Grace O'Malley. Machray Robert

The sight of the three galleys had drawn a number of the peasants to the bank of the river, and, when I had dispelled their fears of us, I found that they were willing enough to talk. Howbeit, they could tell us nothing of Desmond, nor had they any word of the Spanish ships.

When I had repeated this to my mistress on my return, she asked me to go next day to Askeaton, and to inform the Earl, if he were there at his fortress, that she was on her way to him, but if he were absent to ascertain where he was. Accordingly I proceeded in The Cross of Blood to the bay into which flows the stream on which the castle stands, and arrived at my destination.

As I was already well known at Askeaton I was admitted within the gate without demur, and almost the first man I met was Fitzgerald, who greeted me with much warmth. But I had not conversed with him long before I perceived that he did not seem to be in his accustomed spirits, and when I told him that my mistress, Eva O’Malley, Richard Burke, and de Vilela were no great distance away, he appeared to be somewhat distressed.

“Is Garrett Desmond here?” I asked, and the usually frank expression of his face was instantly clouded over.

“He is expected back at the castle to-morrow,” he replied. Then as I looked hard at him, waiting to hear more, he broke out —

“Desmond went to Limerick yesterday in attendance on the President of Munster.”

“The President of Munster!” I exclaimed. Then I stopped in the courtyard, put my hand on his arm, and gazing earnestly at him, asked, “What is the meaning of this?”

The President of Munster was the English Governor of all this part of Ireland, and I could not but think this was a strange piece of news. That he and the Earl of Desmond should be together, evidently on terms of friendship, boded no good to Grace O’Malley, or to myself, or to our cause.

“O,” said Fitzgerald testily, “the explanation is simple. The country is excited over the prospect of the coming of ships from Spain, and the President rode over from Limerick to Askeaton to see Desmond – ostensibly on a visit merely of courtesy, but in reality to spy out what was going on here. I would not have suffered him to enter the castle had I been Desmond, but Desmond thought otherwise, saying the time was not yet ripe.”

This was plausible, but did not account, I thought, for the moody looks of Fitzgerald. There was something behind all this, but I did not press him further, save to inquire —

“What is to prevent the President from seizing Desmond, and thrusting him into prison at Limerick?”

“He has a strong guard,” said he, “and the President has very few soldiers in Limerick. Besides, he feels confident that Desmond will be true to the English.”

“Has Desmond given him any pledge of good faith?”

“No. He places his trust in Desmond too fully for that.”

When I thought over what I had been told, it seemed probable enough that the Earl concealed his real intentions under the mask of a pretended loyalty to the Queen, and would do so perhaps until the time, as he said, was ripe. Yet the uneasiness I always felt with respect to him increased in spite of this supposition.

Then it occurred to me that perchance Fitzgerald, now that he had had time to become better acquainted with his cousin, was not more satisfied with him than I, and that this was the reason for his change of aspect.

However, when I met the Earl next morning, my suspicions and fears melted away before the cordiality with which he received me. And when I told him that my mistress was in the vicinity, he declared that there was nothing he desired more in all the world than to see her.

“The President of Munster,” said he, “has just gone back to Limerick from here, and for a time at least we will be free from his spying on us. Nothing could have fallen out better,” he continued, rubbing his hands together like one who was greatly pleased, “so tell your mistress to make haste and come.”

Likewise his Countess, who was with him, bade me say to Grace O’Malley that she was welcome to Askeaton.

When I returned to my mistress, I repeated to her the messages; but I thought it right to tell her also that Desmond had been entertaining the President of Munster. As I dwelt upon this matter, and remembered Fitzgerald’s manner, something seemed to knock at my heart, and my suspicions sprang up anew.

“He finds it needful,” said Grace O’Malley, thinking of Desmond, “to wear a double face as affairs stand at present, but when the Spaniards arrive he will come forward without disguise as our leader.”

And, in truth, when we were come to Askeaton, both the Earl and his Countess made so much of my mistress that I felt a sort of shame that I had ever had any distrust of him.

