Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [267]
Two more nights. When Tom Tidy had parted from Michael MacGowan he had managed, at least outwardly, to appear unruffled. He had still made no mention of the danger he might be in, and bade MacGowan good night, he was pleased to note, in the calmest way imaginable. Then, just as deliberately, he saw to the horses, exactly as usual. After that, he went into his house, cut two large slices from yesterday’s loaf of bread, two generous pieces of cheese, and poured himself a tankard of ale. All as usual. Then he sat down, very quietly, and began to consume them, staring straight ahead as he did so. Afterwards, although there were still some hours of summer daylight left, he decided to go to bed.
But he could not sleep. Try as he might, his tired brain would not give itself up to unconsciousness.
What was he to do? Was MacGowan right? Should he return to Dublin? The question in its various forms kept reasserting itself, a voice in his head that would not be stilled. After a while he got up and went out into the yard.
The sun was sinking behind the hill. Usually this was a time when the rock-strewn common between the village and the shore would be illumined by great gold-and-orange streaks and the fleeces on the scattered sheep would glisten warmly; but this evening a crowd of clouds had forgathered along the western horizon, blocking out the sunset. Past Tom Tidy’s yard, under the harshly fading light, the fields which were nearly ready for harvest seemed to have turned a sullen bronze; and beyond, the common now looked strangely desolate. The air was warm. Tom remained there, silently watching as the common imperceptibly changed from deepening green into grey.
The dusk was setting in when he noticed the first moving shadow. He realised what it was, of course. He had been staring at a small rock for so long that it had seemed to move. A trick of the imagination. Nothing more. Sure enough, before long, other rocks were seeming to move about in the twilight. He continued to gaze. Were they rocks, though? Or sheep? Or other shapes? Could there be ghosts, or even people, moving out there? Were they watching him? Waiting to come to the house? Would there be a battering at the door in the middle of the night, a forced entry? And then? He found that his heart was beating fast. He took a deep breath and told himself not to be foolish.
Still he remained there as the darkness grew deeper. Above him and eastwards, over the sea, the glimmering night sky was clear.
Soon, the last sliver of the waning moon would hang like a silver sigh amongst the stars. One more night and then … Blackness. The night of the attack. The night of whatever terrible trap it was that Harold and the Justiciar had prepared. Doyle, too, no doubt. Darkness, now, was everywhere. The shadows on the common had all gone. There could be a hundred men out there, coming towards him, and he would not see them.
He knew he must sleep. Yet still he could not. A wave of fatigue would oppress his brain; but then his fear, like a pale dagger, would strike through the darkness at his heart. Dalkey was usually such a pleasant place. The high headland behind him with its views over the bay was like a friendly companion. But not anymore. The dark shape of the hill seemed like a huge, threatening mound from which, at any moment, the ghostly forces of vengeance might issue forth. The O’Byrnes were not far away. All around him in Dalkey, there were probably fishermen who were in league with them. Which of his neighbours could he trust? He had no idea. Their faces came before him one by one, in his mind, familiar faces suddenly transformed into masks of rage and hatred, until at last even his dear friend MacGowan seemed to be among them, gazing at him in his curious way, with one eye closed and the open eye growing larger and larger, terrible, cold, and malevolent.
Why was he staying here? Why wait? Let them burn