by Wayne Grant
“So ye ordered me to put down my axe.”
“Aye, I did.”
“For that I thank you, but why save me, only to bind me over to the man’s service?”
Cathal did not answer for a moment and seemed to sway on his feet. Finbar started forward again, but O’Duinne waved him off.
“Ye know I lost yer mother the day you were born, son,” he began. “She was…everything to me and I never wed another. I miss her still. And you…you were so much like her! Not in appearance so much, but in spirit. Slow to anger, quick with a smile—and you had her laugh. When you were a boy, I would hear it across the rath and, for a moment, she would be back with me.”
“Then why send me away?” Declan asked, his voice cracking.
Cathal shook his head.
“That day…it was not the first time I’d faced the Normans and lost. I had been fighting them since I was a boy. I marched with our clan to face them at Down when you were but a babe. In that great battle, we outnumbered the Normans three to one and yet, we were routed. They seemed to be…unbeatable and I saw nothing but war and defeat ahead for the Cenél Eoghain. Perhaps it was the blow to my head, but when I saw you come at that big Norman with your axe, all my despair and all my fears for the future seemed to be coming true. You were only twelve years old, Declan. I did not want you ground up in this losing fight against the English and it struck me you might be better off serving the victors and not dying with the Irish. It was selfish of me to make such a decision for ye. I realized that almost as soon as ye’d gone, but it was too late then. I’m sorry, son, truly I am.”
Cathal finished his answer and looked up at his son, hoping for understanding if not forgiveness. Declan looked at his father swaying in the alleyway and could see the pain in the man’s eyes. It had not occurred to him until this moment that their separation had been more wrenching for the older man than for himself. He reached out a hand and laid it on Cathal’s shoulder to steady him.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “For ten years I wondered what was in yer heart that day and now I know. Had I stayed, yer fears might have proven true. Perhaps I’d have been long dead now instead of here before you. You judged Sir Roger de Laval more rightly than ye knew—no fiercer or more honourable man walks the earth. Sending me away with him was a gift, though I did not think it so at the time.”
Cathal O’Duinne tried to hold back a sob, but could not. Declan draped an arm over his father’s shoulders as he wept out his relief. Finbar watched for a moment, then turned away, allowing the two men their reunion. He’d done his job.
***
The afternoon passed quickly as the two sat before Cathal’s tent and revelled in each other’s company. Declan listened with interest to his father’s account of the years he’d been absent, tales of the home rath and his brothers. Woven throughout the telling were accounts of the never-ending struggles of the Irish against the English and amongst themselves.
“I am sorry for Fagan, Father, and for Keiran’s wounding,” Declan said when Cathal related the latest bloody encounter with the English east of Armagh.
Cathal sighed.
“Aye, I saw Fagan fall early in the battle, but there was naught I could do for him in the heat of the fight. I did not know until I’d recovered a bit from my own wounds that he’d died and that Keiran had lost his hand.”
The clan chief paused and looked off into the distance.
“Fagan was a good fighter and brave as any of the Cenél Eoghain, though he was quick to anger and headstrong. He was eldest, but I had my doubts he was suited to lead the clan upon my death. I never told him that, but he knew it and thought ill of me for it. I’ve wondered if the lad took risks in that fight to prove me wrong.”
Declan laid a hand on his father’s shoulder.
“In these times, men live by the sword and die by it—if fate or chance decrees. In battle, a half inch and a half second separate the living from the dead. Fagan died a man’s death, fighting for his clan and his country. In this world,” he said waving a stick at the alley choked with tents, “that may be the best any of us can hope for.”
“But tell me of Keiran,” he said.
Cathal gave a little smile and shook his head.
“Yer middle brother is more level-headed than Fagan and less truculent by nature. A bit like me I’m told,” he said with a little chuckle. “Keiran was quick with a blade, and clever as well, but that did not protect him against the English. One of their knights took off his sword hand at the wrist and he near bled to death. One of my men closed the wound with a hot blade and that saved him, but the loss of his hand seems to have unmanned him.”
