Dublin (105 page)

  Her proposal that he should kidnap the alderman's wife had surprised him even more.

  Why was she doing this? he had asked. She had her reasons, she told him. That was all she would say.

  But she must hate the Doyle woman considerably, he thought, to take such a step. Why do women feud?

  Over a man, usually. You'd have thought she'd have been a bit old for that, really, he mused; but perhaps a woman was never too old to be jealous. Anyway, whatever her reasons, the rewards of this business could be huge. That was what attracted Sean O'Byrne.

  The deal that he and Margaret Walsh had struck was simple enough. He was to capture Dame Doyle and hold her for ransom. It wouldn't be the first kidnap of this kind in recent years; but normally there would have been serious repercussions if a relatively obscure figure like Sean O'Byrne had dared to abduct the wife of a man as important as Doyle. The present circumstances, however, with Doyle in armed conflict with the Fitzgeralds, presented a wonderful opportunity; and though Silken Thomas had granted Joan Doyle a safe-conduct out of the city, that would hardly extend beyond the suburbs. On the open road down at Dalkey, she was on her own, and Lord Thomas Fitzgerald probably couldn't care less what happened to her there. Once O'Byrne had obtained the ransom money from the alderman, he was secretly to pass half of it to Margaret. Very secretly. No one-neither his own family nor Margaret's husband-was to know that she had any part in the business; but her claim to a half share was clearly reasonable. She had brought him the idea, and was telling him when and where Dame Doyle would be travelling. O'Byrne had agreed to the bargain at once.

  There was only one thing he hadn't worked out. How much money should he ask for? He realised that it would be a substantial amount-probably more money than he had ever seen in his life. Though he knew exactly the worth of any cattle inside or outside the Pale, O'Byrne had no idea of the price of a Dublin alderman's wife.

  "When you have her," the Walsh woman had promised,

  "I will tell you what to ask." And O'Byrne was ready to acknowledge that the lawyer's wife would know best. "But what if we can't get the asking price?" he had enquired. "What if they won't pay?"

  The Walsh woman had given him a grim smile.

  "Kill her," she said.

  They were coming slowly up the slope, taking their time.

  There were twenty of them: ten mounted, ten on foot.

  Six of the foot soldiers were simple kerne-men drawn from the land to fight for pay. But four were the terrifying gallowglasses with their long-handled axes and two-handed swords: they would make mincemeat of all but the most highly trained men-at-arms.

  They had already been to Seamus's house and found it deserted. Eva had wondered if they would set fire to it, but they hadn't bothered. They were gradually approaching her house.

  She had taken good care. If the raiding party thought the house was defended, they might spread out so they could take cover. But even from a distance, it was evident that the house had been hastily abandoned. The door was wide open; one of the window shutters was flapping in the wind, creaking and banging. Still packed close together, they advanced.

  The open ground below the house was flanked on one side by a stand of trees; on the other was a low wall. The ground sloped very gently. The riders were still about a hundred yards from the house when Father Donal, who was standing concealed by the trees, gave the signal.

  The thunder of hoofs began quite suddenly. It seemed to be coming from two places at the same time, so that the raiding party paused for a moment in confusion, looking from one side to the other. Then, gazing in horror, they saw what it was.

  The two herds of cattle came round the tower house from both sides. They were already running hard, and as the two bodies came round the tower and converged, they became a single mass of horned heads, the riders behind them whooping, shouting, and cracking whips so that they broke into a stampede.

  One, two, three hundred cattle were pounding and thundering down the shallow slope, a great wall of horns, a huge weight, ten, a dozen beasts deep, bearing down upon the raiders unstoppably.

  The men looked for an escape. There was nowhere to go.

  The great herd filled the whole space between the trees and the wall, and in any case, there was no time to reach either of these. They turned to flee, but the cattle were already upon them. There was a crack, a crash, a terrible roar.

  From where she was riding, by the line of trees, Eva saw the moving wall of cattle smash into the men.

  She saw a sword fly up into the air, heard a shout and a horse scream; and then, only the flowing banks of the cattle, like a river in spate. Behind her, also mounted, she could hear the old bard, whooping and laughing, as excited as a boy; across on the other side near the wall, his face tensely concentrated, his cheeks lightly flushed, she could see Maurice riding in amongst the herd. How handsome he looked, how fearless. Just for an instant she realised that she was half in love with him. Perhaps in all the heat and excitement she had become a young woman again herself, but in the magnificent illusion of the moment, it seemed to her that the young aristocrat was what her own husband might have been, in the years of their youth, if he'd been finer.

  The cattle had passed over the attackers now, and were spilling down the slope below. Maurice was working his way round, skilfully turning them. Behind, where the raiding party had been, was a scene of carnage.

  If the horsemen had been quicker, if they had not hesitated, they might have survived by wheeling round and running with the herd.

  Several had tried, but too late, and had collided either with each other or the foot soldiers. Three had started to run, but not fast enough. The great engine of the herd had either smashed into the horses or overtaken them from behind, borne them down and then trampled them into the earth. The destruction of the men on foot had been even more complete. It made no difference whether they were horsemen, kerne, or the mighty gallowglasses: the herd had passed over them all.

  Arms, legs, skulls, and breastbones had been cracked and crushed; their bodies mangled or pulped. The great axes of the gallowglasses lay with cracked shafts, their heads useless.

  For this was the ancient stampeding of the cattle, an Irish battle tactic as old as the hills.

  Though Eva had only seen it done once, when she was a child, it was not something you could ever forget; and as every person at Rathconan, from herself down to Seamus's youngest child, was adept at driving cattle, it had not been too difficult for them, few though they were, to stampede and drive a herd of three hundred.

