Fugitives! (24 page)

‘You’re grubby enough to be a serving boy, Sinéad,’ said Séamus. ‘Why don’t you lead the ponies while I ride,’ he suggested.

‘Pah!’ said Sinéad, taking the reins and slouching across the bridge in front of her ‘young master’. ‘You’ll pay for this!’ she warned.

When they were all safely across, Fion took the lead again. ‘We’ve got to press on. If we do, we should reach Rathmullan early tomorrow, let’s go!’ When they got to the village of Ballindrait they paused to ask the way of a garrulous old man at the bridge. ‘You’d best be quick, my little lords, if it’s Milord O’Neill you want. He’s a good hour ahead of you – he with his lady, and our own chief, Caffar O’Donnell.’

‘Which road did they take?’

‘The Letterkenny road,’ and the old man winced as he pointed. ‘Me joints is all seized up,’ he complained.

‘If Caffar O’Donnell’s your chief, and if you are true to Ireland and Hugh O’Neill, you’ll tell no one that you saw them on the road tonight,’ said Fion, handing him sixpence, a handsome reward for silence. At that, they spurred their ponies over the bridge. ‘We must keep going – they could sail the moment they reach the ship, Con or no Con. Come on!’ Fion urged.

Soon, however, they slowed to a more sensible pace, reminding themselves that they still had many miles to go. They were followed by a fleeting moon as they rode through the night. It was still dark
when the road dipped down to cross the Swilly river just short of Letterkenny. The town gates were just being opened by sleepy-looking guards.

‘Well,’ said Fion, ‘no sign of Uncle Hugh. Either they got through before the gates closed or they have taken another route.’

‘Oh come on!’ urged Con. ‘The boat may be sailing now.’

‘We must be careful!’ said Fion.

‘Rot!’ said Con. ‘You’re wimps, the lot of you. If we take it at a gallop, they’re so dopey we’ll be through and gone while they’re still scratching their backsides.’

At that moment there was a flash, a spurt of smoke, and a boom from the guard post beside the gate. The children ducked instinctively, but no ball whistled past.

‘What was that?’ exclaimed Con.

‘One them scratching his backside, I suspect,’ said Fion acidly. A man came out of the guard-post, stretching. ‘I think it was just the signal to say that the gates are open now. Let’s be sensible for a change, Con. Séamus, why don’t you ride ahead, followed by Sinéad, but riding far enough back to give Con and me warning if Séamus is stopped. I bet Uncle Hugh took some other route – I wish we had now.’

Séamus called out to the guards that they’d been out hunting, and they trooped through. Sinéad held back as Séamus went ahead.

Séamus was just thinking that they would be through without trouble when a figure lurched towards him and grabbed his pony’s bridle. His first thought was to lash out with his reins, but then he realised that this wasn’t an attack. He looked down. There in the centre of a mass of bristles – hair, eyebrows, beard, it was hard to say
– were two red-rimmed eyes.

‘God help me. Ye must be Red Hugh O’Donnell ris’ up from the grave,’ said the man, swaying, and using the bridle for support. ‘Had black hair, you know … just like you. Betrayed he was by that red-haired Tyrone man, O’Neill, down at Kin… Kinwhatever… the swine.’ Séamus thought of Con’s hair, like a flaming torch, behind. He groped for a coin, extracted it, and – oops! – he’d dropped it! Down went the beggar on hands and knees, letting go of the bridle, and Séamus rode on. The beggar was still groping as the others trotted hastily by.

The road rose steeply out of the town so they had to walk the ponies for a mile or two, and were just about to mount when Fion held up a hand. ‘Listen! We’re being followed!’

Sure enough, they all heard it now: a horse’s hooves.

CHAPTER 18

The Flight of the Earls

aystacks nearly missed them, huddled in the mouth of a lane. Séamus told him about the incident with the beggar. ‘Did Red Hugh really have black hair?’ he asked.

‘He did indeed,’ chuckled Haystacks. ‘More to the point, how much did you drop for him, Séamus?’

Séamus looked sheepish. ‘It was the only coin I could put my hand on – a shilling, I think!’ The others gasped.