Declan nodded.
“I’ve seen it happen. Some men cannot abide the loss of a limb, but others can and do. I’ve seen men with worse injuries than a lost hand outfight men whole in body. I’ve led such men. When you have done with this council, we must go to the rath. I will speak to Keiran.”
“He will be shocked to see you, no doubt. Perhaps it will rouse him from the ill humours that seem to have possessed his mind. He will not listen to me.”
As they sat and talked through the afternoon, Cathal was eager to hear Declan’s tales of the crusade and the civil wars that had wracked both England and Wales in recent years, as well as his description of his life at Shipbrook.
“You’ve grown into a fine-lookin’ man, Declan,” he said, with pride in his voice. “And it sounds like yer Sir Roger has done right by ye. Have ye wife, or child?”
“No, no,” Declan answered, with a sheepish grin. “Out on the Welsh border, there aren’t many young women to court.”
Cathal laughed at that.
“There are always young women to court, lad, if you look about ye. At yer age, I was more interested in hunting and fighting than in courting—until the first time I saw yer mother. She was sloppin’ hogs I believe. Up till then, I’d paid little attention to the girls. Afterwards, I paid all my attention to her, until she agreed to marry. I think she did it to get some relief from my constant courting,” he said with a wry smile. “I wish ye’d known her, lad. She was a beauty and as kind a woman as God ever made. If ye find one like that, son…,” he said, his voice trailing off.
“I’ll court her till she’s sick of me!” Declan said with a grin.
For a while the two sat silently, happy to be in each other’s company, then Declan spoke up.
“The battle at Tandragee—Finbar spoke a little of it. What happened there?”
Cathal O’Duinne sighed and rubbed his chin.
“It was a disaster, lad. We had greater numbers than they, but when we met on the road, the English drew back to high ground. O’Neill counselled against attacking them there, but the King would not listen. So in we went. We were on the right and pushed the English and their Irish levies back, but each time we’d break their lines, their armoured knights would seal the gap. You’ve fought with them, son, and must know how hard they are to kill.”
“Aye, mail makes a man very hard to bring down with a blade, but there are ways.”
“Then, the Mac Lochlainn’s on the valley floor were broken by the English cavalry and it became a rout. Thanks to Hugh O’Neill, we were able to withdraw in some order, though our losses were heavy. The slaughter among the Mac Lochlainn clans was worse.”
“So now the Cenél Eoghain must decide what is to come next,” Declan said. “Tell me, what is to happen at this council?”
Cathal shrugged.
“I’m sure Finbar has told ye the gist. The Mac Lochlainn’s wish to retain the kingship of Tir Eoghain, despite the disasters they have led us into. Hugh O’Neill served the old king reluctantly, but faithfully. He gathered his clans when Muirchertach Mac Lochlainn summoned them to battle. He will not do so for the new claimant.”
“But won’t the clans fight if de Courcy makes a new incursion?”
“If Hugh O’Neill is king, they will!” Cathal said fiercely.
“When I passed through Carr
ickfergus, I saw what was being gathered there and it is a formidable force.”
Cathal’s head came up at the mention of the great fortress on the bay.
“You passed through that place?” he asked.
“Aye, we made port there and the place looked more like a military camp than a trading town. We were hauled before de Courcy himself for questioning before being sent on our way.”
“You spoke with John de Courcy?”
“Aye, and I can tell you he is gathering an army and means to use it.”
Cathal O’Duinne rose to his feet, still stiff from his wound.
“Come with me,” he ordered. “You need to meet Hugh O’Neill.”
Hugh O’Neill
The dormitory that had until recently housed Augustinian monks was now crowded with armed men. Some tossed dice on a rough wooden table near the entrance, others gathered in quiet corners to tell tales and drink ale. As he trailed Cathal through the press of men Declan noted the sights, sounds and smells of the place. What had been a quiet dwelling for pious monks was now like barracks the world over. A place to eat, rest and wait—until time to do violence once more. It felt like home to him.
