Outpost in Time

by Sarah Woodbury

  As Callum got his feet under him again, he could have been cursing David too. He had known before setting out that this task David had given him ranked up there with sending him to Scotland as one of the least desirable jobs on the planet. Callum had consoled himself with the idea that that particular trip had turned out well in the end.

  What Callum hadn’t quite anticipated was Aymer’s fury and disbelief. Even worse, like an idiot, instead of turning tail and riding away as fast as he could, he’d been the one to offer himself up as ransom to David’s sincerity. Jeffries had argued vociferously against it, but eventually let him go, along with Tom, into the enemy camp. Jeffries said he would remain outside, and if Callum didn’t return by dawn, he would come in and get him.

  Noon had come and gone by the time they’d found Aymer’s camp. With few cavalry, the army had been marching north, heading, as Tom the messenger had informed David he would be, to Dublin. Although Callum had allowed Tom to explain word-for-word what Cusack had told him, Aymer had refused to believe him, which had prompted Callum to make this foolhardy gesture.

  He should have realized that Aymer wasn’t to be reasoned with. Reasonable men, once they were provided with the necessary information, could be relied upon to make good decisions. Unfortunately, Aymer had never displayed any of those characteristics, and it had been foolish of David to think he would start now.

  “That is remarkably unlikely, Aymer. If you would put aside your pride and look at the facts, you would see it.” Niall sat on a camp stool before a brazier with his elbows on his knees and a cup of wine held lazily in two fingers. He was a large, dark-haired man with a full black beard and blue eyes, the consummate Celt, in contrast to Aymer’s olive skin and dark eyes. “We know Cusack besieges Trim with Comyn’s men. All of David’s allies are dead. Why would he turn to us if he wasn’t desperate?”

  “Red would never betray me,” Aymer said.

  Niall turned his head slowly to look up at the Frenchman, pinning him with a gaze that was as disdainful as it was disbelieving.

  Aymer made a scoffing noise and swung around to look at Callum, who’d of course been following their argument with interest. They’d been speaking French rather than Gaelic, so he’d understood every word. Though Callum spoke Scots Gaelic with some fluency, it was only cousin to Irish Gaelic, not the same, and he’d had to work hard these last three weeks he’d been in Ireland to make heads or tails of what the Irish were saying when they spoke quickly.

  “You offer me nothing! Nothing!” Aymer strode up to Callum and shook his fist in his face. “Only what I already should have!”

  “Your father rebelled against the king,” Callum said calmly. “What kind of king would David be if he hadn’t confiscated your father’s lands?”

  “See. Exactly my point.” Niall gestured with his cup. “If David has shown us anything these last five years it’s that he knows how to be a king.” Again the circling gesture with his cup. “Not like these jumped-up Saxons, thinking that because they inherited their titles they deserve to rule.” He took a long sip.

  Callum nodded to himself, understanding Niall’s point even if Aymer didn’t. English law willed that eldest sons inherited everything, regardless of their age or qualifications. But the Irish, like the Scots, looked to the clan to choose the next leader. Sons might be incompetent or spoiled—or simply too young—to rule. In those cases, the clan voted in an uncle or cousin. Niall was such a leader, and the difference in maturity between him and Aymer was striking.

  “I will not listen to this!” Aymer spun on his heel and marched from the tent.

  Callum had been positioned near the tent opening, and Aymer childishly knocked into his shoulder as he went by.

  Niall let him go, and then signaled with his cup to the other men in the tent. “Leave us.”

  As Niall’s lieutenants filed out the doorway, Callum settled more comfortably into parade rest, bracing for whatever might come next. Niall was a much wiser man than Aymer, but rather than making him less dangerous, it made him more. Aymer might have drawn his sword and run Callum through in a fit of pique, but Niall would do it without hesitation as part of a cold-eyed strategy.

  And when Niall’s next move was to draw his belt knife, rise to his feet with a sigh, and advance towards Callum, he had a moment of panic. But, sensibly, all Niall did was move around behind Callum to saw at the rope that bound Callum’s wrists. “Pardon the temper tantrum. One cannot always choose one’s allies.”

