Kitabı oku: «Grace O'Malley. Machray Robert», sayfa 8

“Listen, Ruari!” said my mistress, with a deep, almost melancholy gravity. “If this noble Spaniard love her truly, and she do not him, consider how terrible a misfortune has befallen him. To love greatly, nobly, truly – ”and then she paused – ”and to find that such a love is unreturned – ” and again she stopped. “But love is not for me; these Caves of Silence give me strange thoughts,” continued she.

Here was my mistress in a mood that was new to me, and I held my peace, wondering. I had deemed that her thoughts were set on war and her quarrel with the Governor of Galway, forgetting, as I so often did, that she was a woman as well as our princess and chief.

“Do you not understand,” said she again, “that the English will not be satisfied to let our affairs remain as they are? This is not like the strife between two of our septs. Think you that Sir Nicholas is the man to be easily defied? Not so; the matter is no more than begun. He will try to have his revenge, nor will he tarry long over it. See, then, how great an advantage it is for us that de Vilela should have come to us at such a time, with the assistance of the King of Spain. Will not the whole island rise against the Queen of England?”

“To make Philip King of Ireland?” asked I.

“I know not that,” replied she; “but the first thing is to expel the English.”

Then she told me that Fitzgerald and de Vilela were soon to set out, making their way across the country to the Earl of Clanrickarde, and, later, to the Earl of Desmond, who was known to be disaffected to the government. By the spring of the following year, it was hoped a general rising would be arranged for, and in the interval soldiers and money would arrive from Spain, and a camp would be formed at a point on the coast, chosen for its ease of access from the open sea, and the readiness with which it could be fortified.

It was much, nay, it was everything, for me to know that Eva O’Malley was not in love with Don Francisco, and it was with very changed feelings that I returned to Carrickahooley.

Yet, though I had my mistress’s assurance that all was well, I soon became doubtful and dissatisfied, for time passed and de Vilela made no preparations to depart on his mission to Clanrickarde, while his devotion to Eva was more evident day by day. I asked myself why he lingered, considering the importance of the business on which he was engaged, and Eva was the only reply to that question.

It was when I was in this unhappy frame of mind that one of Richard Burke’s messengers, who had come by way of Lough Corrib and Lough Mask from Galway, arrived at the castle, bringing news that Sir Nicholas Malby was on the point of setting out to eat us up.

Beyond this, the man, who was a half-witted creature, and so permitted to wander about at his pleasure, no one doing him hurt because such as he were counted outside of the course of nature, could tell us little or nothing. Richard the Iron had either not trusted him with more than the barest message, or else had had no opportunity for saying more. It was possible, also, that he had not been able to find out exactly what was intended against us.

The season was still fine and open, and if the Governor so determined it, he could attack us by bringing a force along the shores of the lakes, and then up by the valley of the Eriff. Or, if he designed to assault us from the sea, as he might if he had obtained some of Winter’s ships of war, he might purpose to come that way at us. But Burke’s messenger could tell us nothing of this.

It seemed more likely that, as the march through Connaught would be slow and tedious, and beset by the dangers which attend the passage of a large body of men through a difficult and little known country, he would strive to reach and assault us by sea.

Therefore, Grace O’Malley commanded me to take The Cross of Blood, and, sailing southwards, to keep a look-out for Sir Nicholas and the English vessels of Winter, then in charge of a great part of the fleet of Queen Elizabeth. And, indeed, I was eager to be gone, not only because I was ever ready for action of one kind or another, but also because I felt it would be a relief to the painful uncertainty in which I was with regard to Eva.

I had several times resolved to speak to my dear of the love for her which burned within me, but no fit occasion seemed to arise, and, shy and timid where she was concerned, I had not had the wit to make one for myself. And I marvelled at myself, being bold, not to say foolhardy, in most matters, and yet not a little of a coward before this one small, fair woman.

Out from Clew Bay put we with all haste, the wind and sea not being amiss, and here for two days we drove before the breeze without coming in sight of a ship of any size. On the third day we lay off shore in a bay not many leagues from Galway, and there the hours passed by, and still there was no sign of Winter’s vessels.

I was in two minds, nor could at first settle with myself whether to return to Clew Bay at once, having come to the conclusion that Sir Nicholas was to attack us by land, or to endeavour to enter Galway, and so to discover what he had done, or was about to do.

Now it was of the utmost consequence that we should learn what were the plans of the Governor, if they could be come at in any way, and, having informed my officers of what I proposed, I determined to disguise myself and to enter the city to obtain what we were in search of.

