The Proud Man

Book 715: Murder Room

by Dell Shannon

Genres: Mystery; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

'My favourite American crime-writer' New York Herald Tribune In the sixteenth century lived two queens about whom much has been written: Elizabeth Tudor and Mary Stuart. However, there are more than just two countries in the British Isles and there is a third monarch, of whom there are no tales. This is his story. All major characters in this novel bar two were real people. If chronology has not always been followed too strictly, it is because all this is long ago and far away and does not matter now. This is only a story for reading, but it is a true story.

Release date: November 21, 2014

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

Shane, the O’Neill, chief of the clan O’Neill, Prince of Ulster

Hugh O’Neill, his brother and commander in his army

Dudley, Edmund, James, and Manus Donnelly, his foster brothers and commanders in his army

Cormac McArdle, chief of the clan McArdle and commander in O’Neill’s army

Ferdoragh McGuinness and Terence O’Hagan, commanders in O’Neill’s army

Rory McGuinness, nephew to Ferdoragh

Luke O’Givney, chief musician to O’Neill

John O’Hagan, chief secretary to O’Neill

Aidan Moran, another secretary

Manus McSweeney, constable (sergeant) in O’Neill’s army

Moyna, a maidservant

Turlough Lynagh O’Neill, cousin to the chief

Sorley Boy MacDonnell, a Scot, kinsman to the chief MacDonnell, brother-in-law and friend to O’Neill

Liam Fleming, chief justice of the city of Armagh, counselor to O’Neill

Terence Daniel, Dean of Armagh Cathedral, counselor to O’Neill

Catherine MacDonnell, daughter to the chief MacDonnell, O’Neill’s first wife

Mary O’Donnell, daughter to the chief O’Donnell, O’Neill’s second wife

Catherine MacLean, widow of the Earl of Argyll and the chief O’Donnell, O’Neill’s third wife

Calvagh, the O’Donnell, Lord of Tyrconnell, ancient enemy of O’Neill

Hugh, the Maguire, Anglophile in sympathy

O’Cahan, McGuinness, McMahon, O’Reilly, O’Rourk, O’Connor, etc.

Thady O’Brien, spy for O’Neill in Dublin

Hugh Ruadh (Red Hugh) O’Donnell, nephew to Calvagh and heir to the chiefhood

Gerald Fitzgerald, Earl of Kildare, second cousin to O’Neill, an Anglophile

Matthew Kelly, first Baron Dungannon, self-claimed illegitimate son to Con O’Neill (Shane O’Neill’s father) and claimant to the chiefhood

Brian Kelly (O’Neill), second Baron Dungannon, Anglophile

The Scottish chief James, the MacDonnell, most powerful chief in Antrim and enemy to O’Neill

Aspuke MacDonnell, kinsman to the chief MacDonnell

The Scottish sept-chiefs Gilchrist and MacArthur

Elizabeth Tudor, Queen of England

Lord Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, friend to the queen

Sir William Cecil, Sir Nicholas Bacon, Sir Francis Walsingham, and the Earl of Pembroke, ministers to the queen

Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland

Lord James Stuart, her illegitimate brother and advisor

Philip II of Spain

Pope Pius IV

John Knox, Protestant leader

Sir Thomas Cusack, Chancellor of the Pale

Lord Radcliffe, Earl of Sussex, military commander of the Pale

Sir Harry Sydney, political deputy to the Crown

Sir William Fitzwilliam and Sir Henry Radcliffe, other deputies

Sir Nicholas Arnold and Sir Nicholas Bagenal, special envoys to the Pale

Sir Thomas Stukeley, illegitimate son to Henry VIII, a pirate

Madam Rebecca Isham, mistress to Sir Harry Sydney

Colm McCaffrey, her servant

Mary O’Neill MacDonnell, sister to O’Neill, wife to Sorley Boy

Dublin, January 1559

COLM MCCAFFREY, that huge ogre of a man, watched the woman as she moved
about the room, ordering the maidservant. “The Jerez wine, Nada—my lord Sussex is fond of it.”

