Chapter Sixteen.
How Sorley Boy McDonnell came Home to his own.
I was not left for long to a solitary watch at the maiden’s tower. For, just as dawn began to break, and my head, after the labours of the night, began to nod, I was roused with a thwack betwixt my jaw and my ear which sent me backwards to the ground. When I picked myself up, I found it was the English fellow whom Ludar had put snugly to roost on the parapet an hour or two since. He had come to in no very merry frame of mind; and, finding the castle in the hands of the besiegers, and his own life not worth an hour’s purchase, was minded to hit out a bit for his Queen before giving up the ghost.
More than that, I suspect, he was a little jealous to find me on guard at the maiden’s tower, where, till now, he had stood sentinel. Anyhow he caught me a crack which I have scarce forgotten yet, and which might have left me lying on my back to this day, but for the blow which Ludar had dealt him first.
He was unarmed, so that I could not make an end of him as shortly as I was minded. Nor had I sword to offer him to cross with mine; so I had him by the leg and the collar and walked him to the cliff’s edge.
“You will do less harm down there,” said I, “than here. So say your prayers.”
“As you please, comrade,” said he. “I should have sooner have had breakfast first. As for the blow I gave you, I thought you saw me come at you, else I would have woke you up first, and knocked you down next.”
I set him down at that.
“If that be so,” said I, “you are not the cur I took you for; for I had no business to be nodding. Stay here, and I will fetch you a sword, and you shall die like an Englishman.”
“I ask nothing better,” said he, “even if it be at the hands of an Englishman turned traitor.”
That took the spirit clean out of me. Was it not true? Was not this fellow a truer servant of her Majesty than I, who for months had done naught but break her laws, assault her mayors, fire on her flag, and slay her soldiers? Yet, how could I help it?
The fellow’s gibe made me so miserable that instead of fetching him a sword, I gave him mine, and bade him do to me as I deserved.
He laughed.
“By my soul, no!” said he. “If you be a servant of her Majesty, ’tis not for me to touch you. If you be not, the sword belongs to you, and I call it no shame to die by it. Yet, if you are minded to fetch me a weapon, I warrant you I shall not run away till you come again.”
So I went and fetched him a sword. And we fought there a half-hour by the clock, till our breath failed us, and never a blow could we get home on one another. I had no stomach for the business; and yet, when I found him so stubborn a swordsman, my blood got up, and I think I should have run him through if I could. But he had no mind to let me, and put me to it hard to keep my own skin whole.
So we halted to fetch breath, and before we could go to it again, the maiden came out of her lodging and stood betwixt us.
“Put by your swords,” said she, “I command you both. What is your quarrel? and have you no work for your captain, that you thus bring civil war into his castle?”
“By your leave, fair maiden,” said the Englishman, “no man here is my captain. This brave lad is an enemy to my Queen; therefore it is my duty to slay him.”
“If so,” said the maiden, “I too must be slain, for I love not your Queen.”
“But you be no traitor like this—”
Here I whipped out my sword, and we were at it again, ere the maiden, with flashing eyes, could step once more between us.
“Humphrey Dexter!” cried she in a voice I hope I may not hear from her lips again, “give me your sword, sir.”
I obeyed meekly. ’Twould have been impossible to do aught else.
“And you, sir,” said she, turning to the Englishman, “give me yours.”
“Marry! ’tis yours already,” said he, handing it up. “Mine was shivered by a blow from the young McDonnell, and I am his prisoner. But, by your leave,” added he, looking hard at me, “did you call this honest lad Humphrey Dexter? Why, may I perish if it is not the same swashbuckling ruffler I once knew in London town! I thought I had seen his gallows face before! Why, Humphrey, my lad, dost thou remember how I cracked thy skull at quarter-staff a year since in Finsbury Fields, and how thy Jack ’prentices groaned to see thee bite the dust? I liked thee none the less for it, though I beat thee. For ’twas a fair fight! Come, since ’tis thou, give us thy hand, and tell me how thou comest here amongst the enemies—”
“Ay, ay, I’ll tell you,” said I, not wanting to hear the end of the sentence.
Sure enough, this was a brawling soldier lad I had once met in the fields—Jack Gedge, by name—with whom I had had a bout at the quarter-staff. But he lied vilely when he said he beat me thereat; for, although he felled me once, I had him down three times, and the last time so that he had to be carried from the place by his legs and arms.
Howbeit, ’twas strange enough to see him here; and when, after the maiden had left us (having restored us our swords under promise of peace), I told him my story, he took my hand, and said, had he been in my shoes, he had been a traitor too. Yet he thanked his God he stood in his own.
