Devil's Island, page 27
But then, something changed. Voices in the distance. Friend or foe? Francisco did not know. The voices grew clearer and more distinct, mingled with an overwhelming surge of energy coursing through his body. Did he need to run? Did he have the power to defend himself? He pushed himself up from the ground with all his might, only to collapse back down in defeat. But determination fuelled him as he lifted himself once more, this time managing to raise his head off the ground. Then, he heard those voices speaking Spanish. They spoke Spanish! Relief washed over him as he realised he was no longer alone in this foreign land. A curious face peered down at him from below a morion helmet before everything went black again.
As Francisco opened his eyes, he first noticed the thick thatch above him. The sturdy construction of the roof could be felt in the heat radiating off it. He focused on moving his fingers, feeling the coarse texture of the blanket beneath him and its tightly woven edges. With great effort, he slowly raised his head to see a guard with a shining morion helmet rising from his seat nearby. The metal glinted in the sunlight, casting shadows on the surrounding walls.
“Tell the captain he is awake.”
Francisco strained to lift his head, but the weight of exhaustion pulled him back down. He could hear a flurry of voices around him, their words blending like a symphony of chirping birds. Amongst the noise, he was grateful for the familiar sound of Spanish, like a soothing melody in the chaos.
As the captain strode into the room, his authoritative presence gripped all. He motioned for the guard to vacate his seat, and with a screech, the chair was dragged across the rough floor. With great effort, he placed it in front of Francisco so that their eyes could meet, though Francisco’s head barely lifted to acknowledge him.
“Who are you?” said the captain. “How do we know you are not an English spy?”
Francisco smiled at the roof.
“You do not know my joy to be surrounded by Spanish voices.”
The captain leaned forward.
“I cannot vouch for the truth in that, but even English spies are capable of flattery. Why should we nurse you back to health when you could be a spy?”
“Please tell me where I am, for my answer is long and it could aid in the storytelling.”
“This is the Netherlands, the Spanish Netherlands.”
Francisco raised his head and struck his pillow. It was not home, but it was definitely a sanctuary on the way home.
“I set sail from Edinburgh on a merchant ship. Are the crew here? Did anyone else survive?”
“Roberto?” the captain said to the guard at the door.
“A few survived, captain, but most washed up on shore dead.”
The captain turned to Francisco.
“You are the only one alive and awake to tell the tale. And to top it all off, you speak Spanish. Can you see why we would be suspicious of you?”
“I can understand your caution. Does the war still continue?”
“The war with the English? It drags on, and we are in a stalemate. They bombard us now with their spies. Hence our suspicion of a Spanish speaker being shipwrecked and coming from the direction of the English sea.”
“I have a letter of passage signed by the Spanish ambassador to the king of Scotland. He can vouch for me.”
“Alas, we found nothing in your pockets. You had no bag that washed up beside you, and the ship sank to the bottom of the sea. We only have your word and do not know if you are good for it.”
“I am a survivor of the Armada. I had to hide out in Ireland for a couple of years and then went to Scotland to help the Irish chieftain who protected me hire mercenaries to return to Ireland to retake his lands. Unfortunately, he was given up by traitors, and I fled under the protection of the ambassador. I got caught in a storm and ended up here.”
“That sounds like a story I would like to hear in full one day, but were you that traitor who gave the Irish rebel up?”
“No.”
Francisco tried to hide the insult he felt, but he barely had the strength to talk, let alone hide his feelings.
“That man was my friend, and it broke my heart when I could not stay and defend him.”
“Then you must give us something to persuade us that you are not a spy.”
Francisco remembered the letter that should have gone from the ambassador back to Spain to plead the case for the annulment of his previous conviction. He had to pray it had arrived.
“I am Francisco Butero, the captain of the San Pedro, who took part in the Armada and sank off the coast of Ireland. My name should be in the king’s records. I can give you any evidence you wish to support that.”
The captain smiled and then rose to leave.
“Then I salute you, captain, and will believe you until we receive an answer from the king’s clerks. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the hospitality of the Spanish army.”
“Thank you. I am just glad to be here.”
Chapter 50
Reacquaintance with chains
Francisco lay in the army field hospital for what seemed like an eternity, slowly recovering from his injuries. The guards addressed him as Captain Butero, a title that stroked his ego and reminded him of his role in the navy. The doctors tended to the severe gash on his head, marvelling at how lucky he was to have survived such a wound. They told him he had lost a considerable amount of blood while floating unconscious in the water.
For the first week, Francisco could barely move, confined to his bed as he healed. But gradually, with the help of the guard, he began to walk around the tent until he could do so on his own by the end of the second week. As several months went by, he regained strength and mobility. He spent more time outside with the guards, joining in their laughter and lively conversations. With each passing day, Francisco’s tales of his adventures in Ireland became more animated, his voice growing stronger with each retelling.
