Declan O'Duinne

by Wayne Grant

  He rose from his cot and looked out the small window that opened onto the cobbled courtyard. The sun was setting over the west wall, turning high clouds to pink. Below, he saw Roland crossing the courtyard in his direction and felt a knot in the pit of his stomach.

  Roland was like a brother to him—nay, more than a brother. As squires they had survived the death and pestilence of the Holy Land together and as knights they had fought side by side through civil wars in England and Wales. They’d kept no secrets from each other—save one.

  He heard Roland’s footsteps on the stairs and opened the door.

  “Ready?” Roland asked cheerily.

  Declan beckoned him inside and closed the door behind him.

  “For supper, yes. As for Ireland, I know I must go, but I confess—I don’t want to.”

  Roland stared at him, confused.

  “Rest easy,” he said, “I’m going with you and will watch your back.”

  Declan shook his head.

  “I’ve no doubt of that, Roland, but it’s not my back that troubles me.”

  Roland laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Then what, Dec?

  “It’s my father. If he lives, I doubt it will be a welcome reunion for either of us.”

  Roland stood speechless for a moment.

  “How can that be, Dec? You’ve never said an unkind word about your sire.”

  “Aye. I was ashamed to speak ill of my own father, even to you. Ye recall the tale I’ve always told—the one where I was chosen by my father to be squire to a noble Norman knight who had bested him in honourable combat?”

  “I remember it well,” said Roland. “You told it to me the day we first met on the road to York. It was the first time I’d ever heard of a Norman with any decency in him.”

  “Well, the part of the story about the noble Norman was true enough,” Declan said. “Sir Roger is a noble man in spirit as much as in title, but the part about my father…that was a lie.”

  “How so?”

  “The man was not fighting off a Norman invasion of his homeland. There was no great battle. He had stolen a dozen cows and was caught before he could get clean away.”

  Roland shook his head.

  “Well there was a fight against Normans, if not a great battle, and did you not tell me that cow theft in Ireland was considered an honourable pursuit?”

  “Aye, that’s true enough, though after chasing Welsh cow thieves all these years, I see it a bit differently now. But it’s not the theft of cows that troubles me.”

  “What then?”

  “Cathal O’Duinne gave me away to a complete stranger, Roland. I was twelve years old. What father does that?”

  ***

  Together they made their way to the great hall and found that Millie and Brother Cyril were there ahead of them, as was Rhys Madawc, Sir Roger’s squire.

  Sir Roger was sitting by the hearth with a small carving knife in his hand, slicing wood shavings from an elm branch into a neat little pile on the floor. He looked up as Roland and Declan entered and motioned them to a wooden bench opposite him where Brother Cyril and Rhys had already found places. Millicent was curled up on a small couch nearby.

  The big Norman knight took a moment to inspect the stick he had been whittling, then put it aside and spoke to Declan.

  “How fares your friend Finbar?”

  Declan shrugged.

  “He’s all wrung out, my lord. We talked a little, but Lady Catherine shooed me out so he could rest. I think he’ll need to regain some of his strength if we are to leave on the morrow. You all heard his message and he did not add much to that when we spoke. There was a great battle. The Irish were routed. My eldest brother was slain in the fight and my other brother and my father were gravely wounded. Keiran lost a hand I’m told, but should live. My father…some think he will die, though Finbar thinks he will not go so easily. It has been a disaster for my clan and for our people, my lord.”

  “And reason enough for you to return home,” said Sir Roger. “Things are quiet here. Baldric can manage the patrols until yer return and it will be good training for young Rhys,” he said, nodding toward the Welsh boy.

  Declan managed a wan smile at that. As Sir Roger’s Master of the Sword, patrolling the borderland was his primary duty, but there had been little to show from the patrols of late. The raids of Welsh cattle thieves into Cheshire had mostly petered out since Prince Llywelyn gained the throne of Gwynedd and made it known that the Earl of Chester was his ally. There could hardly be a better time for him to be absent from Shipbrook.

