THE PERFIDY OF DESMOND.
“Ruari!” said Eva O’Malley; “here!”
It was that darkest time of night that preludes the day, and I could
see no one with any degree of clearness, but, guided by that beloved
voice, I went forward, nothing doubting.
Straining my eyes into the blank, I made out figures, moving towards
the gate; Eva came to my side, and we followed close upon them.
Mystified as I was at what had just occurred, it gave me a delicious
thrill of happiness to be near Eva, and to feel myself a free man again.
“Eva!” I said.
“Do not speak--do not speak,” said she, “we are not yet out of danger.”
In silence then we walked through the court until we had come to the
guard-house by the gate, and there we halted. One of those with us went
into the room, and I could hear, though indistinctly, the sounds of him
and others talking together.
Some long minutes passed, and the suspense was becoming unendurable,
when two men with lanterns appeared. Without looking at us they
proceeded to lower the drawbridge, the rattling of whose chains was to
me then the finest music in the world, and to open the gate.
“Quick,” said Eva to me, pushing me gently on.
I was over the bridge and on the further side in a flash along with two
others; turning back I heard an exclamation from the watchmen with the
lanterns, and some expostulations.
“’Twas not in the bargain,” I caught; then there were more words which
I heard too imperfectly to understand, but I recognised from the mere
tone of one of the voices who the speaker was.
And with this there dawned on me also whose was the voice I had heard
after I had been struck down. It was Dermot Fitzgerald’s! And he it was
who was our guide!
In what way he satisfied the watchmen I do not know, but, having done
so, he and Eva crossed the bridge. Then there was a whistle, and now a
horse neighed; and thereafter the trampling of chargers broke upon the
ear. The horse-boys brought the animals up to us, and presently we were
in the saddle, moving off from the castle notwithstanding the gloom,
Fitzgerald leading the way.
I wondered where we were going, but I had been told not to utter a
word, in the one brief sentence I had exchanged with Eva when we were
mounting the horses, and I followed on after her as I would have done
to the end of the world, but I was fair dazed with these strange,
fantastic tricks of fortune.
We had gone about a couple of leagues, as I conjectured, from Askeaton,
riding for the greater part of the distance through the forest, when
Fitzgerald stopped--and so did we all.
The darkness had grown perceptibly less intense, and we could now see a
sort of path among the trees.
“I have done what I promised you,” said Fitzgerald to Eva O’Malley.
Then he turned towards me. “Ruari Macdonald,” said he, “my debts to you
are also paid. Farewell, and God help and pity us all!”
“Dermot!” cried I.
But he was already past me, galloping fast and furiously, like one
hotly pursued.
“He has gone,” said Eva, and there was a sob in her voice.
In an instant I had leaped from the saddle, and was by her side. Her
form was bowed forward upon her horse’s neck, and her tears were
falling heavily, as I placed my arm about her waist, and drew her
towards me, heedless of those who were with us.
“Eva, darling,” I said. “What does all this mean?” Not that I cared to
be told at that moment; it was enough that we were together. I pressed
her to my heart, and kissed away her tears while she struggled with
her emotions. I spoke many words of endearment, and after awhile she
regained her calmness.
“Let us ride on,” she said at length.
“But whither are we going?” asked I.
“To the camp of Richard Burke,” she replied; “it is only three or four
miles ahead of us--so Dermot Fitzgerald said. And he has shown himself
our friend after all.”
“To Richard Burke?” cried I, more amazed, if that were possible, even
than before.
“Have patience, Ruari” said she, “you must soon know everything; but be
patient--”
“Our mistress?” asked I, at no time very patient, and now devoured with
questions.
“Wait a little, wait a little,” said she, and she broke into weeping
again, so that my heart smote me at the sight of her grief. But when I
would have taken her in my arms again to try to comfort her, she waved
me off, and, shaking up her horse, rode on in front.
The day breaking clearly as we went along, I observed that those behind
me were two women of my mistress’s and Eva’s, and the man I had brought
with me from _The Cross of Blood_ to Askeaton. My mind was now in such
a tangle that I had to resign myself passively, and to become, as it
were, rather a spectator of than a participator in what was going on.
In truth, I felt more at sea than ever before in my life, and was even
inclined to prick myself, like a boy, to see if we were indeed living,
or merely moving in some spectral land of shades and phantoms.
Nor did this air of unreality wear away until we had arrived at the
camp of the Burkes. But as we emerged from the trees into the open, we
were at once recognised by those on guard, for they had seen both Eva
and myself frequently in the galleys, and thus we were well known to
them.
