“No, Father.” Matha bowed. “No, I don’t.”
Gilla jerked his head in a nod. “Leave a skeleton guard to hold the castle. Otherwise, roust the townspeople and our men. We march for Tara in one hour.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Hill of Tara
18 March 1294
Meg
Meg knew that she and Llywelyn were early, but she couldn’t help herself. She’d arrived at the field of Tara at dawn to stand with her husband and await the arrival of the armies they were hoping would come.
Except no men had.
Well, that wasn’t fair. Twelve men had come. From the road she could see them encamped in the center of the meadow—clearly a prime location—with their horses picketed twenty yards away. The double-ringed hill fort and standing stone on the Hill of Tara, where Ireland’s high kings traditionally were crowned, was just to the west. If she looked east, she could see the church tower of the abbey at Skryne, perched on its hill. Skryne castle was hidden from view just down the rise. The men of Skryne were on their way, but as most were walking, they’d fallen behind Llywelyn and Meg.
Llywelyn leaned into her. “We are early, Meg. David said today. He didn’t say at dawn.”
“I know but—”
“They will come.”
“You don’t know that!”
Llywelyn tipped his head as he looked at her. “It isn’t like you to lose faith like this.” He urged his horse towards the small party of men.
Frustrated with the situation and with herself, Meg followed. “I haven’t. You know I haven’t.”
One of the men rose to his feet at Llywelyn’s approach. He was in his twenties, David’s age or younger, with blond hair still tousled from sleep. He wore a mail vest, but none of his companions were well-armored. When the Normans had come a hundred years ago, their armor had given them a huge advantage against the Irish, who hadn’t adopted armor yet, not even after so many years of fighting the Danes. In the intervening century, however, some Irish lords had come to see its advantages, and Meg hoped these had armor somewhere in their saddlebags.
Upon arriving in the center of the field, Llywelyn dismounted and spoke in halting Gaelic. “From whence have you come?”
The young man threw back his shoulders and raised his chin. It looked like he was expecting a fight. “I am Cian O’Neill.”
To an outsider, answering Llywelyn’s question with his name might not make sense, but it told Meg and Llywelyn what they needed to know: he was an O’Neill and had ridden here from the northwest.
Llywelyn stuck out his hand and introduced himself. “Welcome.” He pointed with his chin to Cian’s men. “Am I to assume that more are coming?”
Cian laughed, switching to English, though heaven knew how he’d learned it. “Coming? Your David has raised the whole bloody north.”
Meg leaned down. “How soon?”
Cian glanced to his left as if he might see armies marching towards him at any moment. “Soon.”
Meg, who was still astride, looked too, but she saw no men, only birds in the trees and an unusually clear sky.
Then Cian shrugged. “You could ask the O’Connors.”
Llywelyn swung his head to look at Cian. “Where are they?”
“Around the other side, of course. We’re only here because it’s full over there.” He grinned. “Who knew we’d end up getting the best spot!”
While Meg stared at him, trying to convince herself that she’d heard him correctly, Llywelyn said. “Will you show us?”
Cian bobbed his head in a nod. “Of course.” The young man spoke English like one born to it. “All we need now is David.”
“He sent a rider ahead,” Meg said. “He’s coming with the men of Dublin and Oxmantown.”
For the first time, Cian’s face took on a less than joyful expression. “Danes.” Before Meg could put in a good word for working together, however, his expression cleared. “They can fight; I’ll give them that, and David’s descended from Sigtrygg Silkbeard as much as Brian Boru. A man of all Ireland, he is.”
Then he whistled to his men, speaking to them in Gaelic. One nodded and moved to accompany him. “Cousins.” Cian gestured to them. “With my uncle dead, we’re all rivals now. Each thinks he’s fit to lead, but I’ve been leading my family since my father died four years ago. It should be me.”
“Your uncle was the clan chief?” Meg said. They were mounted now and heading south along the road around the Hill of Tara.
“Dead on the floor of the hall at Trim.” And this time it was anger that sparked in Cian’s eyes.
“I was there.” Llywelyn gestured to Meg. “We both were.”
Cian’s attention focused on Llywelyn. “You saw him fall?”
“I did.”
“How did you escape?”
Meg didn’t think she was mistaken that she heard a hint of suspicion in Cian’s voice.
“Earl Callum killed five of the attackers all by himself. I was lucky to have him beside me.”
That got a grunt of acceptance. Llywelyn didn’t mention that Callum had used a gun, which made the deaths a far different accomplishment than if he had used a sword, but the less said about the modern weapon the better.
When they reached the crest of the hill below Tara and stopped, Meg was thankful for her glasses because she was able to see the spectacle before her. If this was the O’Connor clan, they’d come in force and marched a long way through enemy territory to do it.
“A thousand men. He’s brought a thousand men.” Llywelyn breathed out the words, as if he didn’t dare believe them.
“At least.” Cian grinned. Maybe it was because he was looking forward to battle, or simply the change in the weather, but Cian was the happiest Irishman Meg had met. “They left Roscommon at noon three days ago, hours after he took back his castle. Seventy miles in three days.” He shook his head, marveling at the feat, which wouldn’t have been that amazing on horseback, but O’Connor had moved a thousand men on foot.
