Fugitives! (6 page)

‘Uncle, the swords!’

‘I see them,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Don’t worry, they won’t kill each other.’

‘But they’re sharp! Do something!’ She grabbed his hand, prepared to bite him to get some action. He stooped as if to say something, but at that moment there was a clash of swords and he straightened and shouted out, ‘Come on, James! Come on, Fion! Close up, close up – get tore in there, lads.’

This time she did bite him. ‘Stop them. Oh, stop them.’

He put an arm around her shoulders, but yet he seemed to be intent on the fight, like those horrid soldiers watching a cock fight. Without taking his eyes off the boys, he said to her, ‘Watch the dust fly! It’ll do them good.’

If the boys were surprised to hear his voice, they didn’t show it. He, after all, was the very reason for their fight. With a zing of steel on steel, they closed. Sinéad watched a bright spark, struck from one of their blades, hang for a second above their heads as they reeled back from their clash. Then they went at each other like demons, cutting, thrusting and parrying. Now they were circling each other again, each looking for a way past the other’s guard. No smiling, no
courtly bows, just intense concentration. A strike above! A strike below! Both parried, then, with a grunt, they closed in, chest to chest, their swords crossed above their heads, the muscles on their necks standing out like cords. Sinéad could see Fion blinking as the salt sweat streamed into his eyes. She knew enough to know that the first to break would be wide open to a cut from the other.
Dear God
, she prayed,
please don’t let either of them be hurt or killed
.

Uncle Hugh watched intently. ‘Look,’ he whispered, ‘watch Fion’s blade. James is trying to get it into the notch on his sword – if he does, he’ll disarm him.’ Sinéad felt as if her eyes were welded to those two crossed blades. Despite his efforts to hold it back, Fion’s blade was being forced inexorably closer and closer to the hilt of James’s sword. There – she heard it! A click! James gave a mighty wrench – and Fion’s blade was flying through the air, broken off at the hilt. The boys reeled apart. Fion, smiling, looked ruefully at his broken hilt.

Sinéad let out a whoop of sheer relief. Now, surely, the quarrel was over. She looked up at Uncle Hugh and was taken aback to see a look of thunder on his face.

‘Well, don’t just stand there, James,’ he roared. ‘You have disarmed your man. This is not war – give him the victor’s touch. Your quarrel is over, boys. We don’t want bad blood remaining between you.’ Sinéad remembered this ritual at games, how the winner would touch the shoulder of the loser with his sword, confirming that he had won, but also as a sign of honour and respect that told the world the quarrel was over. Sometimes they would even embrace.

Fion was waiting. James, however, was breathing heavily, as if
struggling with indecision. Then, without acknowledging Fion in any way, he threw his sword into the dust of the exercise yard and shouted, ‘That was no fight! Keep your toys!’ – and he walked away.

Sinéad watched Fion’s face drain of blood. She ran a few steps forward, trying to fill the gap between them, her arms out. But the damage was done. Fion also turned to leave, but in the opposite direction to James. Mystified by what James had said about toys, she walked over, carefully picked up his sword and felt its edge. It was as blunt as a piece of wood – it was only a practice sword. So the Master at Arms had refused them their sharpened blades. She turned to Uncle Hugh. ‘You knew!’ she accused.

‘Yes,’ he said, spreading his hands. ‘I knew the moment we walked in. I let them at it because I thought it would be the end of their quarrel, but now I’m not so sure. There is more to this spat than meets the eye.’ He frowned deeply. ‘You told me about their quarrel, Sinéad. It seems to run very deep. Is it possible that there’s a rotten apple here in the castle, someone who has been whispering in your brother’s ear?’ She shook her head, wrinkling her nose involuntarily. He laughed. ‘Rotten apples don’t always smell, you know.’

‘I can’t think of anyone, Uncle,’ she said.

He nodded slowly and said, more to himself than to her, ‘It could be a sign.’

‘A sign?’ she questioned.

Uncle Hugh looked at her and smiled, but it was a smile that had more sadness than gaiety in it. He touched her cheek, and said, ‘A sign that your old Uncle Hugh should go somewhere and think.’

He turned and she watched him walk away, suddenly an old man
carrying something heavy on his back.