‘That explains it. That will be the beggar I met in the town singing his heart out and carrying the biggest bottle of poteen I’ve ever seen.’ They had to laugh. He changed the subject, ‘No sign of the Earl’s party?’

‘We nearly caught up with them in a place called Ballindrait,’ said Fion. ‘But we think they must have gone some other way; the town gates were only just opening when we came through.’

‘Right, we must press on. It’s likely the Earl’s ship will sail the moment he’s on board.’

At Rathmelton, Haystacks found that his horse had a loose shoe,
so they were forced to take rest while he went to find a smithy. It was a chance to finish the food Maire O’Brolchain had provided for them.

Con was too excited to eat.
Come on, come on
, he urged in his mind, imagining a triumphal arrival at the head of his small troop;
pity one of them has to be a girl, but at least she doesn’t look like one.
First Father’d give him a cuff on the ear for being late, then there’d be the bear-like hug. He imagined the ship at a quay-side, ready to sail, its rail lined by courtly nobles, while local chieftains in saffron would be kneeling for their departing lord. Pipes would play–

‘Come on, Con, aren’t you coming?’ called Haystacks, and Con was jerked out of his reverie. ‘We’re nearly there. We’ve as good as made it, boy.’

After the steep climb out of the village they took advantage of every flat or downward slope to trot, or even canter. The sky had cleared, and the air was washed clean by the storm. Sinéad kept glancing at the sea, which, borrowing blue from the sky, flashed like a kingfisher in flight. At last, Haystacks gave a shout and pointed ahead. There, her sails unfurled and ready to be turned to the wind, rode a ship, the flag of France floating in the light wind. As they pulled up, their tiredness fell away. Five days in the saddle and they had arrived at last.

‘But it’s French!’ said Sinéad.

‘Yes, but it’s going to Spain,’ explained Haystacks.

‘Look, they’re ready to sail!’ shouted Con, as he whammed his feet into Macha’s sides, who, catching his mood, responded like a pent-up spring.

‘Stop, Con! Stop! We must be careful!’ called Haystacks, but Con
was gone, and the others, who could see nothing to be careful about either, took off after him, whooping with excitement.

Haystacks held back.
They deserve to let their hair down
, he thought, but he was worried. The road dipped to pass across a tree-lined valley, and he could see the children, racing each other now, as they disappeared from view under the trees. He stood in his stirrups, counting seconds, staring at the point where their road emerged from the trees at the other side. They should be appearing – now! But nothing moved. What could have happened? A hundred yards beyond the trees and they would be in sight of the boat and safe. His horse fretted, longing to join the race, but Haystacks held him back. Why had they not appeared? A sick feeling formed in his stomach –
over all these miles trying to anticipate everything that might go wrong, and here we are at the very end! What can have happened? Could one of them have fallen? There!
A whistle somewhere below.
Con’s? Sinéad’s?
He gathered his reins; it was clearly a call for help!

He was just about to hurtle after them when a horseman appeared on the road facing him. The man stopped, looked in his direction, and turned to wave to someone behind him. Now the man was urging his horse up the hill. This was no welcome; it was a pursuit, but still Haystacks lingered. What had happened to the children? A glance over his shoulder – there were two after him now. A puff of smoke and the whiz of a bullet decided things for him. He turned, laid himself low on his horse’s back and galloped away. He never carried arms, and there was nothing he could do for his young charges at this moment apart from getting away from his pursuers. But Haystacks had many skills, and making himself invisible in rough country was one.

The breakneck ride down the hill and into the tunnel of trees that spanned the road had been one long whoop for Con. As he entered the trees, the leaves and branches smeared into a blur of speed at the corners of his eyes.
Watch me now!
he thought. All at once, there was a rider beside him.
Haystacks perhaps, but why’s he’s riding so close?
Con raised an arm to push him away, but immediately a hand closed over it and he found himself being lifted from his saddle.

As the other three children reined in, men rose out of the vegetation on each side like highway robbers. They knew their jobs, grabbing the ponies’ reins and dragging their riders sideways from their saddles. Sinéad found herself held by the scruff of the neck. Ahead of her, Con was putting up a brave fight.

