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But with the death of Owen O’Malley there was an end of the times of peace and quietness in Connaught, whereat, like the hothead I was, I rejoiced, not seeing the perilous adventures that lay before us.
CHAPTER III.
THE TITLE-DEED OF THE SWORD
“Ruari!”
It was the soft note of Eva O’Malley, calling to me as I came within the gate of Carrickahooley Castle, whither Grace O’Malley, our mistress, had come to fulfil her period of mourning for her father. I had just crossed over from Clare Island on a small sailing vessel, which now lay in the little harbour under the west wall.
“Ruari!”
It was ever a sound of gladness to me, that sweet voice; and looking up to the chambers of the women, half-way up the front of the great square tower, I beheld the fair face, framed in its pale-gold curls, against the darkness of the embrasure of her window. My heart gave a quick bound of pleasure, and then I grew hot and cold by turns.
For I loved her, and the fear that is born of love made my strength turn to weakness when I gazed upon her. Yet was I resolved to win her, though in what way I knew not. Neither did I hope overmuch up to that time that I understood her, for her manner was a riddle to me.
And here let me set down what were then my relations with these two women, or, rather, what was their attitude to me.
Grace O’Malley clearly regarded me as a younger brother, and never lost a certain air of protection in her dealings with me. To her I remained always in some sort “a little boy, a child,” whose life she had saved – although I was one of the biggest men in Ireland.
Eva O’Malley, who was two years younger than I, had tyrannised over me when I was a lad, and now that I was a man she mocked at and flouted me, dubbing me “Giant Greathead” – I say “Greathead,” but in our language Greathead and Thickhead are the same – and otherwise amusing herself at my expense. But in her griefs and troubles it was to me she came, and not to Grace, as might have seemed more natural.
“Ruari!” she called, and I waved my hand to her in greeting. As I went into the hall she met me.
“I was waiting for you,” she said, “for I wished to speak to you before you saw Grace.”
“Yes?” I asked, and as I noticed the freshness of the roseleaf face I marvelled at it for the hundredth time.
“Grace has made an end of her mourning,” she went on, “and her purpose now is to go to Galway to see the Lord Deputy, if he be there, as it is said he is, or, if he be not, then Sir Nicholas Malby, the Colonel of Connaught.”
I could have shouted for joy, for I was weary of forced inaction while the fine weather was passing us by, and all the harvest of the sea was waiting to be gathered in by ready hands like ours.
“Glad am I, in truth, to hear it,” said I heartily. I was not fond of Galway, but I was anxious to be again on the waters, and who could tell what might not happen then? There had been no fighting for a long time, and the men were lusting for it, hungering and thirsting for it – only biding, like dogs in the leash, for the word. And I was of the same mind.
“But listen, Ruari,” said Eva. “Is it well that she should go to Galway? To my thinking there is a very good reason against it.”
“Indeed,” said I, surprised. “What is it?” As I have declared already, I had no special liking for Galway – and the sea is wide.
“By going to Galway,” said she, “does she not run the chance of putting herself in the power of the English? Is it not to thrust one’s head into the very jaws of the lion? The English never loved her father, Owen O’Malley, and the merchants of Galway were never done accusing him of supplying himself from their ships at his good pleasure without asking permission from them.”
I smiled, for what she said about the dead chief was true.
“’Tis not well to smile,” said Eva, frowning.
“There is wisdom in your words,” I replied, becoming instantly grave at her rebuke. “But why not say to Grace herself what you have said to me?”
“Oh, you mountain of a man,” she said, “to be so big and to be so – ” and she stopped, but I could fill up the gap for myself.
“What have I said?” demanded I, still more abashed.
“Think you not that I have already spoken to her?” she asked. “But she will not hearken.”
“Why should she,” said I, “care for my opinion?”
“You know she does care,” she said testily. “But there is more to tell you.”
“More?” I asked.
Her manner now showed the utmost dejection. Her eyes were downcast, and as I regarded her I asked myself why it was that one so fair should have dark, almost black eyelashes – eyelashes which gave a strange shadow to her eyes. Her next words brought me quickly out of this musing.
“The ’Wise Man’” said she, “is set against her going. His words are of darkness and blood, and he declares that he sees danger for us all in the near future. I’m afraid – you know he sees with other eyes than ours.”