“Yes, madam.”

McCaffrey wished he might talk with the woman, his employer; he admired Rebecca Isham. A bad woman she might be, mistress to Sir Harry Sydney, one of the deputies to the Crown. But she was also
an attractive one—not tall, a fine full figure, a wealth of black hair, mirthful dark eyes, always so elegantly gowned. And she was not arrogant with her servants.

But this was Dublin in the Pale, the English-held land in Ireland, and he was an Irishman: native servants did not speak unless spoken to. Moreover, no one in this house knew McCaffrey could
speak English; he had two jobs here, one of them acting as Madam Isham’s doorman and the other, spying on the deputies.

Madam Isham turned at the sound of the knocker on the house door, and gave him a smile. “Colm.”

He nodded, and went to admit the visitors. The two men brushed past him on the threshold, used to the hulking servant who knew no English, and he took their cloaks and hats. The lady came
rustling out to greet them.

“Harry, my dear. My lord Sussex, always a pleasure to welcome you.” Was there small irony in her tone on that? She knew why Sir Harry, the deputy, and Radcliffe, Earl of Sussex, met
in her house to discuss. Sir Thomas Cusack, Chancellor of the Pale, was an honorable man who had no business in politics; Radcliffe, as military commander here for the new queen, Elizabeth, now and
then fomented schemes the chancellor would disapprove.

Sydney kissed her cheek absently; his round pink-and-white face wore a worried expression. Sydney was Saxon English: short, stocky in his velvet diaper-trunks and hose wrinkled on his fat legs;
he had pale blue eyes and thinning fair hair. McCaffrey spared him only a glance.

“Madam.” Radcliffe gave her a short bow. He made no secret of his disapproval of Rebecca Isham on several counts: as an immoral woman, as mistress to a political deputy, and as a
foreigner. McCaffrey had a notion Radcliffe amused Rebecca with his arrogance; he did not amuse McCaffrey, who was an Irishman and knew Radcliffe’s military power in Ireland. He fingered
Radcliffe’s velvet hat, looking after the men as she led them into the little parlor. The earl’s tall figure, spare even in padded velvet tunic and trunks, was silhouetted against the
light; as he entered, turning, the arrogant profile was etched sharp for an instant—the jutting high Norman nose, the deep brow-ridge, the strong-thrusting jaw. A handsome ascetic, Thomas
Radcliffe was, and his light cold eyes emotionless on everything they saw. A sudden involuntary shudder shook McCaffrey’s big frame: something walking on his grave. He laid the cloaks and
hats on a chair and went softly down to the half-closed parlor door.

“. . . not disturb you important statesmen at your private talk.” Rebecca, prettily gracious. “My lord, there is Jerez wine here, please to help yourself. If there is aught
else you desire . . . ?”

“No, no, quite sufficient, my dear.” Sydney sounded nervous.

“Then I excuse myself that you may make your discussion in peace, gentlemen.” Little rattle of her heels on the bare floor. McCaffrey turned quickly and was ten paces away when she
came out. She did not look at him, but glided down the dim hallway to enter the room behind the parlor. In a moment he drifted back to the parlor door, and with utmost care eased open the latch so
that he might listen through the crack. His real employer, his reverence, the Dean of Armagh, was much interested in anything Radcliffe said.

“It might,” said Sir Harry Sydney doubtfully, “have been street-thieves.”

“Don’t be a fool,” said Radcliffe baldly. “Dungannon was murdered on his own doorstep, and not for his purse. It was a man of Shane O’Neill’s put the knife in
Dungannon—I can add two and two.”

In the hallway McCaffrey whistled soundlessly to himself. So Dungannon was dead! Matthew Kelly, first Baron Dungannon—toady to the English—and a pawn in this game. Well, he was
better dead than quick; and Radcliffe was probably right in his estimation of the killer.

