Lions of the Grail

by Tim Hodkinson

  Robert Bruce was surprised to see the glimmer of tears in de Lacy’s eyes. He stepped forward and laid his hand on de Lacy’s shoulder. ‘Syr Walter, you have come at exactly the right time. Come and kneel with the rest of us, and behold what enfolds.’

  The king nodded to a priest who was standing beside a door in the nave of the church. The cleric opened the door and as the last rays of the setting sun flooded in, the king, his brother, Syr Walter de Lacy and all the barons fell to their knees.

  For a few moments there was silence, then the ethereal sound of women singing came in through the door. The little cruciform chapel filled with the sweet, heavy smell of incense as a group of six nuns, their white robes pulled over their heads to hide their faces, came through the door and processed towards the altar. It was they who sang the almost angelic air.

  Behind them, through the opened door, came a priest bearing a pure gold candlestick that was inlaid with black enamel. A large altar candle glowed on the candlestick.

  Next through the door came the priest who had been saying Mass. Before him, in both hands, he reverently bore something that was covered in a cloth of pure white heavy silk.

  A murmur ran through the nobles and all of them made the sign of the cross.

  The procession came to a halt at the altar. The priest placed the silk-covered object on the top of the altar, then raised the cloth so all in the chapel could see it. He beckoned to King Robert Bruce who stood up and respectfully approached the altar.

  ‘Behold,’ he said. ‘The Holy Grail.’

  28

  The sea breeze whispered through the grey wispy strands that were all that remained of Edmund le Bottelier’s hair. He took a deep, appreciative breath and scanned the view.

  It was magnificent.

  The Justiciar of Ireland stood on the rooftop of the Carrickfergus Castle keep, overlooking the town, the mountains, the shining waters of the lough and the distant misty hills of Holy Wood on the far shore.

  Briefly he considered composing a few lines of verse on the scene (a flair for poetry ran in his family) but his contemplation was disturbed by the arrival on the rooftop of the Red Earl of Ulster, Richard de Burgh.

  ‘Ah, de Burgh,’ Bottelier welcomed him. ‘Thanks for coming. I thought this would be the best place to meet. We can speak freely up here.’

  The earl nodded his agreement. On the rooftop there was nowhere for eavesdropping ears to conceal themselves: no tapestries or curtains, no furniture. No one could hear their words but the seagulls.

  ‘Richard, I want some honest answers,’ the justiciar said. ‘I need you to tell me the truth. This is just between you and me, so tell me what you really know about the plans of Robert Bruce and his brother. I give you my word it will go no further. We’ve known each other for years. You know you can trust me.’

  At first, the earl did not reply, then he said: ‘Why do you think I would know any more than you?’

  ‘Oh come on, de Burgh!’ Bottelier responded with anger. ‘I’m Justiciar of Ireland for God’s sake. I’m the highest authority in this island, bar King Edward. Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don’t have my own spies, telling me what is going on? Your daughter is married to the Scottish King! Half the nobles who owe you allegiance have family ties in Scotland. Are you telling me you know nothing and expect me to believe it?’

  ‘Edmund,’ the earl soothed. ‘I’ve spent most of the last four years in Connaught trying to stop the bastard FitzGeralds stealing my lands. What I know about Ulster is rumour and hearsay.’

  ‘Richard, if the Scots invade, and they are driven back into the sea, it’s going to look very bad for you when the king starts to ask questions in the aftermath,’ the justiciar said.

  ‘Edmund.’ The earl regarded the justiciar with a cool gaze. ‘If the Scots invade and are successful, then it’s going to look very bad for your prospects as representative of the King of England in Ireland.’

  Le Bottelier sighed and looked once more at the view. ‘Do you think I’m not well aware of that? And right now, Edward Bruce is not the only threat to my position as justiciar. That damned Roger Mortimer – when not in bed with the king’s wife – is poisoning the barons and the royal court against me, saying I am useless, not in control of the country and rubbish like that. He wants my job and I’m damned if he will get it.’

  De Burgh scratched his beard. ‘Interesting,’ he commented. ‘Why would Mortimer want to be justiciar of a land that could fall into the hands of the Scots?’

