Declan O'Duinne

by Wayne Grant

  For two more hours they rode southwest in the fading twilight until it became dangerous for the horses to continue. Declan led them off the trail and over a rise to a secluded patch of woods near a meadow. He built a small fire as a soft rain began to fall. As the three men gathered around the flickering light, Declan tilted his head back and let the fine drops fall on his face.

  “Ireland,” he sighed, “so green, so wet.” He lowered his head and turned to Finbar.

  “This council at Armagh. You’ve said that Hugh O’Neill intends to challenge Mac Lochlainn for the kingship. What lies behind his challenge—other than the old bad blood between the clans?”

  Finbar looked across the fire at the young knight.

  “As you’ve already surmised, if bad blood was all that was needed to start a civil war between the O’Neill’s and Mac Lochlainns there would never be peace! So, yes, there is more to it than that.”

  The old man took a sharp stick and began to scratch in the dirt next to the fire. He made a ragged line and near the centre drew an equally ragged circle. He turned to Declan and gestured to the young monk by his side.

  “You will know much of what I say now, my lord, but yer Brother Cyril here needs to understand the situation. It may help him survive.”

  Cyril nodded vigorously and leaned in to watch as the old Irishman stabbed the point of his stick into the centre of the circle. He was not fluent in Gaelic, but the Abbot who had instructed him as a novitiate in Northumbria had been Irish and he had learned enough to follow conversations.

  “Here is Lough Neagh,” Finbar said, “the biggest lake in all Ireland and this,” he said, pointing to the lines on either side of the lough, “is the River Bann that feeds the lough in the south and carries its waters off to the sea in the north. It is the traditional boundary between Tir Eoghain to the west and Down and Antrim in the east. De Courcy now rules Down and Antrim and most assuredly has designs on Tir Eoghain.”

  “He is planning something for certain,” Cyril observed. “All those men we saw in the village of Carrickfergus—they were not merchants or tradesmen.”

  “Aye,” said Finbar, “de Courcy has grown bolder these past few years in his sallies across the Bann. A year ago he struck in the north, crossing the Lower Bann and pillaging as far as Derry. Last month he led the force up from Down in the south and struck at Armagh.”

  “Where my brother died,” said Declan.

  “Aye, along with many another man of the Cenél Eoghain,” Finbar said gravely.

  For a long moment, the old Irishman fell silent as though in reverence for the many fallen. Then he spoke with a touch of bitterness in his voice.

  “Our dead King, Muirchertach Mac Lochlainn, insisted on that battle, though he has lost every time he’s ever fought against these English. What’s more, he ordered the most sacred relic of our faith, the bell of Saint Patrick, to march in the vanguard. He was hoping, I suppose, that divine intervention could make up for poor generalship. The bell was lost along with the King’s life.”

  Finbar stopped and seemed to be gathering his thoughts as the rain fell harder, the drops hissing as they struck the coals of the fire.

  “John de Courcy may be mad, but he is a brilliant general,” he said, squatting close to the flames now and holding out his thin, wrinkled hands to warm them. “I know not whether he will strike next in the north toward Derry or the south toward Armagh, but strike he will.”

  He twisted about as he sat on his haunches and looked at Declan. There was fear in his eyes.

  “From Armagh it is but a half day’s ride to the Blackwater and our rath, lord.”

  “And while the Cenél Eoghain bicker, de Courcy gathers men,” said Declan.

  “Hugh O’Neill could stop him!” Finbar declared with certainty. “Hugh is a fighter and no fool. He says he can keep these English bastards out of Tir Eoghain—if he is king.”

  “And the Mac Lochlainns?”

  Finbar snorted.

  “Think otherwise.”

  Declan did not reply. He stirred the fire with a stick and lifted his face once more to the soft rain.

  Ireland, he thought. So green, so wet,…so cursed.

  ***

  They arose while stars were still visible in the sky and were riding west at first light through low rolling hills. The three riders passed few on the road at this hour, only a herdsmen or two driving cattle toward their rath for morning milking. As they neared a second ford over the winding Lagan River, they saw a new motte being raised south of the road.