“Con O’Neill was not cold in his coffin before that was planned. Not that Dungannon was much danger to Shane O’Neill,” added Radcliffe bitterly. “Only a convenience
to have him out of the way. I will always wonder if Dungannon really was Con’s bastard. Con made that agreement naming Dungannon his heir willingly enough, but . . .”

Both of them bastards in one sense or the other, McCaffrey thought, listening. Con O’Neill! He had been a disgrace to a great clan. The English controlled three-quarters of
Ireland—though officially occupying only this small area, the Pale—but Ulster they had never been able to take, Ulster, the largest, wealthiest province in Ireland, Ulster of the
O’Neills, ruled by O’Neills for a thousand years. And then Con, Prince of Ulster, had sold it to them—the black Anglophile traitor.

“God damn them both!” said Radcliffe. “Who took Ulster for the Crown? I did—with a little English earldom for Con and a pennyworth of ink on paper! And we lose it like
that, for the lack of a few men and guns to put up a fight!”

“If we talk of past history,” said Sydney with some asperity, “you had some aid in that from Con’s second wife.”

Radcliffe barked a short laugh. “True—I don’t deny it. All the O’Neills are womanizers—and Con, being a weakling, was ruled by his women.”

That Anglophile bitch, yes, thought McCaffrey darkly. But Con O’Neill’s legitimate children had been by his own first cousin, Ailis O’Neill; it was after her death the other
one beguiled him over to the English. And like any nobleman, Con would not raise his own sons, lest they grow vain of lineage; his eldest son, Shane, had been fostered on Cormac Donnelly, and
Donnelly was a loyal Ulsterman, as was the subchief, O’Cahan, who took the second boy—the girl was no matter. That was one thing Con had done for Ulster—got his eldest legal son.
If maybe too many illegal ones here and there.

“Past history!” Radcliffe was repeating now. “Very well, past history it is, but at least I can say I told you so, to you if not to those blind ministers of the queen in
London! Fifteen years, always O’Neill—Shane O’Neill! I warned them—when he gathered that first motley army I warned them. Snapping puppies grow to biting hounds. But would
they listen? Only a bragging little upstart, they said, let his father subdue him. Con! As well expect Con to halt a thunderstorm.” He sounded bedeviled—as if he spoke with jaw
clenched—and hadn’t he reason? thought McCaffrey with a grin.

The ink was hardly dry on that pact Con had signed with the English, fifteen years ago, when his eldest legal son, Shane, only fifteen then, saved the clan’s honor and Ulster. With an army
of volunteers he did it, most of them scarcely older than himself; he was a genius born to war-leadership. If Radcliffe had had the reinforcement he begged for then, McCaffrey thought, Shane
O’Neill would still have chased him and his English army out of Ulster like a pack of mongrel dogs. Radcliffe had challenged him twice, hoping to retake Ulster, and each time been soundly
defeated.

McCaffrey, having heard some reminiscence from the Dean of Armagh, could appreciate the bitterness in Radcliffe’s tone. From the first, there had been violent personal enmity between
Radcliffe and Shane O’Neill: enmity beyond the reasons of loyalty. That first time they met, in the meeting-hall at Dundalk on the border of the Pale—the Dean said it flared like
wildfire between them . . . O’Neill giving the deputies no time to open their mouths, only telling them plainly what would befall any Englishman who set foot across the border of Ulster. That
was the only way to treat the Sassenachs, the only thing they understood: force. And never since that day twelve years ago had they got into Ulster again. A pity some of the other provinces had not
such a strong leader to rescue them from English domination.

“The situation as it is,” said Sydney from beyond the door, “Dungannon would have had no chance to claim the princedom of Ulster for himself, pact or no. He is small
loss.”

