Fugitives! (13 page)

‘Who is he?’ said a voice. James woke with a start, pushing frantically at the cloak that had fallen over his face. He stared into a blind of light. ‘Well, I’ll be damned if it isn’t the young master.’

‘How did you find me?’ he asked as he struggled to his feet, brushing off leaves and twigs from the forest floor.

‘Wouldn’t have, only your pony has friends from the stable back home and gave a whicker; that brought us over. But, if I may be so bold, what are you doing here?’

James explained how he had travelled inland to intercept them.

The castle captain shook his head in disapproval and then shrugged. ‘Well, it wasn’t in my orders to send you home, so you’d
best come with us. If we get even half the number of cattle we’re looking for we’ll need all the cowhands we can muster.’

James bristled at being called a cowhand, but was relieved not to be sent home. The captain relaxed then, and let James ride beside him. ‘I have letters of introduction from your father to O’Neill’s tenants, and a request that they yield to us the cattle that is due on their rents, but I suspect it will be like getting blood from a stone. Your father was a hero after Kinsale, but I reckon the thought of giving anything to the king, let alone Chichester, will stick in their throats.’

‘What if they don’t cooperate?’ asked James.

The captain reined back so they could talk in private. ‘My instructions are to take what we can and explain later. We can’t expect a welcome.’

‘Yesterday I heard something that might be of interest,’ said James. ‘I was told by a local that there is a big muster of cattle somewhere north of here. Do you think they got wind of us and are moving their cattle north to be out of our reach? Our work would be half-done if we could surprise them.’

‘Well, lad, that
is
interesting. If you’re right, they will likely be well guarded. I think I’ll send a scout ahead to see what we’re up against.’

Just before dusk the captain called the whole party to order. ‘This is the plan. The cattle are gathered in a large clearing in the forest ahead. There must be a hundred and fifty there. They seem to have
been there for some days, probably mustered so they can be driven north out of our reach. There are herdsmen at intervals about the clearing, but they don’t seem to be expecting trouble. You will probably spot them at night by their camp-fires. Their main camp is to the north, which is strange if that’s the way they’re driving, but there may be some reason for it. I propose to split our party into two. I will lead our better-horsed men in a loop around the herd to attack their camp, cut loose their horses, knock down their tents, beat a few backsides, and make a lot of noise. The rest of you will work on foot and in pairs. You will locate the herdsmen, and then wait for a musket shot that will tell you we are attacking the camp. You will then overpower the guards. Remember, all of you, that these men are not our enemies, they are just tax dodgers. I want no loss of life. Use the flat of your swords if you have to defend yourselves. Any questions?’

‘May I ride with you?’ asked James.

‘No, son, sorry. I could never face your father if you were injured. You will guard the horses we’re leaving behind. There’s a small clearing just off the road that will be our base.’

James opened his mouth to protest, saw the look on the captain’s face, and clamped his jaw. At least he hadn’t been sent home.

Night was falling as the raiders moved north, riding in single file on the grass verge, their hooves thudding softly. This way they could melt into the forest if anybody came towards them. When they reached the clearing that was to be their base, they made neat piles of all unnecessary equipment, ready for quick retrieval at need. James, determined to do his humble job well, hammered in stakes
and roped off a corral for the spare horses. Then, with strips torn from his spare shirt, he went over to the captain’s horses, binding links and buckles to muffle any clinks that might give warning of their coming. As soon as they were ready, the raiders moved away, dark shadows melting silently into the forest. The foot soldiers set off a little later to begin to locate the guards around the herd. James was left alone.

He eased his sword in its scabbard and listened to the night sounds against the distant lowing of cattle. He moved among the horses, talking to them, checking their tethers, fondling their ears. While he was doing this, silent as a cat on soft paws, the moon rose above the trees and flooded the clearing with silver light. He could see a mouse, caught unawares in the open; for one fateful second it sat there, twitching its whiskers. Then, with a silent whoosh, it was gone, and the owl that had taken it rose above the trees.

Time wore on. James explored every inch of the clearing until he knew every bump and hollow on its surface. It had probably once been someone’s small-holding. Ridges crossed it where a vegetable garden had once been.

That’s it!
The musket shot – the signal. James’s stomach tightened into a knot. Distant shouts – another shot – then nothing. Were the cattle lowing more? Or less? Now a sound … he cocked his head.
Horse’s hooves, surely?
A smile of relief grew on his face.
Success!
The hooves were closing fast now.
But those are pony’s hooves
– James was alert –
and we don’t have any ponies apart from mine.
The patter of hooves on the forest floor slowed. Suspicion pricked his neck, his
spine; he put his hand to his sword and stepped out into the clearing.

At that moment a pony came into sight, picking its way delicately through the lush grass. Recognition hit James like an arrow between the eyes.

‘Fion O’Neill,’ he called, ‘dismount! Your challenge still stands. We have unfinished business between us. Are you armed?’

