Declan O'Duinne

by Wayne Grant

  “Very well, my lord. I will leave Sir Roland Inness here in your keeping,” he said, gesturing Roland forward. “My other man speaks a few words in Gaelic and may be of more use to me.”

  The Prince released his iron grip on the monk’s arm as Roland stepped forward and gave a small bow.

  “Inness…that name sounds familiar to me. Have we met, Sir Roland?”

  “Nay, my lord. Not to my knowledge.”

  De Courcy studied him closely.

  “From where do you hail, Inness?”

  “Derbyshire, my lord,” he answered honestly, “the high country.”

  De Courcy rubbed his chin.

  “That’s de Ferrers land, is it not?”

  “Aye, lord, though Earl William is presently in exile.”

  “As well he should be! He should have had his head removed along with the King’s brother—traitors both! I don’t know if Richard really understood how close he came to losing his throne. But tell me, while you were in Chester, did you see any preparations being made? ”

  “What sort of preparations, my lord?”

  “Invasion preparations, Inness. Troops being mustered, ships being outfitted, that sort of thing. Surely you know Earl Ranulf is planning to find his own piece of Ireland to conquer—all the Marcher Lords are.”

  Roland knew that some of what de Courcy claimed was quite true. Since Strongbow’s invasion thirty years ago, most of the Marcher Lords had financed expeditions to carve out new lands across the Irish Sea. But the Earl of Chester stood as a singular exception. Ranulf, he knew, was content with controlling Cheshire and keeping the border with Wales secure. The Earl had no designs on Ireland.

  “I saw none of that, my lord. I’m told the Earl is now in France with the King.”

  De Courcy scowled.

  “No doubt making plans,” he said sourly. “The Earl stood with Richard against John. He’ll be looking for reward and where better than here in the north of Ireland? He has the money and the men to do it. I’m told Ranulf has a troop of Crusader veterans who fought for him at Towcester, maimed and wounded men I’ve heard. They say they are the King’s best troops, yet they sit there in Cheshire under Ranulf’s control instead of in France. Why is that, Sir Roland?”

  “I couldn’t say, my lord.”

  Now de Courcy was beginning to pace back and forth as he spoke.

  “I too stood with the King against John when some barons here did not!” he said, his voice rising. “But what thanks do I get for that? None! Mark my words, Inness, Ranulf will land troops here within the year, but he will find no welcome from me. I have sworn to almighty God to finish the sacred task I took up twenty years ago. It’s His will that I rule all of Ulster. Ranulf of Chester had best look elsewhere for land!”

  Roland stayed silent and tried not to show his astonishment at the man’s raving. After a moment, de Courcy stopped pacing and placed a gentle hand on Roland’s shoulder.

  “So tell me, Sir Roland, what action did you see in the Holy Land? I will someday take the Cross myself, as Jerusalem remains in the hands of the Saracens.”

  “I fought at the siege of Acre, my lord.”

  “A great victory there,” De Courcy said, “and did you serve the King in the recent civil war against his brother?”

  “Aye, lord. I fought at Towcester under Earl William Marshall,” he answered, which was close enough to the truth.

  De Courcy frowned.

  “Marshall, now there’s a Marcher Lord with one foot already in Ireland. He married Strongbow’s daughter and now has claim to Leinster—without raising a finger to earn it! What I rule here in Ulster, I claimed with my sword. Still, Marshall did good service at Towcester. I would have liked to have been there to see it. Quite a number of the Irish who fought on the other side that day—those that survived—made haste to come home after that whipping. Some are even now in my employ. John’s mercenary cavalry was the best money could buy and I would be keen to know how you beat them.”

  “With longbows and good ground, your grace.”

  “Truly?” the tall Norman lord asked with an arched eyebrow. “That simply? Perhaps I should count myself fortunate that the Irish have no longbows and are content to fight on ground I choose. Sir Roland, I shall want a full account of the battle while you are my guest.”

  “With pleasure, my lord,” said Roland.

