The Silver Stag of Bunratty (16 page)

He turned as a tall, fair-haired man came out the door of the inn. He was so tall he had to stoop to come through.

‘Ah, Sir Baldwin!' the innkeeper said, ‘I was just telling these good folk my best room is …'

But the fair-haired knight was not paying any attention to the landlord. Nor was anyone else, for with squeals of joy Matthieu and Maude had run towards him, and the knight had gathered them both up in his arms.

‘Well, this is a surprise, but a good one,' said Outlaw. ‘Sir Baldwin, I thought you would stay in Kilmainham until I brought your children to you.'

Maude turned to Outlaw. ‘You knew it – you knew our father was alive and did not tell us?'

‘Do not be angry, child. I could not be totally sure it was your father, and I did not want to raise false hopes. I had word from Dublin that a knight was lately returned from the lands to the east, a knight who had come to Ireland to search for his children. He had been told that the boy and girl had been brought to Ireland, but by some confusion thought them in Dublin rather than here in Bunratty. I sent a message that he should wait in Kilmainham until I could bring you there in safety.'

The fair man, his arms still around Maude and Matthieu, smiled. ‘How could I stay away when I knew them to be here? And after so long an absence! I tell you, it is not such a long journey when you travel with friends. We have heard strange stories along the way, Outlaw, of four children travelling through the wilderness and of strange doings in the castle.'

‘We will tell you everything. You should be proud of your children's courage and hardiness. And they have found good friends – this is Tuan, of the Mac Conmaras, and the Lady Cliar, the apprentice of Dame Anna.'

The knight did his best to bow to Tuan and Cliar. It was hard for him to do so, with Maude and Matthieu still clinging to him on either side. Maude was crying, not caring that everyone could see that there were tears streaming down her face. Her father took out his kerchief and wiped her eyes.

‘There, sweetheart, cry no more. For I am determined I will not let you two out of my care again. If I had not been wounded and left to rot in a stinking prison I would have been back to you long before now. It was the thought of seeing you two that kept me alive, and kept me going on the long road back to England. I could not believe it when I reached Dorset and found that you were no longer there.'

Cliar looked closely at Sir Baldwin. It seemed that even he was having difficulty keeping the tears out of his eyes.

It was a wonderful evening. Sir Baldwin told them stories of his capture and eventual escape from his captors. Maude and Matthieu, constantly interrupting and contradicting each other as to what had actually happened, told their father of their adventures since he had seen them last. They talked late into the night, and it was Prior Roger who finally said they should get some rest, for they were to rise before dawn the following day, in order to reach Bunratty early.

The route to Bunratty led them along the curve of the Shannon, and they travelled with the rising sun at their backs. As they rounded a bend in the river, they saw a light in the sky ahead of them, almost as if another sun was rising to the west. Prior Outlaw pulled up, his eyes screwed up in order to see into the distance.

‘God help us, it looks as if we are too late. That light is flame, and the smoke in the distance must be the castle. The Irish have already set it burning.' He broke into a gallop.

CHAPTER 19

R
ED AND
W
HITE AND
B
LACK
S
HALL
B
E

s they came closer to Bunratty, they could see that the white tower of the castle was wrapped in red flames. Black smoke rose from it, dark against the green sea of grass and trees. Cliar thought of Dame Anna’s words:
Red and white and black shall be Bunratty
, and shivered.

The village too was on fire, and as they came near to it, they could see the villagers running about, carrying bales of hay and herding animals away from the flames. Yet everyone seemed to have an air of purpose rather than panic about them. One or two people even smiled and waved at their little group. Then they realised that most of the activity seemed to be centred on moving bundles down to the bank of the Shannon, where a tall ship was docked. There was no
sign of any Irish attackers.

Prior Outlaw pulled up his horse.

‘I cannot credit it,’ he said, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘I cannot believe even she would do it.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Tuan.

‘Let us find the mistress of the castle as quickly as we can. Here,’ he called to a villager who was passing with a load of grain on his back, ‘can you tell me where the Lady Johanna is?’

‘Why, down in the ship, counting out what is being loaded, of course. Lord, she has us all scarified. A tough taskmaster, I’ll tell you, she is. Tougher yet than any man, even Sir Richard, God bless his poor soul.’

They made their way to the dock, and there was Lady Johanna in the forecastle, a list in her hand, marking off the goods as they were loaded on board.

Prior Roger dismounted and bowed to her from the shore.

‘I mourn your loss with you, my lady,’ were his first words. ‘Sir Richard was a great warrior.’

Lady Johanna looked at him, her eyes bleak as the coldest of winters. She raised her pale eyebrows.

