Outpost in Time

by Sarah Woodbury

David laughed and felt the tension easing out of him. Then he sobered and shook his head. “If only they knew the truth.”

  “They do know the truth,” Dad said matter-of-factly. “That’s why they fear you. Most men either don’t know what is right and just do what they personally want, or they do know and do what they want anyway. It is just as Nicholas de Carew said years ago before King Edward’s death: nobody knows what to make of a man like you. And they are afraid of what they don’t understand. The idea of someone who doesn’t act in his own self-interest is so strange that you come off as unpredictable. You aren’t attending the conference yourself because you want the justiciars to be able to express themselves freely without feeling like you are looming over them. But it hasn’t worked. They see me not as a mediator but as your mouthpiece. You can’t escape your authority.”

  David laughed again, though this time it was mocking. “King Arthur: returned, worshiped, loathed, and resented all in the same breath. If I were they, I would resent me too. In fact, when we were in their shoes, we did.”

  “We won too,” Dad said.

  “Don’t I know it.” David shook his head. “I could walk away today if war wasn’t the inevitable result.”

  “If what your father says is true, then war is still the most probable result. The most reasonable proposal I’ve heard so far from the English side is to partition the country—” Callum broke off to laugh, “—and we know way better than they do how well that turned out.”

  “Meanwhile the Irish demand that the English give up their lands,” Dad added, “which is never going to happen.”

  Callum nodded. “Though they don’t know it, it’s a thousand-year-old argument.”

  Frustrated, David ran both hands through his hair, which was still wet from the rainy walk to the battlements. “Clearly, we need a Nelson Mandela solution, but he isn’t here to offer one up. You can see why I resisted the legend for so long. Being the return of Arthur—this Mac Ecra to the Irish—is not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  Dad sighed and pulled up the hood of his cloak. “As usual, I have no idea what you two are talking about, but I think this is where I come in.” He glanced at David. “I know why your predecessor preferred war to peace.”

  “Why?”

  “Less talking.”

  David laughed and sent his father on his way.

  Callum, however, didn’t go with him, instead moving closer and looking out over the landscape with David, towards Irish-controlled lands farther inland.

  “Before you do anything rash, I’d like to make a case, if I may.” From an inner pocket of his coat, Callum brought out a stoppered bottle and then two small cups. He set the cups on the stones of the crenel, poured red wine into each of them, and handed one to David.

  David accepted the wine, though he swirled it around in the cup without drinking. “What case is that?”

  “For the continuation of the monarchy.” Callum looked over the rim of his cup at David.

  David laughed under his breath. “Who said anything about abolishing the monarchy?”

  “You have, numerous times. If not in so many words, you’ve implied it. I think you’ve been thinking about it a great deal since we arrived.”

  David sighed. “You’re not wrong.” He gestured with the cup, indicating the world at large. “I would give anything not to be in this position.”

  “I would argue that there will always be somebody in this position, and there’s nobody I would rather have in it than you. There’s a place, even in a modern government, for a leader who stands outside the political process, who isn’t answerable to votes, and who can make decisions based on conscience. You have only to look at any modern political structure to see that something like that is needed … and you know as well as I do that right now in this world and in Avalon, democracy is not working.”

  “Democracy has always been messy—”

  “It isn’t working. It can’t work when the populace is uneducated and the entire process is being hijacked by powerful men who see openness and honesty as weakness. I don’t care which century they’re from.”

  David pressed his lips together, not wanting to argue, but feeling stubborn at the same time. “That’s easy for you to say, Callum. We’re the ones in power here.”

  Callum added gently, “At the very least, you have to acknowledge that Ireland isn’t England. Children don’t go to school. It’s every man for himself. Worse, many Irish don’t view their country as one entity, and Geneville is right when he says that without us, the Irish kings will descend into open war again—as they have for thousands of years.”

  “They would be governing themselves,” David said.

