Fugitives! (5 page)

Con galloped until he reckoned he was well beyond bow-shot and
then turned. There was no sign of a chase. Not even Chichester peering around the corner. He gave a yip of triumph and waved his fist in the air. He patted Macha, whose sides were heaving from the gallop. The road was a temptation, but he knew only too well that he would be galloped down in minutes by the cavalry once they tumbled to it that his talk of an ambush was a hoax. He hadn’t escaped from the army just to be run down by Bonmann wobbling on horseback. He must be careful. He must take to the forest now.

The trees on his left climbed to a long, low ridge. His eye ran along its spine. Trees, more trees, featureless trees – until there, rising above the leafy canopy, was a clump of Scots pines, straight, proud trees with bristle-brush tops. Were they familiar? They were! Con’s heart gave a surge.
Of course! Those are the ones I saw from the de Cashel castle. Now I know where I am. The castle must be just over the ridge. Easy! I’ll be over there and giving my warning in half an hour
. He turned and began to skirt the forest edge, looking for a path. There had to be one, it was such an obvious short-cut to the castle. He began to hum, making up a song about ‘Bonmann the Bwave’.

He came on what he was looking for sooner than he expected. An old pack-horse road, if ever there was one. He turned into it, still humming, urging his pony forward.
Oh no!
There was a fallen tree across it. Perhaps the path had not been used for a while. He struck off into the trees to by-pass the fallen trunk, but immediately found his way blocked again. He’d never seen a forest like this. The young trees were bent over, twisted and plaited together like a basket. He dismounted and started pushing at the tangle, but this wasn’t ordinary forest – it seemed to fight him, catching at his clothes.
When he tried to back out, it seemed as if the branches had come alive, grabbing him at every twist and turn.
Oh, how can I get out?
His pony’s anxious whicker showed him the way. Macha stood with his head on Con’s shoulder and the boy stroked his pony for comfort. Then he remembered the watchman on the castle tower. ‘The wood is plashed,’ he had said, ‘a sparrow couldn’t fly through it!’ Con could believe that now, but hadn’t he added: ‘not unless it knew the way’?
Oh yes!
Con thought,
but who’s going to show me the way?
The only thing he could do was to retreat. When he emerged out of the forest he was dazzled by the sunlight – and the shouts from behind him told him that he had been seen. He shaded his eyes. The army had turned the corner – two horsemen were even now detaching themselves from the column and heading straight towards him.

For a moment he was tempted to give up. In another ten minutes they would have him, anyway, but then he remembered Father shouting, ‘That man is hounding me!’ and a flash of white-hot rage shot through him. He gathered his pony’s trailing reins, scrambled into the saddle, and turned towards his pursuers with a yell of defiance: ‘Come on, Sir Chichester, hound
me
instead!’ Then he spun about and fled headlong along the forest edge.

He had no plan; he would never be able to find a path at this speed. He’d wait until they were close, then plunge into the forest, abandon Macha and perhaps wriggle through the plashing, though on foot he’d never get to the castle in time for Father to get away. He spotted an oddly shaped hump of hay ahead.
I’ll ride that far
, he thought,
I’ll make up my mind then
. And he rode like fury.

He was only yards from it when, without warning, the hump
rose up out of the ground, and Con found himself holding onto his pony’s neck as Macha reared in terror. A bear, was his first thought, escaped from some wandering performer, but no, it was the man in the shaggy cloak, the one who’d warned him about his dagger. Without any explanation, the man calmly reached out, took Macha’s bridle before he could bolt, and led him and a very startled Con straight towards the forest edge. Con had his hand on his dagger, ready to slash and run if he needed to, but the clatter of hooves behind was getting louder. Every second counted now, and here he was, being led straight towards what looked to be an impenetrable hedge of hawthorn and bramble. Without hesitation, the lumbering figure – his guide or his captor? – parted a screen of elder that had sprung up in front of a fallen oak and led Con, still on his pony, into a green cavern behind the massive trunk. Con slid from the saddle. His new friend held a finger to his lips. The clatter of hooves on stone changed to the thud of hooves on grass as the horses behind turned in off the road.
Did they see us?
Con raised a questioning eyebrow. The man stepped forward and reached up to fondle Macha’s ears. Hooves pounded on the soft turf just yards away.

