Dark Queen of Donegal by Mary Pat Ferron Canes & JR Foley

Author:Mary Pat Ferron Canes & JR Foley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mary Patricia Ferron Canes
Published: 2022-03-17T00:00:00+00:00

XIX. Armada Storms

Tyrconnell, Michaelmas 1588

As the summer days passed slowly by, when cliffs shone amber and white high above the bluest of seas, no good news came of Red Hugh’s release. Then near Michaelmas, Ineen stood, wrapped in drenched black mantle with her boots soaked deep in wet sand at Killybegs, looking out at an enormous ship, a galleass. The Girona was one of only four of these large ships sent in the Spanish Armada to the Channel between England and the Low Countries. And the only one to survive. It landed at Donegal’s prized harbor.

The Girona survived, racing up the North Sea around Scotland and down through the Isles to Ireland’s west coast for the arduous route back to Spain. The battered but not broken Girona moored for repairs. Built to hold hundreds, it now took on thousands—sailors and soldiers from other ships wrecked along the west coast of Ireland in the wake of the defeat.

“A sorry lot they are,” Ineen said to McDunlevy, O’Donnell’s and one of Ineen’s physicians. She stood near him by the rocky strand as they watched the Spaniards board the boat. “Will you tend to any of them before they leave on the repaired ship?”

“All depends on Captain Spinola,” McDunlevy replied. Dressed as the high noble he was, the physician wore a saffron mantle with a fur collar that reached to his thick dark hair. “The Spaniards do have physicians of their own.”

“Saxons must practice the blackest magic that the strongest ships of Spain should be destroyed so utterly. Such hopes I had, such prayers the Armada would be the end of the English Monarch. I prayed Spain’s might would quicken Red’s release.”

“Aye,” The physician commented. “You know what Bingham—” McDunlevy began.

“I care not that Bingham swore death to any who aided Spaniards foundering on the shores of Ireland. ’Tis our duty to God to rid us of the English evil. Mind you, too, that the King of Spain is Red Hugh’s godfather.”

Ineen and McDunlevy were not alone in watching. Along the strand, a throng milled of peasants and kerne as well as friars and O’Donnells. They cheered to the strangers climbing the gangway or staring from the taffrail. Those seeking treasure were not at all abashed to walk into the water and search or cry out in Irish for gold or precious jewels that floated from the ship.

The O’Donnell himself stood upon a high rock with Donal and Father Conan. Ineen’s eye caught a look at the dark figure with trimmed glib beside her husband. She wasted no time in climbing up the rock to find out what Donal, her stepson, was about. She arrived just in time to hear him saying, “Only gold they will get out of these Spaniards they will get in Dublin.”

Ineen nodded to each, noticing Donal, dressed notably noble as his position required.

Donal returned the nod.

“What gold?” O’Donnell said.

“Turning Spaniards in at Dublin,” Donal answered.

“Sell Christians to heretics!” Ineen raised her voice.

“’Tis I, not you, that my son Donal has addressed, woman,” retorted O’Donnell.

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