Lions of the Grail

by Tim Hodkinson

  Savage tore his sword from its sheath. It was a beautiful German-made weapon de Thrapston had lent him from the castle armoury. Unlike the massive Cladh Mor he had wielded during the tournament, this was a side sword: lighter, well balanced and small enough to be wielded in one hand.

  He managed to get his horse turned, despite the crush of the cows inside the fort and rode to the gate, swinging a stroke at one of the Scots horsemen. The man somehow caught sight of the sword coming out of the corner of his eye and just turned in time to counter the blow with his own sword. Savage swung again, suddenly remembering that unlike his opponent he wore no armour. The Scot again countered his strike. Then his face suddenly creased in pain as behind him one of the gate guards drove a spear into his back, bursting his chain mail and gouging deep into his chest. Bright red blood bubbled up into his mouth and he fell off the horse.

  His companion was also quickly dealt with, going down in a prickly forest of spear thrusts from the men above on the battlements.

  As both Scotsmen lay dying on the ground, Fergus Ui Flainn dismounted and drew a large Danish axe from a saddlebag. He planted his right foot on each man’s chest in turn and in one swing of the huge weapon clove the heads from their bodies. Ui Flainn then picked both severed heads up by the hair and tossed them out of the fort over the gate. He then turned to Savage and MacHuylin.

  ‘You two make yourselves useful,’ he said, gesturing with his bloody axe towards a low wooden hut beside the wall on the other side of the fort. ‘Get yourself armed with long weapons then get up on that wall with the rest of us. This fight is only just starting.’

  Like most Irish “forts”, Donegore was little more than a roughly circular palisade wall about twice the height of a man and made of sharp-topped wooden stakes, built on a steep-sided mound on the hilltop. A battlement walkway was on the back of the walls, near the top, for defenders to stand on and rain missiles and blows down on anyone outside. The middle of the fort was an open courtyard with a beaten-earth floor that was now being churned up by the cows. Hammocks for the defenders to sleep in were slung on the walls, sheltered from the elements by the wooden battlements above and some cloth curtains that could be pulled over. There was also a small hut for storage and it was in that direction that Savage and MacHuylin pushed their horses through the cattle throng.

  When they got there, they dismounted and pushed open the door.

  Savage gave a low whistle. The hut was filled with every sort of weapon imaginable. Throwing and thrusting spears stood against the wall, along with swords, helmets, maces and axes. There was every sort of knife and barrels of what looked like small pebbles.

  ‘There might not be many of them, but they have enough weapons here to hold off an army,’ Savage said.

  ‘They might have to,’ MacHuylin said as he grabbed a long poleaxe from a rack. He also picked up a léine croich, the long padded linen jerkin that served as armour in Ireland. ‘You’d better get that on you. It’s not chain mail but at least it’s something.’

  Savage took off his hooded cloak and pulled the léine on over his head. Then he grabbed a mace and thrust it into his belt. He lifted a long spear from the rack and then put his cloak back on. MacHuylin and he ran back outside and clambered up a nearby ladder to mount the battlement walkway.

  Savage was impressed at how light the léine croich was. Unlike when he wore chain mail or plate, he felt he could move much faster and strike with greater dexterity. On the other hand, he did not fancy his chances much if someone hit him a direct blow with an axe.

  On the walls were Fergus Ui Flainn and eleven other warriors. Outside the fort the rest of the Scottish riders were trying to get in. The narrowness of the entranceway funnelled ten of them into a close-packed mass that pressed against the fort gates. They were now in the killing pen, designed to concentrate attackers in one small area where they could be dealt with more easily than in a widespread assault.

  One of the Scots stood up on his saddle and leapt upwards to grab hold of the top of the palisade wall. Hanging on with both hands, he began to pull himself up to the top of the wall.

  MacHuylin spotted him as soon as he reached the battlements. Holding the poleaxe near the head he delivered a short chop on the wall top and the Scotsman was falling backwards towards the ground, his severed fingers still grasping the top of the wall.

  A couple more riders tried the same thing, but the defenders on the walls quickly repelled them, either stabbing them with their spears or pushing them back off the wall with the shafts. Because of the narrowness of the entranceway, the bulk of the Scots cavalry had to wait at the bottom of the mound, unable to get close enough to the walls to attack.