A voice called out, ‘I’m sure this is where he went.’ Con started; they were so close. ‘A sparrow wouldn’t get through that bush, let alone a boy. You try the forest there.’ Con looked anxiously at his silent companion as the nearby bushes began to shake. There was some lusty swearing. ‘Here, Jake, come and look at this. Someone has twisted the branches together like a wattle wall.’ There were more crashes. Then Jake’s voice said: ‘We’ll never get through this. Let’s listen; if he’s anywhere around we’ll hear him.’

Con had never heard silence like this before. He could hear his own breathing, his heart beating. His new companion seemed, miraculously, to have found some oats in his pocket and was feeding them to the pony. The crunch–crunch of chewing seemed loud enough to bring the whole of Chichester’s army on them. Then one of the searcher’s horses whinnied; Macha raised his head as if to answer, but in one deft movement the man enveloped it in his cloak. The pony didn’t whinny, but he shifted his feet.

‘Did you hear that?’ But by now the tramp of marching feet, the clink of harness and clatter of hooves was loud enough to drown anything but an outright whinny.

‘Let’s forget it. The little blighter won’t be able to get through here any more than we can. Anyway, he unseated Bonmann, and nearly got an arrow stuck in the general – I reckon we owe him one.’

The sound of their horses faded and Con and his new friend were left looking at each other.

‘Thank you,’ said Con. Then, in wonder: ‘Who are you? I’ve been wondering ever since you warned me about my dagger. I’m sorry I was rude. Just now I thought you were a haystack!’

The man laughed. ‘That’ll do, I’m better without a name. A name can save a man and a name can hang a man. But here’s a hint for you. I know you: Con, son of Hugh, son of Matthew, son of Con Bacach. I could go on … That’s my trade. But I think you should be on your way.’

‘And I thought you were a vagabond, but you are a poet!’

‘The guard at the gate thought I was a vagabond too, and that’s my disguise. But it worked out well because it meant I was outside
the gate when Chichester came through.’

Con had seen poets before, but always as revered figures at feasts, telling tales of times past, playing their instruments, or singing songs. To be rescued by one was like Cuchulainn himself coming striding through the woods to his aid. The man, who had thrown off his cloak, was now standing straight, the stoop, apparently, part of his disguise. He was tall, dressed in simple clothes, but of the best cloth. His combed hair reached his shoulders. His trimmed beard jutted out to give his face a determined look. As he guided Macha through the plashing, he told Con which path to follow to get to the Scots pines, and, from there, the way to the castle. ‘Are you listening, boy?’ Con, who had been staring at his companion, nodded earnestly. ‘Remember what I’ve told you, it’s not as easy as it looks. If you don’t get lost you will be there at least an hour before Chichester, but go carefully.’

‘Thank you, thank you, sir. I could never have found my way through on my own.’ A mischievous grin flicked across Con’s face, ‘Thank you, Mr Haystacks, sir!’

It wasn’t long before he began to regret that he hadn’t listened more carefully to the poet’s instructions.

