by Wayne Grant
Finbar stroked his long beard. To fail the O’Neills at this critical time would forever diminish the standing of the O’Duinnes within the clan. Perhaps Cathal could restore that standing once he recovered, but what if he died? That would truly be a disaster for the sept and for Finbar personally. His unflinching loyalty to Cathal had made him few friends within the extended O’Duinne sept.
I wouldn’t last a week, he thought.
He got unsteadily to his feet. He needed sleep, but that would have to wait. An idea had started to nag at him—something that hovered just out of his recollection. He knew from long experience to pay attention to such things. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. And…there it was.
Maeve.
Of course! Sweet Maeve, dying in childbirth. There was another O’Duinne heir out there, the youngest of them all. It was a desperate idea, but with Cathal feverish and hovering near death, he could not stake all on the damaged and despairing Keiran. To rely on that thin reed to save the sept’s position—and his own—was folly.
He must find the youngest O’Duinne brother.
***
“What?”
Finbar’s wife looked at him as though he had lost his mind.
“I said I go to fetch Cathal’s son, woman. Now help me find my traveling cloak.”
He tried to sound commanding, but that voice rarely worked with his wife. She turned on him, hands on hips.
“That boy was taken off to England ten years ago, Finbar. How will you find him and bring him home? You can barely drive a cow into the rath.”
“Nevertheless, I will go.”
Finbar’s wife groaned in frustration.
“Even if you can find your way to England, husband, it’s a very big place. Bigger than all Ireland I’m told. How will you find the boy in such a place?”
“You give me too little credit, my dear. I’m a man of no great strength of limb, but when my mind is set on a thing I will see it done. I will ride to the sea and take ship for England. The man who took the boy was from the west of that country as I recall. He was a man of some consequence and if he still lives, there will be those who know of him. I will find that man and when I do, I will find Cathal’s son.”
“Oh, I give credit when it’s due, Finbar Mac Cormaic, but you yourself told me the man who took the lad was a Norman knight. Men of that ilk are born to war and anyone long in such a man’s company is most likely dead.”
“Nevertheless, I will go.”
His wife stamped her foot in frustration.
“I forbid you!” she commanded. “Who will tend to our master if you are off wandering, lost in England?”
“You will, wife. You are as good a leech as I.”
“But…”
Finbar raised an open palm to silence her.
“I am not yours to command, my dear. I am Cathal O’Duinne’s man to the end and will do what I must to serve him.”
Finbar’s wife glared at him, ready with an angry retort, but bit back the words. When Finbar’s mind was set, there was little chance of changing it.
“Very well, Finbar. Do what you will. You are a foolish old man, but I love you and will pray for yer safe return.”
Finbar smiled at her. They’d been together for near fifteen years and she had been a better wife than he had deserved. He walked across the small room they shared and kissed her on the cheek.
“Now help me pack.”
She nodded and sniffed, but rummaged around and pulled a leather sack from beneath the sleeping platform and stuffed in his one change of clothes and a few other items that might be useful on a long trip. As she helped him prepare, he turned his attention back to the journey ahead.
He was vague as to exactly where England lay, but knew it was far to the east and across the sea. He had never travelled farther from home than Armagh, which was little more than two leagues away—hardly more than a day’s walk.
“De Laval.” He said the name out loud.
That had been the Norman’s name. He would go to the west of England and look for de Laval there. When he found the Norman, he would find the missing son.
He would find Declan O’Duinne.
The Lost Son
Brother Cyril whistled quietly to himself as he strolled along Barn Lane, which ran just inside the north wall of Chester and up to Northgate Street. He’d made his final stop of the evening at the Holy Goose, one of the finer taverns in the city, and found not a one of his men in their cups. That, and the pleasant evening air of mid-April, had put him in a cheerful mood.