“Thank you for showing us,” Meg said. “Good luck tomorrow.”
“Madam.” He put his hand to his forehead. “Tomorrow it is. Tell your son, when he comes, that the Tyrone O’Neills send their regards.”
Meg let him go, even though her instinct was to put out a hand to stop him and ask why? Why fight for David?
But she didn’t stop him, and she didn’t ask. She knew the answer already: Cian wanted land and power, as every man did. The clans were in disarray at the loss of their chiefs, but Cusack, Tuyt, and the others had grossly underestimated the resolve of those left alive. Even if Cusack’s band won and one of them claimed the High Kingship, they would still have a lifelong guerilla war on their hands. They should have known better than to think killing the chieftains would be enough to break the back of the clans. Or David.
A great shout went up from the camp below them. At first Meg thought it had something to do with her and Llywelyn, since men were pointing in their general direction.
But then a whoop came from behind her, and she turned in the saddle to see Cian riding back towards them. He reined in beside Llywelyn. “My apologies, my lord, if I implied any moment of doubt! He comes!” He swung an arm and pointed, as the men below them were doing, to the southeast.
An army was marching towards them, equal to or larger than the one already camped at Tara. Flags and banners waved above the heads of the marchers, including the biggest dragon banner Meg had ever seen. “How—” She broke off and laughed as she realized what David had done. “It’s a sail.” From the looks, he had raided the boats they’d come in on, which were still docked in Dublin harbor, for every flag, banner, and piece of sailcloth in their holds.
“If Cusack didn’t know we were coming, he does now,” Cian said.
“That’s the point, I think.” Llywelyn had been smiling too, but now he studied the oncoming force. “David intends to meet him in open battle. He wants the fight.”
“That’s so … unlike him,�
�� Meg said. “This whole time I’ve been assuming that he intended to find a way out before it came to that, like he did at Windsor.”
Llywelyn shook his head. “I’m sorry, cariad. Not this time.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Hill of Tara
David
His mother was right that, as a rule, David avoided battle, and whenever he set up for one, he wanted to figure out a way for it not to be a battle at all. He prided himself on his ability to think his way out of problems rather than to use his fists.
But this fight, this army, and this battle were different from any he’d encountered before. For starters, the men who’d marched with him from Dublin formed a real army. And as they’d taken to the road, the men who’d joined them along the way were also fighters. Never mind that they were farmers too. History wasn’t kidding (to take a page from William, who’d arrived with the O’Reillys, of all people) when it said that war was a way of life in Ireland. Whether Irish, Danish, or English, a man knew how to defend himself and his family or he and they died. Sometimes it was just that simple.
He’d followed Callum towards the open entrance to the pavilion, set up below the stone of Tara, but he stopped as Christopher stepped into his path. “David.”
“I’d heard you were here.” David laughed and grabbed his cousin up in a hug. “You had my mother worried.”
“I’ve already seen her and had my ear talked off.” Christopher turned slightly, gesturing to a girl about his age that she should approach. “I’d like to introduce you to Aine O’Reilly. She and I rode to Roscommon together. We wouldn’t have O’Connor’s support if it wasn’t for her.”
Aine curtseyed deeply, her pale face coloring so that her skin tone almost matched her hair. “It was only my duty, my lord.”
“It was far more than that.” David reached for her elbow to encourage her to rise. “Thank you also for keeping an eye on Christopher for me.”
Aine straightened, though she hadn’t yet looked him directly in the face. David raised his eyebrows at Christopher, who shrugged. There were undercurrents here that David wasn’t getting, but unfortunately, he didn’t have time to figure them out. Callum had halted in the entrance to the pavilion, waiting for him. That Christopher had not only convinced the O’Connors to throw in with David but had eliminated the combined Clare and O’Rourke army in the process was almost too much to be believed. All of a sudden, his cousin had grown up, not an unheard of effect of living in the Middle Ages. David himself had experienced that process live and in color.
So, for the moment, David simply put a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “We are going to talk, just as soon as this meeting ends.”
“It’s okay,” Christopher said. “I’m okay.”
From what he’d heard about what had transpired over the last few days, David wasn’t sure that was true, but for now he had to take Christopher at his word. With a jerk of his head, asking Christopher and Aine to follow, he headed inside where the lords of Ireland waited.
At David’s approach, the men quieted, and Callum raised a hand to announce David’s presence with his full name and title. Even David couldn’t deny the necessity of ceremony in this instance, and he’d been King of England long enough to know how to look good on the outside despite uncertainty on the inside. Not that he was fundamentally uncertain about this fight, even if he still wasn’t entirely sure about leading it. These men were looking to him, and he’d all but declared himself High King of Ireland, so at this point he either had to go through with it or return to England with his tail between his legs, leaving the various lords of Ireland to duke it out among themselves. He’d already said that he couldn’t do that, so that left leading as the only alternative.
