Fugitives! Read online

  In fact, Dr Fenton was a good teacher. At Father’s insistence, he taught them through English, joking about ‘knowing the language of the enemy’.

  But two months ago, after a visit to Dublin, he had surprised them all by suggesting to Sir Malachy that James, ‘as future head of the family’, should come to his house for private lessons in Latin. Sinéad and Fion teased James over the ‘head of the family’ bit, but secretly wondered how James would manage. ‘He can hardly remember the days of the week, let alone Latin!’ scoffed Sinéad.

  His first lessons had indeed been a misery. He could no more master Latin grammar than he could sew a fine seam. Sweat ran off him in rivers as he struggled with ‘mensa, mensa, mensam’. What did it all mean? Why not just call it a table? he groaned. Disgrace was looming – he’d be sent back to Father, a failure.

  Then, quite suddenly, everything changed. Dr Fenton pushed his books to one side and said, ‘I hear you are a fine swordsman, James?’

  Bemused by the change of direction, James admitted that the Master at Arms had said he was quite good.

  Dr Fenton beamed. ‘Aha, I see the modesty of a knight in you!’ James could only blush; he rather liked the reference to knighthood. Fenton went on: ‘Let’s forget the Latin, James. I just needed to know where your talents lie. I have a proposal for you. How would you like me to teach you about the great generals of Roman times: Caesar and Scipio – or Agricola, who brought the Legions to England, or Hannibal, who crossed the Alps with elephants? What d’you think, James?’

  James’s jaw had dropped. ‘Oh how wonderful. But what about Father?’

  ‘As we say in law, we must tell the truth, but we don’t have to tell all the truth. This will be our little conspiracy, eh?’

  Dr Fenton knew how to fuel James’s imagination. In one lesson James would imagine himself in Roman armour leading his platoon through the sea-spray to conquer Britain, and in the next would be struggling with Hannibal in the alpine snows. On top of this was the added thrill of secrecy, not just from Father, but also from Fion and Sinéad.

  About a month ago there had been a change. One day Dr Fenton moved his chair closer to James’s and lowered his voice. ‘Let’s move on from the Romans, James, because, you see, we Normans are part of history too.’ Over the next weeks his tutor gradually drew James into new and dangerous territory. ‘It was we, James, who brought civilisation from France to England after the battle of Hastings in 1066. As a result, England is civilised now – but what about Ireland?’ He fixed James with his slightly bulbous eyes. ‘When the Leinster chieftain Dermot Mac Murrough invited us to come to his aid here, there were too few of us to civilise the whole of Ireland. We failed, and became more Irish than the Irish. So, you see, what the English are doing in Ireland now is really the work that we Normans left undone five hundred years ago!’

  James was stunned. It was the complete opposite to what he had been taught. ‘But – Father – Uncle Hugh – are they wrong to be fighting against England, then?’

  ‘Yes, my boy. They belong to the old order, but you belong to the new. Think of the great generals I have been telling you about – they didn’t become great by backing losers. You owe it to your father to think for yourself.’ Again he dropped his voice. ‘Do you want to end up like Hugh O’Neill, hunted from pillar to post like an old wolf? Do you want to blunt your sword cutting ferns for your bed? One day he’ll be gone, and whose side will you be on then? With the squabbling Irish, whose only interest is to steal each other’s cows? Or will you come out to support the English and King James, whose one wish is to bring peace and prosperity to Ireland? You won’t be alone. While Sir Arthur Chichester leads the English side, you may trust him with you life.’

  Just once the old rebel flared in James. ‘I can’t do this behind Father’s back!’

  But Dr Fenton had a reply ready. ‘Of course, tell your father if you wish. You could always tell him in Latin.’ James quickly forgot his scruples.

  And now he had murder on his mind, at least when he was half-asleep! When should he confront Father and tell him O’Neill was no longer welcome? That the Earl of Tyrone was a loser? Fenton would know.

  James set out for his tutor’s house, weaving through the small town of thatched buildings that crowded about the castle tower. There were workshops – a forge, an armoury, a shoemaker – barns and stalls, not to mention the cottages and houses for castle staff and labourers on the farm. Closest to the keep were the kitchens, separate from the castle for fear of fire. Dr Fenton’s house was just beyond the kitchens. ‘Close to his dinner!’ Sinéad had commented, eyeing their new tutor’s bulging gown.

