The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell (31 page)

He would kill Red Hugh O’Donnell the next time he saw him, throttle him with his bare hands. This was
his
prison.
His
wretched guards—

in a far-flung outpost in southwest Ulster, just over the border from Sligo.

Tibbot slumped down on his vermin-infested straw pallet thrown in the corner, and wrapped the one ragged blanket they’d given him round his bony shoulders, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. The cold was wicked and had been constant for the whole two months he ’d been imprisoned . . . or maybe it had been longer. Tibbot had, in the windowless hut, lost track of time, the days and nights much the same, the only sunlight falling through when the heavy door was opened and a bowl of watery oat gruel pushed through. Would he be blind, like a mole, when he was finally freed? A blind, bug-bitten skeleton with skin hanging off his bones?

“Another bloody blanket!” he shouted.

The next moment the door was flung wide open, letting in a gray light dulled further by heavy snowfall. Tibbot shielded his eyes, squinting to see who was clomping heavily into the tiny hut. But even when he saw the square, red-bearded face that topped the burly form he did not recognize it.

“Tibbot Burke?” the man said.

“Who else would it be?” he replied irritably.

The man leaned over and grabbed Tibbot by the arm more roughly than was necessary, perhaps in answer to the prisoner’s rudeness, and pulling him to his feet, marched him outside. Tibbot felt an unseen pair of hands throw a heavy cloak over his shoulders, and now another man was leading an old sag-backed horse toward him.

“You’re free to go,” said the burly, bearded man. ’Twas a simple statement delivered in a tone of disinterest, even boredom.

Tibbot found himself momentarily paralyzed. “Are you Red Hugh’s men?” he finally demanded, desperate that his shaking knees stay rigid and his body upright.

“Who else would we be?” said one, mildly amused.

“Then he ’s sent orders for my release?” They regarded him blankly, the snow swirling round them.

“Why are you letting me go?”

“Would you rather not be let go?” said the man with the horse.

“We ’d be glad to throw you back in your dunghole if that’s what you want.”

They all laughed.

“You better help him onto his horse,” said the red-bearded man. “I don’t think our food agreed with him. He ’s gotten very thin.” They laughed again and a moment later Tibbot, four hands grappling with him, found himself seated on the horse ’s back. The cloth saddle was damp and cold under his thin breeches. Still shocked by his abrupt release and fighting mental confusion, Tibbot sat as tall as he was able, but never moving.

“Go on, get out of here,” said the bearded man, “or we ’ll shoot you and be done with it.”

“Which way is south?” Tibbot asked.

As the three men turned away, one of them bothered to point, and the other slapped the horse ’s rump. It began a slow plodding in the wrong direction and Tibbot, with some effort, turned the poor creature around.

A moment later the three Ulstermen had disappeared into the snowstorm and Tibbot was alone.

Of all the miseries of his capture and hellish imprisonment of the last months, this moment, he realized, blinking back tears, had been the most humiliating. And Red Hugh O’Donnell had arranged for his humiliation. The man would pay, Tibbot promised himself as he headed south to Connaught and freedom. He would surely have to pay.

NEVER, OBSERVED TIBBOT, had his thoughts been so black.

He was alone in the dead of winter, riding south out of Ulster across the borderlands into Mayo, and neither his recently regained freedom nor the magnificence of the Sligo countryside could lift his spirits.

His spirits
. . .
what was left of them
.
Oh why had he not listened to his
mother?
She had tried to warn him of Red Hugh’s true intentions, but he ’d been pigheaded, choosing to believe what he wished to believe—

that the “Fighting Prince” was his ally. That he would support Tibbot’s bid, even over other Burkes who might have held superiority in years and qualifications. If only he ’d heeded Grace ’s warnings . . .

Instead he ’d traveled with all the Connaught clans to the Rath of Eassacaoide in Kilmaine—the ancient inaugural place—to what had been meant to be a true celebration of resistance, the MacWilliamship having for some years been outlawed by the English. All the clans had gathered in their numbers in peaceful anticipation when, to the sound of pipe and drum, in rode Red Hugh O’Donnell with eighteen hundred of his soldiers and Gallowglass. It was true that he ’d convened the election, and for that had earned the respect of the congregation. But he ’d gone too far when he ’d strode importantly with his bodyguard of burly Scots to the summit of the rath and taken a stand there like some Greek god, enclosing himself even further with a wide ring of armed protection.