  Declan reined in his mount. He pointed to the naked mound of earth rising off to the left of the road. There, trees had been felled and draft horses could be seen hauling carts filled with local clay up a switchback ramp to be deposited on the top.

  “More of de Courcy’s work?” asked Brother Cyril.

  “Aye, it’s grown since I passed this way ten days ago,” said Finbar.

  Declan stared at the mound. In another month, this heap of earth would be topped with a log palisade and would command this road and the ford over the Lagan. De Courcy was leaving nothing to chance. Near the base of the mound, he saw three men watching them. One gestured in their direction and all three began to move toward their horses tethered nearby.

  “How far to the ford, Finbar? ” Declan asked as he watched the men untie their mounts. “I’m not in the mood for a fight before supper.”

  “Not far, lord.”

  “Very well. I think it best we not dawdle on this side of the river,” he said and spurred his chestnut mare into a trot.

  ***

  The sun had set when they reached the River Bann. At the ford, the river was no more than thirty yards wide, but this was late spring and the current was strong in the shallows. Had they been mounted on the small Irish ponies, they’d have been soaked to the thighs making the crossing, but aboard their taller English horses they scarcely splashed their boots. As his mount scrambled up the western bank of the river, Declan looked around him. While this land was in the province of Armagh, the men of Tir Eoghain had ruled it for generations.

  Tir Eoghain.

  He felt a lump in his throat as he reined in on the high ground above the river. It had been ten years since he’d set foot on his native soil. The land looked unchanged, but he could not say the same for himself. He looked across a flat boggy expanse to green hills two miles distant and thought of the day he’d left this land. It had been a bitter one. The memory of it had gnawed at him for ten years.

  Given away.

  He shook his head. They would reach Armagh by the next afternoon and find his father alive or dead. What would he say to the man? What would Cathal O’Duinne say to him? He guided the chestnut mare off the road and found a hidden glade to spend the night. He lay awake long after the others had fallen into sleep—wondering what the new day would bring.

  ***

  It was a little past noon when the spire of Saint Patrick’s church at Armagh came into view. The road they’d travelled since crossing the Bann approached Armagh from the northeast and was often used by pilgrims from Antrim coming to worship at this church founded by Saint Patrick. The O’Duinne rath lay to the west of Armagh just beyond the Blackwater River and as a boy Declan had come many times to the abbey town with his father and brothers on feast days. But he had never approached the town from this direction and the view of the church, sitting atop the steep northern slope of Armagh’s hill, was breathtaking. Cyril and Finbar hastened to keep up as Declan dug his heels into the flanks of his horse and urged the animal into a trot.

  The road did not run directly into the abbey grounds, but turned sharply to the right and curved around the steep hill, passing over a low shoulder and turning south. The land in that direction was mostly level and had been cleared for crops and pasturage. Cows and sheep browsed spring grass and Declan could see some of the abbey brethren at labour in the fields. A quarter mile on, they reached another road that ran from the central square of the abbey toward the O’Ne
ill stronghold of Dungannon, fifteen miles to the west.

  As they reached the western road Declan reined in for a moment and looked off in that direction. This dirt track ran for six miles to a ford over the Blackwater River. A mile beyond the ford lay the O’Duinne rath where he’d been born. Turning back to his left, he saw that the abbey grounds looked much the same as they had when he’d last seen them as a boy.

  He nudged his chestnut mare into a walk and followed the road up a gentle grade as it passed between a monk’s dormitory on the left and a large stable on the right. The road ended at a cobbled square that sloped gently up to the north and ended at the entrance to Saint Patrick’s church, which sat on the crest of the hill. On the eastern side of the square was another dormitory and the abbey’s chapter house and library

  When they reached the centre of the square, Declan saw a banner raised in front of the chapter house. A steady breeze snapped the flag out stiffly. He’d been gone ten years, but he could hardly fail to recognize the bloody red hand on the white field. It was the symbol of the O’Neills—the Red Hand of Ulster. He dismounted and led his mare toward the banner. If Cathal O’Duinne was in Armagh he would be somewhere nearby.