  De Courcy took a step back and looked slowly from Roland to Declan.

  “Were you at Towcester as well?”

  “Aye, lord,” said Declan.

  “Good! I am in need of men like you two. I can offer silver or land or both to those that prove themselves. There will be profitable work here in Ulster in the coming weeks.”

  “We are not averse to profit, my lord,” said Declan.

  “Nor fighting,” Roland added.

  “Splendid, splendid! I’d not deprive the Bishop’s emissary here of his traveling companions until his work is done, but once the good father is aboard ship for Chester, I invite you two men to stay. For now, Sir Roland, you will be my guest. We’ll find you a place here where you will be comfortable.”

  He turned back toward Brother Cyril and laid a hand on the monk’s skinny shoulder.

  “You should not tarry, Brother Cyril. If you leave now, you can reach the inn at the ford of the River Lagan by nightfall. It’s the only lodging you’ll find twixt here and Down.”

  Cyril bowed and turned toward the door to the chamber where the guard who had escorted them from the docks was waiting. As they filed out past Roland, Declan whispered.

  “Back in a fortnight. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Roland nodded.

  “The same to you.”

  The Road Home

  Once the three travellers passed through the castle gate, their guard lost all interest in them. Alone, they made their way back through the town and down toward the docks. As he walked, Declan edged close to Cyril.

  “That was well done, friar,” he said quietly to the monk. “We’d all likely be confined to the dungeon right now had ye not invoked the name of Patrick, but was there no other way than giving him Roland as a hostage?”

  Cyril shot him an acid look.

  “You were there, lord. Who would you have suggested I name—you? Master Finbar? Myself?”

  Declan knew it was an unfair question. Of course there had been no other choice, but it still rankled.

  “John de Courcy is a frightening man,” he said finally.

  “That’s plain enough,” Cyril agreed. “Did you see his eyes? There is madness there! My knees were shaking all the while, my lord. De Courcy is what I call a righteous sinner. Many men find it convenient to invoke God to justify their actions, but a man like de Courcy actually believes that his basest desires are God’s will. Such men will commit every sort of horror in the name of the Lord—without mercy or remorse. I can better understand Sir Roger’s refusal to serve such a man.”

  As they reached the ramp that led down from the walled town toward the dock, Finbar touched Cyril’s sleeve.

  “How did you know about your Bishop’s…ward?”

  “I didn’t,” said Cyril, “I hardly know the man, but it is a common rumour in Chester that the Bishop has this…weakness for young women. No doubt Father Tibold knew of this and sought to use that knowledge to test me.”

  “But what of this Tessa the priest spoke of?”

  Cyril shook his head ruefully.

  “I spoke the truth when I said I did not know of her, but I doubt there was ever one named Tessa. I believe the priest was laying a clever little trap for me. If there was no Tessa and I claimed to know of her, I would have been revealed for certain as a liar. I depended on the simple fact that I, having just arrived from Chester, would have more current news of the Bishop’s indiscretions.”

  “And the names you gave?” Finbar asked, genuinely curious.

  “Made up,” said Brother Cyril with a smile. How would the clever Father Tibold know if there was now
a Hilde or Sybilla?”

  ”Clever,” said Finbar.

  “Thank you.”

  ***

  When they reached the landing beside the dock, Declan saw that the Trosc had already unloaded its cargo and was sailing south across the bay. With relief, they found their horses tethered to stakes in the ground and happily munching on fresh hay. The boy left in charge stepped out between the animals and presented an upturned palm.

  Declan had taken little note of the lad as they were being led away to meet de Courcy, but now saw that the boy looked to be around ten years of age and was as ragged and dirty as a street beggar. He was gaunt and his clothes were threadbare, but his carriage was not that of a beggar. Declan flipped a small silver coin his way and the boy snatched it out of the air with alacrity. After a brief examination of his prize he slipped it into a small leather pouch at his waist.

  “Thank ye, m’lord,” he said solemnly.

  Declan dipped his fingers into his own coin purse and drew forth a larger silver piece, holding it up for the boy to see.