  Seamus's wife was coming across now. She'd been driving them from behind. The women from the house arrived, too. They surveyed the wreckage. A number of the men were already dead. Others lay groaning. One of the big mercenaries was even trying to get up. The women knew what to do. At a nod from Eva they took out their knives and went from one man to another, slitting their throats. Eva dismounted and did the same for the unfortunate horses. It was a bloody business, but she felt triumphant; she had saved them all.

  And as Maurice came back, just as she was finishing, he too gave her a look of triumph, love, and joy.

  Sean O'Byrne took his time. They had rested for some hours once they had got back into the safety of the hills. They had not been followed. There was no reason to hurry. It was a little before dawn when they set out to cross the mountains with their burden.

  The ambush had been well prepared. Before dusk he had found the place he was looking for. The men had been carefully placed. He and Fintan were to go in and make straight for the Doyle woman while the rest of the party, led by Seamus, drove off her escorts.

  Though all his men were armed, he had told them to use the flats of their swords unless they encountered serious opposition. With luck they could accomplish the business without having to kill anybody. In particular he was concerned about MacGowan. Walsh's wife had been certain that the grey merchant would be escorting Dame Doyle to Dalkey, and O'Byrne couldn't imagine him giving her up without a fight. He liked MacGowan and would be sorry to harm him, but there wasn't much he could do about it. The game had to be played; the rest was up to fate.

  The only other problem might be in seeing her. There was a half- moon, however. That should give enough light.

  He had waited, therefore, in reasonable confidence with Fintan close beside him.

  Darkness had fallen. The moon gave a soft light on the road as it wound between the trees. If she had left the castle at nightfall, assuming the party rode at a reasonable speed, he had estimated when they should get there; but the time passed and there was still no sign of them. He waited patiently all the same. The Walsh woman had seemed clear enough. They might have been delayed. An hour passed, and he was beginning to have doubts, when he heard something. Footfalls. Quite a number of them. That was strange. He'd assumed the party would be on horseback. He hissed to his men to be ready.

  He could hear them mounting. He felt his own body tense in expectancy. Then in the moonlight he saw the party coming round the bend.

  There were only two riders: MacGowan and the woman rode in front. Behind them, however, marched twenty men on foot. They were a mixed collection: armed townsmen, regular soldiers; even Brennan, armed with a long pike, had been brought in from Doyle's new estate. But it was the eight men marching at the front who caught O'Byrne's attention. He stared in disbelief. Gallowglasses. Their huge axes and swords were carried sloped over their shoulders.

  MacGowan must have hired them. He cursed under his breath and hesitated.

  Should they still attack? Their numbers might be roughly even, but the gallowglasses were each worth two or three of his own untrained men. He didn't like the risk.

  He felt a nudge at his side. Fintan.

  "Aren't we going?" the boy whispered.

  "Gallowglasses," he hissed back.

  "But they're on foot. We can ride in and out and they'll never catch us." It sounded so reasonable.

  He saw exactly what his son was thinking. But Fintan didn't understand. He shook his head.

JN-O.

  "But, Father…" There was a hint not just of disappointment but even of reproach. How could his father be such a coward? "Watch."

  Sean couldn't believe it. Fintan was kicking his horse forward, breaking out of their cover, racing towards the soldiers in the moonlight. Thinking the signal had been given, Seamus and the rest of his men were racing out, too. MacGowan and the woman had stopped. The gallowglasses were moving swiftly round them in a protective ring. It was too late now. There was nothing he could do but go forward himself. He dashed towards the gallowglasses to help his son.

  Perhaps, after all, the boy was right.

1

  It had only been hours ago, yet already, such is the strangeness of battle, their fight with the gallowglasses seemed an age away, as if it had taken place in another world. It was not even the fight that he remembered but, just after he had knocked MacGowan off his horse, the sight of Fintan reaching out his arms to try and grasp the Doyle woman, and then the feel of the boy brushing close beside him as they all raced away. They'd left four men on the road with the gallowglasses, but that couldn't be helped. Even in the moonlight he could see from their wounds that they were dead or dying already. He remembered the dash up the slope with the voices of the gallowglasses hurling curses from far behind, and then Seamus coming beside him and laughing in a friendly way at Fintan for the boy's wild bravery.

  Then Fintan fainting.

  The stars were beginning to fade as they left the dark outlines of the mountaintops behind them and began the slow descent towards Rathconan.

  And the sun was already rising over the eastern sea, its fierce light flashing up the slopes and into the crevices of the Wicklow Mountains, when Sean O'Byrne and his party came in sight of the house.

  Long before they reached it, Eva and Maurice and old Father Donal were coming out to meet them, their faces smiling broadly until they saw that they brought with them no trophy, no captive, but only their burden, wrapped tightly in a blanket and tied to his horse: Fintan, who had bled to death on the mountainside from the huge wound, which Sean had failed to see, made as it happened, not by the great two-handed sword of a gallowglass, but by Brennan's long spear which, like a dark spike, had pierced Fintan's ribs as he reached for Joan Doyle.

  Late that morning, Margaret rode out to the meeting place up in the hills, where Sean O'Byrne had told her he would come to give her news of the previous night's expedition. She waited there half the afternoon, but he never came. She was almost tempted to ride down to Rathconan, but decided it would be too great a risk. By evening she was glad that she had not.

  Richard Walsh had gone into Dublin alone that morning. He returned in the evening with a report that Dame Doyle had been attacked near Dalkey.

  "But luckily," he added, "she escaped." Four of the assailants had been killed. "It seems they came from up near Rathconan. They say Sean O'Byrne was involved." MacGowan had been knocked off his horse, but was not much hurt.