Lions of the Grail

by Tim Hodkinson

  As it began to grow dark, the sound of footsteps approaching on the battlements outside roused him.

  Savage leapt off the bed, grabbed the heavy earthenware water jug from the washstand and hid behind the door.

  As the key rattled in the lock, Savage raised the jug up above his head. The door swung open and a tall figure entered the room.

  Savage stepped out from behind the door and brought the jug down as hard as he could on the back of the man’s head. To his dismay he saw just too late that the man wore a heavy conical iron helmet and the blow he intended would shatter his skull simply caused him to stagger forwards. The jug smashed into a thousand shards. Savage cursed his own impetuousness and the newcomer cursed loudly in Irish. The man was a good head taller than Savage and he had shoulders like the crossbeam of a ship. His hair was long and blond and his helmet was that of a galloglaich mercenary.

  With his only weapon smashed, Savage now had to fight him with just his fists and feet.

  He planted his foot in the man’s back, sending him flying forwards onto the bed. The galloglaich hit the bed head first. With surprising agility for such a big man, he tumbled forward head over heels over the bed to land like a cat back on his feet.

  Savage ran forward, jumped up onto the bed and swung a kick at the man’s head. The galloglaich ducked. The blow missed, but then Savage leapt onto him, using his body weight to push the man down towards the floor.

  The galloglaich went down as far as his knees under the weight of Savage, who clung on to his upper body with one hand and his knees and at the same time ripped the man’s helmet off with his free hand. At least things were a bit more even now. He was about to use the helmet as a club when, with enormous strength, the galloglaich powered himself back up to his feet again, lifting Savage with him and then dumping him backwards to bounce off the bed and crash against a table that sat against the wall. The table collapsed under the impact and Savage landed on the floor.

  ‘Look, if you don’t want any supper just say so!’ the man shouted in a peeved tone of voice.

  Savage scrambled to his feet and glared, puzzled and panting at him. He was in his thirties, had the long blond hair and pale blue eyes common to the galloglaiches, but also wore a long, drooping moustache in the Irish style. He was not approaching for further attack. Was this some sort of ruse?

  ‘Supper?’ Savage asked.

  ‘I’m here to bring you down to get something to eat. Are you coming or not?’ the galloglaich said.

  When Savage still did not move the galloglaich shrugged his shoulders and turned to leave.

  ‘Wait: I’m coming.’ Savage decided that, trick or not, he stood a better chance of getting away if he was at least out of the locked room.

  ‘Good. There’s someone I want you to meet,’ the big galloglaich said over his shoulder.

  The two men crossed the battlements to the staircase, then descended to the deserted castle courtyard.

  ‘It’s very quiet,’ Savage said.

  ‘Aye,’ the galloglaich said. ‘The earl’s gone out of the town to meet the justiciar who’s riding up from Dublin. Most of the guard and the rest of the nobles are with him.’

  They walked past the great hall towards the castle buttery, a low building situated against the inner castle wall between the hall and the kitchens.

  ‘So do you always attack everyone who walks into your room?’ the galloglaich asked, a faint smile playing on his lips. ‘Are you one of those mad bastards who just wants to fight everyone?’

  ‘I thought you’d come to kill me,’ Savage replied.

  The galloglaich stopped, turned and looked Savage straight in the eye.

  ‘Let’s get one thing straight, friend,’ he said. ‘If I’d come to kill you, you’d be dead.’

  Savage met his gaze, then the galloglaich turned and led him the rest of the way to the buttery.

  In the gathering gloom of evening, the buttery had been lit with a couple of pitch torches that were placed on brackets. The room was little more than a long vault and being a storeroom for provisions, the walls were lined with casks containing ale, wine, salted meat and fish. To help keep the stone room as cool as possible, there were no windows.

  An attractive young serving girl was busy hanging up legs of smoked ham on hooks high up the wall.

  In the middle of the room a table had been set up on which waited a couple of trenchers of bread, a large hunk of cheese and a frothing jug of beer, along with three cups.

