When Starlings Fly as One

By Nancy Blanton

From the author of three award-winning novels comes a chilling new 17th century tale...

1642, County Cork, Ireland

 

The Great Irish Rebellion of 1641 began with a failed attempt to seize Dublin Castle, but then rebel forces in Ulster captured several strategic fortresses. Infused with passion and optimism the Irish clans united, and the rebellion spread throughout the country. When Starlings Fly as One is based on the personal account of Sir Arthur Freke, the owner of Rathbarry Castle in County Cork. Rathbarry was besieged by Irish forces for nine months in 1642—the longest siege in centuries of Ireland's history. That history has long been told by English voices, but the Irish perspectives continue to rise. This story is not only a classic hero's journey, but a story of war, struggle, spirit, and survival—a story of two sides

 

     Secretive and often bold, Merel de Vries seeks only escape from the English nobility she serves. When Rathbarry Castle is besieged by rising Irish clans, she faces an impossible choice: allegiance to owner Sir Arthur Freke, loyalty to new-found love Tynan O'Daly, or trust in her own inner yearnings.

     On the windswept coast near the village of Ross, English settlers hoping to build a new life now seek shelter within the castle. Rathbarry's former owners, the MacCarthy clan and its followers, have brought their armies to take it all back.

     To Merel, a Dutch orphan, both sides are heroic and both seem unspeakably cruel. Worse still, the people she loves are on different ends of the struggle. With no access to food or supplies, the castle residents face starvation, disease, and the constant fear of death. Sir Arthur is desperate to secure their rescue. Merel insists she can help—but no one will listen. When opportunity comes, can she truly do what her spirit urges? Or, will a sudden betrayal change everything?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nancy Blanton
• Release date: Jun 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781733592833

Nancy Blanton

Nancy Blanton, a former journalist and corporate communications professional and former journalist, is the author of Sharavogue, a novel of 17th century Ireland and the West Indies. She wrote and illustrated the children’s book The Curious Adventure of Roodle Jones, produced two award-winning regional history books, and two interactive timelines. She lives in Florida with her husband and two Labrador retrievers.

Book preview

Characters

VOICES

Merel de Vries: a Dutch orphan and shipwreck survivor who is taken in by Lady Carey and later works as companion to Mistress Dorothy at Rathbarry Castle

Tynan O’Daly: horse marshal for Sir Arthur, Merel’s Irish love interest

Teige O’Downe: i.e. Teige-an-Duna MacCarthy, Prince of Dunmanway, clan leader in charge of the Irish forces besieging Rathbarry Castle

PRIMARY

Sir Arthur Freke: owner of Rathbarry Castle, Commander-in-Chief of Rathbarry Garrison

Dorothy Freke: Sir Arthur’s wife, lady of the castle

Lady Carey: castle resident who employs Merel as her companion and maid

Jayne O’Keefe: Merel’s friend, maid to Mistress Coale, later to Lady Carey and Mistress Dorothy

Cormac MacCarthy Reagh: Head of the MacCarthy Clan for the Province of Munster

Donough MacCarthy, Lord Muskerry: titled clan leader and member of Irish Parliament, cousin to Teige O’Downe, brother-in-law to Cormac McCarthy Reagh

SECONDARY

Lord Arundel: owner of Arundel Castle, military ally to Teige O’Downe and MacCarthy Reagh

General Garet Barry: commander of the Confederate Munster army

Captain Edward Beecher: Bandonian officer assigned to command Rathbarry Garrison

Mistress Coale: noblewoman dislodged from her home in Ross by the Irish

Elinor: Rathbarry’s head cook

Lord Forbes: Scottish military leader sent from Kinsale to relieve Rathbarry Castle

David Hyrd: garrison soldier, Jayne’s love interest

Mr. Millet: Sir Arthur’s agent and groundskeeper

Barry Oge O’Hea: a lieutenant for Teige O’Downe

McMahony: Sir Arthur’s neighbor and intermediary for Teige O’Downe

Mr. Sellers: herdsman for Sir Arthur

Regional Map

Seven Castles

Rathbarry Castle

1

The Great Dark Line

Rathbarry Castle

County Cork

Province of Munster

February 14, 1642

Just after sunrise, Tynan O’Daly woke to the skirl of warpipes, a familiar and yet disturbing sound rising with the frigid mist. It wasn’t for entertainment the piper played, but to compel the clans and ignite the ancient spirits within them. The sentries in the castle towers shouted alarm, startling the curs and the hunting hounds to frenzy. He jerked into his doublet and ran for the courtyard.

