The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell (44 page)

Clifford had assured him of Tibbot’s loyalty. “He showed his true colors at Ballyshannon, arriving with supplies and several field pieces. He ’ll be waiting at Sligo as promised. I’m sure of it.”

“Even,” Radcliff had insisted, “if it appears the battle is favoring O’Donnell? Surely Red Hugh will know Burke is lying at anchor in Sligo Harbor. Will he not attempt to lure a fellow Irishman to their common cause?”

“Anything is possible,” Clifford had relented, not wishing to continue such an irritating argument. “Anything except our losing Collooney Castle.”

Now Radcliff was riding up to join Clifford at the foot of the pass.

“Are your men ready?” asked the governor.

“No, my lord,” said Radcliff. “They’re tired and hungry. They request we camp here tonight and begin with fresh heads and bodies in the morning.”

Clifford was momentarily speechless, taken by surprise at the request.

“I thought we ’d at least put the hills behind us before dark. ’Tis not far, and it will be cool with the sun falling behind the mountains. The enemy is weak here. ’Twill be a walk in the garden. Tell the men there ’ll be plenty of beef and double rations of wine when we make camp. That will please them.”

“Perhaps you should tell them yourself, sir. Many of them are grumbling.”

Clifford smiled his dazzling smile, one he was well aware charmed men as handily as women, then wheeled his horse about with a flourish.

“I shall have a word with the troops. Meanwhile, Radcliff, you may prepare for the ascent.”

“Yes, my lord.”

With that Conyers Clifford rode back to his grumbling army, puffed with confident anticipation and determined that tomorrow’s action at Collooney would prove a small but glorious victory in Elizabeth’s Irish war.

THE GOOD CHEER manufactured by their cheerful commander had worn thin by the time the vanguard had trekked two miles up the Curlew Pass. Stomachs rumbled. Feet ached. The prospect of cooked meat and double rations of wine seemed very far off indeed. At least there was still light on the peaceful road. And the moisture rising from the bog to the left of them, and the shadows from the fringe of tall trees to the right of them were somehow refreshing.

The pop of small arms firing, therefore, took the vanguard quite by surprise. Here and there in the column men fell, wounded and dead in their places. The fire came from the fringe of trees, and in moments, with Radcliff racing along the line shouting his orders, the men had taken what cover they could by the roadside and begun their barrage. What

“weak enemy” was this? they wondered angrily. How could Clifford have led them—tired and hungry—into an ambush of rebels armed with guns?

One hour and a half later, the vanguard’s powder and shot were altogether spent, and the Irish barrage continued strong and unabated.

Dozens of Crown soldiers lay dead or wounded. Suddenly unable to return fire, the musketeers looked desperately to their leader for orders.

They spotted him rushing headlong at the front of a small force of pike-men into a hopeless fray. They watched in horror as he was shot dead off his horse and fell to the ground, to be trampled underfoot. The sight, stunning and terrifying, served as an unspoken signal, and all at once the men were on their feet and running pell-mell down the green Curlew Pass, back the way they’d come.

But when the vanguard collided with the main body of soldiers, they found it was, itself, writhing in full panic. Together the two companies broke and ran, a mindless mob, overwhelming the rearguard, who followed in chaotic and cowardly retreat.

CONYERS CLIFFORD COULD scarce believe his eyes—the whole of his army was thundering out of the Curlew Pass like a herd of stampeding cattle!
It could not end this way. No! He’d regroup them.

head a small but courageous force to victory. MacSweeny would back him . . .

the rebel could not be so strong . . . hadn’t the bard said . . . ?
Men were running, ignoring his shouts to return to formation.
Would no one fight? No
one?
The ribbon of road weaving into the hills ahead was all but deserted.
He must do something, anything . . . Where was MacSweeny?

Where was Radcliff? . . . Ride alone if I must . . . The shame of it,
he silently cried,
Oh, sweet Jesus, the shame of it.

IT DEPRESSED TIBBOT to see Sligo Castle in ruins. Standing on the portside of the
Granuaile
, gazing at the battered stone walls through his spyglass, he thought how strange it was to be at better ease with English occupation than Irish. They were not just
any
Irishmen controlling the castle, he argued with himself, but men bound to his sworn enemy. Red Hugh had invaded his home and torched the best part of Connaught. He ’d stolen the MacWilliamship and thrown Tibbot in jail. But worse, he had disrespected him. Ignored him. That was intolerable. Unforgivable.