‘Myself, I have no time to mourn,’ she declared. ‘I must be busy with this task. If you wish to stay with me and help, you are welcome. If you wish to hinder me, I bid you
begone.’

Prior Roger asked quietly, ‘What has happened to the castle, lady? Who set it afire?’

Lady Johanna’s lip curled. ‘Who set it afire? I did. I have burnt it and the village so they may not fall into the hands of the Irish. And I am glad to see it destroyed, cleared forever from the face of the earth, for home it never was to me. And now I am taking my goods away from this devilish place. I will sail up the Shannon to Limerick. From thence I will take a ship to my father’s lands in England. My child will be safe there and grow up in a civilised place. Never again will I set foot in this accursed country.’

Her sour expression was set like stone. That is a look, thought Cliar, that will never leave her face.

There was silence as the meaning of what Lady Johanna had said sank in. Then she spoke again.

‘I see you have my wards with you. My disobedient wards. But I suppose it is my duty to take them back to England with me, though they will be of no use to me. Just two more mouths to feed! Let us hope I can find some sort of useful work for them … Maude, Matthieu, come on board. Maude, you must get changed out of that outrageous outfit, at once.’

The children looked at their father, thinking of how it
might have been if he had not come for them.

‘Hurry now,’ Lady Johanna said impatiently. She peered at Cliar. ‘Humph! I see you have my runaway Irish servant with you too. I have no use for her – if she showed such disobedience once, it could happen again. She may do as she wishes. I will not feed her.’

‘My lady,’ said Cliar, ‘where is Margaret? And Dame Anna?’

‘Oh, Margaret went to her son’s farm after you disappeared. Such impudence I had from her, when I told her we were going back to England. She has no desire to leave Bunratty, she said, for her home is here. Home indeed! She will, no doubt, end up being burned in her bed by the Irish. But it was as well, for I have not room for every villager. How they will make do in this land now I do not know. Or care.’ She turned her attention to the dogs that were being driven onto the ship, whining and barking in protest. ‘There now, down in the hold with them, hurry them up …’

The little group gazed at the burning white towers. The smell of the fire was sharp in their nostrils. How strange, thought Cliar, that someone would rather see a whole world go up in smoke than leave it for another to conquer.

Then, as they watched, a flock of white pigeons flew
from the north west tower.

At the very moment Maude asked, ‘But where is Dame Anna?’

Lady Johanna shrugged. ‘She refused to leave her tower when I sent word of my plans. There was nothing I could do. I thought she would move fast enough when the flames started licking at her heels, but it seems that she is even more stubborn than I thought. Hurry, girl, and get yourself on board. You can help arrange the smaller boxes in the hold, and you too, Matthieu, make haste.’

But now Sir Baldwin spoke. ‘Lady Johanna, I am the children’s father. I thank you for your’ – he paused for a moment, as if deciding what word to use – ‘for your care of them. But now they are with me and I will keep them close.’

Lady Johanna threw her hands up. ‘Well, if that is the case, take them with you and welcome! I never could learn to love either of them and their strange eastern ways. Now, I have no time for this prattle. Heigh ho!’ she shrieked at a villager who was trying to herd a pig up the gangway, ‘I told you to wait and bring them all on together!’ She grabbed the man’s stick and began to hit him with it, and he rapidly got himself and his pig out of her range.

Cliar was tugging at Outlaw’s sleeve. ‘Prior Outlaw?
Dame Anna! Please can we go to her tower? We must get her to come out. Look at the flames – they’ll block the staircase soon.’

Outlaw nodded. ‘Yes, let us go. Though I fear the fire has taken too strong a hold for us to help much.’

As the children made their way towards the tower, they were filled with a strange mix of emotions. What Maude felt was mostly joy; her father was alive and she was with him. Yet, though she had never loved Bunratty, it was sad to see the lovely towers burn. It had, after all, been a refuge of a sort to her and her brother. Matthieu was simply full of delight. He was with his father, and from now on he would be able to talk to him, really talk to him again, instead of imagining the conversations they might have together. That was all he wanted from life.

Tuan felt little except concern for Dame Anna. Bunratty had been a prison to him and nothing more. He was wondering if Prior Roger would go back to Hospital now. If he did, Tuan wondered how he would get back to his own people, through a land filled with English soldiers. A land where speaking with the wrong accent could leave you with your throat slit.

