Lord of the Isle (30 page)

“O’Neill, it’s about time you showed up. I’ve been searching all over for you. Look what we found when the tide ran out on the west side of my bay. Donovan, give the scroll to the O’Neill!”

Sorely jabbed the end of his staff at the retainer shoving a round-topped sea chest across the floor on a sled. The chest bore a stamped inscription conveying its contents to the marquis of Winchester, Basing House. Above the inscription was the device of the English crown, two lions rampant, and the initials E.R. Chalked below that was a number, 21.

“Damn me,” Hugh whispered, dumbfounded. “William Paulet!”

“Who’s he?” Morgana asked.

“Paulet’s the royal treasurer. That trunk belongs to him.”

“Be damned twice!” Sorely barked. “‘Tis the property of the churches of Ireland. Read that parchment.”

Hugh took the scroll in hand. It was wet, the seal on it broken. The sodden sheepskin was so soft, opening it made it flop over on itself. The ink had begun to smear badly.

“Sorry, I can’t make it out.” Hugh squinted to compensate for the lack of good reading light in the hall. He strode to the high board and spread the document on it, then reached for a branch of candles.

The parsimonious Mac Donnell winced when Hugh took the one lighted taper out of its socket and lit every wick. Morgana had already bent over the table and begun to read out loud the only legible column. “Saints Anne and Agnes, Clane, county Kildare, nine crosses, gold, four silver, four chalices—gold—three books—Catholic, gold and jewel jackets—eighteen candlesticks—gold. Hugh, what does this mean?”

“Just one moment.” Hugh took a magnifying glass from a pocket in his doublet. He began reading at the top of the parchment, going over each line of blurring script.

“This says it’s the consignment of Lord Grey, justiciar of Ireland, transported on the ship,
Margaret Rose,
May ninth, this year, via the largess of Captain Francis Drake, admiral, Her Majesty’s navy. Chests numbering seventy in all, shipped from Donegal Abbey to the Tower of London. There to be handed over to the royal treasurer. Sorely, have you opened the trunk? Where are the others? This says there
were seventy trunks in all. Good heavens, can the rest be at the bottom of the sea?”

“There are no others that we found. We scoured the shoreline from here to Portrush and the causeway before bringing this trunk to the hall. If there are others, they are at the bottom of the sea with the
Margaret Rose.
Only this one trunk washed up on my shore.”

“Let’s open it,” Hugh said excitedly.

“Nay!” Sorely shouted, shaking his staff in a threat to strike Hugh if he did. “I’ve forbidden my men to touch the lock. God strike me dead, there’ll be no blasphemy conducted in the hall of the Mac Donnells. It’s church gold, stolen by thieving Tudors in the dissolution of the monasteries!”

“We can’t know that unless we open the trunk,” Hugh reasoned. “Morgana, fetch a hammer and chisel.”

“O’Neill, you’ll no’ open that casket in my house!” Sorely roared. “If ye must see what I know by faith is true, fetch a priest. No unconsecrated hands will touch chalices of the holy church while I live and breathe. Send for Father Eddie.”

“He’s administering the last rites in the village,” Inghinn said.

Hugh looked about the hall for Loghran. “Inghinn, send to the stable for Loghran O’Toole.”

Inghinn didn’t have to go farther than the hall doors to find Loghran. Word of found treasure had spread quickly through Dunluce. Every living soul on the premise streamed into Sorely’s hall. Men came in doffing their caps and the women covering their heads, as if they were entering a church.

Hugh moved his magnifying glass over the narrative at the top, rereading what could be deciphered. “This scroll must have come from trunk seventeen when it broke apart. Morgana, didn’t Grace say she sank two of Drake’s ships before she sped away to Band Haven?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what she said.”

“What have you found?” Loghran called over Hugh’s shoulder.

“Not me. Mac Donnell’s found it. Come look at this cargo manifest. Our good friend Drake had more on his mind than just lessoning our Mac Donnell. Sorely believes he was transporting treasure stolen from the abbeys. This trunk washed up from the tide, intact.”

“You jest,” Loghran said, stunned. No one looked to be joking. Shamus Fitz produced a pry bar he’d been using in the carpentry work at the stable. He pulled it from his belt and handed it solemnly to Loghran when he’d finished looking over the document.

“I must wash my hands, first,” Loghran said reverently, unwilling to touch even the locks without cleansing himself first.

