E-text prepared by Steven desJardins and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Transcriber's note:
This novel was originally serialized in four installments in
_All-Story Weekly_ magazine from December 30, 1916, to January
20, 1917. The original breaks in the serial have been retained,
but summaries of previous events preceding the second, third,
and fourth installments have been moved to the end of this
e-book. The Table of Contents which follows the introduction
was created for this electronic edition.
NUALA O'MALLEY
by
H. BEDFORD-JONES
ALL-STORY WEEKLY
VOL. LXVI NUMBER 2
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 30, 1916
NUALA O'MALLEY
by
H. Bedford-Jones
Author of "Malay Gold," "The Ghost Hill," "John Solomon, Supercargo,"
etc.
This is a stirring, entrancing story of Erin when Cromwell was
campaigning, and when the fighting heritage that is every Irishman's
found vent through sword and ax and fire. You meet Brian Buidh, Brian of
the Yellow Hair, more thrilling than even your favorite movie hero; and
as for Nuala herself--well, just wait till you meet her!--THE EDITOR.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Part I
I. THE BLACK WOMAN. 177
II. THE BEGINNING OF THE STORM. 179
III. THE DARK MASTER. 182
IV. BRIAN LEANS ON HIS SWORD. 186
V. YELLOW BRIAN RIDES SOUTH. 191
VI. BRIAN TAKES CAPTIVES. 196
VII. THE BIRD DAUGHTER. 201
Part II
VIII. HOW BRIAN WAS NETTED. 419
IX. THE NAILING OF BRIAN. 424
X. IN BERTRAGH CASTLE. 429
XI. THE BAITING OF CATHBARR. 434
XII. HOW THE DARK MASTER WAS RUINED. 438
Part III
XIII. BRIAN RIDES TO VENGEANCE. 659
XIV. HOW THE STORM FARED NORTH. 664
XV. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE TARN. 670
XVI. BRIAN GETS HIS SWORD AGAIN. 674
XVII. BRIAN GOES A CRUISING. 679
Part IV
XVIII. BRIAN YIELDS BERTRAGH. 137
XIX. BRIAN MEETS THE BLACK WOMAN. 142
XX. THE STORM BURSTS. 147
XXI. CATHBARR YIELDS UP HIS AX. 151
XXII. THE STORM OF MEN COMES TO REST. 155
CHAPTER I.
THE BLACK WOMAN.
The horseman reined in as his jaded steed scrambled up the shelving
bank, and for a space sat there motionless, for which the horse gave
mute thanks. The moon was struggling to heave through fleecy clouds, as
it was hard on midnight; in the half obscurity the rider gazed around
suspiciously.
There was nothing in sight to cause any man fear. Behind him rippled the
Dee, and all around was desolation. Ardee itself lay a good two miles in
the rear, burned and laid waste six weeks before, and ten miles to the
south lay Drogheda. Indeed, as the horseman gazed about, he caught
sight of a faint glare on the horizon that drew a bitter word from his
lips.
Dismounting with some difficulty, owing to his cloak and Spanish hat, he
examined a long, raking gash in his horse's flank; then flung off hat
and cloak and calmly proceeded to bind up his own naked shoulder
beneath.
His was a strange figure, indeed, now that he stood revealed. He wore no
clothing save breeches and high riding-boots; an enormous sword without
a sheath was girt about his waist, and the caked blood on his shoulder
and cheek made his fair skin stand out with startling contrast.
About his shoulders fell long hair of ruddy yellow, while his face was
young and yet very bitter, tortured by both physical and mental
anguish, as it seemed. He bound up the deep slash in his shoulder with a
strip of cloth torn from his cloak, felt his wealed cheek tenderly, then
flung the cloak about him again and drew down his broad-brimmed hat as
he turned to his weary horse.
