‘The Earl of Essex will need this – if he is to rescue this island for Her Majesty,’ Spenser says defensively. He threads the fastening of the bag through its buckle and pulls it tight. ‘Besides, up on the roof you implied that were it to be discovered here, it would prick the rebels to even greater fury.’
‘Then let us hope we don’t fall into their hands. If they find it on your person–’
‘I’ll take that risk.’
‘Where is the nearest English garrison?’ Nicholas asks.
‘A day’s ride to the south, at Cork. We can be sure of sanctuary there – I’ve been recommended by the Privy Council for sheriff of that town. They’re hardly likely to close the gates to me.’
‘Cork it shall be then,’ says Nicholas.
Spenser shakes his head. ‘It’s closest, but between us lies Mallow. You heard at supper that the rebels are around the town in force. Do you propose we try to fight our way through? Or shall we have our horses fly over them, Dr Shelby?’
Nicholas ignores Spenser’s petty jibe. ‘Where else then? Hurry! Every moment we wait here is a gift to those people at the gate.’
‘There’s a garrison at Waterford, to the east. But it’s over twice the distance.’
Nicholas steadies his breathing, forcing a viable plan on his racing thoughts. A wrong decision now could mean death later.
‘We go east then,’ he says decisively. ‘We keep the Ballyhoura Mountains to our left, and our faces towards the dawn. That way, we won’t run the risk of getting lost and stumbling into the rebels.’
‘And if the rebels guess we’re heading for Waterford?’ Spenser says. ‘What then?’
‘If we’re careful, they won’t know we’ve gone until they’ve broken through the outer wall, then burned their way through the tower gate. By the time they discover the house is empty, we should be well away. Let’s hope they spend a good while ransacking this place before they think about coming after us.’
‘That is easy for you to say, Dr Shelby,’ Spenser says harshly. ‘The loss of Kilcolman and three thousand acres of good land will not come out of your purse.’
Not a thought for your wife, your sons or your household, thinks Nicholas. Not a word about how we shall herd your servants together in the darkness, or what might befall them if they lag behind.
‘But you will still have your life, Master Spenser,’ he says, trying to keep his voice civil. He jabs a finger at the bag slung over Spenser’s shoulder. ‘And that – for what it’s worth.’
Spenser lays one hand on the bag, as though to defend its contents from Nicholas’s contempt. ‘Have you not considered the fact that Waterford will give the rebels twice the time in which to catch up with us?’
‘They won’t catch up with us because we won’t go to Waterford.’
‘But… but you said–’
‘Once we’re clear of Kilcolman we’ll swing south, then turn and approach Cork from a different direction. If we’re lucky, we may even run into the Earl of Ormonde’s force.’
Spenser considers this for a brief moment. ‘That is feasible, Dr Shelby. We can cross the Blackwater at Fermoy. For a physician, you seem to have an unusually military mind.’
‘I served a season on campaign with the forces of the House of Orange, in the Low Countries. If you think a mob of rebels is a peril, trying evading a troop of Spanish lancers.’
Spenser gives him a look of new-found admiration. ‘When we have the leisure, you must tell me how you managed it. I might make it the subject of a poem.’
As they hurry down towards the cellar and the entrance to the tunnel, Bianca says, ‘Nicholas, you’ve never told me about hiding from Spanish lancers.’
‘Why would I? It would only have caused you alarm.’
‘How did you evade them?’
‘Simple,’ Nicholas says, giving her a sly grin. ‘I hid. In a midden.’
Bianca wrinkles her hose. ‘You hid in a dung-heap?’
‘Don’t look so revolted. It had unexpected benefits. You’d be surprised how many sickly pistoleers suddenly discover they’re miraculously cured when their company’s physician smells of horse-shit and rotten vegetables.’
13
In the liquid grey light before sunrise, Nicholas reins in his horse. He looks back over his shoulder into the departing night. Beyond Spenser’s party he can see a dozen stragglers on foot, standing out against the misty fields like the grey stones the giants of antiquity seeded in this strange land so long ago that everyone has forgotten their purpose. The tower at Kilcolman has disappeared from sight behind the trees and the soft rise of the ground. Not even the glow of the fire is visible. In the darkness it has taken them hours to make barely two miles.
‘Now that we can see our hands in front of our faces, we must make better speed,’ he says to no one in particular. He is impatient to continue. Now that daylight is approaching, they are more vulnerable than ever.
Close beside him, Bianca gives a smile of encouragement, her face pale and drawn in the twilight. She has said little since they escaped from Kilcolman. Not a word of complaint. Not one hint that she blames him for casting her into this chaos. It occurs to Nicholas that he would rather have her riding beside him than a company of horse armed with loaded wheel-lock pistols.
‘I know where we are,’ Spenser says, as though heading east had been his idea all along. ‘We’re less than two leagues from the Nagle plantation at Ballynamona. I know the Nagles well; an old Anglo-Irish family. We can be there within a couple of hours.’
‘Then let’s pray the rebels haven’t attacked there, too,’ Nicholas says, putting voice to a fear that’s been nagging him since they left – that the assault on Kilcolman is only part of a general uprising within Munster.
Ballynamona turns out to be a brand-new tower house, but built much in the style of Kilcolman. By the time it comes into view, sunrise has filled the valley with autumnal light, turning the trees from black to gold. Cattle graze peaceably in the surrounding fields. A thin column of smoke rises, unperturbed, from the chimney. For Nicholas, it is the first indication that his decision to take Spenser and his party eastwards was sound. Nevertheless, their arrival brings an abrupt end to Ballynamona’s innocent tranquillity.
The lord of the Nagle household is a man of about Spenser’s age, with the reticent wariness of the border settler. He listens without comment as his neighbour tells of the attack on Kilcolman. When Spenser has finished talking, Nagle shrugs as though the prospect of imminent attack is a minor tribulation during a day’s toil in the fields.
‘Sounds to me like Tyrone has grown tired of waiting for the Council of Munster to treat with him,’ he says. ‘With those fools in command at Dublin, I’m surprised he’s stayed his hand this long. Have you lost everything, Master Edmund?’
‘I fear I have lost my dearest offspring, Master David.’
David Nagle casts a quizzical glance at Sylvanus, who stares at his boots in discomfort; then at Katherine, who looks at the ceiling in resignation; and finally at little Peregrine, clinging to his mother’s coat and sniffling fractiously with tiredness.