  That was an opening Callum couldn’t pass up. “Actually, you can.”

  Behind Callum, Niall froze for a second, and then he barked a laugh and dropped the rope to the floor. Returning to his stool, he wagged a finger at Callum. “I like you. I do. I see why your king sent you.” Then he indicated the abused stool that Aymer had left against the wall of the tent ten feet away. “Please. Sit.”

  Callum picked up the stool and set it by the fire across from Niall. He would have preferred to stand, but negotiations had begun, and he was wary of making a wrong move.

  “Tell me why I should listen to you.”

  “Because David is going to win, and I think you want to be on the winning side.”

  Niall snorted and leaned back a little. “Just like that? He’s going to win?”

  “Yes.”

  Niall pointed with his chin towards the doorway behind Callum. “That’s not what Aymer says.”

  It was Callum’s turn to snort. “Because Aymer knows so much? He’s a good judge of character?”

  Niall stared at Callum. “Character does not win battles.”

  “No, it doesn’t. But judge for yourself. Does David win battles?”

  “He has never lost.”

  “Not in the end, no. Not yet. Who would you rather be betting against? Aymer or David?”

  “Cusack says that all the clans are allied with him. The O’Rourkes ally with the O’Reillys. I’d never thought I’d see that in my lifetime.”

  Callum grunted his disagreement. “Gilla O’Reilly’s fort at Drumconrath was burned to the ground by the allied forces of Thomas de Clare and Auliffe O’Rourke.”

  Niall pursed his lips for a second before answering. “That can’t be true.”

  “I spoke to witnesses—several of them—including James Stewart, who was there.”

  “And Gilla?”

  “Captured and held at Drogheda.”

  At that news, Niall couldn’t remain seated any longer. While Aymer might have cursed Callum and claimed it wasn’t true, Niall took a turn around the tent, his arms folded across his chest and his head bent, thinking. Still pacing, he said, “What do you propose?”

  “I realize now that it was a fool’s errand to speak to Aymer.”

  “He would rather die than ally with David.” The thought prompted Niall to stop walking and look directly at Callum. “You realize this? The wound in Aymer is mortal.”

  “Yes. I realize this. Now.”

  “My wound, however—” Niall canted his head. “Let’s just say that I am a more practical man. What does he offer me?”

  Callum took in a breath, knowing this was his chance and not wanting to blow it. “What do you want?”

  “Leinster for starters. And a chance, like you gave the lords of Scotland, for the throne.”

  “David understands that every lord who aids him will want to be rewarded with land,” Callum said straightforwardly, “but you must understand that the king will hold the reins. You aren’t going to rule Leinster like a fiefdom as before. King David will be the ultimate authority, and he will take that seriously.”

  Niall’s eyes grew even warier.

  “I can promise you a genuine, fair vote for overlordship of Ireland sometime in the future, but for now, the High Kingship is not for sale. Not to Cusack, who we are sure wants it. Not to Red Comyn, to whom I suspect Feypo promised it. Not to anyone.”

  A stillness came over Niall. “David reserves it for himself?”

  “He is of the blood of Brian
Boru, is he not?”

  There came a faint grinding sound from Niall’s jaw, and he gave Callum a curt nod. “He is.”

  “David will not allow Ireland to descend into another two hundred years of anarchy. There will be order. There will be a Parliament. And both Irish and English will have a say.” Callum leaned forward. “An equal say. One man, one vote.”

  “Irishmen will be named as justiciars?”

  In the past, it was through the rule of justiciars that the Irish government had functioned without a king in residence, but they had all been English.

  “Yes. And you will be one of them.”

  Niall’s eyes remained narrowed. It wasn’t enough, Callum knew, but it was all he had to offer. David had declared outright that he was not giving out favors like those boxes of chocolate he’d bought (or rather, Callum had bought) in Avalon. This was about the stewardship of Ireland. On one hand, he really did want Niall’s support, but he wasn’t going to be held hostage to it either. Callum was, in effect, telling Niall that he could get on board or get run over.