‘So, you have turned cattle thief, James de Cashel. Yes, I am armed, but stand back while I tether Bracken here.’

They stood, swords glinting cold in the moonlight and went through a ritual of stroke and counter stroke, both clumsy for lack of practice. Soon, however, they warmed to their work.

James was confident; he had always been the better swordsman. Hadn’t he disarmed Fion the last time they had fought? Also, he knew the ground inside the clearing and that would be an advantage, though Fion could surprise. Let the fight start in earnest. He was ready.

‘When you’re ready – if ever!’ mocked Fion.

And James rose to the challenge and fell on Fion like a fury. Their swords flashed in the cold light until they seemed to spin a web around them.
Fion is good, but I am better!
James chanted to himself. All he needed now was one small mistake from Fion and he would have him. He had been forcing Fion back and back; now James pretended that he was tiring, and began to retreat himself, feeling the ground behind him with his feet. There! The first of the old plough furrows. Without showing any sign of what was underfoot, he glided over it, lowering his sword – like a bird
feigning a broken wing, drawing Fion on. In a second, Fion would trip and the fight would be over. James wiggled his sword as a child might entice a kitten.
Now!
As if in slow motion, he saw Fion lurch, as his foot caught on the ridge and he begin to pitch forward. Mesmerised by his own success, James watched him topple. But Fion didn’t fall. James could only look as Fion converted his fall into a dive. Then throwing his sword aside, he reached out and grabbed the hilt of James’s sword.
That’s cheating!
thought James as Fion’s hands clamped on his like two vices, the force of the boy’s dive throwing him back. As he fell, James felt his sword wrenched from his hand. In a second they were both on their feet, but now Fion was holding James’s sword.

‘Surrender!’ Fion demanded.

James could only stare at his empty hands. Fion’s discarded sword glinted invitingly from the grass, but Fion saw his eyes move.

‘Don’t even think of it,’ he snapped. ‘Surrender, James de Cashel – admit defeat, and declare that our quarrel is over, now and forever.’

‘I surrender,’ said James; he had no alternative.

‘And admit defeat!’

James, looking up the length of his opponent’s sword, replied reluctantly, ‘I admit defeat.’

‘And that our quarrel is done; is over–’

But this was too much. ‘No, Fion O’Neill, our quarrel is not over, now nor nev–’ But James never finished that sentence because at that moment he saw the cold glint of steel as the blade in Fion’s hands flashed down, and everything changed.

Fion, still panting from their fight, had held his sword steady, a sliver of deadly steel pointing directly at James’s throat. The boy had surrendered, accepted defeat, all Fion needed now was to know that their quarrel was over. One word and he would tap the flat of his sword on James’s shoulder, the victor’s touch, and their quarrel would be over, obliterated forever. James’s ‘No’ came like a thrust to his heart.
I’ll show him what fear is
, he thought and, with that, Fion swung his sword in a sweeping arc, meaning to bring the blade whistling down to pass a bare inch from James’s shoulder. But it wasn’t a bare inch. Perhaps James’s sword was an inch longer than his own, perhaps it was a trick of the moonlight – certainly James never flinched – but Fion felt his blade meet flesh, saw the black slit in James’s shirt, and saw the swift spread of blood through the linen. With an involuntary cry, he leapt forward, throwing the sword aside.

‘James, brother, I didn’t mean it!’ He pulled out his kerchief and frantically clapped it over James’s wound. Then he wrapped his arm about him as if by holding him close he could somehow stop the flow. It was minutes before he dared to look at the wound, lifting his kerchief momentarily to judge the depth and extent of it. It was, in fact, hardly more than an inch long but it was deep, and the blood welled up quickly as soon as the pressure was released. He replaced the kerchief and held on to James as before, fighting back huge sobs of regret. Then at last he felt James relax, and realised that he too was crying, not from pain, but from relief – patting Fion on
the back, telling him, as he couldn’t in words, that their quarrel was over. And so they stood until he heard James say, a little weakly, ‘If you don’t mind, Fion, I think I’d like to sit down.’

The boys sat side by side until the moon handed night over to day. At some stage, Fion did a proper bandaging job on James’s wound. He hardly noticed when James’s captain returned, red-faced, to explain how the cattle that they had planned to raid had, in fact, been gathered for them on the orders of Hugh O’Neill.

This was not news to Fion, for only the presence of Hugh O’Neill’s nephew, with proper letters of introduction, had persuaded the farmers to give up their cattle, if only in ones or twos. News of Chichester’s demands had caught up with the O’Neill party within hours of Chichester’s departure, and Uncle Hugh had been furious. ‘Three hundred is outrageous, and he knows it. He is just trying to put a wedge between us,’ he had stormed, ‘and I won’t let that happen. And what the devil is this nonsense about Sinéad? Thank God Malachy didn’t let Bonmann take her away. That man is evil! He doesn’t want
her
, he only wants their land.’ Fion was dispatched immediately.