  “No—the most powerful and brutal would be governing everyone else. That might have been acceptable at one time, but are you going to turn your back on the fatherless children and the raped mothers and daughters that result? As king, you have the chance to make things better here.”

  “Should one man really have that much power?” David said.

  “He should if he’s you.”

  David drained his drink in one gulp. It was a seductive argument, but a dangerous one. “And if he isn’t me?”

  “The monarchy is bigger than one man. You can’t make a decision like this based on how you feel.”

  David laughed again. “I can, actually, since I am the king. That’s the problem. But just say, for argument, that I don’t disagree. I am the last person to make such a case, since I directly benefit from it—as do you. Us being here in Ireland is no different from when Edward tried to conquer Wales.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Wales had your father, and he kept order among his barons. Ireland has no such leader.”

  “They had high kings up until 1169,” David said.

  Callum scoffed. “I’ve been reading up. I know you have too. Murtach MacLaughlan, despite swearing an oath of truce to the Bishop of Armagh, had the King of Ulster blinded. Murtach was killed by Rory O’Conner, whose entire career consisted of burning and pillaging the lands of other Irish chieftains. The O’Neills and the O’Briens were no better.”

  David couldn’t pretend he didn’t see what Callum was getting at. “I have no Irish blood.”

  Callum made a pfft sound of disgust. “Don’t give me that. Through your father, you are descended from the great High King, Brian Boru, not to say Murtagh Mac Ecra. You couldn’t have a greater claim if you tried.”

  “The people don’t want me. I can’t waltz in here as the savior and expect everyone to fall at my feet.”

  “A few powerful barons don’t want you. The Burghs, Butlers, and Fitzgeralds are fully supportive. And, as I said, the common people love you. King Arthur was Irish. You should have learned that by now.” He accompanied this last statement with a wink.

  David was officially annoyed. Callum had systematically picked away at his finely conceived thesis. “You sound just like my father.”

  “That’s because your father’s right.”

  Chapter Three

  Drogheda

  James

  James glanced towards the town’s battlements, wishing he could see beneath the covering roofs to the guards inside. More than any place James had ever lived, and that included Scotland, Ireland was a land of war. Town and castle defenses were maintained daily. A castle was kitted out properly or it fell. Except for short sections, each length of battlement was covered, so attackers couldn’t see how many men defended, and crossbowmen or archers (if present) were protected from missiles fired from the ground. And from the rain.

  He thought again about Christopher’s suggestions and, to his own surprise, decided to take one of them and simply enter the town through Drogheda’s east gatehouse, the Great East Gate, one of ten such entrances into the city. As the brother-in-law to the Earl of Ulster, he had every right to be here. Still, in their approach to the gate, James and Robbie endeavored to keep to the trees and drew their cloaks closely around themselves. They were riding horses,
however, so there was no mistaking that they were men of worth, and the guards could see their swords along their left sides. In some parts of Ireland, men could be cut down for less.

  Even if he couldn’t see them, he felt the eyes of the garrison on him and Robbie. From now until they left the town, they would be vulnerable to attack or arrest. The town would have crossbowmen within their ranks, and James’s only consolation was that archery itself was not practiced here with the same dedication as in Wales—and now England, thanks to David. They shouldn’t have Huw’s equivalent up there.

  None of the lords who’d crossed the Irish Sea with King David had brought more than a handful of retainers with them, and the contingent of two hundred Welsh archers without whom David never traveled had been left behind in Dublin with the ships. David wasn’t here to conquer anyone. He was here to talk, and he had been very careful from the start to ensure that that was the message he was sending.

  In addition, David had been deeply wounded by Gilbert de Clare’s betrayal. As a result, most of the soldiers serving David were, in fact, Llywelyn’s. David had lost Justin, his captain and companion, to Clare’s treason, along with a host of other loyal men, and though he continued to move about England with a full complement of guards, he hadn’t yet rebuilt his teulu.