  After several failed assaults the horsemen at the gate realised that they could not get the gates open, and if they stayed where they were, they were at the mercy of the stabbing spears from above. They wheeled their horses and began to retreat but their close-packed ranks made it difficult. Frustrated at the speed of the retreat, one of the riders took his horse sideways off the trackway that ran up to the gate, hoping to attack again at a different point on the walls.

  Savage spotted him and shouted a warning. A couple of the Ui Flainn warriors broke away from the gate and began tracking the horseman along the wall as he rode round the mound. He did not get far, however. Once off the track, the side of the mound proved too steep for his horse, it missed its footing, tried to turn, then stumbled, pitching the rider off before it tumbled down the rest of the mound, rolling its bone-crunching weight over the rider as it went.

  The Scottish riders withdrew to the base of the mound, accompanied by the derisory jeers of the defenders in the fort.

  Savage counted them and – after deducting the casualties – there were now forty-three of them. Four times the number of defenders, but thanks to the design of the fort it had held out against the superior numbers, at least initially. The Scots attack had relied on speed and surprise. Thanks to MacHuylin and him they had lost the surprise and their gamble had failed.

  The Scots began to regroup about twenty yards from the bottom of the mound. They all dismounted. The eight of them with crossbows began loading them.

  ‘Get the stones,’ Fergus Ui Flainn ordered. Savage suddenly realised that the barrels of what he had thought were pebbles in fact were exactly that. A couple of warriors jumped down off the battlements, ran to the hut and returned, struggling with the barrels, back up onto the wall. The rest of the defenders grabbed handfuls of stones and took out long strips of leather. Slingshots. Savage knew that there was no one in the world deadlier with these weapons than the Irish.

  The Scots crossbowmen loosed a volley of arrows at the fort. The defenders all ducked down behind the palisade as the arrows thudded a tattoo on the wood. Immediately they rose and returned a hail of pebbles from their slingshots. Some stones rattled off helmets but where they struck flesh on hands and faces there was a loud thwack followed by gasps of pain. One of the crossbowmen collapsed holding his face, blood streaming from a ruined eye socket.

  ‘Isn’t this how David beat Goliath?’ Fergus Ui Flainn winked, the confidence of his grin inspiring confidence in his hopelessly outnumbered men.

  Unlike the crossbows, which took up to a minute to reload, another volley of stones was launched almost immediately, followed by another. Under the onslaught, the Scots hurriedly withdrew further from the fort until they were about one hundred yards from the base of the mound and out of the range of the deadly pebbles.

  Consequently, they were also now out of crossbow range.

  Savage peeked over the wall and observed the Scots as they regrouped. They had injured another couple of them and the odds had been reduced further, but now there was a stalemate. The Scots could not get in, but he and the rest of the defenders were trapped inside the fort.

  One thing was sure: there would be more fighting.

  45

  Realising that they could not take the fort easily, the Scots spread out and encircled the bo
ttom of the mound so no one inside could slip out. They then lit fires and began cooking.

  ‘They’ll not attack again tonight,’ Fergus Ui Flainn surmised. ‘If they do they’re mad. Once they’ve lost the advantage of surprise there’s no way cavalry can take a fort.’

  ‘There is a contingent of spearmen coming to re-enforce them,’ Savage said. ‘When they arrive I think it’s safe to expect another attack.’

  ‘Well let’s hope our re-enforcements arrive before theirs do,’ Ui Flainn said.

  No one arrived for either side that night. As darkness fell the defenders split the night up into watches. Each man would take a turn to watch what the Scots were up to while the rest found somewhere to sleep. This was not easy, given that the fort was filled with lowing, milling cattle.

  ‘Can we not do something about these cows?’ Savage asked. ‘Why are they in here anyway?’

  ‘They’re worth a fortune,’ Ui Flainn said. ‘I’m not letting them out for those Scots bastards to get their hands on. Anyway, if we’re stuck in here much longer some of them will become our dinner.’

  ‘If we don’t drown in cow shit first,’ MacHuylin grunted.

