Grace O'Malley. Machray Robert. Machray Robert
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