  Groups of well-armed men were gathered in front of the squat abbey buildings and he could see tents set up in the open spaces between the structures. Finbar veered off to the right and began making inquiries among some of the clansmen idling in the square. Declan turned abruptly to his left to head toward the row of tents between the chapter house and the monk’s dormitory. He expected that the small O’Duinne sept might not rate lodging in in either building.

  Brother Cyril, following obediently behind, noted the sudden change of course and realized too late that the Irish knight had not seen a young woman striding across the square, directly into his path. The monk called out a warning just as Declan ploughed into the girl and sent her sprawling.

  For a long awkward moment there was stunned silence on all sides, then Declan began to sputter an apology and knelt at the girl’s side to help her to her feet. She slapped away his proffered hand and scrambled up on her own, her cheeks flushed red and her eyes blazing.

  “Miss, please forgive me, I did not…”

  “Ye did not look where ye were goin’!” the girl cut him off as she brushed some dust from her dress. “Are ye blind?”

  “No! No, my lady, just clumsy and in too great a hurry.”

  Declan watched as the girl patted down her hair and continued to inspect her clothes for dirt. He could not help but notice that she was quite beautiful. Her hair, though a bit mussed, was as black as a raven’s wing and her eyes were pale blue. With a start, he realized that he had stopped halfway through his apology and was simply staring at the poor girl. She, in turn, was looking him up and down with a frown.

  “I beg yer forgiveness, my lady,” he began again. “It was all my fault.” He gave the girl a small bow and a smile.

  It was not returned.

  “Aye, it was that,” she said with a sniff. “Yer with the O’Neills?”

  “Not exactly, miss. I’m a visitor.”

  “Then stay out of my way, visitor,” she said and stalked off.

  “You seem to have made your first new friend here, my lord,” Cyril said cheerily.

  Declan shook his head as he watched the girl walk away toward the opposite side of the square. The dormitory on the eastern side of the square had its own banner hoisted. It was also one he recognized—the three crescent moons of the Mac Lochlainn clan.

  “I would not like to be that one’s enemy,” he said as she disappeared into a crowd.

  Just then he was hailed by Finbar who had missed the incident in the square entirely. The old counsellor beckoned him with an excited grin and pointed down a row of tents. At first Declan could not see what the man was pointing to—then he did and it made the breath catch in his throat. There, sitting on a short stool sharpening his long-handled axe, sat a very pale, but very much alive, Cathal O’Duinne.

  Though the brown hair and beard were shot through with grey, there was no mistaking his father. Declan was frozen to the spot, but Finbar did not wait. He brushed past the young knight and hurried to greet his master. Cathal O’Duinne looked up as his old friend’s shadow fell across his work. For a moment he did not seem to recognize Finbar, then his eyes grew wide. He tried to leap to his feet, but only rose to a crouch before sitting back down heavily, a hand clutching at his wounded side.

  “Help me up, damn it all,” he growled and extended his hand.

  Finbar grasped him by the wrist and managed to haul the bigger man upright. Once standing, Cathal wrapped his arms around the thin old man and pulled him close. After a long embrace, he stepped back, his hands still gripping Finbar’s shoulders.

  “I thought you dead,” he said, his eyes shining. “They told me I’d sent you off on some fool’s errand whilst I had the fever. I swear I have no recollection of it! When I came back to my senses, I sent riders out to find you and bring you back, but by then you had vanished. I paid a priest at Dungannon to say prayers for your safe return!”

  “The prayers worked, my lord, for here I am,” Finbar said simply.

  “Your good wife told me that you had set out to fetch my youngest son back from England,” he said, draping an arm around the man’s thin shoulders and shaking his head. “It’s been ten years since I let that boy go, Finbar, and what’s done is done. I live with that loss, but these are bad times for the O’Duinnes. I’ve lost Fagan and Keiran is now a shadow of himself. I could not stand to lose you as well, old friend. Gone to England? Good God, Finbar, did you even make it beyond the Bann? Did ye get as far as Dublin? Where have you been wandering all this time?”

