Grace O'Malley. Machray Robert

Whence, then, had come the arrow, and for what purpose, if not one of death?

My second thought showed me clearly that, had the mysterious archer intended to kill me, there would have been nothing easier, for, standing as I did on the poop, I was the best mark in the world; nor would he have required any marvellous expertness in his art to have made an end of me. So, as everything about us now seemed favourable and fair for us, I next turned my regard to the arrow itself, which was fast in one of the beams of the galley.

Now for the first time I noticed that it had been shot into the ship in such a way that it was nearly or altogether hidden by the shape of the vessel from being seen by those on shore; and I bethought me that it must have been sped without hostile intent, but, on the contrary, conveyed some message of warning which it would be well not to neglect. Wrenching forth the missile with an effort from the beam, I examined it carefully, and found, as I had begun to anticipate, a message; for roughly inscribed upon it was the word “Beware!”

With the dark, foreboding saying of the Wise Man still ringing in my ears, it was not likely that I should overlook any measure of precaution that was in my power, but the safe-conduct of the Governor of Connaught had given me a feeling of security – which was, perhaps, not justified. Thus it was that I could not but suspect that the message of the arrow was meant to prevent me from putting trust overmuch in Sir Nicholas – a man whom I had not yet seen.

Instead, therefore, of taking with me only six spearmen, as I had purposed, as part of Grace O’Malley’s bodyguard, I doubled the number. Besides these there also landed three gentlemen of her household, chiefs from the islands, men of proved courage, to whom the use of the sword was as much a part of themselves as the breath they drew. I had already sent ashore early in the morning a trusty steward, with instructions to procure two horses for my mistress and Eva O’Malley, and he now, as we made fast to the quay, came forth from the gate with two splendid barbs, each attended, as is usual in Ireland, by its own swift-footed horse-boy.

While our landing was proceeding I could not help wondering who it was that had sped the arrow, and why he had chosen this way of conveying his warning. Manifestly he was one who was afraid, and desired to keep in the background, for reasons that commended themselves sufficiently to him. Rapidly thinking over the affair, I came to the conclusion that our friend could be none other than Richard Burke, the MacWilliam of whom I have already spoken, and who, I had some reason to guess, cherished a tenderness for Grace O’Malley.

And right mightily glad was I to think that one so strong and brave was in Galway at this time. So great was his fortitude and tenacity of purpose that he was quite commonly spoken of as Richard the Iron, and never in the day of adversity was there a stouter heart or a more vigorous arm than his.

But why had he taken – or caused to be taken, as was most probable – this extraordinary method of apprising me of immediate danger, for that and no less I concluded was the meaning of that one word, “Beware”? The future was to show, and that soon enough.

To lay The Grey Wolf alongside of The Cross of Blood was the work of a few minutes, and soon the two ladies were mounted upon their horses, but not before I had told Grace O’Malley of the incident of the arrow, and asked if she had any further commands to give.

Now, my mistress was possessed of that high and proud sort of spirit upon which the hint of danger acts as fuel to fire or spur to steed. So she did but cast her eyes over the men I had picked out, and, selecting a similar number from her own ship, said that her purpose was unchanged.

“Tell the officer on guard at the gate,” said she, “that I go to confer with the Governor, Sir Nicholas Malby, on affairs of state.”

The captain of the gate appeared to be somewhat dazed with the size of our company, which numbered more than thirty swords, spears, and battle-axes, and he arranged his men in a line as we advanced. Saluting my mistresses with grave punctilio, he informed us that Sir Nicholas was lodged at the house of the Mayor of Galway, where for the time he held his court. But, he said, as he stood resting the point of his drawn sword upon the ground, orders had been given to admit into the town only the lady Grace O’Malley, her women, and not more than a few of her people.

When I protested against this, he replied that the Governor was very strict; and as for himself, he was merely a soldier whose duty was to do what he was bid.

My mistress, as he spoke, flashed on me a glance of quick intelligence; then she turned with a brilliant, compelling smile to the officer.

