Outpost in Time

by Sarah Woodbury

  Callum scratched the back of his head, not answering and not knowing what to say. He supposed there was no point in arguing with the young man, since whether or not Cusack was involved changed nothing about their immediate future. The truth would come out in time. Maybe it was just as well that Callum wouldn’t be the one to tell it.

  As they passed under Dublin Castle’s stone gatehouse, Callum gave David the rundown on what Tom had just told him.

  Rather than showing consternation, however, David’s expression lightened. “Really? That’s excellent.”

  “What could be excellent about Valence and MacMurrough marching to Dublin?”

  Already on a high from the greeting the people of Dublin had given him, David responded with a smile, and laughter bubbled up in his throat. “My mom always talks about how the English, wherever they went in the world, pursued an overt policy of divide and conquer. They won Ireland initially by exploiting the already established animosities among Irish chieftains. But our enemies are dividing themselves up before we even meet them.”

  “You think that Cusack is already separating himself from Valence and MacMurrough?” Callum said.

  “What else could Tom’s message mean?”

  “What is Comyn going to think about that?”

  “Maybe he’s in on it. You have to admit that Valence has proved himself to be something of a liability in recent years.” David tipped his head. “Then again, maybe Comyn doesn’t know.”

  Callum grimaced. “Falkes would have fought anyway.”

  “Yes, but this way, after Falkes takes care of MacMurrough and Valence, he will then send men to help Cusack.”

  Disgust rose in Callum’s throat. “It’s a diabolical plan.”

  “Yeah.” David grunted. “It may be, however, that what Cusack is doing now wasn’t the original plan. You killed Richard de Feypo, the highest ranking of Geoffrey de Geneville’s vassals. Cusack wasn’t at Trim because he was of lower rank, but if he’s stepping into the breach you made, Callum, he may be making this up as he goes along.”

  “I don’t disagree, but I’m still not sure why you’re so happy about it.”

  David grinned. “I’m going to get Valence and MacMurrough to fight for me!”

  “You’re going to—” Callum broke off, completely incapable of finishing his sentence at the audacity of what David was proposing. He cleared his throat, determined to bring David back to earth. “How?”

  But David had been distracted by the arrival of Falkes, who’d been given enough warning that David was on his way to be in the bailey of Dublin Castle to greet him, Darren Jeffries at his side. David dismounted and strode forward to embrace Falkes as he came out of his bow.

  “Great to see you!” David pounded the older man on the back. Then he greeted Jeffries with another hug, which Jeffries accepted, accustomed to David’s American enthusiasm. “Come on. We have some serious planning to do.”

  In his middle forties, Falkes was as fit as when Callum had met him nearly five years before. He wasn’t very tall—a good six inches shorter than David—but he was well-muscled, with a military bearing that was so ingrained he probably slept flat on his back so he wouldn’t have to bend his spine. His hair had turned steel gray, but his blue eyes were as intelligent as ever. “Of course, my lord. What are we planning?”

  “I need you to collect for me a company of men under the flag of peace, and I need this man—” he turned to point to Tom, whose face went blank with shock to be singled out by the king, “—under guard and protected.”

  “Me, my lord?” Tom said.

  “You.” David’s eyes were bright. “In the morning, you and Lord Callum are going to ride to Valence’s lines and tell them everything you told us.”

  Callum barked a laugh. “You have far more faith in my negotiating skills than I do, my lord.”

  David switched to straight American English. “It is unlike you to sell yourself short. You turned a war in Scotland into peace that has lasted until now. It gave me breathing room that I desperately needed. I know you think trusting Aymer de Valence to do anything good is dangerous, not to say foolhardy, but we need more men, and I don’t have a lot of time to find them.”

  “You don’t think the people will come?”

  “I think many will come, but we have all Ireland to win, and Valence and MacMurrough will be leading an army that I’d rather have on my side than fighting against me. Valence wants his lands and his honor back. Only I can give them to him. He will hate me for it, and he will plot against me in the future, but he knows as well as I do that the plotting will succeed only if he is campaigning from a position of strength.”