Basking in the warm glow of the blue Dutch skies, Francisco sat outside on a wooden bench. The sun’s rays beat down on his skin, causing him to shield his eyes from the harsh light. He watched as the captain returned with two guards trailing behind him, their shadows looming over Francisco’s seated form. The captain’s powerful presence blocked the sun, creating a darkened spot in Francisco’s vision. Francisco squinted against the brightness, trying to make out the captain’s expression as he towered above him.
“Good morning, Captain Butero. I hope you have been enjoying the hospitality of the Spanish army?”
Francisco smiled.
“Your men have been very good company, and the food wasn’t that bad either.”
The captain grimaced.
“I have some good news and some bad news.”
Francisco sighed.
“Well, it makes a change from my life being just bad news. Please continue.”
“The good news is that you will return to Spain on the next tide.”
Francisco sat up and smiled.
“So soon? What bad news could possibly follow that?”
The captain gulped, for he had become friendly with Francisco and cringed at the thought of giving him such bad news.
“You were sentenced to hang by the leader of the Armada. You are to return to Spain for trial, with the sentence to be carried out if you are found guilty.”
Francisco fell off the back of the bench, choking on his words. He had to be helped back into a seated position.
“But what about all I have done for the king? The Spanish ambassador sent the king a letter to plead for him to reconsider.”
The captain was not for moving.
“Save that for the court. Men, seize him.”
The guards restrained the once-proud Francisco and clamped heavy iron shackles around his wrists and ankles. His skin was now pale and bruised, his eyes sunken and distant. He was thrown in with the other prisoners into a cart cage, all headed towards the same fate across the seas to Spain. The stench of sweat and fear overwhelmed Francisco’s battered senses, only broken by the occasional moan or cry of despair from those trapped in the cramped confines of the cart cage. Francisco closed his eyes. He thought of his family, he thought of Pedro, he thought of God. Surely one of them would intervene to save him?
Francisco was roughly bundled onto another ship, its wooden deck slick with seawater and salt spray. The smell of fish and sweat lingered in the air as he was thrown into the dark, dank jail below deck. The rough waves rocked the ship back and forth, tossing him around like a rag doll. Despite his restraints, he could feel his stomach churning and threatening to heave.
Francisco drifted towards Spain and his impending doom on a sea of pain. The manacles chaffed, his muscles cramped up, and the howls of his fellow prisoners reverberated in his ears. The images of his time in the cell of the admiral’s ship came flooding back, along with the memories of the jailer trying to torment him. He took to his knees to pray, but his knees were no longer the same, and soon he had to sit, for the pain was too much to bear. He tried to settle himself down by counting the time it took to travel to Spain, for he knew the journey from the Netherlands well. But trauma seeped through every crack as the waters did when the admiral’s ship struck rocks and broke in two off the coast of Ireland. He tried to think of his family, but they became a distant, unreachable memory. He tried to sleep, but that was when the trauma found his mind at its most defenceless. He took to prayer. His words were hollow, but the exercise distracted his mind enough for him to pass the time.
Francisco had lost track of the days when the ship finally juddered to a halt. Francisco was dragged from his slumber and shoved onto the ship’s deck. He shielded his eyes from the bright sunlight and stumbled off the ship, looking every bit the condemned man that he was. Slowly, his vision cleared, and he took in the skyline of the bustling port, his eyes tracing familiar landmarks that he had sketched countless times in his mind.
“I return to Bilbao, a destitute criminal. What if my family have come down to greet me?”
Tears blurred his vision, a thick haze of self-pity clouding his thoughts. He had endured so much and should have been welcomed home as a hero, but now he had to endure this. In the distance, he saw faint shadows moving in the harsh sunlight, their identities shrouded by its brightness. Fear gripped him as he anticipated the arrival of his family, hoping they wouldn’t see him in chains and view him as a failure. But no one came except for more guards, their armour glinting in the unforgiving light.
“Am I to stay in Bilbao? Can I see my family?” he said to the guards.
They marched him across the pier and threw him into a covered prison wagon. His hands scraped on the uneven wooden floor. He looked puzzled at his captors as they locked the cell door.
“It’s Madrid for you. The king wants to see you.”
Francisco’s heart leapt. The king wished to see him. Maybe it was for his wise counsel? He looked at his filthy, bloody hands and his sleeves that had turned to rags. There could be only one outcome.
Chapter 51
A tangled web
From the slit of a small window, the O’Rourke peered down at the mighty river Thames. The bustling city sprawled before him, its grandeur and chaos a stark contrast to the quiet countryside he was used to. Below, the docks were alive with activity. Ships of all shapes and sizes sailed leisurely up the river, carrying precious goods and hardworking fishermen. Women scrubbed clothes and other items along the shore in the cool water. As he looked out at this scene, the O’Rourke let out a heavy sigh that seemed to weigh down his entire body. His hand trembled as he brought it up to rub the bridge of his nose, lost in thoughts of his uncertain future.