“Sir,” cried she with animation, looking with her dark, lovely eyes into the eyes of the Englishman, “you speak as a soldier should. But here” – and she waved her hand round her company – ”are not more than a few of my people, as it were. You think that we be too many? Nay, sir, ’tis not so. Is it not fitting to do as much honour as I can to the Governor? And the more of us the greater the honour done him?”

And she smiled again upon the officer, who was a young man and a gallant, to his undoing. While they were thus engaged in parleying – they conversed for some time, but what further was said I did not hear – we had pressed within the gate and filled up part of the street beyond. Having gained this position, I had no thought of retreating. The captain, noting our bearing, and partly won over by Grace O’Malley’s woman’s wiles, partly making a virtue of necessity, for we could easily have overpowered his men, again gravely saluted.

“Be it as you wish, lady,” he said; and so we passed on up the Street of the Key.

It has been my lot to see of great cities not a few, but, though I had scant reason to love the place, not many, I will say, that were finer or more handsomely built than Galway was in these days. She was now at the very height of her prosperity, and laid claim to be second in the kingdom to Dublin alone, and proudly vaunted her superiority over her ancient rival Limerick.

As we marched up the Street of the Key, the ladies magnificently attired in our midst, and presently entered the High Street, the tall spires of the church of St. Nicholas of Myra – the patron saint of mariners, who hath ever been most favourable to me – rose in front of us; while the storehouses of the merchant princes of the city – the Lynches, the Martins, the Blakes, the Kirwans, and others whose names escape me – encompassed us with vast buildings of dressed stone on every hand.

On all sides were signs of abundance and wealth. And small wonder; for there was hardly a port of France or Spain – nay, of all Europe – whither the ships of Galway did not go. Her traders, ever unsatisfied, had even sailed out beyond the Spanish Main to the Indies.

But it must be remembered that Galway was not an Irish city, but an English – where it was not Spanish. The strong walls and towers which belted her in were not more for defence against an enemy who might attack her from the sea, than against the Irishry who dwelt beyond her gates. And keen and bitter as was the hatred between Englishman and Spaniard, that between the Englishman of Galway and the Irishman, whose home was in the country, was keener and more bitter still. The day was not to close without a proof of this.

On we passed, making a brave show, with the sun overhead shining on our arms and harness, while the townsmen stood and gaped, and the women looked out at us from their windows and doors. On we passed until we halted before the mansion of Stephen Lynch, the Mayor, reputed to be the richest man in Galway. Here, in front of the house, there was a guard, and I could see through the archway that the courtyard beyond was full of soldiers.

After an exchange of greetings I was shown into an anteroom, and thence sent word to Sir Nicholas that my mistress was without, and waited his pleasure. After a slight delay, the Governor replied that he was at meat, and that he would think it an excellent omen if my mistress, her ladies and gentlemen, would honour him by their company.

Then, to my surprise, the Major himself appeared, helped, with much ceremony, Grace and Eva O’Malley to alight, and invited then myself and certain of our comrades of rank to enter, at the same time commanding that our men should be most courteously entertained.

All this display of friendliness was so different from what I had expected that I knew not what to think. Afterwards I learned that Sir Nicholas had been informed of our numbers, and that this had led him to change the plan that he had originally formed – which I understood was that Grace O’Malley was to have been at once seized and held as a prisoner until he had determined what was to be done in her case – and this notwithstanding the safe-conduct he had given.

Separated as I was by some distance at table from my mistresses, I could not hear the conversation between them and the Governor, who talked to them in a certain bluff, soldier-like fashion. Amongst others present were Sir Murrough O’Flaherty of Aughnanure, Richard Burke of Mayo, and other of the chiefs of Connaught who were known to us. But all my attention was taken up in watching, as carefully as I could, Sir Nicholas Malby, the Governor.

There was no possibility of mistaking him for anything but what he was – the successful soldier of fortune. He had the port of one used to command, and there was a rough dignity about him that became him well. His face was scarred and weather-beaten, and I had heard that he had seen hard service, both in the Low Countries and in Spain. He did not come, I had been told, of any noble or considerable family. His sole possession had been his sword, and he had rather hewn than carved out his path in the world with it.

