Drogheda.
The adults of the household whispered the port’s name constantly, their eyes filled with a fear Niamh Doyle had never seen. It angered her that no one thought it worth their time to tell a nine year old girl what caused such fear, even if she were the only child of The Doyle.
Worse, when she tried to wheedle information out of her parents, all she’d gotten were tears from her mother, and an angry rebuke from her from her father regarding what he’d called her ‘impertinent curiosity’. She’d finally learned what frightened everyone from Donel Dunleery, the son of her father’s steward.
“Ah, haven’t you heard? It’s the English!”
Niamh knew the English regarded Ireland as theirs. She also knew that the Irish had, at least partially, thrown them out just after she’d been born. But what had that to do with the dark mood of her father’s household? “And what of them? Father said we threw them out, that we kicked their arse.” Niamh knew ‘arse’ was a word she shouldn’t use, but it was what her father had said, and she thought it important to say things as father did.
Donel, a year older than her, seemed to think that extra year gave him leave to treat Niamh like she were a child. Putting his fists on his hips, he proceeded to lecture her on her ignorance. “And we did. But haven’t you heard, you silly goose? They’ve a new government, a government run by a man willing to murder their own king to gain power. That vile monster is named Cromwell, he is. And that monster has decided Ireland needs to be made part of England once again. He’s invaded Ireland with an army of monsters, monsters who raped, murdered and looted their way through Drogheda for no other reason than the garrison there refused to surrender. And if that wasn’t enough, they set the town alight and let the whole thing burn to the ground! People here fear we’ll be next because we’re a port city as well.”
Burn a city to the ground? Murder people in their homes? Those were terrible things, things she could understand her parents, and everyone else, being frightened by. And as her father was The Doyle, and head of the family in Wexford, she knew her father and his retainers would be among those who would be expected to resist any invading army that attacked the city.
And so they did.
Synnot was the name of the man who came to the Doyle house to ask her father to supply his retainers to the defense of Wexford. Listening in on such meetings was something her parents discouraged, but Niamh saw the man enter her house before being led to her father’s library. So she made sure she was outside, there to hear what was said. And having heard it, she wished she hadn’t been so curious. Synnot went straight to the point.
“Sir, we need as many of your men as can be spared for the defense of Wexford. Marquis Ormond needs us to hold out, both to give him time to rebuild his forces, and to deny Cromwell the use of Wexford. All he has in the way of ports is Drogheda, and with the privateer forces based here, we can harry his supply convoys and keep his army from growing stronger. If he can take Wexford, he will have a shorter distance to transport his supplies, and no effective force to oppose them landing.”
“Aye, and he’ll have Wexford itself to use as a base for his army.” Niamh could hear the scowl her father must be wearing in his voice. When he continued, his anger was plain in his voice. “I’m no fool, Colonel Synnot. You’ll have every man fit to carry a weapon, myself included. Just tell me where you want myself and my men to fight.”
“Of course, sir. If your men could help man the castle’s defenses, that will free me to spread the men I have with me around the city walls. We hold the fort at Rosslare, so Cromwell can’t land his troops there. That means he’ll be forced to approach across country, which means his artillery train will either trail far behind him, or he’ll be forced to approach far slower than he seems to plan for. My plan is to use his lack of artillery to force Cromwell to negotiate, to try to delay his attack on the city as long as I can. But we must plan for the worse. Cromwell’s forces are not bound by concepts like chivalry. You’ve heard the rumors of what happened after Drogheda?”
There was a moment’s silence that Niamh could only interpret as her father acknowledging the worst reports. What followed made clear what Wexford faced.
“Then I’ll tell you something I hope you’ll keep to yourself. The rumors don’t tell the half of what these English beasts did there. Some of the men in my company managed to escape that slaughter, and slaughter it was. It’s said a man beaten sees nothing but the most terrible aspects of his adversary. Even if you believe that, the stories I’ve heard from those men would make your blood run cold. I don’t know what devil motivates this so-called New Model Army, but he has turned the men in it into monsters from the deepest pit of Hell. I hope we can hold Wexford until Marquis Ormond can rally his forces, but I would caution you to send your family from this place in case the worst happens.”