  “I’m sure the border will be in good hands, with Baldric and young Rhys keeping watch, my lord,” he said and laid a hand on the stocky squire’s shoulder. A sheepish grin played across the boy’s face. It was no secret that Rhys regarded Sir Declan with something close to awe, and all knew of Declan’s fondness for the lad.

  “I’ve no doubt,” Sir Roger replied. “So you must concern yerself with Ireland now. When Finbar regains some of his strength, you must draw him out on how things stand there. Ireland is never stable and that old man strikes me as one who sees and hears much. He might keep you from doing something stupid.”

  Declan shot a quick glance at Roland who was smiling. “Don’t do anything stupid,” was advice Sir Roger had been giving the two since they were squires.

  “My recollection of Finbar,” said Declan, “is he oft times had news before anyone else—and sometimes took pleasure from hinting at events we knew naught of. It used to irritate my father. I’ll squeeze what I can out of him.”

  “Good! I know Ireland’s your birthplace, Declan, but you were but a boy when ye left and much has happened there since then.”

  “True enough, my lord. What with Mohammedans and Welshmen and Flemings to fight, I’ve been a bit preoccupied with English matters. I’ve heard little news of home. Finbar tells me our people, the Cenél Eoghain clans, still rule in Tir Eoghain, but they are divided.”

  Declan leaned over and spoke to Roland and Cyril.

  “The English tie themselves in knots pronouncing simple Irish names like Tir Eoghain,” he said with a shake of his head. “They call the place Tyrone, but by any name, it appears there is new trouble brewing there, or so says Finbar.”

  “What trouble?” Cyril asked.

  “Trouble much like we had here not so long ago,” Declan said, “family members fighting over a throne. But in Ireland it’s not brothers, it’s distant cousins. For hundreds of years, the Kings of Tyrone have all come from the Mac Lochlainn clan or the O’Neill clan. Finbar says our last king, Muirchertach Mac Lochlainn ordered the attack on the English a fortnight ago that took my brother’s life and many others. The King himself was killed for his trouble and his army scattered. His son now claims the throne.”

  “These O’Neills you spoke of—they believe they can do better?” asked Sir Roger.

  “Aye, my lord. My clan shares the blood of the O’Neills and has stood with that clan since long before any man’s memory. Finbar says the leader of the O’Neills is a man of courage and sound judgement. There is to be a council held ten days from now and all expect O’Neill to challenge the old King’s son for leadership of the Cenél Eoghain.”

  Sir Roger grunted.

  “Such a challenge usually ends in blood and, while the Irish cut each other’s throats, the English make ready to pick up the pieces! I spent a year at war in Ireland and did not care for it much. The place seemed much like England in the years after the Conqueror landed at Hastings. Back then, King William offered great tracts of land to his followers—if they could take it by the sword and hold it. So every ambitious second son in Normandy, one of my ancestors among them, crossed the Channel and spread across the land like a swarm of locust. And everywhere they took the land and they held it! The Saxons were brave folk, but could not—or would not—adapt to Norman tactics. Soon enough, there were dirt mounds with timber palisades rising up like boils from Dover to York and the Saxons were disposse
ssed.”

  Roland and Declan exchanged glances. They had never heard the big Norman speak of his own folk in this way. Sir Roger saw the look and shrugged.

  “I do not condemn my people. These are just the facts. All men are ambitious. Normans took the land from the Saxons and the Saxons took it from the Britons and the Britons, no doubt, took it from someone who held it before them. Normans, Danes, Saxons, Romans—on it goes. And so it has gone these past thirty years in Ireland. When I left that island ten years ago, there were a dozen kings in the lands not already taken by the English, which is worse than having no king at all. And in the English lands, I saw the mottes rising by the fords and crossroads.”

  Declan shook his head.

  “Change does not come easy to the Irish, my lord. I’ve been taught to fight in the Norman fashion by experts, you and Sir Alwyn principal among them. I’ve seen the worth of mail and heavy cavalry and fortifications. But the Irish favour the axe and the lance and go unarmoured into battle. They ride horses with no saddles or stirrups and thus, cannot fight as the Normans do while mounted. Their hill forts are weak compared to the Norman mottes. Even with their freedom at stake, I think they will not change.”