  ‘He intends to lead the battle against them. To be the hero of the day, and then who will oppose him when he shouts to be made King of England?’

  ‘So he is looking out for himself. As we all must in these times.’

  The justiciar tutted and shook his head. ‘Is this really the Earl of Ulster who forced the Scots to surrender in Edinburgh eight years ago? Now you talk of self-interest, of looking after yourself. What of honour, Richard? Loyalty?’

  The earl grunted. ‘Loyalty, Edmund? Who is there to be loyal to these days? You talk about Edinburgh. It was different then. Loyalty to the old King Edward was easy. He was a great soldier, a stern king, and if you stepped out of line you knew about it pretty quick. We were loyal to him but he was also loyal to us. If you were a good soldier he looked after you. If you did him good service he made sure you were not forgotten. But his son? This weakling “King” Edward? He can’t even control his own barons, the very men who are supposed to be there to keep him in power. He flew like a rat from the battlefield at Bannockburn without so much as breaking a lance. He forgets the military service I did for his royal father. It seems these days all you need to be in the royal favour is to be a young man with a pretty face.’

  Le Bottelier sighed again. ‘Richard, we are supposed to be loyal to the Crown, not the man who currently wears it. Think of what it represents: common law, justice, freedom. The Magna Carta. In this world those things are important. They are precious in the midst of all this…’ he struggled for the words and waved his hands in general annoyance ‘…chaos. Disorder. What sort of a world is it where a man declares himself king, as Robert Bruce has done? Now his brother declares himself King of Ireland. Where will that leave us all? I’ll tell you: driven into the sea. If they win, do you think the Scots will let us stay here? Don’t fool yourself. Bruce and his allies will send us to our graves or out of Ireland. There will be no mercy, no forgiveness. This will be a fight to the death for whoever rules this land, Richard.’

  The earl was looking out at the horizon, but his gaze was unfixed as if he was staring at something beyond sight. ‘So once again we fight for Ireland. This island is like a beautiful, cold-hearted woman, Edmund, you know that? The Gaels, the Scots, the Norse, us: whoever comes here falls in love with her. But she doesn’t love them. We all get jealous of whoever else wants her and we end up fighting over her. But she doesn’t care. She’s like the sort of woman who likes to see men fight over her. She doesn’t give a damn if we all kill each other and the last man standing dies of his wounds. This damnable godforsaken country…’ He trailed off, his curse lacking conviction.

  Before the justiciar could reply the noise of clattering hooves and raised voices came from below. Both men looked over the edge of the parapet and saw horsemen arriving in the castle courtyard below. They were muddy and their horses looked tired, thirsty and wind-broken. They had obviously been ridden far and hard. One of the men bore the red cross and black eagle badge of the de Burghs on the shoulder of his cloak.

  ‘That’s strange.’ The earl frowned. ‘That’s Eamonn Albanach, my seneschal from down in Connaught. What’s he doing up here?’

  The men entered the keep below.

  ‘I believe I know what you are up to, Richard,’ the justiciar resumed their conversation. ‘I think you are playing along with both sides, letting both the Scots and the king think you are on their side until you see who is more likely to win. If I’m right, you are playing a dangerous game.’

&n
bsp; The earl looked at the justiciar with undisguised anger. ‘You think I am some sort of politician?’ he growled. ‘I’ve always supported the king, but times are different now. This king is far from popular. The Church is against him. Most of his most powerful barons – men like Mortimer – are openly hostile to him and could overthrow him at any moment. He has problems in Wales. His army was devastated by the Scots last year. He’s not exactly what you would call a good horse to back. Anyway, who is there worth fighting for in this? All I know is that when this war is over I intend to still rule my lands. Connaught especially. The land down there is rich and beautiful. Ulster is a spiderweb of alliances, counter-alliances, marriages of convenience and constant plotting. If necessary it can go to Hell, but I’m damned if I’ll let go of Connaught.’

  ‘So there will be war?’ The justiciar smiled. ‘You know they are coming? Are those killings related to it?’

  Before the earl could answer, the door to the rooftop burst open and the Seneschal of Connaught appeared.

  ‘I gave orders that we were not to be disturbed!’ de Burgh shouted.