  Dr Fenton always insisted that James come to his house only at lesson time, but James desperately needed his advice now. He knocked. No reply. Fenton wouldn’t want him hovering outside, so he lifted the latch and stepped inside. The room was dark except for a widening wedge of light at the back. The tutor was opening the back door to someone else’s knock. James could see him in silhouette, and beyond him a face James recognised: the pig-swill man. What on earth could Fenton want with the pig-swill man?

  Now he heard the pig-man’s voice. ‘They’re coming, Master!’

  ‘Good!’ Dr Fenton started to close the door.

  ‘A shilling, your worship. You promised!’

  A shilling! Is Fenton buying a whole herd of pigs? James wondered.

  There was a brief argument, then the door closed and Dr Fenton turned into the room, smiling broadly and rubbing his hands. He saw James and started. ‘Good heavens, James! Did you hear – no, it doesn’t matter – you wouldn’t understand. Why this sudden visit?’

  ‘I’ve come to tell you, I’m going to tell Father that Uncle Hugh is no longer welcome here. It’s time I stood up and–’ He saw Fenton’s face change from irritation to dismay, and stopped.

  ‘James, dear boy, this is not the moment, truly it isn’t. You see, I’ve just – you could ruin everything. Believe me, this is the very moment when we must make the Earl of Tyrone very welcome indeed. Great things are afoot.’

  James, irritated, started to walk up and down. What was going on?

  Dr Fenton seized him by the elbow. ‘Calm yourself, James. You are like David looking for Goliath.’ He had an idea. ‘Why don’t you practise on young Fion instead of the Earl? A little rough and tumble won’t harm him. He is the Earl’s nephew, after all. But you must go; I have business to attend to,’ and he almost pushed James out the door.

  Damn it, thought James angrily, he’s treating me like a child. But I’ll have it out with Fion. He’s had it coming to him.

  CHAPTER 3

  Through the Eye of a Hawk

  inéad had been looking forward to meeting Con, and was disappointed when she learned that he’d gone off without telling anyone. He had been asleep when she had gone up to bed and looked in on where the boys were sleeping. He was just a hump on the family-room floor, a flicker of red hair showing from the top of his blanket. Mother had been worried when he couldn’t be found in the morning, and had made them search the castle for him, but when they told his father that they couldn’t locate him, Uncle Hugh just said: ‘Oh don’t worry, he’ll turn up! He has a new pony and I’ll bet you anything it’s gone too.’ And sure enough, the pony was gone.

  Con’s father was ‘Uncle Hugh’ to the family, and a great favourite of Sinéad’s. Usually when Uncle Hugh came, he would make time to chat to her and tell her of his latest adventures, but this morning to her annoyance, after talking to Father he’d locked himself away in the guest room saying he had to write a letter, and was not to be disturbed.

  With her plans frustrated, she announced that she was off to the butts to fly her hawk and that the boys should come too as their birds needed a proper free flight. Flying the birds was an escape for her and a chance for her to imagine herself flying with them high above the castle. The boys joined her willingly enough. But when they got down to the butts and had put their birds on their perches, all James did was t
o needle Fion. Sinéad sighed.

  She remembered the day when they were all just six, and Fion first appeared in their lives. Mother explained that the Earl of Tyrone had brought his nephew, Fion, to be a foster brother to James. It was quite a ceremony. The family gathered and the two boys were introduced. They walked around each other like terriers, with their hackles up, spoiling for a fight. Then, all at once, a strange man with flaming red hair and beard swooped on Sinéad, picked her up, and swung her on to his shoulder, saying in a loud voice: ‘Hear ye – you boys – behold your sister, Sinéad of the Even Hand! Listen to her wise counsel or I’ll come and beat the nonsense out of ye myself.’ Everyone had laughed and the ice between the boys was broken.

  That was the first time anyone had called her Sinéad, Irish for Jane, the name she had been christened; she thought it lovely, much nicer than Jane, so she kept it. That was how her friendship with Uncle Hugh began. Later, when Father came back from the battle at Kinsale with a wound that kept him on his couch for much of the time, Uncle Hugh was especially kind to her, telling her how valiant her father had been. He would come to the castle unannounced, night or day, and whether he stayed for an hour or a week, he never failed to ask for her.