When he had first found his way to Chester two years before, he’d been adrift, a monk in search of penance for murdering a man. Ivar Longbeard, one of the last of the Viking raiders, had killed Cyril’s family and taken him as slave from Northumbria. Shipwrecked with his captor on a black sand beach in distant Thule, he’d cut Ivar’s throat while the man lay senseless and shoved the body into the sea. Half-dead, he’d been found by Ivar’s family and nursed back to health.
To save himself, Cyril had posed as a priest and they’d shown him great kindness, never knowing he’d killed their kinsman. It was their kindness as much as the murder itself that troubled his conscience. In time, he’d sailed back to Britain and taken Holy orders, but still felt he had not fully cleansed his soul of guilt.
He’d travelled across England looking for redemption and found it in Chester. There he had come upon a man face-down in a gutter. The man was trying to rise, but between the ale and a missing arm, he kept slipping back into the muck. Cyril pulled him out and, draping the man’s one good arm over his shoulder, helped him stumble back to a barracks near the centre of town. That had been his introduction to the famed Invalid Company and to his new calling.
Like most in England, he had heard of the Invalids and their heroic exploits in the late civil war between Prince John and the forces loyal to King Richard, but what he had found in Chester was at odds with the tales and songs he’d heard of these men. With the war done, the Invalids had reverted to drunkards and brawlers and disturbers of the peace. For a monk in search of a penance, the Invalids were, literally, a Godsend.
Without being invited, he began patrolling the seamier quarters of the town and helping these damaged men to their beds before the cock crowed at dawn. He had wiped the filth from their faces and interceded for them with the Bishop when their outrages became intolerable. It was a burden that suited him. And the Invalids, at first scornful, had come to love the skinny little monk who looked after them and did not judge. They had delighted in proclaiming him their chaplain and he had felt honoured by their trust. Now, for the first time in years, he was fully at peace with himself—and so he whistled.
He was about to turn south on Northgate Street and make his way back to his own little nook in the Invalids’ barracks when he saw an old man stumbling along Barn Lane as though lost, or more likely drunk. He crossed over the lane and approached the man.
“Grandfather, you look lost,” he called out cheerily.
The old man’s head came up sharply as he saw this stranger approach. It was dark, but Cyril could see the man straighten himself, though the effort left the poor fellow swaying a bit from side to side. He’d seen men do this many times as they prepared to make a slurring defence of their sobriety, but as the monk came near, he smelled no drink on the man’s breath and the eyes sunk beneath grey brows were sharp and unclouded by ale. No, this man was weary to the bone, not drunk.
“Can I help you, friend?” Cyril asked gently.
The man reached out and grasped the sleeve of the monk’s rough brown robe and began to speak haltingly, but with urgency in his voice.
“Aye, Aye, I…”
Cyril leaned forward. Those old, sharp eyes never left the monk’s own as the words tumbled out in a rush. He spoke in Gaelic, a language Cyril knew a little, but the words came too fast for the monk to follow. Among them, though, was a name very familiar to Brother Cyril.
De Laval.
&nb
sp; ***
“Roger! Please take care. The boy isn’t a rag doll!”
Sir Roger de Laval did not look up at his wife, but spoke to the boy instead, as he stopped bouncing the child on his knee.
“Grandmother says I should stop, Rolf. What do you think?”
The boy began to bounce himself up and down on the big man’s knee and his eyes, grey-green like his mother‘s, begged to resume their game. Sir Roger smiled, setting his knee back in motion as little Rolf grinned. He might be only a year and a half old, but he liked this game and had no fear that the big man would drop him. Sir Roger smiled up at Lady Catherine.
“See, Cathy? He likes it and he’s a sturdy little thing.”
The knight suddenly straightened his bouncing leg, pitching the boy backwards. Rolf squealed with delight as his “horse” collapsed under him. The sudden drop was the whole point of the game and he knew the strong hands that held his pudgy little wrists would not let him fall.
“Roger, really!” said Lady Catherine. “Don’t let Millie see you doing that!”
Sir Roger laughed.
“She can hardly object, Cathy. As you may recall, I played the very same game with her when she was a babe!”