Great entertainments were given in her honour, all the noblemen and gentlemen of Desmond’s household vying with each other in paying her court, while the Earl himself seemed never to be able to see enough of her. Indeed, he showed her so much attention that it soon became apparent that she occupied a large part in his thoughts – so much was this the case that Richard Burke grew very jealous of him, nor did the Countess of Desmond regard the matter without displeasure.

Meanwhile the time was slipping by. Our galleys lay in the stream, and though I visited them frequently to make sure that they were safe, I could not but be aware that it was no good thing that they should be there, tied up in the Shannon, within easy reach of any English man-of-war that might ascend the river.

They were concealed, however, from view; but there was ever the fear in my mind that a rumour of our being at Askeaton would be bruited abroad, and come to the ears of the English. All the Burkes, and a considerable portion of our own O’Malleys, had been withdrawn from our vessels, and the force left upon them could scarcely be reckoned as formidable.

Another cause for uneasiness was that nothing more was heard of the landing of the Spaniards. I had many conversations with de Vilela, who was certain of their coming, but who knew the time of it no more than myself. He did not exhibit the impatience which possessed me, but in his heart I doubt not he longed for action as ardently as did I.

Of Fitzgerald I saw very little, for two days after the arrival of my mistress at Askeaton he rode over to Limerick, and there remained.

When I spoke of him to de Vilela, he said he had heard that Fitzgerald was madly in love with a lady who was staying in that city, and that that probably accounted for his being there. Knowing what Fitzgerald’s disposition was, I could not forbear smiling, and now fancied that I had discovered the cause of his want of spirits in that he had not been very successful in his wooing.

I thought no more of him or of his affairs, little dreaming who the lady was, until the mention of her name one day filled me with lively feelings of astonishment and vexation, and, as I pondered this new and perplexing turn of events, with something close akin to terror.

It so happened that I was talking and jesting with one of the Geraldines, when the conversation came round to Sir Nicholas Malby, and the iron rule he had imposed on Galway and a large part of Connaught.

“Grace O’Malley,” said he, “was more than a match for him.”

“Sir Nicholas,” said I, “is the best soldier the English have in Ireland, and if he did not prevail against my mistress, it was rather because he underrated her strength and her prowess, than from any other reason. He esteemed her as no more than a feeble woman, and so was deceived.”

“By the way,” asked he, “are you well acquainted with Galway?”

“Yes – well enough,” replied I, somewhat crisply.

“And do you know the Mayor of the town, one Stephen Lynch?”

“Yes,” I assented, wondering.

“A great merchant?” he inquired.

“The richest in Galway, perhaps in Ireland,” I answered.

“With a daughter, an only child, who will inherit his whole wealth?”

“Yes,” said I, wondering still more.

“Mistress Sabina Lynch?”

“The same,” said I; “but why do you ask these questions?”

“The woman is beautiful, is she not?” he went on, without replying immediately to my query.

“No doubt of that,” I replied.

“Rich and beautiful!” he exclaimed, and then he laughed very merrily.

“Tell me,” said I again, “why have you sought to know all this?”

“Ask Dermot Fitzgerald,” said he, and would say no more, but I understood – all.

Dermot Fitzgerald was in love with Sabina Lynch! And she was in Limerick, where were the President of Munster and his soldiers, and Fitzgerald too! Here, indeed, was a pretty heap of faggots, and it was my hand, as it were, that might have placed the fire beneath, and set it in a blaze!

I saw at a glance how easy it would be for Fitzgerald, without intending in any way to do mischief or to betray us to the English, to let drop a word or a hint that might suggest to a quick-witted woman to inquire further into his meaning, and that so dexterously as not to excite in the least any alarm on his part.

And what might not be looked for when she learned that Grace O’Malley, the woman she hated most, and Richard Burke, the man she loved best, were together at Askeaton? And Fitzgerald was said to be madly in love with her! He would therefore be as wax in her hands, and she could mould him to her will as she pleased. Small wonder, then, that I was disturbed, and felt that we were far from secure.

And now there fell out what, at the time, gave me the keenest regret and even pain, though afterwards it proved to be of the most inestimable service to us.