"Well, my friend," and his voice sounded whimsical for all its rich
tone, "you've had a change of masters to-day, eh? I'd like to spare you,
but man's life is first, though Heaven knows it's worth little in
Ireland this day!" With that he reeled and caught at the saddle for
support, put down his head, and sobbed unrestrainedly.
"Oh, my God!" he groaned at length, straightening himself to shake a
clenched and blood-splashed fist at the sky. "Where were You this day?
God! God! The blood of men on Thine altars--"
"Faith, you must be new come to Ireland, then!"
At the shrill, mocking voice the man whirled about and his huge blade
was out like a flash. But only a cackling laugh answered him, as down
from the bank above slipped a perfect hag of a creature, and he drew
back in alarm. At that instant the moon flooded out; his sudden motion
had flung off his wide hat, and he stood staring at the wrinkled
creature whose scanty garments and thin-shredded gray locks were pierced
by a pair of weird brown eyes.
Then he quivered indeed, and even the poor horse took a step backward,
for the old woman had flung up her arms with a shrill cry as she gazed
on the yellow-haired young man.
"The O'Neill!" The words seemed to burst from her involuntarily. She
craned forward, her hands twisting at her ragged shawl, and a flood of
Gaelic poured from her lips as she stared at the awe-struck man.
"Are you, then, the earl, come back from the dead? Ghost of Tyr-owen,
why stand you here idle in the gap of Ulster, where once Cuculain fought
against the host of Meave? Do you also stand here to fight as he
fought--"
"Peace, mad-woman!" exclaimed the young man, stooping after his hat.
"Peace, and be off out of my way, for I have far to ride."
The Gaelic words came roughly and brokenly from him, but the old hag
took no heed. Instead, she advanced swiftly and laid her hand on his
arm, still gazing into his face with a great wonder on her wrinkled
features.
"Who are you?" she whispered. "Tell the Black Woman your name, if you
are no ghost! For even as you stand now, once did these eyes see the
great earl himself."
"I am from Drogheda," answered the man, something very like fear stamped
on his powerful and bitter-touched young face. "My name is Brian Buidh,
and I ride to join Owen Ruadh--"
"Liar!" The old woman spat forth the word with a cackle of laughter.
"Oh, you cannot fool the Black Woman, Yellow Brian! Listen--Brian your
name is, and Yellow Brian your name shall be indeed, since this is your
will. Owen Ruadh O'Neill lies at the O'Reilly stead at Lough Oughter,
but you shall never ride to war behind him, Brian Buidh! No--the Black
Woman tells you, and the Black Woman knows. Instead, you shall ride into
the west, and there shall be a storm of men--a storm of men behind you
and before you--"
"For the love of Heaven, have done!" cried Yellow Brian, shrinking
before her, and yet with anger in his face. "Are you crazed, woman?
Drogheda has fallen; O'Neill must join with the royalists, and never
shall I ride into the west. Be off, for I have no money."
He turned to mount, but again she stopped him. It seemed to him that
there was strange power in that withered hand which rested so lightly on
his arm.
"The Black Woman needs no money, Yellow Brian," she cackled merrily.
"You shall meet me once again, on a black day for you; and when you meet
with Cathbarr of the Ax you shall remember me, Brian Buidh; and when
you ride into the west and meet with the Bird Daughter you shall
remember me.
"So go, Yellow Brian, upon whose heart is stamped the red hand of the
O'Neills! _Beannacht leath!_"
"_Beannacht leath_," repeated the man thickly.
There was a rustle of bushes, and he was alone, wiping the cold sweat
from his face.
"Woman or fiend!" he muttered hoarsely. "How did she know that last?
Yes, she was crazed, no doubt. I suppose that I do look like the
earl--since he was my grandfather!"
And with a bitter laugh he climbed into the saddle and pushed his horse
up the bank. The bushes closed behind him, the night closed over him,
but it was long ere the weird words of the old hag who called herself
the Black Woman were closed from his mind.
For, after all, Yellow Brian was of right not alone an O'Neill, but The
O'Neill.