I at once recognised in him a shrewd and capable man, who would not let many things stand in his way. Here was one, I knew, to be reckoned with. Myself a man who both gave, and therefore expected to receive, heavy blows; he was another of the same sort, and I felt a certain respect for him.

There was told a curious tale of the way in which he had become a soldier – and ’fore God, it is not for me to say I think the worse of him for it! It is never a custom of mine to set down anything I hear to anyone’s despite, yet in this instance the story helps show the nature of the man.

In his youth, which was mean and poverty-stricken, he had been arrested, convicted, and condemned to death for coining – so ’tis said, and I understand this to be the truth. In some manner or other – I know not how – he had made interest with one of the great nobles at the English court, and was released on condition that he would enter the nobleman’s service as a soldier, and proceed to the war then being waged against the Emperor. And this he did, acquitting himself so much to the satisfaction of his superiors, that he was soon placed in command of a body of mercenaries, and displayed no little valour at their head.

Later, he had come over to Ireland under Sir Henry Sydney, who esteemed him so highly, owing to the manner in which he had fought against the O’Neils of Ulster, that, when Sir Henry was Lord Deputy of Ireland for the first time, he had advanced him from post to post, until he was now Governor, or “Colonel of Connaught,” as his title was.

One thing we had heard, and that was, like all the rest of the English, he was very greedy for money, and that his ears readily listened to an argument that was backed up with gold. Therefore had we brought with us rich presents for the Governor, which were duly delivered to him when dinner was finished.

Such, then, was Sir Nicholas Malby, upon whom the fortunes of my mistress so much depended. I perceived that she was studying him with no less intentness than myself, but that she hid this under a gay and sparkling demeanour.

When the meal was over, Sir Nicholas said that he desired to talk with her alone, and they withdrew together to another room. Whereupon Sir Murrough O’Flaherty and the other gentlemen of the Irish, gathered around me, plying me with many questions, to all of which I returned evasive replies, feeling in truth exceedingly anxious, and wishing nothing so much as to be on board my galley again with my mistresses safe in theirs. Nor did I have an opportunity – as I desired – to speak privately to Richard Burke.

It was about the middle of the afternoon when Grace O’Malley sent for me and presented me to Sir Nicholas, telling him that I was her foster-brother, and that I was pledged to her service. The Governor scanned me narrowly up and down, then suddenly put forth his hand and grasped mine with a grip of steel. I fancied, and herein I was right, as events subsequently proved, that he had something of the same feeling in regard to me as that I had experienced for himself.

“I have but one desire,” said he, when he had talked for some time, “and that is, the establishment of the Queen’s peace in Connaught.” And he laid his hand heavily on my own. I bowed, but answered not, thinking in my mind that silence was best, for what had we to do with the Queen’s peace; we, who were the free rovers of the sea?

Then it appeared that Grace O’Malley had been asked by the Mayor to be his guest for awhile, and that she had accepted his invitation. So I now learned that my mistresses were not to return to the ships at once, but were to take up their abode in the mansion of the Lynches along with the Governor.

I was none too well pleased with this arrangement, remembering the message of the arrow, but dissembled my fears and suspicions, particularly when I was informed that no objection was made to her keeping her guard. I further gathered from her air that she was not ill-content with the result of her interview with Sir Nicholas, and that all seemed to be going as she wished.

Anon the Mayor entered, bringing with him his daughter Sabina, a dark, handsome woman of twenty summers, who was to be the hostess of my mistresses, for her mother was dead. And with her in this fair seeming entered also the shadow of Destiny – a shadow not to be lifted for many a day.

It was never given to me to read the hearts of women, nor to comprehend their ways, but, being but a man, I looked upon this woman with pleasure, little dreaming what evil she was to work upon us. Here was one, had I but known it, far more to be feared than the bluff, determined soldier who was Colonel of Connaught.

CHAPTER V.

THE QUEEN’S PEACE

It was some three hours or so from sunset when I took leave of my mistresses, both of whom were in the highest spirits. I saw that my young and innocent dear was delighted with her surroundings, and had completely forgotten her objections to Galway. She and Sabina Lynch had at once become friends, and, indeed, it was impossible for anyone to see Eva O’Malley and not immediately to be gained over by her.