They raised so loud and fervent a shout of welcome that the MacWilliam
quickly appeared on the ground to ascertain what was happening. He
gazed at us like one sorely puzzled; then, as he came forward to greet
us, there was an expression of alarm.
“Eva O’Malley!” he exclaimed. Then he came up to me, and as I held out
my hand he gasped with astonishment, for my hands were bleeding from
the unhealed cuts inflicted by the ropes with which I had been tied,
my dress was in disorder, and my feet, which were bare, were spattered
with blood.
“What has happened?” cried he hoarsely. “Where is your mistress? What?
What?”
“Fetch wine,” said I, partly to divert his thoughts, partly because it
seemed as if Eva were about to swoon. “Go, fetch us wine!”
“Yes, yes!” said Eva faintly. Then, with an effort of the will, she
added, “I will tell you everything--when I have recovered a little.”
Leading us to his tent, he called for wine, and when Eva and I had
drunk, and our attendants also, she and the MacWilliam and I were left
by ourselves, all the others being told to withdraw.
“Have you heard?” she asked, looking at Burke.
“Nothing,” replied he, “save that the Spaniards are come. The messenger
Ruari sent told me that de Ricaldo had arrived at Askeaton, and I have
since heard that their ships lie at Smerwick.”
“Nothing more?” asked Eva.
And he shook his head.
“I hardly am less in the dark than yourself,” said I. “All that I know
besides is that when I returned to Askeaton from Smerwick no more than
two days ago, I was set upon in entering the castle, overpowered,
knocked senseless, bound, and made a prisoner.”
“Made a prisoner!” cried Richard Burke. “God’s wounds! And why?”
“That I as yet know not,” I answered. “But Eva will perhaps inform us;
this very night did she and Fitzgerald deliver me out of Askeaton.”
Richard Burke gazed from one to the other of us, too much astonished to
speak. I looked at Eva, whose eyes were sad and weary, but the colour
was in her cheeks and her lips trembled only a very little.
“Yes,” said she, “I can tell you; but let me begin at the beginning.”
“More wine?” said I, and she took a sip from the goblet I handed to her.
“I am tired,” said she, with a moan like that of a hurt child; “but you
must know all, and that quickly. You remember the night in which Juan
de Ricaldo reached Askeaton?” asked she of me.
“I left some hours later that very night,” I replied, “to meet the
Spanish ships.”
“You remember also that two of the justices of Munster had come from
Limerick with a letter from the President demanding that Grace O’Malley
should be sent to him, so that he could cast her into prison?”
“I had not heard of that!” exclaimed Burke.
“Yes,” I said; “I well remember it.”
“Oh, how am I to tell it!” said Eva piteously, and I bled for her in
all my veins. “But say on I must. Perchance,” continued she, speaking
to me again, “you observed that Garrett Desmond was infatuated with
her, and that she did not rebuke him as she might have done?”
“It was to keep stiff that weak back of his,” said I, “and to get him
to declare boldly against the Queen.”
Richard Burke’s face was like a black cloud, and a groan, deep and
terrible, came from his lips.
“That was it,” said Eva. “Do I not know that it was?” said she to
Burke. “Ay, well do I know it. And Desmond, too, knows it now.”
“Desmond knows!” cried Burke more cheerfully, and he looked almost
happy. This was not my case. What horrible thing was coming? I asked
myself, for that something horrible had taken place I had no doubt
whatever, and my spirits sank like a stone.
“Listen,” said Eva. “Desmond sent back the two justices empty-handed to
the President, but what he bade them tell him I cannot say. When they
departed I noted their demeanour, and it was not that altogether of
men who were wholly dissatisfied with the issue of their mission. Even
then,” cried she, with a fierceness the like of which was never seen in
her before, “I believe he meditated treachery.”
“Treachery! A Desmond a traitor!” said Burke, upon whose countenance
the cloud had come back, for the drift of Eva’s words was clear enough.
“No sign, however,” said she, “did the Earl show of anything of the
kind. Never was he gayer than during the next few days, and I hoped
that all was as fair for Grace O’Malley’s plans as it seemed. Two days
after you had gone, Ruari, he and his chief men and our mistress and
myself, with a great host of attendants, went down the stream from the
castle, and made a visit to the two galleys lying in the bay.”
“Tibbot told me of it,” said I.
“Desmond had a purpose in it,” said Eva, “as I can see now. He wished
to show Tibbot his friendship for our mistress, and never after that
manifestation of it would Tibbot suspect, he thought, that there would
be aught amiss with her at Askeaton in so long as she was with him.”
“A shrewd trick,” said I bitterly.
“What has taken place? Where is Grace O’Malley?” cried Burke, restless,
troubled, tortured even.
“I know not where she is,” said Eva slowly, while the tears gathered in
her eyes. “I know not.”