CHAPTER 5

Bearding the Lion

inéad had begun to run towards the castle when she remembered Saoirse circling high in the sky. She put two fingers in her mouth and emitted a whistle that caused the soldier on watch on the castle above to turn. To her pride and relief, she watched Saoirse, a dot in the sky, turn and fall like an arrow in a single swoop, to land a few feet from her. He stood there disdainfully, as if to say he had been coming anyway. She enticed him on to her wrist, trying not to hurry him, and then from her wrist on to his stand. Here she secured him with his jesses, stroking him and praising him as she slipped on his hood. She hated to leave him here, but she must hurry, and he’d have the boys’ birds as company. At last, tucking up her skirts, she ran, taking shortcuts through the huts and houses that clustered about the castle. A chicken flew, squawking, from under her feet, and a woman threw a pail of slops from the door of her house across her path. She jumped over the stream of muck. ‘Missed!’ she shouted, and ran on. When she arrived at the castle steps she paused to listen. She could hear the
boys in the guard room arguing with the Master at Arms. ‘… but the fencing master said we could…’
Liars!
she snorted to herself.

She stepped into the great hall. The huge oak table, polished

from the grease of a thousand dinners, gleamed in the pale light from the only big windows in all of the castle walls. The casements were thrown back to let in the air. A partition was drawn across the far end of the hall to form a temporary room where Father slept and held council with visitors and people from the estate. She listened; she heard a soft snore. No, she wouldn’t disturb him. The only other person she could turn to now was Uncle Hugh, but did she dare? He was the one person, after Father, whom the boys would listen to. He’d been angry enough when he’d been disturbed over Con’s disappearance that morning, and the servants were all in awe of him and his rages. But he’d always been nice to her, though that had always been when he’d been at leisure. She asked the guard if he had gone out, and was told no. She would have to be brave, so.

Gathering her skirts once again, she set off up into the gloom of the spiral stairs, moving in and out of the narrow shafts of light from the occasional slit windows.

She arrived at the fourth floor, panting, and pushed open the door to the family room. This was considered the safest part of the castle. There were three rooms up here, the largest being the family room, where most of the family slept and lived. Opening off this was the master bedroom, where Mother and Father used to sleep, but where
Sinéad now kept her mother company, and then there was the guest room, now occupied by Uncle Hugh. Ominously, his door was closed.

Kathleen and Mairead, the two maids who were sweeping the wooden floor of the main room, were unusually silent. Kathleen, an incessant chatterer, put a finger to her lips and tipped her head towards the guest-room door. ‘He’s writing a letter!’ she whispered, in awe.

They had been tidying up after the night, rolling up the bedding and putting it into the chests that, during the day, served as seats around the walls. Bright tapestries of hunting scenes covered the plastered walls. Even in summer a fire smouldered in the cavernous fireplace, useful for drying things, and for any small cooking jobs. Sinéad fixed her gaze on the guest-room door.
Courage!
Now to beard the lion in its den! She crossed to the door, trying to look braver than she felt.

Kathleen’s eyes were popping. ‘You can’t go in there!’ she mouthed. Sinéad made a face at her, raised the latch and pushed open the door.

There was a roar from inside. ‘Can’t you knock, wench!’ She nearly fled. There was Uncle Hugh, bristling with rage, his beard and whiskers aflame in the light of the two candles framing him, one on each side of the table. In his hand was a ragged, well-sucked quill, its top bent over. In front of him was a sheet of paper, black with crossings-out. ‘Oh, it’s you, Sinéad,’ he growled, jabbing the quill into his ink pot. ‘Do you realise what you are doing?’ He scowled dramatically. ‘You are disturbing the Earl of Tyrone in a moment of history, writing to His Most Glorious Majesty King
James of bloody England!’ His voice was rising.

‘I’m sorry, sir, it’s the boys–’ she began.

‘Don’t interrupt me, child,’ he barked. ‘I am writing to King James to tell him once and for all to get that dog Chichester OFF MY BACK!’ And he hit the table such a thump that his quill went skittering off across his letter, leaving a comet-trail of ink-spots on the page. ‘Now, look what you made me do!’ He leaned back, fuming. Sinéad stood poised, ready for flight.