And then there was the true friendship he ’d found with Conyers Clifford. Here was a man who understood Tibbot’s place in Irish politics.

Honored him. Fought for him in the highest places—the Irish Privy Council, even with the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. And Miles was receiving the finest education a man could desire for his son.

Tibbot had begun to worry about Clifford yesterday evening. He should have sent word by yesterday morning at the latest. So large an army as he led would have had no trouble lifting the siege at Collooney.

Perhaps Red Hugh had learned of the attack and fortified his rebels at the castle. Tibbot had heard talk that O’Donnell had lately received the submission of Brian O’Rourke, a man known for his viciousness, in war and out of it. If they had joined forces, northern Connaught had just become a more dangerous place.

In any event, Tibbot felt stupid and helpless waiting like this, his fleet bobbing on the swells of Sligo Harbor like so many bloody corks. Sure the supplies he carried were vital to Clifford and his army, but Tibbot longed to meet O’Donnell face-to-face. He often pictured himself, his hands round Red Hugh’s neck, choking the life from him, his eyes bulging, his face turning the same color as his curly red hair. He smiled at the thought.

“There ’s a boat comin’, Tibbot.” It was his brother Murrough, who’d just now come to his side.

“Where?”

“Look starboard.”

Tibbot turned his spyglass and found a small, rowed vessel making its way from the southeast. A party of ten—no, twelve—was aboard.

“Is it your man?”

“No, Murrough, ’twould not be Clifford himself.” Tibbot found he was often annoyed with his dull-witted brother. He was a mighty warrior, but much of the time Murrough needed talking to as if he were a child. “ ’Twould be a messenger,” Tibbot explained. “But why would he send a party of men when
one
would do?” Tibbot was straining to bring the boat and its passengers into focus. The men were too far away to be recognized, and the queen’s army wore no identifying uniforms. Tibbot’s heart was suddenly pounding in his chest. Something was awry. He could feel it.

The boat was moving toward them at a rapid clip, for the tide was with them.

“They be carryin’ some crates and a barrel,” said Murrough. “Whoever it is, they look to be intent on revictualizing
us
.” He laughed as if he ’d made a clever jest.

A moment later Tibbot could see their faces. “Damn!” He turned to his brother, unable to hide his desperation. “It’s Red Hugh.”

“Whoa! What’s he doin’ here?”

Tibbot’s mind was racing, like a fire in a cornfield, spreading in all directions at once.

“We could kill him,” Murrough offered. “There ’s only twelve of ’em.”

“No. We ’ll hear what he has to say.”

“I thought you wanted him dead.”

“Shut up, Murrough. I have to think.”
By what supreme arrogance did
Red Hugh O’Donnell dare to come asking to board his vessel? What had
happened?
he wondered.
What could have happened?

It was not long before the boat came alongside. A rope ladder was lowered, and preceded by the wolfish Brian O’Rourke and five huge Gallowglass guards, Red Hugh climbed aboard. He was all swagger and smiles, as though he knew how dashing a figure he cut with his broad shoulders and the sun gleaming off his fiery hair. The rest of his men came aboard, Brian O’Rourke at his right hand and the others surrounding him on three sides. Tibbot, with Murrough at his back, moved to face O’Donnell.

“Good afternoon, Tibbot. Fine day it is.”

“I have to tell you I’m in no mood for fruitless chatter, Hugh. What is it you want?”

“Well, first of all I’d like permission to bring aboard some gifts. I’ve food—beautiful French cheese and a barrel of good wine. May I, Captain?” he said with more than necessary deference.

Tibbot strove for calm and clarity. He nodded his permission and watched as the winched net carried the crate and barrel and cloth-covered crocks up to the deck. “Can we have some privacy?” said Hugh, still demonstrating the greatest courtesy.

While suspicious, Tibbot could sense no immediate danger. “Come on then,” he said, and led Red Hugh and Brian O’Rourke below, to his cabin. One crate, the wine and a crock of cheese, was delivered inside.

Murrough was the last in and stood like a sentry at the door. Tibbot could see feral scowls passing between his brother and O’Rourke, guardians of their respective chieftains.