It had become very plain to anyone who gave it the slightest thought, or, indeed, to anyone who used his eyes, that Desmond was infatuated with my mistress. Every moment that he could find was spent in her society, to the neglect of other matters, however important they were. Before he had seen her he had been fascinated by what I had told him of her and her deeds; now that he saw her for himself, and marked how like a queen she was, he was as one bound hand and foot before her.

Grace O’Malley had a great power over men when she chose to exercise it; and now, on her side, she appeared not only to encourage him, but also to be bent upon his complete subjugation.

I marvelled at her, yet assured myself that she could have no love for the man, but that, perceiving the weakness of his character, she took this course in order to make certain of his firm adhesion to our cause. But it was a course full of danger, for the strength of the passion of a man, even of a weak man, is no more to be reckoned up and measured than is the force of a mighty tempest, beginning in a breath and dying out in ruin.

Desmond’s countess grew pale and silent, and I noted that the furtive glances she stole at my mistress were touched at first with dismay, then with anger. She must have known the kind of stuff of which her husband was made, but her rage, as might be seen, was directed wholly against my mistress. I felt a sort of compunction, and sometimes wished that we had never come to Askeaton at all.

And this wish was made much stronger, for Richard Burke, who bore and endured for awhile the utmost torture when he saw how matters stood between Grace O’Malley and the Earl, told me that he could suffer to see it no longer, and so was determined to speak to her and remonstrate with her.

What passed between them I do not know, but it was of such a nature that the MacWilliam shortly afterwards withdrew in high dudgeon from the castle with all his men.

I attempted to restrain him from going, but in vain. He admitted that he had received no promise from Grace O’Malley of her hand, but as she had not repulsed him utterly when he had preferred his suit to her, and had come to Kerry at her request, he had hoped that the matter was in a fair way to be settled as he desired. Now, he said, she had no thought of him, her whole mind being taken up with Desmond.

I endeavoured to gainsay this, but without success, and I had sorrowfully to witness the departure of the Burkes from Askeaton. I so far prevailed upon him, however, that he agreed to stay in the district, and, having obtained permission from the Earl, he pitched his camp a few miles away in the woods.

Richard Burke’s troubles made me think of my own love affairs, which were in the same position as before, for, albeit, I had a secret, satisfying conviction that Eva O’Malley had no special regard for de Vilela, I still adhered to my resolution not even to appear to come between them. Wherein, perhaps, in my stupid pride, I did my dear, to say nothing of myself, a great injustice, for she might have supposed that I cared for nothing but the fierce, mad joy of battle. But never loved I anyone save her alone.

It was on the second or third day after Richard Burke had left us that the arrival of the messengers from the President of Munster with a letter for Desmond threw me into a state of great concern. And when I knew what the tenor of that letter was, I was disquieted the more, for I could but conclude that what I had dreaded would happen with respect to the intimacy of Sabina Lynch and Fitzgerald had indeed come to pass.

The Earl received the President’s messengers with some state, several of his gentlemen and myself being with him.

As he read the letter they presented to him, he was evidently disconcerted by its contents, looking now at it, now at the messengers; but when he had perused it a second time, he laughed strangely, and said he would give no answer at once, but would consider what was to be done.

In the evening, when we were all together in the great hall of the castle, my mistress also being of the company, he was in a boisterous humour, and bade his harpers sing of the glories of the house of Desmond. He sat beside Grace O’Malley, and I saw him, under cover of the music, speaking to her very earnestly; and presently he called me up to them.

“What think you, Ruari?” said my mistress, and her eyes danced and smiled, “what think you, does the President of Munster ask from the Earl of Desmond?”

“What is his demand?” cried I.

“Nothing less or more,” said she, and the laughter suddenly went out of her face, “than that he should instantly deliver up a certain Grace O’Malley, as a notable traitress to the Queen and a spoiler of ships, at present lodged in his castle of Askeaton, and should forthwith cause her to be conveyed to him at the city of Limerick, to be there dealt with according to her deserts and the pleasure of her Highness. What think ye of that?”

“What says the Earl of Desmond?” cried I.

