From the center Irish tent, Art looked out toward Richard’s camp, watching the snow fall. It had been an unusually harsh winter, blown in on the east wind, just like the English. He longed for spring, for this all to be over. Turning to the table, he picked up the negotiated comairce agreement and skimmed the pledge of fealty once again. A group of English and Irish scriveners waited, along with his youngest brother, the twelve-year-old Dermod. Gods, Art thought, Richard loves his flowery language. At any other occasion, uttering these words would make him the laughingstock of Tara, but he would say them now. With Aisling gone there was no standing against the English archers, and so the only alternative to surrender was death, his and his remaining fighters’—a noble death but a useless one, he reasoned. He read further down the document to confirm the compensation he would receive for being Richard’s lapdog: eighty pounds of silver per year and forty-three thousand acres south of Kildare, comprising the newly delineated barony of Norragh; his request for an earldom had been soundly rejected.
Grabbing the offered goose-pinion pen, dunking it in ink, and leaving a trail of black drops from the well, Art scrawled his name on the parchment and threw the pen on the ground. His personal scrivener applied the Irish royal wax seal. The Irish captain of the guard stepped outside the tent and sounded his horn. Art stared down at the agreement he had signed, then turned and strode out across the fresh snow. His brother trailed a few feet behind, creating a second set of tracks. An English scrivener gathered up the document and trotted after them.
As they approached, Richard emerged from the most elaborately decorated tent, followed by his retinue. Art stopped in front of a green-and-white-striped canopy, just large enough to cover the small table and the large chair under it. Richard paused, looking annoyed, as one of his pages rushed forward and brushed a trace of stray snow from the chair, then sat down. Behind him stood de Vere, as well as the now-ex-kings Murchada of Leinster and Niall of Ulster, who had already finalized their comairce agreements. Queen Gormflaith of Munster was dead, as was, it was presumed, King Turlough of Meath, though no body had been found. Only the young Queen Mael of Connacht still held out, her forces continuing to fight the Fomorians, who were striking inland from the west coast. In some ways Art envied Mael, who was still in the fight; in other ways he did not. The Fomorians were not known to accept surrender.
Nottingham took the agreement from the scrivener, checked the signature, then held it toward Art. “Kneel and read the pledge.”
Art batted it away. “As if I’ll ever forget what I must swear to today.” Art dropped to his knees in the snow, grateful that at least it was not red, bowed his head, and spoke in a loud, clear voice. “I, Art MacMurrough, pledge my fealty to my most excellent lord, His Royal Majesty Richard the Second, true divine king of all England, Wales, and Ireland, to his successors, and to whomever they are pleased to appoint as their Crown representatives in Ireland. I am filled with joy to drink at the fountainhead of royal justice. I pledge obedience to Crown laws, compliance with Crown decrees, and I pledge to come when summoned, all this without complaint, and bind all my issue as well as all men who are subject to my will to do the same. I will collect the Crown’s taxes and submit them without offset. As my king’s faithful liegeman, I will aid him in all fights against his worldly enemies, and I do bind my liegemen to do the same, even to death. I seal this pledge with my property, my lands, my life, and the life of my brother Dermod, whom I love dearly and give as hostage.”
Nottingham cried out, “Let it be so transcribed on the memoranda roll of the Exchequer!”
Contrary to the instructions he had received, Art raised his head and watched as Richard leisurely signed the document and the chamberlain applied the privy seal.
“Thanks to the Lord for such pleasant news,” said Richard. “Baron Art MacMurrough, We welcome you into Our Royal protection, the glow of Our mercy. As Our vassal—oh, Nottingham, add ‘vassal’ to that pledge when it is recorded—as Our vassal, We are sure your only desire now is to obediently watch over Our interests.”
Richard walked around to Art, extended a hand, and pulled Art to his feet. “Rise. Come join Us in a feast in your honor.” Richard made a sweeping gesture toward the long tent to his right.
. . . . .
Three hours later Richard sat in the middle of his English lords on a raised dais watching the surviving ex-kings of Ireland grow increasingly drunk and loud, none more so than Art. The Irish high lords’ dais sat perpendicular to Richard’s, at half the height. Tables were set on the ground around it for guild heads and minor lords, now even more minor than they were before.
I hold the Irish queens above the kings, Richard thought, picking at the roast beef in front of him. Neither had surrendered. One queen died in battle, the other, if not dead already, would be soon. He leaned over to de Vere. “It would have been so much more fun to have executed the kings. We loved that blood-eagle thing.”
“Let’s do that, then. Shall I call the guards?”
“No, unfortunately, We do not have enough loyal English lords willing to stay in Ireland, so We need these Irish chieftains to help keep Our peace. The secret will be for you to find ways to encourage them to hold one another in check so none becomes too strong again.”
“Me? Am I not coming home with you?”
Richard gripped de Vere’s knee under the table. “My sweet man, We could never let anything bad happen to you, yet your enemies in court have rallied during Our absence. There is even a rumor being spread that you died of some foul disease already. We are told that a plot is in the making to have you assassinated on the journey home. You must stay here with members of Our most trusted Cheshire guard.”
De Vere turned away from Richard, drained his goblet, and refilled it. When he turned back to Richard, his eyes had grown moist. “What shall I do here without you?”
“You must help young Mortimer. While We are appointing him as lord lieutenant for Ireland, he is in truth too inexperienced. You must advise him, teach him how to handle such as these.” Richard inclined his head toward the Irish lords, who had broken into some kind of song.
“If I must stay here, why are you not making me lord lieutenant?” De Vere drained another goblet.
Richard slid his hand along de Vere’s thigh. “Because We will be bringing you back to Us soon, as soon as We have ferreted out and dealt with those that would do you harm.”
“As Your Royal Majesty commands.” De Vere drummed his fingers on the table. “What of the Sidhe? They expect you to turn over Ireland to them. Kellach is already furious with you for not killing Art and the others. Yesterday he took his Sidhe followers and disappeared. God only knows what he is up to.”
“So We were informed. It will not matter. The legate has sent word that the Vatican is providing a replacement for their wayward marshal, someone of higher rank. The Sidhe are the Vatican’s responsibility now, not Ours.”
“Well and good, but he’d better arrive soon to protect Your Royal Person, and mine, from the sorcery of these creatures.”
A platter stacked with roast pigeons crashed from the hands of a page, sparking a fight with the drunken squire who had tripped him. Several Celts, whose station did not merit a seat on the dais, threw food in appreciation of the brawl.
“How long do we need to stay?” asked de Vere.
“Until We see which of the Irish chiefs passes out first. Make a wager with Us.”
. . . . .
Twilight was settling over Dublin quay. A dozen Viking guards huddled around a glowing brazier at one end, anxiously talking among themselves while watching the Fomorians at the other end tear apart the body of a Celtic prisoner, the nightly offering. Their snarling came to a sudden stop. Still and quiet, the Fomorians looked toward the sea. One barked a command. Although unintelligible to the Vikings, it carried a clear tone of fear, and the creatures slipped into the water, leaving much of their victim b
ehind. A ship’s bell sounded.
The Vikings took up their shields and spread out along the quay, though not too close to the bloody pile of flesh and bone. A war galley emerged from the gloom, its rowers straining in their stations. The Vatican flag flew from the ship’s mast, its linen sail furled and its prow dominated by the figurehead of an angel holding a flaming sword. Bolted to each side of the bow was a large medallion on which the initials VRS glowed with an unnatural light. In the forecastle stood black-robed and -hooded figures. The Viking closest to the entrance of the quay shouted, “Treat them as royalty if you wish to keep your newly won soul!” Then he sprinted toward Dublin Castle.
IN THE FOREST west of Dublin, a towering oak spread its bare winter branches above all others of its kind. Its name was Gormghiolla, “the Gray Servant,” though the memory of how it became so designated was long lost to the Skeaghshee.
Kellach woke with a jolt shooting through his body as if he were falling. The oak remained in its deep winter sleep, safely cradling him in an upper bough. Kellach felt exhausted and angry: he had fallen asleep angry, and his troubled dreams had not helped, dreams of shadowy creatures pursing him, creatures with axes for arms.
Resting one hand on the trunk, Kellach pushed himself up to face the sunrise breaking through the last trace of the snow clouds that had finally exhausted themselves. The life-giving light on his skin chased away the lingering dreams. In the trees around him, he could see his Skeaghshee warriors awakening and knew they would be doing so throughout the forest, raising their arms and giving thanks to the sun and the earth for, first, the trees and, second, for him, their liberator, their king. As the drone of their ritual chant reached him, he could feel their gratitude, their loyalty. It gave him strength.
Wichtlein, difficult Sidhe to lead but savage fighters when it suited them, dotted the ground, still asleep. They were creatures of the night when left to their own devices. Kellach called down to their general, or at least the one he had appointed as their general, and saw him stir toward wakefulness. Savage fighters yes, but vehement fleers as well. It seemed they had only those two modes, Kellach thought. I just need to keep working them up into a blood frenzy. Today I will gather them all together and inform them that the English who were their allies are now their enemies.
The Christian English are impotent, Kellach thought, laughing to himself. They have no true power. He had already sent his Grogoch and Dryads into the Middle Kingdom to call the other clans back from their travels. It was time for Ireland to once again be exclusively the domain of the Sidhe. Now that the Celts were defeated and the Morrígna vanquished, it would be easy to drive out the deceitful English. I could do it with the warriors I have, Kellach thought, though it would be best to lead an army composed of all the Sidhe clans, as it will solidify my position as their new high king.
Kellach jumped down to a lower branch, only to find he was still standing on the same one. He smiled at his misstep, leaped again. He did not leave the original branch. Stretching his leg out, he felt resistance. He tried simply stepping off into the air but immediately slid back onto his branch.
“My king!” shouted a neighboring Skeaghshee. “I cannot leave this tree!”
“Nor can I!” shouted another. Commotion spread throughout the forest.
Kellach closed his eyes, blocked out the noise, and began a counter-enchantment.
Six hours later, sweating and drained from the effort, he was still unable to negate whatever force was holding him in the tree. The surrounding Skeaghshee watched him, waiting. A new commotion rose from the east, heading his way. Several Wichtlein rushed into view, darted past, and kept going. The Wichtlein around his tree held out their javelins and raised their small shields. The pounding of hoofbeats approached. Arrows flew. Wichtlein began to fall. His general glanced up at Kellach and then ordered his remaining forces to retreat, which they did with enthusiasm. English mounted archers galloped by in pursuit. Half a dozen members of the VRS League rode up in their black-cowled robes and stopped. Behind them rode more peasants than he could count from his perch. Not peasants, realized Kellach. Worse. They were woodsmen, glinting axes strapped to their horses. Empty wagons rolled up.
Orsini dismounted beneath the giant oak and gazed up at him. “You must be Kellach, king of the Skeaghshee and, so I hear, new high king of all Sidhe, though I am not sure they all know that.”
“What have you done?” hissed Kellach.
“Impressive work, is it not?” Orsini glanced around at the trees full of Skeaghshee. “You will discover that you and I did this together.”
“You cannot keep me here. No human can maintain an enchantment of this magnitude for long. Then I will kill you.”
“I simply— Well, it was not that simple, but I did bind you into that tree. Now that it is done, you will stay bound unless I undo it. Do not worry yourself. It requires no further effort from me.”
“I do not believe you. You would have had to know my true name to have such power over me.”
One of Orsini’s brothers handed him a small ivory box. He opened it, revealing a single, grossly enlarged eye. “Your friend the Fomorian high king made the mistake of believing me when I told him I had the power to put it back in his head if he would only reveal your true name.”
Fear struck Kellach’s heart and exploded into terror. “I am a much more powerful ally,” he pleaded. “I will give you the Fomorian’s true name.”
“His true name is of no use to me now, or to him.” Orsini dumped the eye onto the ground, flicked it away with his foot.
Kellach tried to hurl an enchantment at Orsini, but it faded away in the branches.
“It would not be much use to bind a Sidhe, just like binding a demon if they could still spit out enchantments. Nothing of yours can leave this tree that you love,” said Orsini, stroking Gormghiolla’s grand trunk. “The real joy of this exorcism, the part that I was not sure would work, was binding your compatriots. But it did work. That is where you were of such help.” Orsini spread his arms wide, spun around. “You bound them to you with their oaths to you. As long as you are bound into your tree, and as long as you are alive, they, too, are bound into theirs. They will die with their trees.”
Orsini’s spin caused the robe to ride up his arms, revealing small dark stains under his skin. Orsini quickly pulled down his sleeves.
“My followers will rescue me!” Kellach’s voice rose to a scream. “You cannot cut down all the trees!”
“Ah, but you will learn that we can. You are going to feel each one, I am afraid. The forests of Ireland have been sold to the shipwrights and coopers of England.” He patted the giant tree. “Yes, when your time to die comes, this will make many fine barrels.” Orsini turned to his brothers and said, “Have a stockade built around this tree and make sure it is not cut down until all the other Skeaghshee are dead. Use the trees around here. It is a good place to start.”
Orders were shouted. The woodsmen dismounted and began to unstrap their axes.
26
Then certain of the vagabond Jews, exorcists, took upon them to call over them which had evil spirits the name of the Lord Jesus, saying, We adjure you by Jesus whom Paul preacheth. And there were seven sons of one Sceva, a Jew, and chief of the priests, which did so. And the evil spirit answered and said, Jesus I know, and Paul I know; but who are ye? And the man in whom the evil spirit was leaped on them, and overcame them, and prevailed against them, so that they fled out of that house naked and wounded.
—Acts 19:13–16, King James Version
Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.
—1 Peter 5:8, King James Version
Galway, Ireland
Two Months Later
On the west coast of Ireland, the kingdom of Connacht crawls from the Atlantic Ocean with craggy bays giving way to thousands of dark
lakes, called loughs by the Celts, woven together with rocky streams, punctuated with bogs and low, gray, stony mountains. The soggy westerly half of this kingdom is divided from the rest by a chain of giant loughs that snake from its capital, Galway, to the northern sea: Lough Corrib, Mask, Curra, Cullen, and Conn. It was this rough west land that Kellach had promised the Fomorians, and while the other four kingdoms were busy fighting Richard, they took it. Now, with the Fomorian high king dead, they fractured into tribalism, with petty chiefs fighting each other over every lough and bog, pausing only to pursue their greatest love, killing Celts.
Queen Mael had quickly grown to look older than her years. She returned to Galway every day with blood on her sword and fewer warriors than she had when she left. One morning she rode out at the head of a relief column for the besieged Renvyle Castle, which her only son was trying to hold against the Fomorians, and she did not return. No one returned. The people of Galway retreated behind their city walls and waited for whatever end their Gods decreed. And so when Nottingham’s army rode up in a March sleet storm, the surviving townspeople did not know whether they were opening their gate to their salvation or their final doom. When a long line of wagons followed the soldiers inside, each driven by a black-cowled exorcist, they suspected the latter.
Orsini climbed down from the lead wagon, snatched a rag from his pocket, and coughed, staining the cloth with flecks of black. He tucked it away. “Take me to the queen’s chambers. I shall rest there,” he ordered the town’s bailiff, who was kneeling in the mud before him. That evening orders were issued to the townspeople to strip the great hall of all furniture and build a dividing wall in the middle by morning. There were plenty of newly empty houses to tear down for construction materials, and the wall was completed on time.
At noon the next day, the sleet had given way to rain, and Orsini and Nottingham entered the great hall, now split in two, and wiped the mud from their boots. Several hundred barrels stood end up on the flagstone floor, their lids removed. Behind them the makeshift wall rose to the timber roof. In front of the barrels waited the members of the VRS League. One brought forward a large Bible and held it for Orsini. The rest dropped to their knees.
The Last Days of Magic Page 33