  A man stood beside the table. He was in his forties but showed no sign of middle-aged spread. Instead he was lean and wiry, with the hardened look of one who spends most of his time in harness and on campaign. He was wrapped in an unostentatious brown woollen cloak, his beard was trimmed and, like Savage, his hair was cropped short.

  The galloglaich grunted an order to the serving girl who quickly left the room, closing the door behind her.

  ‘Good evening, Syr Richard,’ the man at the table said in French. ‘Welcome to Ulster.’

  Savage acknowledged the words with a nod.

  ‘I am Thomas de Mandeville, Seneschal of Ulster,’ the man continued. ‘MacHuylin here tells me you arrived today with a very interesting message for the earl from our king.’

  ‘The message I brought was for the earl. If he wishes to share it with you I’m sure he will,’ Savage said.

  ‘Syr le Savage, I salute your strong sense of duty, but you may as well know that MacHuylin has already told me the content of your message,’ de Mandeville said. ‘I am merely interested in verifying it and to get your opinion.’

  Savage looked at the galloglaich, MacHuylin, who returned a broad grin. ‘The earl’s bodyguards might not understand English, but they know enough French to get the gist of your little talk today.’

  ‘So the earl cannot trust his own bodyguards?’ Savage shook his head. ‘I’m sure he will be interested to know that.’

  MacHuylin’s eyes narrowed and ignited with a spark of anger.

  The seneschal raised a calming hand. ‘Steady on. The earl can trust MacHuylin’s galloglaiches with his life,’ he stated. ‘I am seneschal, however – responsible for the security of the earldom. It is my duty to know what is going on everywhere.’

  ‘We protect the earl, but we work for the seneschal,’ MacHuylin said. ‘Have done for generations.’

  ‘I am surprised the earl has not already told his seneschal the content of my message, especially given its implications,’ Savage said.

  ‘So am I,’ de Mandeville responded. ‘Surprised, and a little concerned.’

  Both men looked each other in the eye for a long moment. Finally Savage nodded his head. ‘All right. I told the earl that the Scots are preparing to invade Ireland. They will attack Ulster first. The invasion is imminent.’

  The seneschal poured three cups of beer from the jug. The golden liquid splashed around the vessels and a hearty foam welled up to froth over the rims. He passed one cup to Savage and one to MacHuylin before lifting one himself and taking a reflective sip.

  After a few moments he asked: ‘How did the earl react to this news?’

  ‘He was annoyed,’ Savage said. ‘He refused to believe his son-in-law Robert Bruce would be planning anything against him.’ With that he took a thirsty swig of his ale, draining most of his cup in one swallow. The taste of the ale was rich and full, and its heady aroma awakened memories from his childhood. He gave an involuntary appreciative sigh. It was a long time since he had tasted cuirm, the barley-brewed Irish beer.

  ‘Good stuff, eh?’ MacHuylin chuckled. ‘That’s from the earl’s own brewery. I wouldn’t knock it back like that if I were you. It’s strong stuff, especially for an Englishman’s stomach.’

  ‘Syr Richard is a local man, Connor,’ de Mandeville said. ‘I’m sure he drank enough of it when he was growing up.’ In answer to Savage’s surprised look he added, ‘As I said, it’s my job to know what is going on in the earldom, who everyone is and where they come from. I have be
en asking around about you since MacHuylin here told me about your arrival.’

  Savage looked at MacHuylin. ‘And what exactly is your job?’ he asked.

  ‘Connor MacHuylin is captain of the earl’s troop of galloglaiches. A fine body of men known as “the Route”,’ the seneschal explained.

  ‘So you’re a mercenary?’ Savage found it hard to keep the distaste from his voice.

  The galloglaich was unperturbed. ‘The best that money can buy.’ He grinned.

  ‘MacHuylin’s Route has formed the core of the Bonnaught of Ulster – the closest thing we have to a standing army – for the best part of the last century,’ de Mandeville explained. ‘I’m not sure the term “mercenary” does them justice.’

  ‘Let’s call it a bond of mutual self-interest that has traversed several generations,’ MacHuylin said. ‘My great-great-grandfather came here from the Hebrides to fight for the Ui Neill kings. When the English arrived he soon realised that real military power was in the Earldom of Ulster. We’ve been fighting for whoever ran the armies in this part of the world ever since. For the past hundred years that has meant someone from the de Mandeville family. Earls come and go, but family ties are more secure.’