  Savage spent an uncomfortable night perched on the battlements wrapped in his cloak. Thankfully the rain stayed away. At dawn he awoke and took a look over the battlements. The view from the fort was superb. He could see for miles in all directions. To the south the land stretched away into the far distance for many, many miles, eventually rising into the dark masses of the Mourne Mountains. To the west the waters of Lough Neagh shimmered an amazing pink-gold in the early morning light. On it far western shores rose the distant hazy mountains in the Ui Neill’s kingdom of Tyr Eoghan. To the east was the coast. He could see the sea, and in the extreme distance the dark hazy lump of north England rose from the other side of the water.

  Frustratingly, the land dipped towards the coast so Corainne, Vikingsford and Carrickfergus were out of sight. Ominous black plumes of smoke were rising from that direction.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

  Savage turned to see MacHuylin was standing beside him also admiring the view. ‘No wonder we all fight over this land. How could you not love that?’ He swept his hand around the stunning vista.

  ‘Is that why you’re still here, Connor?’ Savage said. ‘Because I can’t figure it out. You’re a mercenary – you could just get out of here. You could have gone south with the earl but here you still are, still fighting. What for? Who for? An earl who’d betrayed you for his own ends? His overlord, the English King? For a nice view? What’s it all about?’

  MacHuylin laughed. ‘You just don’t understand do you? Yes, I am a mercenary. I come from a long line of professional soldiers. My forefathers have fought for everyone from the Viking Jarls of Orkney to the King of England. If truth be known, sometimes the King of France too.’ He winked. ‘And we’ve made good money from it. But it’s not really about the money. We fight because we’re good at it. It’s what we do. But it’s also about the people you fight with. I respect the seneschal. As my father did his father. And it’s about where you fight. We came here shortly before you Normans arrived and our roots are entangled here now as much as yours are. They stretch down into the land. This is our home. And no one comes into our home and pushes us around. You were born here, but I don’t think you feel the same way about this country.’

  Savage shook his head. ‘I suppose I have been away from her too long. I’ve seen other places. I’ve broken the spell she casts.’

  MacHuylin laughed again. ‘And now you come back to old Ireland and find you’d put some roots down here after all.’ His face became serious. ‘I hope you get to see your woman and daughter again. Nothing is more important than family. Blood.’

  ‘I wonder what’s going on in Carrickfergus,’ Savage said.

  ‘People are dying.’ MacHuylin grunted, pointing at the plumes of smoke rising in the distance. ‘That’s not farmers burning gorse. Its houses, farms, churches being fired by the Scots. The war has started and we’re stuck up here scratching our arses.’

  He spat in frustration.

  The rest of the fort was stirring. As Savage looked around, his face creased in puzzlement. There seemed to be ten defenders plus Ui Flainn. The day before he had counted eleven. He counted again and came up with ten again. He must have miscounted the day before.

  ‘I see your friend is down there,’ MacHuylin said, pointing at the Scottish troops outside who were also rising. A figure wrapped in a black cloak was moving among them.

  ‘Montmorency,’ Savage growled. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a longbow right now.’

  MacHuylin laughed. ‘Sure a wee man like you couldn’t even draw a longbow, never mind shoot somebody a hundred yards away. How do you know him anyway?’

  ‘Before he was a Knight of Saint John, he was a brother Templar,’ Savage said. ‘Though not much of a brother. It was him who betrayed me and my brethren at the Templar commandery of Garway.’

  Savage told MacHuylin the whole story of the two fugitive French brothers and their mysterious treasure and how Montmorency had betrayed them to the sheriff.

  ‘Knowing what I do now,’ Savage said when he had finished his tale. ‘I’ll wager those French Templars had the Holy Grail with them. It makes sense that they would have taken it to Scotland because Robert Bruce had been excommunicated for the murder of Red Comyn. The Pope had no authority there and they would be safe from the Inquisition. That’s how the Scots must have got their hands on the Grail. Montmorency must have followed their trail to Scotland.’

  ‘The Scots have the Holy Grail?’ MacHuylin looked confused.

  Savage nodded. ‘The mad priest in the Church in Carrickfergus told me.’

  ‘And you believe a mad priest?’

