The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell (13 page)

Once alone, I found I liked it. At the inns I caused a stir—a lone woman, well dressed and unveiled, dark Spanish looks, perhaps no longer young but pretty enough. And keen to gamble, with money in her pocket. Men who didn’t know me thought me a strange kind of
puta
, but if they approached with the wrong idea, I’d educate them with a few cutting words or, if needed, a quick unsheathing of a blade, held to the chin.

In those days, I had dreams of sailin’ into the Mediterranean Sea. The problem was my men, who had no intention whatsoever of pursuin’ such an adventure. Those were strange waters, and Irishmen hated the Moors and those fierce Turkish pirates. A face-to-face battle once in a while was all right by them, and the booty was good. But being trapped in an inland sea surrounded by their enemies was a truly hateful thought. ’Twas bad enough I’d taken them down the African coast of Guinea. We ’d only gone once, to trade for sugar, dates, almonds, and molasses, which fetched a high price in the north. I’d won a Portuguese rutter in a game of dice. Of course the Portuguese and French were the only ones who knew those waters, and I was most curious for the sight of Africa. But the coast of Guinea was a hell like we ’d never known—dangerous surf, an appalling climate with prostratin’ heat, and strange maladies that nearly killed the lot of us. Only Molly thrived, for the heat and moisture in the air were much like that of the New World jungle of her birth. Even the beautiful fruits and wavin’ palms and thoughts of their pockets lined with gold were no incentive for the crew to return. So my quest to see the whole of the great creature whose long teeth I had hangin’ above my bed would simply have to wait.

Back in O’Flaherty territory, things had changed. Donal insisted we move upriver from Bunowen to the island fortress at Lough Corribe.

The reason was the Joyces, a neighboring clan who had taken the mind that
they
owned the fortress and the lake, which was pure nonsense. It’d been the O’Flahertys’ since time began. Perhaps some Joyces had taken exception to Donal, and this was their way of being a bone in his throat.

Whatever the reasons, the besiegement was constant and was worse than annoying. The Corribe Island folk were peaceful, unused to the constant attacks, and more than a dozen had been killed. For the most part the Joyces came up empty-handed, as Corribe was a mighty fortress built on an island in the center of the lake, and therefore hard to successfully besiege—though it didn’t stop them tryin’. The raids had raised Donal’s ire to an altogether new level, if you can believe that. He fought so fierce and tenacious against them he was given a new name—“the Cock”—

and the fortress itself came to be known as Cock’s Castle.

By now all the children were grown and my life was mine again.

Donal I tolerated as a husband, though since Walter Burke ’s murder I pitied him his weakness as a man. His appetite for warfare never failed to amaze me, but the fight for Cock’s Castle I found legitimate. Perhaps

’twas the unfairness of the Joyces’ claim. In any event, I fought by his side to defend it.

But there were other changes afoot, these of much greater consequence than the ownership of a fortress on a lake. The English were beginning to make their presence felt in Connaught, and it would alter the life of every Irish man, woman, and child alive.

I’d gone to visit Owen O’Malley, whose company I craved more, and not less, as the years went on. Sure he was aging, but the man was a bull, as tall and strong and handsome as ever. My mother had passed away, sudden like the year before, and we had all mourned her, though it was Da’s life left with the greatest rift.

He and I decided to sail together for old times’ sake on one of his ships. ’Twould be a short trip to Scotland for the purpose of transporting Gallowglass soldiers to The O’Neill, who at that time was called Shane, a mighty northern chieftain, perhaps the most feared in all of Ireland at the time. He was fightin’ a local fight and he depended upon the Scots mercenaries we brought him for his victories. ’Twas a fine journey north on the
Dorcas
with the wind at our backs. The crew were a high-spirited lot, tickled to have the infamous female pirate aboard their ship. As if they knew ’twas a special day, whales breached all round us, and my heart leapt every time they did, as it had done when I was a little girl.

Da, still The O’Malley, was privy to the latest news, which was serious indeed. By this time Henry the Eighth was dead and his two eldest children as well. You had come to the throne, pursuin’ your father’s Surrender and Regrant program with vigor. The English Lord Deputy of Ireland, Henry Sidney, had begun takin’ a keen interest in the west—the lands beyond the Dublin Pale. He ’d summoned to him the west’s most powerful chieftains—the Earl of Clanrickard, and David Burke, The MacWilliam, and they had both answered his call. Clanrickard had long ago made his submission to the Crown, but no MacWilliam had ever yet surrendered, and all the other western chieftains waited for word of the outcome of that meeting.