  Callum nodded, though with extreme reluctance. “You’re hoping that he will choose an unsavory alliance with you over being stabbed in the back by Cusack and his cronies.” He pursed his lips. “What if he turns around and stabs you in the middle of battle?”

  “First he has to ally with us,” David said.

  Callum took a step closer, lowering his voice. “What about Comyn? Are you hoping that Valence will bring him to your side? I’m stunned that they’re working together again at all, seeing as how Red turned on him back in Whittington.”

  “As I said, maybe they’re not. But they are brothers-in-law and power-hungry. I’d be offering Red the same deal if he were here, but I think Feypo lured him to Ireland with the promise of the High Kingship if they win. He won’t give up that chance easily.”

  “That’s what the Irish promised Edward Bruce twenty years from now in Avalon,” Callum said.

  “Yup.” David lifted one shoulder. “I was just talking to my mom, right before all hell broke loose, about how this world has diverged from Avalon’s history. But I’ve also been thinking as this day has unfolded how the more things change, the more they stay the same.”

  Callum rubbed his chin. “It’s still a crazy idea, but I will do my best.”

  David clapped Callum on the shoulder. “Bring ‘em in, Callum. If anyone can do it, you can.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Roscommon Castle

  Aine

  “I have to protect my people,” Hugh said.

  Christopher leaned forward. “I know you do. But fighting for King David is the best way to do that.”

  The messenger who’d brought word of the gathering at Tara was eating in the hall below them. They’d gone over his message a dozen times already. In Aine’s opinion, Christopher’s conclusion remained the correct one. It was also a huge relief to know for certain that David lived. Even better, he had a plan. The fact that he claimed the High Kingship for himself had set Hugh back a pace at first, but he hadn’t dismissed Christopher and Aine. Even more, the arrival of the messenger had confirmed that everything Christopher had so far told him was true.

  Still, Hugh’s eyes narrowed to thin blue slits. “You’re asking me to risk everything on a man I do not know—a man who has never set foot in Ireland before this month.”

  “He would have come sooner, but he’s been busy,” Christopher said, pushing back. “And since he’s been here, you have to give him points for trying.”

  Hugh held his gaze for a moment, and then he barked a laugh. “I grant you that, and I admit that one of the reasons he is in this position now is because he did not come here with an army. While I felt that the conference at Trim was misguided, no king of England has ever before tried to bring a peace to Ireland that included the Irish.”

  “That’s why you must help him,” Christopher said, back to his former urgency. “Your army is wasted here. Nobody is coming to relieve a siege, and by the time you either win out here or whoever comes against you gets sick or gives up, all of Ireland could be lost, and then you will lose your lands anyway.”

  “It’s Thomas de Clare and Auliffe O’Rourke!” Breathless, with a hand to his chest, a young man leaned against the doorframe. Dark-haired and blue-eyed, he was a younger and smaller version of Hugh. He was also soaked from the top of his head to his muddy b
oots and was shedding water from his cloak on the threshold. Unless he’d gone for a swim in the lake, Aine could only conclude that the rain had started again.

  Hugh rose slowly to his feet. “You are sure, Felimid?”

  “I led the scouting party.”

  “How many?” Hugh said.

  “Hundreds. Ten times what we have here.”

  Then Hugh waved Felimid forward and introduced him to Christopher and Aine as his son. Christopher stood and held out his hand, no longer denying—or even blinking twice—at being introduced over and over again as the Hero of Westminster. Aine canted her head as Felimid bowed over her hand and said, “Word of your beauty preceded you, though rumor didn’t do you justice.”

  Aine couldn’t help but smile at the flattery, and she could have said the same thing about him. She’d known of Felimid, of course, since he was the son of the King of Connaught and just her age, but had never met him before.