But suddenly he softened and turned his attention to Sinéad. ‘Come, my dear, let me examine you,’ which he did – critically – for a long moment, then he chuckled, and said in English, ‘My not so plain Jane!’ Then, back into Irish, ‘But you have grown, my dear, you’re quite a young lady! Come here, sit on the bench beside me. You’re too old to sit on my knee now.’ He sighed. ‘Tell me about yourself.’ The last thing Sinéad wanted at that moment was a cosy chat, but she knew her Uncle Hugh. She came around the table dutifully.

‘So, how old are you now, Sinéad?’

‘I’m twelve, sir. But it’s about James and–’

He held up his hand. ‘James is your twin, isn’t he?
Ergo
, he’s twelve too. He should be able to look after himself.’

‘But not with
swords
, sir!’ She bounced on the bench with impatience.

‘Don’t jig up and down, child. Just tell me, who is he squabbling with, and what they are squabbling about?’

‘It’s with Fion, of course.’

‘Ah, so young James de Cashel, of ancient Norman descent, is having words with my nephew Fion O’Neill, who is ancient Irish –
and, at a guess, the cause of the trouble.’

‘Yes, I mean no, but Uncle … please! It started when James said we should join the English!’

‘Good lad!’ Uncle Hugh stated. ‘I’ve joined the English more times than I can remember. So?’

‘He said that the English were honourable and would let us keep our lands and protect us from the “wild Irish” – and I think he means it.’

The Earl took a deep breath. ‘I love the English, you know, Sinéad – their great houses and their fine manners. Didn’t I spend my childhood fostered to an English family? And they loved me too, just as a shepherd loves the lamb he suckles with a bottle. But then – surprise, surprise – I found they wanted my fleece; they called me an Earl but took my lands, and now, damn it, it looks as if they want me as mutton chops as well.’

‘Uncle Hugh, that’s what the boys are doing now, making mutton chops of each other. They are taking sharpened swords from the armoury. Sharpened! You understand.
You
can stop them, I know you can!’ She could feel tears brimming in her eyes as she turned to him.

‘And I sit here doing nothing?’ he said.

‘YES!’ she screamed, and launched herself at him, butting him and hammering at his shoulders as she had done when she was little.

All at once he stood up; the bench clattered back behind them and she found herself swept up and carried towards the door. ‘Enough of your idle chatter, Sinéad! Damn King James and all his lackeys.’ She held on tightly as he threw open the door. There was a startled squawk as Kathleen and Mairead, who had had their ears to
the door, were scattered. Still holding Sinéad in his arms, he strode across to the top of the stairs. ‘We’re eloping,’ he yelled at the open-mouthed girls as he set her down. Then, to Sinéad, ‘Run ahead, my sweetheart, and clear the stairs for me.’

He unhooked his sword from the back of the door and followed her, bellowing, ‘Clear the stairs for the Earl of Tyrone!’

For a solid man, Hugh O’Neill could move surprisingly quickly.

‘Well, where are they, girl?’ he demanded as he emerged from the castle door. His change of mood was as sudden as their emergence from dark to light.

‘In the exercise yard, sir,’ she said. ‘It’s where they normally practise; no one will question them fencing there.’

‘Well, lead on. Quick now!’

She darted off around the sheds and workshops that leaned against the castle walls. The cobbler had left a bucket of water containing strips of shoe leather to soften outside his door. She sent it flying. He cursed her roundly – she shouted an apology, but ran on. The exercise yard was just beyond the forge. She heard clanging –
Dear God they’ve started!
she thought, but it was the armourer hammering out a new pike head. She flinched at the heat of his furnace as she ran past. When she came to the entrance to the exercise yard she slowed, frightened at what she might see. The yard was a rectangular space between the castle wall and the summer banqueting hall. It was reserved as a place for training the men in arms. She looked in. Thank God they were both still standing.

Against the towering wall of the castle, the boys, circling each other now, looked small and insignificant, nothing like warring warriors. They reminded her of the small fighting cocks that the men would set to fight each other while they laid bets on the winner.

Uncle Hugh was just behind her, watching the boys with interest.