Fugitives! (4 page)

‘Why don’t you call her Jane? That’s her proper name,’ taunted James.

‘Because Sinéad’s the name she likes, that’s why. I’d call you Séamus if you wanted – it’s Irish for James.’ It was just tit-for-tat, but it got to James, who was advancing on Fion, fists ready.

‘Look, Fion O’Neill! I’ve had enough of your Irishness being forced down my throat. I’m James, James, James – and nothing else! I’m a Norman. Do you hear?’ His nose was an inch from Fion’s face. ‘I’m finished with you, with your Uncle Hugh, and all your tribe. There’s another way.’

Fion stepped back. ‘All right, James,’ he said, ‘tell me. What’s it this time? Who’s the new Messiah?’ It was a shot in the dark; James’s new enthusiasms came weekly, but this was different. It was as if a portcullis had dropped between the two of them. A change was coming over James’s face. His eyes lost their sparkle and became dark and steady, like water in a bog pool reflecting light but letting nothing in. Fion recognised that look:
So there really is something going on!
He was looking into the eyes of a fanatic. He shivered. When James spoke, he sounded like someone else.

‘Us – us Normans,’ he said, ‘we’re not Irish, you know, we never were. We came here from England, and that’s where our allegiance must lie.’

Fion wasn’t a proud O’Neill for nothing. Red anger obscured his sense and his vision.
Traitor!

Sinéad was far away in her mind when the first fragments of the boys’ furious exchanges began to get through to her. Then, to her horror, she heard the challenge: ‘Choose your weapons!’

Duelling was taboo, to her an act of folly. She wrenched herself out of her reverie. Later she would think of her return as a giddying plunge from the sky, the wind tearing at her pinions; in fact, it took no longer than it took for her to whip about and face the boys. There they stood, white-faced and rigid, Fion pointing to the hawking gauntlet that he had just thrown down at James’s feet.

‘Pick it up, if you dare.’

Without taking his eyes off Fion’s face, James bent and picked up the gauntlet.

‘Your weapon?’ demanded Fion.

‘Swords, Mr O’Neill. Sharpened, naturally.’

‘No!’ she screamed. ‘You can’t, you won’t …’ She rushed towards them, and then faltered as if she had hit a wall. For the first time ever, she felt truly frightened of them. ‘Oh stop!’ she cried, but she might as well have been shouting at the wind. The boys had moved into a world of their own. She watched them walk away. They were relaxed now, their differences apparently forgotten in the technicalities of a proper duel. This could not be real – but in her heart she knew it was. Neither of them would stop now, not unless
she
could find some way to stop them! Surely the armourer would never let them take out their real swords. But they were good talkers. They’d spin him some yarn. She shuddered: swords like
razors! She must get help, but who could she turn to? Who would they listen to? Father? Yes, but he was too ill to stir from the castle. There was just one other possibility.

CHAPTER 4

Sir Arthur Chichester

s he looked at Sir Arthur Chichester, Con grew up. No longer was he just a young rascal riding out for an adventure; he was Con O’Neill, the son of the Earl of Tyrone. All summer Father had been talking about this man, Chichester, and how he had been hounded by him. Now, suddenly, here was the very man, riding out through the Pale with what seemed to Con to be a whole army. Where could he be going? Uncle de Cashel’s castle? And if so, why? To Con it was quite obvious:
He’s going there to catch Father!
His mind raced.
What can I do?
Here he was, jammed up against a wall.
I must warn Father – but how?

He slid off his pony; he was far too obvious up there.
Dandelion indeed!
Head down, he led Macha towards the gate. The crowd had closed across the road with the passing of the horsemen, like water in the wake of a ship. People seemed much larger to him down at ground level. Con kept his head down and thrust into them. If they objected to being pushed aside by a small boy, they had to argue with the dogged pony that followed him faithfully, breathing down
his neck. He could see the gates ahead; the last of the horsemen were just passing through.
Oh no!
The gates were closing, but Con wasn’t the only one wanting to get out. There was a murmur among the crowd, early risers who had finished their business and wanted to get home.

