Fugitives! (9 page)

When she burst into the great hall she found a queue of people
waiting for Father’s instructions. Fenton was there, hovering around him like an over-willing spaniel. How could she find out if Father knew that Fenton was a spy without blurting it out in front of the scoundrel?

At that moment, Father caught sight of her, waiting. He looked surprised. ‘My word, child, you
are
dressed up. Are you looking for me?’

She’d forgotten about the dress. His surprise threw her for a moment, and now Fenton’s protruding eyes were fixed on her. Would Uncle Hugh have mentioned apples, rotten apples perhaps? It was worth a try.

‘Father, did … did Uncle Hugh tell you what we found in the apples? He said it might be important.’ She watched her father’s face … a moment of puzzlement, then it cleared.

‘He did tell me, love. I’m going to deal with it later. It’s codling-moth, you know.’

She nearly danced with excitement.
He’s got it, he’s got it!

But the victualler was patting her on the head. ‘This is not the moment to bother your father with moths, dear! Run along, now!’

She stepped back into the shadows, happy that Father knew. She listened to his crisp orders – no wonder Uncle Hugh had wanted Father beside him at Kinsale. Now he was detailing exactly how many horsemen and men-at-arms were to make up the party that would go out to greet the Lord Deputy. Next he turned to the chief herdsman. All but a small herd of cattle were to be moved out of sight into the woods; however, a fat bullock was to be slaughtered straight away and pit-roasted for the common soldiers. ‘Yes, yes,’ he instructed, ‘all that’s necessary for seventy men.’

‘So we know their number, Milord?’ asked the victualler, who had re-joined the line.

‘Yes, thanks to our informant, we even know the colour of their eyes,’ joked Father. ‘A good spy is worth a thousand men, eh Fenton?’ His secretary smiled weakly. Father’s instructions flowed on: ‘We will be entertaining the Deputy and six gentlemen. The high table will be me and six members of the household, including Dr Fenton here.’

At that moment Sinéad felt a hand on her shoulder and heard a whisper in her ear. ‘For God’s sake, Sinéad, what’s going on?’

She turned in surprise. It was James, smudged and covered in cobwebs. She grabbed him by the elbow and hurried him out of the hurly burly of the castle to an angle of the wall where they could talk privately.

‘Well, James,
you
tell
me
what it’s all about!’ she demanded.

‘I’ve no idea; I was … far away and didn’t hear anything till now.’

‘Rot! You’d have had to be in France to miss the commotion here! Look at you, you’re covered in cobwebs!’ She brushed at him, but he slapped her hand away.

‘I have a hiding place … a deep place … I didn’t hear anything,’ he said sullenly.

Sinéad was still suspicious of his involvement. ‘Chichester’s coming here to catch Uncle Hugh,’ she informed her brother. ‘We thought you might be with him.’

‘Me! With Uncle Hugh? No way!’

‘No, you oaf. With Chichester, the Lord Deputy. We thought you’d gone over to the other side.’

‘We …who’s
we
? Fion, I bet! Well, of all the bloody cheek!
Anyway, how could Chichester know that Uncle Hugh’s here?’

‘Because someone told him!’

‘You mean a
spy
?’

‘Yes, we thought …’ Just then a bellow rang out from the castle door above them: ‘Master James to Sir Malachy immediately!’

James sprang to his feet but Sinéad caught him and held on. ‘You can’t go in like that, covered in cobwebs!’ She began to brush his jacket and pluck strands from his hair. ‘And look, your face is all smudged!’ she said, pulling a kerchief from her sleeve.

‘Hey!’ he protested. ‘I don’t want my face washed in your spit!’

‘Well, use your own spit then!’ she said, holding out the handkerchief. While he scrubbed at his face and hands she told him how the alarm had been given by young Con, and how Uncle Hugh had left, taking Fion with him.

‘Good-riddance! I’ve had enough of Fion and Uncle Hugh, and the native Irish forever.’

Sinéad bit her tongue. He hadn’t known about Chichester, that was the important thing, so he hadn’t been in on Fenton’s plot. ‘Father plans to treat Sir Chichester as a guest. That’s what he’s arranging now.’