  “Now, lad, we’ll be takin’ but three of these beasts with us. The last, that big grey fella yonder, belongs to our friend, Sir Roland Inness. You recall the tall man with dark hair that was with us?”

  The boy nodded eagerly, not taking his eyes off the coin.

  “Aye, he’s a soldier, like you, m’lord.”

  “Aye, he’s a soldier alright. He’ll be staying behind here at Carrickfergus. It’s his horse and I want it stabled and cared for until we return or he comes to fetch it. This is enough silver to pay for its fodder and stabling for a fortnight and a daily walk as well,” he said, still holding the coin up before the boy. “If it’s longer that, there will be more. Understood?”

  “Aye, lord, but your friend, Inness, where is he? How will he know where to find me if he wants to fetch the horse?”

  Declan couldn’t help but glance up at the brooding square tower looming over the landing.

  “He’s in the keep, I expect—a guest of Lord de Courcy.”

  “A hostage then,” the boy said, flatly.

  Declan raised an eyebrow.

  “What’s yer name, lad?”

  “Finn Mac Clure, m’lord.”

  Declan looked at the boy carefully and wondered if he could be trusted. Once they were out of sight, he might run right to the castle and tell all to de Courcy’s men, but he thought not. The lad looked half-starved and barely clothed. The coin in Declan’s hand was enough to handsomely cure those ills, which was more it appeared than anyone at Carrickfergus had ever done for this lad. Declan leaned in close and placed the coin in the boy’s dirty palm.

  Finn did not immediately drop it into his purse.

  “His lordship keeps a fair close watch over his guests,” he said. “He’ll not be at liberty to fetch the horse.”

  “Perhaps not, but one never knows. The situation could change. You look like a clever lad. Inness is clever too. He may grow tired of the Lord’s hospitality and find himself in urgent need of his horse. Can you get word to him where he might find you and his horse—should the need arise?”

  The boy gave a sly smile.

  “I expect I could, m’lord, but I’ll need two of these for the trouble,” he said, pointing to the single coin in his hand.

  Declan looked hard at the boy, as though truly seeing him for the first time.

  “You’re a thief!” he said.

  The boy returned the gaze without flinching.

  “I’ve been called worse,” he said, “but if I’m to risk my neck consortin’ with one of the Lord’s hostages, I’ll be paid for it!”

  “Well paid,” Declan said sourly, but he fished his hand in his pouch once more and produced another coin. He placed it in the boy’s hand.

  “Do we have an agreement?”

  Finn spit in his right palm and held out his hand. Declan took it.

  “Deal,” the boy said solemnly and dropped the coins in his purse.

  “Now, Master Finn,” Declan said, “when you speak to Sir Roland, tell him we will do as we promised the Prince and return with a report from Down in a fortnight. Tell him he is to enjoy de Courcy’s hospitality in the meantime and wait for our return. He’s not to do anything stupid. Can you tell him that exactly?”

  “Aye, lord,” said the boy.

  “Keep your part of our bargain and I will have another coin for you. Break it and you have my word I will not be forgiving. Understood?”

  “Aye, m’lord.”

  Declan looked up to see that Brother Cyril and Finbar had already mounted. He pulled up the stake securing his chestnut mare, stepped into his stirrup and swung himself into the saddle. He turned away from the boy and eased his horse up beside Finbar.

  “Which way?”

  Finbar gave a little nod toward a road that ran between the timbered walls of the town and the bay. Declan turned to Cyril.

  “Let’s be on to Down,” he said, loud enough so that anyone nearby would hear. “We’ve a saint to consult.”

  ***

  The road that led away from Carrickfergus skirted the northern shore of the bay for ten miles traversing a rocky shoreline and mucky bogs along the way. Declan led the way at a good clip until they were well out of sight of the castle. Then he reined in and turned to look back in the direction they’d come.

  “So what is to be done now?” he asked, as much to himself as to his companions. “We’ve told a bold lie to get past John de Courcy and now we are entangled in it. How far to Armagh, Finbar?”