‘Stand back from the gates there,’ shouted the guards, as they pushed the people back with the poles of their pikes.

‘But we have to get out!’

‘Nobody leaves here for one hour from now,’ the guards shouted. Con, only feet away from the gate now, heard one of them explain to the other, ‘He don’t want nobody gettin’ ahead and givin’ de Cashel a warning.’ The man dropped his voice. ‘They’ve got O’Neill cornered at last.’

‘Sir, sir,’ Con called in English. He grabbed one of their pike poles and held on. ‘I have to get out.’

‘They all say that, son.’

‘But … but I have important information for Milord Chichester.’

‘Le’go o’ me pike, boy; he don’t want to hear from the likes of you.’

‘Lieutenant!’ Con shouted through the narrowing gap between the gates. ‘Let me come out. I have information for His Lordship!’

The lieutenant turned and saw him. ‘Well, if it isn’t Milord’s dandelion. Suddenly found our tongue, have we? And speaking English of a sort too!’ He wheeled his horse clumsily, dragging its head around as if it was cart-horse, and came back to the gate. ‘Well, bwat, what have you to tell me?’

Con’s mind was whirring. What information could he pretend to
have? ‘Sir, I have secret information for the general, sir.’

‘Well, what is it?’

Con rolled his eyes towards the crowd behind him. ‘I can’t talk here, everyone will hear!’ Indeed, he
was
afraid that some English patriot in the crowd would recognise him and put a knife in his back. Or an Irish one, if they heard what he had to say.

The lieutenant pouted. ‘Tsch, I s’pose you’re wight,’ and then said to the gateman, ‘Let him thwough. I’ll see he doesn’t escape.’ The guards raised their pikes and Con and his pony were allowed through. ‘Lead that cweature, boy, and come with me.’

Creature!
Con was furious.
We’ll show him, won’t we, Macha!
For a wild moment he thought he’d make a break for it, but, truly, a pony is no match for a horse, and he would soon be ridden down. The soldiers were being formed into marching order under the watchful eye of the general while Con was being led forward. He’d have to say something now, but what? The general turned, caught sight of Con’s yellow shirt, and a look of thunder crossed his face.

‘Lieutenant Bonmann, what the devil are you doing with that boy?’

So that was the lieutenant’s name; Con was sure he’d heard it somewhere before.

‘He says he has important information for you, sir.’

The general growled. ‘All right, bring him here, and if he’s a nuisance, you can have the pleasure of shooting him, dandelion or no.’ He glowered at Con. ‘Come here, boy! Lieutenant, you can wait there.’ Con walked forward, his knees feeling like jelly. ‘D’you speak English?’ the general demanded, leaning forward in his saddle.

‘Yes, sir,’

‘Well? What’s your message?’

Con stood tongue-tied. Then, like a whisper, it came to him. ‘Sir – Milord – I have secret information …’ He looked about him as if nervous that someone might hear, and dropped his voice. ‘The Lord of Tyrone, sir, he’s lodging at de Cashel’s castle, sir!’
He knows it already, so it won’t make any difference. He’ll think I am on his side and let me go
. Con watched the man’s expression.
Am I betraying my own father? Is this news to him?
There was surprise on the general’s face, but it seemed mostly surprise that this new spy was a mere seven-year-old.

‘Well, well, well. So how do you have this information, pray?’

‘My sister works in the castle, sir,’ improvised Con quickly.

‘And does she speak English like you? That would be unusual for a serving girl.’

‘She was in service in Dundalk, sir,’ said Con, naming the only English-speaking town he knew. Still those cold eyes bored into him, but now there were sounds that the column was ready to move.

The general looked up. ‘Bonmann!’ he yelled. ‘Take this lad. Let him ride, but hold his reins and guard him with your life. Put an archer on him. He may be telling the truth, or he may be useable in some way or other.’ He raised his arm, the drums began to beat and the column was on its way.

Con had no alternative but to hand his reins to the lieutenant, who took them as if they were twin snakes. He hooked them onto his
saddle-horn.