  Savage had heard of “the Route” when growing up but had never had contact with any of them. They were a ruthless clan of warriors originally from Scotland whose heritage was a mixture of Norse and Gael. The one thing they excelled at was war, and for most of the last few centuries they had made their living hiring their swords to whoever could afford their blood money.

  ‘You see what I mean?’ MacHuylin addressed de Mandeville. ‘The earl is ignoring the danger.’

  ‘To be fair, he is not completely ignoring it,’ Savage interjected. ‘He may dismiss the possibility, but he says the earldom’s defences are ready to repel attack. Montmorency the Hospitaller is seeing to that.’

  Both the seneschal and the galloglaich gave a derisive grunt. De Mandeville shook his head as he pushed the bread and cheese in Savage’s direction. ‘I’m sorry, Connor, but I simply refuse to believe the earl would betray the king and the rest of us, regardless of his family connections. We spent four years together fighting the Scots. It makes no sense for him to side with Bruce against the Crown now. Montmorency is another matter. I trust him about as far as I can throw him.’

  ‘That’s something we can all agree on,’ Savage said, as he cut himself a hunk of cheese and took a bite. ‘I have my own reasons not to trust him, but why do you not? The earl seems to hold him in high esteem.’

  The seneschal grunted again. ‘Perhaps I sound like the fox in the fable who claimed the grapes he could not reach were sour,’ he said, ‘but I am seneschal in Ulster and he is interfering in my business. I am responsible for the defence of the earldom. Montmorency has wormed his way into the earl’s favour through weasel words and stories of his military prowess that no one here can verify. He is supposed to be a strategic expert, but so far his suggestions for defensive changes have been questionable. In my opinion they actually leave us more open to attack. His latest bright idea is to remove MacHuylin’s galloglaiches from the motte at Donegore and replace them with a force of kerns from Syr Hugh Bysset’s lands in the glens.’

  ‘Well now you can see why,’ MacHuylin said. ‘With us away from Donegore the Scots can walk straight in, seize the strongest fort outside Carrickfergus and the way both north and south is wide open for them.’

  The seneschal sighed and rolled his eyes. ‘Connor, are you asking me now to believe that as well as the earl and Montmorency, Hugh Bysset is also involved in this Scottish conspiracy?’

  MacHuylin shrugged. ‘Who knows who can be trusted?’

  Savage felt a strong urge to place his faith in the seneschal and reveal to him the full extent of his mission. There was something inherently dependable and honest about the man’s demeanour that prompted trust. Something, however, stopped him. This was Ireland and the old maxim still applied: trust no one.

  ‘What about the keeper of the castle?’ Savage asked. ‘Do you think he’s trustworthy?’

  ‘De Thrapston is a sound enough fellow,’ the seneschal replied. ‘Loyal as a lapdog to the earl but without an ounce of guile in his body. He doesn’t have the intelligence for it. He does whatever the earl asks him to, and will pass on to Earl Richard everything you say to him. Who knows what the earl will tell Montmorency, so if I were you I would be careful what you say to him.’

  Savage took another bite of cheese and they all took another swig of beer.

  ‘I know one man we definitely can trust,’ de Mandeville stated. ‘The justiciar. He will be at the tournament tomorrow and the feast tomorrow night. We need to make sure Savage here talks to him.’

  MacHuylin nodded in agreement. ‘What do we do with him in the meantime?’ The galloglaich tilted his head towards Savage.

  ‘Syr Richard, I’m afraid you must go back to the tower,’ de Mandeville said. ‘The earl has left specific instructions that you be not allowed to wander and we must respect that until we know for definite what is going on.’

  Savage sighed at the thought of going back to the locked room, but realised that these men could help get him access to the justiciar if he went along with their plan.

  ‘I must ride out to meet the earl. The justiciar will be here soon and they will be wondering where I am.’ De Mandeville stood up and finished his beer. ‘If I cannot speak to the justiciar alone I will try to contrive a situation where you, Syr Richard and the justiciar get to meet, either at the tournament or the banquet. In the meantime, be careful and please try hard to keep yourself alive.