CHAPTER 6

Things Falling Apart

inéad stood bewildered, alone and deserted in the exercise yard. She took a few steps after James but hesitated; then she turned to follow Fion, but faltered again. This was a boy’s quarrel.
But why was Uncle Hugh so upset when they wouldn’t make it up?
She made peace with the cobbler whose bucket she had knocked over, but being good didn’t make her feel any better. There were chores to be done, but Uncle Hugh remained in her mind, his broken look, his hunched walk. Eventually she said to herself,
I’ll find him, and I’ll find out!

Dodging places like the kitchen and laundry, where Mother might be directing affairs, she slipped into the castle and hurried up the spiral stairs. There was no one in the guest room.
Where’s he hiding?
she wondered.
Try the battlements
. She went back to the stairs and followed the spiral up to the roof.

When she stepped out into the bright sunshine of the castle top she looked around. In front of her the slated roof stretched the width of the castle, like an up-turned boat. The slates sloped down
on each side to a narrow walkway which ran right around inside the battlement, a low wall over which soldiers could shoot arrows or even fire muskets down on invaders below. Every few feet, the wall was built up high to make a shelter behind which the defenders could hide from the enemy. She was considering climbing to the turret where the watchman would be standing when she saw, half-concealed by a battlement, the familiar figure of Uncle Hugh leaning on his elbows staring out over the fields and forest below. She couldn’t see his face for the gorse-bush fuzz of his beard and hair. At another time she would have tiptoed towards him and pounced on him, or pretended to push him over from behind, but now something held her back. The broad shoulders were shaking as if he was laughing; it was then that she heard a sound – a small, deep sound that made her want to back away:
Surely Uncle Hugh can’t be crying?
She turned to go, but in doing so she clicked one of the slates on the roof, and heard his voice, as thick as leaves on a forest floor.

‘Don’t go, child, I know you’re there.’ He took out an enormous handkerchief, buried his face in it, and blew loudly. ‘Come, there’s room for you beside me.’ And he moved over to make room for her between the battlements. She came and rested her elbows on the warm stone and looked down on the familiar scene below. This was where she had learned to imagine herself flying like Saoirse. She looked at Uncle Hugh and followed his gaze out to the place they called the ‘gathering ground’. It had been one mass of men that dreadful day a few years ago when they had gathered to head for Kinsale where the Spanish had landed to help them fight the English. Black and gold, saffron cloaks and kilts swaying like daffodils in a merry dance. The de Cashel soldiers mixed in with the
Gaelic tribes. Beside them the awesome Gallowglasses – warriors for hire – huge men with long hair and body-long battleaxes.

‘They have all sworn to die rather than surrender,’ Fion had said in awe.

Then came the cavalry, with mail coats and flashing breastplates of steel.

‘Our cavalry are better than yours,’ James had boasted to Fion. ‘We have stirrups for our feet. Your lot just fall off in a charge.’

There’d been a brisk scuffle.

The bulk of the army was made up of kerns, foot soldiers with swords, and spears that they could throw to split a wand at twenty paces. But most exciting of all for the boys were the troops of musketeers. Sinéad remembered clasping her ears as they fired off a volley to clear their barrels.

Uncle Hugh turned to look at her now. ‘Do you remember them, all those men – those brave men, Sinéad?’ She nodded. ‘Well, that winter I took them off to war. I walked them the length of Ireland like heroes, through rain and frost, all the way down to Kinsale. We had the English trapped, and if we’d had patience we could have starved them out in a few days – they had no food, you see. But Red Hugh said, “Attack them!”’ He sighed. ‘I loved young Red Hugh O’Donnell like a son, and I gave in to him. In two hours we had lost the battle and half the brave lads that you saw down there were dead. Isn’t it right that I should weep for them?’ Sinéad pressed close to him, and he put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Now we’re back to our bad old ways, fighting each other while the English stir the pot. Divide and rule. And we fall for it every time.’ He sighed. ‘Seeing the boys fighting just now brought it all back to
me. I let them fight as a way to make up their quarrel, but it didn’t work. Perhaps the old ways don’t mean anything any more? Perhaps there is more to their quarrel than meets the eye?’ He turned and looked into the distance. ‘They’re good lads, Sinéad, you must find out what’s between them. Remember Sinéad of the Even Hand?’ He chuckled. Then, clapping his hand to his forehead, he said, ‘Damn me! I nearly forgot; I’ve left a small gift for you with your mother. I hope it fits.’