  While James should have brought his ten men from Trim, he’d left them to augment the force under Callum’s command. He hadn’t done so at Callum’s request, but rather because James had seen the concern, not to say fear, in Callum’s eyes when he spoke of the castle’s security. There were too many lords at Trim who’d spent too many years at each other’s throats not to fear for the safety of the king in such a company.

  “Whose side will Gilles come down on?” Robbie said.

  “Mine.” James was glad that Robbie had chosen that moment to talk. It made them look more natural. “But she’s also going to want to choose the side that will allow her to continue to live in Ireland and allow her brother to keep his lands.” He was sure of that if he was sure of anything.

  Although he was only thirty-four years old, James had already lost two wives before marrying Gilles, which had turned out to be by far the best decision of his life. She was smart and capable—and utterly lovely with her thick auburn hair, wide hazel eyes, and white skin. She was also the sister of Richard de Burgh, the Earl of Ulster, who was one of the most powerful lords in Ireland. Her Irish looks had come from her grandmother, who’d been an O’Brien and the daughter of the King of Thomond.

  As the guard bowed and admitted them to the town of Drogheda, James acknowledged to himself that his vested interest in the governance of Ireland was well on the way to causing him something of a problem. Even now, with Red Comyn meeting with John de Tuyt, James found himself torn by his competing interests: a desire to remain in Ireland—one shared by all the other English barons; hatred of the Comyns and the impulse to act in every way directly opposite to them; and loyalty to David. The last was, on the surface, an absurd position for a Scottish nobleman to be in. By rights, James should have no obligations to David at all. Scotland owed nothing to England’s king and, while Gilles had been born into an Anglo-Norman-Irish family, when she’d married him, she’d become a Scot.

  But, by God, he loved Ireland. He hadn’t expected to. Up until they’d spied Comyn’s ships, today had been a great day for the simple chance of exploring the country unencumbered by his normally weighty responsibilities.

  While Scotland was beautiful, and he knew every rock and tree of Strathgryffe, the Stewart ancestral lands in lowland Scotland, every morning that he woke to breathe Irish air was a good morning. He was glad that peace had come to Scotland, but he could have lived without it. Ireland, on the other hand, was a gem in the middle of the sea, and he hated to see one blade of grass trampled by the marching feet of fighting men.

  But he knew, regardless of what he’d said to the others about not jumping to conclusions, that the presence of Red Comyn at Drogheda’s dock meant the country was about to be torn apart again. He could not countenance that, not now that he had a son of his own, born late last year, to think of.

  And it was that knowledge that had James suddenly straightening his shoulders and urging his horse directly towards the bridge across the Boyne. He ignored Robbie’s whoop of surprise and kept going. Robbie expected James to always pursue the most conservative action while Robbie argued for the opposite. The whole world knew that nobody was more measured in his thoughts and actions than James Stewart. And yet, ignoring the startled shouts from the townspeople he passed, he cantered the last yards to the river gate and then across the bridge.

  Comyn and Tuyt saw him coming, of course, and their soldiers spread out by instinct, though it was absurd to think that two men, no matter how well armed, were any kind of threat. Whether because John de Tuyt recognized this fact or simply because James and Robbie were known to him, by the time James was halfway across the bridge, Tuyt had waved a hand to tell his men to stand down.

  Once in the middle of the bridge, James tried to get a better look at Comyn’s ships, which had docked downstream of Drogheda’s armada of river boats. Unlike Red’s seagoing vessels, these were flat-bottomed in order to navigate the fords along the Boyne River, which was navigable all the way to Trim Castle, twenty-five miles upstream.

  Established at a narrow section of the Boyne River, Drogheda’s location allowed the town to exact a tax on any vessels small enough to fit under the bridge, while the goods from ships like Comyn’s, which couldn’t sail upriver (because of the bridge and the shallow riverbed), would have to be transferred to boats rented from the town. All in all, it was a very profitable scheme for Geoffrey de Geneville, the overlord of these lands.