But Grace O’Malley had a certain reserve in her talking with the Mayor’s daughter – a reserve that sprang from instinct or intuition, or a forecasting of the future, perhaps.

My two ladies had entrusted me with various orders to their women with regard to sundry boxes of apparel to be sent to the Lynch mansion, and as I set off to The Cross of Blood, I felt in better humour with myself and the world. Fortune at the moment appeared to smile upon us. Sabina Lynch had told me, just before I bade her good-bye, that her father was to give a revel with dancing – after the fashion which obtained at the Court of Elizabeth, who was immoderately fond, I have heard, of this form of entertainment – in a few days, in honour of the Governor.

I could see that my mistresses both looked forward to it with keen anticipations of pleasure. At first I could not share in their feelings, thinking that we did but waste our time in Galway, until Grace O’Malley had confided to me, in an aside, that she believed her affairs would soon be settled with Sir Nicholas.

She had declared to the Governor that it was her desire to hold her lands from the Queen, on condition that instead of being bound to supply for her Highness’s service so many soldiers when called upon for a hosting, she should maintain her ships and their crews of sailors and fighting men so that they would be always ready to do the Queen’s will, whether it was on the western coasts of Ireland or of Scotland. He had not said “Nay,” but had put the matter off until he had considered it more fully.

As I was walking down the Street of the Key to the harbour, along with the three gentlemen of our household who had gone with me to the Mayor’s, we met a party of half a dozen citizens of the place, all standing talking together. Their voices were raised either in anger or debate, and as we approached I heard enough to understand that they were discussing the action of the Governor with regard to my mistress, and that it met with their strong disapprobation.

“Our ships will never be safe,” cried one, as we came up with them. They made no effort to let us pass, though the street was narrow at this point, and seemed rather as if they intended to dispute the ground with us. The odds were against us, but not too greatly; so saying, “By your leave,” I went on.

“Sir,” cried I, the hot, angry blood burning in my cheeks, as I returned roughly enough the push I had received from one of those who blocked the way, “sir, your manners stand in much need of mending – or ending.”

And my sword – a flash of living fire in the westering sun – was out in a twinkling.

I knew the fellow who had insulted me. It was Michael Martin, a rich merchant and a person of authority in the town, notwithstanding his comparative youth – he was not much older than myself – to whom I spoke. He had deliberately jostled against me as I made to pass him, and I was never blind to a hint of this kind.

His action, coupled with the words I had heard, had quickly got me out of the happy frame of mind with which I had quitted the Mayor’s mansion, and my thoughts were immediately of my mistresses’ danger. His unmannerly act meant more than hostility to me.

“Draw!” shouted I furiously, and his sword flashed out at me. Martin was neither a coward nor a poor swordsman, and my hands were full with this business in another instant.

“Manners,” quoth he, as our blades rang together as steel met steel; “manners! Manners, forsooth! Who are you to teach a gentleman of Galway manners? You – the scum of the sea!”

And so he raved, keeping his eyes warily fixed on mine the while.

These fresh insults maddened me like the stirring of venom from the poisonous fangs of a wolf, and a sudden fierce storm of passionate anger such as I had never before felt swept over me, as I cried to him across the darting swords, “We shall see, we shall see!”

Meanwhile my comrades ranged themselves beside me with their weapons unsheathed, and several of those who had been talking with Martin were not slow to follow their example, but it was rather, as it happened, with a view to forming a ring round my opponent and myself, so that we had the fighting to ourselves.

“A brawl, a brawl!” someone cried, and there was the sound of the shutting of windows and the closing of doors.

My position placed me at a disadvantage, for the sun, now sinking downwards behind the hills on the other side of the Bay of Galway, cast its rays in my eyes, and caused me to blink, whether I would or no, as the points of our swords, forming glittering circles of flame, whirled this way and that. I endeavoured to force the fighting so that my adversary would change his ground, but he was fully conscious of how much he gained by maintaining his place, and all my efforts were vain.