Sir Arthur Freke crossed the wide court to the hexagonal tower where cannons were fixed, Captain Beecher and Mr. Millet behind him. Tynan followed, while the ensign and other soldiers of the garrison ran for the north tower. The sounds stirred castle residents and servants to curiosity and soon they filled the surface of the eastern wall from the north corner to the southeast, the sharp scent of salt air rising from the roaring ocean behind, the damp wind tossing their hair. At the far end, Merel and Jayne huddled against the wall, a blanket pulled tightly around them. Merel sent him a questioning look, her brow furrowed. He shook his head and frowned, his gut queasy with warning.

The sentries pointed Sir Arthur’s attention to the northeast, a rounded hill just greening from an early sprout of grass about a half-mile from the castle. There on the highest rim, the brightening sun sliced through the mist to illuminate a white flag, red-bordered and flowing in the wind, and a red insignia at its center. Sir Arthur looked through his spyglass, then handed it to Beecher.

It’s the red stag, sir. The MacCarthy coat of arms, Beecher said.

How many men do you count?

Five men, breast plates, two with red sashes.

Sir Arthur took the spyglass and adjusted it. The largest man. Has to be that John Oge Barry who came to speak with us. I think I recognize my neighbor McMahony, as well.

The flag and breastplates glinted with sunlight whenever they moved, and the five men soon spread by equal paces across the width of the hilltop. The warpipes skirled and droned and then settled into an eerie, insistent wail—an attack. The piper marched to the far left of the field as the five men descended on the slope in wide, uniform strides.

They’re coming toward the castle, all five of them in line. Are the snipers at ready?

Yes, sir, Beecher said. But those men are well out of range.

And I am sure they know it. Look, they’re moving forward again. The moment they come within range…

The men advanced thirty feet, and then on the hill’s rim behind them, another man stepped up. He was tall, his breastplate and silver helmet gleaming. A long and broad red sash flapped boldly behind him like a ship’s sail in fair wind.

Who is that? Sir Arthur asked.

Teige O’Downe, Tynan said.

Sir Arthur lowered the spyglass and turned to look at Tynan. Beecher stared at him as well. Tynan returned a flinty glare. So what, if he was just the stable marshal and not a ranking soldier of the garrison? He knew better than any of them who these people were and what they were about.

How do you know that? Sir Arthur asked.

Because I know him. Everyone around Dunmanway knows him. He owns the castle there. People call him Teige the Hospicious because he shows great hospitality to his guests, and treats them generously.

I know what hospicious means, O’Daly.

Aye, he supposed he had that coming, but sometimes English folk needed reminding that the Irish were as civilized as they. Sir, what I mean to say is, he’s lord of the crooked valley, the prince of that region they call Glenna-na-Chroim, a blood relation to the MacCarthys all over County Cork.

Sir Arthur and Beecher looked at each other, then back at the towering figure on the hilltop. After a few moments, O’Downe began to descend the hill, and as he moved, so moved the five men before him, farther and farther toward Rathbarry. He stopped and remained still as the warpipes keened. Then suddenly the piper stopped, and the only sounds were the wind and the raging tussle of the red and white standard. O’Downe held his arms at his sides, palms up, and raised them wide until they were level with his shoulders. Instantly a thunder shook the earth, and a great dark line appeared at the rim of the hill and then grew darker, heavier, and then wider and wider still, until it became clear that the line was not one thing but many—soldiers in close formation, hundreds of them, dressed in earth-colored cloaks and woolens, marching up and over the hill.