“Did I not just say so? He leaves a son, but that one is a weakling, too. Double dealing on Con’s part, that agreement—he knew well enough in their Irish law such an official
naming of his heir is not legal. The Ulster clans have always elected their princes, from candidates of the royal O’Neill line. Con’s treaty with us outlawed such election—but
that treaty has been scrap-paper these twelve years. It is not Ulster of itself I am thinking about now.” There was a stir, sound of wine poured into a glass. Now Radcliffe’s tone was
harder. “There are graver aspects to this situation than a defiance of the Crown’s power. O’Neill has been ruler of Ulster in all but name for twelve years. Con was terrified of
him, you know as well as I, and never attempted to stand against him. Now Con is dead, the Ulster clansmen will hold their prince-election, and I don’t need more than one guess as to what man
they will choose. Essentially that will change nothing, only confirm him in his rank. I am thinking,” said Radcliffe, “of some other treaties, Harry. The treaties Shane O’Neill
has made with Philip of Spain—and Catherine de’ Medici in France—and the treaty he will probably seek with this new queen of Scotland, Mary Stuart. They are not all
trade-agreements, my friend—they are treaties of mutual military support, and with England’s archenemies. O’Neill is not just a little provincial ruler, as some seem to think. He
represents enormous potential danger to the Crown.”

“It is not foregone,” objected Sydney. “He is difficult to deal with, I grant, but a strong military leader like O’Neill is seldom subtle for diplomacies. A clever
approach might win him over. I have sent a letter to him in the chancellor’s name—”

“If I have learned anything in fifteen years,” Radcliffe interrupted with a hint of contempt, “it is never to underestimate Shane O’Neill. Moreover, if he were only the
simple warrior you seem to believe, he has shrewder advisors. Liam Fleming, the chief justice of Armagh, is one—and perhaps more dangerous than Fleming is the Dean of Armagh, Terence Daniel.
Both are old hands at the game of politics. Lawyer and churchman—would they not be! You and the chancellor and every other man in the government appear to have learned nothing in the years we
have had O’Neill to deal with. He is not Con or Dungannon—we cannot treat with him in any way. God, how I keep saying it, and none listening or believing me! How many raids into the
Pale has he made these twelve years, Harry?” It was a violent question; a chair creaked as if Radcliffe flung himself back in resigned anger.

“It is not established that the raids—”

“—Are led by O’Neill? Oh, my God, yes, I have read the polite letters he sends to the chancellor, when we make some formal protest! Such destruction much to be
regretted—bands of outlaws as yet uncaught doubtless responsible! Bands of his own army men and he at their head! The chancellor may swallow his lies—I do not. I tell you, Harry, the
power of the Crown in Ireland is endangered every minute Shane O’Neill continues to live.”

There was a short silence within the room. McCaffrey leaned closer to the door. He heard the sound of a glass set down on a table, a nervous cough from Sydney.

“We must be rid of O’Neill,” said Radcliffe in a lower voice. “Rid of him once for all. When he is dead, whether or not we can occupy Ulster at once, we are in no danger
from his present allies—or himself. The brother is not so strong a leader. Yes, yes, I know—how many attempts have there been to assassinate him! He has other enemies nearer than
ourselves, and I have instigated a few attempts myself, as you know. But this time—and it must be done before the clan-election.”

“When will they hold that?” asked Sydney uneasily.

“They may be gathering now, that is the devil of it. And as I told you, I sail for England tomorrow. I must have some personal discussion with William Cecil over the situation. Cecil is a
shrewd man—the only one among the ministers. But I have a man hired to try for O’Neill.” Radcliffe laughed. “I promised him five hundred for the job—and I’d pay
it out of my own pocket and be glad to—but I doubt if he escapes to collect it, if he succeeds in putting a knife in O’Neill.”

“Who is the man?”

“A Scot named Gray. And I hope to God—”

McCaffrey missed the next remarks, his thoughts running swiftly. The devil’s luck he heard this only now. By the way Radcliffe spoke, there’d be no time to send a letter to the Dean,
who would warn O’Neill. Someone must ride for Ulster at once to carry warning. Thady, he thought with a breath of relief: Thady O’Brien, who was in O’Neill’s pay as a Dublin
spy, and, being a street-peddler, could come and go unnoticed. He must see Thady tonight and send him north with the warning.

