A Game of Sorrows (22 page)

The sounds of our footfalls beat out a pattern with the rhythm of the sea coming in to shore. Suddenly, Michael stopped and held up a hand to stay us, another to his lips. Unmoving, trying to silence our breaths, we heard what he had: the sounding of a horn and the yelping of dogs, somewhere to the southwest of us.

‘What is it?’

‘The wolf-hunt.’

‘There are no wolves in these parts, surely.’

‘Tonight, we are the wolves,’ said Andrew.

Michael moved quickly. ‘They are about a mile off. We have a mile and a half before we gain Dunluce. They will be on us long before we reach sanctuary if we stay on this path.’

‘Where can we go?’ asked Andrew. ‘They will have our scent.’

Michael was thinking. There was little shelter here – few trees could withstand the blasts of the northern wind, straight off the sea, and the land behind us was flat and open.

‘The cliffs?’ I said, hoping I was wrong as I looked down on the massive, misshapen lumps of white chalk, tufted over with grass and moss, and frozen in their riotous collision over a bubbling sea. ‘There is no shore beneath them.’

‘There is, eventually, in the shadow of the castle itself, not far from Magheracross there,’ he said, indicating a promontory a little way off to the east. ‘They may be our only chance. They are by no means sheer, and will offer us many footholds and hiding places amongst the rocks and caves.’

‘Will the dogs not find us there?’

Again Andrew answered, thinking more clearly than I was. ‘Aye, but the horses cannot get down there, and if their riders dismount and come after us, well, it may approximate to a fair fight.’

We all knew it would not be, but we had no option and there was nothing else to say. Every second in debate was a second wasted, a second closer for the hounds whose relentless barking was drawing inexorably nearer. Without further

word, Michael led the way over the cliff’s edge to a ledge of rock just below; Andrew followed and I brought up the rear, taking one last look behind before I went over, and catching the first distant flashes of the hunt’s torches in the darkness as I did so.

The ledge was not wide, but led down to another, and then grassy tufts and rounded boulders offered us sufficient foot-and handholds to progress slowly about twenty feet below the level of the cliff path. Our eyes were well accustomed to the darkness, and the moon afforded us light enough to discern the edges of rocks and the grassy dips and mounds between them, but for what was below we had to trust to Michael, and he to God. We moved along and downwards slowly and in near-silence, save for instructions or warnings to one another of where to find a handhold, or where the rock was sheer. All the while we could hear the yelping of the hounds and the shouts of the men who drove them.

Our progress was slow, hand by hand, foot by foot, as we edged our way along our chosen path, trying not to think of the certain death that must await us in the boiling sea and merciless rocks below, should we once lose our grip. The rock was black and slippery now, and the going a little harder. It seemed we had gone on in this way for hours, although it could not have been so, when Michael called something back to us, and my heart lifted, for at last, in the distance, I saw reaching out over the sea the great looming mass of what could only be Dunluce Castle. Andrew had seen it ahead of me, and was inspired by the sight to quicken his progress towards it. At that very moment a hunting horn sounded, closer now, and he missed his footing. His right foot slid down and caught in a crevice as he tried to steady himself. He let out a cry of pain, and just managing to grab on to a coarse tuft of grass above his head, slid down the side of the rock. I lunged forward to grab at him, and Michael turned backwards to do the same, but Andrew’s weight proved too great for the tuft he had clung to, and it slipped through his fingers as his whole body slid down and through the darkness to land with a dull thud somewhere below us.

Before I could think what to do, Michael had scrambled over the ledge and was out of sight. I looked for a safe way down, and began to edge myself over, testing the drop to where Andrew lay groaning. Again came the blast of the hunt’s horn, much closer now.

Michael’s voice came to me through the darkness: ‘A five-foot drop, that is all. Straight down, onto grass.’

He had reached Andrew and was gently passing his hand over Andrew’s head. ‘You have taken a bad bump there,’ he said.

‘Do you tell me so?’ said Andrew, laughing in spite of himself.