Forward they came, solid as a mudslide—dusky, heavy, rumbling in their march, surging on until the dark line blackened the entire hill. The clatter of weapons only sharpened the point of a vast unified Irish army.

Merciful God! Sir Arthur said. Captain Beecher, how many men did Mr. Sellers count when he saw the Irish marching on the strand?

Beecher, built like the trunk of an oak and with as much humor, replied flatly, Sixty men, sir. In two companies.

Yes, as I thought. And how many would you say stand before us?

Eight hundred, sir. At the very least, eight hundred, maybe a good thousand.

But I’ve never seen such a gathering of them before. Where have they all come from?

O’Downe is a respected clan leader, sir, Tynan said. When he summons, men come to him in tribute from all parts of the barony. It is their sworn duty.

He is a wicked man, to do this, Sir Arthur said.

Forgive me, sir, but in truth he is not. Men follow him willingly, and with pride. With such numbers he could easily march, overrun the castle, and it would all be over in a matter of hours. But he values life, and strikes only when alternatives fail.

I should hardly call this a mercy, O’Daly. You risk impertinence. What he intends is terror.

Aye, sir.

Beecher grumbled. He has no artillery, that’s why he doesn’t charge. Let our cannons cut him down.

That day may come, but not now. Let him have his show, as long as that’s all it is. We must conserve what we have until we know support comes from the Bandon garrison, Sir Arthur said.

As you wish, sir. Beecher turned, cast a scornful look at Tynan, and then left the wall.

Tynan turned toward the north tower until the two huddled women felt his gaze. Jayne’s eyes were wide and red-rimmed, her lips trembling. but Merel showed no such fear. She stared back at him—concern on her face, yes, and question in her eyes but something more. Her chin pressed forward—an air of determination.

Here was the truth of what lay before them, and the reason the others had left yesterday. Rathbarry was besieged by the Irish. Somewhere in that line of men on the hill stood Jayne’s brother, likely a brother of his own, and a neighbor, and a childhood friend. Where would he stand if he took up arms as a soldier among them? Or, being employed within an English-owned castle as he was, how would he face them should he have to stand against them? Did his blood not rise at the sound of the warpipes?

For half an hour the Irish covered the hill, and every soul in Rathbarry Castle climbed the towers to see their might. When at last the dark line receded, none could question the truth of circumstance. Women cried. Some men begged for the fight, while others saw the disparity in numbers and demanded immediate surrender.

Sir Arthur, Captain Beecher and Mr. Millet entered the keep, and the usher Jenkin closed the door with a firm and solid thump.

2

JANUARY 1642

Merel

Rathbarry Castle

ONE MONTH EARLIER

It’s little wonder that I, a small, plain young woman of no consequence so easily escapes notice. A minor stir begins if I cannot be found when tasks are required, and though I’ve only stepped behind a tall chair, the work is quickly assigned to another—I am free. Hours pass without concern as I wander through hay fields, explore the pond’s muddy edge, or take comfort in the limbs of an ancient yew. Along the strand, the ocean spray stings my cheeks and keeps me from duties almost until dark. But then, offering only a fragrant sprig of rosemary from my palm, Lady Carey inhales of it deeply and forgets her companion was absent at all. I curl at her feet like a dog.

Yet, my lady shifts in her cushioned chair, smooths the silver-streaked strands at her brow, and expels a heavy sigh. Without being asked, she explains to anyone who is near. Dear Merel. A precious jewel, is this child. She isn’t mine, you know, and I wouldn’t have taken her on, but what was I to do? Those eyes captured me at first. Like a Cavalier spaniel, don’t you think? And her hair has just the slightest hint of red, like the Blenheim variety. My little Dutch orphan. I couldn’t manage without her.

If that was not enough to shame me before strangers, Lady Carey has only warmed to her words. Like an automaton on a rich man’s clock she clicks into action. She coughs loudly, rearranges the lap of her skirts, and lowers her voice to a confidential tone.