He was so intent the opening of the other door down the passage caught him unaware; a fraction of a minute too late, he stepped back as if only passing this door. But Rebecca Isham was startled
too, seeing him—or she would not have rapped out the question in English, in a whisper: “Colm! What do you here?”

His startlement betrayed him to a hoarse whisper in return. “Nothing, madam, I only—” And then he felt cold sweat break on his forehead.

“Ah!” She came softly toward him; she glanced aside, noting the door eased open a crack. A hand on his arm, she motioned him silently down to the entrance-hall, where they might
speak out of the deputies’ hearing. “So you do understand English! I had wondered—at times you looked too intelligent when I spoke to others.”

“I—a little I have picked up—listening, madam—”

“Listening to our important visitors?” she took him up. “This is not, I think, the first time you have done that.”

He looked at her in silence. He could think of nothing to say, and expected her to denounce him to Sydney and Radcliffe at once. There was the vestige of a smile on her mouth as she stared back
at him. Then, at sounds from the parlor, she half-turned.

“They are coming out—quiet!” She picked up her skirts and ran; when the deputies emerged into the passage, she was apparently just descending the stair, leisurely and
graceful.

Radcliffe made her a formal farewell while McCaffrey produced the cloaks and hats. “My dear,” said Sydney vaguely, patting her arm. “I will call tomorrow afternoon.” In
the midst of his anxiety McCaffrey reflected that she deserved a warmer lover. And why was she saying nothing to them of an eavesdropper?

The door thudded shut discreetly. A finger to her lip, she regarded him an instant in the dimness. “Come into the parlor.”

He followed her in silence to the lighted room. A courtesan learned discretion; maybe she would only dismiss him and say nothing to the deputies. In any case, he must get to O’Brien
tonight and send him to warn—

“Yes, I had wondered,” she said, smiling. “You are not such a stupid hulk as you look, are you, Colm? So you listen to the deputies—perhaps just out of curiosity,
yes?” She wandered to the table, poured herself a glass of wine. Holding it, not drinking: “But their talk is very monotonous, I find. Oh, yes, I too listen to them, now and then.
From—another vantage-point, you comprehend.”

He eyed her, wondering, cautious. Maybe this was a trick to make him reveal himself. He waited, not speaking. She turned and gave him a quick glance.

“Very monotonous,” she repeated. “They talk of nothing but O’Neill, always O’Neill—of course, one hears talk of that man everywhere these days. Not
so?”

“Yes—madam.”

She took a sip of wine and set the glass down. “It is understandable that my lord Sussex—and others—regard O’Neill as dangerous. But also understandable that the Irish
people look on him with admiration. Do you, Colm?” She shot the question at him.

“Well, madam—”

“Ah, yes, yes—you are a resident of the Pale, under English law! Forgive me, I should not ask.” But he saw she still had something to say. And what was she getting at? To force
him into self-betrayal, or—something else? “Many tales I have heard of Shane O’Neill,” she said to her ringed hands. “He appears to be—what do you Irish
say?—a man and a half, is it? Especially,” and she laughed, “with the ladies!”

McCaffrey relaxed a trifle. If she only wanted to talk of O’Neill like that—“He’s an Irishman, madam—and an O’Neill.”

“He has wed two wives already, I have heard. One at a time, that is! Somewhere I heard an amusing story about his first marriage.” And so you would, thought McCaffrey, if you heard
it straight. “How one of his enemies made him drunken and married him to a wanton. A Scottish man, a—how is it?—a clan-chief. Was the name the MacDonnell? And the woman, she was
one of his own illegal daughters he tricked O’Neill into wedding.”

And by what the Dean said, O’Neill still held the grudge on James MacDonnell—would he not? The knot tied, he’d had to keep the girl; she bore him three sons before he found her
in bed with one of his own army captains and packed her back to her father—after hanging the captain. No man played tricks on O’Neill without retribution; one day the MacDonnell would
regret it, though O’Neill had bribed an annulment out of the Pope . . . But McCaffrey was more interested in this woman at the moment.