  “What if I say no?”

  Callum lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug that was genuinely casual. “I would hope you would release me to deliver that news to David.” He found himself referring to David without his title, just like everyone in Ireland seemed to. It would be easy to get used to, but he would have to remember to add king again when he returned home to England.

  “What if I were to have an alternate suggestion?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I stay with Aymer, and we join forces with Cusack and the rest. Once the two armies are engaged, my men will show their true colors and fight for David.”

  Callum laughed at Niall’s audacity, though he supposed the proposal wasn’t any more outrageous than Callum’s own. “That leaves you to decide at the last moment which way the wind is blowing. How do we know you will do as you say?”

  “As a measure of my good faith, I will convince Aymer to go directly to Trim and not to march on Dublin.”

  “Heh.” If Callum’s stool had had a backrest he would have leaned into it. “That alone is a gift, I admit. It frees the men of Dublin to come to Tara.”

  Callum stood and went to the doorway of the tent to look out. The rain continued to fall, though Niall had pitched his tent on the leeward side of a sheltered valley. Callum stared at the weather for a few more moments, watching the men huddle against the wind and rain. Most didn’t have tents but had constructed makeshift shelters under cloaks and tarps. Niall commanded a larger army than Valence, whose sole contribution seemed to be a company of mounted knights. There were no men with bows or crossbows that Callum could see, though they wouldn’t be showing with the weather so wet. Still, nearly a thousand men were gathered before him.

  He swung around. “We accept. What will you tell Valence?”

  “That I sent you back to Dublin with your tail between your legs. He would have preferred to send your head back to David on a pike, but as you can see, most of the men here are mine.”

  “What will you tell Cusack about why you didn’t attack Dublin?” Callum asked.

  “I will tell him about your offer, laughing at the absurdity of it, and say we changed direction because of the gathering of David’s armies at Tara. Cusack will hear the full story from Aymer anyway.”

  “Will Cusack come out?”

  “He will have to. The last thing he wants is to be trapped between your forces and Trim Castle. Better to meet head on, on ground he chooses. Yes, he will come out. He will not be able to resist.”

  It was a risky game they were playing, with no guarantee—and perhaps no hope—of success. So far, David’s army consisted of the men of Dublin and Oxmantown and nobody else. Niall’s army would have made David’s force imposing. At least men of Ireland, be they English, Danish, or Irish, were no strangers to battle. It would have to do, and it appeared to be all that he was going to get.

  “Then I guess I’ll see you on the battlefield,” Callum said.

  “You will.”

  Callum tipped his head to Niall MacMurrough and walked out of the tent into the rain.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Drogheda Castle

  16 March 1294

  Huw

  “My lord, news has come that all men are to gather at Tara!” A man-at-arms practically threw himself through the front door of Drogheda’s great hall, so overcome with his news that he couldn’t contain it. What he should have done was tell the steward, who would then have whispered it in Gilla’s ear. Huw would have thought such discipline would be the first quality a messenger would cultivate, but that rarely seemed to be the case, especially when the news was as momentous as this.

  It was moving on towards noon, and the new leadership at Drogheda had gathered at the high table. Since they’d overcome Butler’s and Cusack’s men, the hours had been spent consolidating their hold on the castle and adjacent town; sleeping, since everyone was quite short of sleep; and, frankly, wondering what to do next. Things had to be happening elsewhere in the country, but here at Drogheda, they’d had no news. The absence was aggravating in the extreme.

  Although the citizens of Drogheda town, once told of the events at Trim, had submitted easily enough, the O’Reillys found themselves in something of a bind. Even with William and Huw insisting that King David would stand by them if they would stand with him, nobody knew where he was. Thus, the arrival of the messenger came as a huge relief.

  Gilla stepped off the dais and walked towards the newcomer. “Calm down, son,” he said in Gaelic, which Huw’s ear was finally starting to get the hang of. At least he understood such a simple phrase. Then Gilla switched to French. “Speak so we all can understand.”