Bidding my people return to Clew Bay if I came not back to the galley in three days at the furthest, I put on the dress of a mendicant friar, and in the night was rowed to the fishing village that is just outside the gates of Galway. Landing, I made my way to the huts, and saw a light burning in one. When I knocked at the door, a man appeared, who, seeing a priest, as he thought, asked my blessing and invited me to enter.

After a few words, I threw myself down on the earthen floor, and, saying that I was weary and fain would sleep, closed my eyes and waited for the dawn. The fisherman made some rough provision for my comfort, and left me; but I could hear him whispering to his wife, and her replying to something he had said.

When the morning was come, I asked to be shown the house of the nearest priest, whom I found, early as it was, astir and busy with his office. Discovering myself to him – and this I did because I knew all the Irish priests were our friends – I requested him to tell me where Sir Nicholas was.

But he made answer that he went seldom within the walls of the city, as the watch was very strict since the escape of Grace O’Malley, and that no one was suffered to go in or out save only by permission of the marshal. He had heard, however, that since her flight the Irish in Galway and the neighbourhood were regarded with suspicion, and that some of them had been cast into prison. Sir Nicholas, he thought, was still in Galway.

As for Grace O’Malley, she had been proclaimed a traitress by the Governor, and an enemy of the Queen. I myself, Ruari Macdonald, was also proscribed as an abettor of her treasons, and a great reward was offered for the head of the “redshank and rebel,” as Sir Nicholas was pleased to call me.

And these things did not disquiet me exceedingly, but what did was, that I could learn nothing of Richard Burke, whom I desired above all to see. Him, then, had I first to seek out, and, so soon as the gates were open, I set out for Galway, trusting that my priest’s dress would satisfy the watch, and that I should be allowed to enter without any trouble or disturbance.

CHAPTER XII.
THE WHISPERING ROCKS

The air was cool and the light clear as I stepped briskly along from the village in a northerly direction, up over the high, wooded lands that lie on that side of Galway. From an open space I obtained a view of the town and its harbour, and was well pleased to note that no ship of war, or large vessel of any kind, rode at anchor in the bay. Plainly, the English admiral, Winter, had not yet arrived.

Then I struck across to the east, and so fetched a compass round until I came upon the road that leads to the great gate of the city, and there, no distance off, was the gate, open. Two carts, going to market with provisions, were passing in, and their drivers were stopped by the watch and interrogated.

Now, I had no overweening confidence in the completeness of my disguise, and it was evident that what the village priest had told me was true as to the care exercised in the admission of anyone within the walls, so I drew off and tarried awhile, to see if chance would not put some opportunity into my hands.

I reflected, too, with perturbation, that I had no weapon with me except a dagger – the robe I was wearing making it impossible to conceal a sword beneath it. But then, again, came the thought that, however well I might have been armed, I was but one man with one life, and that I was about to adventure it in a city full of my enemies. Yet is there that in the mere grip of the cold cross of a sword that keeps the blood a flowing fire in one’s veins, and I regretted that I had had to leave my good blade behind.

While I was thus communing with myself, I saw two Franciscans approach, going towards the gate, and I straightway resolved to join them. They were talking loudly, as if there were a bone of contention between them, and, when they observed me, they both, in one breath, as it were, addressed me, each one asking me to give a decision in his favour on the subject they differed about, which was – Whether St. Patrick were an Irishman or not?

I answered craftily that I should like to hear the arguments on both sides of the question, and requested them to choose which of them should be the first speaker. Whereupon, they halted in the road, disputing which should have the preference, and were like to have spent the morning before they had settled this, as neither would yield to the other, if I had not made a movement towards the gate.

“Sir,” said I, turning to one of them – they had now ranged themselves on either side of me as we walked on – ”what say you? That the holy Patrick was – ?”

“I say he was an Irishman,” burst in the other, on my left, before I had finished the sentence.

“An Irishman!” exclaimed the Franciscan on my right, “an Irishman! Not he. He was a Scot!”

“I say he was an Irishman!”

“And I maintain he was a Scot!”

“An Irishman!”

“A Scot!”

Their voices rose into shoutings and roarings, as they glared across me with angry eyes.

“St. Patrick was never born in Ireland,” cried the one.

“St. Patrick was never born anywhere else,” retorted the other.

“I tell you, by the Mass, that St. Patrick was a Scot.”

“I tell you, by St. Peter, he was not.”