"My son—he’s a major in the king’s army, you know—he’d collected me at Cobh Harbor as I returned from a visit to London only a day before a frightening tempest enraged the Irish Sea. Little Merel was a passenger on a Dutch trader. The captain had meant to collect beef provisions for those poor souls in the Indies. You know, they have the most atrocious conditions on those islands, fearing the Spaniards at one side or the natives at the other will cut their throats at any moment. I can hardly ponder why anyone should choose to live there.

But those people were destined to go hungry, weren’t they? Their victuals would never arrive. A terrible gale swept the ship upon Poor Head, a most treacherous spot in the harbor if the captain isn’t wise to it. He and most of the crew were saved, but her ma and papa, Lotte and Pieter de Vries, —at which point Lady Carey would dab her eyes with a lace handkerchief— they had sailed all the way from Harlingen only to be trapped by their own cargo and drowned. She’d pat my head. Isn’t that so, Merel, dear?

My mother had allowed me to run barefoot on the slick, wet planks of the ship. She laughed when I fell and so, though I might have bumped an elbow or a knee, I laughed, too. When Mama laughed the clouds fell away from the sun. Hold up your hand, she said when we sat on the deck and watched the sea skirt by. Her hand was warm and smooth as she spread apart my fingers. Oh! Remember? We shall need both hands. Which finger will you choose? I picked the smallest one, my left pinky. No, no, Merrie. I knew you’d forgotten. We used that one last year. Now we celebrate your tenth year, so you must pick the one we saved especially. I’d hardly thought of it as the year passed, but then it came to me: the pointing finger on my right hand. She kissed it and held it to her cheek. Exactly so. The perfect one. This finger foretells your success in life. You’ll be strong and confident. You’ll seek solutions to problems and will find them. But mind: never push so hard for what you want, that you push away what you love.

Lady Carey chatted on. When the storm had passed, my son led me along the wharf to board our carriage, and there she stood by a stack of old barrels, alone, filthy, and most confused. The captain informed us of her name and her circumstance. She was destined for homelessness and beggary if I didn’t take her—and wasn’t the captain glad to be relieved of his charge.

My stomach took a turn each time Lady Carey told the tale, leaving me only slightly grateful that I hadn’t perished in the ship myself. Always there came like a wave across my mind the wood cracking, cold water gushing, my open eyes plunged into dark terror. The physical memory of impossible cold caused my hands to tremble. They had flailed in the water with nothing to grasp. I’d been a daughter, beloved, and suddenly I was nothing and fated to be reminded of it daily. For a decade. I wished I’d stayed in the field a bit longer or knew a proper path beyond the castle wall that would take me—where?

We’d come to Rathbarry Castle in south Munster four months previous at her son’s request. He feared for his mother’s safety even before the Irish rising at Dublin last October. As a favor to his fellow officer, Sir Arthur Freke collected Lady Carey and me from her home near Fermoy. Freck-Ah, he told us at once. Please pronounce it correctly or my wife will have her fits.

At first, Lady Carey took to the castle as if she were a queen and Rathbarry her court, but Sir Arthur’s wife Dorothy cared not for her dominating presence. Besides, the castle was already crowded with Sir Arthur’s mother Ann, his son Percy, his sisters Mary and Ann the younger, and his brother Thomas who also served as Sir Arthur’s estate steward.

We soon found ourselves relocated to an apartment across the courtyard from the keep. My lady was welcome in the castle for mealtimes and social occasions, and could join the other ladies in the solar for reading or sewing—if Mistress Dorothy was not present.

Perhaps to relieve her boredom, Lady Carey had taken to dressing me like a doll. I had grown to four feet, seven inches, almost, but my lady was head and shoulders taller and still saw me as a child. The little maid garments I’d worn for years were cast aside. Now I was to wear fine embroidered clothes and even jewelry. On Twelfth Night, when the wise men brought gifts to the infant Jesus, she gave me a pearl necklace. My mother gave these to me when I was first allowed to dine at table instead of in the nursery. I sat just next to my father, she said.