  The man swallowed hard. “The whole countryside is on the move, marching to Tara.”

  William stepped closer. “Who, exactly, is marching?”

  “Everyone, my lord. Farmers, merchants, Irish, Saxons. Everyone.”

  “Why are they going to Tara?” Matha had stood too and came to stand beside his father.

  “David is claiming the High Kingship!”

  “But—” Matha began.

  Gilla made a slicing motion with one hand to silence his son. Then he lifted his chin and turned back to the messenger, who’d watched that brief exchange with rapt attention. “Is he now?”

  The messenger straightened his spine, his eyes alight. “He’s called for an army and is himself marching from Dublin. They say that the O’Connors have already defeated an army of rebels and even now are marching from Connaught.”

  William punched the air. “They made it!”

  Matha wasn’t so easy to please. “How did you come by this news?” Since they’d taken the castle, Matha had been much more accepting of William’s and Huw’s presence, as well as their confidence that Christopher was to be trusted, though he apparently remained suspicious of David and his motives.

  The messenger looked affronted. “The roads are full of men.” He gestured towards the door of the hall. “On the road here, I met a monk from Bective Abbey. He’d been sent to call all Ireland to arms, with the exception of Drogheda, which David thought loyal to Tuyt. I assured him that you’d taken the castle, and the town is in an uproar with the preparations for war.”

  Matha frowned. “You say that O’Connor marches for David. Who else?”

  “The whole of the north has risen. The Verduns, the Burghs, and the O’Neills are all on the march, though the O’Neills have the farthest to come and may arrive too late. You sent me to scout all the way to Dundalk if need be, and that is what I did.”

  Gilla’s eyes grew bright as he looked at his son. “It is as I said would happen. Do you remember?”

  Matha’s brow furrowed. “What did you say?”

  Rather than answer Matha directly, Gilla made a broad gesture to include everyone in the hall. “Five years ago, after the death of William de Valence, I spoke at the meeting of the clans. They did not listen, of course, t
hinking only of the advantage they might have now that one of the most powerful lords in Ireland was dead. I gave the same warning again last year when Gilbert de Clare was killed.” He bobbed his head, as if confirming his words in his own mind. “Could they not see who had come into their midst? David, Beloved of God.”

  Huw found himself holding his breath as the Irishman spoke. He had believed in David from that very first day when he’d arrived, desperate and exhausted, at his father’s hut. Out of that meeting, Huw’s family had risen in rank to the point that Huw was one of David’s most trusted men, as evidenced by the fact that David had given him the responsibility of looking after his cousin, though Christopher had proved himself no longer in need of looking after.

  “No greater king did Israel ever see than King David. Scotland too. And now England,” Gilla said. “But it isn’t the name, of course, that makes the man. The name is only the outer manifestation of what—” he clenched his fist before him, “—defines the inner man. I saw this coming. I warned them. We could have worked out our problems among ourselves. We could have seen the way the wind was blowing and created an Ireland that David would not have meddled in. Now we have no choice. He has come, and since we did not bring peace upon ourselves, he will bring it for us.”

  “So we march for Tara?” Matha said. “We will fight for David? Why? This is a man who hadn’t set foot in Ireland before three weeks ago!”

  Gilla looked directly into his son’s face, but he pointed at William. “Had this man? Or that one?” His pointing finger was now directed at Huw.

  When Matha didn’t answer, Gilla snapped his fingers at Huw. “Why did you come to Ireland? Did David promise you an estate? Riches? A landed wife?”

  Huw couldn’t help it. He scoffed. “No.”

  Gilla swung around to look at William. “And you? Do you hope to carve out a kingdom here as reward for your loyalty?”

  William’s mouth dropped open, surprised at the suggestion. “I-I—” He stopped. “Of course not.”

  “Of course not,” Gilla repeated and looked back to his son. “Do you see their faces? My questions were ones they never even asked. David has a hundred men like this around him, and you ask why he will win? We took this castle from David’s enemies, and yet you question the decision to keep fighting them?”