And she said this with such evident terror that inwardly, but not without some dread, I cursed the “Wise Man,” – a certain Teige O’Toole, called “Teige of the Open Vision” by the people, who counted him to be a seer and a prophet. He was certainly skilled in many things, and his knowledge was not as the knowledge of other men.
As she stood beside me, wistfully, entreatingly, and fearfully, I pondered for a brief space and then I said —
“I will go and speak with Teige O’Toole, and will return anon,” and forthwith went in search of him.
I found him sitting on a rock, looking out to sea, murmuring disconsolately to himself. Straightway I asked him what it was that he had to say against Grace O’Malley’s intended visit to Galway, but he would vouchsafe no reply other than the awesome words which he kept on repeating and repeating —
“Darkness and blood; then a little light; blood and darkness, then again light – but darkness were better.”
Whereat I shuddered, feeling an inward chill; yet I begged of him not once, nor twice, to make plain his meaning to me. He would not answer, so that I lost patience with him, and had he not been an aged man and an uncanny I would have shaken the explanation of his mysterious words out of his lips, and, as it was, was near doing so.
Rising quickly from the stone whereon he had been sitting, he moved away with incredible swiftness as if he had read my thoughts, leaving me staring blankly after him.
What was it he had said?
“Darkness and blood; and then a little light!”
Well, darkness and blood were no strangers to me.
“Blood and darkness; then again light – but darkness were better!”
I could make no manner of sense of it at all; but I saw the meaning of it plainly enough in the years that followed.
I felt a gentle touch upon my arm, and Eva was by my side.
“Grace wishes you to go to her at once,” she said. “O Ruari, Ruari, dissuade her from going.”
“I will do what I can,” I replied; but I knew beforehand that if Grace O’Malley had settled what she was to do, nothing I could urge was likely to change her purpose.
Slowly I went into her presence.
“Eva has told you,” she said, “that we set out at once for Galway.”
“Yes,” I answered, “but I pray you to consider the matter well.”
“I have considered it well,” she replied; “but say on.”
“Is it a necessity,” I asked, “that you should go to Galway? Are there not many more places in Ireland for us to go to? Is not the north open to us, and the west, with plenty of Spanish merchantmen and English trading on the broad waters?”
“All in good time,” said she, smiling at my eloquence.
“Here,” said I, emboldened to proceed, “here you are among your own people, on your own land, and no one will seek to molest us. But in Galway – everything is different.”
“That is it,” she said earnestly. “That is the very reason – everything is different there.”
She stopped as if in thought.
“Listen, Ruari! My mind,” said she, “is made up to go to Galway to talk over our affairs with the English governor.”
So this was the reason.
“You say I am safe here,” she continued, “but am I? Word was brought me only yesterday by a trusty messenger from Richard Burke, the MacWilliam, that my father’s old-time enemy, Murrough O’Flaherty, is whispering in the ear of Sir Nicholas Malby, the Colonel of Connaught – perhaps into the ear of the Lord Deputy himself, for I hear he is expected about this time in the city – that my father was an enemy of the Queen, Elizabeth, and that I, his daughter, am sure to follow in his steps.”
“Murrough O’Flaherty!” cried I, “is he not content with his own wide lands of Aughnanure?”
“Content,” said she. “Such a man is never content! Then this insidious whisperer goes on to hint that I am only a young woman, and that my father has left no heir. It is plain enough, is it not, what he means?”
“Sir Nicholas Malby,” said I, “is reputed to be a just man and a good soldier.”
“A just man – perhaps, who knows! That is why I am going to Galway. I must make clear my right and title to my father’s possessions.”
“Right and title,” I exclaimed, and unconsciously I placed my hand on the hilt of my sword.
She saw and interpreted the action.
“Our title-deed,” said she, “has been that of the sword – ”
“And so shall it always be,” I broke in.
“In one sense, yes,” she assented; “but we live in times of change, and things are not as they were. All the chiefs and lords of Ireland are now getting a title for their lands from the queen. Even my father did something of the sort. If I go not to Galway to put forward my claims it will be said that I am disloyal and a traitress.”
“So,” I said, “it may be an evil to go, but it is a worse thing to stay here.”