I am nearly twenty years old now, my lady. To which she replied, Those latchet shoes are simply frightful. Look at them, caked with mud from the bog. Where have you been, dear? You must burn them. We shouldn’t have you about looking like a ragamuffin, and not after all the fine needlework I’ve done on those skirts. I shall have the cobbler make you a nice pair of lace-up boots.

It was no use trying to convince her I was a grown woman, but the dolly dresses did have their advantages, especially when one wished not to escape notice, but to be noticed most profoundly. If I walked in the castle yard, and particularly near Sir Arthur’s stables, I might draw the gaze of his Irish horse marshal, Tynan O’Daly. My heart begins to race at the thought of him. Tall, even taller than Lady Carey, and built as if of solid rock, his breeches tight against his muscled thighs, his broad shoulders testing the seams of his shirt. He never once noticed me until I passed by in a new yellow dress, and then his blue-gray eyes widened, causing my cheeks to burn.

Of all the men garrisoned at Rathbarry—and there were eighty of them who might have raised an interest—none drew from me such a physical reaction, as if I’d bitten into a sweet that caused my mouth to tingle and my blood to surge. But worse so, for at the same time, my appetite left me like water squeezed from a rag, and thoughts of task and purpose thinned to vapor. I was always scheming for a chance encounter, inventing reason upon reason to go out into the castle yard. Failing that, I couldn’t pass a door or window without being pulled as if by a rope around my neck to catch the tiniest glimpse of him. Tynan O’Daly, marshal of the horse. Tynan of oiled leather and polished silver, of dark musty corners under thin streams of sunlight. Of high ruddy cheeks bitten by the wind.

Came the day then—not the Epiphany but a few days after—when I was a few steps from the stable door, peering inside as I casually passed, intending a timely rustle of my skirt. The curs that slept in huddles against the outer castle wall roused with sharp report. In minutes, a sentry shouted an alarm. Four stout men approached the main gate. Already they had passed the northeast gate posts: brick columns half-again as tall as a man and topped with white stone spheres.

Perhaps to atone for the sentry’s tardiness, a porter ran to alert the servants in the great hall, who then dropped their work and hurried to the courtyard. The visitors continued steadily toward the main gate. Though the entrance was opened, one of them banged upon the wooden surface with his walking stick, the sharp whack drawing even more people from their tasks.

We’ve come from Ross to see the commander-in-chief, Sir Arthur Freke and none other, said the largest fellow. All four looked familiar, though I knew only one of them, our Mr. Taverner, who mercilessly bored us for hours with every Sunday sermon.

Beside the line of plum trees that led toward the castle’s keep, the men waited quietly for Sir Arthur, as most of us were permitted to call him, and in the meantime straightened their hats and dusted off their clothing.

I moved closer to make sure I’d overhear whatever was said, and soon realized by the scent of leather, horsehair and dung that Tynan and his stable helpers, Giles and young Collum, stood behind me. Giles was a thin, wiry man with equally wiry sand-colored hair. The Irish boy everyone called young Collum was about fifteen, lanky and constantly red-faced. I dared not turn to look at Tynan, but it was all I could do to maintain my stillness. My heart wouldn’t heed my efforts at all and hammered against my breastbone. At last Sir Arthur’s stern voice bested the troublesome thudding in my ears.

Gentlemen. Welcome to Rathbarry Castle, he said, palms open at his sides in greeting. His face didn’t offer a similar kindness, looking every bit as severe as his grandfather’s portrait in the great hall. A meticulous groomer, he’d combed his thick black hair straight back into curls nearly reaching his shoulders. Thirty-eight years of age, and he showed only a few strands of gray. His brows were heavy over dark, penetrating eyes. His cheeks flat and broad like shields. His pointed Van Dyke beard met the stiff brown collar of his doublet. He seemed fierce to all who encountered him, but I had seen him sing a rhyming song with his young son Percy, and rub the belly of his favorite hound, Cal.

Mr. Taverner stepped forward, confident in his relationship to Sir Arthur, and introduced the others: Mr. Newman of Ross; Mr. Cleland, the chanter of Ross; and Mr. Boyle, a relation to the Earl of Cork who owned most of the land in the county.