And thus they wrangled until we had reached the gate, where I perceived the noise they made had already attracted the notice of the watch. Without appearing to pay any attention to the soldiers, I nodded now to the Franciscan on my right, and now to him on my left, as if I followed their words intently.

All my senses, however, were on the stretch, and my heart throbbed and fluttered in my breast, for the danger was great.

“’Tis Father Ambrose and Father Gregory,” I heard one of the soldiers say, “and another of the fathers.” Then he glanced at me inquiringly, but only asked, “To the Church of St. Nicholas, fathers?”

“Yes,” was the reply, and we were passing in when an officer of the Governor’s came down the street, and, scowling at us, bade us halt.

“Whither go ye?” he demanded gruffly.

“To the Church of St. Nicholas,” said we as with one voice, for I had made up my mind to go thither also.

“There be too many priests in Galway already,” said he, with stern-knit brows, “and, had I my way, I should hang ye all. Know ye these men?” he called to the watch.

I held my breath. Father Ambrose and Father Gregory they appeared to know, but as to myself, what would they say?

“Yes, sir,” said the soldier who had spoken before, and as soon as I heard this, I moved on, the Franciscans accompanying me, and beginning their dispute over again.

And so on we walked to the Church of St. Nicholas, while I could scarcely credit having thus fortunately made my entrance into Galway. Having arrived at the church, I directed my steps to the shrine of my patron saint, where, on my knees, with more than the devoutness of many a monk, I offered him my gratitude for his favour and protection, and implored a continuance of the same.

Thus engaged, I had not at once observed that someone had come up behind me, and was kneeling two or three paces away. When I looked up I saw the figure of a woman, but her face I could not see for the shadow of a pillar that intervened.

Somehow, the form seemed familiar, and when she rose up from praying and turned to go, I was startled to find myself gazing at Sabina Lynch. She glanced at me curiously, but, beholding only a friar, passed on sedately out of the building, little thinking at the moment that she had ever been carried, and that not too gently nor so long ago, in that friar’s arms.

To keep up the character I had assumed I began begging, according to the manner of the order of mendicants, from door to door, so soon as I had quitted the church, hoping in this way to light upon someone from whom I might safely ask if Richard Burke were lodging in the town.

And in this it appeared altogether probable that I should have no success, for in many instances I was driven from the doors of the people without ceremony, or paid no heed to whatever. Indeed, the whole town seemed to be agog with something, and, as the streets were now filled with soldiers marching in companies, it was easy to be seen that there was good reason for the excitement.

When I inquired of a man who had given me an alms, and who was of a friendly disposition, what was the cause of all this moil and stir, he replied that surely I must be a stranger not to know that Sir Nicholas was bringing an army together in the town with which he meant to punish the rebels of Connaught.

“What rebels?” asked I innocently.

“That pestilent and notable woman,” said he, “Grace O’Malley, and all her tribe of robbers and murderers and pirates.”

Then he told me how she had destroyed the wine fleet of Galway, and so had come near to ruining the trade of the port.

“She is a devil,” quoth he, and he crossed himself, “and the Governor will kill her and her people.”

“A woman!” cried I, with a great show of being astonished beyond measure.

“Ay, a woman,” said he, “but she must be a devil.” And he crossed himself again. Then he added: “If she be not the very devil in the shape of a woman, there is with her a man, a giant – a great, strong giant – whom she calls her brother, but who is said to have come out of the sea, and is no man at all, but a devil too. Some say he is a Redshank of the Scots, but I tell you he is a devil too.”

And thus the fellow maundered on, while I found some trouble in restraining myself from bursting into laughter in his face. Having, however, thanked him civilly for his alms and information, I gave him my blessing – a devil’s blessing – and so left him.

We were devils!

What, then, were those who thought nothing of breaking a safe-conduct, or of poisoning the wine at banquets to which they had invited their victims as loving guests? Yet the first had happened in the case of my mistress, and the second had been the fate of many an Irish chief.

We were devils, and so to be feared! It was no such bad thing at that time and in that land to be counted as devils, for men who had no fear of God before their eyes, nor of his saints, were afraid of devils.

I had now come to the tavern that is under the sign of the Golden Eagle, and from inside proceeded the sound of eating and of drinking, of festivity and of mirth. Entering in, I was about to beg for alms, when I saw among the company a man whom I recognised as one of the Mayo Burkes, a gallowglass of the MacWilliam’s. Him I at once addressed, incautiously enough, asking if his master were well, and where I would find him, as I had a message for his private ear.

“Richard the Iron,” said he, “is lodged in the North Street; and who are you, father, that know not that?”