‘Fits?’ wondered Sinéad.

‘Holy Mother of God! Sinéad! Where
have
you been? And
look
at the state of you, burned by the sun, your complexion ruined.’ Her mother held out her hands in despair. ‘And just when Uncle Hugh has brought you a present from Aunt Catherine.’

‘Oh, what is it?’ exclaimed Sinéad.

‘It’s a dress for a young lady, not that you’ll ever be one at this rate!’

‘Oh show, show me!’

‘No indeed, not till you’ve washed. If your father was himself he’d beat your backside for looking as wild as you do.’

Sinéad skipped off.
A dress from Aunt Catherine!
she thought happily. When she came back, the dress had been laid out for her by the dressmaker. She stood dumfounded, her mouth open. Mother was right; no child’s frock this, but a real dress for a lady!

‘Mother, it’s beeeauuutiful!’
What is that colour? The colour of heather in bloom
, she decided. ‘And look – oh Mother, look! There
are tiny flowers embroidered inside the pleats.’ Tomboy that she was, Sinéad loved to dress up; people had even said she was pretty. Apart from her reflection in puddles, she’d only seen little bits of herself at a time reflected in her mother’s tiny silver hand-mirror. In no time, she was standing on a stool while the dressmaker adjusted the length of the skirt. She gazed down, watching the colour on the silk change as the dressmaker tweaked and adjusted its folds. She ran her fingers between the pleats to feel the wonderful smoothness of the silk and slight roughness of the embroidery.

‘This will last you well,’ said Mother with satisfaction, as the dressmaker put a tuck into the bodice, which was close-fitting with long sleeves. At the shoulders were two little lace ruffs, with a larger ruff, like a small wheel, about her neck; it tickled her chin as she looked down.
It would be fun to look like a lady
. She chuckled as she remembered how Uncle Hugh had swept her up and carried her across the room. They all knew the story of how, years ago, he’d eloped with Mabel Bagenal; then poor, pretty Mabel had died – it seemed a shame.
Oh but it would be fun to elope
…

‘Will you stand still, miss? How can I get your length if you twist about so?’ grumbled the dressmaker.

When the dressmaker went off to sew the new hem, Sinéad, in clean day-clothes, made for the door. She had remembered that she’d abandoned Saoirse down at the butts, but her mother saw her heading off.

‘Oh no you don’t, young miss! I want rosemary and thyme from
the garden, and you’re the only one who knows thyme from a turnip around here.’ Sinéad sighed, but it was a pleasant assignment.

When she’d picked her two bouquets of herbs she walked back through the orchard to see if the apples were ripening, but they were still green. She picked up a windfall; it looked perfect, apart from a tiny round hole. No rotten apple here, but it made her think of Uncle Hugh.
Surely there are no rotten apples in the castle?
She imagined a cloak-and-dagger figure.
Where would he hide, for a start? We know everyone here
. She dropped the apple into her apron pocket, delivered her bouquets of herbs without being caught again, and set off for the butts.
I bet the boys have forgotten the falcons; perhaps they’ve made up their quarrel
.

When Sinéad arrived at the butts, she had a moment of panic. Saoirse was missing! But then, so too was Fion’s Granuaile.
I know … Fion’s come, rescued Granuaile, and out of kindness Saoirse, but he’s left James’s falcon for him to retrieve himself
. She sighed.
No sign of peace here
. Her gauntlet was lying on the ground, so she put it on and coaxed James’s fierce female onto her wrist.

The falconry was a lean-to building against the castle wall. It was open to one side but had a loft above it, where the falconer kept all the gear he required for training and hunting the birds of prey. Under the loft, sheltered from rain and snow, stakes had been driven into the ground to make perches on which the birds were lightly chained. At night they would be carried back and put in the individual cages that hung on the wall. Dr Fenton had given the
children a rhyme to learn in English: