Chapter 16

NEW FRIENDS

Sisters, I from Ireland came.

COLERIDGE.

The duke, immediately on his arrival at the Castle of Buttevant, despatched Hubert Burgh to the prior of Kilmainham, with a message from himself and a token from Lord Barry, announcing his intention of visiting him at the abbey the next day. But Keating feared thus to draw the eyes of some enemy upon him, and appointed a meeting in a secluded dell, near the bank of the Mullagh, or Awbeg, the river which Spenser loves to praise. Early in the morning Richard repaired alone to this rural presence-chamber, and found Keating already there. Hearing of the priest’s haughty pride, Richard, with a sensation of disgust, had figured a man something like the wretched Trangmar, strong of limb, and with a ferocious expression of countenance. Keating appeared in his monk’s humble guise; his light eyes were still lively, though his hair and beard were snowy white; his brow was deeply delved by a thousand lines; his person short, slender, bent; his step infirm; his voice was silver-toned; he was pale, and his aspect in its lower part sweetly serene. Richard looked with wonder on this white, withered leaf—a comparison suggested by his frail tenuity; and again he almost quailed before the eager scrutiny of the prior’s eye. A merchant at a Moorish mart he had seen thus scan a slave he was about to purchase. At length, with a look of great satisfaction, the monk said, “This fits exactly; our friends will not hesitate to serve so goodly a gentleman. The daughter of York might in sooth mistake thee for a near kinsman. Thou comest from Portugal, yet that could not have been thy native place?”

Richard started. This was the first time he had heard an expression of doubt of his veracity. How could he reply? His word alone must support his honour; his sword must remain sheathed, for his injurer was a priest. Keating caught his haughty glance, and perceived his mistake. It was with an effort that he altered his manner, for he exchanged with pain a puppet subject to his will, for a man (prince or pretender) who had objects and a state of his own to maintain. “Pardon the obscure vision of an old man,” he said; “my eyes were indeed dim not to see the true marks of a Plantagenet in your appearance. I was but a boy when your princely grandsire fell; nor has it been my fortune to visit England or to see your royal father. But the duke of Clarence honoured me with his friendship, and your cousin De la Poole acknowledged my zeal in furthering his projects. I am now neither prior nor commander; but, poor monk as I am become, I beseech your highness to command my services.”

This swift change of language but ill satisfied the pride of Richard, and in reply, he briefly recounted such facts as established his right to the name he claimed. The noble artlessness of his tone conquered the priest’s lurking suspicions: in a more earnest manner he besought the duke’s pardon; and a cordial intercourse was established between them.

The place where they met was secluded and wild; a bower of trees hid it from the view of the river, and an abrupt rock sheltered it behind. It was apparently accessible by the river only, and it was by its bank that the duke and prior had arrived. Nothing could equal the picturesque solitude around them. The waving of the leafy boughs, the scream of the water-fowl, or the splashing they made as they sprung from among the sedge and darted across the stream, alone interrupted the voiceless calm; yet, at every moment, in his speech, Keating stopped, as if listening, and cast his keen eyes, which he libelled much in calling dim, up the steep crag, as if among its herbage and shrubs some dreaded spy or expected messenger might appear. Then again he apologized to the duke for having selected this wild spot for their interview. A price, he observed, had been set upon his head, and his only safety lay in perpetual watchfulness and never-sleeping caution. “My zeal in your highness’s cause,” he added, with a courtier smile, “cannot be deemed a strange frenzy, since your success will not only assure my restoration to the dignity of which I have been unjustly deprived, but prevent an old man from perpetually dreaming of the sword of the slayer, or the more frightful executioner’s axe.”

Again the prior fixed his eyes on a fissure in the rock, adding, “I had appointed to meet one in this place before your message was communicated to me—and in good time; for, methinks, the object of your visit may be furthered by the intelligence I hope soon to receive. Your highness must have heard at Cork of the war carried on by the great earl of Desmond and a native sept of this region. Macarthy, their chief, fell during the struggle, but his successor and Tanist mustered his broken forces to avenge him. The earl is impatient of this resistance, for his presence is necessary in Thomond to drive the O’Carrols from that district. At his invitation he and Macarthy meet this day to parley but a few miles hence. I was to have made one among them, but a boding raven told me that danger was abroad.”