‘See that? No entrenchments,’ MacHuylin said out of the corner of his mouth. ‘They’re posting pickets instead. You know what that means?’
Savage nodded. ‘They don’t intend staying around here too long.’
They made their way to the heart of the camp that was at the beach just outside the wall of Corainne Castle. All around them the army was unpacking weapons and equipment, lighting cooking fires and tending to horses that were more than a little disturbed by their passage across the sea. Suits of mail, suspended on poles passed through the armholes, were carried up from the beach suspended between two men like bizarre, rigid washing lines. Long rows of helmets, hung on similar poles by their chin straps were being disembarked too. Great sheaves of spear poles were carried up from the ships to armourers who were already untying them and nailing spearheads to their ends. Pots were hung over cooking fires and the aroma of stew began to drift through the damp air. Some men were at work digging trenches, not for defence but for soldiers to shit in. Everyone worked with an air of well-practised professionalism.
‘Do you see whose banners are flying?’ MacHuylin asked, pointing at the various flags that had been planted in the earth around the edge of the castle.
‘How would I know?’ Savage shrugged. ‘I’ve spent most of the last five years in a dungeon. Before that I was in Cyprus with the Templars.’
MacHuylin shot a bemused sideways glance at Savage. ‘A dungeon? You’re full of surprises today. Well that—’ he gestured to a yellow banner with a blue and chequered stripe across it ‘—is the badge of Syr John Stewart, King Robert Bruce’s right-hand man. That—’ he gestured to another colourful banner ‘—is Syr Philip Mowbray’s coat of arms, the turncoat who switched sides after Bannockburn. Syr John Ramsay of Auchterhouse is here too. Syr Fergus of Ardrosson and Syr Neil Fleming. The flowers of Scottish chivalry have come here. These are fearsome warriors. They’re veterans of Bannockburn and Bruce’s wars of independence from England.’
‘And the first thing they do when they win their freedom is invade Ireland?’ Savage grunted.
Several brightly dressed heralds came running towards them through the throng of the camp.
‘Captains and lieutenants!’ they were shouting. ‘All captains and lieutenants are to report to the king for marching orders!’
Men began hurrying towards the beach where the flags of the nobles and Edward Bruce were flying.
‘I think that includes us, don’t you?’ MacHuylin said.
Savage could not help but smile at the sheer audacity of what they were engaged in as they joined the others who congregated in a large semi-circle around the banners planted on the beach.
Several of the barons whose banners flew overhead were standing there, dressed in mail armour with surcoats over it emblazoned with the emblems that matched their flags.
The rain was getting lighter but Savage had no desire to take his hood down. Standing in the middle of a hostile army, not knowing who would suddenly appear beside him, his nerves were stretched taut in almost unbearable tension. At every moment he expected a hand to be laid on his shoulder as someone recognised him or MacHuylin and then it would be all over.
Remembering why they were there, Savage did a quick headcount of the captains gathered around the banners of the Scottish earls. About a hundred men in total were there. Not every captain would have a lieutenant with him, but if even half of them did, and each captain led a company of roughly a hundred men, that meant it was a fair bet that the Scottish army was probably between five and seven thousand men strong.
Sitting on a travelling chest was a hardy-looking young man who wore a yellow surcoat emblazoned with three silver lozenges within a red cross.
‘That’s Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray,’ MacHuylin whispered. ‘He captured Edinburgh Castle from the English a couple of years ago. He’s Robert Bruce’s nephew.’
‘And here’s the man himself,’ Savage commented as the blond-haired Edward Bruce, Earl of Carrick, strode across the strand. His hair was combed straight, his beard trimmed, and he too wore a bright yellow surcoat but his was embroidered with a rampant lion. At the sight of him the soldiers all cheered. Bruce’s eyes lit up with a fierce glare at the sound of their adulation. He held up two hands for quiet.