The point, as far as Lord Sidney was concerned, was Shane O’Neill.

Sidney was loath for Clanrickard or David Burke to collaborate with so powerful a northern chief, for if Shane gave back his loyalty to them and the three united, all of western Ireland might be lost. Henry Sidney was a clever man and managed with who knows what promises to extract not only support
against
The O’Neill from both chiefs, but the first submission ever from a MacWilliam. While Da knew David Burke had most likely sworn his loyalty to England for expediency’s sake, it meant that Owen O’Malley, of all the western clan chiefs who’d not surrendered, now stood alone.

“As if we haven’t enough worries,” said Da, starin’ back at the misty coastline of northwest Ireland, “Murrough ne Doe O’Flaherty is on a rampage. He ’s attacked the Earl of Thomond’s territories and won some ground there, and just last month he trounced Clanrickard outside Galway City.”

“What’s he hope to accomplish?” I asked, perplexed. “Murrough ne Doe ’s a minor chief with very little land, and even less power.”

“Well, he ’s makin’ a name for himself. Perhaps he means to become a great chieftain.”

“Brehon law won’t allow it,” I argued.

Owen’s face was grim. “Brehon law . . . ,” he said but never finished.

I knew he was thinkin’ the old laws, the Gaelic way of life, were under attack and might be lost.

“Da—” I began.

“I won’t surrender, Grace.” The tone of his voice was dire. “I will never submit to the English Crown. I’ll die first, I swear I will.” The hand I placed on his arm found him trembling, for he was the last of a breed of proud men, and he could clearly see the future of Ireland loomin’ ahead. It sickened him, but he was old, and all his allies were dead or had forfeited the Gaelic order to the English, believin’ it the only way to preserve an ounce of power in the ever changing world. Then Owen looked at me, stared deep in my eyes, and I could tell he saw my own future there as clearly as he saw Ireland’s.

Not two months later I was home with Donal at Cock’s Castle when Donal Crone O’Flaherty came bangin’ on our door. He was in a state all right, red-faced and furious, with veins bulging in his forehead. “The feckin’ Queen of England has decided that Murrough ne Doe is too dangerous to ignore and too fierce to overcome.”

“What does she know anyhow?” said Donal. “He ’s a lesser chief and totally insignificant.”

“That’s what you’d think, but
no
. Lord Deputy Sidney has asked for Murrough ne Doe ’s submission, and he ’s given it quite willingly.”

“But what does a submission from someone like that mean?” said I.

“That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you. The English have thrown down Gaelic law,
deposed
me—the legitimate chief—and named Murrough ne Doe The O’Flaherty!”

“They have no authority to do that!” I cried.

“Well, they’ve done it. And Murrough is prancin’ about with his new title like he properly earned it.”

I caught sight of Donal out the corner of my eye. He was pacing before the fire and it was clear by his black expression that he understood the implications of such an act. For if Donal Crone was no longer The O’Flaherty, then my husband was no longer
tanaist
to that title.

The world we knew had suddenly, unalterably changed.

“We ’ll fight this!” Donal cried. “To the death!”

“Indeed we will,” Donal Crone agreed. “And God damn the English!” I was with them, of course, and I offered the support of my fleet for their battles. They would need the Scots Gallowglass to bolster their troops, and supplies and arms delivered. Yet I remembered the look in my father’s eyes, and saw his fears for the future suddenly realized. How, with a mere stroke of the quill, the Queen of England had overruled a thousand years of Gaelic law, and how from this day forward a monarch—not our own—would stand with one foot planted squarely on the beating heart of Ireland.

David Burke, The MacWilliam, shortly thereafter renounced his sub-mission and rebelled against the Crown, with Donal Crone and Donal O’Flaherty fighting by his side. But the English troops were strong and brilliantly armed, and David Burke—defeated—was forced for a
second
time to submit to Sidney. Within the year, he died. ’Twas shame that killed him, I’m sure of it. Like my father, he ’d been born into a world where a chieftain knew the boundaries of his lands, and within those bounds he ruled undisputed. Shorn of his dignity, David Burke could simply not live. Finula lost a husband and Richard Burke a father.

Richard, too young yet for high chieftain, stepped aside and Shane Oliverus Burke donned the MacWilliam mantle.

