Castaways in Time

by Robert Adams

  De Burgh grinned. "Eamonn's defense was a patent fraud, a fact easily seen by the judges and the High King, who unanimously found in the Church's behalf and ordered Eamonn to surrender his lands and appurtenances to his creditors, forthwith. But this the royal miscreant refused to do; rather did he close his borders, fortify his castle, and easily beat off the small token force which was all that Tara had on hand to send, at that time, the most of the army still being occupied in Munster."

  "As a largish sum was involved and the Church likes not to lose even a groat, the Papal Legate in Dublin, Archbishop Mustapha of Kairouan, hired himself some Flemish mercenaries—a hundred lances, two squares of pikes, and an eight-piece siege train."

  Which should have been, thought Foster, more than enough to subdue an impoverished pocket principality—five hundred cavalrymen, three thousand infantry and arquebusiers or crossbowmen, eight large bombards, and probably three or four times that number of smaller cannon, plus the inevitable catapults and spear throwers.

  "Upon the approach of the Legate and his condotta," continued de Burgh, "Eamonn's closed borders suddenly became open borders, wide open, his bowmen and knights and gallowglasses melting away like late snow. Whereupon the Flemings invested Castle Lagan, pitched tents, dug in and set up their bombards, with the intent of commencing the battering of the walls the next dawn."

  "But they all had reckoned without the tenacity of King Eamonn, the loyalty of his retainers, and the pugnacity of the folk of Lagan. Betwixt the midnight and the dawn, Eamonn sallied forth at the head of his picked garrison, and whilst the Flemings were fighting and dying to protect their camp and trains and guns from the one, clear menace, a strong force of knights and mounted gallowglasses, supported by a host of archers and armed peasants, took them in the rear and on the flanks, looted and burned their camp, and made away with vast quantities of equipment, food, gunpowder, wheeled transport, and draft animals, and an assortment of weapons, including a dozen demiculverins and sakers. Out of the eight bombards, five were dismounted and the other three deliberately overcharged and so destroyed."

  "With the dawning, the badly mauled condotta sagaciously withdrew from Lagan, harried at flanks and rear by King Eamonn's victorious followers. In Lagan, they left seven out of eight bombards and most of the smaller pieces as well, plus everything they could not carry on their backs or behind their saddles, those who still had mounts. It is attested that Archbishop Mustapha rode into Dublin in an embroidered nightshirt and a lancer's travel cloak, all his clothing having been either looted or burned along with his pavilion."

  "I would imagine," remarked Foster dryly, "that His Grace was not in the best of moods just then. So what was his next move?"

  De Burgh chuckled. "He appealed to Tara, of course, but the war in Munster was continuing to drag on and Tara's only support could be simply moral. The High King sympathized, of course, but . . ." The descendant of Norman reavers spread his hands and shrugged in a typically Gallic gesture.

  Foster, too, smiled. "His High Holiness felt for the put-upon cleric, but he couldn't quite reach him, eh?"

  De Burgh nodded. "Well and succinctly put, mein Herr Markgraf. While men may put their gold on the larger dog to win, still will they cheer the shrewd nip of the smaller, through sheer admiration of courage in the face of odds. Had the High King had troops to spare in the beginning, he would have personally seen to the crushing of King Eamonn and deliverance of his lands and all to the Church, for he then was most wroth at Eamonn. But when Lagan and its king proceeded to accomplish the impossible, to defeat and throw back in utter confusion several times their numbers of seasoned, professional troops, such valor bought for them the admiration of all true Irishmen. The Archbishop, who always has been a proud, arrogant, stiff-necked, and usually difficult man, was rendered a laughingstock, the butt of many a cruel jest or jibe or scurrilous song or ribald rhyme. Such was his disgrace that he saw fit to leave Ireland within a bare month of his military debacle in Lagan."

  De Burgh paused in his narrative to take a long pull from his jack of Rhenish wine, sighed gustily, then went on. "And all Ireland thought we'd seen and heard the last of that particular squabble and affairs returned to about normal."