‘Men,’ Bruce said, ‘eight hundred years ago our forefathers left this land and forged the kingdom we now call Scotland. Today, we have returned across the sea to take this land back from those who have stolen it. Ireland and Scotland are now one, once again. This land is now our land. I am its new king and you are my loyal subjects, and you are the men who will free this island from tyranny. With our help, the Irish will gain their freedom from the English yoke the way we Scots have won ours. We are here to help our Irish cousins.’
‘And if they don’t want our help—’ the Earl of Moray smiled ‘—we’ll slit their throats.’
A rumble of laughter went around the gathered captains.
Bruce signalled for silence again. ‘To show that we mean to stay,’ he said, ‘I am sending the ships home again. They will leave before nightfall.’ A murmur of disquiet went through the troops. Bruce held up high a piece of parchment. ‘I have in my hand a letter, signed by thirteen Irish kings, pledging their support for us in our fight.’
One of the captains near Savage and MacHuylin spoke up. ‘Sire, that’s less than half of the kings in this land. How will we know who is on our side and who is not?’
‘Do not let that trouble you,’ Bruce replied. ‘Lord de Lacy is with us and has already done great service by luring the Earl of Ulster south. Everyone who is on our side in the north part of the island east of the Bann River is with us today: Syr John Bysset, who led our ships safely into this haven, rules the coast north of here up to Rathlin Island.’
Savage shrank further under his hood at the sight of Bysset, his eyes still black from the tournament, sauntering forward out of the crowd to acknowledge the cheers of support that came from the soldiers.
‘Syr John, we are grateful for the aid you and your uncle have given us,’ Bruce said. ‘You will be handsomely rewarded.’
Bysset looked sheepish. ‘Sire, there is one thing I wish for more than anything. I wish to see the Holy Grail.’
Bruce nodded. ‘And you shall. The Grail is safe in Merlin’s Chapel on the Noquetran, guarded by Ulick Ceannaideach. Once we have secured our foothold here you can sail and meet him there and see the Grail.’
Bysset nodded.
‘Leave the Bysset lands alone,’ Bruce continued. ‘Everyone else must be taught a lesson. We will make an example of the Earldom of Ulster and show the rest of Ireland how foolish it is to oppose us. The people here have chosen to stand against us, well so be it. Take what you want from them. Kill them. Rape their women, kill their children, burn their homes. Destroy everything. Plunder their churches; demolish their towns, their houses. Take all the gold you want and obliterate everything else. Leave nothing standing but blackened stones.’
A raucous, bloodthirsty cheer erupted from the gathered soldiers.
‘We march right away to take the capital,’ Bruce said. ‘We will form two battalions and march on Carrickfergus. Follow the standards of your liege lords so you will know which battalion to fall into.’
‘What about forts?’ another captain said. ‘How many are on the way?’
‘There are hundreds of forts all over the country here,’ the Earl of Moray said. ‘Most of them are too small to cause us problems so we’ll just march round them then deal with them later. There are a couple of strategic forts: Duncrue on the way to Carrickfergus and Donegore that guards the way to the north. Detachments of cavalry will ride fast and take both by surprise. Companies of spearmen will follow to re-enforce and garrison the forts once taken. Hugo Montmorency will lead the attack on Donegore. Syr Neil Fleming will take Duncrue.’
‘Now let us prepare to march,’ Bruce said. ‘God goes with us. He has shown his approval of our cause by delivering the Grail in
to our hands. We cannot fail. Victory will be ours!’
As the gathering of captains broke up to gather their men, MacHuylin grabbed Savage’s sleeve and steered him aside.
‘We’ve got to get to Donegore before the Scots,’ the galloglaich said. ‘If they take it, the whole of the north as far as Coleraine on the north coast is wide open to them. It’s a really strong fort: right on the top of the highest hill. If we can warn the garrison there they can shut the gates and the Scots will be forced to lay siege. It will slow their whole advance northwards.’
‘What about Carrickfergus?’ Savage said. ‘Shouldn’t we get back there and warn the seneschal what is coming his way?’
MacHuylin shook his head. ‘Syr Thomas is gathering the army at Carrickfergus. By now they’ll have enough men to meet this army in battle. If they take Donegore, then even if the seneschal defeats them they can withdraw north and come back and hit Carrickfergus again. We need to get to Donegore and warn them.’