Unlike the dormitory for lay monks on the west side of the square, this building was home to the monastic brethren who rated better quarters. After passing through a number of outer rooms and down a corridor, Cathal led his son to a door that opened onto a small cloister. This peaceful refuge at the heart of the dormitory had a stone fountain at its centre surrounded by a garden rampant with spring flowers.
The open space was less crowded than the interior of the building, but there were knots of men about. These clansmen looked oddly out of place among the delicate flowers in bloom. Yarrow, woodbine, poppy and fairy thimble in their spring finery combined to make even the most elegantly dressed chieftain look dull and drab by comparison. Near the centre of the cloister, on a stone bench, sat Hugh O’Neill.
Cathal did not point O’Neill out, but he did not need to. The number of men gathered around the figure on the bench was identification enough, though the clan chief looked nothing like Declan expected. Having served Richard the Lionheart, Prince Llywelyn and William Marshall he’d come to expect war leaders to look as imposing as their reputations, but Hugh O’Neill did not. He was of average height, with dull brown hair and a round belly that could only be called corpulent. Cathal turned and saw the look on his son’s face as they neared the leader. He leaned in close as they walked.
“They call him Hugh the Stout behind his back,” he whispered, “but don’t let that fool ye. He’s a fighter!”
Declan surveyed the group gathered around O’Neill. There was no question these men were warriors. They looked to be men ready to do violence when called upon, but they all showed deference to the portly man sitting on the bench. Despite the crowd around O’Neill, the clan chief noticed their approach and hailed Cathal.
“O’Duinne! Yer looking fitter today. How fares the wound?”
Cathal bobbed his head, the only formality seemingly required when addressing the chieftain, and gave a small laugh.
“It heals up slower than it did ten years ago, Hugh, but it hasn’t festered so I expect to live.”
O’Neill slapped his knee at that and hopped to his feet.
“Let me see!” he said with genuine interest.
Cathal did not hesitate, but pulled up his tunic to show the angry red scar along his ribs. Hugh O’Neill bent down and carefully examined the wound.
“Nasty cut there, Cathal, but it looks clean. How is yer lad, Keiran? I hear he is recovering, but takes his wound badly.”
“Aye, he’ll live, but I’m not sure he wants to. His body will heal in due time, but I worry for the lad’s spirit.”
O’Neill nodded gravely.
“I can’t say how I would cope with the loss of a limb myself, Cathal. Probably just as badly. I’ll say a prayer for the lad.”
“That would be most kind, sir.”
“Not at all!” O’Neill said, turning his gaze toward Declan. “But tell me, who is this sturdy young man ye bring with ye?”
Cathal cleared his throat.
“Ye recall ten years ago, the fight down near the Bann over the herd of cattle?”
For a moment Hugh O’Neill furrowed his brow trying to recall the incident, fights over herds of cattle in Ulster being as commonplace as thunderstorms in the summer. Then his eyes brightened.
“Ah, yes. I recall it. You took a blow to the head and were tended to by the man who laid on that blow. We all thought it most unusual behaviour for a Norman!”
He started to continue then stopped and looked hard at Declan.
“Then…bless me, this must be the boy—the one you sent off with the Norman.”
Declan glanced at his father who had a pained look on his face. He’d wondered what story Cathal O’Duinne might have told about that day. It appeared the man had told the truth.
Declan gave Hugh O’Neill a small bow.
“My lord, Declan O’Duinne, at yer service.”
O’Neill looked him over, then turned back to Cathal.
“He has yer colouring, Cathal, but for certain he’s his mother’s son with those eyes.”
Cathal nodded.
“I always thought so. And he’s done well, Hugh. He fought with the English on crusade and was knighted by King Richard himself at the battle of Acre.”
A faint look of distaste showed on O’Neill’s face.
“So I see you became a Norman yourself…Sir Declan.”
Declan bristled.
“Not a Norman, my lord, though I make no apologies for serving one. The man I’ve given my oath to is as good a man as any in England—or Ireland, I expect.”
