Devil's Island, page 16
As the sun rose the next day, they set off for Tirconnell. They were grateful for the horses that Arthur had provided, but the soft and muddy ground made it difficult to push them too hard for fear of injury. A restless night and their meagre rations from the Maguire being already consumed heightened the tension between the travellers. Their various resentments grated in their tired and hungry state, and Francisco had almost too many to count.
Desmond finally called for a break, signalling for them to dismount and take a well-deserved rest on a nearby hill overlooking Donegal town. The cool breeze and peaceful view provided a brief respite from their journey thus far.
“Don’t get comfortable,” said Desmond. “The horses need a rest, and their day’s work has barely started.”
Brendan’s stomach grumbled loudly, prompting him to scour the surrounding area for signs of sustenance. Meanwhile, the O’Rourke excused himself to find a private spot to relieve himself. Francisco lingered awkwardly in front of Desmond, trying to suppress his swelling anger as he remembered when he first met him. Desmond squinted as he tried to figure out why Francisco looked at him so.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” said Desmond. “For you sure seem to know me.”
Anger pulsated through Francisco’s veins. How many of his men was Desmond responsible for killing or enslaving, and he could not even show him the respect of remembering who he was?
“The beach. The beach where the Spanish galleon ran ashore, and you made prisoners of its men. Do you remember me from the beach?” Francisco’s voice was taut.
Desmond squinted even harder.
“Whoever you are, you look far better than when you came upon that shore. If you have not realised it already, you have something to be grateful to the O’Rourke for.”
“I have already paid a heavy price for life, but I wonder if I was luckier than my men who came ashore that day?” Francisco snarled back at him.
Desmond stroked his beard to mask his cringe and looked the other way.
“We certainly didn’t cover ourselves in glory in those days after the Armada landings. Many of your fellow countrymen died, some came to gainful employment with the Irish chieftains and some even set out back to Spain, but God only knows how many made it back. But you should count your blessings the O’Rourke took you in. Many men talk big but have weak hearts. Be grateful for what you’ve got.”
Francisco gritted his teeth, feeling the sharp edges of each one as he bared them in a feral snarl. With fists clenched so tightly, his knuckles turned white, he lunged towards Desmond, ready to pummel him into submission. Desmond stepped back and placed his hand on his belt where Francisco could see its vicinity to his knife. Francisco stopped in his tracks, his cheeks flushed.
“What did you do with those men you brought back from the beach? I escaped, but did you kill my comrades to get your revenge?”
Francisco raised his fists and took another step forward. The tip of a sword danced before Francisco’s face. He stopped mid-stride.
“Easy there, fella,” said Brendan. “There are things we should all be angry about but things we should be grateful about too. Desmond here is going to get us to Tirconnell, where we’ll be safe. Then all debts will be repaid and be in the past. Isn’t that right, Desmond?”
Desmond nodded, his face sheer granite.
“I am a great respecter of your nation and your king, Francisco. If you don’t understand yet what I did and why, then you have not stood enough in the murky waters of the Irish clans. Tirconnell will be enlightening for you.”
The O’Rourke returned, felt the tension and stood between Francisco and Desmond.
“I didn’t know my bladder was that big to have missed so much. Why have you turned on each other when you have no shortage of foes to fight?”
Francisco pushed Brendan’s blade away.
“For the sake of my freedom, seeing my family once again and Señor O’Rourke, I have no quarrel with you, Desmond,” Francisco said through gritted teeth, “for I am in your hands and can only hope my trust in you is well placed so I might live. I promise not to kill you in your sleep, and may God strike me down if I do. The journey makes me irritable, and I long to finish it. Let us make haste to our next destination and hope we are received better than at Enniskillen.”
“Well, Desmond?” said the O’Rourke with a raised eyebrow. “Surely you can rest easy now? May we let bygones be bygones?”
Desmond pulled down on his coat as if that would rid him of the built-up tension.
“It has been forgotten already,” and Desmond nodded to Francisco.
“So our journey together continues,” the O’Rourke said, “What of our reception in Tirconnell? Can I easily hire Redshanks there?”
“The mood in Tirconnell can best be described as incendiary,” said Desmond. “They are having one of their many wars of succession. But if we can avoid getting killed or captured, it is the best place in Ireland to hire the Scottish mercenaries you crave to drive the English out of West Breifne.”
“Then let us leave our differences here and carry on,” said the O’Rourke.
They all nodded, mounted their horses and followed Desmond.
Chapter 30
The pawn
The group set off at a brisk pace with the wind in their faces, their horses’ hooves thundering against the rocky ground as they headed north. The landscape around them was rugged and untamed, with rolling hills and scattered patches of thick forests. Francisco could barely keep his eyes on the way ahead, for the sustained pressure of the cold wind on his face made unwanted memories of the islands around Scotland and the cold hell of the depths of the storms tumble back into his head. The rolling up and down the hills and the pounding of the hooves did little to relieve Francisco of his daymare.