David beckoned the highest-ranking lords to come to the table upon which a map, taken from Bective Abbey, lay. The abbot to whom the map belonged was here too, standing in a far corner, his eyes somewhat hollowed. None of them were getting enough sleep.
“Abbot John, a prayer, if you will.” David had already coached the abbot about what he wanted him to pray for, namely the Will of God, along with, if possible, few casualties, torrential rain overnight, and, most importantly, unity of purpose.
After the prayer, David gazed around at the assembled men and women. The latter included not only Mom and Aine, but also Maud de Geneville, who would not be left behind. From what James had said, Margery de Verdun would have come too if she hadn’t just given birth to a daughter. She’d sent her two eldest sons instead.
“Thank you for coming. It should be obvious that I mean that sincerely, but let me say it again: Thank you for coming. I stand before you because Ireland is at a crossroads. By coming here today, you have chosen a path that your forefathers did not. I say to you that by doing so you have changed the course of Ireland’s history forever.”
David spread his hands wide. “Before I say more, I must confirm for you what you are not doing here: first of all, you are not fighting for lands or rewards. At the end of the day, you may end up with more than you had. You may end up with less. We may all lose our lives.”
He had their full attention, speaking in French, so everyone could understand, with the exception perhaps of Christopher, who was watching closely anyway. He and Aine were standing on either side of William de Bohun, who was perfectly capable of translating if needed.
“Secondly, you are not fighting for me. That may come as news to some of you, but it’s the truth, as I see it. I am the Lord of Ireland but—” here he waved a hand dismissively, “—it’s hardly ever been more than a paper title, and most of you didn’t respect it anyway.”
Out of the corner of his eye, David saw Callum shake his head at David’s honesty. David knew this was a risky strategy. Callum had told him that it would be safer to give a rah-rah speech rather than something that amounted to more of a lecture, but David had argued against it, saying it wasn’t honest. He didn’t want the men here fighting tomorrow under false pretenses. David needed to get to the heart of the matter, lay it bare, and then dismiss it.
“Most importantly, you are not fighting for yourselves, either as individuals or as clans.” David paused. “So what are you fighting for?”
Silence had descended on the pavilion when David had started speaking, but now even the side comments and fidgeting ceased. Both William and Christopher looked to be on the verge of speaking, but Callum came up behind them to put a hand on each of their shoulders, telling him without words that the question wasn’t directed at them.
“Tell us, sire,” John de Falkes said at the same moment that Aine said, “Ireland.”
David pointed at her. “Thank you, John, but she has said it.” He looked gravely at the audience. “Ireland.”
Aine wasn’t done, and David was glad to see she seemed to have recovered from whatever had held her tongue earlier. “More than that, we’re fighting for the people, Irish, Danish, and Saxon, who live here and want nothing more than to live in a land where war is not the only constant.”
Christopher had settled back on his heels, but his chin was up, and he was grinning. William’s eyes were alight too, and they brightened further when Maud de Geneville stepped to Aine’s side and hooked her arm through the girl’s. “How many years have we fought over the same fields and valleys, the same castles? And now my husband is dead by the hand of a man he would have called a friend.” She turned her gaze away from David towards the men assembled before her.
“I am an old woman and cannot fight, but only a fool is blind to the future that faces us.” She gestured to David without looking at him. “When the barons of England asked David, an outsider, to take up the crown, they did so because the bickering and the carnage had gone on too long, and the price of disagreement had finally been deemed too high. Our patience has been far greater. Two hundred years ago, Leinster invited Strongbow to Ireland. In so doing, he set us on a path of destruction from which we have hardly deviated. I say, enough!” She paused, and now her eyes met David
’s. “What say you?”
Nobody stirred. Nobody spoke—until Hugh O’Connor stepped to the fore at the same instant as John Verdun. The two men looked at each other—the older Irishman and the young Anglo-Norman, who had never met before this day. And as if they were twins they canted their heads and said together, “We say yes.”
* * * * *
You did the right thing,” Mom said the next morning, “talking that way. You had to tell them the truth, and they did agree to fight.” She should have remained back at Tara, but she refused to be left behind to learn their fate after the fact. Though the rain that had fallen all night had ceased with the dawn, she was dressed appropriately for it in a simple dress with leggings underneath, boots, and a thick cloak. She also had a long knife belted at her waist. David didn’t know that he’d ever seen such a determined look on her face, and his mom had spent a lot of her life being plenty determined.
David put down the binoculars he was holding. “They were browbeaten into it.”
“Peer pressure can be a powerful tool,” Mom said.
“They were right that winning is by no means a certainty.”
“If they don’t fight, losing is a certainty, so in the end they had no choice.”
“They could have joined Cusack.”
Mom laughed. “And pigs could fly.”
Whether she intended it or not, her comment garnered a laugh from David, and he put the binoculars back in front of his eyes. “What’s your bet? Will MacMurrough side with us?”
“I don’t believe in betting.” Then she shook her head, modifying her flip comment. “Trust has to be earned. If he does as Callum asked, then he will have earned it. If he doesn’t … well, then we’ll know.”
Outpost in Time Page 24