“All right then, Hugh. You have your privacy,” said Tibbot. Neither he nor O’Donnell had taken seats at the table, just stood, hands on their chair backs. “Now tell me why you’re here with your false smiles and your unwanted gifts.”

“Tibbot,” Red Hugh said gently and put out a supplicating hand. “I know you’d like to kill me where I stand, but for the love of God, man, we should be fighting on the same side!” Tibbot bristled, but his indignation was nonetheless tempered by the whole truth of what O’Donnell was saying.
He was Grace O’Malley’s son
and he was serving the bloody English invaders. Surely that was wrong.

Then, unbidden, a vision of the foul prison in Ulster and his offhanded release into the December blizzard stung him, and he felt bitterness rising like bile in his throat.

“I don’t need your wine and your French cheese, Hugh. Just tell me what’s happened, for I know something has, or you’d not be coming here to curry my favor.”

O’Donnell withdrew his hand, and his friendly expression hardened into something more sinister. “I do have news, as a matter of fact. Collooney Castle is still in my possession.” Tibbot held his own expression steady, not wishing to advertise his alarm.

“I’ve also received the submission of your kinsmen, O’Connor and Donal Sligo.”

It was becoming difficult for Tibbot to retain any semblance of calm. “I don’t believe that,” he said. “They’re altogether loyal to the Crown.”

“I admit, ’twas a reluctant submission, but nonetheless, they’ve committed to O’Neill and me for the moment.” Dread was growing inside Tibbot’s head. “How did this submission come about?” he said.

“Well, you see, Governor Clifford was on his way with a large army to lift the siege at Collooney . . . but of course
you
know that, Tibbot.” He smiled almost pleasantly. “I sent Brian there—you know, Brian O’Rourke—with oh, say, two hundred men, and they met up with Clifford and his miserable army of English cowards in the Curlew Pass, and as they were running away, he slaughtered them. Didn’t you, Brian?”

“Aye,” he said, snarling. “Those we didn’t kill took shelter in the abbey of Boyle. They’re still there, lickin’ their wounds.”

“So of course the English never arrived at Collooney to lift the siege, and that’s how we convinced O’Connor Sligo that he should fight on our side.”

Tibbot was trembling with the shock of the news.
Could it be true?

“I just don’t know what it will take to prove to the English that we ’re not giving Ireland up to them.” Hugh’s tone was still mild. “It’s them that will straggle home in defeat, not us.” Tibbot finally found his voice. “What of Conyers Clifford? Where is he now?”

“Your friend the governor?” Hugh signaled to O’Rourke and the henchman hefted the cheese crock onto the table between them. “Why, he ’s right here!” Hugh whipped the oilcloth cover from the tub.

It took the barest moment for Tibbot to recognize Conyers Clifford’s head within it, his fair curls clotted with gore, the glazed eyes open and staring into Hell. A groan escaped Tibbot’s mouth and he clutched the back of his chair to steady his shaking knees.
He must hold firm, push
down the wave of nausea threatening to shame him in front of his enemy.

Red Hugh was altogether at his ease. He sat down at the table then, ignoring the ghastly artifact before him. “Come then,” he said, paying no attention to Tibbot’s outrage, “we ’ll drink to Ireland’s victory over England,” as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He signaled again to Brian O’Rouke, who began pounding a spigot into the wine barrel, then turned back to his childhood friend, who was silent and still, clearly fighting to regain his composure. O’Donnell raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Will you not drink with me?” Tibbot’s mind was like a ship floundering in a sudden squall, his thoughts like fearsome waves crashing in upon it from every direction.

“Will you not drink with me?” Hugh demanded.
“For Ireland?”
Now the words were a clear threat.

“We ’ll drink with you!”

Tibbot was wrenched from the grip of paralysis by the sound of his brother’s voice. He turned to see Murrough wearing a satisfied look on his stupid face. What had possessed him to speak with such authority on Tibbot’s ship? But the damage—with those four words uttered—had irrevocably been done.
“We’ll drink with you.”
He could not very well refuse Red Hugh now. The resignation must have been all too apparent on Tibbot ’s face.

“Good, good! Pour the wine, Brian. Sit down, Tibbot.” Hugh lifted the loathsome crock from the table and without a second thought placed it behind him on the floor. “Come, we need to talk about your cargo. I’ve thought of taking it from you, using it myself. But perhaps ’twould be best if you hauled it back to Galway. Let the English think you’re still loyal to them.”