‘So, I’m stuck with you for the journey, then. What stowies did you tell his lordship?’

‘I can’t say, sir. It’s a secret.’

‘Oh, be like that!’ Bonmann said petulantly. ‘Archer!’ he called. An archer stepped out from the ranks. ‘One move from this bwat and you skewer him, all wight?’

The archer, who looked to have the brains of an ox, took an arrow from his quiver, notched it to his bow and fell in behind the two riders.

If only my English was better I might get some information from this Englishman
, thought Con. He’d learned English from one of Mother’s ladies-in-waiting, but this man had a funny way of speaking that made him feel uncertain. As they moved forward, Con measured the distance to the forest edge wondering if he would be able to make a run for it, but it was too far. He’d never make it to the forest before a horseman caught up with him, and then there was the archer; the thought of an arrow between his shoulder blades made him squirm. He turned in his saddle and tried the archer with a grin, but all he got was a threatening lift of the man’s bow; no help there.

The drum-beat and the tramp of the men’s feet on the road were like a slow pulse. As the miles passed, Con’s chances of getting away, and ahead of the army to warn Father, were getting fewer and fewer. With every step, time was running out. He looked about him. He counted the men in the column and then looked at the pattern of their march. The general rode in front with two mounted lieutenants, and then came the pike-men, their
pikes raised. Behind them followed the musketeers and then the archers. There were also a half-dozen cavalry, gentlemen all, who were probably supposed to march on the flanks of the column, but spent most of their time chatting and laughing to the rear. The only one who seemed in any way alert was General Chichester himself, who was constantly looking ahead and slowing the column as if he felt in danger of an ambush. Con imagined himself as the commander of an Irish force lying in wait for the column, and in no time he was chasing the whole English column into the sea.

He was suddenly brought back to reality. The column had stopped; but Con’s reins were hooked over the lieutenant’s saddle, so his pony was brought up with a painful jolt. In panic, Macha wheeled and backed away, pulling hard against his reins.

‘Dwat!’ shouted Lieutenant Bonmann, as his saddle, loose because he hadn’t tightened the girth properly, slipped sideways on his horse’s back.

But why had they stopped? As Con calmed his pony, he looked ahead. He could see a sharp bend in the road. Here, for the first time, the forest crowded close to the road. It was the perfect place for an ambush – but wasn’t it also the perfect place for Con to escape? He could see Chichester at the corner, his hand still up to halt the column. He leaned forward. ‘Come on, Macha, we’ll go for it!’ he whispered, and he grabbed his pony’s reins from where they hung slack under his chin and heaved. Lieutenant Bonmann’s saddle now tipped over, and he fell in a flounder of arms and legs. Con’s reins slipped off the pommel of the saddle – and he was free. But the archer! Out of the corner of his eye, Con could see the man readying his bow.

‘My Lord Chichester!’ he shouted. ‘Beware, there is an ambush!’ His voice carried high and clear. The archer looked around as if for orders, but Lieutenant Bonmann was hopping around trying to get his foot out of his stirrup. There was only one safe direction for Con to go.
Ride for the general
, he thought,
the archer will never risk a shot in his direction
. Clapping his heels to his pony’s sides, he rode straight towards Sir Chichester.

However, he had reckoned without Lieutenant Bonmann. ‘Shoot him, you wetch!’

Con heard the command and flattened himself over the saddle as an accurately aimed arrow hissed above his back. He could see the arrow speed beyond him and for one heart-stopping moment he thought it would hit the general. Instead it fell short, causing the general’s horse to rear on its hind legs.

‘General!’ shouted Con again. He didn’t like the way Chichester was reaching for his sword. ‘There is an ambush waiting!’ He pointed at the corner. He saw a moment’s puzzlement on the general’s face. He was safe from the archer, who wouldn’t risk two shots at the general, but Chichester had drawn his sword now. Confusion was Con’s only weapon.

‘Come on, lads,’ he roared. ‘It’s Con! To the attack!’ He changed direction and galloped for all he was worth towards the sheltering corner of the forest. Again he flattened himself along the pony’s back.