Niamh couldn’t imagine her mother fleeing. Her father was one of the bravest men she knew, someone who sprang from one of the ‘Old English’ families, but her mother’s family was one of the oldest in all of Ireland. It was from her that Niamh had her long, black hair, and it was she who had taught Niamh the old tongue. If Niamh knew anything, she knew her mother would rather die than run from the likes of Cromwell. Evidently, so did her father.
“And if I tried, my wife would spit in my face for thinking her such a coward. No, my family will stay here, and I will die before I let the likes of Cromwell lay one of his filthy finger on them.”
Hearing those words gave Niamh hope, but that hope did not last long. Within a week of the meeting between her father and Synnot, terrible new spread through Wexford.
Cromwell had moved far faster as he advanced south from Dublin than anyone had imagined. He’d managed this by loading his artillery on ships, allowing his army to move through the countryside at a pace unheard of. To make matters worse, the garrisons of town after town had surrendered without a fight in hopes of sparing them the fate of Drogheda. Then, rather than attack Weford directly, he’d moved up the Slaney to ford it at Enniscorthy. In doing so, he managed to not just surprise the garrison of at Rosslare Fort, he’d taken the fort intact, complete with its heavy guns and all its supplies.
Worse news followed. The privateers were routed, but before they left, they reported that Cromwell was unloading his heavy siege guns at Rosslare. So when Cromwell’s main force moved to attack Wexford, his artillery was already in place, aimed at the strongest point in the city’s defenses, Wexford Castle.
Father came back to the Doyle house on the third of October to speak to mother, and to Niamh too, and what he had to say gave them nothing but despair.
“Cromwell’s a crafty bugger, I’ll give him that. He’s announced that if we surrender and offer no resistance, he’ll let the garrison go free. They’d have to march out, unarmed, but he pledges they’ll be allowed to go where they will.” Father shook his head. “Our troops marching out, unarmed, with nothing to protect them but Cromwell’s ‘word’. It’s madness to trust such an offer, but even my own troops mutter, wondering why we don’t just accept his terms.” Taking a sip from his wine goblet, father continued. “He also insists that the officers, people like me, will have to become prisoners. He pledges that if we do these things, the town will not be sacked, and the people will not be mistreatment. He seeks to divide us with a mix of threats and promises. But what good is the word of a man like himself, who put Drogheda to the torch for daring to resist?”
Mother had listened to everything said, and when father asked his question, she took his hand in hers. “No man would trust such a perjured liar as this Cromwel! Resist him, my dearest! Save our town, our house, and our honor from the monsters who would destroy them all.”
Father left for the fortress the next morning taking every man fit to carry a weapon left in the household, including Donel’s father. As he prepared to leave, Donel fell to his knees in front of father. “Lord Doyle, please take me too! I can fight, and if you wish me not to fight, I can still carry messages, or even the banner of your house. Do not shame me by leaving me home like a helpless child!”
Niamh worried that her father would take Donel, her one friend and playmate, with him. But he smiled, knelt, and placed his hand on the boy’s red head. “I will not take you to the battle, son of my dearest friend. I ask you to do something far more important than stand at my side, or carry my banner. No, I ask you to stay here, with my family. Your father is my right hand, so I ask that you to protect the things I hold most dear, my wife and my child. I ask you to keep them safe if I do not return. I place upon you this charge: that if it goes ill for us, if the town falls, I ask that you take my lady and my daughter away from Wexford. I have family in Baltimore and Skibbereen. I ask that you convey them there, and that you pledge to give your life if need be to protect them. Will you accept this burden I ask you to carry?”
Niamh saw Donel’s face rise, his eyes shining, and watched him take her father’s hand. “I do, my Lord Doyle. I pledge I will protect your family with my life.”