The Burkes found themselves roughly excluded from this inner circle of power, and no one was permitted into Red Hugh’s presence unless he was summoned. All of Tibbot’s demands to speak with his old friend—his
patron
—had been summarily dismissed, and he began to worry that things might not go as he ’d planned.

Despite Red Hugh’s rude entrance, the elections had gone on as scheduled, with as much of the traditional fistfighting and shoving as serious deliberation. Red Hugh, as most expected he would, had refrained from interference, though Tibbot’s hopes for his help had been altogether dashed. Nevertheless, Tibbot—on his own merit—and three other men had been set apart as the most eligible candidates. But when all the votes had finally been cast and counted, William of Shrule had been chosen The MacWilliam. Tibbot was shocked and dismayed by the outcome, but it had been a fair election. Nothing, however, prepared him—

indeed, prepared any of them—for what happened next.

In the midst of the celebration of backslapping and congratulations, Red Hugh O’Donnell descended from the rath’s summit and shouldered his way in amongst the Connaughtmen. His guard unsheathed their swords and raised their pistols. He shouted above the outcry that The MacWilliam had been selected, but that William of Shrule was not that man. Theobald Ciotach would stand as the Burkes’ chieftain, and if anyone objected, they could fight him and his army right here, right now.

Of course no one had been prepared for a battle, and they were quite outnumbered in men and arms. But as the arrogant Red Hugh marched

“his” MacWilliam to the top of the rath, dozens of skirmishes broke out in the mass of clansmen and soldiers. Many were shouting in fury that Theobald Ciotach was but a green boy—a puppet who could never lead the Burkes but would gladly do his master’s bidding. Most turned away and spat in disgust as Red Hugh lay the ancient MacWilliam mantle round Theobald’s shoulders and raised the young man’s hand in hollow triumph. Domination by the English was repugnant, but it was clear to all that as the new Burkes’ chieftain would be ruled by an Ulster overlord, so too would Red Hugh expect to rule
all
the Connaught Burkes.

They’d been tricked by Hugh’s promises of restoring their age-old title, first usurped by the Crown, now debased by one of their own.

But among the clansmen there at the Rath of Eassacaoide that day, Tibbot Burke felt the most badly betrayed. His mother, God love her, had been right about Red Hugh O’Donnell.

And in the following weeks Tibbot saw that she ’d been right in another respect. The Queen of England had stupidly allowed her forces in Connaught to dwindle to nearly nothing, this at a time when Red Hugh’s army had grown to enormous proportions. But the effect of their diminishment had proven a blessing for Tibbot.
The English needed him
more than ever
. He was the only Irishman with a fleet of ships who knew the treacherous coastal waters, who could pilot their troop and supply ships safely into harbor. Grace O’Malley had as large a fleet as his, but it was well known that her sympathies lay with the rebels. With gentle handling and bribery—the English had come to believe—Tibbot Burke might still be wooed to their cause.

Indeed, he had given them reason to believe his sincerity. Within weeks of the false election, Tibbot had led his own forces against Theobald Ciotach’s soldiers. They’d been little more than skirmishes, but Tibbot’s persistence had demonstrated to Red Hugh his fierce defiance, and shown the English that Tibbot was willing to fight one of the Crown’s most dangerous enemies. Red Hugh had not been unaware of England’s interest in Tibbot and—conveniently forgetting his betrayal of his old friend—himself began to woo Tibbot to his side, to “the side of the rebellion,” he continued to insist. But Tibbot had decided he would not be fooled again by the “Fighting Prince of Ulster,” and indeed for many months enjoyed playing one enemy against the other.

With clever maneuvering he kept the English fearing that he would side with O’Donnell, and O’Donnell worrying that Tibbot might defect to the Crown.