The village of Ross was well known in the Carbery barony, just to the northwest of Rathbarry and a good two-hour walk on a clear day. In most cases, Sir Arthur would invite guests into his state room to have brandy before discussing business. On occasion, I had served it myself. But these men came uninvited and without notice, and so such pleasantries were at first withheld.

What brings you such distance on a cold winter day? Sir Arthur asked.

Mr. Newman took a half-step forward. Kind sir, we’ve come to inform you of important and distressing news. I have received several letters of late, and they are most earnest as to cause me concern. You will have heard, as we all have, of a failed attempt by rebel Irish to take Dublin Castle in a bloodless coup.

Sir Arthur clicked his tongue with impatience. I have, of course. A useless and foolish endeavor. Yes, yes. Go on.

Bristling with his sudden importance, Mr. Newman tugged his doublet firmly over his belly. Since the coup failed, the far north has become a bloody battleground, and the rising has unfolded in skirmishes and takings in other parts of the land. English settlers have been driven naked from their homes, sir, and far worse. These shocking events have not been quelled. In fact, they do spread southward, and we of Munster province are at great risk. Proof comes within these letters, as I have direct warning from Mr. Teige O’Downe of the MacCarthy clan, that the Irish of Carbery soon will rise in rebellion. We fear not for ourselves, sir, but the townspeople are…

O’Downe, you say. If I recall, he styles himself a chieftain, Sir Arthur said. He ran his knuckles across his left jaw.

We’ve come to ask, honorable sir, Mr. Newman said, that the good English settlers of Ross, with all their families, their servants and neighbors, and with all of their goods and provisions, might be received into the Castle of Rathbarry, under the protection of yourself and His Majesty’s garrison, until we have certainty that the danger has passed. The women and ch…

Sir Arthur raised his palm, silencing Mr. Newman, who then bowed slightly, and held that stance until Sir Arthur spoke.

Sir Arthur paused, and I examined the delicate changes on his face as his mind worked. His brow furrowed. Of course, he could not refuse them. Not with the garrison there for which he likely received monies. Everyone knew he was responsible for the protection of the local settlements. Still, he frowned. Was he concerned about the work required to have so many people properly housed? Or that it might tax his resources to see them all well fed? He cocked his head to the left and then right, as if to ease a tightening in his neck. Perhaps he considered how bothersome it would be to fill his castle with strangers. He was not an unkind man, but had little use for socializing and held rather tightly to his coins. His upper lip twitched and I imagined he vacillated between churlishness and pleasantry.

Of a sudden, one of his eyebrows arched and I could not suppress a smirk. I’d seen enough of Sir Arthur to know he enjoyed his liesure best if he could dine at another man’s table. At Christmas last he’d celebrated for days at the home of the Clonakilty governor. If these people brought their goods, provisions, and most likely all of their money, wouldn’t it be of benefit to Rathbarry rather than burden? And all the people indebted to him for his protection?

Sir Arthur seemed to come to a conclusion even as I did. He straightened his stance and nodded to the four men. To the succor and shelter of Rathbarry Castle, I gladly welcome the people of Ross. Our formidable garrison will see that they come to no harm. Let us repair to my state room to discuss the particulars.

He nodded to Jenkin, who threw wide the doors to the keep. Sir Arthur’s wife Dorothy had not come out to welcome the guests, but appeared briefly at the solar’s oriel window.

She’d have to hurry to the state room to ensure all was in order. The stable men hurried off as well, to my disappointment, but the hum of conversation was rising in the courtyard. Something was about to happen, and if Lady Carey had been bored in her apartment, she was soon to have more excitement than she might have desired.