  James trotted his horse the last yards to the far bank of the Boyne and then slowed to a walk before reining in near Comyn and Tuyt. The gray stone castle loomed behind them on its motte. As on the other side of the river, the town walls ran all the way down to the riverbank, enclosing an area three hundred yards wide east-to-west and twice that distance from the Boyne south. Down by the river, the wind blew less strongly, and thus the rain wasn’t quite as forceful as it had been on the hill to the north of the town. Still, James waited until the last moment to push back his hood.

  If Tuyt had recognized James from a distance, he hadn’t said anything to Comyn, because Red startled—and then glowered at James. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  Comyn’s eyes went past James to Robbie, who was just reining in. The young man’s eyes were alight, but he kept his mouth shut, for which James was grateful. James was the Steward of Scotland, but Robbie was the heir to an earldom and the descendant of the great King David of Scotland. The fact that he was currently James’s squire said nothing at all about his pride or self-restraint. Or his ability to curb his emotions.

  “I have come to inspect my wife’s lands in Ireland.” Comyn’s father-in-law was William de Valence, who had been executed five years ago after attempting to overthrow David. William had bestowed his Irish lands on his daughter before his death, which meant that David hadn’t confiscated them, and Red was within his rights to inspect them.

  In point of fact, however, William de Valence had been a great deal more than just a rebel baron, having been an uncle and close confidant to King Edward and one of the most powerful men in England—before his actions had compelled David to bring him down. That should have been a lesson to Comyn—and to every baron who sought to go against the King of England. But Comyn wouldn’t be the first baron who’d learned the wrong lesson from Valence’s downfall. For some men, rather than realizing that a man went against David at his peril, he instead saw the flaws in Valence’s machinations and told himself that not only was his strategy far better, but that he was cleverer than Valence and would succeed where Valence had failed.

  James had no doubt that Comyn believed himself to be such a man. “For that you need five hundred men? You brought an army t
o Ireland, Red.”

  “I am a loyal subject of the Lord of Ireland,” Comyn said. “You have no cause to doubt me.”

  James rubbed his chin as he looked at his old enemy. A little over a year ago at Christmastime, Comyn had allied with his brother-in-law, Aymer de Valence, to orchestrate the murder of an ambassador from France. By sheer chance, James had been in attendance, thinking to speak to David regarding other matters and riding with the ambassador out of convenience. Instead, he’d found himself a prisoner. He’d been rescued by Callum, David’s right-hand man and the Earl of Shrewsbury. In the aftermath of being caught, Red Comyn had professed regret at what he’d done.

  David had forgiven him, hoping he was genuinely penitent. It seemed Red hadn’t been, or at least he wasn’t now. The king had thrown Aymer in prison, though he was free now too by the hand of Gilbert de Clare, who nine months ago had been one of those men who thought he was smarter than everybody else and had made a play for the crown. In the aftermath of Clare’s defeat and death, nobody knew for certain where Aymer had gone, though James suspected that he’d found a haven in his sister’s house in Scotland. Or maybe in her lands in Ireland. With Comyn looking at him now, backed by a fleet of vessels packed with men and horses, the latter case seemed likely.

  And very dangerous.

  With that thought, James laughed inwardly at the way he’d questioned his loyalty to David a moment ago. Not only did he owe David for his life but, so far, everybody who’d gone against the king had failed utterly. Who was James Stewart to doubt? “Wexford is far to the south. What are you doing here?”

  “The winds blew us off course. You know how temperamental the Irish Sea can be. I hope to rest and resupply here, and then we will sail south in the morning.” Comyn had an answer for everything.

  “See that you do.” Abruptly, James turned his horse, jerked his chin at Robbie, and headed back the way he’d come. Their horses’ hooves thudded on the wooden bridge, a match to James’s pounding heart. With each stride of his horse, James feared to find a bolt between his shoulder blades. But even Comyn didn’t have the temerity to direct his crossbowmen to shoot. He might be plotting treason, but if so, killing James and Robbie in cold blood was not the way to begin.