Lord Of The Isle
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Down at the crossroad, a musket exploded. A cloud of smoke rose briefly from behind Saint Patrick’s high cross. It dissipated quickly, driven to earth by the pouring rain. A lagging redcoat crashed to the ground, unseated by the accuracy of an O’Neill musketeer. Loghran had found Brian. With increasing satisfaction, he assumed Rory had reived the mount, leading the merry chase into Hugh’s well-planned trap.
Rory was to lure the soldiers to Tyrone. Brian’s task at the high cross was to pick off any stragglers, any who attempted to turn back to Benburg once the trap was sprung.
“Perfect shot!” Hugh praised Brian’s skill. “I couldn’t have done better myself.”
The carefully crafted brass tubes snapped closed between Hugh’s broad, blunt fingered hands. He put two to his mouth, emitting a sharp, short whistle, alerting the kerns in the wych elms to get ready.
The kerns knew what to do once the English crossed the river. Hugh had been over his plan time and again before they settled like kestrels high in the trees. Even Hugh’s discerning eyes had trouble locating each man amid the camouflaging foliage. It remained to be seen if the kerns would do as Hugh had ordered and wait till the exact moment the redcoats rode underneath them before dropping onto the unsuspecting soldiers’ heads.
Shortly, Hugh surmised with grim satisfaction, this simple altercation would be over. Then Hugh O’Neill would detain as his prisoner one Irish traitor, James Kelly, captain of Her Majesty’s musketeers.
Hugh planned to take James Kelly to the stone of clan O’Neill and sit in judgment over his trial by ordeal. A coward’s death was a fitting end for the man whom all said beheaded the last leader of the O’Neills, Shane the Proud.
Compounding his sins, the Judas named Kelly had sold Shane O’Neill’s head to the crown’s lord deputy for a paltry bag of silver coin. The degradation of Shane’s tarred head, staked on a pole outside Dublin Castle’s northwest gate for all to see, had sealed Kelly’s fate.
When James Kelly’s own head stood on a pike above the sacred stone of clan O’Neill, young Hugh, heir of Matthew, the baron of Dungannon, and hostage of Her Majesty Elizabeth Tudor of England for fifteen long and lost years, would finally be vindicated.
When he had avenged the murder of his uncle, Hugh’s honor would be restored and all that was due to him by birth returned. Blood for blood, and an eye for an eye. Then, and only then, could Hugh claim his birthright and assume the righteous and honorable title the O’Neill.
His carefully planned ambush at Benburg bridge awaited one last event; the English soldiers must all cross the bridge. Hugh raised his right hand as the foremost rider charged out of the woods and into view on the flood-swept verge below the bridge. Two redcoats bore down hard on the lone rider, to prevent him reaching the bridge and escaping into wild Tyrone. It was going to be close.
Hugh urged the rider to more speed and followed with a curse on Kelly’s wily ways. Well-mounted Englishmen knew how to ride. Kelly’s red-coated soldiers were no exception to that rule.
“Damn my eyes,” Hugh cursed out loud. “That’s not Rory, O’Toole! I told you that wasn’t his horse. What’s going on here?”
Hugh knew horses as well as any man in Ireland. That fleet-legged mare in the lead was an Arabian palfrey. No other breed ran with such nimble grace and speed. When the rider’s cloak caught on the wind again, Hugh spied something he didn’t like seeing at this moment in his life at all.
A woman’s petticoats fluttered over gartered knees.
The mounted soldiers bore down on the palfrey, shortening the gap. Neither man was Hugh’s quarry, Kelly. Hugh delayed his last signal, his hand clenched, but raised and visible to his men. The English must cross the bridge. His gut tightened. His simple plan to capture Kelly was about to be compromised.
Rory was supposed to lead the English into the trap. But Rory wasn’t on the Arabian galloping toward the bridge.
Hugh spied the man he wanted in the second pack of redcoats, fifty yards behind the leaders.
At the same instant he saw his quarry, the gap closed. One lout sprang from his saddle and took the woman to ground on the muddy verge below the river. The palfrey bolted onto the bridge, then reared, frightened by the turbulent, raging, muddy water flooding over the structure.
Hugh ground his teeth. A curse issued from his throat. His breath locked inside his chest. This was not what he’d planned. A woman’s scream pierced the wet air, matched by a shriek from the terrified horse.
Without a rider guiding it, the palfrey toppled off the bridge, into the flood, and careened downstream. It fought mightily to regain its footing and swim across the Abhainn Mor.
Kelly reined in his mount, ten feet shy of the bridge. His evil laugh echoed across the water as he dismounted. Redcoats and brown horses surrounded the unlucky woman. Hugh didn’t need to see inside the closing circle to know the woman’s immediate fate. The sounds of imminent rape were testament enough.
The valuable Arabian struggled to gain footing on the west bank. Art Macmurrough darted out of hiding and plunged into the river, snaring the trailing reins and taking charge of the beast. Hugh growled a shout, enraged that the man had dared break his given orders. His shout died between grinding teeth as he told himself not to be surprised.
That impulsive act by a battle-tested Irish soldier spoke to all that was wrong with Ireland and to why Hugh’s homeland remained in a perpetual state of domination by English overlords. Celtic soldiers, unlike their English counterparts, followed their commander’s orders to the letter only when the whim suited them.
Incensed, Hugh reached for his sword. Something dark and dangerous pushed him perilously close to slicing his own man in half.
Damning his Irish for their fatal caprices, Hugh dug gold spurs into Boru’s sides, galloping out from under the shelter of the wych elms on the bluff above the ravine. His purpose was obvious. He was going after Kelly alone.
Loghran O’Toole immediately rode forward, physically barring Hugh’s path with his war-horse. “‘Tis not our quarrel. Bide a while yet, my lord. Give Rory and Brian a chance to make up ground. All is not yet lost.”