Soon after came a darker time, turmoil the likes of which I had not yet known. It started on a gorgeous autumn day, brisk, with silvery clouds crossin’ the sky like God’s own flotilla. Donal and I had taken to the wooded hillsides to the east of Lough Corribe to hunt together. We were happy, the two of us, like children again, laughing at nothing as we rode through the greenwood. I had raced ahead of Donal, throwin’ great clods of turf up behind me, chuckling to myself that he ’d be filthy at the end of the day—how he best liked to be—but I’d send him to the bathhouse and perhaps I’d go with him to soak. And if his temper stayed sweet, perhaps we ’d forget for the moment our battles and woes. We might even make love, the way we had done in our youth.

It struck me, sudden like, that Donal was farther behind than I’d reckoned, and here I’d thought we were racing. So I turned my mount around, ready with a mouthful of tart abuse for him, and rode back a ways through the wood. There was his horse up ahead, and there was Donal slumped over its neck. My eyes fixed on the thin shaft stickin’ out the back of him, and my heart lurched in fear. I rode quickly to him, knowin’ any moment an arrow might find me as well, but I had to bring him home. The arrow that had felled him had found its mark at the base of his head and torn through his throat. The horse was covered in Donal’s blood, and I hoped he had died quickly. But there was no time for wonderin’. I grabbed the reins and rode as fast as the horses would take us and not lose Donal from the saddle. I thanked Jesus there was a lone boatman at the edge of the lake who helped with Donal’s body, but as we rowed away to the castle, I looked back and saw a sight I would not soon forget.

There were the Joyces, half a hundred of ’em, gloatin’ over their kill.

And behind them, spread out along the ridge of the hill, was
a whole English regiment
. I tell you, it chilled the blood in my veins to see them on O’Flaherty land—invaders with no business for bein’ there a’tall. So the Joyces, bloody cowards that they were, had joined forces with the Crown to murder Donal, and now were ridin’ down from the ridge to the lake-side to besiege Cock’s Castle as well.

Of course there was no time to mourn Donal, only to prepare for battle. Like I said, those who lived on the island in the tiny village within the bawn were weary to the bone from the Joyces’ attacks. And if that wasn’t bad enough, their brave “Cock,” who’d always led them to victory, was dead. Sure
I
was alive and willing to serve in his place. My reputation meant something, and I’d fought at Donal’s side in previous attacks. But as a leader I was adept on the sea, a fine captain and pirate, but what did I know of fighting a siege on land? I saw the doubt in the people ’s eyes, and in my weaker moments even I despaired of my ignorance. But loathing self-pity as I did, I pushed aside such thoughts and very brazen like, strode out among them to speak.

“Aye, ’tis the godless Joyces who come again to do us mischief. But what soft-bellied cowards they’ve become! They dare not fight us alone but have brought the English to do their work! If those soldiers think our resolve will crumble at the mere sight of ’em, that we ’ll weep in terror and surrender this castle, then it’s a sure thing those soldiers have never done battle with the O’Flaherty clan!”

I must have been convincing, for the islanders cheered me, their eyes gleaming, their expressions full of trust. They awaited my orders.

“First,” said I, “we must assume a siege is ahead, and perhaps a long one. So gather all the food and wine you’ve got put by in your homes, and laying chickens and milking cows, and bring them to the keep. This evening we ’ll meet in the armory and take stock of artillery. If any of you men fought in David Burke ’s rebellion, come forward now, for you’ll tell me all you know of English strategies. We ’ll survive this, I know it. Donal O’Flaherty may be dead, but he ’s watchin’ us all, and if we fail to fight as bravely as he has for this castle, I promise you, his angry ghost will haunt you in this life as well as the next!” Well, I was right about the siege bein’ long. While they camped in comfort on Corribe ’s shore, the Joyces and the English kept us prisoners for a month on our own island, till we began to starve. Of course a starving enemy is a weak enemy, and once they believed our condition dire, the attack began. They came in dozens of small boats, carrying their guns, small cannon, and siege ladders. ’Twas hard to watch them cross the watery breach between us, we with much of our courage dissolved away with the flesh off our bones. Children cried as the men and women took their posts on the ramparts. So helpless a feeling it was, waiting and watching as they gathered outside the walls. I’d never wished so much for Donal O’Flaherty’s company in all my life, but there was no use moanin’ about it.