“Yes,” she answered; “but I have other reasons. It is not that I put so much trust in a piece of parchment, signed and sealed, although I see no harm in getting it. Ruari, I have purposes that reach far beyond Galway, and Connaught even, and for the present I deem it not well openly to incur the enmity of the English.”
This speech was beyond me, so I held my peace until I remembered what the “Wise Man” had said; but when I mentioned it she replied that she knew of the matter, and though it troubled her, it would make no difference to her plans.
Then she fell to brooding and thinking, as was her way, whereupon I left her to get the ships ready for sea even as she wished.
So, before another day was passed, the three great galleys drew away from the shelter of Clare Island, and, speeding before a fair wind, made for the south. Grace and Eva O’Malley were on The Grey Wolf, Tibbot, the pilot, was in command of his dead master’s ship, The Winged Horse, while I was on my own vessel, The Cross of Blood.
We took a great company with us of nearly one hundred and fifty men, including a band of arquebusiers, besides bards and pipers, and a priest on each ship. The priests were not much to my liking on shipboard, but Grace would have them. Both Grace and Eva brought of the finest of their garments, all made of rich Spanish stuffs, so that they might appear before the Governor as befitted their rank. I myself took with me two full suits, also of Spanish make, and such as were worn at courts, that I might not appear unworthy of my mistress.
As the wind was steady, the black cliffs of Achill, with the mass of Cushcamcarragh and the dome of Nephin behind them, soon grew distant in our wake. The glowing cone of the Holy Hill of St. Patrick, a wonder of light and shade as beam of sun or shadow of cloud fell upon it, sank behind us.
And on we went through a sea of silence, whereon we saw never another ship; on past the grey or green islands off the coast, until the wind dropped at sunset. Then the rowers bent their backs and knotted their muscles over the oars, and so drove the galleys up the long, narrow arm that is called the Bay of Killery, until we found anchorage under the mighty shoulders of that king of mountains, the lonely Muilrea.
At early morn, before the sun was up, albeit a far-off tender flush had sprung up, like something magical, upon the western rim of the world, the dirl, dirl, dirl, and the clamp, clamp, clamp, of the oars, as they smote the groaning pivots on which they swung, was heard, and the galleys went foaming out from the bay, the spray rising like a fine dust of gems from under the forefeet of the ships. Then we caught a breeze, and the sails swelled and drew, while the sailors gat them to their places with shouts and laughter.
Is there any coast in the four quarters of the globe where you will find more splendid havens than in the portion of Ireland lying between the Bay of Killery and the Bay of Galway? Well has that land been named Connemara – that is, the “Bays of the Ocean.” The rugged cliffs, whereon the weather and the wave have combined to throw all manner of cunning colours far beyond power of painter to copy, still less devise, are everywhere broken by inlets, in many of which all the fleets of Spain and of England together might have ridden safely – hardly one of these bays but has its island breakwater in front of it for its protection from the storm and tempest.
’Tis a rare home for seamen!
As the day wore on we fell in with a Scottish ship hailing from Wigtonshire, called The Lass of Carrick, going to Galway like ourselves. But Grace O’Malley had given command that until her business was finished with the Governor, we were to continue peacefully on our course, so we left her without scathe, whereat our men were in no way offended, there being but little profit to be got out of a ship coming from Scotland.
A vessel going back from Galway to Scotland was another thing, for she generally carried a cargo of wines of divers sorts, to say nothing of silks and other valuable materials. Therefore made I a note in my mind to watch The Lass of Carrick when we were come to Galway, and to observe what she took away in that broad, ill-built hulk of hers when she left the port.
That night the galleys put in to the Bay of Caslah, the most eastern harbour on that coast, and the following day, without adventure of any sort – so calm a beginning might well have told me what storms there would be before the end – we made Galway.
As had been arranged between us, The Cross of Blood, my ship, let go her anchor in the harbour between the mole and the bridge by which the city is entered on that side, while the other galleys stood out some distance in the bay. Sending a messenger ashore, I made known the errand upon which we were come, and, after waiting a long time, received answer that the Lord Deputy was not yet come to Galway, but that Sir Nicholas Malby would see Grace O’Malley, and would give a safe-conduct to her and her guard.