  “Neither did the Saxons,” Sir Roger said flatly. “And now they must make way when a Norman passes by. But nothing lasts forever. The Normans are no more interested in change than the Saxons or the Irish and why should they be? They’ve conquered half of Europe! But one day someone will find a way to beat them. I’ve long thought that the crooked stick your friend is so skilled with might be that way,” he said, nodding toward Roland. “We saw what the Danes and their longbows did to heavy cavalry at Towcester.”

  Both young knights nodded at that. The Danish bowmen had decimated Prince John’s Flemish mercenaries on that bloody field.

  “But for now,” the big man continued, “the Normans hold the advantage in Ireland and, as always, they are ambitious. There are three Norman barons in the country you must take note of. Our friend Earl William Marshall holds title to Leinster in the south, though he is occupied these days fighting for Richard in France. Lord Walter de Lacy rules Meath in the centre. I knew de Lacy’s father, but he met with an unfortunate end and his son, Walter, inherited his lands. Him, I do not know.”

  “Unfortunate end, my lord?” asked Declan.

  Sir Roger winced.

  “Very. The man had his head lopped off by an Irishman with an axe while inspecting his new castle at Durrow. Did it with one blow I’m told and got clean away.”

  “As I say,” Declan added dryly, “the Irish favour the axe.”

  “And, of course, there is Sir John de Courcy,” Sir Roger continued. “Him I know all too well.”

  Declan’s head came up at the mention of this name.

  “De Courcy has plagued the Cenél Eoghain since I was a babe!” he said, “and he plagues them still. Finbar says it was de Courcy who led the English at the battle where my father and brothers fell.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Sir Roger said. “There is not a bolder, more dangerous man in Christendom than John de Courcy. With but a score of knights and three hundred foot, he carved out a huge domain in the north of the island and has held it for twenty years. There is much to admire about the man, but much to despise as well.”

  Sir Roger stopped and scooped up the wood shavings from the floor and tossed them into the fire, sending red and yellow sparks swirling up the chimney.

  “De Courcy was the most pious man I’ve ever seen—and that includes churchmen,” he said nodding toward Brother Cyril. “He could spend an entire morning grovelling on his knees, confessing his sinfulness and seeking God’s forgiveness, then ride out in the afternoon to burn a village to the ground. He is ruthless and ambitious. I’ve heard he has taken upon himself the title “Prince of Ulster” these days.”

  Declan turned to Roland and Brother Cyril.

  “Ulster is the name of the ancient kingdom that once covered all of the north of Ireland. That kingdom had split into three by the time the English arrived. Tir Connell is in the far northwest of Ulster, Tyrone covers the middle third of that old kingdom and de Courcy rules the eastern third. His new title suggests he wants it all.”

  Sir Roger nodded.

  “If King Richard were not preoccupied in France, he might take umbrage with de Courcy’s use of the royal title of ‘prince’ and I’m certain it doesn’t sit well with our own Prince John! But for now, there are none to challenge whatever de Courcy chooses to do in his domain.”

  Sir Roger paused, casting back into his memory for any useful information on this Prince of Ulster.

  “I’ve mentioned that the man is pious. He has little regard for the Irish, but holds an odd fascination with your Irish saint, Patrick. The saint is buried at Down near where de Courcy won his first victory in Ulster. I was told he believes the saint ordained his triumph and he’s given lavishly to an abbey dedicated to Patrick at Down. Of course he threw out the Irish monks there in favour of proper English brethren—Benedictines from Saint Werburg’s abbey right here in Chester.”

  Brother Cyril spoke now for the first time.

  “Few know that Patrick was not Irish. He was an Englishman, taken as a slave to Ireland as a youth. He escaped, took holy vows, then returned to convert those who had enslaved him.”

  Sir Roger’s eyes widened at that.

