Nuala O'Malley Read online

  NUALA O'MALLEY

  by

  H. BEDFORD-JONES

  ALL-STORY WEEKLY

  VOL. LXVI NUMBER 2

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 30, 1916

  NUALA O'MALLEY

  by

  H. Bedford-Jones

  Author of "Malay Gold," "The Ghost Hill," "John Solomon, Supercargo,"etc.

  This is a stirring, entrancing story of Erin when Cromwell wascampaigning, and when the fighting heritage that is every Irishman'sfound vent through sword and ax and fire. You meet Brian Buidh, Brian ofthe Yellow Hair, more thrilling than even your favorite movie hero; andas for Nuala herself--well, just wait till you meet her!--THE EDITOR.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Part I

  I. THE BLACK WOMAN. 177II. THE BEGINNING OF THE STORM. 179III. THE DARK MASTER. 182IV. BRIAN LEANS ON HIS SWORD. 186V. YELLOW BRIAN RIDES SOUTH. 191VI. BRIAN TAKES CAPTIVES. 196VII. THE BIRD DAUGHTER. 201

  Part II

  VIII. HOW BRIAN WAS NETTED. 419IX. THE NAILING OF BRIAN. 424X. IN BERTRAGH CASTLE. 429XI. THE BAITING OF CATHBARR. 434XII. HOW THE DARK MASTER WAS RUINED. 438

  Part III

  XIII. BRIAN RIDES TO VENGEANCE. 659XIV. HOW THE STORM FARED NORTH. 664XV. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE TARN. 670XVI. BRIAN GETS HIS SWORD AGAIN. 674XVII. BRIAN GOES A CRUISING. 679

  Part IV

  XVIII. BRIAN YIELDS BERTRAGH. 137XIX. BRIAN MEETS THE BLACK WOMAN. 142XX. THE STORM BURSTS. 147XXI. CATHBARR YIELDS UP HIS AX. 151XXII. THE STORM OF MEN COMES TO REST. 155

  CHAPTER I.

  THE BLACK WOMAN.

  The horseman reined in as his jaded steed scrambled up the shelvingbank, and for a space sat there motionless, for which the horse gavemute thanks. The moon was struggling to heave through fleecy clouds, asit was hard on midnight; in the half obscurity the rider gazed aroundsuspiciously.

  There was nothing in sight to cause any man fear. Behind him rippled theDee, and all around was desolation. Ardee itself lay a good two miles inthe rear, burned and laid waste six weeks before, and ten miles to thesouth lay Drogheda. Indeed, as the horseman gazed about, he caughtsight of a faint glare on the horizon that drew a bitter word from hislips.

  Dismounting with some difficulty, owing to his cloak and Spanish hat, heexamined a long, raking gash in his horse's flank; then flung off hatand cloak and calmly proceeded to bind up his own naked shoulderbeneath.

  His was a strange figure, indeed, now that he stood revealed. He wore noclothing save breeches and high riding-boots; an enormous sword withouta sheath was girt about his waist, and the caked blood on his shoulderand cheek made his fair skin stand out with startling contrast.

  About his shoulders fell long hair of ruddy yellow, while his face wasyoung and yet very bitter, tortured by both physical and mentalanguish, as it seemed. He bound up the deep slash in his shoulder with astrip of cloth torn from his cloak, felt his wealed cheek tenderly, thenflung the cloak about him again and drew down his broad-brimmed hat ashe turned to his weary horse.

  "Well, my friend," and his voice sounded whimsical for all its richtone, "you've had a change of masters to-day, eh? I'd like to spare you,but man's life is first, though Heaven knows it's worth little inIreland this day!" With that he reeled and caught at the saddle forsupport, put down his head, and sobbed unrestrainedly.

  "Oh, my God!" he groaned at length, straightening himself to shake aclenched and blood-splashed fist at the sky. "Where were You this day?God! God! The blood of men on Thine altars--"

  "Faith, you must be new come to Ireland, then!"

  At the shrill, mocking voice the man whirled about and his huge bladewas out like a flash. But only a cackling laugh answered him, as downfrom the bank above slipped a perfect hag of a creature, and he drewback in alarm. At that instant the moon flooded out; his sudden motionhad flung off his wide hat, and he stood staring at the wrinkledcreature whose scanty garments and thin-shredded gray locks were piercedby a pair of weird brown eyes.

  Then he quivered indeed, and even the poor horse took a step backward,for the old woman had flung up her arms with a shrill cry as she gazedon the yellow-haired young man.

  "The O'Neill!" The words seemed to burst from her involuntarily. Shecraned forward, her hands twisting at her ragged shawl, and a flood ofGaelic poured from her lips as she stared at the awe-struck man.

  "Are you, then, the earl, come back from the dead? Ghost of Tyr-owen,why stand you here idle in the gap of Ulster, where once Cuculain foughtagainst the host of Meave? Do you also stand here to fight as hefought--"

  "Peace, mad-woman!" exclaimed the young man, stooping after his hat."Peace, and be off out of my way, for I have far to ride."

  The Gaelic words came roughly and brokenly from him, but the old hagtook no heed. Instead, she advanced swiftly and laid her hand on hisarm, still gazing into his face with a great wonder on her wrinkledfeatures.

  "Who are you?" she whispered. "Tell the Black Woman your name, if youare no ghost! For even as you stand now, once did these eyes see thegreat earl himself."

  "I am from Drogheda," answered the man, something very like fear stampedon his powerful and bitter-touched young face. "My name is Brian Buidh,and I ride to join Owen Ruadh--"

  "Liar!" The old woman spat forth the word with a cackle of laughter."Oh, you cannot fool the Black Woman, Yellow Brian! Listen--Brian yourname is, and Yellow Brian your name shall be indeed, since this is yourwill. Owen Ruadh O'Neill lies at the O'Reilly stead at Lough Oughter,but you shall never ride to war behind him, Brian Buidh! No--the BlackWoman tells you, and the Black Woman knows. Instead, you shall ride intothe west, and there shall be a storm of men--a storm of men behind youand before you--"

  "For the love of Heaven, have done!" cried Yellow Brian, shrinkingbefore her, and yet with anger in his face. "Are you crazed, woman?Drogheda has fallen; O'Neill must join with the royalists, and nevershall I ride into the west. Be off, for I have no money."

  He turned to mount, but again she stopped him. It seemed to him thatthere was strange power in that withered hand which rested so lightly onhis arm.

  "The Black Woman needs no money, Yellow Brian," she cackled merrily."You shall meet me once again, on a black day for you; and when you meetwith Cathbarr of the Ax you shall remember me, Brian Buidh; and whenyou ride into the west and meet with the Bird Daughter you shallremember me.

  "So go, Yellow Brian, upon whose heart is stamped the red hand of theO'Neills! _Beannacht leath!_"

  "_Beannacht leath_," repeated the man thickly.

  There was a rustle of bushes, and he was alone, wiping the cold sweatfrom his face.

  "Woman or fiend!" he muttered hoarsely. "How did she know that last?Yes, she was crazed, no doubt. I suppose that I do look like theearl--since he was my grandfather!"

  And with a bitter laugh he climbed into the saddle and pushed his horseup the bank. The bushes closed behind him, the night closed over him,but it was long ere the weird words of the old hag who called herselfthe Black Woman were closed from his mind.

  For, after all, Yellow Brian was of right not alone an O'Neill, but TheO'Neill.