Savage saw that he was right, but still he was uneasy, remembering his vow.
‘Alys and Galiene are in Carrickfergus Castle. I promised to return,’ he said, his face reddening slightly.
‘It’s only a few miles from Donegore back to Carrickfergus,’ MacHuylin said. ‘Once we’ve warned the garrison at the fort you can ride back.’
Savage nodded. Grimly, he followed the galloglaich as he led the way through the decamping Scottish army, hoping fervently that Alys and Galiene would be safe, and that he managed to live long enough to get back to them.
44
Savage and MacHuylin made their way back through the mustering Scottish army to the woods. As soon as they entered the trees they broke into a run, dashing back to where they had earlier tethered their horses.
‘It’s about sixteen miles to Donegore,’ MacHuylin said as he leapt into the saddle. ‘If we ride hard we’ll get there before the sun gets much higher.’
‘As long as we beat Montmorency,’ Savage said as they dug in their spurs and took off at a gallop up the track through the woods.
Savage let MacHuylin lead the way as they headed inland. The rain stopped and after a short time they took a fork in the road as the ground began to gradually rise. By this time the horses were breathing heavily and their flanks were covered in sweat.
The woods began to thin and soon they were riding up a very wide, gently sloping meadowland. Grass and heather coated the ground and here and there were large clumps of prickly, deep-green gorse bushes dotted with bright yellow flowers. A herd of the little, dwarf-like Irish cattle calmly chewed on the grass, barely raising their heads when the two men galloped past. The Irish still measured their wealth in the number of cows they owned. Unlike England, where the countryside was choked with flocks of sheep, the economy had not switched to large-scale wool production.
After riding some way further they came to a river. It was not wide and the horses easily forded it. They stopped on the far bank to let the horses drink and rest a while. About a mile down the riverbank to the south was a small settlement. It was little more than a small fort on a mound around which several buildings and church were collected. Savage knew that this was what passed as a town in this part of the world.
‘Belch Cláir.’ MacHuylin nodded in the direction of the settlement. ‘The river is called Abhainn na bhFiodh but you Normans call it the Six Mile Water because it’s six miles from Carrickfergus. This marks the western boundary of the Earldom of Ulster. On this side of the river we are now in the Kingdom of Ui Tuirtre, which is run by the Ui Flainns. They’re our allies. They maintain forts for us, let us garrison soldiers on their land and in return we protect them from their bullying neighbours, the Ui Neills in the west. God damn it they are coming already—’ MacHuylin interrupted himself.
Behind them the ground sloped gradually back towards the coast, so they could see the several miles back to the woods. A group of horsemen were just emerging from the trees.
Savage squinted to try to discern their numbers. ‘It’s hard to tell, but there’s quite a few of them. Maybe forty.’
‘They’ll outnumber the garrison at Donegore at least two to one,’ MacHuylin said. ‘With surprise on their side, they could take it before the garrison even gets a chance to shut the gates.’
‘What about the garrison in that Motte?’ Savage said, pointing at the fort in the hamlet down river.
MacHuylin shook his head. ‘There’ll be four or five warriors there at the most. That’s all it takes to defend that mound. The Scots will bypass them anyway and we don’t have time to start riding down there to gather troops.’
‘Let’s get going then,’ said Savage and they took off at a gallop once more.
Their progress became slower as the ground began to slope upwards more markedly and the journey began to tell on the horses’ legs. Savage regularly glanced over his shoulder as they rode, noticing with growing dread that every time he did so the riders behind them seemed to be a little closer.
After a couple more miles, they rode over a low rise and to the north of them rose a very large hill. Its lower slopes were wooded but the top half to the summit was cleared of trees. On the top of the hill they could clearly make out a man-made mound on which sat the wooden palisade of a fort.
‘Donegore,’ MacHuylin shouted, changing course to ride towards it. Savage took another glance over his shoulder and judged the Scots cavalry were now less than a mile behind them, then the track they rode on plunged into the woods at the bottom of Donegore hill and he lost sight of their pursuers.