  16

  May Day dawned. The sun awoke above the horizon and ascended into a cloudless sky. The air was fresh and alive with birdsong and the promise that all the hardships, frugality and darkness of winter were now at an end. With the new-born spring, life had returned to the earth.

  Savage had spent a restless night. MacHuylin left him back to the tower and he had gone to bed but every noise outside, no matter how slight, had woken him and sent him leaping to his feet, ready for an attack. By morning he was groggy and foul-tempered.

  Even if he had wanted to, he could not have slept long. The castle’s denizens were awake from first light. It was a holiday and there was so much to do. To his surprise, Savage awoke to the sound of music. Looking out his window he saw a group of minstrels were playing happy tunes down in the courtyard.

  The hammers of the armourers were already beating a ringing tattoo as harnesses and weapons were prepared for the jousting tournament. Lances were being nailed, helmets polished, bright shields strapped and swords ground on huge, whirring grindstones not, as in preparation for battle, to sharpen them for the kill but to make sure they were blunt. This was a tournament, not war – it was important to avoid unnecessary deadly wounding. Prepared arms were being mounted onto pack horses and donkeys for transport out to the tournament field.

  At his door Savage found some mayflowers had been pushed into the keyhole. He had not noticed them the night before and concluded that they must have been placed there by some well-meaning servant to keep away evil fairies. Savage sniffed them, before taking a couple and pinning them to his tunic.

  Before long Henry de Thrapston arrived. Whistling cheerfully, the keeper of the castle unlocked the door and looked in. He was accompanied by two soldiers.

  ‘Morning, Syr Richard!’ he said with a jovial grin. ‘I hope you are ready for the tournament. Wash, breakfast, then church. Then we shall go to the lists.’

  Savage did not reply. De Thrapston’s bonhomie was beginning to grate with him. In sullen silence he followed de Thrapston and the soldiers first to the castle wash house where big wooden tubs were filled with hot water. Quite a few folk had already washed themselves and the water was grey and starting to get tepid. Savage did not mind though. He now welcomed any chance to clean himself. He had been in a dungeon for years, and before that the Templars, with their rules restricting personal hygie
ne, something Savage had always found difficult to adhere to.

  The great hall was a hive of activity and packed with people breaking their fast at the long tables. Savage and de Thrapston took seats on one of the long benches and a serving woman placed a trencher of white bread with some fish on it before each of them, along with a mug of ale.

  Savage devoured it all, then de Thrapston led the way to the outer castle courtyard where people were gathering for the journey to church. Horses’ hooves clattered on the stone flags as knights, ladies and the barons of Ulster congregated. The earl was mounted on an impressive black charger. On a grey palfrey beside him sat his wife, the Countess Margaret. Despite her fifty years of age, Margaret was an alluring woman and her grey hair lent her an air of grace rather than making her look aged. Behind them like a malevolent raven was Montmorency in his black Hospitaller cloak. Beside them was the seneschal, Thomas de Mandeville, who gave Savage a discreet nod.

  De Thrapston led the way to a waiting brown pony. ‘This one is for you,’ he announced, before climbing up onto the white horse that waited beside it. Mounted on another white mare was a blonde-haired, small woman with a very pretty face.

  ‘Allow me to introduce my wife, Edith,’ de Thrapston said. ‘Edith, this is the man I was telling you about.’

  ‘I’m honoured to meet you, madam,’ Savage said, taking her proffered hand and kissing it.

  Edith de Thrapston smiled at him but did not speak.

  Once everyone in the procession was mounted, the great castle gates swung open and the lords and ladies rode out and down the hill into the town.

  The procession was led by a phalanx of armed galloglaiches, followed by the Red Earl and Countess de Burgh. It was a magnificent sight. Horses and riders blazed with embroidered gold and crimsons, and their banners bore their heraldic crests. Each family had their own; each family member had their own variation to denote their status in the clan. A couple of fantastically dressed heralds flanked the procession, carrying brightly hued banners that flowed in the wind.