“And he never dropped me once, Mother.”
Sir Roger and Lady Catherine looked up to see that their daughter had entered the great hall at Shipbrook.
At his mother’s voice, Rolf Inness turned and shouted with glee.
“Horsey!”
Millicent Inness had to smile. She had vague memories of playing “horsey” with the big man who now held her little son. Seeing the two of them together like this touched her heart. They’d travelled to Shipbrook after the spring barley had been planted on the Danish steads up near the Weaver River, but would be leaving on the morrow to return to Danesford. The thought left her a bit wistful.
She loved Shipbrook like a favourite old shoe. She’d grown up here and it had been a happy childhood. As she watched her parents dote on her firstborn, she felt a lump in her throat. She missed them and knew they felt the same about her. But Danesford was her life now and she would not trade that.
“Rolf, let’s watch for your father,” she said holding out her arms. Roland had ridden out with Declan O’Duinne at first light to join his friend on his daily patrol along the border. It was past noon now and they were due back soon. Sir Roger let the child slide down his legs till his feet touched the floor. The boy toddled over and let himself be scooped up in Millicent’s arms. Just then, one of Shipbrook’s men-at-arms entered the hall.
“My lord, beggin’ yer pardon…and the ladies as well. That monk—the one with the Invalid Company—he’s at the gate. Wants to speak to ye, my lord.”
Sir Roger raised a quizzical eyebrow, but rose. He crossed to the open door of the hall and descended the steps to the cobbled courtyard. Millicent, with the boy on her hip, followed him. Near the gate, they saw three men who had just dismounted. A thin cloud of dust from the road still hung in the air from their passage. She recognized Jamie Finch, her old friend from their days together in London, and had met the monk, Brother Cyril, once before. But she did not know the rather frail old man with them.
As she followed Sir Roger across the courtyard, she noticed the stranger was watching them keenly or, more precisely, watching her father. He did not take his eyes off the big knight as they approached.
“Welcome to Shipbrook!” Sir Roger greeted them. “Master Finch, I see you are fully fit once more.”
Jamie Finch grinned sheepishly and flexed his left arm freely. It had been broken when Haakon the Black knocked him from the wall during the Invalid Company’s desperate defence of the fortress at Deganwy.
“Aye, my lord! Good as new, I reckon.”
Sir Roger grinned back and turned to Brother Cyril.
“And you, friar, I see you’ve grown no thicker since last we met. I thought most churchmen grew plump over time.”
Brother Cyril laughed.
“It seems nothing sticks to my bones, my lord, no matter what I consume. Perhaps someday.”
Sir Roger turned to the last of the newcomers. The man was old and a bit unsteady on his feet, but there was something vaguely familiar in his lined face.
“Sir, I am Sir Roger de Laval. You are welcome here at Shipbrook. Have we met?”
“Oh, we have met,” the old man said in Gaelic, a language Sir Roger understood a little. “Ye right near slew my master back in Tir Eoghain!”
Sir Roger’s smile faded.
Tir Eoghain. The English called it Tyrone and it was a place he’d tried to forget.
“I fought many men in Ireland, sir, all now dead to the best of my knowledge” he said flatly.
The old man gave a sly smile.
“All save one, yer lordship. All save Cathal O’Duinne.”
***
The guard on watch at the north wall sent word of the patrol’s approach and by the time Declan and Roland led the men through the gate and into Shipbrook, a delegation was waiting in the courtyard. Roland turned to Declan as he dismounted.
“Quite the welcoming party,” he said with half a smile. “Wonder what we’ve done?”
Declan scanned the familiar faces, Sir Roger, Millie, Finch, Brother Cyril—and one stranger. He looked for some clue as to why this reception, but could find none.
“I don’t know,” he said as he climbed out of his saddle, “but we’ll soon find out.”
He beat the dust from his breeches as he crossed the courtyard and started to make a jest in greeting, but saw the solemn looks on the faces of the waiting group and held his tongue.
Trouble, he thought.