‘Good! Dr Fenton says we should treat the English in Ireland as our guests, not our enemies. If we honour them, they will honour us.’ He pushed her away. ‘I must go!’

‘James, there’s something else you must know. It’s about Fenton–’ but he was gone.

CHAPTER 9

Greensleeves

s James ran up the ramp into the castle and thrust himself into the throng in the great hall, he was grateful for his clean-up, and also for Sinéad’s briefing about what was going on. Willing hands pushed him forward to where Father sat in his ornate chair.

Dr Fenton, who hadn’t noticed James’s arrival, was pleading with Father. ‘Sir, I think it would be more appropriate for me, as your secretary, to greet the Lord Deputy. Your son–’ but Father had seen James arrive, and brushed his secretary aside. ‘About time too, James! Where have you been?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I am unable to ride out to greet the Lord Deputy and I am trying to persuade Dr Fenton here that it is appropriate that you, as my son and heir, should ride out and greet our guest.’

James was thrilled. He glanced at his tutor, who apparently was having a change of heart: ‘Of course, of course, Sir Malachy … most appropriate.’

James felt magnanimous.
Good old Fenton. And I am prepared. It’s
an honour, and it’s time we Irish Normans met the English as equals.
He straightened his shoulders. ‘Sir, I would be honoured,’ he said with a bow.

‘Well, go and make yourself respectable, and come back to me immediately for instructions.’

At least Kathleen gave him water to wash in. Then she stood back and eyed him up and down. He tried to imagine how he looked. Father’s riding boots with their floppy, turned-down tops fitted well enough with several extra pairs of socks inside. Then he had a pair of hose meeting maroon-coloured pantaloons, which spread out over his thighs in generous puffs. A clean linen shirt, a rust-coloured doublet, and a broad-brimmed hat, to which Kathleen had hastily sewn some sweeping feathers, completed his outfit.

‘You can doff that hat like a real gentleman, so you can,’ she said. James tried to look superior;
but I am a real gentleman
, then he cringed as Kathleen added: ‘You’re just gorgeous, you are!’ He clattered down the stairs to present himself to Father for final instructions.

‘You will have the captain of the guard with you. Do as he says, but above all be polite. You know – and they know – that they are not invited, but by greeting them civilly, we can at least preserve our dignity.’ Father looked grim. ‘You may be sure there will be a price to pay. Chichester expects to find Hugh O’Neill here, and will be
furious when he’s not, but remember, Uncle Hugh is the rightful Earl of Tyrone. We have done nothing illegal!’ At that, he handed James his sword, the sharp one that had been denied him that morning. James almost felt as if he’d been knighted as he buckled it on proudly. ‘Dr Fenton will advise you on how to address the Lord Deputy.’

James could hear the rat-ta-ta-tat of the drum before the army emerged from the forest road. As he rode out, the captain explained to him how they would present themselves to the advancing force. ‘Remember, Master James, that we’ve come to welcome them, not attack them. Thanks to young O’Neill, we know exactly how many cavalry Sir Arthur has with him, so we match them horse for horse. At the same time we want to keep them together and not have them galloping off around the place, searching for the Earl, or indeed going chasing after him. He’s only an hour ahead of them, after all. I have arranged for archers and some extra horse to remain out of sight along the forest edge with orders to show themselves only if necessary.’

James was grateful for the flow of talk as the captain went on to say: ‘What you have to do is to act the young gentleman that you are, and they will behave like gentlemen – for the moment anyway. If they don’t, we’ll be right behind you.’ James’s mouth was dry. Just now all he wanted to do was turn around and gallop back to the safety of the castle, but the captain leant across and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’ll be just fine. Ride on, now, about twenty paces
ahead so they know you are a spokesman, and remember to reach for your hat, not your sword.’ There was a low murmur of encouragement from the common soldiers behind him as James rode forward by himself. He mustn’t let them down.