  ‘Where’s my Sinéad?’ he would roar. When she was younger he would take her on his knee, but he always talked to her as if she were grown up. He would tell her of the fine ladies he had met when he was in England, or of a wild-boar hunt on the shores of the lakes in Fermanagh, or of picnics and great feasts laid out on the ferns. She loved the rich Irish that he spoke, which had her dreaming of deep woodlands and wild mountains. He told her how her family, the de Cashels, were Normans who had come to Ireland as conquerors years ago, and how, in time, they had taken Irish princesses to be their wives, and so had learned the Irish language and Irish ways. In exchange, they had brought civilisation to wild men like him, which was the reason he had sent young Fion to live with them, so Fion could have manners put on him.

  When Fion had first arrived, she and James had deeply resented the newcomer. The twins had got on fine together up till now and didn’t want another of their own age in the castle. She and James did their best to make the poor boy’s life a misery. But it didn’t last long. In no time their old nurse was complaining that despite his devilment Fion could charm the birds out of the trees, and they were discovering that life in the castle was a lot more fun with Fion joining in. Fion was the one who had the wild ideas, while James was the one to carry them out. It was a good mix. Fion had the red hair and broad shoulders of his uncle; beside him James looked slight, dark, swarthy, and intense, a Norman to his fingertips. Sinéad had given up joining in their arguments, which were usually about boys’ things anyway; she just patched things up afterwards.

  Now she sighed. Bother them! Wasting a good morning like this, arguing. Every day it’s getting harder to get away from Mother and Kathleen, and those boys are just ruining it. I hate cooking, I hate sewing, and if Kathleen talks once more of a handsome husband I’ll kill her. Come on, Saoirse, let’s fly.

  For safety, the butts, where people came to practise archery, were outside the palisade that enclosed the castle and the castle village, so they made a perfect space for flying and training hawks. They were falcons really, valuable birds that had been trained to return to their owners and to swoop on their prey, sweeping down from on high to pounce on the lures the children threw for them. The birds knew the children’s voices and would come on a call or whistle. Today, however, they were restless. They were disturbed by the boys’ raised voices, and kept turning their hooded heads, as if longing to see what was going on.

  Sinéad talked continuously to them, chirruping softly. Her bird, Saoirse, was a male peregrine, and therefore smaller and lighter on her wrist than the fierce females that the boys hunted with. The three birds stood proudly on their perches, their yellow claws digging into the wood. She talked to the females first; then she went over to Saoirse, and stroked his breast, watching the speckled brown and gold feathers spring up behind her finger. When her strokes had calmed him, she eased the soft leather hood from his head, and slipped her leather gauntlet onto her hand. He eyed her fiercely. Then, holding onto the light leather jesses that hung from his ankles, she encouraged him to hop onto her wrist. At last, with an encouraging whistle, she lifted him high, released his jesses, and tossed him into the air.

  Up, up, up he went as she squinted into the sunlight, then up, up, up she went too, taking flight with him in her imagination. The voices of the boys faded. This was her escape from earth-bound things. There was Saoirse soaring above her, waiting for her to catch up with him. Then, with a wild mew, he peeled off, circling the butts, and Sinéad could feel the draft of air that picked them both up as they soared away towards the castle. Nothing mattered to her now but the next stroke of his wings.

  The grim walls of the castle – her home but also her prison – slipped away below her. A drift of smoke rose from the chimney above the battlements, where on its topmost tower fluttered the de Cashel flag, a single splash of colour. They soared higher and higher until the castle looked no more than a child’s model below her. The polished armour of the watchman on the tower glinted bright. Beside him hung the Great Horn of the de Cashels – a bull’s horn, too heavy to be carried at the belt, and as cracked as the sound it made. It had belonged to a Gaelic chieftain long before the Normans had set foot in Ireland, and had been taken by her father’s ancestors as a spoil of war. Ever since the castle had been built, the horn had been housed in the tower, ready to be blown in times of emergency.

  Sinéad imagined swooping down on the unsuspecting watchman and seeing him raising his cross-bow in alarm as she screeched past. Oh no you don’t! She laughed as Saoirse swept out of range, but she knew he wouldn’t shoot. Falcons were protected from the likes of him by both the English laws and the Irish Brehon laws. Falcons were a privilege of princes. In winter, when the wind hammered on the castle walls, or when Dr Fenton threatened to send them all to sleep, she would imagine herself flying, storm-tossed on some splendid journey, and she would be free!