“I have been there,” said I, lying boldly, “but he is away from the house.”

“If he be not at the mansion of the Joyces,” said he, “then I know not where he is.”

So Richard Burke was at the mansion of the Joyces in the North Street. Here was good news indeed, and, having said some fair words to the man, I went out of the tavern; but when I reached the North Street I found that my falsehood had this much of truth in it – that Richard Burke was not there. I sat down on a bench in the courtyard of the mansion, and waited impatiently for his return. Tiring of this, I walked up the street towards the Little Gate, and whom should I meet on the way but Richard Burke riding with Sabina Lynch.

Well did I recall what Richard Burke had said to me some weeks before, when he had come secretly to The Cross of Blood. He had declared that Sabina Lynch loved him, but that he only cared for Grace O’Malley. Yet, as I looked at them, it seemed to me as if he were paying Mistress Lynch no little court, and they appeared to take pleasure in each other’s society.

But when I thought of the messenger he had sent to Carrickahooley, and of his service, though unavailing, to us before, I conceived that he was playing a double part, holding that love and war, perhaps, justified any means so long as the end were gained. And, for that matter, I, the false friar, was no better than a cheat myself.

I was determined to get speech with him without further delay – the feeling of impatience was so strong upon me – and, as I was casting about in what way I should accomplish this, Sabina Lynch tossed me a piece of silver as an alms, while I was yet three ells’ length from the horses.

“Take that for the poor, father,” cried she merrily.

It happened that the coin after it had struck the ground, rolled in front of Richard Burke’s horse, and I rushed forward to pick it up before it was trampled into the dust. I also trusted that under cover of this action I should be able to say a few words which would make me known to him, without being perceived by his companion.

As I stepped into the street, he was compelled to rein in his horse, and then to pass by the side of me.

“What a greedy, clumsy friar he is!” laughed Sabina Lynch.

In truth, I was as clumsy as clumsy could be, for as I drew myself up and tried to stand erect I hit my shoulder against Richard Burke’s foot, whereupon he stopped.

“Father,” said he, good-humouredly, “have you no care for yourself? Then, prithee, have a care for me.”

And he smiled; but when he had looked into my face, and had met my eyes, I saw the blood suddenly leave his cheeks, and knew that he had penetrated my disguise.

He gave so great a start that his horse leaped up under him, and, as it did so, the friar’s cowl, which covered my head and partially hid my face, was thrown back, and there stood I, Ruari Macdonald, disclosed and discovered, before Sabina Lynch.

She gazed from the one to the other of us in silence, then, striking her horse violently, galloped off, exclaiming: “Treason, treason!”

Richard Burke was in a maze.

“Ruari!” he gasped, and could say no more.

“I have come to Galway,” said I quickly, “that I might have knowledge of the Governor’s intentions against us. This is no place for us now,” cried I, to rouse him, for he was like one that dreamed, “come, come with me before the hue and cry is raised.”

And I seized the bridle of his horse and turned its head, and led it towards the Little Gate.

“Not that way,” said he wildly. “I have just come from thence.”

Then he gathered himself and his wits together.

“The Great Gate is best. Ay, this is no place now for me any more than it is for you. Well said you that. We will go together; but let us not go too swiftly, otherwise the watch, suspecting something is wrong, will not let us pass. We have a few minutes to spare before the gates can be closed. Do you walk a little way behind me.”

I had replaced the cowl about my head, and, hardly knowing whether to be glad or sorry at what had fallen out, marched at a rapid pace after him up the street of the Great Gate.

Richard Burke was well known to the watch, and no objection was made to our passing out. As long as we were within sight of the walls we went at a walk, but when a turn of the road had hid them from us, I grasped the saddle-cloth and ran beside the horse, which its rider now urged along at the top of its speed.

We had gone about two miles, and had gained an eminence partly sheltered by trees, when, looking back, we saw the figures of horsemen spurring after us out of the city. On we sped again, until I could run no more. Then I besought Burke to leave me as I was spent and blown. But this he would not hearken to at first.

“It will be a strange thing,” said I, “if I cannot conceal myself somewhere in the trees and bushes, or among the rocks, for the night. In the morning I will make my way back to the galley.”

And I persuaded him to ride on towards his own territory, but not before he had told me that Sir Nicholas had drawn a force of a hundred men from Athlone, everyone of whom was a trained and hardened soldier, and with these, his own men, and the gallowglasses of Sir Morrough O’Flaherty of Aughnanure, who had promised to support him, was about to set out at once for our overthrow.