3

Murmuration

Rathbarry Castle and

the Forested Ridge

Construction began the very next dawn beneath a heavy gray mist. Even before the rooster, the men of the garrison shouted orders to and fro, started cook fires, banged and clanged kettle and pot. Soon the outer ward filled with smoke and dust, the smell and pop of frying sausages, the splash of emptied piss pots, the grunts and squeals of mules under harness. Men loaded carts with stone and wood and cursed the groaning wheels over bumps in the courtyard. Sir Arthur’s goats bleated their indignation, and chickens shrieked. A brisk wind howled around the castle’s outer walls, and my spine jolted with every strike of a feller’s ax as he harvested usable trees. But no sound overcame the voice of Sir Arthur himself, who shouted so many orders it seemed no one should dare draw a breath without him first commanding it.

Gather my goats to ye pens, as ye should have done before daybreak, and my chickens as well before they be crushed beneath the cart wheels, stupid creatures they are! He shouted from the stone rail of the gallery beneath the brick arch that allowed an unobstructed view of the stables, the garrison quarters, and the entrance to the garden ward. Make way, make way! Seventeen new houses to raise and ye’ll thank me if it won’t be more! And you, there. Take those canvases to my fig orchard, and pitch the tents amongst my trees.

The fig orchard was in the garden ward, commanding the castle’s northwest section. Along with figs, the thriving orchards included apple, cherry, elder and hazel, and there was a dovecote nestled in the northwest corner. All the new housing would bring much damage, for the grounds were filled with fruit, vegetable, and herb beds. What would happend to the thyme, sage, mint, and basil that grew on the left, the strawberries and raspberrieson the right, and then all the cabbages, garlic, onions, peas, and squash within the low wattle fencing?

There was no space for houses in the inner ward that surrounded the keep—the tower house where the Freke family lived. Lady Carey’s apartment was one of several already inhabited by the well at the center of the courtyard. Servants’ quarters and guest houses crowded along the castle walls on either side of the gate. Beyond the brick arch, the stables and garrison were full to bursting. No one could live where the pikemen, musketeers, cavalry and officers conducted their drills, and any space within the towers belonged to the snipers who kept watch and manned Sir Arthur’s three mounted cannon in the hexagonal battlement.

I filled my bucket with fresh water for Lady Carey, and glanced toward the stables for a glimpse of Tynan. I was disappointed; he was not there, so I descended the steps to the keep’s understory, the cellar with kitchen, pantry, and larder, to fetch her bread. The kitchen was warm and smelled of sweet apples, but it only stirred my fears for what such an influx of people would do to my charming Rathbarry. In my homeland, the red stone castles with their pointed rooftops had enchanted me when I was a child,  but I’d never been allowed inside their walls and so I didn’t miss them. But Rathbarry had become my only true home, two hundred years old and beautiful in her fine gray stone, emerald ivy and crenellated crown. Here she stood, bound by her size to a rock foundation, accustomed to the tiptoe of sunrise over the strand, the soft breezes off the ocean on one side, the gentle bend and creak of the oaks, ash and alder along another. By day the freshening rains cooled her, the sunny afternoons warmed her, and by night the moonlight painted distinctive shadows and glinted against in her stones.

Like me, she’d outlived her original owner and existed at the whim and mercy of someone new. She’d kept her silence when the garrison came, these rough and ill-mannered clodpates; and now she endured the hammering, sawing, scraping and pounding that rattled her windows and shook her timbers. Next would come the villagers of all sorts that she must accommodate with all of their fuss and brawl. Trouble was coming, and what was to become of Rathbarry? If only she could escape like a nimble bee, small, quick, and carried aloft on the fragrance of flowers.

No matter, Rathbarry, I whispered, because you are forever, and they, only temporary.

If indeed trouble were coming and our yard would fill with townspeople, my opportunities for freedom could become as few as the castle’s. I might disappear in the midst of a crowd, but the chores would multiply and I’d be called to them more often.  Best to take advantage of the freedom I still had. In the cellar, I secreted myself within a cabinet just large enough to bump my elbows as I shed my skirts and donned a boy’s breeks and hooded tunic. Once changed, I blended with shepherd boys guiding the sheep through the main gate, and I darted around the north wall blissfully unnoticed.