Instinctively he turned toward the one stranger in the group. Something about the shape of the shoulders and the cant of the head brought back an old memory. He stared hard at the old man with the grey beard who stood beside Sir Roger and blinked.
“Bless me,” he said quietly. “Finbar, is that you?”
***
“I must go with him,” Roland said, as he threw a hooded cloak into his kit.
“Of course, you must,” said Millicent.
“Ireland’s a dangerous place, I’ve heard. He shouldn’t go alone.”
“Very dangerous,” Millicent agreed.
“He can take care of himself, I know, but someone will need to watch his back!” Roland said, his voice rising just a bit.
Millicent fixed Roland with eyes that always seemed to see right through him.
“Who are you trying to convince, husband? Not me I hope! What little I know of Ireland frightens me, but Declan’s sire is wounded and may be dying. He must go, and there are only two men I’d trust to bring him back safely. It cannot be Father, so it must be you.”
Roland gave her a rueful smile. The Earl of Chester had been summoned to Brittany the month before by the King and Ranulf had charged Sir Roger with seeing to the security of Chester in his absence. The Lord of Shipbrook had spent much of April in the walled city and hated the duty, but would not shirk it. Sir Roger could not go to Ireland. That left Roland.
There had been a heated discussion earlier in the afternoon as to who else should accompany Declan and Finbar back to their homeland. Roland had offered to detail a score of the best men from the Invalid Company for an armed escort and there would have been no shortage of volunteers, but Declan had rejected that notion.
“We’d be askin’ fer trouble. The English barons control the eastern half of Ireland and every port there. I doubt they’d stand idly by while a score of armed men rode across their territory and into the lands still held by the Irish,” he’d said.
In the end, he’d asked for only one man from the Invalids to join him, Brother Cyril.
“The Irish put great stock in priests,” he said, by way of explanation. “There’s an abbey or priory on every other hilltop or river bend in Ireland. Having a priest along may smooth our way.”
No one, including Brother Cyril, had objected to the choice. On their fo
ray into Wales, the skinny churchman had proven to be tougher than he looked and not altogether harmless if things came to blows. Roland had insisted from the start that he must go and Declan had not argued with his friend. He’d volunteered without consulting Millicent, but given her fondness for Declan, he’d guessed she wouldn’t protest. And, of course, she hadn’t.
He took Millicent by the wrist and pulled her close to him. It had been two years since he’d returned from the bloody campaign in Wales that had put Prince Llywelyn on the throne of Gwynedd. Those two years had been a time of blissful peace in Cheshire. It had been a time to build, a time to turn the earth and plant, a time to watch the crops and his new son grow.
He did not miss the fighting, but knew that the days of peace were always numbered. Like the men of Shipbrook, he and his Danes patrolled the northern borders of Cheshire and did not allow their swords to rust or their longbows to lay idle. He was a farmer at heart, but a warrior by trade.
“By God you are a soldier’s wife, Millie,” he said and nuzzled her cheek.
“I am that.” she said and giggled a little as his beard tickled her. “Just see I don’t become a soldier’s widow. Now, my father is waiting for us in the hall. He wants to impart some words of wisdom before we sup. Go fetch your friend. I’ll meet you there.”
***
Declan sat on his cot and looked around the simple quarters he called home. The room took up most of the floor above the barracks that housed Shipbrook’s men-at-arms and had once belonged to Sir Alwyn Madawc. Sir Alwyn had been Master of the Sword at Shipbrook when first Declan came to this little fortress by the River Dee as a boy of twelve. Alwyn had taught him most of what Declan knew about fighting and not a little of what he knew about life. He stilled missed the burly Welshman, dead these five years.
Now he was Shipbrook’s Master of the Sword. It was a position he had never aspired to or imagined for himself, but Sir Roger had insisted. He’d been knighted by Richard the Lionheart, but when Sir Roger de Laval entrusted him with the security of Shipbrook and the Welsh borderlands, that was the greater honour in his eyes.