It was now too late for our landing that day, so we remained where we were all that night. Next morning the three galleys rode within the harbour of the city, and not far from us were The Lass of Carrick and several other vessels, all come for the wines and the other merchandise of the great and famous city of Galway.
CHAPTER IV.
THE COLONEL OF CONNAUGHT
It was about an hour from noon, a hot sun burning in a blue sky, when Grace O’Malley signified from The Grey Wolf that she was about to land, and that it was her desire that I should accompany her, but that I should go on shore before her, to make sure that she would not be detained at the gate. Having made a suitable response to my mistress, I gave command to the rowers and the helmsman of The Cross of Blood, and the galley slowly drew up alongside the wall of the harbour, beside the gate by which an entrance is made into the “Street of the Key,” as it is called.
Perhaps it was the fierce heat which indisposed to exertion of any sort, but the place was strangely quiet and still. Two or three soldiers, with steel morions on their heads and corselets of iron about their bodies, gazed at us with indolent curiosity from the towers and parapets that looked across the bay.
At the gate itself were an officer and his guard, lounging about listlessly enough in the sunshine, and taking apparently but a little languid interest in our movements. A few sailors of different nationalities, among whom the swarthy Spaniards predominated, and some of the country fisher folkk, walked about the quay. Not far from us The Lass of Carrick was discharging her cargo; below us a fishing smack, with its one great sail set, was being rowed out to sea.
As my galley approached within a few feet of the quay, I heard a whistle, or what seemed a whistle. Indeed, so swift and shrill did the sound bite into the air, that it was as if someone standing close beside me were trying in this fashion, very peremptorily, to excite my attention. At the same time, or, mayhap, a little sooner or a little later – the whole thing, it appeared to me, came together on the instant, as it were – I felt the rush and the wind made by an arrow or a bolt as it flew past my face. Then the crick-crack of the barb, as it smashed and splintered the wood of the bulwark behind me, followed immediately afterwards. Involuntarily, I put up my hand to my cheek.
Death had passed close to me, had almost struck me. Yet, hardly realising what had happened, I stood rooted to the spot. A queer, quaking sob burst from me – the surprise was so sudden, so complete.
My first thought was that the arrow had been intended for me, but I had escaped it by the breadth of a hair, and no more. I was untouched. Momentarily I expected other arrows; but none came. I asked myself what was the meaning of the solitary arrow. At first sight it appeared as if we were about to be dealt with treacherously – that we were being beguiled to our destruction. Evidently, that was the mind of my men in the matter, for they had made a quick and terrible outcry that we were betrayed when they marked the flight of the quivering shaft.
Holding up my hand for silence, but bidding them take their weapons as quietly and calmly as they could, I waited for what might next befall. Ordering the oarsmen to cease rowing, the galley lay motionless on the water. Looking anxiously up at the parapet, and then at the gate, I could perceive no unusual commotion among the soldiers, nor could I see a bowman amongst them. It appeared doubtful if they had observed that anything out of the ordinary had taken place, and, certainly, they acted as if they had not. It plainly was no affair of theirs – that was sure, for they were not more on the alert than before.
Whence, then, had come the arrow, and for what purpose, if not one of death?
My second thought showed me clearly that, had the mysterious archer intended to kill me, there would have been nothing easier, for, standing as I did on the poop, I was the best mark in the world; nor would he have required any marvellous expertness in his art to have made an end of me. So, as everything about us now seemed favourable and fair for us, I next turned my regard to the arrow itself, which was fast in one of the beams of the galley.
Now for the first time I noticed that it had been shot into the ship in such a way that it was nearly or altogether hidden by the shape of the vessel from being seen by those on shore; and I bethought me that it must have been sped without hostile intent, but, on the contrary, conveyed some message of warning which it would be well not to neglect. Wrenching forth the missile with an effort from the beam, I examined it carefully, and found, as I had begun to anticipate, a message; for roughly inscribed upon it was the word “Beware!”
With the dark, foreboding saying of the Wise Man still ringing in my ears, it was not likely that I should overlook any measure of precaution that was in my power, but the safe-conduct of the Governor of Connaught had given me a feeling of security – which was, perhaps, not justified. Thus it was that I could not but suspect that the message of the arrow was meant to prevent me from putting trust overmuch in Sir Nicholas – a man whom I had not yet seen.
