The way from Cork to Buttevant was not far, but more desolate than Granada during the Moorish war. Summer and the sun adorned that smiling land, casting a verdurous mantle over her deep wounds, painting the rude visage of war with brilliant hues. The forests, dark hills, and uncultivated wilds of Munster, showed nakedly the deep traces of the sovereign ill. But lately this neighbourhood had been the seat of war between the earl of Desmond and the chief of the Macarthys; the latter had fallen in battle, but his brother and Tanist had succeeded to him, and was already gathering together his sept for a more desperate struggle. Never in Spain had Richard seen such wild, strange figures, as crossed his path during this short journey; whether it were the native kern, wrapt in his mantle, disguised by his glibb, or long shaggy hair, or the adherents of Desmond, who affected the state of an Irish chieftain, whose leather-quilted jackets, long saffron-coloured shirts, cloaks and shaggy moustachios, riding without stirrups, bearing spears, formed objects not less uncouth and savage; the very women bore a similar appearance of incivilization. And as a comment on such text, Burgh told, as they rode, the history of the late wars of Desmond with O'Carrol, prince of Ely, and with Macarthy; and, a still more dread tale, the incursion of Murrogh-en-Ranagh, an O'Brien; who, rising first in Clare, spread through the country, overrunning Munster, and bold from success, advanced into eastern Leinster. All these accounts of battle were interwoven with tales of feuds, handed down from father to son, of the natural hatred of the native chiefs to the lords of English origin; interspersed with such strange wild tales, where the avowedly supernatural was intermingled with deeds of superhuman prowess and barbarity, that the English born prince, nursling of romantic Spain, felt as if he were transplanted into a new planet, and stopped the speaker at each moment, to obtain some clearer explanation, or to have interpreted words he had never before heard, the names of customs and things found only in this land.
Thus entertained, the way to Buttevant, or as the Irish called it, Kilnemullagh, which was about twenty miles, seemed short. One thing was evident in all these details, that it was easy to rouse the English lords in Ireland to any act of turbulence and revolt; but that it would be difficult nevertheless for their ill-armed followers, and undisciplined bands, to compete with the soldiery of England.
CHAPTER XVI
NEW FRIENDS
Sisters, I from Ireland came.
COLERIDGE.
The duke, immediately on his arrival at the Castle of Buttevant, despatched Hubert Burgh to the prior of Kilmainham, with a message from himself and a token from Lord Barry, announcing his intention of visiting him at the abbey the next day. But Keating feared thus to draw the eyes of some enemy upon him, and appointed a meeting in a secluded dell, near the bank of the Mullagh, or Awbeg, the river which Spenser loves to praise. Early in the morning Richard repaired alone to this rural presence-chamber, and found Keating already there. Hearing of the priest's haughty pride, Richard, with a sensation of disgust, had figured a man something like the wretched Trangmar, strong of limb, and with a ferocious expression of countenance. Keating appeared in his monk's humble guise; his light eyes were still lively, though his hair and beard were snowy white; his brow was deeply delved by a thousand lines; his person short, slender, bent; his step infirm; his voice was silver-toned; he was pale, and his aspect in its lower part sweetly serene. Richard looked with wonder on this white, withered leaf—a comparison suggested by his frail tenuity; and again he almost quailed before the eager scrutiny of the prior's eye. A merchant at a Moorish mart he had seen thus scan a slave he was about to purchase. At length, with a look of great satisfaction, the monk said, "This fits exactly; our friends will not hesitate to serve so goodly a gentleman. The daughter of York might in sooth mistake thee for a near kinsman. Thou comest from Portugal, yet that could not have been thy native place?"
Richard started. This was the first time he had heard an expression of doubt of his veracity. How could he reply? His word alone must support his honour; his sword must remain sheathed, for his injurer was a priest. Keating caught his haughty glance, and perceived his mistake. It was with an effort that he altered his manner, for he exchanged with pain a puppet subject to his will, for a man (prince or pretender) who had objects and a state of his own to maintain. "Pardon the obscure vision of an old man," he said; "my eyes were indeed dim not to see the true marks of a Plantagenet in your appearance. I was but a boy when your princely grandsire fell; nor has it been my fortune to visit England or to see your royal father. But the duke of Clarence honoured me with his friendship, and your cousin De la Poole acknowledged my zeal in furthering his projects. I am now neither prior nor commander; but, poor monk as I am become, I beseech your highness to command my services."
This swift change of language but ill satisfied the pride of Richard, and in reply, he briefly recounted such facts as established his right to the name he claimed. The noble artlessness of his tone conquered the priest's lurking suspicions: in a more earnest manner he besought the duke's pardon; and a cordial intercourse was established between them.
The place where they met was secluded and wild; a bower of trees hid it from the view of the river, and an abrupt rock sheltered it behind. It was apparently accessible by the river only, and it was by its bank that the duke and prior had arrived. Nothing could equal the picturesque solitude around them. The waving of the leafy boughs, the scream of the water-fowl, or the splashing they made as they sprung from among the sedge and darted across the stream, alone interrupted the voiceless calm; yet, at every moment, in his speech, Keating stopped, as if listening, and cast his keen eyes, which he libelled much in calling dim, up the steep crag, as if among its herbage and shrubs some dreaded spy or expected messenger might appear. Then again he apologized to the duke for having selected this wild spot for their interview. A price, he observed, had been set upon his head, and his only safety lay in perpetual watchfulness and never-sleeping caution. "My zeal in your highness's cause," he added, with a courtier smile, "cannot be deemed a strange frenzy, since your success will not only assure my restoration to the dignity of which I have been unjustly deprived, but prevent an old man from perpetually dreaming of the sword of the slayer, or the more frightful executioner's axe."