“What, indeed!” said she, answering for him, and turning to him with a smile.

“Ay – what, indeed!” said he, meeting her look, and smiling back at her.

At that instant there was a commotion at the further end of the hall, and there entered a man, with his garments stained with travel and befouled with mire.

As soon as de Vilela saw him he sprang forward with a great cry of delight, and, careless of us all, embraced him, while a sort of silence came upon us, and the bards ceased their singing; but the whisper soon and quickly ran among us that the Spaniards at last were come.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE LANDING OF THE SPANIARDS

It was a strange moment.

There were the representatives of the President of Munster, two of the justices from Limerick – these stood for the Queen.

There were Grace O’Malley, her gentlemen, and myself – proclaimed rebels.

There were Desmond and his Geraldines.

And now here were de Vilela and this stranger from Spain! And we were all met together in the great hall of the castle of Askeaton.

A strange moment, and a strange meeting!

De Vilela advanced towards Desmond, and, with that grace of manner which this man possessed in greater perfection than any other I have ever seen, presented the new comer to the Earl. I leant forward to catch the name. It was the family name of the famous Lieutenant of Santa Cruz, the still more celebrated Grand Admiral of Spain. A brother or a cousin of Martinez, I said to myself, as the two men bowed low before Desmond.

“Will your lordship permit?” said de Vilela. “Don Juan de Ricaldo, my friend and comrade!”

And the Earl extended his hand to Don Juan.

“You are welcome, señor,” said Desmond, but without much warmth, for was he not, as it were, between the devil and the deep sea, with England on the one side and Spain on the other?

Then he conversed with the two Spaniards in a low tone of voice, so that I could hear but imperfectly what was said, but it was impossible not to see that he was in great perplexity. The two messengers of the President looked darkly on, their countenances knit into scowls, while Desmond shot a curious glance at them now and again.

After a few minutes spent in this fashion, Don Juan, excusing himself on the score of being weary in the extreme from his journey, retired from the hall along with de Vilela. When they had withdrawn there was a constraint upon us all, no one caring to speak his thoughts, for what could we say that would not have been noted by those two sharp-eared gentlemen from Limerick?

For myself I was fair bewildered; but the one thing that bulked out most largely in my mind was the fact that now there must be an end of our uncertainty, as the Spaniards had come into the country, as I supposed, and the time for deeds, not words, was upon us.

Nor was our sitting in the hall prolonged that evening, for each one who was in authority preferred to say nothing, and while the others talked together in little knots, it was in whispers, and all were glad when the Earl gave the signal for retiring.

The same night I was awoke from a sound sleep by de Vilela, who bade me dress and go with him. We went into a room high up in the tower, and there were my mistress, Desmond, and de Ricaldo waiting for us.

“Ruari,” said Grace O’Malley, her face bright with excitement, “this gentleman is Don Juan de Ricaldo” – we saluted each other – ”and he is the bearer of news of the highest importance, which concerns us most nearly.”

Don Juan bowed again.

“The ships of the King of Spain have arrived?” I asked, as my mistress paused.

“One ship has come,” said she, “that of which Don Juan is the commander, and others are on the way. They set out at the same time, but a storm separated them; he has reached Ireland first, but the rest cannot be far off.”

“’Tis the best of good news,” cried I. “Would to God they were all beside our galleys on the Shannon!”

“Don de Ricaldo’s ship lies off Dingle, on the coast of Kerry,” said my mistress, smiling at my sally, “and the others must be guided to the same harbour. They may have already cast anchor elsewhere, or they may still be at sea. But I wish you to take The Cross of Blood and search for them. Both of these gentlemen,” she nodded to the two Spaniards, “will accompany you.”

“And then?” inquired I.

“You will then render them,” said she, “any help they may require, as, for instance, choosing the most suitable place for making a landing, or whatever it may be.”

“And then?” asked I again.

“Return here,” said she.

“May I ask,” said I, “if any plans have been formed.”

“They will depend,” said Desmond, quickly “on the number of the Spanish soldiers – and on other things,” he added, more slowly.