Desmond kept a watchful eye behind them, knowing they were likely being followed. They avoided other travellers or groups of horsemen, not wanting to risk any unwanted encounters. As they approached Donegal town, Desmond’s heart began to race. The O’Donnell patrols could be seen in the distance, their flags waving proudly in the wind. Without warning, a group of horsemen surrounded them, causing Desmond to tense up. He quickly realised these were not friendly faces. He knew none of them. Desmond motioned for the others to stay quiet and let him handle the situation. His mind raced as he tried to devise a plan for getting out of this potentially dangerous encounter unscathed. He rode to the rider he thought was the leader. He gave his most confident smile as if he was meant to be there.
“Is Donnell O’Donnell still the O’Donnell here? I lose count of who’s in charge in the inter-clan bloodbath,” he said.
“Aye, it may be a mouthful, but that he is,” said the riders' leader.
“Well, tell him it is Desmond MacCabe and I am on a very important mission for his ally, Hugh Maguire.”
“I hope for your sake he has time for your important mission, for he has an important mission of his own.”
Desmond paused, for he did not know if the man was trying to trick him. He hoped he was the only one who could hear his heart thump in his chest.
“What’s that?” Desmond croaked, his mouth suddenly gone dry.
“To crush the rebels of Ineen Dubh.”
Desmond’s heart began to slow, and his shoulders dropped.
“Well, don’t let us stop you from killing each other. All we’re here for are the Scottish mercenaries.”
“You should be so lucky. Maybe you’ll get your pick from who’s left standing after the civil war.”
Desmond paused, then tried to move the conversation along.
“May we pass? I am here on urgent business from the Maguire.”
The lead rider scrutinized them.
“You’ll find the O’Donnell in the boundaries of the castle. Be warned, he’ll have scant time for you if this is all the men you have brought.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll make the conversation worth his while. Now, good day, and may God’s blessings be upon you.”
“I’ll take your blessings, but the day will not be good yet,” said the lead rider. “I am under instructions to escort you in. Now follow me.”
As they rode up the gentle incline towards the imposing gates of Donegal Castle, the sounds of bagpipes and lively chatter filled the air. A campsite sprawled around the base of the hill, bustling with activity and resonating with the distinct cadence of Scottish accents. The scent of smoke from campfires and cooking food mingled together, warmth and song comforting the tired minds of the travellers. As they reached the crest of the hill, the grandeur of the castle came into view, its stone walls standing tall and proud against the blue sky.
To Desmond and the O’Rourke, this was no mere structure but a symbol of strength and resilience steeped in centuries of history. To Francisco, it was no more than the fortress of a bandit, one who wished to lay terror on the surrounding districts and had no more ambition than thievery and to have his ego stroked. The camp was one of beggars, angry peasants, drunkards and thieves. If he ever got back to the king of Spain, he would have to rehearse the retelling of his tales to ensure they were suitably embellished to retain his head.
Desmond smiled as he looked around the camp.
“There looks like plenty here to go around,” he told the lead rider. “I’m sure your master can spare a few.”
“Once he comes back with the head of his stepmother, then I’m sure he would be willing to share. But until then, I wouldn’t fancy your chances.”
“I’ll thank you for your opinions, informative as they were. But please, just bring me to your master and leave the diplomacy to me.”
The leader of the riders signalled to open the gate.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you. He only has eyes for the prize of becoming the O’Donnell. But I don’t think sense will stop you from trying.”
As they rode through the gates, the group dismounted their horses and took in the sight before them. The once majestic courtyard had now become an extension of the camp below, albeit for the officers of the men outside the protection of the walls. The battlements were marred with charred wood and lingering smoke, evidence of a recent attack.
Francisco cursed his luck, for it seemed he had leapt out of the fire and into a pot of boiling water. In Breifne, at least, they ran away and hid, hoping to emerge on a better day. Here, he could feel the heat of battle, as if an attack could come at any moment. But here it was, clan on clan, with the English nowhere in sight. But why would they need to be? Why risk your own lives when if you leave them alone, they will kill each other, and all you have to do is wait until they are at their weakest and seize victory?
Suddenly, a young man with long brown locks of hair came striding towards them from the tower of the castle. Despite his youthful appearance and lack of battle scars or a beard, he swaggered over as if the master of this whole endeavour.
“Greetings, strangers. You see a gift from my stepmother before you on the castle walls before she fled. She could not face me nor could bear to surrender to me what was rightfully mine. I am the O’Donnell. Are you here to offer your services as hired men?”
Desmond barely had time to breathe before the O’Rourke brushed past him to take control. The O’Rourke thought himself a master of impressing youth. He had two himself. He swelled with pride at how his two boys turned out. Alas, with a pang of regret, for one was already dead and the other in perilous circumstances.
“I am Brian O’Rourke, the greatest rebel in all of Ireland. Come and embrace me.”
The O’Rourke grabbed Donnell and embraced him. Donnell’s men went for their swords, but their master signalled for caution. He wriggled out of the O’Rourke’s embrace and stood back to take in the strangers before him.
“All sorts of rumours have ventured their way up here about you,” he said, pointing at the O’Rourke as if he were an old curiosity. “There’s a large price on your head.”
The O’Rourke winked and opened out his arms.
“See, what did I tell you? The greatest rebel in Ireland.”