A basin and soap was brought to him. After he washed his hands and folded away a clean linen, he knelt before the trunk, put the bar to the lock and broke the hasp. A hush swept the hall as the onlookers held their breath, waiting to see what the trunk would contain when Loghran raised the lid.

It had been sealed watertight. The memorable scent of frankincense, myrrh and beeswax filled the air the moment Loghran laid back the heavy, lead-lined lid.

Gold gleamed against silk. Each precious icon crammed into the chest had been wrapped in a cope, the outermost garment priests wore during mass. Each embroidered cloth held chalice, paten, crucifix and altar candlestick—all made of pure gold.

With hands that trembled, Loghran lifted out a golden monstrance so beautiful and magnificent in its sunray design that it hurt the eyes to look upon it. He stood it on the high table and bent his knee and his head before it, then crossed himself and backed away.

Slowly he emptied the trunk till he came to the stacks of books lining its bottom. Three illuminated manuscripts as precious as the Book of Kells were wrapped in waddings of damp cloth. Loghran brought the last gold-bound volume
to his lips and kissed the jeweled cross worked into its ornate cover.

“I know this book,” he said in a shaken voice. “It is the life of Saint Brendan of Clonfert, and belongs to the abbot of Munster. It is priceless, beyond human value.”

“I told you so,” the Mac Donnell said to Hugh.

Morgana made the sign of the cross and pressed her fingers to her lips, blinking back emotional tears from her eyes. “What do we do with all of this?” she asked.

Hugh looked at Loghran, then to the Mac Donnell. “We return it all where it belongs. To the Dominicans, Cistercians and Franciscans who have been robbed of their holy relics.”

Morgana shook her head. “The abbeys and churches have been destroyed. I have just come from the Pale. I tell you there is not a church, no matter how minor, that remains intact. Sidney hunts down priests with a devil’s vengeance. They die horrible deaths, martyrs of the true church. All church lands have been confiscated. I know of none that are not occupied by soldiers or taken over by English landlords greedy for more wealth. Most, if not all, of the holy men have been driven into exile.”

“And underground,” Loghran said solemnly. “The priests and monks are still with Ireland, lady. I stand before you as proof of that.”

“Then you tell us, Loghran O’Toole,” Morgana said, “where can we send these treasures and relics that belong to the people of Ireland for safe keeping from our governors’ greed?”

“Dunluce’s east tower is a good place,” said the Mulvaine. She squeezed around her grandfather and put her hand out to touch the gold monstrance, a look of awe on her face.

Sorely struck her across her shoulder with his blackthorn staff. “Keep your filthy hands to yourself! No one gave you leave to speak. Get you out of my hall.”

Inghinn took up her father’s cause, pulling the girl back from the precious ornament. “You mustn’t touch these relics,
Cara. They are sacred and blessed. Only priests may touch them.”

“And those who have been to confession and completed their penance.” Loghran injected the instruction to clarify any ignorance in the onlookers.

“The Franciscan abbey in Donegal is secure,” Inghinn said. “Hugh O’Donnell mustered all of Donegal to the protection of their abbeys.”

“Inghinn,” Hugh said, and turned to her, “the manifest states the fleet originated in Donegal.”

“Then we must take all of this to the preceptory of the Templars,” Loghran concluded. “Sir Almoy’s vault is dry and secure. I am told the gospels of Maynooth and all the books of Solomon brought out of the Holy Land by the Templars are in Sir Almoy’s possession. He would safeguard these sacred books until we can make contact with the proper church authorities. They will tell us how the items should be dispensed.”

“You are absolutely right,” Hugh agreed. “As preceptor of Ireland, Almoy is the perfect choice.”

“My dungeons are also secure,” Sorely offered.

“And wet,” Cara said. “Everything rots there. But the east tower is very dry. Anything that you put there would be safe.”

Sorely glared at her. Morgana saw him twitch with the urge to strike the girl again. His hatred was palpable, a living thing between the girl and he. Morgana clenched her hands at her sides and thought,
If he strikes her again, I shall kill him.

Loghran opened the book in his hands. His head wagged sadly. “The child is right. These books must be where it is dry. Your dungeon may be secure, but it will not do. My lord Hugh told me we would be leaving in the morrow. We can transport all of this to the Templars’ priory in Tyrone on our way back to Dungannon. It will be safe there for the time being. I’m sure your confessor will agree.”