“You will go at once, Ruari?” asked Grace O’Malley, but her question was a command.

“At once,” I agreed; then a thought came to me. “Richard Burke should be told of this,” said I.

“All Ireland will have heard the news within a week,” said Desmond impatiently, “and the MacWilliam among the rest.”

This was true enough, but I made sure that he knew, for I sent a trusty man to his camp who told him what had taken place. I did this later that night.

As I was taking my leave I asked my mistress if she were satisfied that all was going well, and she replied that she was.

“You will stay on here till I return?” asked I.

“Surely!” It was Desmond who spoke.

I had half a mind to suggest to her that it might be better for her to go back to her own galley, but it seemed like a presumption on my part, and I held my peace.

But once we were on board The Cross of Blood, swinging down the stream in the hours of the morning, I wished that I had been bolder.

Yet, what was there to fear? So I repeated to myself, but the fear came again and again. For there were Grace O’Malley and Eva in Desmond’s power, the guard they had with them being of the slenderest now that Richard Burke was out of Askeaton with his gallowglasses, and I myself, with de Vilela and some of our choicest men, going further away with every mile.

Was she justified in placing herself so entirely in the hands of the Earl? There was the rub. My mistress, however, had declared that she was well pleased with the way in which our affairs were moving, and with that assurance I had perforce to be content. And I verily believe she had no doubt but that she could do with Desmond as she chose.

I had been ordered to keep a look-out for the Spanish ships, and I put in at various bays and havens where I thought it might be possible that they had anchored, but I reached Dingle without having seen anything of them. And I well remember that it was towards evening, after we had borne the blaze of the July sun all day, that we came up alongside of Don Juan de Ricaldo’s vessel, and de Vilela and myself went on board of her with her captain.

Next morning I put out to sea again, and, sailing slowly down the coast for perhaps a couple of hours, fell in with the rest of the Spanish ships, tacking to the north-westward.

Having made signs that I wished to speak to them, they lay to. As I approached I saw a man waving his hand to me from the ship that was nearest us, and him I afterwards knew to be Sir James Fitzmaurice, a relative of the Earl of Desmond, and having the reputation of being a skilful soldier. He had already fought against the English in Ireland, but had been beaten by them, and compelled to sue for peace.

Beside him there stood three or four priests, and, a little way off, a group of men wearing armour, their swords shining brightly in their hands. There was also a goodly muster of footmen, having arquebuses, spears and other weapons. And my heart warmed when I beheld this array.

Quitting my galley, I went on board of the ship, and presently had told Fitzmaurice, who evidently was the leader of the expedition, who I was, and for what purpose I was come. I also delivered to him letters which de Vilela and de Ricaldo had given me for him. Having read these over very carefully, he began to ply me eagerly with many questions.

Was Desmond well? What preparations had he made to rise against the English? What was the general state of the country? Did its princes and chiefs know that he was coming, and were they ready to drive the English into the sea? Were the English in force, and where lay their army? Who was there now at Limerick?

All these and many other things did he inquire of me, listening to my replies with the closest attention, comparing what I said with what was written in the letters I had brought, and making a commentary of his own. But I soon found out that he was in reality as well informed as I was.

Here was one, I said to myself, who was a very different man from Desmond. The way he bore himself was so instinct with firmness, courage and resolution that he at once instilled a feeling of confidence in all who met him. Then the questions he had addressed to me impressed me as being just such questions as a soldier and a man of action would ask. But what struck me most was that when he spoke of Desmond, while he said not a word in his dispraise, he was apparently not certain of him. And this was so much in my own manner of thinking of the Earl that my fear of him was intensified.

It was now my turn to ask questions, and I inquired how many men Fitzmaurice had with him, and if these were all, or were we to look for more?

“There are four hundred of us – Spaniards, Italians, Irish, and English; these English,” he added, “are not of the Queen’s religion. And as to what we may expect, Father Sanders will tell you more,” and he turned to one of the priests standing near. “Father,” said he to the priest, “this is Ruari Macdonald, foster-brother of Grace O’Malley of Erris and the Isles of Connaught.”