“What?” cried he.
“Patience,” urged I, myself consumed with impatience, anger, and a
multitude of terrible passions.
“Let me go on,” said Eva, with a choke. “It was shortly after we had
returned from the ships,” continued she bravely--”three or four days
perhaps--when there was a great stir at the castle, for messengers had
come with tidings of the landing of the Spaniards. A letter, too, they
brought from Sir James Fitzmaurice, who was in command, as it appeared,
of the expedition. I questioned one of the messengers,” said Eva shyly,
“if he had seen you, Ruari, and he told me that he had.”
I secretly blessed my dear for this reference to me, but as I did not
desire to interrupt her story I kept silence.
“We were all in good heart,” said she, “by reason of the coming of the
men from Spain, and Grace O’Malley in particular rejoiced exceedingly.
Desmond himself, however, was strangely quiet. Then that night--How can
I tell you?” and she broke down utterly and wept aloud.
Burke’s eyes were full of fright, but mine too brimmed over when I
looked at my dear and saw her shaken with sobs. And I wept also, nor am
I ashamed of these tears of sympathy.
“’Tis no time to weep,” said she after a pause, and resumed her tale,
but in broken accents. “That night, as we were retiring to sleep, I
observed that Grace O’Malley had lost all her gaiety and brightness,
and was in some great distress of mind. I implored her not to withhold
her confidence from me, and to tell me what was her trouble.
“Then it appeared that Desmond had read to her the letter of
Fitzmaurice, and, when she had heard it to the end, declared that he
had placed his whole future in her hands, as he loved her passionately
and could not live without her. If she would consent to become his
wife, it would be a very easy matter to get a divorce from the
countess, and thereafter they would be married.”
“His wife!” ejaculated Burke.
“If she agreed, he said, to this proposal,” continued Eva, “she might
do with him and all the Geraldines as she had a mind, and he would
immediately put himself at the head of the rebellion against the Queen,
if that was her wish.”
Richard Burke, unable to control his feelings any longer, jumped to his
feet.
“What was her reply?” he demanded.
“Wait--wait for another moment,” entreated Eva.
“Patience,” urged I once more, though God knows I had no stock of it
myself.
“If she refused----” said Eva.
“She did refuse,” cried Burke.
“If she refused,” continued Eva, “to become his wife, then not only
would he not join with the Spaniards, but he would aid the English
against them. When she pointed out to him that he had compromised
himself both by his intercourse with Spain and with Fitzmaurice, and
also by harbouring herself, a proclaimed rebel, he hinted--for at first
he would not put his thoughts into so many words--that he knew of a way
in which he might very readily make his peace with the President of
Munster, and that was by sending to him a pledge of his fidelity to the
Queen, which he was well informed would be acceptable to him and to her
Highness.”
“Fidelity to the Queen!” exclaimed I, glowing with wrath.
Any child could have foreseen what was coming. My mistress had indeed
played with fire, and it needed no wizard to tell me that she had been
scorched by its flames.
“Grace O’Malley,” Eva went on, not heeding my interruption, “did not
fail to understand his meaning. She herself was the pledge of his
fidelity to which he had referred. She must give herself to him, or
he would betray her to the English; that, and not obscurely, was the
threat he made--that, and nothing else. And she knew that she was in
his power.”
“Horrible, horrible!” said Burke in anguish.
“Desmond,” said Eva, “strove, however, to conceal the trap under the
cloak of an appeal to her devotion to the cause. She had only to say
the word, and the standards of the Geraldines would be arrayed against
the Queen, and then, with the English so unprepared as they were,
success was certain. It rested with her. Hers was it to bid him go or
stay.”
It was a strong temptation, I thought, but I was too overcome to speak.
“Then,” continued Eva, “he sought to inflame her ambition. As his wife,
suggested he, might she not become not only Countess of Desmond and the
greatest lady in the south, but even Queen of Ireland, once the English
had been driven out of the country?”
Another strong temptation, thought I.
Desmond had certainly played his cards adroitly enough. He had sought
to touch her through her hatred of the English, her love for her
country, and her ambition--all powerful forces. Women had sacrificed
themselves, nay, had willingly given themselves, for less. And I could
well understand that to a soul like hers self-sacrifice was very
possible.
“But even,” said Eva, “in the background of all his speaking, there
lurked, like an evil beast, that hint of what he would do, if she
refused to submit herself to him.”
After all, I said to myself, Desmond was a fool, for that was the worst
way to address a woman who had the spirit of my mistress.