“I do most heartily,” Father Eddie said, coming into the hall at last.

“Then I suggest we get everything thoroughly packed for travel. As I remember, Dunrath is a good hard ride from Dungannon,” Hugh said wearily.

“You’ll need a guide to find the preceptory. It’s well hidden,” Father Eddie said.

“I can find it,” Loghran O’Toole asserted. “Some things one doesn’t forget, no matter how long one is away from his homeland.”

“Aye,” the Mac Donnell agreed. He leaned heavily on his staff as he limped around the high board to his chair on the dais. “I’ll sit here and watch the packing. Inghinn, bring fresh linen for the table so that Loghran and Father Eddie can spread the crosses and crucifixes. Arliss, go fetch the seamstress. Tell her to bring a bolt of my finest velvet cloth. I want protective bags made for each object. Donovan, search the manse for a trunk suitable to contain the whole of it, a dry one, with no smell of must inside it.”

Cara glared at the Mac Donnell, her small mouth twisted grimly. Morgana watched the girl shake her head as though she were disgusted by the others who scattered to fulfill the Mac Donnell’s orders.

Then the child turned and stalked out of the great hall. Morgana sighed, more convinced than ever that the best thing she could do for Cara Mulvaine was to get her out of Dunluce. If Hugh O’Neill wouldn’t help Morgana do that, why then, she’d just do it alone.

Silently, Morgana sent a message to the retreating child,
Pack your bags, Cara. You are going to Dungannon with me.

Hugh O’Neill tapped Morgana on her shoulder. She spun around, startled, scowling at him as darkly as she’d glared at the Mac Donnell.

“Lady,” Hugh said in a stern, though soft, voice, “I know what you are thinking.”

M
organa had already made up her mind to ride at the back of the procession when they left Dunluce. Today she’d be toasted and roasted over the fires of hell before she spoke to Hugh O’Neill.

They weren’t even married yet, and they’d had their first argument… over a child that wasn’t even theirs!

She took her time getting ready, dressing, fixing her hair so it wouldn’t come loose on the day’s roundabout ride back to Dungannon. Before he left their bed this morning, Hugh had said he expected to ride hard to Dunrath, leave the treasure at the preceptory, then ride without stopping till they reached Dungannon. That was a fine way for a bunch of Irish kerns to travel, but it was no way for a lady to get about Ireland.

What was the almighty rush? Morgana had wanted to know. Hugh had merely said he wanted to get the treasure off his hands, period. He didn’t want to be caught by anyone with that trunk or any of its contents in his possession.

As Morgana came through the hall, she heard the commotion of the horses and the excited chatter of men getting ready to ride. Today there was the addition of a two-wheeled cart and a Mac Donnell driver to bear the heavy trunk to the preceptory. Morgana would have found some way to hide Cara Mulvaine on that cart, had she had her way about things.

But no! Hugh O’Neill had to act the absolute tyrant. He’d threatened to beat Morgana if that child showed up on their journey south, saying that Morgana would rightly deserve punishment for couching a rebellion. Morgana wasn’t about to put Hugh to that test. Not that his empty threat had put an end to the dispute. It had only stopped the words. Morgana would find another way, as soon as she could think of one.

When she came outside to the ward, where the horses were tied and the cart was ready to be loaded, she was distracted, wound up in her own deep thoughts. She wasn’t paying attention to the Mac Donnell’s loud cursing inside the hall.

Hugh’s kerns looked up, murmuring among themselves, and turned to the open wicket in the Mac Donnell’s great doors.

“It’s gone!” Sorely emerged from his hall, shouting, his face the color of chalk. “The treasure’s been stolen! The whole trunk is empty. Donovan, who manned the portcullis last night?”

Another murmur went through the people assembled in the castle ward. Heads turned and wagged. The old retainer, Donovan, stepped forward. “I, milord. The gates were closed all through the night. No one went in or out.”

“Hold on, Sorely.” Hugh ducked out from beneath the too-short wicket door. His face was dark with anger. He flashed a look at Morgana, and she responded with an ignorant shake of her head that said plainly,
I didn’t do it.
“If the gates were never opened, then the treasure must be here in Dunluce. Where is the Mulvaine?”

“Aye, where’s the deceitful brat? Does she think I forgot her words of yesterday? Nay, I did not!” Sorely came down the steps in a rage. “Donovan, go you and look in the north tower.”