And now, it may have been ten o’clock, there came a great shouting and noise of guns from the outer walls, and presently Ludar came into the hold, sword in hand, and told us that Captain Merriman and his soldiers had arrived from Castleroe, and were preparing to assault the place.
“Humphrey,” said he, “whate’er betide, I commit the maiden to your care, till this fighting be over. This prisoner of mine,” added he, pointing to the soldier, “will also stand by you, unless I mistake him.”
“Marry! so will I,” said the man; “for a maiden in distress is no alien to a true servant of the maiden Queen. Count on me for so much, Captain.”
“I do. Humphrey, I must go out and meet my enemy. He is in force, and must be scattered before he can blockade our ill-provisioned hold. Capture it he cannot; but he may starve it.”
“Go then,” said I. “Yet, will you not see the maiden first? She would be sorry not to bid you god-speed.”
He seemed for a moment as though he would refuse. Then a look of great longing came into his face as he glanced up at the turret window.
While he debated, a messenger arrived with news that Alexander McDonnell and his men were at hand, and that the English—seeing their constable hang from the walls on one side (for we had found his body, and displayed it thus as a signal of our triumph), and hearing the shouts of the McDonnells on the other—were falling back, and making ready to turn tail.
It was even so. While he spoke, we could see on the cliffs eastward the McDonnell standard, and hear the shouts of Alexander’s company as they bore down upon the English, who for a moment ceased their assault on the castle, and turned doubtfully to face them.
Ludar laughed.
“If Alexander be there,” said he, “our minds may be easy. Call in our men, and keep them within the walls. For he who yielded me the glory of taking Dunluce, shall not be robbed by me of the glory of sending these knaves packing. It needs not two McDonnells to do that. Humphrey see to this, keep a watch how the battle goes, and come again presently. You know where to find me.”
And he went, with a light heart, into the maiden’s tower.
I know not why, I grudged to see him go in. ’Twas not jealousy—I was beyond that now. Nor was it that his help was needed without. For Alexander, I guessed, would have easy work with the foe; and ’twas like Ludar’s nobleness to leave this new glory to his brother. ’Twas not that he did not deserve the rest and comfort, for he had worked like a lion that night, and denied himself till now the greeting the maiden owed to her preserver. Yet, for all that, I know not why, I had sooner he had remained, sword in hand, on the walls with us.
I scorned myself for my silly qualms, and hastened to call in our men, and bid them give fair field to Alexander and his company. They obeyed with difficulty; yet, when they heard that it was Ludar’s order that no man should baulk his brother, they came in, and lined the walls to view the combat.
The McDonnells on the cliff, when they saw the constable hang over the castle walls, and perceived the great bunch of heather on our topmost tower, stopped a moment to cheer and wave their bonnets. Then Alexander shouted to them in a voice we could hear half-a-mile away, and they broke into a run.
Meanwhile, Captain Merriman’s party was, as I said, taken aback by this new danger, and threatened to draw off. But when they saw our party retire into the castle, and understood that the battle was between them and Alexander only, they stood their ground again, and wheeled round to meet him. They were some five hundred men against the McDonnells’ three hundred, and contained not a few of O’Neill’s men in their number.
From where we stood we could see but little of the fight, except that within a few yards of the enemy Alexander halted his men, and then, stepping forward sword in hand, boldly dared the English leader, whoever he might be, to single combat. I marvelled to see if Captain Merriman would accept the challenge. For a while, amid the shouting and threatening on either side, I could not discern what followed, but presently, as Alexander, brandishing his sword, stepped up and repeated his challenge, there sprang out upon him, without warning, a huge gallowglass of the O’Neill’s men, who with a club smote the young chief to the earth. The blow was so sudden and unexpected (for Alexander was not even looking that way), that the McDonnell was reeling back in the arms of his men before friend or foe knew what had happened. Then, with a terrible yell, the Scots seized their weapons and closed on the enemy.
But Alexander, staggering to his feet, his head streaming blood, called to them once more to halt, as he leapt forward, half stunned, on his assailant. The duel was short and swift. For at the first onset the great gallowglass, amazed to see his man yet living, and ashamed, perchance, of his foul stroke, missed his mark and tumbled in a heap upon his foeman’s sword. Then with a mighty shout (for all thought this was the English leader slain), the two bands closed in, and a deadly fight began.
But I kept my eye on Alexander, whom, despite his prowess, I could see to be wounded hard. Gradually, as his men fell on the enemy and the battle roared off eastward, he himself drooped, and drew out of the fray. I could see him stand a moment, waving his sword, but his body swayed like that of a drunken man, and he leaned at last against a rock to keep from falling.
Then it was, before I could determine whether to warn Ludar of this accident or no, that a horrible deed was done.