  "Eamonn had two of the captured great bombards mounted at previously vulnerable points on his castle walls and sold the other three, their carriages and accessories to King Colm XVI of Ailech—which went a long way toward covering his debts for that abortive Crusade. However, the agents of the Church, in Dublin, upon accepting the gold he proffered them, noted that when once the original loan was paid off and its interests and penalties, he still would owe the costs of hiring the Flemings, the cost of their transport, blood prices for all mercenaries slain or wounded, the full values of all weapons and equipment burned or looted under his walls or anywhere within the lands of Lagan . . . and so on; the list was long."

  "King Eamonn had as much pride as any other gentleman, and the agents of the Church were supercilious and openly insulting to him. Moreover, it is unheard of in Ireland for a defeated party to try to dictate terms of reparation, and with the sure knowledge that public opinion already weighed heavily in his favor, Eamonn made certain that attested copies of the demands of the Church were widely circulated."

  "I, myself, was near to the High King when first His Majesty read his own copy and I can here state that his comments were of a most colorful nature, nor calculated to endear him to Their Holinesses of Rome, Constantinople and New Alexandria. Nor did what lately followed from Rome especially endear the Church to His Majesty of Tara."

  "Which last, mein Herr Markgraf von Velegrad, gentlemen, is what has precipitated the dispatch of me, my officers and squadron to England; hopefully, if current negotiations betwixt Tara and King Arthur proceed as my monarch desires, my horsemen will constitute only the vanguard of Irish troops serving here in support of the just cause of England."

  Foster hoped that his face did not mirror his inner dismay and confusion at the Irish nobleman's words, for King Arthur's correspondences had hinted at nothing concerning any alliance with the High King. Though, if such did come to pass, this little affray—which had begun as a purely English dynastic dispute and would have been speedily resolved, had the Church not seen fit to poke her long, greedy, meddlesome fingers into it—could bid fair to shake wide expanses of the world and singe the Church and her interests severely.

  Feigning application to his jack of wine, Foster made the time to marshal his thoughts before saying, "Please elucidate, my lord Baron, what are the Roman busybodies up to now? How did they manage to alienate your sovereign?"

  De Burgh again showed every strong, yellow tooth in another wolfish grin. "As mein Herr doubtless knows, His present Holiness of Rome is of Tunisian antecedents, as so too is Archbishop Mustapha, and they two have been close friends for many years, so that His Holiness took his Legate's humiliation at the hands of Eamonn as if it were his own. Immediately after the esteemed archbishop arrived in Rome and had audience with His Holiness, a deputation was dispatched to Tara."

  "The gist of their demand was that the High King should cease any other military activities, throw all his force against Lagan, turn the conquered lands over to the Church agents in Dublin, and forward King Eamonn, himself—or his head—to Rome."

  "Obviously, neither His Holiness nor the deputation took overmuch trouble in studying the High King, his attitudes and reputation, for they took the worst possible tack in dealing with him—attempting to dictate his actions."

  "His Majesty's reply was, however, the very soul of diplomacy. He pointed out that his own law court had found for the Church in the dispute with King Eamonn and that he had even loaned Archbishop Mustapha a few royal troops in that worthy's first attempt on Lagan, their expenses coming out of his own, royal purse, slim as it was. He added that his personal sympathies certainly lay with His Holiness and the cruelly humiliated archbishop, but that to withdraw his armies at this critical juncture from Munster would be to sacri
fice all that his arms had earlier gained in the protracted struggle."

  "That deputation departed, but in a bare month, another had arrived, bearing an awesome document from His Holiness's own hand. Mein Herr, His Holiness must be a very stupid man—or ruinously stubborn—because his folly here, in England, has taught him nothing, it would seem. The ultimatum of His Holiness stated this: Either the High King did all he had been bid by the first deputation or all Ireland would be placed under interdict and all Irish royalty and nobility excommunicated until said work was accomplished to the satisfaction of His Holiness! Also, the strong possibility of a Crusade against Ireland was implied toward the end of that horrendous letter."