  From up here she could imagine the whole layout of the castle – the castle tower and the cluster of houses and buildings that made up the castle village. Around all was the palisade, a ditch topped with stakes hammered into the ground. This was their first defence against cattle raiders, but also in winter a protection against wolves that would happily run off with a lamb, or a chicken, or even a human baby. Outside the palisade was a circular mound ringed with hawthorn trees, where fairies danced on midsummer nights. Father told such scary stories about the fort that nobody – not even the boys – ever went near it.

  Now for one last long sweep as far as the ridge with its clump of Scots pines.

  The boys were still arguing below. Fion was at his wit’s end. What’s the matter with James? He’s been at me since we came to the butts, needling me, sneering at me. I’m fed up with him. I came down here to fly falcons, not to defend Uncle Hugh! James wasn’t usually a needler nor a jeerer, but he was being both just now. One more jibe and I will flip, and Fion could feel his anger rising, small tongues of flame seeking something to catch on to. Where the hell’s Sinéad?

  He called her name. No response. He turned, and there she was, standing at Saoirse’s perch, head up, arms out, in a trance, a smile playing on her lips as she followed the sweeping curves of Saoirse’s flight.

  ‘Why don’t you call her Jane? That’s her proper name,’ taunted James.

  ‘Because Sinéad’s the name she likes, that’s why. I’d call you Séamus if you wanted – it’s Irish for James.’ It was just tit-for-tat, but it got to James, who was advancing on Fion, fists ready.

  ‘Look, Fion O’Neill! I’ve had enough of your Irishness being forced down my throat. I’m James, James, James – and nothing else! I’m a Norman. Do you hear?’ His nose was an inch from Fion’s face. ‘I’m finished with you, with your Uncle Hugh, and all your tribe. There’s another way.’
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  Fion stepped back. ‘All right, James,’ he said, ‘tell me. What’s it this time? Who’s the new Messiah?’ It was a shot in the dark; James’s new enthusiasms came weekly, but this was different. It was as if a portcullis had dropped between the two of them. A change was coming over James’s face. His eyes lost their sparkle and became dark and steady, like water in a bog pool reflecting light but letting nothing in. Fion recognised that look: So there really is something going on! He was looking into the eyes of a fanatic. He shivered. When James spoke, he sounded like someone else.

  ‘Us – us Normans,’ he said, ‘we’re not Irish, you know, we never were. We came here from England, and that’s where our allegiance must lie.’

  Fion wasn’t a proud O’Neill for nothing. Red anger obscured his sense and his vision. Traitor!

  Sinéad was far away in her mind when the first fragments of the boys’ furious exchanges began to get through to her. Then, to her horror, she heard the challenge: ‘Choose your weapons!’

  Duelling was taboo, to her an act of folly. She wrenched herself out of her reverie. Later she would think of her return as a giddying plunge from the sky, the wind tearing at her pinions; in fact, it took no longer than it took for her to whip about and face the boys. There they stood, white-faced and rigid, Fion pointing to the hawking gauntlet that he had just thrown down at James’s feet.

  ‘Pick it up, if you dare.’

  Without taking his eyes off Fion’s face, James bent and picked up the gauntlet.

  ‘Your weapon?’ demanded Fion.

  ‘Swords, Mr O’Neill. Sharpened, naturally.’

  ‘No!’ she screamed. ‘You can’t, you won’t …’ She rushed towards them, and then faltered as if she had hit a wall. For the first time ever, she felt truly frightened of them. ‘Oh stop!’ she cried, but she might as well have been shouting at the wind. The boys had moved into a world of their own. She watched them walk away. They were relaxed now, their differences apparently forgotten in the technicalities of a proper duel. This could not be real – but in her heart she knew it was. Neither of them would stop now, not unless she could find some way to stop them! Surely the armourer would never let them take out their real swords. But they were good talkers. They’d spin him some yarn. She shuddered: swords like razors! She must get help, but who could she turn to? Who would they listen to? Father? Yes, but he was too ill to stir from the castle. There was just one other possibility.