For I was not the only one who had kept his eyes on the wounded chief. While he stood there fainting, yet still shouting his men forward, Captain Merriman (an Englishman!) who had lagged behind his host, crept stealthily round the hill to where he stood, and suddenly fronting him, dared the dying man to single combat! From where I stood I could mark the curl of scorn on the young chief’s lips, as he drew himself up and strove to lift his drooping arm. Next moment the English captain’s weapon flashed between, and as Alexander fell the coward’s blade plunged through him twice.
Instantly a mighty cry went up from the enemy, for Captain Merriman, waving his bloody sword above his head, ran through the ranks yelling, “Victory! McDonnell is slain!” and the McDonnells, when they heard the shout, reeled under it in a panic and were slain by the score.
As for me, I had stood there like a lump of stone, not able to stir or shout. But at last, by a huge effort, I sprang to the ground, and with a cry of horror rushed to find Ludar.
I found him standing on the cliff-edge, grave and happy, with the maiden beside him, looking down at the great Atlantic waves as they flung their eternal surge up at the castle rock. His sword lay on the ground at her feet. She was fixing a tuft of flowers in his cap, singing softly as she did so. And he, as he gazed now at her, now at the sea below, looked as if cloud could never come more between the sun and his noble face.
Alack! that I myself must bring the cloud.
“Ludar to the front! Something is wrong. Your brother—”
May I never hear again the cry with which he snatched up his sword and rushed to the gate!
I followed close to his heels, only bidding the maiden get to her tower whither I would send her English squire to guard her. But Ludar, as we reached the gate, turned and ordered me back.
“Stay,” said he, hoarsely, and white as a sheet, “stay here!”
Then, as he waited for the portcullis to open, I hastily told him what I had witnessed, and where he would find his brother.
“My brother!” he groaned, “my brother! Humphrey, if I ever return here it shall be with this dog’s blood on my sword. Farewell.”
And in a moment he had passed the bridge and was rushing headlong on the foe. My heart sank as I saw him go thus; and, whether it vexed him or not, I shouted aloud: “Who follows Ludar? Follow! follow!” Instantly a hundred McDonnells started at the call, and leapt over the bridge. Then with my own hand I let down the gate, and bade the rest, in their chief’s name, stand and guard the walls.
Alexander’s party were already in retreat, half-a-mile away, for they had no leader; and the English, flushed with victory, and strong in numbers, were pushing them back at the sword’s point. Nor did this new company help them much, for Ludar, when he saw who followed him, angrily ordered them to stand, while he went alone to the place I had told him of, in search of his brother.
But brother there was none. I could see my friend from where I stood stalk round the place, now deserted of friend and foe, shouting and calling like a man possessed. Perhaps the murderer had taken off the body as a trophy; or perhaps—perhaps Alexander yet lived, and was safe. But sign of him there was none. For a weary hour Ludar called and searched; then, weary and sick at heart, I saw him call his men, and march off in pursuit of the enemy.
Thus all that day we stood and waited in Dunluce, and not a man spoke to his fellow. For the joy of our victory was turned into mourning. The Clan had lost one hero; and who should say whether the Banshee’s warning was not to be fulfilled on another?
The only man who kept up heart was the Englishman.
“These McDonnells,” said he, “have the lives of cats. You shall see your lordling back yet. He oweth me a bout, and is too honest a man to rob even an enemy. But, Humphrey lad,” added he, “I pray you see to these women. There is sore distress in their camp, and I durst not put in my head. Besides, I know not if they have so much as a crust of bread to eat.”
The honest fellow was right. When I went in, the maiden was in strange woe, pacing up and down her chamber with pale face and heaving breast.
“Humphrey,” said she, and her voice was dry and hoarse, “this is my fault, my fault! He will love me no more! I tempted him to stay when he should have been at his brother’s side. I, for my own comfort, made a woman of him, who should have helped make him a hero.”
“Nay,” said I, “you are wrong, maiden. Had he been there he could not have helped this. It was in nature he should—”
“Humphrey!” she exclaimed, in a voice which staggered me, “talk not like a fool. I have forfeited his love. He did well to leave me without a word! I have been worse to him than his worst enemy. I dare not see him again, for he will loathe me. You must take me hence, or, truly, I will go without leave.”
“Maiden,” said I, “have patience. This is the act of God, not of man; and Ludar when he returns may need your comfort sorely.”
She laughed bitterly.
“I know Ludar,” she said; “you know him not. Think you the sight of me will not drive him mad when he comes back, brotherless?”
“At least,” said I, “be content to wait here till to-morrow. I should be a traitor to him and myself were I to let you depart unattended; and I may not leave, here till he or the old chief comes.”
“Will Sorley Boy be here to-morrow?” asked she.
“He will; he has said so.”