  Christopher rolled his eyes, though only so Aine could see, prompting her to turn back to Hugh. “If Clare is here, it’s because either he’s already taken Thomond, or he’s been told to keep you occupied until such a time as you are isolated and his allies have grown too powerful for you to fight. Otherwise, he would be sitting at Thomond, gloating over his victory. With Turlough O’Brien dead in Trim’s hall, the O’Briens have no leader.”

  “Likely, it’s his job to hold the west.” Hugh sat heavily in his chair, with an elbow on the arm and a finger to his lips. “These are the same men who burned Drumconrath?”

  “Yes,” Aine said.

  Hugh flicked out two of his fingers to Christopher. “I will hear what you propose.”

  Aine drew in a breath. During a lull while Hugh had been seeing to the messenger, Christopher had shared his idea with her in full, and it was breathtaking in its audacity. Maybe that made it no good, but if he said nothing and the king sat here, Ireland would be lost.

  “I propose something of a reverse Trojan Horse,” Christopher said.

  Hugh leaned forward, showing real interest. “How so? The Trojan Horse allowed Troy’s enemy to take the city from the inside.”

  “That’s why I suggest a reverse of one. We leave now—all of us, all of your men, but a small handful. When Clare’s men knock on the door tomorrow morning, your men surrender the castle on the condition of their own freedom.”

  Felimid was aghast. “You’re asking my father to give up his castle. Do you think him a fool? Nobody would do that.”

  “A player would in a game of chess,” Aine said.

  “This isn’t chess,” Felimid shot back.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Christopher said.

  Hugh motioned to his son to desist. “Hear him out.” Then he nodded to Christopher. “Go on.”

  “Your men will say that you aren’t in residence and that you made the mistake of leaving a small garrison. The man who surrenders needs to be convincing, even to the point of making a case for his own advancement.”

  “Pretend to be a traitor, you mean?” Felimid’s expression remained fierce. “Again, why would he?”

  Christopher kept his focus on Hugh. “He can tell Clare that he knows of Trim, thanks to the monks spreading the news across Ireland. If Clare doesn’t already know of David’s plan, he can tell him. That will infect Clare and O’Rourke with a sense of urgency and make them more likely to accept the surrender.”

  “Clare would suspect a trick,” Hugh said.

  “Why would he?” Christopher said. “As Felimid said, only a fool would give up his castle.”

  “At that point, only a fool wouldn’t accept the bargain, and Clare isn’t a fool,” Aine said, remembering his coolness in her father’s hall. “He will be jubilant that he took the castle without a fight.”

  Hugh studied them both, his eyes going from Christopher to Aine and back again. “What happens next? I’ve just given up my castle to Clare and O’Rourke. Where’s the Trojan Horse?”

  “I propose that you leave a half-dozen men—more or less, depending on how you can make this work—hidden somewhere in the castle, somewhere nobody is going to look. Then, tomorrow night, after the enemy is drunk on your stores of beer and wine, they come out and open the gates for your army. You take your castle back with the added bonus of eliminating the army that took it.”

  Hugh and his son stared at Christopher. Aine didn’t know at first if they were overcome by his audacity (as she was), or horrified at the foolishness of his plan (as she also was). Then Hugh visibly swallowed. “The castle is the Trojan Horse.”

  “Yes, sir,” Christopher canted his head, “or your beer.”

  Hugh guffawed. “I will see that it is not watered down.”

  “My lord, do you have the means to get the bulk of the residents of Roscommon out tonight without Clare knowing?” Aine said.

  “I have an outpost on the far side of the lake. I can send a small company around to the men there immediately to warn them of what is afoot, and meanwhile we can evacuate the castle by boat.”

  Felimid’s expression had changed from one of distrust to calculation. “I know of a place to hide.”

  His father turned to him. “Where?”

  “In the chapel,” Felimid said. “I don’t know why it was built, but if you inspect the width of the side wall of the vestry, in front of which the priest stores the sacred relics and his robes, it is thicker than it ought to be.”

  “What is hidden there?” Hugh said.

