The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell (25 page)

“To hang them,” he answered. “To hang you.” He flicked his fingers again and two of his soldiers grabbed my arms as a third clapped my hands and feet in chains.

“Grace O’Malley, I arrest you in the name of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth.”

“On what charges?” I demanded.

“Let me see,” he said, tapping a bejeweled and manicured finger on his lips. “Treason against the Crown perhaps.” His gaze had begun to wander over the village and to the fields beyond where grazed the greatest part of my herd, more than a thousand in all. He beckoned an officer to him and spoke quite loudly. “Confiscate the cattle,” he said. “The horses too.”

I was speechless, seething. The cattle—aside from my fleet—were the only source of my wealth. He fixed me with an ugly leer.

“You won’t be needing them . . . in Hell.” With that he wheeled on his mount and pranced away. We were dragged—myself and Edmund and the other prisoners—to Rockfleet’s great hall where we sat on the floor in the dark and listened as the English soldiers sawed and pounded and built our gallows.

After a day the pounding stopped, but there were no hangings. We waited, the agony compounded by the grievousness of Edmund Burke ’s condition. He was brave and suffered in silence, but we all prayed in the dark hall that he ’d die and steal from Richard Bingham the pleasure of murdering him.

Finally the doors were thrown open and the soldiers marched us out into the sunlight. There were seventeen gallows, one for each of us. The villagers had been pulled from their homes to watch the hangings, and the troops had convened as well. Captain Bingham, finally with his feet on the ground, was stridin’ around most important in his miniature strides. But he was nervous as well, looking time after time at the road leadin’ to the village, as though expectin’ someone.

An officer came, leaned down and whispered in his ear. Bingham smiled that tight-lipped smile and quick gave the signal. We were led, each of us, to our own gallows. Poor old Edmund, still hangin’ on to life, was lifted by two soldiers—one under each arm—and dragged across the yard screamin’ with the pain of his broken legs.

I could scarce believe my life would end this way, hanged as a traitor in Rockfleet yard at the hands of an English dwarf. From the scaffold I could see Bingham, whose eyes were fastened on the road, and I wondered who he was waitin’ to see. But then I felt the rope put over my head, and its weight as it lay heavy on my shoulders. I looked round me and saw the others—fine Burke chieftains, nooses on their necks, their lips movin’ in silent prayer.

I gazed once more at Bingham and at just that moment I saw him turn and smile, and I heard the clattering of hoofbeats. A lone figure rode hell-bent into the yard and reigned in his horse in a cloud of dust. Who was it that Bingham had waited for? The rider dismounted and emerged from the dust.

’Twas Devil’s Hook, all afire. He looked round the yard with no surprise and found me on my scaffold. Then he saw Bingham and strode in his direction. Soldiers moved to block his path but Bingham shooed them away. He ’d been waitin’ for Hook. For his grand entrance.

The English captain took his place on a raised field stool, which barely brought him eye to eye with my son-in-law. I could not hear their words but I knew Devil’s Hook was pleadin’ for my life, and that smug look of Bingham’s never changed for a moment. As Hook spoke, the little man waved his jeweled hand and one by one the best of the Burkes’manhood died kickin’ at the end of a rope. Finally, despite Hook’s frantic pleading, all that were left alive were myself and Edmund Burke, he moanin’ in the soldiers’ arms.

Like Julius Caesar—only smaller—Bingham stood from his camp stool to signal Edmund’s execution, and a moment later the old man was gone, out of his misery.

There was silence in the yard and all eyes were fastened on me. Bingham stepped down and walked to my wooden gallows, Devil’s Hook trailing after.

“I accept your offer,” Bingham finally said to Hook, whose body sagged with relief.

“What have you done?” I asked the man I’d come to love as well as my own sons.

“Offered myself as hostage for you,” Hook said.

I looked at Bingham, who was mightily pleased at the bargain, and I saw then it had been his plan all along. He never meant to hang me, only to frighten me, make me squirm. He was playing, as a mouser sometimes does with its prey before bitin’ off its head.

With hardly a word they released me and clapped Hook in chains.

Sixteen Burke chieftains were thrown in a pile in the Rockfleet yard.

Bingham led his troops from the village along with my only daughter’s husband, bound hand and foot, and every head of cattle I owned. I’d not lost my life, but half my fortune was gone. All that was left was my fleet.