  “A good two day ride, lord.”

  “And to Down?”

  “One long day and a bit of another.”

  “We cannot return to Carrickfergus without visiting the shrine of Patrick first. That much is for certain. De Courcy knows the place and those who tend it too well. He’d know a lie before we finished tellin’ it. We must go to Down.”

  “Aye,” said Finbar, reluctantly, “but first Armagh and yer sire, lord. We have a fortnight to return to de Courcy before suspicions are aroused. See your father, then attend to getting your friend free of de Courcy.”

  Declan sat his horse and stared back toward Carrickfergus for a long time before speaking.

  “Very well. We go to Armagh first. I’ll see to my father, whether alive or dead. He and I will say our piece, if he is still above ground, but I will not tarry there long while Roland is under that madman’s control. De Courcy may fancy himself Prince of Ulster, but it will be a short reign if any harm comes to Roland. That I swear.”

  “He is a dangerous man,” Finbar agreed, “but has a reputation for keeping his word. I believe your friend Inness will be safe enough, as long as we do nothing to arouse de Courcy’s suspicions. If Brother Cyril can convince the priests at Down of his bona fides and return with a report to de Courcy as promised, I believe Sir Roland will survive being in Sir John’s custody. In fact, he can enjoy a fortnight of snug lodging and good food while he awaits our return!”

  Declan rubbed his chin, still staring back toward Carrickfergus, then shook his head.

  “Most men would do exactly that, but ye don’t know Roland Inness, Finbar. I do. I fear he won’t sit idly waiting for us to return.”

  Finbar looked confused.

  “He will…attempt an escape?”

  “If the opportunity presents itself, he well might.”

  Finbar snorted.

  “Why would he risk such a thing?”

  Declan turned and gave the old counsellor a hard look.

  “It’s an uncertain world, Finbar. He knows we might not return as promised. We might catch the pox or drown crossing a river or be killed by brigands. He knows that nothing short of death would keep me from returning for him, but he also knows death is easy to come by in these parts. For that reason, I doubt he will just wile away the time waiting for us to return. He won’t like having his life in the hands of a man like John de Courcy. He’ll take his leave of Carrickfergus if he has a chance and I would do the same
!”

  “But ye’ve seen the place, both the town and the castle. There is no escaping Carrickfergus!” Finbar protested

  Declan furrowed his brow.

  “Aye, it’s a formidable place, but you underestimate my friend, Finbar. He once escaped from Saladin’s dungeons in Jerusalem. I doubt Carrickfergus will hold him if he’s a mind to leave.”

  “But he doesn’t know this country! Where would he go if he frees himself?”

  Declan frowned.

  “Now that, I cannot tell you.”

  ***

  It was twilight when the three mud-spattered riders neared the ford of the Lagan and saw the small inn. Declan looked at his companions. Cyril seemed none the worse for the journey, but there was exhaustion written on Finbar’s aged face. He reined in his horse beside the inn.

  “We can pass the night here,” he said and started to dismount.

  “No,” said Finbar, “these inns do not suit me—too many eyes—and I would not want to tarry so near now to home. Only God knows if yer sire still lives or if the hour of his passing is near and I’ve not made this journey only to have you arrive late! I know I must rest, but let us press on, at least for a few hours more.”

  Declan did not object and turned his horse’s head to the south. The inn had been built on the last stretch of high ground before the road descended into salt marshes that lined both sides of the river. The ford was near where the Lagan spilled into the bay. There the tides had deposited a bar of hard packed sand that horses could manage at low tide.

  The sun was setting as the three riders splashed across the ford and climbed to higher ground south of the river. A mile further on, the road split with one track continuing south and a smaller track branching off to the southwest.

  “Down lies to the South,” said Finbar, pointing along the main track. He turned and pointed to the smaller path. “That way lies the River Bann and Armagh. The clan chiefs will already be gathering there. The Council is to begin in three days. If yer father lives and has any of his strength back, he will be there.”