  "God's death!" swore Earl Howell ap Owain, overall commander of the North Welsh horse. "The Holy Ass must be mad. His unwarranted and officious intrusions in the strictly internal affairs of this realm, alone, have already cost Rome Christ knows how much gold, a thousand pipes or more of blood, and a loss of prestige that may be irretrievable. At this very minute are the royal churchmen of England and Wales loyal to King Arthur—God keep him, that is—seriously exploring the institution of a purely insular Church, possibly along the lines of that Celtic Church displaced by Rome, long ago, and the Scotch clergy are corresponding with them in a most civil manner, as too are certain bishops of the Empire, I understand."

  Foster felt himself reeling. This all was news to him. If Archbishop Hal had known aught of it, he had breathed not a word in Foster's hearing.

  But Earl Howell went on. "With all England and Wales in the King's hands, as it doubtless will be ere this summer be done, with King James of Scotland allied to His Majesty and with Emperor Egon giving tacit if not open support, a blind man could see that Rome is in real trouble, that the Church stands in dire need of every loyal ally."

  "That His Holiness then, under such conditions, sees fit to callously alienate those folk who crouch at England's very back, so that they can but seek to make common cause with King Arthur, does but prove out His Majesty's contention that Rome, that the Church herself, is become a senile and fast-fading power in the world, depending more and evermore upon the blind faith of the credulous to enforce a bankrupt political policy in areas wherein the Church really has no business."

  De Burgh inclined his dark head. "My lord Earl, the High King and his council are in complete agreement with those sentiments. When first the council heard the insulting words and threatening nature of that letter, they raged for hours. One of the 'suggestions' was to have off the head of the leader of the deputation, stuff the letter into his mouth, sew up the lips, and thus return it to Rome. And, when the word filtered out to the court, it was all that the High King could do to get those churchmen and their folk out of the capital alive and unharmed."

  "My sovereign lost no time in sending copies of the letter to all the kings and greater nobles of Ireland, since all were threatened equally by the terms of it. That was last autumn. Now, for the first time in the memory of any living man, all Ireland is at peace; moreover, all the kings have journeyed to Tara and there sworn most solemn oaths to support the High King in all his ventures against the Church or any other enemies of Ireland, to place their armies at his disposal, to abide by his decisions and to submit all disputes of any nature between kingdoms to his judgment." Foster whistled soundlessly. The stubborn independence and pugnacious factionality of the multitudinous Irish kinglets was proverbial in this world.

  "As was to be expected," said de Burgh, "the Church, throughout Ireland, began to refuse to sell priests' poudre, but the High King scotched that quickly enough. At his order, every Church poudre manufactory and warehouse was seized, as were a number of already-laden ships at various ports which were to bear available supplies of hallowed poudre out of Ireland."

  "And," his dark eyes sparkled with mirth, "my sovereign also has published an edict forbidding the exportation of any more than two pounds of silver, a half pound of gold, or any gems other than personal adornments until further notice, nor is any vessel other than smaller fishing boats to leave any port without an inspection by royal officers. Emulated by all the other kings, the High King has seized all the treasures and plate of the cathedral in Tara for safekeeping"—the wolfish grin flitted across his face—"until his differences with Rome be resolved."

  "Too, a goodly number of erstwhile churchmen have publicly announced their devotion and have given their oaths to the High King, and certain of them already are manufacturing poudre at Tara and other places."

  "Alia iacta est." said Earl Howell slowly and solemnly. "Robbery and defiance the Church might have forgiven if not forgotten, but unhallowed powder, never. I wonder which nation will next break the chains of Rome, now your king and ours have proved those fetters so fragile, for all their seeming strength."

  When first Foster clapped eyes upon de Burgh's vaunted Royal Tara Gallowglasses, as that squadron trotted into the camp near Manchester, followed by the long line of wagons and creaking wains burdened with their camp gear and supplies, he thought them to easily be the most villainous-looking crew of mounted troops he ever had seen for all their burnished armor, shining leatherware, and showy, colorful clothing and equipage.

