He looked at me strangely. ‘Was what?’
‘Was it you or the Blackstones that killed him?’
‘What are you talking about? He died at Bonamargy. We saw his gr–’ And then his face broke into a broad, unaccustomed smile. ‘By God. Well, by God! Were we taken in by that? You have Sean’s guile, Seaton.’
‘It was not I, but the friars who thought of it. They had the grave dug before I ever got there.’
‘And where did you hide him? We searched every inch of that place, apart from the old nun’s cell.’
I said nothing.
‘He was in there?’ Again he laughed. ‘My father said he would rather pass through the gates of Hell than cross that threshold. Well! The old woman has nerve. But I know it was Mac Cuarta we found at Ardclinnis. It is for the best. He would not have liked what he might have lived to see.’
I remembered Stephen telling me of the debacle of the planned rising of 1615, ended before it was begun by the drunkenness and swagger of its leaders. It had taken him and others thirteen years to persuade powers abroad that the Irish could be trusted again. With Sean, with Cormac, he might have been right, but with Murchadh? Cormac was right – it was as well Stephen had not lived to see what was going to happen now. But it was not Murchadh’s swagger that had ended it for them this time: this time the English had learned of their plans through Sir James Shaw. Through Andrew Boyd. Through me.
It was as if Cormac could read my thoughts. ‘And Boyd lives, you tell me?’
‘I do not know. I have not seen him since Ballygally. He came into Carrickfergus a few hours before me, but has not been seen since.’
‘He is not at your grandmother’s?’
‘Not when I was last there. But I cannot go back. She knows now I did not murder Sean, but I do not think she can forgive me that I live while he is dead.’
‘And you did not murder him? I am a dead man: you can tell the truth to me.’
‘It is the truth. Why should I have wanted Sean dead? That I might take his place? That I might have what is his? I have a life.’ My voice was rising and I could hear the guard at the ladder. ‘I had a life, and I do not want his.’
He tried to reach a hand towards me, but the bindings stopped him. ‘It is all right. I believe you, for what such credence is worth. And you do not know who murdered Sean?’
I was losing patience. ‘Cormac, who else could it have been but your father? Who else had cause to want him dead?’
‘It was not my father,’ he said quietly. ‘He never left Maeve’s house that whole night.’
‘Then who? Who did?’
‘Ach! How should I know? Half the country was in the house. How could anyone keep note of comings and goings?’ He grew angry in his frustration. He might as well have said, ‘How could I have noticed anyone else, when I could look at no one but Deirdre?’
‘And Deirdre did not come into any danger? She did not go after him?’
‘No! She did not go after him. Deirdre was unwell; she had been distraught since O’Rahilly’s appearance the night before. She left the hall only to rest. This has nothing to do with Deirdre.’ And then I began to see it, through his vehemence, through his anger, through his desperation; I saw the reason for his desire to believe that I had killed Sean, for his anger on being questioned on the events of that night, for his determination to get Deirdre away from Carrickfergus, to keep her hidden away: Cormac feared that my cousin, the woman he loved, had murdered her brother.
He looked directly at me. ‘You must take care of her now.’
‘You cannot think she murdered him.’
‘No. But she is so lost I … You must take care of her now. I have done what I could to clear your name over Henry Blackstone’s death. Keep yourself clear of further trouble.’ That was why he had done it: so that there might be someone to watch over her when he was gone.
He said something in Gaelic that I did not understand. I do not think he had meant me to hear, but I asked him to repeat it.
‘She is my Deirdre of the Sorrows. Did you never hear of Deirdre of the Sorrows?’
‘No.’
‘A long time ago, so the bards have it, a child was born whose name and fate had been decreed before she ever left the womb. She would be called Deirdre, and so great would be her beauty that it would be the ruin of Ulster, tearing the kingdom asunder and resulting in the death of three brothers, its finest warriors. As she grew, all that had been predicted came to pass – Deirdre was indeed beautiful; she was to marry a king, an older man whom she did not love, but she fell in love instead with Naoise, a handsome young warrior with whom, with the help of his two brothers, she eloped. The king pursued and harried them, and finally captured them by an act of treachery. The kingdom was ripped asunder by discord, and the girl’s lover and his two brothers put to death.’ He looked away from me. ‘Your cousin is my Deirdre of the Sorrows. She always has been.’
‘I will take care of her,’ I said. ‘But you should know: I would have done it anyway. There is something, though, that I want from you in return.’
He raised an eyebrow in question.
‘Tell me who laid the curse on my family.’
He was weary now, and longing, I think, for me to be gone. ‘Finn O’Rahilly laid the curse on your family.’
‘At whose behest?’
‘Does it matter, now?’
‘It matters to me.’ I asked him again. ‘Do you know who laid the curse on my family?’
‘What did the poet tell you?’
‘He told me nothing.’
‘He said nothing to you; he did not speak?’
‘He spoke to me, but he refused to tell me who had commissioned him in this work; he seemed to think he retained some remnant of honour in doing so.’
‘Then perhaps he did. You might follow his example.’
‘It was the curse that brought me over here, and before I leave this place – if, God willing, I ever leave this place – I will know who is behind it.’
‘And if such knowledge harms you?’
‘I must know it anyway.’
‘Then think on his words, if you must, but you will call down upon yourself whatever griefs may follow.’
I nodded and turned to the hatch, ready to descend from this freezing, miserable place to the world of free men.
‘Do one thing more for me, Seaton: tell her goodbye. And tell her I would have loved her better than any man who has walked this earth.’
Cormac O’Neill had finished with me now. And whatever dreams he might have had, they too were finished: he might have been a hero, in other times.
Sir James was waiting for me outside, talking with the guard. ‘The stench in that place would make a man vomit. You have finished your business with O’Neill?’
‘Yes, it is finished.’
‘A better man than his father, they say.’ He was awkward a moment, but it passed. ‘Ah well, we must run with the tide, and if we do not, we get caught. The constable wishes to see you. I have spoken up for you as far as I am able. For the rest, you must shift for yourself. Also, he has news for you of a sort you may not like. If that is the case, I counsel you to keep your misliking of it to yourself.’
The constable was waiting for us in a state of evident agitation.
‘He has been to see O’Neill? And?’
‘Nothing of substance. Some talk of the FitzGarrett girl, and their nonsense of poets, little more.’
We had kept our voices low, and the guard had been able to hear little.
The constable turned his eyes on me. ‘The matter of your cousin’s murder is unresolved, but witnesses at Armstrong’s Bawn have spoken for you, and of that, at least, you are clear now.’
‘I have always known I was clear of that atrocity.’