“To gain a little time, perhaps to escape from Askeaton,” continued
Eva, “Grace O’Malley asked to be allowed the night to consider what
he had said. And to this he agreed, saying roughly, however, as they
parted, that she must have her answer ready for him in the morning,
and that there must be an end to trifling. All this she told me, and
then we sought some way of escape, but Desmond had taken good care that
there should be none, for we soon found that we were prisoners.”
“She had no intention of consenting to Desmond,” said Burke, and his
voice was full of pride and joy.
“No,” said Eva, looking at him with kind eyes, notwithstanding the
grief in which she was.
“Go on, go on,” urged I, half vexed with them both.
“I know not,” said Eva, “what was said or done when the morning came,
but I have not even seen her since.” And her tears fell fast again,
while Burke and I were smitten into a gloomy silence.
“Have you heard nothing of her?” asked I, at length.
“One of my women--she is here now--found out that Desmond had taken her
to one of his castles nearer to Limerick than Askeaton is, with what
object may be easily guessed.”
Burke started up madly.
“What is to be done? What is to be done?” cried he.
“A moment!” said I, and I turned to Eva. “There is more to tell, is
there not?”
“Yes,” replied she. “After Grace O’Malley had been carried away I was
given a certain liberty, for I was permitted to move about a part
of the castle, although I was always watched. One day I chanced to
see Dermot Fitzgerald, and though he tried to avoid me as soon as he
perceived me, I ran up to him and caught him by the arm. I begged and
entreated him by our old friendship to tell me what had become of our
mistress, and what was going on.
“When he would not answer, I went on my knees,” said my dear, bravely,
looking at me, “and reminding him of what I had done for him when he
lay wounded, and of what Grace O’Malley had done both for him and de
Vilela, besought him to have some pity on me, a woman.”
“Go on, go on!” said I hoarsely.
“He was so far moved,” said Eva, “as to tell me that my mistress was
well, and that no hurt would be done me. Not that I thought about
myself. I saw him again once or twice, and besought him to find some
means by which I might communicate with Grace O’Malley, but he said
that was impossible. Then I implored him to set me free, but that, too,
he said was not in his power.”
Eva stopped speaking; then she began again, her voice strangely soft
and tender.
“I saw you, Ruari, carried up the stairs two days ago--bound, bleeding,
almost dead as it seemed, and Fitzgerald was along with the men who
bore you in their arms. Later that evening I saw him, and anxiously
asked what had occurred. I now perceived that he was unhappy, like one
burdened with remorse.
“Then he said that you had come to the castle unexpectedly, and that,
while it was deemed necessary to make you a prisoner, no violence had
been intended towards you. He declared that he would give all the world
if only it would put our affairs right again; indeed, he was like one
gone clean mad with trouble, exclaiming that he was the cause of all
our woes!”
“The cause of all our woes!” cried I.
“You remember Mistress Sabina Lynch, Ruari,” said Eva. “She it was,
said he, who had told the President of Munster to demand Grace O’Malley
as a pledge from Desmond of his loyalty to the Queen, and it was
through him--for he loves this woman--that she knew our mistress was at
Askeaton, though he had never meant to betray her.”
Verily, as I said before, if I failed in my duty when I suffered Sabina
Lynch to live, I was grievously punished for it.
“Yet not so does it appear to me,” said Eva, as if she had seen into my
heart! “For Desmond is Desmond--a mass of treachery, a thing, a beast!
But when I saw how Dermot Fitzgerald felt about the matter, I implored
him to try to set you, Ruari, at least, at liberty. And he was the
more ready to listen to me because of this very Sabina Lynch, for, said
he, she owed her life to you, and he wished to pay back the debt for
this woman, whom he loves.”
Richard Burke kept muttering to himself, repeating, as I thought,
“Sabina Lynch! Sabina Lynch!” and what else I could not guess.
“Next day,” said Eva, “a large number of the Geraldines left Askeaton,
and Fitzgerald, being won over entirely to me, told me he would
endeavour that night, there being but few men in the castle, to effect
your escape and mine also. In the evening the gallowglasses drank
deep--deeper even than they knew, for their wine and aqua vitæ had been
drugged--and then, when all was still, he came to me who was ready,
waiting. I asked him where you were, and he replied that he wished me
to go with him to you, as you would trust me, and not, perhaps, him.”
“I see it all,” said I.
“Going up to the room where you lay,” continued Eva, “we heard a noise;
that made us pause, then we went on again--and you know the rest. The
noise we had heard had so far alarmed us that we thought it best to
tell you what we did. Fitzgerald had seen to everything--said I not
rightly that he was my friend?”
And now Burke cried again, as Eva stopped speaking, “What is to be
done? What is to be done?” For myself, while I echoed his question, I
was in so great a coil that I was as one dumb.