The smell of damp hay and fresh manure was swept away by a cold mist billowing over the hill. The animals grazed clumps of green amid the brownish field before me. A half-mile in the distance, a dozen small cottages dotted the stony ridge, simple but beautiful in their way, with whitewashed daub walls, plain wooden doors, a single small window in front, and graying thatch roofs. Intended for the herdsmen and their families or for temporary laborers, most were empty now. To the east, brown and yellow-gold leaves littered the wide fields where corn stacks had been. But the trees, filling the space beyond the ridge and as far as I could see—they were my destination.

Most of these giants were bare as skeletons, their thin, crooked branches reaching upward to the vast blue beyond the mist. Some remained dense and brown with leaves not fallen, and some had great trunks and limbs stained forever green by the moss. Within their realm the tiniest secrets and surprises awaited; and seated upon the strongest boughs, I would capture the vistas for which I’d been sent.

Take this with you today, my dear. Lady Carey had pressed a small, leather-bound sketchbook into my hand. I care not where you wander or for how long. Take the day, if you will, but see can you conjure a bit of your father’s artistry, and bring me a pretty picture, won’t you? A view of the seaside, or a nice landscape. Everyone knows the Dutch invented the art of landscape. Go on with you, but don’t let anyone know.

Gladly did I go, and without a moment’s delay. But this was something new. She had dropped her pretense of ignorance regarding my disappearances, and now wanted a result from them. Certainly, she’d not have me spend the entire day when the needs in the castle were endless, especially in preparation for the new guests. It was not for me to complain or argue, but something mysterious was afoot. Best I should produce something to her liking if I would continue my little adventures.

I’d sketched a few things alongside my father where he apprenticed in a master’s work room, but I was just playing then, and Papa had grumbled all the while that he was not allowed to draw or paint as he himself wished, but only could fill in the backgrounds for the master. What if that was because my father lacked the talent? Then I’d have nothing to draw from. And if he was so gifted, what if no remnant of it was passed into my own fingertips? Would I be both useless and shamed? What if my labors truly displeased my lady? And turning that thought about, what if my work did please her? Would she then own my little outings by tagging each of them with her expectations? My suspicion settled into a tiny knot that made its home in my belly, and I turned to the task at hand.

A few steps into the trees and the ways narrowed, the tree trunks crowding closer and the brown winter vines guarding their roots. An ancient yew grew as wide as three stout men at its base, and reached as high as ten men standing upon each other’s shoulders. The trunk offered a low division where I might easily step—as if the tree waited especially for me, offering a natural ladder to its highest points.

I climbed—the effort being not difficult in my boy’s attire—loving the smoothness of the bark, the sweet, woody scent of it. Near the top, a fine formation of limbs cradled me so comfortably I could’ve stayed there for hours like a high princess, gazing across my lands, waiting for my prince to return from the far heathered hills. In his embrace I’d journey to a castle finer than any had ever seen—its towers rising from a cresting hilltop, shining in the sunlight. If only the mist would clear, I’d see vast distances, even as far as the church spire rising to the heavens.

Just then a flutter of wings broke my reverie and I turned. Upon the highest branches of a birch just an arm’s length away, the starlings descended, each black bird claiming its own spindly branch, bright white in the sun’s glare. I quickly counted twenty of them, in branches so high the mist fell away, defining their forms against a brilliant field of blue. Then there were hundreds of them filling the treetops well beyond my sight. They appeared black in flight, but these birds wore a splendid rainbow of color, from the purple heather at their necks, sea green at their shoulders, to lapis blue on their bellies. Their beaks were golden, and they were speckled all over as if they wore a king’s cloak of ermine. What glorious creatures they were!

Madly I sketched, knowing at any second they could all fly away. I started in the center, with the highest branch. Three birds there, two at the left, another to the right, and then down to a secondary level, six birds close together, then seven more lower down. The scene was magnificent if only I could reveal it. If only I had pigments to capture the startling colors. Then, as suddenly as they’d arrived they were gone again, all save one—the straggler—perched to the right of the center branch and watching me with his curious bead eyes.