The Governor was terribly enraged against us, and in his anger at the destruction of the wine fleet had sworn he would make an end of us all. His wrath burned not only against Grace O’Malley, but against many others of the Irish, and there had been such a killing and a hanging of those who were thought hostile to the government as had never before been seen or heard of in Galway.

Richard Burke had only escaped because of his friendship with the Mayor and his daughter Sabina Lynch, but his every act was spied upon.

“I remained in the city for no other reason,” he declared, “than to see if I could not afford some help to you in one way or another.”

As he departed, he said, as he wrung my hand, “I shall cast in my lot with yours, and, if it can be done in the time left to us, I shall bring all the Burkes of Mayo to your assistance. Should you reach Carrickahooley first, tell your mistress that.”

Then he swung himself again into the saddle, and was gone.

He was hardly out of sight, when I heard the sound of hoofs beating on the road, and creeping in through the bushes that lined a small stream by the wayside I laid me down to rest, and soon I was listening to the voices of the men in pursuit of us as they drew near. They made no pause, but swept on past the spot where I lay.

I was about to emerge from my place of concealment, when again the tramp of horses fell upon my ear, and, looking out, I saw Sir Nicholas and several of his officers come riding slowly along. They stopped quite close to me, and, dismounting, made a survey of the land all around, but, my star favouring me, they moved to the further side of the stream.

“Let the camp be pitched here,” said Sir Nicholas, “and do you remain until the men come up.”

I guessed that he had been told of my presence in Galway, and had immediately ordered the soldiers to set out to catch me so that we should have no advantage from our being warned of his purpose.

My position was now one of extreme peril; I was cut off from returning to my galley; and I could see nothing for it but to remain where I was until the soldiers had gone on on their journey, unless I took the chances of the darkness.

There I lay, and, as the night fell, the men of Sir Nicholas marched up and lit their watch-fires not more than a stone’s throw from where I hid. For hours, not daring to move, I heard them singing and talking and jesting with each other. When, at length, silence came upon the sleeping camp, I stole as softly as I could out of the bushes, and moving on, like a cat, so that each step of mine was no more noticed than a puff of wind, I managed to gain the road that leads past Oorid and Sindilla at the foot of the mountains. I walked fast, and sometimes ran, until the day broke, when I turned aside, and, having sought for and found a dry cave on the side of a hill, fell down utterly exhausted, and ere long was in a deep slumber.

I was awakened many hours later, for it was dark again, by a strange sort of cheeping noise at my very ears.

I started up, and the noise ceased; I lay down, and the sound began once more. As I listened, my face to the rocky floor of the cavern, I fancied I could distinguish words, but, as it were, coming from a great way off.

Now, thoroughly aroused, I listened yet more earnestly, and I made out that there were two or three voices, and that the sound of them was not coming from the inside of the cave, nor yet from the outside, but seemed to issue, like a thin whistle, through the rock itself.

I moved stealthily towards the far end, and, lying down again prone, applied my ear to the ground. I now heard quite distinctly, the words being audible, though faint, and with an extraordinary effect of still coming from an immense distance.

I then understood I was in one of the chambers of the Whispering Rocks as they are called, for a wonder of nature has so constructed them that it is possible to hear through them, when all around is still, whatever is said within these caverns. And how this miracle comes to pass I know not, but I had often heard of it; otherwise I might have thought that these sounds came from the spirits of the mountain, and so might not have discovered the vile plot that had been hatched for our ruin.

For, as the voices grew more and more clear, I found myself listening to the story of how these men who were speaking were to present themselves at the castle of Carrickahooley in advance of the English army, and, having gained admittance on the plea that they were fleeing to Grace O’Malley for protection, were treacherously to betray her and the castle into the hands of the Governor by secretly opening the gate as soon as the attack began.

I gripped my dagger in impotent rage, for, placed as I was, I could do nothing. After a time the voices ceased, and, moving noiselessly to the mouth of the cave, I saw that the night was clear and starry, and, feeling refreshed by my long repose, I made on towards Ballanahinch, which I reached in the morning, and where I obtained milk and the flesh of a kid from the wife of one of the kernes, who took me for a wandering priest, and gladly supplied my wants.

For two days and the greater part of two nights I toiled over the mountains and through the forests, seeing no indication of the English, until I came to the fiord of the Killery, where some of our own people dwelt under Muilrea. From thence they brought me round to Clew Bay in a fishing boat, and I was back again at Carrickahooley, more dead than alive from the fatigues I had undergone, inured though I was to all kinds of hardness.