Father smiled, patting Donel’s head again. “I know you will. You are your father’s son, after all.” Whether he had been waiting to speak to her, or he’d just noticed Niamh had witnessed the events just finished, father looked at her. He extended his arms to her, and even as she felt shamed to be doing it, she ran to her father with tears in her eyes. She threw her arms around his neck burying her face in his shoulder, and cried without shame. When she could find her voice again, she asked her father the one favor she wanted from him, the one thing she knew he could not promise.
“Father, please promise me you won’t die, please!”
“I will promise not to die a fool, my child, but you know I can’t promise not to die. If God decides it is my time, then all the wishes and promises in the world will not keep me or anyone else so chosen alive.”
She felt her father’s arms surround her, pressing her close, and somewhere inside her, a voice seemed to scream this was the last time she would see her father. She wished the voice would just be quiet even as her tears started again. She managed to sob “I love you, father!” before her tears overwhelmed her again.
“I know, and I love you too, Niamh.” And with those final words, her father rose, turned his back, and walked away. He tried to turn away quickly, but before his face turned from her, Niamh saw tears streaking down her father’s proud face. In that moment, she knew her father did not expect to come home alive either.
For a week, nothing happened, and no news came to the Doyle house. Of rumors, though, there were many. The leader of a garrison in town on Marquis Ormond’s flank had switched sides, not just surrendering to Cromwell, but raising the mostly Protestant troops under his command to hold the town against any Royalist advances. To counter the threat, the Royalist forces had been forced to send troops to guard against any attacks from the town. And worse news, Ormond’s efforts to rally troops to the Royalist cause had faltered, with few if any being willing to risk the wrath of Cromwell’s terrible army.
The greatest rumor of all was that several of other leading families of Wexford were willing to surrender. They, and the merchants of the town, pressed Synnot to accept Cromwell’s terms.
So charged, Synnot had gone to meet the enemy, but whatever he said to the Terror of Drogheda, peace was not to be. Late in the day, the booming voice of the first of Cromwell’s cannons echoed across Wexford. It was followed in rapid succession by other loud reports, and with only short breaks, the cannons roared out their message of destruction across the Irish landscape through the night.
It was near the middle of the next day when the cannons ceased to fire, but it was not a sign that peace had come to Wexford. No, now there was no loud report of cannon, just the cracking sound Niamh recognized as the voices of muskets. And the sound grew louder, and closer, as she listened.
Why he picked it, Niamh could not guess, but she saw Donel stagger down the main hall of the house, half carrying and half dragging a sword that had belonged to her Norman ancestor. It had hung for as long as she could remember over the fireplace in her father’s library, and part of the guard still exhibited the thick skin of dust it had collected. He looked so ridiculous Niamh couldn’t restrain herself. “What are you doing, you fool? You can barely move that great thing. Do you think you can swing it against to any effect against a trained soldier? Shouldn’t you be getting mother so we can leave?”
Donel stopped and turned a face filled with exasperation towards her. “And do you think I didn’t try to get herself to leave? She told me to be gone, because she would not have ‘a boy like me’ order her about. When I told her what I promised your father, she bid me find a weapon, if I were serious, and prepare to defend the house against the English. Herself had an ax she said one of her great-grandsires had fought the Vikings with, and promised to use it on me if I troubled her any further.”
Another volley of musketry hammered the air, so loud it could only have come from the street outside the front door. Donel, brave lad that he was, turned to face that great iron-bound oak door. Somehow he brought the sword, a weapon nearly as tall as himself, up so the tip pointed at the door. It was a stirring sight, or would have been if the blade hadn’t started to shake within a heartbeat of Donel raising it.
He didn’t have long to wait. They’d locked the door shortly after the first cannon had fired, and someone rattled the lock trying without success to open it. A fist hammered on the wood as a voice outside called out to them.
“In the name of Parliament, open this door or we will force it open!”
Neither of the children spoke, and Niamh recognized with a start that she was holding her breath. She let it out, only to draw in another sharp breath as something heavy began pounding on the door. Whatever it was, it hit with enough force to jar dust from the mighty structures joints. Then something else started beating against the door. Then a third object began to hammer the oak planks. Soon, the whole door was shivering under a stream of blows. The sound of the assault grew, and Niamh saw a crack appear in one of the broad oak planks. Then another sprang into being as the door began to almost dance under the stream of impacts on it.
