Lord Of The Isle
Шрифт:
Emma Frances Merritt
1940 - 1995
The mentor every young writer should have.
“Old Days! The wild geese are flighting, Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there’s loving and fighting, And when we stop either, it’s Ireland no more!”
“The Irish Guards” Rudyard Kipling
Ireland May 1575
Finn mac Cool named the moodiest river in Ireland Abhainn Mor, the great dark water. The subtle nuance of meaning inherent in Gaelic was lost in the translation to its English equivalent—Blackwater. To Queen Elizabeth and all the lackey governors, generals and deputies she sent to rule Ireland, the name Blackwater meant border.
Beyond its treacherous currents lay the heart of Ulster. That fierce, clannish northern frontier of deep glens, forest-covered mountains and impregnable sea cliffs had withstood English subjugation since the Norman Conquest. Ulster’s marly earth had spawned generations of heroic men; giants of yore, saints of mystic faith, warriors of lasting renown and women of great heart.
Legend linked the Abhainn Mor’s ravines, currents and swift rapids to the humor of the ri ruirech Ui Neill, the king of kings of the clan O’Neill. As night fell on the fifth day of May in the year of our Lord 1575, the deluge of a cold spring downpour exposed the river at its most dangerous.
Rushing waters scourged the ravine at Benburg so ferociously, the Abhainn Mor broke free of its ancient bed, and threatened to score a new path across Ireland. The angry crash of the flood deafened all near it to the crack of thunder and the whiptail shriek of a banshee wind.
Were legend to be taken as truth, the black temper of the river matched the mood of the heir of Dungannon. Mounted on his favorite charger, Boru, a dun beast eighteen hands tall, Her Majesty’s favorite earl, Hugh O’Neill, watched as seven English soldiers rode out of Benburg, hot on the trail of another victim.
Queen Elizabeth would have been sorely distressed by the earl of Tyrone’s raiment. Lord Hugh wore not the elegant clothes of an English courtier. Instead, her man dressed as the elements decreed any Irishman should dress, in plaid and leathers that were oblivious of the rain pouring down upon him and his horse.
Hugh’s young face reflected displeasure with the scene in the glen before him. By private agreement between him and Elizabeth, all of Ulster was his to administer, and included in his right of pit and gallows. Redcoats had no business entering or patroling the razed wilderness of the late martyr Shane O’Neill.
Clan O’Neill had laid barren every scrap of fertile earth within two leagues of the bridge and Shane’s empty castle atop nearby Owen Maugh. Such was their tribute to Shane following his murder on the Benburg bridge seven years ago. Most O’Neill kinsmen swore that Shane’s headless spirit haunted the bridge, seeking revenge. Hugh knew of no facts proving or disproving their opinion.
Hugh took out his telescope, twisting the brass tubes into focus on the winding road leading from the village to the bridge.
The soldiers’ prey outdistanced them, on a swift and surefooted palfrey Hugh did not recognize. The rider’s cloak billowed out, obscuring most of the lead horse’s markings and flying tail. Hugh trained his glass on the soldiers instead, seeking to identify one particular man.
Night closed her hands over the flooding Abhainn Mor, concealing a dozen kerns of clan O’Neill. The clansmen blended into their lofty perches in the wych elms above the rushing water. Wrapped in green-and-brown plaids, they awaited a decision from young Hugh to proceed or retreat back to Dungannon.
From the oldest, whose age was counted by the score, down to the youngest, a boy just past his ninth winter, all kept their ears open, listening intently for the keening wail of the O’Neill’s banshee, Maoveen. As every clan had its hereditary officials, marshall of forces, master of horse, keeper of treasure, poets, inaugurator and deposer, so too they had a banshee, a spirit whose dreadful scream portended death. Hence Maoveen’s cry would warn each kinsman of the imminent approach of Shane O’Neill, were he to appear on the bridge seeking ghostly vengeance.
Their silence spoke more loudly in Hugh’s ears than the rumbling thunder. His kerns—or more rightly, Matthew, the baron of Dungannon’s kerns—waited to see if the heir to Dungannon could come up to scratch. Not a man among them trusted a kinsman raised and educated in England.
Hugh believed his position as leader of this patrol served as a test. Hugh’s avowed interest in taking revenge upon the man who had murdered Shane O’Neill conveniently matched each kern’s desire to spill English blood.
“It’s Kelly,” Hugh announced after some study.
“Aye. It’s him.” Loghran O’Toole sounded more like a wintering bear snoring than a man speaking. “I hear Maoveen whispering the traitor’s name behind the wind.”
Hugh cut his mentor a cold glance, saying, “Don’t feed me that nonsense about banshees. Where’s Rory? That’s not his horse the soldiers are after. Do you stop squinting your eyes against the rain and listening for bloody hungry banshees, you will realize that.”
Loghran took exception to that criticism, but said nothing to rebut it. Despite a score and ten years’ span between their ages, his eyes were as sharp as young Hugh’s.