O’Neill bristled back.
“Normans are a plague,” he stated flatly.
Cathal laid a restraining hand on Declan’s elbow, but to no avail.
“Normans outfight the Irish,” he replied, an edge in his voice. “Whose fault is that? Are they more a plague than the men of Connacht or Tir Connell who ravage Tir Eoghain every generation or so? You can curse the Normans or you can learn how to beat them, my lord. You had best do the latter, for you will face them again and soon, I expect.”
“What do you mean, sir?” the clan chief demanded.
“I mean that Carrickfergus is bursting with armed men and Sir John de Courcy is preparing to go to war.”
“And how do you know the mind of that bastard?”
“I landed at Carrickfergus two days ago and was dragged before de Courcy himself. He questions all armed men who pass through his port.”
“You spoke with de Courcy?” O’Neill interrupted him.
“Aye, lord. The monk who came with us on this journey did most of the talking, but I was present.”
“And what did you learn from this ‘Prince of Ulster’?”
“I learned he’s a madman, my lord, who thinks dead saints speak to him. Apparently they tell him to conquer all of Ulster.”
Hugh O’Neill shook his head.
“I’ve heard of his obsession with Patrick, but sadly, he is more than a madman. He hasn’t ruled a third of Ulster for twenty years without being clever and a capable war chief.” O’Neill looked over his shoulder at the cluster of men waiting for him by the bench, then turned back to the O’Duinnes, father and son.
“I have unfinished business to attend to, Cathal, but I would pursue this further. Come to me an hour after dark—and bring him with you,” he said, pointing at Declan.
***
In the spring, in the north of Ireland, sunset is long in coming. With Finbar dispatched to the O’Duinne rath to look in on Keiran and Brother Cyril allowed to venture down the hill to seek out his fellow monks, Declan and his father spent the time speaking of their ten years apart.
“Even here, in far off Tir Eoghain, we heard tales of the English king they call the Lionheart and of his exploits in the Holy Land,” Cathal said as he added wood to the campfire
outside his tent. “More recently, word reached us that men loyal to King Richard had beaten Prince John’s mercenaries at a place called Towcester.”
“I fought there,” said Declan.
“As did more than a few men from Tir Eoghain,” Cathal observed.
Declan gave a small laugh.
“I hope they hold no grudges.”
“Why should they? They were paid to fight. Had Richard offered them more they would have been on your side.”
Declan looked up at the western sky, which was turning shades of orange as the sun dipped low on the horizon.
“What will Hugh O’Neill want of me tonight?”
Cathal shrugged.
“He’ll likely want to know everything you can tell him about de Courcy and the force he’s gathering at his accursed fort at Carrickfergus. Beyond that, I cannot say.”
“That I’ll do willingly, Father, but you must understand I came here to see you, not to join in a war. I’ve given my oath to Sir Roger de Laval and will honour that as long as he wishes to have me. He will choose what wars I fight, not I.”
Cathal O’Duinne did not reply at once. He sat silently for a while, watching as the sun disappeared completely behind the dormitory that housed the Mac Lochlainn clans. Then he turned back to Declan.
“Son, I know what I did all those years ago can never be undone, though I have wished a thousand times I had not done it. And to see you now, come home to Tir Eoghain, a man in full. It made me wish—made me hope—that you would stay.”
“Father, I…”
Cathal raised a hand to silence his son.
“I can see now that, with the help of God and your Sir Roger, you have built a good life for yerself in spite of my own foolishness. It seems a life worth holdin’ on to, son. I hear your king fights the French these days, but there is peace in England, so you should get yerself back there before war finds ye here—as it surely must if ye stay. I’ve had enough of dead and wounded sons to last a lifetime.”
Declan felt a lump in his throat. When he’d last known his father, he’d been twelve and the man had loomed over everything in his life like a giant. Now, with his hair going to grey and his face etched with lines, the clan chief looked merely human. Declan crossed to where Cathal sat and dropped down beside him.