Donel was a brave boy, Niamh knew that, but between the deafening noise of the assault and the rapidly deteriorating door, he took a step back, and the blade he held began to quake. Then, one of the planks split before shattering completely. Another one followed. An arm reached inside, the hand on it scrabbling for the inside latch. Donel stepped forward to stab the arm. There was a scream from beyond the door, and the arm jerked, nearly wrenching the sword from Donel’s hand. Blood was already flowing from the wound as the arm withdrew, but it was replaced by another arm, this one clad in armor. Donel tried to stab it too, but the blade skated off, and the hand found the latch.
Unlocked, the door swung inwards to reveal half a dozen men in dirty uniforms, including one in slightly better clothes clutching his wounded arm. His eyes fixed on Donel, who’d backed up again, but now held the sword he carried firm before him.
“So that miserable brat stabbed an officer of the New Model Army. I can’t draw my sword, so will someone kill this little Irish bastard for me.”
Swords came to point, and a pike too, but one man in the back did the deed. He leveled his musket, and before Donel even knew what he faced, the gun roared. A jet of smoke lite from within by orange flame raced out, nearly reaching where Donel had stood, because he no longer stood there. The impact of the ball lifted him like a rag doll and threw him back a yard or more. But it didn’t stop inside Donel’s body. Even as Niamh watched her friend being picked up like he were nothing, she was a gaping hole open in his back. Blood flew, spattering across the white marble floors her father had been so proud of, and the walls to either side. Niamh even felt some of it, warm and sticky, strike her face. Her ancestor’s sword, the pride of her father’s family, fell ringing to the floor.
But Donel wasn’t dead. Niamh saw him raise his hand, whether to beg her to run, or to give him her own hand for the final moment of his life, she never knew. The monsters in human form swept forward, hacking and stabbing at the boy as he lay dying,
And it was too much.
The voice that had told her of her father’s death rose in her now. It was louder, and as clear as if someone stood beside her watching her friend being mutilated by the murdering fiends who’d broken into her family’s house.
What do you want? It asked her.
And she answered the anonymous voice, not knowing why she bothered, knowing it could not give her what she wanted. “I want them gone! I want all the English gone. Make them go away!”
A warmth rose in Niamh’s chest, a feeling she had never felt before, like her body was floating. She’d been watching the soldiers butchering Donel’s lifeless body, unable to tear her eyes away from the horror of what was happening. That was why she saw them as they froze in mid-movement. It was how she saw their eyes bulge in their sockets, and their jaw spring open as if they all tried to scream but couldn’t. And because she was watching, she saw every one of them fade, like the color was being withdrawn from their bodies, before they disappeared.
That was the last thing Niamh saw that day, and she saw nothing of what happened for the next two weeks. All through the miraculous news that poured into Wexford, Niamh lay unconscious, her breath barely detectable. It was only when she finally stirred for the first time that her mother began to hope Niamh would live.
For Niamh, the time passed in nightmare state. Again and again she saw Donel die. She witnessed his body being desecrated by the English over and over. And only in the end, when she began to remember the English monsters vanishing, did her mind clear, and herself awake. The first thing she was aware of was the hand holding hers, the steady pressure of someone else’s fingers wrapped around hers. Into that awareness came a voice, one she knew well. Her mother was speaking to her, calling her name.
“Awake, my Niamh. Awake and hear the glorious news!”
It was a struggle to open her eyes, and when they finally did, she closed them tight again against what felt like a blinding light. Opening them to a bare slit, she saw the blinding light was a single guttering candle. It sat on the small table she knew stood in her room. And as she knew the table, her body told her she lay in her own bed. It knew every lump and knot, a memory built up over years of sleeping upon this very mattress. A dark shape blocked the candle, and Niamh opened her eyes enough to make out a face like her mother’s but one that seemed ages older than she remembered her mother looking. A sharp pain gripped her heart in that moment, for she knew what weighed on her mother so. She opened her mouth, tried to speak, but her first attempts were little more than inarticulate croaks. Swallowing, she tried again.