Their ride through the woods was short, but the horses were now really labouring as the ground sloped upwards much more dramatically. When they emerged from the trees once again onto the open meadow of the hillside, they had slowed to little more than a walk.
A trackway that led to the fort on the summit wrapped around the contours of the hill, intersecting the track that Savage and MacHuylin were on. To Savage’s surprise, coming from the trees to their left was a herd of cows. The animals were accompanied by three armed warriors who were whooping and shouting, driving the animals up the slope towards the fort. They were wrapped in bright-coloured cloaks and prodded the flanks of the cattle with the butts of their spears.
‘The Ui Flainns,’ MacHuylin shouted over his shoulder. ‘Their clan garrisons the fort.’
The galloglaich made straight for them, waving his hand to get their attention. Savage spurred his horse to follow.
The warriors saw them coming and one slowed down. The other two kept driving the cattle on up the slope.
‘Connor MacHuylin, what brings you here?’ the warrior asked. He was a man of about thirty, with long black hair and wearing a huge gold band like a twisted rope around his neck, a sign that he was the Gaelic equivalent of a knight.
‘Fergus,’ MacHuylin shouted, ‘the Scots are coming!’
‘Sure we know that,’ the warrior replied. ‘Messengers came this morning. That’s why we’re rounding up the cattle. We’ll need some in the fort in case we’re besieged and the seneschal wants the rest driven to Carrick—’
‘No, I mean they’re coming now. Here.’ MacHuylin stopped him.
As if in answer, horsemen began emerging from the trees behind Savage and MacHuylin. A look of dismayed astonishment flashed across Fergus Ui Flainn’s face.
‘To the fort! Shut the gates!’ Savage shouted, and they all dug their spurs in, mercilessly driving their horses up the hill amid squeals and whinnies of protest.
Over his shoulder Savage saw that there were forty to fifty Scottish horsemen, armed with spears and swords, riding side by side in a long line towards them. They were now about a hundred yards away, downhill.
The cows were in full stampede. Panicked by the galloping of the horses around them, they kept going in the same direction as the horsemen, as they all desperately charged for the summit of the hill and the gate of the fort that gaped invitingly open.
Savage heard something buzz past his head. He looked bac
k again and saw that several of the horsemen had crossbows and were loosing them as they rode. They were shooting uphill and riding at the same time, which made the shots wild but still dangerous.
There was a loud thwack from beside him and one of the cows let out a pained low before crashing to the ground, a crossbow quarrel embedded in its flank.
Donegore fort sat on top of an artificial mound on the summit of the hill. The sides of the mound were too steep to ride a horse up; however, a track that curled around the contour of the mound allowed the gate to be approached on horseback. The gate was set back from the outer palisade wall, so the final approach to it was walled on both sides, allowing defenders to assault anyone approaching from both sides at once.
Accompanied by the cows, Savage, MacHuylin and the three Ui Flainns burst through the gates of the fort. To Savage’s surprise, there were even more cows inside the fort. They squeezed into a crush of bodies that filled the centre of the ring fort, packed so tightly there was hardly room to move. The inside of the fort was literally jammed with cows, mooing and pushing each other.
Defenders – Irish warriors dressed like the Ui Flainns and armed with axes and spears – were up on the walls on platforms behind the palisades but Savage didn’t have time to count them. One thing he was sure was that there were not that many of them. A couple more were on the ground and they struggled to shut the gates behind Savage against the heaving bodies of still more cows that were trying to push their way in. The gates were almost closed when the foremost Scottish riders arrived. Two of them, dressed in chain mail and swinging swords, burst through into the fort before the heavy wooden gates slammed shut. The gate guards finally slammed the gate closed and threw the massive latch. They then began struggling to slot a heavy wooden bar across the back of the two gates to lock them shut.
The Scots turned on the men at the gate straight away, realising that once the bar was in place their compatriots outside would not be able to force the door back open. They wheeled their horses around and swung their swords down at the gate men who dropped the bar and ducked to avoid the deadly blow.
Lions of the Grail Page 31