‘Watch that little one – he’s like a fighting cock!’ someone yelled.

‘Le’ go of me!’ Con shouted. ‘How dare you! That’s my ship out there, my father’s expecting me! Hands off!’ The only serious fights Con had ever been in were dog-fights, and dogs know how to defend themselves.

‘Damn it! He bit me!’ cursed the man who was engulfing him.

‘Don’t bite him, son, you might poison yourself,’ laughed a tall, bearded man – their leader, it appeared. ‘Well, whose son are you, then? Son of the captain, eh?’

‘Yes! And … and … he’ll have you for p…piracy!’

The man let out a roar of laughter. ‘
Parlez vous français?
My cock sparrow, you’re no sailor’s son! Look at the flag, she’s a French boat. I’ve known O’Neills of all shapes and sizes, and you just happen to
be a small one. You’ll have to whistle for that boat, son. I need to have something to hand over to the English when they hear I’ve let your Daddy sail away from here with his head on his shoulders. You’ll do very nicely.’

Whistle for the boat … Whistle for the boat, why not?
thought Sinéad. All attention was now focused on Con, whose hands were held fast.
At least I can warn Haystacks!
She put her fingers in her mouth, took a breath, and blew a blast that raised a cloud of cawing rooks from the trees above.

The man with the beard whipped around, glared at her and snapped, ‘Kill that boy!’, and that was how it felt, a buffet on the side of her head that set her ears singing. A huge palm was slapped over her mouth, while rough fingers quickly bound her hands behind her back. There was no more banter. They even gagged her with someone’s sweaty head-band; being a boy wasn’t always fun. She was tied in a line with the others then, and marched off in the direction of the village ahead, carefully screened from the anchored boat by their captors. The bearded leader stalked beside them; he had long greying hair, but walked like a young man. At first he seemed unarmed, but then she noticed a squire marching a pace behind him carrying his shield and a six-foot battleaxe.
A Gallowglass warrior!
she thought with awe.

Hugh O’Neill’s head shot up from where he had been leaning over the rail of the boat. ‘A whistle! Catherine, did you hear that? Con’s whistle, I’d swear!’ His hands gripped the transom rail. He turned,
but his wife had gone below. ‘
Monsieur le Capitaine
,’ he shouted, ‘call the Countess!’ When the captain looked blank, he mimed the Countess’s prominent bulge, and the man understood immediately. Catherine came laboriously up the steep steps a few moments later; she was very pregnant.

‘You’ve seen him?’ she asked eagerly.

‘No, but I heard his whistle. Listen …’ They strained together.

‘Con, my son, my precious one – are you there?’ she whispered. She turned to Hugh, a frown on her still beautiful face. ‘The MacSweeneys would never take him, would they?’

‘Shhh …’ they leaned on the rail again, willing together for another whistle. ‘MacSweeney attacked our men, you know, when we tried to take on fresh water.’

‘Didn’t we take one of their cows?’

‘Not so as you’d notice – the cow belonged to an Englishman, anyway.’ Then he flared, ‘Damn them!’ and smashed his hand on the rail. ‘The MacSweeneys fostered Red Hugh, and we fought side by side, one of them even saved my life, now they won’t let us even re-victual our ship! Look at them there, marching up and down. We have sixteen cannon on this ship. If only we had room below to fire the damned things, I’d blast them off their Donegal rock!’ He softened, and touched his wife’s hand. ‘Go below, my love. We have John and Brian on board, and whatever small life you carry inside you. Go, look after your young.’ He turned back to his watching. The light began to fade.

Oh Con, oh Con,
thought Hugh O’Neill,
you’re the very fibre of my heart, my own rascal horse-boy. God knows what the English will do to you if they ever get you. Feed you on cream, as they did me, before
taking all our lands, or lock you up as they did young Red Hugh? They’ll use you as a stick to beat me, one way or another. So just keep your head – literally, I mean – and stay out of the Tower of London, son, it’s so damp, so dangerous.

The captain came up beside him and fidgeted.

Hugh pre-empted him. ‘No, Captain, we must wait a little longer. He’s out there. I can feel him. Till midnight, I beg of you.’