  Finbar had waited patiently for his master to have his say. Now the old man broke into a wide smile.

  “Why I crossed the Bann and the Irish Sea as well, my lord, and I wandered all the way to England.”

  Finbar paused.

  “And I’ve brought ye back a keepsake.”

  “Keepsake?”

  “Aye, lord,” said Finbar and stepped back, pointing to Declan who stood, still as a statue, at the end of the row of tents. For a moment Cathal O’Duinne said nothing, then his chin began to tremble and he clutched at Finbar’s arm to steady himself.

  “My God,” he gasped, releasing his hold on Finbar and lurching forward.

  Declan saw the recognition in his father’s eyes and came to meet him. He tried to speak but did not know what words to say. The two men embraced in the crowded alleyway as Finbar looked on, a satisfied smile on his face.

  “Father…” Declan croaked, his throat tight.

  Cathal O’Duinne sobbed, his shoulders heaving as he held his lost son in an iron grip.

  “Blessed Jesus,” he finally managed, “ye’ve come home.”

  Reunion

  The two men stood embracing in the alleyway for a long time, then Declan finally drew back. Both men’s eyes were red.

  “Yer wound…” Declan began.

  “I’ve had worse,” Cathal said, brushing aside his injury with a wave of his hand.

  “Finbar thought ye might die, so I came.”

  Cathal shook his head.

  “He tells me I sent for ye, lad, but I have no recollection of that. By the time my fever broke, Finbar was gone. I never thought he’d come back alive, much less with you, but I thank God he did.” The older man took a step back to get a better look at the young man standing before him.

  “You look as though England has agreed with you, son,” he said.

  Declan shrugged.

  “I’ve no complaints,” he began, then stopped. He looked at his father, then blurted out the question that had gnawed at him for ten years.

  “Why did you do it?”

  His son’s words struck Cathal O’Duinne almost like a physical blow. He staggered a half step back and looked shaken. Finbar grasped the man’s arm to steady him and glared at Declan.

  “Shame!” he sh
outed, waving a finger at Declan. “I’ve not brought ye back here to speak so to yer sire!”

  But the burly clan chief pulled his arm away and held up a hand to silence his old counsellor.

  “It’s a fair question,” he growled at Finbar, “and who has a better right to ask it?” He turned his gaze back to Declan, his cheeks now wet with tears.

  “Not a day has passed in ten years that I did not see you, perched up behind that big Norman on his enormous horse, riding away. It broke my heart, Declan. Every day since, I’ve wondered how you fared—whether you were alive or dead.”

  O’Duinne stopped, searching for the words to explain what had happened so many years ago. Declan broke the silence.

  “When I was younger,” he said, his voice husky as he fought back tears of his own, “I invented a grand story and told it to any who wondered how an Irish boy came to be squire to a Norman knight. In my story, the Norman knight bested you in battle, then spared your life. That much I know to be true. The rest I had to invent. In my telling you commended me into Sir Roger’s service because you saw in him a man of gallantry and honour. Though Sir Roger de Laval is those things and much more, I never really believed that part of the story. Now, Father, I would have the truth. Why did you do it?”

  Cathal O’Duinne took a deep breath.

  “Very well then, the truth,” he said, “or at least the truth as best I can recall it. The story ye told was not a lie, son, but it was not the whole truth. Yer Sir Roger did best me that day. I swear, I’ve never seen a more deadly man in a fight than that Norman! The blow he laid on my helmet came out of nowhere and, next I knew, I was looking up at the man, my head in his lap. Instead of finishing me, as any man might, he gave me water and checked the lump on my head. Very odd behaviour from an enemy, especially a Norman! Then you arrived with Finbar and yer brothers. My head was swimming, but I saw that it was you who came at the man with murder in your eye and an axe in your hands. The damned axe was nigh as big as you were. I saw the Norman back away, but knew he might have to kill you to save himself.”