The small army came into sight, a solid phalanx of marching men, the sunlight glittering on their armour and their swaying pikes. The drum rattled, and a low cloud of dust rose waist deep about them. At their head rode a single horseman, his face concealed in the shadow of his visor. Further horsemen, wearing bright cloaks and broad-brimmed hats, rode loosely on each side of the column. When they saw the castle ahead, they began to urge their horses forward, spreading out on each side, but a barked order from their leader brought them back to the column. One of them, however, seemed to have lost control of his horse and to be intent on charging into the forest, head-on. Two archers stepped silently from the trees, with arrows notched; the man’s horse shied. For a moment it looked as if he would fall off, but one of the archers obligingly caught the horse’s reins, calmed it, and led it back towards the marching men.

‘Dwatted horse!’ James heard the rider curse, as the archer released it.

He could see the face of the leader now, his beard jutting out over his breastplate; he did not seem amused at the incident. So, this must be Sir Arthur Chichester, the most powerful man in Ireland. But Fenton had assured him that he was just waiting to welcome families like James’s back into the English fold: ‘Remember, James, they are gentlemen – harsh, cruel perhaps, but just and true.’

James straightened his back; this was his moment. Rehearsing his greeting in English, he rode forward and reached for his hat. The
general, seeing his advance, raised his right hand; behind him a sergeant bellowed ‘Halt!’ and the marching men stopped as one. The drum rolled, then stopped, and the dust drifted away.

When James was a horse’s length from the general, he swept his hat from his head and with a deep bow said, ‘My Lord Chichester, Lord Deputy of Ireland, on behalf of my father, Sir Malachy de Cashel, I bid you welcome to our castle and to our demesne.’

‘Where is your father, boy?’

‘He sends his apologies; he is at present unable to ride.’

‘A bullet in the leg at Kinsale, if my memory serves me, fighting on the wrong side.’

‘We have Our Gracious Majesty, King James’s pardon, my Lord, and are looking forward to greeting you in the castle.’

‘
Our
Gracious Majesty, indeed.’ James felt the general’s eyes boring into him. ‘Are you the lad that Henry Fenton is tutoring?’

‘Yes, sir, Dr Fenton is indeed my tutor.’
How can someone like Sir Arthur Chichester know about Fenton and me? Does he know everything?
But Father had said: Leave his questions to me. James bowed. ‘May I take you to my father, sir? Perhaps we can provide you with some refreshment?’ As he wheeled his horse around by way of invitation, he thought of the turmoil in the kitchens – the ox, and the barrels of wine fresh broached in the undercroft. Sir Arthur raised his hand, the sergeant barked, the drum beat, and James felt as if he himself was the general riding ahead of the army.

‘You seem to be prepared for my coming, lad. What is your name?’ asked Sir Arthur.

‘James, sir. Your fame goes before you, sir.’ James had just thought of this compliment and was rather pleased with it.

He was rewarded with a grunt. ‘You speak English, boy, but you have the slippery tongue of the Irish.’ James blushed to the roots of his hair.
Don’t try to be too clever, you fool!
he told himself, but Chichester went on: ‘There’s a young lad, rides a pony – yellow shirt, red hair – have you seen him?’

James recognised Sinéad’s description of young Con at once, but he himself hadn’t seen Con so he could say without a blush, ‘No, sir, there’s no one like that here.’ The eyes that glinted from under the general’s visor forced him to look away. Thank God they were now approaching the castle where he could busy himself calling for grooms for their horses, while his own captain invited the English sergeant to dismiss his men and bring them over to where the roasting ox was already emitting inviting smells. James dismounted, and, carrying his hat, led the English general and his fellow officers up the ramp and into the great hall of the castle. He hardly recognised it. Torches blazed from the sconces about the walls, and the floor was freshly strewn with rushes. Seated under the canopy that shaded his great oak chair sat Father.

James led the visitors forward, and, as rehearsed with Dr Fenton, announced: ‘Sir Malachy de Cashel, may I present Sir Arthur Chichester, Lord Deputy of Ireland.’

The general, who had removed his helmet, came forward, and with a stiff bow, greeted Father. He then introduced his lieutenants who, in turn, stepped forward, bowing and sweeping their plumed hats low in front of them. Foremost of these, to James’s surprise, was the officer whose horse had bolted for the forest.

‘Sir Geoffrey Bonmann!’ growled the general.

‘Sir Geoffwey, at your service,’ the man said with an elaborate
bow. James had to suppress a smile.

The company was then released to make free of the castle while final preparations for dinner were made.