“It was most amusing,” and she sipped daintily. “And now, I have heard, O’Neill is wed to the daughter of another of his enemies, an ugly woman no man would look at but
for—political reasons.”

You have heard the hell of a lot, my lady, thought McCaffrey uneasily. That marriage with the daughter of Calvagh the O’Donnell was not a year ago, and to McCaffrey’s knowledge
Radcliffe had not known of it last week—he had no spies in Ulster now. Perhaps the deputies had learned of it in the last few days, and she’d heard it from Sydney? That must be the way
of it. It was true enough; but one thing he’d wager they didn’t know, that O’Neill had been persuaded into the marriage by old Liam Fleming, in the hope of reconciling the clans
O’Neill and O’Donnell, old archenemies.

“Indeed,” he said noncommittally.

“Colm—” She turned to him directly, and he saw that the hand she lifted in habitual foreign gesture was trembling very slightly. “I take the chance with you. I said I had
wondered about you—me, I notice little things—and now I will be open with you. If I am wrong—well, perhaps I leave Dublin very quickly! But I do not think so. I do not know who
you are or why you spy on the deputies—but I make a guess. I think you are something to do with O’Neill of Ulster.”

“Oh, madam—”

She silenced him impatiently, nervously. “I am—I am nobody,” she said with quick bitterness. “An Italian Hebrew woman, maybe not so clever, who lives by selling favors.
But since I am in Ireland with Harry, I—I have sympathy for your people, Colm. My people too, they suffer persecutions. . . . Colm. You heard what Radcliffe said tonight—about an
assassin?”

McCaffrey drew a breath and stepped closer to her. “I heard him, madam, yes.”

“You see, I find—from the stories I hear—I like this O’Neill better than Radcliffe, my lord Sussex.” She was close to him now, all pretense dropped. She put her
hands flat on his chest, looking up earnestly. “I will take a hand in this game myself. Colm, I want you to ride quick, quick, and warn O’Neill of the assassin!”

A grin widened McCaffrey’s mouth. “There was a suspicion in me you are a right one—madam.” And they both drew breaths of relief at understanding. “I was just
reckoning how to get away and send warning. It’s a poor excuse for a spy I must be when you see through me so easy—” There, she had it out of him; he damned himself for a fool,
but at that could not feel much alarm. She had spoken from the heart, he’d swear it.

“Ah—” She relaxed more and smiled up at him almost flirtatiously. “My stupid big doorman. So we understand one another. You need not fear—I am very clever at
keeping secrets. But you must go at once—tonight—”

“No fear,” said McCaffrey. “The English won’t be rid of him so easy.”

NOW at the beginning of this new year of 1559, Ulster stood rulerless, awaiting a new prince. Con the Lame was dead, his
treachery done; and the chiefs and head-clansmen of Ulster were met as tradition demanded to elect his successor. So that man was an O’Neill of the royal line he need not be a son of
Con’s; but the name in men’s mouths was that of the eldest legal son, as it had been in their mouths fifteen years.

At the house of old John O’Hagan, rechtaire to the O’Neills, they gathered for the ceremony of election that would be held on the Hill of Tullaghogue as it had been held for
over a thousand years. This election meant freedom or slavery to Ulster; much talk and speculation about it there was, and the one name most often on all tongues—the name of Shane
O’Neill.

Rory McGuinness surveyed himself with satisfaction in the square of polished bronze on the wall. “Will I do, uncle?”

It was hard work dragging words out of Ferdoragh McGuinness; Rory knew; he’d had practice. Ferdoragh only rumbled at him, “There’ll be no eyes on you, cockerel.” He stood
naked after lacing his sandals, his great hairy bear’s body dwarfing Rory; he pulled on a yellow wool tunic, draped a brown wool kilt athwart his thighs, reached for his stiff wide leather
belt. No foppish dresser, Ferdoragh. Rory grinned at his uncle in exasperation. Much of his boyhood had gone to pulling stories out of Ferdoragh, who could tell them when he chose. He had fought in
France and Spain against the English—and in Ireland.