  ‘Sire, I bring grave news that cannot wait.’ The seneschal was out of breath and the expression on his face showed he was not jesting. ‘I’ve ridden night and day from Connaught. Your lands are under attack. The FitzGeralds have invaded. They burned Cong Abbey and are besieging your castle at Ashford.’

  ‘The treacherous bastards! They wait ’til I am gone to make their move.’ The earl strode to meet the seneschal and guided him back towards the door. ‘Tell me everything!’ he said.

  With that the earl and the Seneschal of Connaught left the castle rooftop.

  The Justiciar of Ireland returned his gaze to the sea with a careworn look on his face.

  29

  As it turned out, Savage did not have to walk all the way back to Carrickfergus.

  Shortly after Alys plodded off towards Vikingsford on her old warhorse, MacHuylin and several of his galloglaiches burst out of the woods, swords drawn and murder in their eyes. This dissipated at the sight of Savage.

  ‘You’re alive? Good man,’ MacHuylin said. ‘Any sign of those bastards who ambushed us in the woods?’

  Savage told his story.

  ‘So they were Irish?’ the galloglaich said. ‘I don’t like that one bit. Clan Eoghan bastards I’ll bet. And that witch woman Dame Alys was up here too? Do you think that was coincidence?’

  ‘She killed one of them,’ Savage replied. ‘I doubt she’s in league with them.’

  ‘All the same, she’s trouble that one,’ MacHuylin said. ‘I’d stay away from her if I were you. Her and her weird daughter.’

  The rest of MacHuylin’s men emerged from the woods and they all concluded that whoever had been lurking in the trees was now long gone. They remounted their horses and rode back to Carrickfergus Castle.

  Trotting into the castle courtyard, Savage saw Thomas de Mandeville inspecting a horse in the mouth. Beside him stood two other men, one young and raven-haired who had the look of Gaelic nobility and another tall and blond-haired with the same piercing blue eyes as MacHuylin.

  At the sight of him, the galloglaich let out a yelp of surprised joy and leapt off his horse. Both men gave each other huge bear hugs.

  ‘Aengus! I didn’t know you were coming! How are you, lad?’ MacHuylin said, then turned to Savage who was dismounting at a more careful pace. ‘This is my cousin Aengus Solmandarson from the Hebrides. Aengus, meet Richard Savage, knight of this shire.’

  Savage and the Hebridean saluted each other.

  ‘Any friend of Connor’s is a friend of mine,’ Aengus commented in his strange, lilting accent. The family resemblance to MacHuylin was undeniable: the same broad shoulders and blond hair that spoke of their Norse ancestors. Savage remembered the longship he had seen in the harbour on his arrival the day before and reasoned that it must have belonged to this man. The Hebridean galley, a superb warship developed from the old Viking dragon boats, was another inheritance the peoples of the Western Isles owed their Scandinavian forefathers.

  ‘So what brings you to Ireland?’ MacHuylin addressed his cousin.

  ‘Aengus has brought news from Scotland. Bad news,’ the seneschal said.

  ‘Aye,’ the Hebridean said. ‘Robert Bruce is sailing our way with an army. He intends to conquer the isles.’

  ‘Any word of what his brother Edward is up to?’ Savage asked.

  Aengus nodded. ‘He was still at Ayr yesterday, but from the number of ships and men-at-arms he has gathered round him I doubt he is just there for the meeting of the Scottish Parliament.’

  ‘Do you think he will join Robert in raiding the Western Isles?’ de Mandeville asked.

  Aengus shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Wherever it is they intend to go, they’re ready for a fight when they get there.’

  ‘The earl has had bad news too,’ de Mandeville said. ‘The FitzGeralds have attacked his lands in Connaught. He leaves first thing in the morning for the south to drive them out.’

  ‘Do we go with him?’ MacHuylin asked.

  De Mandeville shook his head. ‘The Clan Eoghan would love that. Soon as we’re gone they’d be over the border. Then there’s Edward Bruce and a few thousand men and ships a stone’s throw away on the other side of the Moyle Sea. I don’t think it would be a good idea. But we shall talk about this later. I need to hear just what went on in the friary too. However, right now we need to get ready for the banquet.’

  ‘The feast is still on? After all that’s happened?’ Savage was astounded.

