“ONLY A WOMAN.”
“What is to be done?” asked Richard Burke.
“We must find out, first of all, where Grace O’Malley is.” It was Eva
who spoke, and what she said was true. Our mistress must now be our
chief--nay, our whole concern.
“Yes, yes!” cried I, roused to action, and looking with admiration at
this weak little woman, who had shown herself so strong.
“Let us call in the woman you spoke of,” said Burke. “She may remember
something which will put us on the scent.”
“I fear she has told me all that she knows,” said Eva; “but summon her
here.”
While we waited for her I was going over what Eva had told us, and
trying also to recall exactly what had been the words used--even more
than the words, the manner of Fitzmaurice--when I had parted from him
at Tralee. And as I considered the matter the conviction was borne
in upon me that he had had some information as to what had happened
in regard to Desmond and my mistress, but that he had purposely said
nothing of it to me.
For one thing, he had evidently intended to keep me with him, and so
to prevent me from returning to Askeaton; and, for another, he had
spoken of Grace O’Malley in a way which was little short of an insult,
and which I was quick to resent. Then de Vilela had intervened between
us, Fitzmaurice had made an apology, and I had left Tralee without
opposition or further words.
What had de Vilela said when I had declared that my place was with my
mistress? That I had spoken a true word, and I remembered that when he
uttered this it was with little of his customary serenity of demeanour.
I concluded, as I reflected on what had passed, that both Fitzmaurice
and de Vilela must have been aware--at least, to some extent, of
Desmond’s base conduct with respect to her.
Nor was the cause of this silence far to seek. But imperfectly
informed, most probably, of the whole circumstances, and what they had
heard having reached them from some source favourable to Desmond, they
were, perhaps, inclined to lay the blame upon my mistress.
Then, the Earl’s adhesion to the cause was so essential for its success
that whoever jeopardised it would be looked upon with hatred, and thus
they would be the more prejudiced against her.
Yet Fitzmaurice had himself told me in effect that he was not sure of
Desmond, and this before he knew anything of Grace O’Malley. Perchance,
however, he had persuaded himself that he believed what he wished to
believe.
And de Vilela? He had sprung to the defence of my mistress, but if
he knew what had occurred, why had he not spoken out? No doubt, I
told myself, it was because, while he was ready to uphold her honour,
he deemed that his duty towards his master, the King of Spain, was
paramount, and he had therefore submitted to Fitzmaurice, who was his
leader, and who had enjoined silence upon him. This, I surmised, was
the explanation.
How much did they know?
Could they say, I wondered, where Desmond had put my mistress?
Where was she at this moment?
The tire-woman had now entered the tent, but, although she was most
willing to tell us all she knew, she had no knowledge, it appeared, of
the place to which Grace O’Malley had been taken.
“A castle a few miles from Limerick,” and no more could we get from
her. And Desmond, or the chiefs who regarded him as their prince, had
more than one castle answering this description.
The important matter was that Desmond had not at once delivered her
over to the President of Munster.
First, he was trying to convince her that his was no empty threat; and,
second, to bend or break her spirit. But I knew that, while he might
succeed in the one, he never would in the other. And he would see this
so soon that I had no doubt whatever that at most not more than two or
three days would elapse before she had been lodged in the prison of
Limerick, for I was now certain of the complete perfidy of Desmond.
The man who could betray his guest was not likely to be true to any
cause. That he had sent Fitzmaurice’s letter to the President was,
I considered, a thing not only possible, but in the highest degree
probable. Thus the prospect on all sides of us was dark indeed.
Sooner or later, then, Grace O’Malley would be in the power of the
English, at the mercy of the President of Munster, a helpless captive
in Limerick gaol! She might be there already, for aught we knew, and
therefore it behoved us at once to endeavour to discover if she were
shut up in Limerick.
And, if haply this were the case, what could we do? What could my
mistress look for at the hands of the English? How could we assist her?
It might even now be too late, and my flesh crept upon my bones at the
thought.
“I will go to Limerick,” said I, as the result of my reflections; but
when we had discussed the matter it appeared to be better that someone
else should be sent.
“I am too marked a man.” said Burke; and one of his gallowglasses would
do as well, for, if Grace O’Malley were in Limerick gaol, there was not
a soul in that city who would not know of it, and thus anyone on the
spot could easily obtain the knowledge we sought.
I was not persuaded to this course without much difficulty, and Burke
himself was most determined at first to go; but there was the same
objection in his case that there was in mine. Neither of us could have
been long in the streets of Limerick without being recognised. At
length, a messenger was despatched, Burke going out from the tent to
tell him what he was to do.
No sooner had Burke left Eva and myself alone together, than my
dear fell a-weeping, as if her heart would break, all her wonderful
fortitude utterly gone. I took her into my arms--these great, strong
arms of mine, now weak and trembling like those of a little child--and
tried to soothe her grief. Perhaps my love and our common sorrow taught
us what to say, yet I spoke not of love at all. But what I said and
what she said about ourselves I cannot put into writing--and I would
not, if I could, for there are words and there are times which are
sacred beyond expression; and such were those words, and such this time.