Michael took his hand away and held it up for me to see. I moved closer, and by the light of the moon I saw a dark stain running down the palm of his hand, a mirror for the stain that had spread from Andrew’s temple to the side of his face.

‘Where else have you pain?’

He gritted his teeth. ‘Every part of me, but I think my foot may be the worst.’

I knelt down and passed my hand over his foot and around his ankle. ‘I do not think the bone is broken, but it is badly twisted. You will not be able to walk on it.’

‘Then you must leave me here.’

‘That will not happen, whatever else befalls us tonight. You will not be left here.’

‘You have no option. I cannot move and the wolfhounds will be on us in minutes.’

I looked at Michael and he shook his head. ‘I can go for help to the castle.’

‘It will be too late by then,’ I said.

‘Then you must leave me.’

I knew that if he was not torn by the hounds, Andrew would succumb to a fever or freeze to death on the rock if we left him there. ‘And would you leave me?’ I said.

He turned his head away. ‘That is not the question.’

‘It is the question I am asking.’

He said nothing, and I moved closer to Michael. ‘How far now?’

His voice was lowered almost to a whisper. ‘We are almost round the last headland, and then we can get him down to the beach. It is shingle, so not easy walking for him, but a hundred yards will take us on to the castle footpath. If we can get him there, I can scramble the rest and bring help.’ He looked at me directly. ‘If we leave him here he will not survive the night.’

The voices of the huntsmen and the barking of the dogs were now almost directly above us. There was no choice to be made. Michael took Andrew under the arms and I lifted his feet, an agony for him by the look on his face, and we carried him like that between us, but the passes where there was room to do so were few, and there were places only wide enough for a man’s foot. Andrew had to stifle his pain and his cries and pull himself along and across the face of the rock as if there were no injury. For the rest, we dragged him. In this way, we somehow turned the final headland and allowed ourselves to slip ten feet or so down the rock to the black shingle beach below Dunluce. Michael signalled to me where the path began, little over fifty yards from where we were, and, pointing towards a recess in the rock that was almost a cave and would shield us from sight, ran for all he was worth in the direction of the great outcrop of rock that led up to the castle.

The huntsmen and their yelping dogs had come to a halt directly above where Andrew had fallen. A debate had ensued amongst the men, but I had not the time to listen. We could not wait for Michael, out of sight or not. Urging Andrew on, I began to drag us both after the young Franciscan, towards the path from Dunluce. We were making good progress, and although it was clear that every step was agony to him, Andrew made no plea for pause or rest. We can only have been about twenty yards from the foot of the path when there was a change in the sounds coming from above; I hardly had time to register it before Andrew said, ‘The dogs!’ I turned once more, and saw that three of the beasts had started to hurtle and scramble down the rock, barking as if to beat back the monsters of the deep. Those that had been kept with the riders howled their protests in return.

‘Leave me,’ gasped Andrew. ‘You won’t make it. Leave me.’

I took a decision there and then, and stepping in front of him, with my back to him, I told him to put his arms around my neck.

‘No, Alexander, you cannot …’

‘Just do it!’

In a moment, I had hauled him up onto my back, as my father had so often done to me when I was a young boy. The weight of him on me was more than I would have thought possible, but praying God for strength, I gritted my teeth and went forward. To my amazement, each stride seemed to give new force to the next, and within a few strides I had picked up a better pace than we had both had walking. A cloud had passed over the moon, and it was now difficult for me to see the base of the path I was making for. I dared not look behind or above me; all my strength and power were needed to drive me onwards. But the demented barking of the dogs had never ceased, and I knew it could not be long before they were on us.

From somewhere above came a shout, and then a terrible yelping; I turned in time to see the lead dog hurtling from high up on the cliff, through the air, and bumping and crashing against rocks as it made its way towards its death. Its mangled body came to rest on a stretch of grass just above the shingle. A strange, sickening, whimpering told me the poor beast was not dead. At any other time, I would have put it out of its misery, but I had to abandon it to its agonies.