“Then,” said she, “I stay on this condition. Tell him naught of me but that I am an O’Neill, a prisoner here, who demand to be restored to my father, Turlogh Luinech O’Neill. Ludar will not return yet. When he does, he shall find me gone. Go back to the wall, Humphrey. No man shall say again I stood between him and his duty.”
I returned sadly enough to my post; and all that night we kept weary watch on the walls, straining our ears for Ludar’s call or news of the battle.
But neither Ludar nor news of him came.
At daybreak, however, as the sun rose over the headlands, there came a noise of pipes and shouting, and a flutter of pennons on the hill-tops. Then we knew Sorley Boy had come.
Before him fled scattered parties of the enemy, yet far enough beyond our range; nor, when they sped away into the hills westward, did the chief allow his men to continue the chase. The McDonnells gave a wild, mighty cheer, when they saw the heather of the clan flying aloft on their ancient castle; and in the silence that followed I could see the old chief stand a moment to pass his hand across his eyes, as if to make sure he saw aright.
Then, erect, with a proud step, he advanced at the head of his men and crossed the bridge. Our men, waving their hats aloft, answered back the cheers, and, as the gate swung up to let them in, all else seemed forgotten in the triumph of this home-coming of the grand old chief.
But when, a moment after, he halted and looked round him, the shouting suddenly ceased and there fell a dead silence.
“My sons,” said he, “where are they?”
No one seemed ready to answer, so that I was fain to step forward.
“Sir,” said I, saluting, “Sir Ludar, your son, renders you your castle, which he won by his own arm two nights ago. He is not here to salute himself, as he is tending his brother who was traitorously wounded in the battle yesterday.”
The old man said nothing, but blazed on me with his eyes as though he would blast me where I stood. Had I been the murderer myself, I could not have trembled more. At length:
“Alexander, where is he?” he demanded in a hollow voice.
I said I had seen him last near the hill, but that Ludar, not finding him there, had gone to seek him, I know not whither.
Then the old man handed his great sword to his esquire, and flinging off his cloak, walked into the hall of the castle, where none durst follow him. I longed to ask his permission to follow Ludar, besides making the maiden’s petition. But his look that day was too terrible to be faced. So we stood to our guard, as we had stood all day long.
When at evening no sign came yet of Ludar, I braced myself up with a great courage, and entered the hall.
The old warrior was sitting at the head of the empty table, immovable, like a man stunned, looking straight before him. But when he saw me, he seemed to recover himself and said:
“What news?”
“None,” said I, “but as his servant, I pray you let me go and seek Sir Ludar.”
“You shall not go,” said he. And there was naught left to say after that.
“I obey you, sire,” said I. “There is, by your leave, a maiden in this castle, a prisoner, and daughter to the O’Neill. She craves your permission to return to her father; and hath bidden me ask it of you.”
He nodded his head, as if the petition were too trifling to be heeded; and, having got what I was in need of, I withdrew, thankful.
Next day, at daybreak, the maiden, white as a sheet, and with lips close-pressed to hinder their trembling, walked slowly across the bridge to the castle gate. I had got her two horses, one for her and one for the old nurse; and a trusty escort of six McDonnells and the English soldier to conduct her to Toome.
At parting she held out her hand.
“Humphrey,” said she, “tell him of this; and may she who loves you never lose you as I have lost him.”
“All is not lost,” said I, “we shall meet again, and all will be happy yet.” And I lifted her to her horse.
“Now, sirrah,” said the old nurse, as I did the like service for her, “be happy for a year and a day! You have broken a sweet heart among you, and what matters it to you, so you be rid of us? Mark my word; some heads shall ache for this! What is to become of us, do you suppose, in this O’Neill’s house? Little trouble to you to send us from one cruel fate to a worse! Be proud that you, a soldier, forsooth, and calling yourself an honest man, thus betray my poor maiden to her step-dame and your English Captain.”
“He is dead by now,” said I.
“Not he,” said she. “What is to become of us, dost thou hear? Who is to help us now?”
“Dame,” said I, “is there no God in heaven that you chide thus? Farewell, we shall meet again, I think, in a happier season.”
Then I stepped once more to the maiden and said:
“Lady, that maiden’s name we spoke of is young Mistress Walgrave, the printer’s daughter in London. Should chance bring you thither, she will be your friend for my sake. If it be possible, pray send us word presently of your welfare by this English fellow.”
Thus that maiden left Dunluce; and still the days passed and no tidings of Ludar.
But one evening, as I watched at the gate, a haggard figure crossed the bridge, scarce dragging one foot after another for weariness.
“Ludar!” said I, as I admitted him. “What news?”
“No news!” said he between his teeth, and he flung his sword with what little strength was left him to the earth. Then he himself fell beside it; and, when we carried him within, he was in a fever and raving.