Now dread overwhelmed me. Hook was in Bingham’s hands, my good conduct all that kept him alive. And my other children—safe for the moment—were surely his next targets. What should I do to protect them?

So, ’twas Hook who saved me from death, and I blessed him daily for it. You could say Bingham used him, knew my son-in-law would offer himself as hostage for me. But that makes the act no less valiant in my eyes. I had my freedom, and though shorn of my wealth on land, still claimed as mine my fleet, brave sailors, and the sea.

The day I learned Devil’s Hook had liberated himself from Bingham’s clutches I drank in celebration of his escaping. Then I quick called my captains to Rockfleet Keep. We ’d be leavin’ day after next, I told them, for the pledge of my own good conduct had rebelled, and Bingham would be here in a heartbeat.

There was no choice to our direction. We had no cargo to trade with Spain and Portugal, and it bein’ winter, fishing was out of the question.

Besides, Ireland was trapped in conflict, Bingham at large in the land.

Now was no time for commerce. If I wished to help my children a’tall, I must move toward power.

And so I sailed north. To Ulster.

I was welcomed most heartily in the north-coast town of Dunluce by the county’s two great families, the O’Donnells of the northwest and the O’Neills of the northeast. I found them in the midst of celebration, a betrothal of two children of their clans. Never were two neighbors so deeply entwined by marriage as the O’Neills and O’Donnells, and to such marvelous effect.

What can I say about Old Hugh O’Donnell? He was the chief of his clan and deft enough, I suppose. The O’Donnell was known by foreigners as “King of the Fish in Ireland,” and he did trade volubly with Spain for wine. But in Irish eyes he was feeble in his rule, in all but two respects, that is, his wife, Ineen, and his son, Red Hugh.

Ineen Dubh was a Scot and a MacDonald, tough as iron and afraid of no one. They say she ’d been a beauty at the Court of Queen Mary Stuart, but her marriage to an Irish chieftain would in two ways change the fate of Ireland, for she brought by her influence all the Scots Gallowglass to fight our wars. And she gave birth to Red Hugh O’Donnell. What a child he was! From his earliest days we knew him for a leader. Came as natural as breathing, rulership did. Fought his first battle at the age of twelve.

Hugh O’Neill, with his English title, the Earl of Tyrone, was old enough to be Red Hugh’s father, but he saw, as all did, the strength in the child. And wished alliance with him. Already O’Neill was married to Red Hugh’s sister, Siobhan, but closer still he meant to pull the families.

The O’Neills had a daughter, Rose. She was twelve and as beautiful as her name. To everyone ’s great joy he promised her in marriage to Red Hugh, fourteen and already more than half a man.

I’d fled Connaught and found refuge in Dunluce just as festivities were about to begin. The clans were gathering, the weeks of feasting and games bein’ prepared. Those who had come some distance sheltered with their Dunluce kin, or camped in the common rooms of the castle.

Rathlin Island was just across a wee channel. This was home to the MacDonalds, and so the Scots relatives gathered there. No one ’d forgotten the terrible massacre, just ten years past, when the two Walters—Devereaux, the first Earl of Essex, and Raleigh—came ashore and slaughtered all its Scots inhabitants, men, women, and children alike. But nothin’ was said of it, for this was a time for rejoicing.

Room was made for me as Ineen’s honored guest in a cozy corner of Dunluce Keep. We ’d always done business together, Ineen and me.

Always, when I needed Gallowglass, she was there. If I didn’t feel welcome enough, there was Hugh O’Neill himself, a great man and a great friend. English bred he was, but an Irishman through and through.

I can hardly express the joy of that occasion, for more than alliances were gained in that match. Sure it strengthened the claim of Hugh O’Neill and Hugh O’Donnell against their rival, Turlough Luineach, then High Chief of the O’Neill clan. The two Hughs uniting against Turlough was unbeatable. But the two children
loved
each other, could barely wait for the time that they’d wed. So as strong as politics reigned o’er the gathering, youthful passion outshone it altogether.

I sat at the long feast table before the roast at Ineen’s left hand and across from Hugh O’Neill. His wife, Siobhan, pregnant with his second son, was Hugh O’Donnell’s own daughter. That marriage—O’Neill with the ruling
sept
of O’Donnells—proved a great boon for him. Like I said, the family ties were close, soon to grow closer. We were lookin’ out at the floor where the young ones danced.

“They lust after each other, Rose and Red Hugh,” I said.