She was my love and I was hers; and though we spoke not of it, we both
knew, and the knowledge of it folded us about like a garment.
Much, too, had we to say to each other about de Vilela and about
Fitzgerald, and how strangely they had passed in and out, out and in,
of the woof of our lives. She evidently had a kind of affection for
them both, and when I was inclined to question her about this she said
that they had both been wounded and helpless, and that she had nursed
and tended them, and so had come by this feeling. But ever as our talk
came back to Grace O’Malley our hearts were heavy.
The messenger whom the MacWilliam had sent to Limerick returned in the
evening. He had seen and had spoken to many of the inhabitants of that
city, and he could hear of nothing which indicated that Grace O’Malley
was there. We took courage from this report, hoping that the worst had
not come upon her. But the man had something more to tell us.
As he was on his way back from Limerick he had fallen in with a great
gathering of armed men, moving on eastward, some three or four miles
to the south of the city. These were Spaniards, he declared, and other
foreigners, as well as a large number of the Irish. And there were
priests with them, and in the midst of them a banner, all blue and
gold, with the figure of the Lord upon it.
This could be nothing other than the army of Fitzmaurice, accompanied
by Sanders and the standard blessed by the Pope.
I questioned the man narrowly as to the place where he had seen them,
and if he had heard where they were going. He replied that one had
told him that they were to camp that night on the banks of the river
Mulkern, not far from the Slieve Phelim Mountains, and that when he
met them they could not have been above two leagues’ distance from the
ground which had been chosen. Feeling fairly certain that Fitzmaurice
would be with them, and, perhaps, de Vilela also, I resolved to set out
at once for their camp.
If I saw Fitzmaurice, I would try to find out from him where Grace
O’Malley was, and, further, I was determined to appeal to him to
endeavour to prevent Desmond from carrying out his plans. As my
mistress had not been taken into Limerick, the probability was that the
Earl had not finally broken with Fitzmaurice, and that negotiations
were still going on between them. There was, therefore, a chance that
Fitzmaurice might prevail upon him to set her at liberty.
“Tell Fitzmaurice,” said Richard Burke, when I had informed him of what
I proposed, “that unless Grace O’Malley is released immediately, the
Burkes of Mayo will take neither part nor lot with the Geraldines in
this affair.”
This suggested to me a possibility I had not yet contemplated, but
I thrust it away from me, telling myself that Burke was too much
distraught to know what he was saying. But it kept coming back to my
mind, as I rode that night along with a guard of the Burkes towards the
Mulkern.
When we were within a few paces of the camp, which we found without
any difficulty, we were challenged by a Spanish sentinel. I could
not give him password or countersign, and he had raised his piece to
his shoulder to fire, when he suddenly dropped it again, saying he
remembered my face, having seen me at Limerick and also at Tralee.
Having asked him if Sir James Fitzmaurice was here, he replied that
he was, as were also the other leaders. When I told him that I had
business with Sir James, and when he saw how small was the guard
with me, he said he would take it upon himself to allow me to pass
within the lines, although it was contrary to his orders. He therefore
directed me, pointing through the camp fires, to the spot where
Fitzmaurice’s tent had been pitched.
And now I must put on record, as carefully as I can, what passed
between Fitzmaurice and myself, so that all men can judge whether
Richard Burke, Grace O’Malley’s lover, and I, Ruari Macdonald, her
servant, were justified in what we afterwards did, or not.
When Fitzmaurice saw me he was unmistakably surprised, for he started
violently as I entered his tent. Perhaps he had thought I was still
immured at Askeaton, and so out of the way; but that I know not.
Besides, when we had last parted it had been in no very friendly
fashion. Whatever his feelings now were, he put on a garb of welcome as
soon as his first surprise was past.
“Greeting--a thousand greetings!” said he. “You have come to join us?
How many men have you brought with you?”
“Greeting!” said I, then I fixed my gaze sternly on him, for if I was
right in the opinions I held all words of welcome were out of place
between us; and continued, “Sir James, I have not come to join you--not
at present, at any rate. That is not the business which brings me here.
I have come to ask you if you know where my mistress, Grace O’Malley,
is?”
I was in no humour to pick and choose what forms of speech I should
use, and I spoke out sharply.
“Sir,” said he, frowning, all his cordiality disappearing instantly,
“what should I know of your mistress, Grace O’Malley?” And there was a
trace of mockery in the way he uttered the last four words.
“Answer me, Sir James,” said I again. “Nay, you need not, for I can see
that you do know.”
“I have heard something,” said he, at length.
“Do you know how the matter stands between her and Desmond?” asked I.
“Do you know that she was his guest--invited by him to Askeaton? Do
you know that she has tried to bind him to the cause? Do you know that
he has told her that he has a passion for her, that he holds her as
a prisoner in one of his castles because she will not submit to him,
and that he has threatened to give her up to the English, and to make
common cause with them against you, if she will not yield herself to
him?”
Fitzmaurice said nothing, but sat scowling at me, and biting his lip.
“Have you no answer?” asked I. “You say you have heard something;
perhaps you knew all this before I left you at Tralee.”