Now, as we thrust and parried, lunged and retired, my anger passed away, and I found myself become as cool and collected as if I had been on the deck of my ship. I had successfully met and defeated a stubborn attack, at the same time piercing his breast for a short inch mayhap, so that the blood spurted forth in a little jet, when Martin, saying quickly with a choking gasp,

“Another time, Redshank!” suddenly gave way, much to my surprise, not seeing any reason for his change of front. Surrounded by his friends, he turned swiftly, and in hot haste made off down the street, and, entering a narrow lane not far from the wall, was lost to view.

For one instant I stood, breathing heavily, sword still on guard. Then I was about to follow, when a voice, harsh and commanding, cried: “Halt! Stop! Halt in the Queen’s name! Halt, halt!”

I knew the voice, although I had heard it for the first time in my life that very day. It was Sir Nicholas Malby, the Governor himself, and no other, who spoke. I also realised that I had gotten myself into a position of some hazard, to say the least, with one to whom the preservation of the Queen’s peace was the principal object of his ambition.

But the Governor was, above everything – so I said to myself – a soldier, and I flattered myself he would understand, and even sympathise with, my feelings in this matter. He was attended but by two of his officers, yet he came up without hesitation, and the fierce question of his eyes was full of challenge.

“What is this?” he cried. “I will have no brawling in the streets!”

I saluted with great deference, remembering, perhaps rather late in the day, Grace O’Malley’s orders that we were to do everything we could to make our stay in Galway a peaceable one, and made bold to say as respectfully as I could —

“Sir, the fault scarcely lies with us;” and I went on to tell him exactly how the affair had been brought about, protesting that I could act in no other way than I had done, as the quarrel had been forced upon me. As I told my story he nodded coldly, but not disapprovingly.

“I am resolved to have an end of all strife,” said he; at length, after thinking deeply for a short time: “Can you tell me who was the aggressor?” he asked. “Did you know him?” Then, without waiting for my answer, he continued threateningly, “I will hang any man whom I find disturbing the Queen’s peace, be he prince or kerne, chief or gallowglass!”

Now, it was no part of my business to hand over Martin to the mercies of the Governor, and it was very much my affair, I thought, that I should settle my quarrel with him personally, so I made no reply to the question of Sir Nicholas.

“He was a stranger to you, I presume,” said he, and was about to pass on, but changing his mind, he asked whither I was bound and for what purpose.

When I told him I was on my way to the galleys, and with what object, he smiled a little grimly, and walked with me towards the gate. He made many inquiries as to the number of fighting men there were aboard of the galleys, and the manner in which they were armed. I asked Sir Nicholas whether he would not pay a visit to The Cross of Blood, but he declined, as it was his custom to make a survey of the walls at this period of the day.

“Your mistress,” said he, as he left me at the gate, “is in good hands.” And I could not but muse somewhat darkly at this enigmatic sentence.

It was past the middle of the night, when I was aroused by someone coming softly into my cabin. A lantern swung from the beam above my head, and in the half darkness I made out Walter Burke, my chief officer, and with him Richard Burke the MacWilliam. In a moment I was wide awake, knowing that this secret visit of Richard the Iron was pregnant with something evil. Eagerly I looked into his face.

“What brings – !” I exclaimed loudly. But his fingers were placed on my lips.

“Quietly, quietly,” said he. “I do not suppose that there are any traitors on The Cross of Blood,” continued he.

“All staunch, staunch,” I interrupted, “everyone.”

“’Tis well,” said he; “but what I am come to tell you is not a thing to be proclaimed from the tops of our towers.”

Stirred by a host of thronging fears, I waited, keenly apprehensive of his next words. They were heavy enough, although the misgivings I had felt had not left me altogether unprepared for tidings of the kind.

“Grace O’Malley,” said he, in a low tone which thrilled me through, “is virtually a prisoner in Galway. The Mayor, or rather, I should say, his daughter, has made herself answerable to the Governor for her. While your mistress is apparently free to come or go as she pleases, she is in reality deprived of her liberty, as she will discover if she tries to leave the mansion of the Lynches.”