“Someone rings the bell at the gate, m’lord,” Donovan responded, torn between his normal duty and the order of his laird.

Morgana turned at the compelling sound of the bell at the portcullis pealing. It was too early for visitors. Daylight had just begun to wash away the shadows of the night.

They all heard the chains on the gate squeak as it was being raised.

“What in the name of God is going on here?” roared Sorely Mac Donnell. He caught his tartan to his chest and began limping angrily across the ward to the portcullis gate. Everyone followed him. The kerns and Hugh all drew their swords.

The gate was open by the time the crowd reached it. Outside, on the road up from Bushmills, stood a wagon train drawn by mules. At the lead, stood an ancient man whose white hair and beard trailed down across a snowy tunic bearing the red cross of the Knights Templar.

“Mac Donnell of the Isles,” the old man said, and raised his walking staff in greeting. “I am Almoy of the Temple of Dunrath. I have come to Dunluce seeking entrance within your secure walls. A vision, which came to me of late, tells me your east tower is vacant and will hold the remains of the Templars’ property secure for a decade to come. May we enter in peace?”

“Of course you can,” Cara Mulvaine chirped as she popped out from the gatehouse works. Her hands were filthy from the grease that kept the chains from rusting. “My grandfather has more treasures to add to your cache for safekeeping. Do come in, sir.”

Sir Almoy looked down upon the child, smiled an almost beatific greeting and put out his hand to accept her. “Ah, so my apprentice waits for me. Good, good. All is as God showed me it should be. The O’Neill is here, and I see the red hair of the Fitzgeralds among you. Ireland becomes a haven for all of us, from end to end. Lady Morgan, I am grateful to you for doing my bidding. Alas, events changed from when I spoke with you last, though I thank you greatly for hearing my plaint.”

“Well, don’t just stand there blocking the gate, old man,” Sorely cackled. “Come in, come in.”

Morgana stood aside with the Mac Donnell as the kerns rushed forward. Each took hold of one of the mules, pulling Almoy’s carts and drew it inside the castle’s ward. It was an odd-looking procession. No men had accompanied old Almoy and his train of mules. His carts were piled high with every sort of crate, casket and trunk imaginable.

Cara seemed beyond herself, skipping ahead to take Sir Almoy’s papery hand and lead him to the old east tower.

“I live in the north tower,” she told him excitedly. “But you will like the east tower best, for its mullions open to the rising sun. You are going to teach me, aren’t you?”

“Aye,” he said gravely. “It is the reason I have come to Dunluce, child. I am glad I arrived in time to stop your journey.”

“Oh, I wasn’t going anywhere,” Cara said, solemn-faced. “I saw you coming. Welcome to Dunluce, my lord. Did you bring my dog with you?”

“Nay, you are not ready for a familiar,” Sir Almoy whispered to her. “You have much to learn first. But you will know when the time has come for you to bring the dog up from the sea gate. Now, be quiet and let me speak with your elders. They are confused by what they do not understand.”

Confused
didn’t begin to explain Morgana’s feelings. She was knocked off her pins, stunned to abject silence, by this strange and unnatural twist of events. Sorely Mac Donnell’s ugly mood had changed to one of kind beneficence. He couldn’t do enough to make the ancient Templar comfortable and welcome.

Hugh handed over the mule he’d led to the entrance of the east tower to Kermit Blackbeard and wound his way through the crowd to Morgana. He, too, looked confused.

“Did you also have some indication of this happening, lady?” he asked suspiciously.

“No, I didn’t,” Morgana said emphatically. “I told you all that I knew. I am as surprised as you.”

“Then we have nothing to continue arguing about, do we?”

Rather sheepishly, Morgana agreed. Her ire with him evaporated like smoke. “Just don’t say, ‘I told you so’ or we will.”

Grinning, Hugh caught her chin with his forefinger and lifted it. “And nothing to stop us from returning our borrowed boys to Colraine and riding to Dungannon posthaste. Say your farewells. We may as well go while the gates are open.”

That was sound advice. The Mulvaine hardly noticed their leave-taking. She was too busy climbing onto the first of Almoy’s carts and untying its contents. She called to all the servants to help carry Almoy’s many possessions inside the east tower, proud that she had spent the night getting the tower ready.

A curious black-and-white cat popped out from beneath the first tarp Cara lifted. It stretched and yawned, then padded over to the tower’s doorway and sniffed its new home. Then it wound affectionately around Almoy’s legs as he bade Hugh and Morgana goodbye.