Its companions on the cliff top were howling now, in great distress. The horses were whinnying and shying back from the edge, their riders having dismounted to try to make out what was happening below. The two other dogs, however, were progressing relentlessly on towards the shore, focused only on their quarry. Huge, lean shaggy hounds, beasts with no fear of wolves, they would be little deterred by two unarmed men, one of them crippled. I redoubled my efforts and forced myself and my burden almost into a run.

‘Leave me, Alexander. Get yourself to Dunluce.’

I ignored him and went on, the foot of the path in clear sight now. And then I heard the crunch of huge paws on the shingle behind me. Andrew turned, for I could not. ‘They are down. They are sniffing the fallen hound. Oh, good God!’

And now I did turn. One dog remained by its fallen companion, licking and nosing at it, and setting up a piteous howling, but the other was standing to point, its nose in the air and its tail erect, every sinew stretched in readiness. It saw us and it flew. I tried to run faster, but I could scarcely keep my footing. I stumbled once, twice, then felt Andrew drop from my back. He yelled in pain as his foot hit the ground. The beast was on him in seconds, its massive paws pushing him down onto the stones beneath, a demonic roaring coming from its throat. I grasped on the ground for the staff Michael had given me, and set about the beast’s head and haunches with it. This only served to enrage it further, and it whipped its huge jaws round to me, snarling and baring its teeth, without for a moment letting go its hold on Andrew, who was struggling to get his hands up between his face and its jaws. I threw away the stick and launched myself at the animal’s back. Again it whipped round, and I got my arm around its neck and pulled back for all I was worth. Beneath me, Andrew kneed it in the belly, and as it yelped and doubled forward, I wrenched back hard on its neck again. This time I heard a horrible snap, and the dog crumpled motionless from my arms. I pushed the dead weight off Andrew’s body and started to pull him once more to his feet. His clothes were torn and his face was bleeding from where the animal had bitten into his jaw, but he was in a better condition than he might have been.

I did not take him on my back now, and at a slow trudge we reached the bottom of the path soon enough. The one remaining living hound on the beach was following us now, growling softly, but I sensed a wariness in it. Leaving Andrew to lean on the staff a moment, I picked up a rock and hurled it at the animal. It yelped and then slunk quietly away, to lie guard over its dead companions.

At last then there came the sound of voices, in Gaelic, and the glint of a light from further up the path. It was Michael, and behind him another man, in a priest’s robes, and carrying a pallet of some sort. They were with us in minutes.

Michael surveyed Andrew’s face and clothing. ‘The dogs?’ he said.

‘One of them. They will not bother us any more.’

He nodded, and asked nothing else. Carefully, and with surprising ease and skill, they laid Andrew down upon the pallet, and with the older priest taking the lead and the lantern, Michael and I lifted it between us and carried Andrew up the narrow and twisting path from the beach to the rocky outcrop on which the castle stood. In the moonlight, through all the mess of blood and dirt, Andrew smiled at me.

‘You are an Irishman after all. As good as the best of them.’ He closed his eyes and his head lolled to one side, exhaustion and pain freeing him from further consciousness.

I had never set foot in a Romish church before, but I had never known such relief at entering the house of God as I did on crossing the threshold of the ancient church of St Cuth-bert, in the shadows of the castle. The mingled perfume of damp stone and incense caught in my throat and set me to coughing. Burning candles spread circles of light and some blessed warmth around where they stood, in sconces in the walls and in candlesticks of gold on altars at the front and down the side of the small church. There were no pews, but some elaborately carved and sumptuously upholstered oak chairs near the base of the main altar. A brazier burned in the near corner, and we carefully laid Andrew down there.

‘What is this place?’

The older priest took down his hood. He was tall, slightly stooping and with an aristocratic bearing. ‘Father Fintan MacQuillan,’ he said. ‘You are in the church of St Cuthbert, anciently St Murgan’s. You may take rest and sanctuary here for the night, until help can be brought to you in the morning.’

There was a comfort in hearing the old, old names. Despite the incense, and the golden candlesticks, and the ornate carvings, I felt I could rest easy a while in this place.

‘Thank you. My friend is much in need of rest.’