  “Perhaps that explains de Courcy’s fascination with the saint. He would appreciate the story of an Englishman bringing truth and salvation to the benighted Irish. He believes he is doing that himself! I only served under the man briefly, but that was enough to take his measure. Within a fortnight, I had seen enough of John de Courcy. So I rode south to Dublin and took ship back home to England.

  “With your new squire,” Declan added.

  “Aye, I reckon you were about twelve years of age then. I’d always been too poor to employ a squire and scarce knew what to do with you.”

  “You knew enough to have me muck out the stall for Bucephalus,” Declan said with a grin.

  “That’s true enough,” said Sir Roger. “You know I owe my acquisition of a squire to de Courcy. In the brief time I served him he ordered me across the River Bann to bring back some cows he claimed had been taken from his land. We tracked the herd for two days west of the Bann and found it not far from another river to the west, the name of which I do not recall.”

  “It was the Blackwater, my lord,” Declan said quietly.

  “Aye, that’s it. We came upon the herd not far from that river, but your father and his men…contested our right to the cows and so there was a fight.”

  Sir Roger paused, gathering his thoughts.

  “Well, it wasn’t much of a fight. We outnumbered the Irish lads and, as always, were better armed and wore mail. Declan’s sire had neither armour nor shield, but he had an axe and knew well how to use it. He killed two of our men before my sword fetched up beside his helmet and laid him low. After that, the rest of his band fled, leaving me with a herd of skittish cows and your unconscious sire,” he said, nodding to Declan.

  “I remember that day,” said Declan. “Men rode into our rath and sounded the alarm. Some said my father was dead. None seemed ready to go back to his aid, so Finbar gathered my brothers and went to find him. They told me to stay home, but I would not.”

  “I’d sent my lads back east toward the Bann with the herd,” Sir Roger continued, “but I could not leave this man lying there injured on the ground, so I stayed with him. About then, you and yer brothers arrived on the scene and challenged me, though I could see the two older boys had no real stomach for a fight. But you, young Declan, you pushed your way to the front with one of those long-handled axes in yer hand,” the big knight said. “I might have had to kill you had another man not held ye back.”

  Roland glanced over at Declan, who looked uneasy. This was a part of the story he hadn’t heard before.

  “That was Finbar,” said Declan, “and I did want to kill you, my lord.
”

  “I trust the feeling passed,”

  Declan smiled wanly.

  “In time, my lord. In time.”

  “A moment after Finbar saved your neck,” Sir Roger continued, “yer sire sat up all of a sudden and ordered ye all to lower yer axes. He looked about and saw his cows gone and me sittin’ there alone by his side. To this day, I don’t know what possessed him to offer you up as my squire. Perhaps he felt a position as squire to a Norman knight was a promotion from being the youngest of three brothers. He never said, though I’m sure he had his reasons. To that point, I had never taken a squire, but there was something about you that persuaded me that I should have one. You wanted no part of it as I recall.”

  Declan smiled sheepishly.

  “I recall protesting rather loudly, but Father would have none of it,” he said. “He told me to go and I went.”

  “You sulked all the way to Dublin, I believe, but you were the only thing of value I came out of Ireland with.”

  Sir Roger rose and tossed his whittled stick into the hearth.

  “I’ve no more wisdom to give ye, lads. Just see that you get yerself safe back to Shipbrook…back home.”

  Declan rose, his eyes going moist.

  “Be assured, my lord—I am your man and Shipbrook is my home. I’ll be back.”

  ***

  Declan was mounted on a long-legged chestnut mare in the cobbled courtyard of Shipbrook as the sun made it over the eastern rampart. Beside him, Roland patted the neck of The Grey, his big steady gelding, as they prepared to depart. Millicent appeared at the top of the short steps that led up to main hall of the little fort. She held young Rolf lightly on one flared hip as the boy squirmed around to see what all the excitement was about. Declan was the child’s Godfather and took that duty seriously, though hardly sombrely. For a moment Millie paused at the top of the steps to take in the scene. Declan leaned forward from his saddle.