Lord Of The Isle
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No redcoat escaped Hugh O’Neill’s retribution. In short order, five curs fell under the stroke of Hugh’s sword. Only Kelly remained alive, his heart still beating, as Hugh dismounted from Boru and tossed the war-horse’s reins to his young nephew, Owen Roe.
“What farce be this, O’Neill?” Kelly demanded. He hid his fear behind a mask of sarcasm—that of a bureaucrat accustomed to wielding threats against lesser men than he. “Think you this some London stage, and you a hero of some play, wherein you ravish the maiden yourself?”
Hugh’s cold smile sent Kelly staggering backward. He came up short, pinned to the point of Kermit Blackbeard’s sword.
“Your sarcasm ill suits you, Kelly,” Hugh crooned. He handed Loghran his sword to clean the blood from it. James Kelly and Hugh O’Neill went way back, fifteen long years, to Hugh’s first days at the court of Elizabeth Regina. Kelly had been the bully of the queen’s court then, just as he was the bully of Ireland now.
The soldiers were dead, but not the traitor. Hugh stepped around the broken body of the woman, drew back his fist and let it fly into James Kelly’s face, dropping him like a stone at the feet of Shamus Fitz and Donald the Fair.
“Truss him and tie a rope around his neck. If he doesn’t wake up, I’ll drag him by his throat to the stone of O’Neill.”
Hugh turned his back to the traitorous Kelly as he stripped off his gauntlets. He flicked a cold glance to the kerns milling all over the vale, examining the soldiers Hugh had dispatched. Before a one of them had so much as lifted a finger, Hugh had lopped off three heads and gutted a fourth.
Stoic Loghran O’Toole’s only participation in the mel'ee had been to make certain Kelly remained Hugh’s prisoner.
A deep silence settled over the kerns as young Hugh O’Neill turned to face them.
“Macmurrough!” Hugh shouted. “Present yourself!”
At one time, Art Macmurrough had been a general under Shane the Proud, in command of a division of five hundred foot soldiers. He commanded no one now. Bereft of the heart of their leadership, the army of O’Neills had not marched anywhere since Shane’s death. The old soldier came forward reluctantly.
“So your admiration for fine horseflesh exceeds your attention to duty, does it, Art?” Hugh asked in a controlled voice, though the angry edge was there. Every living soul near Benburg bridge heard it.
“My lord,” Macmurrough answered in a voice as aged by the years as Loghran’s, “’twas a fine mare. I couldn’t let it drown in the river. Not a horse like that.”
“So you gave my position away, then, for a piece of horseflesh? Good thinking, man. What if this had been the justiciar, Lord Grey’s, vanguard, bringing siege to Dungannon’s abbey? Did you turn your back on Shane as you just turned your back on me? Did you leave Shane vulnerable? Here at this bridge? Send him alone to his slaughter the last time the English tried to bring Tyrone to its knees?”
“Nay, Lord Hugh. I didn’t.” Macmurrough’s grizzled face broke out in sweat. “It was winter then. You were in England. I was at Tullaghoge. Shane ordered all of us to stand down for Epiphany.”
Seeing that Lord Hugh did not believe him, Macmurrough fell to his knees, his empty hands up, beseeching Hugh’s forgiveness. “My lord, I swear to you on the souls of my five sons, we knew nothing of the attack before it happened. I loved Shane. He was my heart, my blood brother. I’d have given my life for his, if I could have done. I swear on my sainted mother’s soul, I’ll never fail you again, O’Neill. I’ll carry out every command you give me, trusting you as Abraham trusted God. Hail, Hugh O’Neill!”
The kern’s hands clasped Hugh’s. He kissed Hugh’s battered knuckles and the signet ring of his earldom. Donald the Fair strode forward and extended his sword to Hugh, hilt first, as he, also, dropped to his knee in salute.
“I, too, am your man, O’Neill. My soul and my sword lie in your hand, to command as you will.”
Loghran O’Toole’s eyes misted as he watched sword after sword being placed in Hugh’s strong hand as each kern knelt before Hugh O’Neill, giving him a solemn oath of fealty. Loghran had gone to England, gillie to the baron of Dungannon’s son, the only Irish influence in Hugh’s long sojourn at the queen’s court. It was abundantly clear to O’Toole that the queen of England’s court had failed to breed the Irish out of Hugh O’Neill.
Loghran’s heart swelled with pride, loving Hugh O’Neill as the son he would never have. Now, at five-and-twenty, his charge had all the qualities necessary to become the next O’Neill—leadership, intelligence, compassion, courage and fierce loyalty.
One by one, they all came, twelve men and one boy, pledging their lives and souls to Hugh’s hand. Hugh was stunned and humbled. Before tonight, not a one of them had trusted a kinsman raised in England as far as he could throw him.
These twelve were not all O’Neills. Numerous and varied kinsman, cadres and families made up Tyrone. The trust and loyalty of all the others remained to be gained by Hugh at some future date. But these twelve were Hugh’s men now, and Hugh belonged to them. It was a start.
Hugh turned to Macmurrough and bade him run down the soldiers’ scattered horses and transport all seven, and the Arabian mare, to Dungannon. He ordered Kermit to gather the dead soldiers’ weapons, and any wealth or valuables they carried on their persons. Bounty was forever the tribute of war. Whatever was gathered would be divided fairly, each to his own needs.
Donald the Fair and Shamus Fitz volunteered to bury the remains. Loghran O’Toole handed Hugh back his sword, cleaned. He took out his breviary, stole and rosary, saying he would recite the Te Deum over the bodies and consign their souls to God’s eternal judgment.
Satisfied that all was done that should be done, Hugh O’Neill unfastened his plaid from his shoulder and went to the woman’s body. As he opened the cloth to spread it over her and cover the gaps in her gown, it occurred to him that he might never know who she was.
That, he thought, would be a great pity. A woman with her courage should be remembered, immortalized in the bards’ songs and revered in the ages to come. Hugh closed his eyes, remembering the sight of her kicking Kelly in his naked arse, sending him sprawling facedown in the mud. She might have been murdered, but her spirit hadn’t been broken.