But luck has a way of abandoning even the most worthy, and during one of the skirmishes near the border, Tibbot had been unhorsed and captured by Theobald Ciotach’s rebels. Disbelieving the Fates, he had been marched in chains through freezing, muddy bogs over the border into Ulster and a small encampment of Red Hugh’s army. He was thrown unceremoniously into a makeshift prison cell and left to rot, in total isolation. As the weeks dragged by, Tibbot realized that this incarceration was even more wretched than the one he ’d suffered at Bingham’s hands a few years back. In the English prison—even with the beatings and torture that had nearly crippled him—Tibbot had consoled himself with the knowledge that he was a political prisoner in a good fight. But now he languished in obscurity, his own countryman’s captive.

Never once had Tibbot been sent word from Red Hugh acknowledging that his respected opponent was in his custody. He had simply been abandoned and ignored.

In late December, traveling south into Connaught, the weather had gone from appalling to murderous. The pony had dropped dead under him, and Tibbot had been forced to trudge through thigh-deep snow for endless miles to the nearest settlement. The villagers had been hospitable enough for the week it took him to regain his strength, but they were loath to relinquish even one of their precious horses to him. It was only by revealing his identity and promising that Tibbot Burke would lead their men and the rest of Connaught to victory against the tyrannical Red Hugh O’Donnell that secured him a mount. There
had
been one tidbit of cheerful news to come out of the village. Sligo Castle was back in the hands of O’Connor and Donal Sligo, though the details of that triumph were unknown to his hosts.

Finally the blessed castle was within sight and Tibbot’s battered spirits soared. He could see that English soldiers were again garrisoned and guarding the moated castle, but this time they wore no blue livery, just the usual makeshift uniforms of the queen’s army. At the gate he stated his name and was instantly granted entry, and once again found himself being greeted warmly by his brother-in-law, who had thankfully not fussed over him, or harped on his scrawny condition. There were a few questions about his captivity, but Donal Sligo seemed rather relieved that Tibbot had little to say of it. In fact, once the obligatory questions about the state of Tibbot ’s family were concluded, Donal Sligo got straight down to business.

“Come with me,” he said. “You must meet our savior and—you’ll be most pleased to know—Richard Bingham’s replacement.”

“Bingham’s
gone
?”

“No, but seriously demoted. Sir Conyers Clifford is the new governor of Connaught, and he ’s brilliant. I promise you’ll like him very well.” They walked shoulder to shoulder to the garrison, Donal using the time to cram as much intelligence into Tibbot as the time allowed—how the Englishman, Conyers Clifford, despite his unquestionable loyalty to the Crown, had become a true friend of Connaught. He had thrown out Bingham’s brutal policies and done right by the Irish instead.

In the garrison office a well-built man of thirty stood poring over a map on a table. His long, sandy hair and tanned, even-featured countenance was very pleasing to behold.

“Captain Clifford, may I present my brother-in-law, Tibbot Burke, newly released from his captivity.”

Clifford smiled, revealing white, even teeth, and when he spoke it was with a rich and modulated voice. “Wonderful! Most honored to meet you,” Clifford exclaimed with what appeared to be the most genuine sincerity. They bowed to each other in the curt, military style of the English.

Tibbot was unprepared for the warmth with which he was being received by the man. “I’m very happy to be here,” he said, “and happier still to meet you, my lord.”

“No more pleased than the Privy Councils here and in England will be to know you’ve escaped Red Hugh O’Donnell’s clutches.” Tibbot quietly decided that it would serve no purpose to disabuse the Englishman of the true and pathetic circumstances of his release. He wondered briefly if he should, in fact, fabricate a story of an heroic breakout. But it proved wholly unnecessary. Tibbot, it appeared, was already thought a hero by the English.

“You’ve come home at a crucial time, Tibbot,” Conyers went on.

“We ’ve taken back much of the territory Red Hugh so boldly claimed for himself. Friends like Donal here are working with Her Majesty’s army to push them out of Mayo, and Connaught entirely.” Though he was able to hide it well, Tibbot felt himself momentarily confused.
Of course he wished the arrogant Red Hugh expelled from Connaught and punished for the miserable treatment he’d inflicted on him. But
Tibbot had not yet decided whether to fight on the side of the English, or not.

He needed time to think, and perhaps his mother’s advice
. . . “Have you news of my fleet?” he said, composing himself.

“Happy news indeed,” said Clifford. “All your ships lie in harbor, altogether intact at Burrishoole. I will send word to their captains of your return.”

Tibbot beamed with pleasure. The thought of reuniting with his crews cheered him immensely.