Then changing my tone to one almost of entreaty, I said, “Sir James,
bethink yourself before it is too late. Nothing but evil can come from
these acts of Desmond,” and I gave him the message with which Richard
Burke had charged me. “Grace O’Malley,” I concluded, “must be set free,
and that at once. Do you know where she is?”
“Ruari Macdonald!” thundered he with curses, “you always had a proud
stomach! Who are you to speak to me in this fashion? What have I to do
with your mistress? What if I do know where she is? What affair of mine
is it? Go and seek Desmond.”
But he had said enough.
“You know where she is,” cried I, wildly. “Tell me, and I will go and
find Desmond.”
“Ay, and ruin all,” said he half to himself. “No, I will not tell you;
that would be but to add to the mischief. No! Grace O’Malley must yield
to Desmond, and then all will be well.”
“Yield to Desmond!” exclaimed I. “She will never do that.”
“Ay, but she will be forced to do so,” said he, with a horrible smile.
“Never!” said I. “I know her better than you do; she will die rather
than submit.”
“Then,” said he, fiercely, “let her die!”
“Is that your last word?” asked I, furiously.
He rose up at me like an angry beast, and, shaking his outstretched
hand at me, shouted, “Curses on you both! Who is your mistress, as you
call her, and what is she to stand in the way of a Desmond? Who is she
to come between us and the deliverance of Ireland? Shall a woman block
up the path--only a woman!” And on he went in his wrath, saying many
injurious things of Grace O’Malley, until at last he applied to her the
vilest of names.
As his rage swelled, and his language became more and more insulting, I
grew calmer, until I was possessed by a very devil of deadly coldness.
But when he used the expression I have hinted at, I could keep my peace
no longer.
“You lie!” said I, and out came my sword. Nor was he less ready;
and there we stood for a second facing each other, with the candles
flickering this way and that between us. Then he thrust his sword back
into its sheath, and saying, “What need of this fool’s blood!” shouted
loudly to someone outside the tent. There was the quick tramp of men,
and in came some Spaniards, with de Vilela at their head.
“You here!” cried de Vilela, when he saw me.
“Secure him, bind him,” said Fitzmaurice, pointing at me.
De Vilela looked from one to the other of us, his face very grave, but
did not stir.
“Bind him! I command you,” said Fitzmaurice.
De Vilela stood still.
“What!” shouted Fitzmaurice.
De Vilela said slowly, “May I ask, señor----”
“You may ask nothing,” yelled Fitzmaurice.
De Vilela went white to the lips; but he spoke with that habitual
courtesy of his, as, pulling out his sword and offering it to
Fitzmaurice by the handle, he said--
“I cannot do this thing, for this man is as my brother! I am your
prisoner also, señor. Do with me as you will!” Then this loyal
gentleman added, turning to the Spanish soldiers, “Long live the King!”
and they, too, said, “Long live the King!”
“Take mine!” cried I, holding out my sword to him--so moved out of
myself was I.
“Nay; that I cannot do either,” said he.
“Are you mad?” asked Fitzmaurice of de Vilela. “You must be mad. Has
that woman bewitched you too?” And he wrung his hands.
“Señor,” said I to de Vilela, “words have passed between Sir James
Fitzmaurice and myself about my mistress that can only be wiped out in
one way,” and I glanced at my sword.
De Vilela sighed.
“Señor Fitzmaurice will, I am sure, not refuse?” asked the Spaniard,
courteous as ever.
“No, I will not refuse,” said Fitzmaurice. “All men know me; but it
cannot be now.”
“Yes,” said de Vilela--Fitzmaurice had not taken the proffered
sword--”no one will impugn your courage. But if you do not refuse,
you will not seek to detain this man?” And he looked searchingly at
Fitzmaurice, who did not answer, but curtly nodded assent.
“Go, Señor Ruari!” said de Vilela; but I stood firm.
“Go,” said Fitzmaurice. “Do not fear, we shall meet again!”
“To meet again, then,” I said, and went out from the tent.
Summoning my men, I returned, darkly brooding over these strange
happenings, to the camp of the Burkes. I had failed entirely to compass
the object for which I had set out, for I was no nearer knowing
where Desmond had taken my mistress. But Fitzmaurice knew, and when I
recalled what he had said my heart overflowed with bitterness.
I would be just to this man, if I could. I can see now, looking across
the grave of the years, that he viewed my mistress solely in the light
of an obstacle in his path, and so he cared not what her fate was, so
long as she was out of the way.
“Only a woman!” he had said of her, and that she was only a woman
doubtless increased his sense of injury. But he forgot that it was for
“only a woman” that men have ever fought and died.
When I arrived at the camp, Richard Burke was waiting for me. When he
had heard me to the end, he said, “You should have killed him!” I had
had the same thought myself, but de Vilela and the Spanish soldiers
had come too quickly upon the scene for that. Besides, we should meet
again, and thus I comforted my soul.
“Let us to sleep,” said I.
“I cannot sleep,” said he, and I heard him pacing up and down through
the rest of what remained of the night, for though I shut my eyes, no
sleep came to me either.