  ‘Why not?’ De Mandeville grinned. ‘The earl rides to battle in the south in the morning; who knows what we face here in Ulster. We could all be dead soon so we may as well enjoy ourselves while we can.’

  He patted the glossy flanks of the horse. ‘Couldn’t interest you in a good horse, could I, Savage? She’s a real beauty.’

  Savage shook his head. ‘Hopefully I’ll be going back to England soon, so unless she’s also a very good swimmer…’ He shrugged.

  ‘Oh well. You’ve missed a real bargain,’ de Mandeville said. ‘Never mind; I think I’ll be able to talk MacArtain here into buying her. You take a good look at her Congal.’ He laid a hand on the shoulder of the black-haired Irishman. ‘Feel free to take her for a ride.’

  While the English aristocracy took their horse trading very seriously they could not match the sheer passion with which the Irish nobility entered into the activity. It was ingrained in their way of life and Thomas de Mandeville was no exception.

  ‘Now let’s go and get washed. The water should be heated by now and I’d like to get into a bath before half the castle has been in it before me,’ the seneschal said. They left the Gaelic lord looking at the teeth of the horse and headed towards the castle wash house.

  30

  Peter, the porter of Corainne Castle, watched the approaching horsemen with suspicion.

  His mistress, Dame Alys, had arrived on her worn-out old horse a short time before and announced she was going upstairs to prepare the herbs that she had picked. As far as he knew, she was not expecting guests.

  He saw the thick smoke rising from the roof of the castle and crossed himself. This meant that his mistress and her daughter were brewing their potions. Peter had served the Logan family since he was a child and it saddened him to see Alys reduced to selling remedies and spells in order to make ends meet and hang on to the castle. He worried about the danger she put her immortal soul in by meddling in those black arts. It was such a shame to involve the little girl in the Devil’s work too.

  Peter’s official title was porter, but the mistress of the crumbling castle could only afford two servants – him and the old woman who cooked – so his role also covered butler, castellan, stable hand, bailiff and any other job that needed doing. He did not mind though: with so few dwellers living in the castle and only one horse, he was not kept very busy. Besides, he was an old man now and the truth was he had no family to look after him or any other home to
go to. He had served the mistress’s father, and now he would serve her until he finally gave up the ghost.

  Corainne “Castle” was actually little more than a fortified tower. It sat on the end of a long, sickle-shaped promontory that jutted out into the lough of Vikingsford at one end of the natural harbour. It had one four-storey stone tower where Dame Alys and Galiene lived and a courtyard surrounded by a wooden palisade. There was a little wooden lookout tower above the gate, which was where Peter stood watching the approaching horsemen.

  They were armed – that much he could tell. He could see the glint of the late afternoon sun on chain mail and weapons, and that was never a good sign. There were thirteen of them. Two were dressed in black with long black cloaks flowing behind them like the wings of ravens. Nine were dressed in leather and chain mail and carried poles, staves and spears, one was very brightly dressed and the last one had a light blue cloak.

  Peter reached out and yanked a string that ran up from the little lookout tower to a bell that hung on the wall of the main castle tower. If these men meant trouble, there was little an old codger like him could do to stop them, but at least he could warn the mistress of their coming.

  He saw Dame Alys looking out of the top window of the tower and knew she now was alerted, then turned his attention back to the approaching horsemen. As they drew nearer he made out the white, equal-armed crosses on the shoulders of the men in black cloaks. He relaxed slightly. Those men were a knight and a sergeant of the Order of St John. Knights Hospitaller. Men of God would not be here for mischief.

  The man in the blue cloak spurred his horse forwards so he led the troop. Now he was closer Peter recognised who it was and relaxed completely.

  ‘Ach, Syr John, is it yourself?’ Peter smiled as John Bysset reined his horse to a halt outside the gates. Syr John had become a regular visitor to the castle lately and Peter and the old cook knew he was wooing their mistress. While he was happy for her – Syr John came from a wealthy family who could give her the comfortable life she deserved – he worried a little about what the future would hold for him. He reckoned that Syr John would not be a very sympathetic master, certainly not the sort who would continue to employ an old servant who could no longer work for his keep.