A dull thud echoed through the stone walls as a knock came on the heavy wooden door. The sound was sharp and insistent, like a warning. He was allowed out of his dark, cramped cell to meet with potential legal counsel for the first time since his trial date had been set. These lawyers would be paid anonymously by his few supporters within the exiled Irish community in London who could afford their services. It had taken them a long time to persuade the O’Rourke to accept their help and legal representation as he had proved very mistrustful. As the door opened, a young assistant hurried in, his footsteps echoing off the cold, damp floor.
“I am here to present you with a selection of clothes you may wish to wear for your trial. Shall I usher the servants in and have them lay the clothes on your bed?”
“Will the queen be at my trial?”
The boy looked confused and irritated at being delayed in completing his task.
“I have no idea, lord. Shall I lay your clothes on your bed?”
“I need to know who I am supposed to impress before I pick my clothes?”
“I know nothing of trials or who will be in attendance besides yourself. I only know about clothes. May I lay them on the bed?”
“If you must. And tell my legal counsel to hurry up if you see him.”
“I think he is already here, lord. Shall I send him up?”
“Yes, yes, and don’t dilly-dally about it either.”
The boy left, and the O’Rourke was left to stare at what was left behind on the bed. He was at least allowed the dignity of selecting his own clothes.
A sharp knock jolted the door, followed by the entrance of a tall, skinny man. His long nose and pointed chin were accentuated by a neatly trimmed beard that matched the colour of his dark, bushy eyebrows. He entered the room with a stack of leather-bound notebooks tucked tightly under his arm, his posture rigid and proper as if he were carrying something of utmost importance.
“And who may you be?”
The man put down his books and stuck out his hand.
“Ardgal MacAodhgáin of the Brehon family, the MacAodhgáins. I’m from the Munster branch of the family and used extensively by the Irish merchants for they place little trust in the locals.”
“Then I have something in common with your previous employers. Sit and let us talk, for we have little time to prepare.”
Ardgal perched on the end of the chair with his notebook resting in his lap.
“What do they mean to do to me?” said the O’Rourke. “Do they really mean to put me on trial? Surely this is some cruel jest designed to insult me?”
Ardgal paused as he calculated how much O’Rourke knew about his predicament. Out of politeness, he decided upon very little and would use this basis to steer his explanation.
“They mean to try you for treason and to hang you if they find you guilty.”
The O’Rourke laughed.
“It is no joke,” said Ardgal who did not even twitch as the O’Rourke laughed.
“Well, how can they do that? I am a foreigner. How can I be a traitor in a land that is not my own?”
“They will pose some complicated legal arguments to state why their court is the correct venue to try you in. If you could restrain yourself in these sections and let me pose my legal arguments, I will see if, at the very least, they would deport you to stand trial in Ireland.”
“Oh, I would so much prefer an Irish rope to squeeze the life out of me than an English one.”
Ardgal frowned.
“Try to be respectful in the court. They have your life in their hands.”
The O’Rourke held Ardgal firmly in his gaze.
“I have been fighting with the English with my words and my fists since the day I was born, and you will not stop me now.”
Ardgal reeled back and shook his head.
“You will get plenty of opportunity to defend yourself, but please let me lead. If you go in there angry, flailing insults, then they will skip the parts where you will get to defend yourself and move straight to sentencing.”
The O'Rourke growled and raised his nose in the air.
“I expect any English court to be rigged, for that is the only way they can get me.”
“Well then, you look at me as the man to get you a fair trial, and once I have created that platform upon which you can speak, then you can go out and express yourself as the O’Rourke.”
The O’Rourke offered his hand to Ardgal.
“That is the most sensible thing you have said all day.”
Chapter 52
The substance of several treasons
The notorious O’Rourke was brought to the court by a formidable wall of armed guards. Their weapons glinted in the torchlight, poised and ready for any sign of trouble. As he was led to his seat at the front of the court, all eyes were on him and whispers rippled through the crowd at the sight of the savage from Ireland. Behind him, his escort stood tall and vigilant, prepared to absorb and annihilate any potential threat.
News had spread throughout London of the barbarous Irish warlord who was being put on trial for mercilessly slaughtering English soldiers and other heinous crimes. The galleries behind the O’Rourke slowly filled up with a mix of fascination and morbid curiosity. Whispered conversations and malicious rumours swirled through the crowds as they eagerly awaited the start of the trial.
It seemed someone had taken it upon themselves to spread even more venomous lies about the O’Rourke’s actions, inciting a mob from the docks and slums of London to demand his execution. The mob had marched its way from the docks and, on the way to the trial, attacked any known Irish street seller, shopkeeper, or merchant they found. The street outside the court reeked with the stench of rotting fruit confiscated at the door and carelessly thrown onto the streets and alleys.