Rory fidgeted with the collar lacing of his tunic; dressed, he would like to go down to the hall, but this day clansmen must stay together in group until the ceremony was done. He did not need
Ferdoragh to tell him it was not his day, but in a measure it was his, too; for it would mark the beginning of his future in life and he was wild with impatience.

“My Christ, uncle, move! They’ll all be before us.”

“Two hours to noon, boy. O’Hagan will take—him up first.”

“Yes—” wild with impatience for that as well, to lay eye on Shane O’Neill the first time. He knew all the stories—who did not in Ulster? He had plagued Ferdoragh
often enough for the little personal glimpses he could give.

“You can go to your father. I will be joining the retinue.”

That he’d forgotten: Ferdoragh was not only a McGuinness this day, but one of O’Neill’s army captains. He gave a last hasty look in the bronze. One of the red
McGuinnesses—but not one of the big ones. A slim young blue-eyed fire-haired McGuinness, hot to fight and love and not unproven at either of them, twenty-one last month. He tugged the
throat-lacings straighter to his blue tunic, settled the full blue kilt; he thrust the dagger more firmly in his belt and took up his cloak from the bed. He was pleased with himself, Rory; he was
excited for this great day.

He went out to the dark stone passage and met the rest of the McGuinnesses converging at the top of the nearest stair.

“I was about to send after you”—his father, Conan, grumbling.

“Is Ferdoragh still snoring?”—his brother Aidan, grinning. “I said to Fergus—”

Rory aimed an amiable blow at his brothers. “Your tongue off Ferdoragh. He is not.” He gave a hasty salute to his grandfather, Michael, the chief McGuinness.

“A damned cold morning,” complained his father. “Always awkward Con O’Neill was. He would die at the tail of the year—”

“As he lived at the tail of the English!” said the chief tartly. “I’m needing another cup before we set out.”

“They’ll be gathering in the hall,” soothed his son.

They were, and the hall of O’Hagan’s house crowded with them, the head-men of Ulster. Rory looked about, eager and curious, but the foremost group had already left with old John
O’Hagan. They had come last night—the rest had been gathering for a week—but by custom kept to private chambers until after today’s ceremony. There was an almost tangible
tension about the press of men in the hall; they packed in clan-groups, talking low when they talked at all. A few servants ran about with cups and flagons; others besides the McGuinness felt the
need of an extra dram of liquor this chill morning.

Ferdoragh came up behind Rory and rumbled vaguely at the chief, who eyed him sourly. “Ferdoragh,” muttered Rory behind his hand—the atmosphere was contagious—“is it
true O’Neill has said he will refuse be the election not unanimous?”

“True enough.” Ferdoragh’s hand swallowed a cup from a passing servant. He put down the contents at a gulp. “I heard him.” At a touch on his arm he turned. Rory
knew that man: it would be one of the four sons of Cormac Donnelly, who were foster brothers to Shane O’Neill and captains in his army. This one spoke no word, only nodded, and Ferdoragh
turned to accompany him to men waiting at the door: more Donnellys. Any but a blind man would know those three for brothers, all slender, brown-haired, pale. Rory identified them from hearsay:
Edmund, James, and Manus; the eldest, Dudley, would be—elsewhere.

And now the groups in the hall commenced to shift and move: it was time. Time they got on with the business. He thought old Michael would never start, but they came out at last; a bevy of grooms
held the horses, and already a troop of riders straggled out the gate.

They rode out from O’Hagan’s house toward the great Hill of Tullaghogue, and even Rory, perhaps the youngest man among them, felt that they did not ride alone: the ghosts of thirty
years of history followed them—and how many years to come?

Men said of Shane O’Neill—what did they not say? He was more than a man. He had saved Ulster from the English, vindicated his clan w