“Aye, ’tis a good match,” said Ineen. “In every way.” Hugh O’Neill smiled. A handsome man he is, who lights up a room with his very presence. “Do you sometimes wonder, Ineen,” he said,

“why Red Hugh grew so strong so young?”

“I wouldn’t wonder, with Ineen’s blood runnin’ in his veins,” I said to answer him. “Has he learned his Latin?”

“Aye, and English too.” Ineen answered, then looked at Hugh O’Neill. “His soon-to-be father-in-law insisted.”

“If Red Hugh’s to be the great leader we hope him to be, he ’ll need it,” said O’Neill, “for to know the English mind you need to know the English language.”

“You learned it as a boy in Henry Sidney’s house, and it ’s held you in good stead,” I said. “You’re goin’ to London again, I hear.”

“Aye. I’ll stay with my friend Tom Ormond.”

“And what will he do for you at Court?”

“He ’s promised me a meeting with the queen.”

“You’re much loved by the English,” I said.

“They know me for an ally.”

Hugh O’Neill bore no shame for his friendship with the Crown. But my face hid little of my hatred for Connaught’s new invaders.

“Richard Bingham brings you grief,” he said, hardly a question.

“He ’s hung half the chieftains in Mayo,” I replied.

“You need some Scotsmen, Grace.” ’Twas Ineen speaking, with a wicked look in her eye. “Tell me how many fighters you need and I’ll have them for you—a new batch, young and crazy.”

“And what will I pay them with? Fish?”

“He took your herd, did he?” said Hugh O’Neill.

“Aye. And he means to take more, I’m sure of it. He ’s an evil little midget, and he thinks he ’ll bring me down.”

“Well, he doesn’t know you then, does he?” said Ineen with a smile.

But then she grew serious. “Does he hate you for your womanhood, Grace?”

“That’s a good part of it. And I trounced him first time out.”

“He doesn’t know who he ’s up against,” she said, “and I don’t like his chances.”

“I’ll lay a wager on Grace!” cried O’Neill and slapped a coin on the table.

Ineen Dubh did the same.

We all laughed.

YOU NEEDN’T GO on if you . . .”

“No, Your Majesty.” Grace ’s face was suddenly pale and slack.

“I want you to hear how your Captain Bingham murdered my son.” She leaned forward, her body a tight coil, her face hovering inches from the queen’s. “Do you want to know?” she asked.

“Back away, Mistress O’Malley.” The sympathy had evaporated from Elizabeth’s voice. Grace slid back in her chair. “Perhaps,” said the queen,

“I’ve allowed you too many liberties.”

Grace strove to compose herself, resetting her features and resuming a peaceful posture. “Forgive me, Your Majesty.” The apology was forced but altogether necessary, for the unspoken prize of Tibbot Burke ’s freedom hung in the balance. She bit her tongue, as she wished to cry out,

“How would you know about losin’ a child!” Instead she said, “I was still in Ulster, nearin’ the end of my third month there . . .” DURING THE NEXT WEEKS, we held council together—the two Hughs, Ineen, and myself. We argued endlessly over Spain and England, the invasion we all knew would happen one day. We spoke of Francis Drake ’s ships harrying the Spanish coasts, and the great armada anchored at the port cities. Sure we wondered if Philip’s armies would come to Ireland, use the island for its jumping-off point to western England. We prayed for the invasion, for it would keep the English otherwise occupied and perhaps defeated, but we had no way of knowing, busy as we were with our own battles, and no great spy network like your Francis Walsingham had on the continent.

I was shocked altogether when I looked up one day to see Devil’s Hook in the room, and by his expression alone I knew someone had died.

He came and put his arms about me and I thought,
Oh Jesus, it’s Margaret. She’s died in childbirth.

“Owen is dead,” he whispered in my ear.

I pushed him away. “Owen? How!”

“ ’Twas Bingham, Grace.”

“But Owen was no rebel, and well out of the fight,” I said. “My God, he refused to rise in defense of his own father-in-law!”

“It didn’t matter. Bingham had his plans. He was coming with five hundred soldiers to Bunowen, and when Owen heard of it, he took his people and his tenants and swam his cattle out across the narrow channel to Near Island for their safety. When Bingham arrived he found them gone. What he did was pose as a poor captain who could not feed his troops, who were starving. And Owen, sweet fool that he was, believed him. He sent boats to ferry the soldiers over to the island. Then he entertained them”—Hook’s mouth quivered—“with the best cheer he had.