the man who had spoken before, “that Sir James Fitzmaurice, one of the Desmonds, has arrived in the country at the head of a large army from Spain, and that the Irish people are flocking in to him from all quarters?”
“Yes,” said I, shortly, “I know all that.”
“Sir Nicholas Malby was summoned by the President of Munster,” said the soldier, “in hot haste to the defence of Limerick. We were in garrison at the time at Athlone, several hundred of us, and Sir Nicholas, having marshalled us in our companies, immediately set off in response down the Shannon, and two days ago we arrived here. The President is terror-stricken, and the whole city trembles with fear.”
“How came you to be without the walls?” I asked. “And at such a time?”
“We were trying to escape,” said the man, “for we heard that the city would soon be taken by the Spaniards, of whom there are thousands, and that everyone of us would be tortured and slain by them.”
“Is the Earl of Desmond in Limerick?” I next inquired – noting, however, how the number of Fitzmaurice’s men had been exaggerated.
“No,” replied the man. “He sent Grace O’Malley bound in chains into the city to Sir Nicholas Malby, but he came not himself. ’Tis said that he will neither join the Spaniards, nor yet assist us, but holds himself aloof from both until he sees on whose side fortune will declare itself.”
And this reed of rottenness, this catspaw of the wind, was the man whom my mistress, led on by the memories of the past greatness of the house of Desmond, and by the hope that under him the Irish might unite, had called our natural leader!
It had been the noble dream of a noble soul, that vision of hers; but, like many another noble dream, it was woven around a man incapable of filling the part he was called upon to play, and so was nothing but a dream.
The folly and wickedness of Desmond seemed to me to be almost inconceivable. Baulked by the firmness of my mistress, he had wreaked his wrath upon her by handing her over to the one man in all Ireland who might be supposed to regard her capture with the utmost joy, and who would take a fiendish delight in torturing her.
Having gratified his hatred of her – for such his love no doubt had become – the Earl sought to stand in with both sides in the approaching struggle by coming out openly on behalf of neither. It needed not that one should be a prophet to forecast that Desmond would fall and be crushed between the two.
While such thoughts passed rapidly through my mind, the chief thing which I had just been told – that Grace O’Malley was immured in the gaol of Limerick – threw everything else into the shade. In the hope that the men might have heard what had occurred to her after her arrival in Limerick, I asked them:
“Do you know, or did you hear, what Sir Nicholas Malby did in respect of Grace O’Malley, after she had been delivered up to him?”
“I was one of his guard,” said the man who acted as spokesman for the twain, “when she was brought before him. Sir Nicholas eyed her with great sternness; albeit it was easy to see that he was well-pleased to have her in his power, for she had wrought the English terrible injuries in Galway, and had set him at defiance. However, she did not quail nor humble herself, but bore herself like a princess, as, they say, she is.”
“What said Sir Nicholas?” asked I.
“He demanded of her many things,” replied the man, “but she would answer him not at all. Whereupon he was enraged against her, and gave orders that the city gallows should be got ready forthwith, and that she should be hanged immediately.”
“Did she not speak even then?”
“No. She looked at him very calmly and tranquilly, like one, indeed, who had already tasted of the bitterness of death and had no fear of it. A strange woman, and a brave! But ’tis said she is a witch.”
“What happened after that?”
“We were leading her away to the square in which the gibbet stands, when Sir Nicholas called to us to come back, for he had changed his mind, as it now appeared. Said he to her, ’You will not dance in the air to-day, mistress, but I shall take good care that you dance not out of Limerick as you did out of Galway!’ But to what he alluded when he said that I know not. Thereafter she was cast into one of the dungeons of the place.”
“One of the dungeons?” asked I.
“Yes – there are several deep, dark dungeons below the gaol of Limerick, and she was thrust into one of these.”
I had heard enough, and having sent the two soldiers away in charge of some of my men, I went and told Richard Burke the evil tidings. Up to this moment he must have cherished the hope that Grace O’Malley would in some way or other escape, for he was utterly unmanned on hearing where and in whose hands she was, and abandoned himself to the wildest grief. The very colour of his face showed that he already regarded her as one dead. As for myself, there had grown upon me a kind of coldness, and an icy numbness, as it were, which seemed to have killed all feeling within me for the time.
And perhaps it was well that this was the case, else I should never have been able to carry the news to Eva. Yet she must be told, and tell her I did.
“So long as she is alive,” exclaimed Eva, when I had come to the end of my tale, “there is hope. I will not believe that it is her destiny to perish in this manner!”
What had become of the timid, shrinking girl? For my dear was transformed altogether, being now full of courage, and of purpose and determination.
“Remember,” said she, “what Sir Nicholas is; how greedy of money he is, how avaricious! Think you he would not sell Grace O’Malley for gold? Only offer him enough, and he will set her free.”
I thought of the immense treasure which lay in the Caves of Silence under the Hill of Sorrow, and for a minute I considered that Eva’s suggestion might avail us. But the caves were far away from Limerick, and to go thither was out of the question.
Besides, the English rule was too seriously threatened to permit Sir Nicholas to be moved at this time by bribes, however rich they were. If he opened his hands, liberating Grace O’Malley with his right, and taking her gold with his left, it would not be now: the situation of the English was far too perilous for that.