“When you write to the queen dissolving the betrothal,” he called after Hugh, “ask to be made the Mulvaine’s guardian. She will have need of your counsel when the time comes for her to marry. Ask and you shall receive, my boy.”

He beckoned to Morgana to come to him as he took a small pouch from the depths of his clothing. “Here, Lady Morgana. You will have need of this on your journey home and my blessing. Your spells lack potency.”

“What is it?” Morgana felt the heft of the small bag. When she drew back the string, she thought she saw gray ashes inside it.

“Pepper and salt, my lady, several pinches of gunpowder, saltpeter and sulfur. All ground as fine as the dust that blows on the wind. Use it only once, and use all of it, then cast the bag to the waters before you. You know its strength and properties. Godspeed, my lady.” Sir Almoy made the sign of the cross above Morgana’s head.

Then he abruptly laid his papery hand on her brow, to trace another cross on her brow with his thumb. Morgana
started, seeing herself surrounded by redcoats. “Hush,” Sir Almoy whispered a consolation. “Do not be afraid of the trials to come. You will know the way when you see it. Till we meet again, I give you my thanks for caring for the child. I will protect her as well as I am able.”

Hugh rumbled clearing his throat. Morgana tucked the bag in her pocket and took Hugh’s arm, allowing him to lead her to Ariel and lift her onto her saddle. She stared back at Sir Almoy, troubled by the vision he’d given her.

No one seemed to take anything Sir Almoy said or did as unusual, though Morgana thought of a hundred questions to ask him. There wasn’t time for that. Hugh wanted to be on his way.

The ride to Colraine was unremarkable. The countryside was absolutely pastoral, clean and washed by the storms that had passed in the days before. It was vibrant and alive with the full bloom of spring. The sun warmed the earth. A soft breeze off the sea cooled the skin in the most pleasant of ways.

The small band of Irish kerns and boys began singing their favorite songs with such sweet harmony that it was almost impossible for Morgana to retain that sense of wary alertness Sir Almoy had instilled within her by his touch.

As they approached the bridges that spanned the Bonn at Salmon’s Leap, Morgana looked ahead to the village square across the wide river. It was market day and the town was crowded. Drovers had brought their sheep and cattle to town to trade for goods and services. A small traveling troupe had set up a stage for a play to be given later in the day. Two of their members, wearing gay costumes, acted out a small scene from the play to convince the villagers to pay a penny to see the production in full.

“Want to see the play?” Hugh asked Morgana as they rode into the center of the town.

Morgana drew Ariel to stop and look around. She saw nothing to be wary of, found no reason for her growing sense of dread. “I think we’d best return these boys to their parents and thank them adequately for allowing them to
come along. They each risked much, if the truth were to be known.”

“Aye,” Hugh agreed. He looked to Rory and Brian, who’d been drawn off by the actors’ boasts. “The boys have had an adventure to talk of long into their old age. I’ll wager the coin I give their parents will more than compensate them for any trouble they might have gotten into.”

Morgana said nothing to that, her thinking being more attuned to motherly concerns than Hugh’s. At least she could say the boys were coming home safe and sound.

Hugh whistled to his lagging kerns, letting Rory know they were riding and not staying in Colraine.

Two of the boys lived in the village and were easily delivered back into their parents’ care. Their parents hailed them welcome and gladly accepted the gold coin Hugh gave them for their sons’ assistance.

The younger lad, Thomas, lived slightly south of Colraine in a perfect nook in the pine wood forest. They all dismounted when Thomas’s parents invited them to stay for lunch.

Morgana marvelled at the welcome and hospitality of the peasants’ house. Although the mother shooed Thomas and his siblings out the doors to make room for guests at her table, Thomas’s oldest brother stayed. He was nimble with the harp and played the whole while they ate.

Then it was time to go, to face the longer ride to Dungannon. Hugh and Morgana and their loyal kerns stepped out of the cottage to find it surrounded. Six red-coated musketeers stood with their guns primed and ready, awaiting James Kelly’s command to slay them all.

“I’m on to your game now. So I’ll make a bargain with you, O’Neill.” Kelly laughed viciously.. “Hand over Morgana Fitzgerald and her brother, and I won’t order my men to shoot yours down like so many cattle in a pen. At this range, our muskets will blow everyone of you to kingdom come.”