Ring of Fire III Read Online Free PDF Page A

you’ve done now?” O’Brian’s voice was tinged with careful remonstrance. “They seen the earl of Tyrone’s colors. They’ll think John is wid’ us! They’ll think—”
    “Let ’em think. They do so much of it as it is, a little more can’t hurt. Aye, and let ’em worry a bit, too.”
    “But—”
    “But nothing. Here’s the Great Man himself.”
    Thomas Preston had emerged from the commander’s tent. He was an older man, one of the oldest of the Irish Wild Geese that had flocked to Flanders after the disaster at Kinsale, thirty-four years before. And Irish soldiers had been flying to Flanders ever since: leaving behind increasing oppression and poverty, they had swelled the ranks of their four tercios now in the Lowlands. Mustering at slightly more than twelve thousand men, many of the newer recruits had been born here, grown here, learned the trade of the soldier here. And all knew that the recent consolidation of the Netherlands, and the consequent divisiveness amongst their Hapsburg employers, made their own future the most uncertain of all.
    Preston did not look approving—or happy. After a few sharp phrases, he sent the runner back down the hill; he waited, arms akimbo, a dark scowl following the young ensign’s return to O’Neill’s honor-guard.
    “Colonel O’Neill,” the ensign panted before he’d come to a full stop, “Colonel Preston would have the commander’s password from you.”
    O’Neill looked over the thin fellow’s head—he was not much more than a gossoon , really—and stared at Preston. “Oh, he would, would he?”
    “Yes, sir.” A second group of pickets had come to flank the youngster. “Apologies, but Colonel Preston is most insistent. New security protocols, sir.”
    “Is that right? And those are his fine ideas, are they?”
    “No, sir; they are Hugh O’Donn—I mean, the earl of Tyrconnell’s, sir.”
    Ah, but of course. The ever-innovative earl of Tyrconnell’s legacy lived on in the camp he had abandoned almost a month ago, in the first week of April. O’Neill’s gaze flicked briefly to the small O’Donnell coat of arms fluttering just behind him. Or, maybe he had not abandoned it, after all...
    O’Neill urged his mount forward. “The commander’s day-sign is ‘Boru.’ ”
    “Very good, sir, you may—”
    But Owen Roe O’Neill had already passed, his entourage—including two officers from John O’Neill’s Tyrone tercio —following closely behind. The monks, however, were detained by the guards at the staff tents.
    O’Neill said nothing, gave no sign of recognition as he approached the commander’s tent, with Preston’s pennant snapping fitfully before it. Preston was equally undemonstrative. O’Neill stayed atop his mount, looked down at the older man and thought, Sassenach bastard , but said, with a shallow nod, “Colonel.”
    Preston was not even that gracious. “Where is the earl of Tyrone?”
    “I expect he’s enjoying a nap about now.”
    Preston’s mustache seemed to prickle like a live creature. “Yet you fly his colors.”
    “I received your instructions to come without the earl. I have done so. But he is symbolically here with us in spirit—very insulted spirit—Colonel Preston.”
    “Damn it, O’Neill: the whole point of excluding him was so that you wouldn’t be carrying his colors.”
    Owen, bristling reflexively at the profanity, found his anger suddenly defused by puzzlement: “You were worried about his—his colors?”
    “Yes, blast it. And why did you bring those bloody Franciscans with you?”
    O’Neill looked back down the low rise: most of the monks had moved past the first checkpoint, were drawing close to the second, where the commander’s day-sign was to be given. Two lagged behind with the handcart, near the staff tents. “I assure you,” muttered O’Neill,” they’re not my Franciscans. I’d not bring—”
    The flap of Preston’s tent ripped open. O’Neill gaped: Hugh Albert O’Donnell,