  ‘It makes sense. Think of the support the Scots are getting from lords and barons here. They are half English so why support the Scots? It makes no sense unless they have something very special. Likewise why would a religious fanatic like Montmorency follow an excommunicated King like Robert Bruce unless he possessed something that justified his cause in the eyes of God?’

  ‘The Holy Grail…’ MacHuylin breathed. ‘There’s an ancient prophecy, you know, that the crowns of Ireland and Scotland will be united. They say the wizard Merlin foresaw it and the army that will make it come true will bear a sacred treasure.’

  Savage nodded. ‘It’s said that whatever army bears the Holy Grail is invincible.’

  ‘Invincible or not, we’ll beat them.’ MacHuylin grinned. ‘Maybe not today, but we’ll beat them.’

  The day dragged on. No re-enforcements arrived for either side and the Scots seemed content just to wait it out. As the day passed the biggest problem for the defenders of the fort began to be boredom.

  Early in the afternoon strange sounds began to waft through the air. Carried on the wind, they drifted in and out of hearing. They seemed to consist of shouting and roars of men, great crashes and the whinnying of horses but they were very far away and it was hard to tell exactly what was going on. Fergus Ui Flainn joined MacHuylin and Savage on the battlements as they strained their ears to try to discern the source of the sounds. To the east, towards Carrickfergus, many thick columns of black smoke were rising into the air.

  ‘There is a battle,’ MacHuylin said. ‘The seneschal’s army must be fighting the Scots.’

  They all stared in the direction of the smoke. Savage could almost taste the galloglaich’s frustration at not being part of the fighting. All Savage could think of was Alys. He hoped more than anything that she and Galiene had got out of Carrickfergus and were well on their way to Dublin.

  The afternoon wore on. Still no re-enforcements arrived for either the defenders or the Scots. The sounds of battle eventually began to fade. Ominously, the plumes of black smoke appeared to grow thicker and more numerous.

  As evening began to fall, there was movement at the bottom of the hill and a contingent of about a hundred spearmen eme
rged from the trees. They were led by a horseman in a bright-coloured surcoat. As he approached Savage could just make out the red cross and three silver lozenges emblazoned on it.

  ‘Syr Thomas Randolph, Earl of Moray,’ MacHuylin said.

  Savage looked at him. ‘The man who captured Edinburgh Castle from the English?’

  MacHuylin nodded. ‘I don’t like the look of this.’

  The Scots outside the fort hailed the approaching spearmen with warm greetings. The spearmen joined the besiegers and for a time there was a lot of laughing and shouting. Eventually a horseman rode forward from the Scots camp, carrying a white flag tied to the shaft of his spear.

  Fergus Ui Flainn gestured to his men to let the man approach. ‘He carries the flag of parley. Let’s hear what he has to say.’

  The rider halted his horse outside the gate. ‘I’m here to offer you the chance to surrender,’ he announced.

  Fergus Ui Flainn popped his head above the parapet. ‘Now why would I want to do that?’ he asked. ‘Haven’t we already beaten you once?’

  ‘Because you are surrounded, you are outnumbered and you have no chance of re-enforcements,’ the Scots rider replied.

  ‘I’ve sent a messenger calling for re-enforcements,’ Ui Flainn shouted back. ‘It will be you who will be surrounded soon, not us.’

  The Scotsman gave a rather unpleasant grin. ‘No one will be coming to rescue you. The army of Ulster met in battle today with our army. Your side was slaughtered. Just like at Bannockburn our spearmen destroyed your knights. Your soldiers were annihilated and we have taken Carrickfergus.’

  There were a few moments silence as he let the impact of his words sink in.

  ‘The English power here is broken. Why continue to hold out?’ the Scotsman continued. ‘Surrender the fort and join our crusade. You will be welcome as brothers in our fight against the English.’

  Ui Flainn made a gesture behind his back and one of his warriors stood up. Before the Scotsman had a chance to react the warrior had launched his spear down at him. At such short distance he stood no chance. The leaf-bladed spear point went in over the top of his chain mail jerkin, entering the base of his throat and ploughing downwards through his chest. A bright jet of blood shot upwards from the wound and splattered across the wall of the fort as the Scotsman collapsed off his horse.