Donnell smirked.
“The enormous price on your head brings bounty hunters and the attention of the crown. An unwanted distraction from fighting my cunning stepmother and something she can complain to Dublin about. Why do you come calling at my door?”
The O’Rourke, under any other circumstances, would have pulled his sword on such a disrespectful youngster, but his boasts had drawn the attention of the other men in the yard, and Donnell’s men had formed a circle around them. He pulled himself closer to Francisco and Brendan for protection.
“I am here to call on the old O’Rourke–O’Donnell alliance,” he said with an unfamiliar quiver. “Our clans used to dominate Connacht and can do so once again. All you need to do is lend me some of your Scottish mercenaries. I will retrieve my lands and return them to you with the interest of my men to assist you in the consolidation of Tirconnell. What do you say?”
Donnell eyed him up, maintaining the same smirk.
“I think you’re a beggar who’s come here with nothing to trade. You have no lands, and no men follow you except an old Galloglass, a really old Galloglass, and a Spaniard. If I were to give you my men, why would I give the lands back to you when I was the one who conquered them?”
The O’Rourke gritted his teeth.
“For you would have to use up so many men to hold those lands, it would be far more profitable for you to have an ally who is grateful to you for life than to be perpetually fighting bandits in the Breifne forests.”
“You are not making your offer sound any more appealing to me. However, if you follow me on my expedition to defeat my stepmother and prove yourself, we can discuss you getting some Scottish mercenaries.”
The O’Rourke’s jaw dropped as he composed the most diplomatic riposte possible.
“This is the only offer you will get,” continued Donnell. “Ride with us now or wait in my dungeons for the English to pay your ransom.”
The O’Rourke looked to his men, and Francisco and Brendan nodded.
“I’m too old for fighting,” said Desmond as he held up his hands. “You don’t want the inconvenience of having to haul my fat body around the Tirconnell mountains trying to find a bit of deep earth to bury me in.” He beckoned the O’Rourke forward to whispering distance. “I will see what I can arrange here. With this young fool, you will end up either dead or in prison.”
“What is it to be, O’Rourke?” said Donnell.
“Those that can fight will fight. Those that are old will stay here.”
“And which are you, old man?” said Donnell.
The O’Rourke did not dignify the question with a response but signalled to Francisco and Brendan to mount up.
Chapter 31
The devil of the cold does his damnedest
Ineen Dubh proved herself to be very illusive and refused to offer battle to Donnell O’Donnell, much to his frustration. The O’Rourke, Francisco, and Brendan were virtual prisoners as Donnell dragged them up one mountain after another, through one valley and the next, for a whole two months in pursuit of her. Finally, Donnell thought he had Ineen Dubh trapped in a valley, and he moved his army in for the kill.
Francisco and Brendan trailed behind a seemingly endless column of horsemen, making their way up the winding hills and through the verdant valleys of the lower Tirconnell mountains. The scent of damp earth and wildflowers filled the air as they rode, accompanied by the distant sound of rushing waters.
Ahead, the O’Rourke rode confidently along the narrow, winding mountain paths, eager to impress the O’Donnell with his charm and wit. The sun threw long shadows across the landscape to compensate for the biting wind stealing its heat. But the riders pressed on without hesitation.
Francisco could not help but feel a twinge of envy for the O’Rourke’s unshakable self-assurance. No matter what happened, the O’Rourke seemed to find some well inside him to dip his bucket and rejuvenate his soul. But Francisco had no such reserves for his moods, which were on the precipice of melancholy, only held back by a holey blanket meant to keep in the heat.
“This valley is the mouth of the devil of the cold,” said Francisco to Brendan, who rode beside him. "Do not tell me any of your lies that this is supposed to be summer."
Since they left West Breifne, he had not managed to touch any additional clothing except the blanket, and the valley was one long wind tunnel.
“Take me back to Spain with you if you manage to hitch a ride on a passing ship,” said Brendan. “Your lands sound like heaven compared to this windswept hell.”
Francisco gave a wiry smile.
“My plan to hitch a ride on a ship back to Spain seems to have died a death since we left Breifne. The O'Rourke lured me here on false pretences to this freezing mountain. Now, I only wish he would try to redeem himself and use what little influence he seems to have to get us some proper blankets.”
Brendan punched him in the shoulder.
“Stop complaining. You’ll soon warm up when someone belts you over the head with their axe and the blood flows down your body.”
Francisco smiled.
“Do Galloglass specialise in gallows humour, hence the name?”
Brendan laughed.
“Now you’re getting into the spirit of things. You have to laugh when your balls are getting frozen off halfway up a mountain.”
“But what I want to know is if my balls will ever get off this mountain. From what the O’Rourke said in Breifne, he would rally his allies, march back into his lands, and throw the English out. Now, we are virtually prisoners halfway up a hill to be sold to the English if our captors lose.”
“Don’t let your chin drop,” said Brendan. “That’s Irish politics for you. As soon as these young upstarts take their heads out of their arses, they’ll see what’s good for them. If they don’t unite behind the O’Rourke and defend him, then the English will come and pick them off one by one.”