Instead, therefore, of taking with me only six spearmen, as I had purposed, as part of Grace O’Malley’s bodyguard, I doubled the number. Besides these there also landed three gentlemen of her household, chiefs from the islands, men of proved courage, to whom the use of the sword was as much a part of themselves as the breath they drew. I had already sent ashore early in the morning a trusty steward, with instructions to procure two horses for my mistress and Eva O’Malley, and he now, as we made fast to the quay, came forth from the gate with two splendid barbs, each attended, as is usual in Ireland, by its own swift-footed horse-boy.
While our landing was proceeding I could not help wondering who it was that had sped the arrow, and why he had chosen this way of conveying his warning. Manifestly he was one who was afraid, and desired to keep in the background, for reasons that commended themselves sufficiently to him. Rapidly thinking over the affair, I came to the conclusion that our friend could be none other than Richard Burke, the MacWilliam of whom I have already spoken, and who, I had some reason to guess, cherished a tenderness for Grace O’Malley.
And right mightily glad was I to think that one so strong and brave was in Galway at this time. So great was his fortitude and tenacity of purpose that he was quite commonly spoken of as Richard the Iron, and never in the day of adversity was there a stouter heart or a more vigorous arm than his.
But why had he taken – or caused to be taken, as was most probable – this extraordinary method of apprising me of immediate danger, for that and no less I concluded was the meaning of that one word, “Beware”? The future was to show, and that soon enough.
To lay The Grey Wolf alongside of The Cross of Blood was the work of a few minutes, and soon the two ladies were mounted upon their horses, but not before I had told Grace O’Malley of the incident of the arrow, and asked if she had any further commands to give.
Now, my mistress was possessed of that high and proud sort of spirit upon which the hint of danger acts as fuel to fire or spur to steed. So she did but cast her eyes over the men I had picked out, and, selecting a similar number from her own ship, said that her purpose was unchanged.
“Tell the officer on guard at the gate,” said she, “that I go to confer with the Governor, Sir Nicholas Malby, on affairs of state.”
The captain of the gate appeared to be somewhat dazed with the size of our company, which numbered more than thirty swords, spears, and battle-axes, and he arranged his men in a line as we advanced. Saluting my mistresses with grave punctilio, he informed us that Sir Nicholas was lodged at the house of the Mayor of Galway, where for the time he held his court. But, he said, as he stood resting the point of his drawn sword upon the ground, orders had been given to admit into the town only the lady Grace O’Malley, her women, and not more than a few of her people.
When I protested against this, he replied that the Governor was very strict; and as for himself, he was merely a soldier whose duty was to do what he was bid.
My mistress, as he spoke, flashed on me a glance of quick intelligence; then she turned with a brilliant, compelling smile to the officer.
“Sir,” cried she with animation, looking with her dark, lovely eyes into the eyes of the Englishman, “you speak as a soldier should. But here” – and she waved her hand round her company – ”are not more than a few of my people, as it were. You think that we be too many? Nay, sir, ’tis not so. Is it not fitting to do as much honour as I can to the Governor? And the more of us the greater the honour done him?”
And she smiled again upon the officer, who was a young man and a gallant, to his undoing. While they were thus engaged in parleying – they conversed for some time, but what further was said I did not hear – we had pressed within the gate and filled up part of the street beyond. Having gained this position, I had no thought of retreating. The captain, noting our bearing, and partly won over by Grace O’Malley’s woman’s wiles, partly making a virtue of necessity, for we could easily have overpowered his men, again gravely saluted.
“Be it as you wish, lady,” he said; and so we passed on up the Street of the Key.
It has been my lot to see of great cities not a few, but, though I had scant reason to love the place, not many, I will say, that were finer or more handsomely built than Galway was in these days. She was now at the very height of her prosperity, and laid claim to be second in the kingdom to Dublin alone, and proudly vaunted her superiority over her ancient rival Limerick.
As we marched up the Street of the Key, the ladies magnificently attired in our midst, and presently entered the High Street, the tall spires of the church of St. Nicholas of Myra – the patron saint of mariners, who hath ever been most favourable to me – rose in front of us; while the storehouses of the merchant princes of the city – the Lynches, the Martins, the Blakes, the Kirwans, and others whose names escape me – encompassed us with vast buildings of dressed stone on every hand.
On all sides were signs of abundance and wealth. And small wonder; for there was hardly a port of France or Spain – nay, of all Europe – whither the ships of Galway did not go. Her traders, ever unsatisfied, had even sailed out beyond the Spanish Main to the Indies.
But it must be remembered that Galway was not an Irish city, but an English – where it was not Spanish. The strong walls and towers which belted her in were not more for defence against an enemy who might attack her from the sea, than against the Irishry who dwelt beyond her gates. And keen and bitter as was the hatred between Englishman and Spaniard, that between the Englishman of Galway and the Irishman, whose home was in the country, was keener and more bitter still. The day was not to close without a proof of this.
On we passed, making a brave show, with the sun overhead shining on our arms and harness, while the townsmen stood and gaped, and the women looked out at us from their windows and doors. On we passed until we halted before the mansion of Stephen Lynch, the Mayor, reputed to be the richest man in Galway. Here, in front of the house, there was a guard, and I could see through the archway that the courtyard beyond was full of soldiers.
After an exchange of greetings I was shown into an anteroom, and thence sent word to Sir Nicholas that my mistress was without, and waited his pleasure. After a slight delay, the Governor replied that he was at meat, and that he would think it an excellent omen if my mistress, her ladies and gentlemen, would honour him by their company.
Then, to my surprise, the Major himself appeared, helped, with much ceremony, Grace and Eva O’Malley to alight, and invited then myself and certain of our comrades of rank to enter, at the same time commanding that our men should be most courteously entertained.
All this display of friendliness was so different from what I had expected that I knew not what to think. Afterwards I learned that Sir Nicholas had been informed of our numbers, and that this had led him to change the plan that he had originally formed – which I understood was that Grace O’Malley was to have been at once seized and held as a prisoner until he had determined what was to be done in her case – and this notwithstanding the safe-conduct he had given.
Separated as I was by some distance at table from my mistresses, I could not hear the conversation between them and the Governor, who talked to them in a certain bluff, soldier-like fashion. Amongst others present were Sir Murrough O’Flaherty of Aughnanure, Richard Burke of Mayo, and other of the chiefs of Connaught who were known to us. But all my attention was taken up in watching, as carefully as I could, Sir Nicholas Malby, the Governor.
There was no possibility of mistaking him for anything but what he was – the successful soldier of fortune. He had the port of one used to command, and there was a rough dignity about him that became him well. His face was scarred and weather-beaten, and I had heard that he had seen hard service, both in the Low Countries and in Spain. He did not come, I had been told, of any noble or considerable family. His sole possession had been his sword, and he had rather hewn than carved out his path in the world with it.
I at once recognised in him a shrewd and capable man, who would not let many things stand in his way. Here was one, I knew, to be reckoned with. Myself a man who both gave, and therefore expected to receive, heavy blows; he was another of the same sort, and I felt a certain respect for him.
There was told a curious tale of the way in which he had become a soldier – and ’fore God, it is not for me to say I think the worse of him for it! It is never a custom of mine to set down anything I hear to anyone’s despite, yet in this instance the story helps show the nature of the man.
In his youth, which was mean and poverty-stricken, he had been arrested, convicted, and condemned to death for coining – so ’tis said, and I understand this to be the truth. In some manner or other – I know not how – he had made interest with one of the great nobles at the English court, and was released on condition that he would enter the nobleman’s service as a soldier, and proceed to the war then being waged against the Emperor. And this he did, acquitting himself so much to the satisfaction of his superiors, that he was soon placed in command of a body of mercenaries, and displayed no little valour at their head.
Later, he had come over to Ireland under Sir Henry Sydney, who esteemed him so highly, owing to the manner in which he had fought against the O’Neils of Ulster, that, when Sir Henry was Lord Deputy of Ireland for the first time, he had advanced him from post to post, until he was now Governor, or “Colonel of Connaught,” as his title was.
One thing we had heard, and that was, like all the rest of the English, he was very greedy for money, and that his ears readily listened to an argument that was backed up with gold. Therefore had we brought with us rich presents for the Governor, which were duly delivered to him when dinner was finished.