And Cliar was crying quietly. She was the only one who could see that the faint figures of the ghosts were leaving
Bunratty, drifting up like plumes of smoke from the flames, fading into air and brightness. She felt happy for them, for she knew that the pain that had tied them to the castle was gone now. But they had been part of the castle and part of her life and now she would never see them again. Bunratty, despite everything, had been the only home she had ever known. What would she do now? Perhaps she could make her home with Margaret, in the village? But most of the village was burning, and how long could it last without the protection of the castle? And if she did spend the rest of her life there, she had a horrible feeling she knew what would happen. She would end up marrying Fred, Margaret’s son. Fred was kind, like Margaret, but he was not at all interesting. She would spend her days listening to him talk about the weather and his four cows and his hayfield and his bunions. She would never learn the ways of healing that Dame Anna had promised to teach her. For how could Dame Anna have survived the fire?

When the little group made their way cautiously into the bailey they found that everyone else had left, for the fire was spreading quickly throughout the castle. The north west tower was a column of flame. Outlaw shook his head. There was no way they could go in. Strangely, though, the smoke that came from these flames was not the acrid, stinging
smoke that came from the rest of the castle. It smelt sweet and strong, like hawthorn blossom. But they could not get close to the door, for the flames were hotter here than anywhere else. From the distance, though, they could see that the small, carved figure beside the door was black as night.

They stood, watching the tower burn.

‘I’m sorry, children, there is nothing we can do,’ said Outlaw. He led them across the drawbridge, away from the fire.

They stood in silence. Tears were streaming down Cliar’s face.

Sir Baldwin whistled softly, watching the flames. ‘It is a sad day to see such a great castle burn.’

It was Outlaw who answered. ‘It is indeed, and by the hand of the lady of the castle. I cannot see Lady Johanna’s children returning here. This is the end of the De Clares at Bunratty.’

Sir Baldwin nodded. ‘The end of the De Clares, indeed. But no doubt the battles will continue over who owns this fair land.’

There was a great crackling noise. They all looked upwards; the roof of the north west tower splintered and caved in, falling downwards in a shower of fiery sparks.

Everyone thought of Dame Anna. The flames had spread everywhere; the drawbridge they had crossed over only a few minutes before was already on fire.

But now a figure was walking across the fiery bridge, out of the flame-filled castle gate. A figure dressed in a black cloak, a figure with white hair streaming around her. A figure followed by a flock of birds – ravens and pigeons and the small birds from the hedgerows. Flying above her head was a white owl and a black dove.

The woman’s face was white as the owl’s feathers and her eyes burned with a dark flame.

The group stared. Even Outlaw found nothing to say. There was something in this figure that made every one of them feel full of awe.

But now Dame Anna smiled. ‘Once again, you have done well, children. And you will have your reward. Outlaw, we must talk, but not until you have done the business you need to do in the north.’

‘But where will you go? What will happen to you?’ asked Cliar. ‘Bunratty is destroyed.’

Dame Anna smiled. ‘Do not be concerned for me, child. I will always find a place of safety. But you, Cliar, what will
you
do now?’

Prior Outlaw replied. ‘We must leave here, for I must
return to Dublin. But on my way I will bring Tuan back to his people east of Cratloe. And Cliar may come with me to Kilmainham, if she so wishes.’

Maude said: ‘But she must come with us! She’s part of our family now!’ Matthieu nodded in agreement.

Then Tuan broke in. ‘No, she must come to my family. My parents will love her – she seems half a Mac Conmara already!’

Dame Anna smiled again. ‘Well, child, it seems you have found a family, indeed more than one. But I have one more choice to give you. Would you like to come with me, deep into the mountains, and learn more of what I have taught you? Of healing plants and herbs, of the wisdom of the earth and the trees? Of how to read flame in the water and the messages sent by the flight of birds? If you agree, we will go into the hills together, and I will teach you all that I know.’

Cliar hesitated only a moment. She knew where her fate would lead. Perhaps she had known it from that first day, from that first step she had taken into Dame Anna’s tower. She smiled at her companions.

‘Thanks to you all,’ she said. ‘You can never know how grateful I am to be wanted, to be welcomed. And I hope we’ll all meet again, often, for you are like my family to me now. But my home is with Dame Anna. I’ll go with you,
Dame Anna, and learn from you. And try to use what I have learned to help others.’

Dame Anna nodded. ‘We will find a place until Bunratty castle rises again – for rise it will. Listen carefully, and I will tell you something of what I foresee. This stone and wood will change their form, like all things made by man. But something at the heart of this place will never pass away. The castle will rise again, though those that live in it may not be Norman or English. Cliar, you have already learned that we serve not lord nor chieftain, Norman nor English nor Irish, but only those who have need of our skill. Those people will live in the castle and in the little houses in the shelter of its walls, and we, and those healers who follow us, will care for them all. Bunratty will remain and there will always be a wise woman there, though she may wear a different face and speak a different tongue. And there will always be a Silver Stag in the woods around the castle, though few will see it, and fewer still believe what they have seen.’