  “Nothing,” Felimid shrugged, “at least not anymore. It is accessed through a cupboard. The space is large enough for five or six men to stand or sit, though it won’t be comfortable. I found it when I was playing hide and seek with little Ciara and the cousins. Then the priest came and—” He stopped, his face coloring. “It’s a good place to hide,” he concluded lamely.

  Aine didn’t want to know what the priest had been doing that embarrassed Felimid to recount. She raised a hand hesitantly. “We should hide men in more than one place, in case one group is caught. Clare will think he has them all and not look further.”

  “Not the latrines,” Christopher said. “They always look in the latrines.”

  Aine frowned at him, thinking she’d misunderstood his English. “Did you mean to say they? Who’s they?”

  Christopher blinked. “Oh—I’ve read it in the histories.”

  Aine had read no such histories, and by their puzzled looks, neither had the O’Connors.

  “We have no more time to talk,” Christopher said. “If we are to do this, it must be done now.”

  Felimid had continued to stand throughout their conversation, and he clenched his hands into fists. “I volunteer, Father.”

  Hugh rubbed his chin, still not committed.

  “I do too,” Christopher said.

  Aine gasped. “No—”

  He put out a hand to her. “It’s my plan. I should be one of the men to implement it.” Then he looked at Hugh. “You need to start evacuating the castle. Clare’s and O’Rourke’s army could be moving to surround it even now.”

  Hugh studied Christopher’s face for a long moment, and he must have liked what he saw because he finally nodded and rose to his feet. Looking at Aine, he said, “You have a few moments to say your goodbyes. The women and children will be the first to leave.”

  He left the room with Felimid. Meanwhile, Aine’s hand had gone to her mouth, and she sat frozen in her seat. Throughout their conversation, it hadn’t occurred to her that implementing the plan meant that Christopher would be among those fighting. He wasn’t ready. He’d said so himself. She had a sudden fear that she would have to be the one to tell David that Christopher had died because she had dragged him to Roscommon.

  Christopher watched the O’Connors go, unaware at first of her emotions, but when he turned to speak to her, his expression became one of concern. He’d been sitting a few feet away, but now he brought his chair forward and sat so they faced each other. “I won’t lie and tell you that it’s
going to be okay, but honestly, I think it will be.”

  She dropped her hand from her mouth. “A man of your station should be with Hugh.”

  He gave her a rueful look. “What you really mean is a man of my inexperience.”

  Aine opened her mouth to deny it, but then she closed it again, because he was right.

  “Did you notice that even after Felimid volunteered, Hugh still didn’t commit to the plan until I volunteered too?” Christopher shook his head. “You can’t lead from behind.”

  “This is my fault. It was my idea to come here.” Aine’s fingers worried at the side seam of her cloak as she struggled for composure. “What if it doesn’t work?”

  “It may not. Maybe I’ve misread Clare entirely, in which case, as at your father’s fort, my life is forfeit.”

  “But you don’t think you’ve misread him,” she said, not as a question.

  Christopher pointed a finger straight up. “Listen.”

  Aine did, but all she could hear was the drumming of rain on the roof, and she said so.

  “Exactly. Clare’s men took Drumconrath yesterday evening. They then marched all day to get here. They’re going to spend a wet and sleepless night outside the castle, and when it surrenders tomorrow, it will be such a relief for everyone to be warm and dry that they will be more careless than they might otherwise have been.”

  Aine swallowed hard and said in a small voice. “I hope you’re not doing this because you’re trying to prove you deserve to be the Hero of Westminster.”

  Christopher rose to his feet, restlessness in every line of his body. “It isn’t something to live up to or prove. I am the Hero of Westminster. I can’t change that, even if I wanted to. And I’ve realized today that I don’t. What’s more, part of being that man is doing this.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Roscommon Castle

  14 March 1294

  Aine

  Aine clutched her cloak tightly around herself as the rain pummeled the top of her head. She held a sleeping two-year-old in her arms, and they were scrunched in the bow of the boat, pressed up against the rail to allow the greatest number of people to fit inside.