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.”
“Grace O’Malley a prisoner?”
“That is what she is,” said Richard Burke. “She is not bound, nor is
she locked up in a room. Her every movement, however, is watched by
Sabina Lynch. While she may think herself a guest, and an honoured
guest, the hospitality is a mere pretence.”
“But why, why?”
“There are many reasons, as you well know,” he replied. “The mind of
the Governor is set against allowing any of the ancient customs of
the land; he is endeavouring quietly and skilfully--for he is not a
blustering bully as some others are--to reduce the power of the chiefs
and to make them pay tribute to the Queen. Where he does show his hand
plainly it is always to strike a deadly blow.”
“Yes, yes,” I said, impatiently. Grace O’Malley a prisoner, and I
sitting quietly in my ship! The thing seemed impossible--yet it was
true.
“No need for haste,” said he calmly. “Listen to what I have to say, and
then you will grasp the matter more surely. Sir Nicholas will offer no
violence if he can gain his point without it.”
“What is his point?” I asked.
“Is there any need to ask?” replied Burke. “Grace O’Malley is a
powerful princess in Connaught. She has her lands, her galleys, and
several hundred well armed men at her back. Is that not enough? Are the
English not trying to clip all our wings? But there is far more in the
case of your mistress.”
“Go on, go on!” I said.
“This,” said he. “The mind of Sir Nicholas has been wrought upon by
the merchants of Galway, who are ever about him, saying this and that,
offering him valuable gifts and such things as he loves.”
“To what end?”
“You know as well as I do, that these proud-stomached folk have no
great liking for us Irish,” said Burke. “Did you never hear that they
have a statute of the town that ’Neither Mac nor O’ shall strut or
swagger’ in the streets of Galway? There has always been, however, a
friendship between us Burkes of Mayo and one or two of the families
here, as, for instance, the Lynches, and I hear through them all that
is going on.
“Owen O’Malley plundered the ships of the Galway merchants, making
scant distinction between them and Spanish or French or Scottish ships.
Grace O’Malley shared in many of her father’s doings before he died,
and the people of Galway think that she has inherited her father’s
nature and disposition as well as his lands and ships, and that as long
as her galleys roam the sea there will be no safety for their vessels.”
The words were nearly the same as those Eva O’Malley had used when she
tried to dissuade my mistress from setting out from Clew Bay.
“What would they have Sir Nicholas do?” I asked.
“Break up her ships; scatter her people; hang, kill, burn, destroy
them; hold her a prisoner; or--for there is no advantage to be derived
from our shutting our eyes--kill her, too, by poison, perhaps, unless
she agrees to the terms of the Governor.”
Burke now spoke in great excitement, and with labouring breath; nor
could I listen to his words with any degree of composure.
“She will never agree to the Governor’s terms,” said I. “She is being
deceived, for she believes that Sir Nicholas is favourable to her suit.”
“Put that hope out of your mind,” replied he. “Sir Nicholas is merely
playing with her--with what object you can easily guess. It is for no
other reason than to make her ruin the more complete.”
I assented gloomily.
“Now we know what to expect,” I said. “We are forewarned and so
forearmed.”
“Your mistress pays no heed to warnings,” said Burke hotly.
I thought of the arrow and its message.
“The arrow!” I said.
“Yes,” he replied. “I could not send you word openly, so I chose that
way, getting one of my men, who is a famous archer, to send the shaft
into your ship.”
I thanked him warmly, remarking, however, that Grace O’Malley would pay
no attention to any warnings whatever, once she was resolved upon any
particular course.
“She must be told now of her danger,” he said, “and at once.”
“I suppose,” said I, “I can still see her.”
“That I know not,” he replied; “but news of your fight with Michael
Martin is all over the town, and you will have to walk circumspectly.
Sir Nicholas spoke of his meeting with you, and declared that all such
conflicts must be severely punished. Go not into Galway--unless with a
strong guard.”
The counsel was wise, but I was quite determined, if necessary, to
disregard it. My mind, however, suddenly went on another tack, and I
spoke out what my thought was.
“I must see her, and that without delay,” I said; “but you mentioned
that you were friendly with the Lynches. Could not Grace O’Malley be
sent a message through them? If the Mayor is not to be trusted, surely
Sabina Lynch, his daughter, cannot sympathise greatly with the dark and
terrible projects of the Governor. Would she not convey a letter to my
mistress?”
Richard Burke looked at me fixedly and searchingly.
“That is doubtful,” said he, at length. Then he added, “I do not think
that we can place our confidence in Sabina Lynch in anything that
concerns Grace O’Malley.”
“Why?” I asked simply.
He did not answer immediately, but stopped and pondered awhile before
he replied--
“I am about to tell you, Ruari, what I never thought to say to you or
any other living soul. But the need is urgent, and I must speak. The
Lynches and myself are old friends. I have known Sabina Lynch since she
was a child, and I have been made aware in many ways--there is no need
to go further into that--that I am not displeasing to her now she is a
woman. And her father has as much as intimated that he regards me with
eyes of favour.”
I saw it all in a minute. Sabina Lynch loved Richard Burke, and Richard
Burke did not return her affection. Did Sabina suspect that she had a
rival? Did she regard Grace O’Malley as a rival? These questions passed
through my mind with the speed of light.
“What has Sabina Lynch to do with Grace O’Malley?” I asked.
“I will not conceal from you,” said Burke, “that I am not in love
with Sabina Lynch, but am in love with your mistress. Once I imagined
that it was Owen O’Malley’s intention to wed you to his daughter, but
neither you nor she has a passion for the other. Is it not so?”
“Yes,” I replied. “She is an elder sister to me--I am no more than a
younger brother to her.”
“I love Grace O’Malley,” said he, “with all my soul and with all my
strength. I mean to ask her to be my wife----”
I broke in harshly.
“This is no time, surely, to talk of such a matter,” I cried, “now when
she is a prisoner, and helpless in the hands of people who are her
bitter enemies. Rather let us cast about for some means of delivering
her.”
“I ask nothing better,” said Burke, “than to assist you--only remember
it is not well to place any confidence in Sabina Lynch.”
Then we spent the next hour discussing plans, and having formed one
which had some promise of success, Burke left the galley as secretly as
he came--his boat disappearing into the darkness of the night.
After he had gone, I tried in vain to sleep, and finding my thoughts
but dismal company, had myself rowed over to _The Winged Horse_, where
I saw Tibbot, the pilot, whom I informed of the visit of Richard
Burke, and of what we had concerted to do for the deliverance of
Grace O’Malley. And as we could not foresee what the next step of
the Governor might be, it was agreed that Tibbot’s galley should be
kept ready for instant action, and to provide against any surprise
by keeping her out in the bay, at such a distance that she should be
out of the range of the calivers and bombards mounted on the walls of
Galway.