  Not one single face he spied but was scarred at least in two or three places, and the scar-faced men were armed to the very teeth, the broad-bladed, black-hafted axes cased on the off side of their horses being only a beginning. The hilts of their heavy, cursive swords jutted from under the near-side thighs, braces of big-bore wheel-lock pistols were bolstered on pommels, and many of the men also carried pistols in their belts or in bootleg holsters; depending from the belts were short swords and at least one dirk or dagger. Those who did not have a round targe strapped on their backs were carrying a one- or two-barreled wheel-lock fusil slung there. All save the officers carried either lances or wide-bladed, knife-edged hunting spears, the shafts of the weapons gruesomely decorated with fluttering fringes of human scalps.

  After a fortnight in camp with them, Foster hoped he never would have to put civilized troops up against the gallowglasses. Sober, the Irishmen were irascible, hotheaded, and unfailingly pugnacious—in other words, murderous, since they never could be found without at least a short sword and dirk; drunk, they were a nightmare personified, for at the one minute they would be singing mournful songs of lost battles and errant loves whilst tears rolled down their seamed and stubbly cheeks and, in the blinking of an eye, they would be well about the carving up of any man in sight. That Elliot's wild Scots were terrified of the gallowglasses was, in Foster's mind, testament enough to their ferocity. And, belatedly, he knew just why King Arthur had left the decision of their employment to him.

  When summoned by Foster, de Burgh's attitude was nonchalant. "Ah, mein Herr Sebastian, the bouchals need but a few good fights to calm them down, an honest sack, a little rapine. True, they're a little rough round the edges, but they're good soldiers, none in all the world better, I trow."

  Foster grimaced. "I'd better not hear of them sacking or looting or raping, my lord Baron! The only occupied city left in this realm is London, and if I know the King, there'll assuredly be no sack whenever it does fall to us. But if it's fighting your barbarians need . . ."

  At his nod, two of his officers unrolled a map of the southern counties rendered upon thick parchment. Using the point of his dirk, Foster indicated the towns of Chard and Adminster and the port of Lynie. "I had thought that we had run to ground all the invaders, last year, but it would appear from reports forwarded to me that several troops' worth of Spaniards, traitorous Englishmen, and assorted foreign riffraff evaded my patrols. They're operating northeast from Chard, using it as an advance base for their predations, while being supplied from Spain via Lymeport."

  "They recently were reinforced and are now numbering something over five hundred heavy horse and perhaps twice that number of light cavalry, and they must be dislodged, exterminated; there cannot be harassment of the siege lines around London. Do you think a thousand or so S
paniards would be sufficient to scratch the itch of your gallowglasses, Baron de Burgh?"

  CHAPTER 14

  What came to be called the Battle of Bloody Rye was unquestionably the most sanguineous cavalry action in which Foster had ever had a part. Deliberately avoiding any save fleeting contact he had swung his hard-riding squadrons well west, to the rear of the eastward-faring Spanish force, to fall upon Chard—unsuspecting and ill-prepared for any defense—like the wrath of God; with that town and the adjacent camps blazing nicely, a forced, cross-country march brought his brigade onto Adminster far sooner than any had expected them, then it was on to Lyme.

  With the smoke of burning ships and buildings darkening the sky to their rear, Foster's horsemen met the vengeful Spaniards in planted fields, whose crops the traitors of Lyme would never again need.

  Predictably, the enemy center was composed of the Spanish heavy-armed horse, and also predictably, they lost the battle at its very inception through charging before the wings were prepared. Foster's six little field guns, which had accompanied his lightning operations on muleback, did yeoman service that day, wreaking gory lanes through the compressed mass of horse- and man-flesh until, when he felt the time was ripe, he ordered in de Burgh and Viscount Sir Henry Powys, commanding the Royal Tara Gallowglasses and the Cumberland Heavy Dragoons, respectively. His reserve, the North Wales Dragoons and the Lincolnshire Lancers, were then moved forward to fill the center of the English line.