“Father, did he-”
The tears that welled up in her mother’s eyes were all the answer she needed. Her inner voice had been right, her father had not survived that attack. Niamh felt her own eyes flood with tears, and for a long moment, she and her mother grieved together. But tears do not last forever, no matter how bitter the loss, and when hers had passed, she spoke to her mother of the thing she had said.
“Mother, you spoke of glorious news. But with father dead, and Donel dead, what glorious news is there to tell?”
And even as tears streamed down her mother’s face, she also smiled. But it was not a joyous smile. No, it was the triumphant smile of someone who has seen their worst enemy brought low. “You’ve been asleep these past two weeks, and I feared you would never awaken to hear God has visited a miracle upon us. The English are gone! Not a single one remains in Wexford, nor are there any in Rosslare. A French ship docked just today with even more amazing news. They had business in Southampton, but when they signaled for a pilot, none came out. They sent a small boat into the harbor and found it deserted but for a few Scotsmen. They said they had been prisoners, men enslaved to work on the docks, and that the English had vanished before their eyes. They also said that the whole town was empty, that every Englishman in it had disappeared. We are finally free of those murdering beasts, my daughter!”
Niamh remembered seeing the English soldiers disappear in front of her, and she also remembered that they had disappeared just as she wished for them to. Could it be…….?
“Mother, has anything else amazing happened?
“How did you-never mind. Yes, miracles seem to be everywhere now. Look at what I can do.” Mother held her hand out, and it began to give off a steady glow. It wasn’t like a candle, or any flame. It didn’t flicker or change in intensity. No, it was a pure, steady light, like a ball of white light surrounded her mother’s hand. She lowered her hand, and the light vanished. “And Mrs. Curren, just down the street, can summon fire onto an object with just a stare. Father Lough has come out of hiding, and he can stop things thrown at him from hitting him. He says it’s a sign God has bless Ireland, but one of the French sailors is said to be able to raise a wind by just calling for it, so it must go well beyond Ireland.”
But was it a miracle? Niamh had been filled with anger, even hatred, in that moment when she’d wished the English to disappear. She had meant that she wanted the soldiers who’d murdered Donel to vanish, but it appeared her wish had been granted as she’d said it, that all of the English had vanished. If her wish was the reason the English had seemingly disappeared everywhere, then hadn’t she killed English children? Wasn’t she responsible for the deaths of countless English fathers, just as the English had been responsible for the death of her father?
I am what I hated. I am a murdering monster, killing the innocent without a second thought.
The realization of her guilt tore at Niamh’s soul. She allowed the tears from that pain to pour from her eyes, but she never spoke of her guilt to her mother. Not then, nor at any other time as she grew up. Irishmen who voyaged to England returned reporting a land devoid of people. The Scots and Welsh, it seemed, were unaffected, and they were happy to begin reclaiming the land that had once belonged to their ancestors. But the French had been unaffected as well, and they saw an empty England as land free for the taking. War raged across England again, but this time, it wasn’t ‘Roundheads’ and ‘Royalists’ who fought. Nor did the armies fight with muskets, swords and pikes alone.
No, like in Ireland, men of all those nations, and many others, now possessed the power of magic. Gruesome death stalked every battlefield, from England to the Continent and beyond. Stories of those terrible battles came to Ireland, where they spread to every corner of the fair green land. They even reached Niamh, now cloistered as a nun in the Order of St. Benedict at the abbey near Oranmore. And every night, before she lay down to sleep, Niamh prayed for the souls of the fallen, as she prayed every night for the souls of the English she had sent to…wherever they had gone. But most of all, she prayed for her own soul, opening every nightly pray by asking “God, most merciful, I pray you will forgive my sin. I pray you will forgive me from loosing magic upon Ireland and the world. And I pray for the soul of every person, everywhere in the world, who uses magic for violence.”
Niamh prayed for forgiveness, but in her heart, she feared that God could never forgive her this most terrible of all sins.
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