by Wayne Grant
“Father, I will stay for this council and give Hugh O’Neill what information I can. Before I leave, I’ll visit my brother as well, but I cannot tarry more than a few days. Then I must go on to Down and then back to Carrickfergus.”
Cathal looked at him quizzically.
“Why back through Carrickfergus? Ride down to Dublin and take ship there. It’s the sensible thing to do.”
“Not in this case, Father. We had another member of our party when we arrived on these shores, a fellow knight who is more brother to me than Fagan or Keiran. De Courcy forced us to leave him hostage at Carrickfergus until our return. Whatever Hugh O’Neill may want of me, I will not leave Roland Inness in that man’s hands longer than needed, nor will I risk his life. I told him I would return in a fortnight to fetch him.”
“But why Down? It’s hardly on the way to Carrickfergus.”
“Aye, but we had to have a story that would not arouse de Courcy’s suspicions. We’ve told him that Brother Cyril was traveling from Chester to confer with the monks at Down and he expects us to give him an account of our visit when we pass back through his port.”
“So you would ride back into the lion’s den for this man, Inness?”
Declan did not hesitate.
“I’ve given my word. And Roland Inness would do it for me.”
***
With the coming of darkness, clouds blew in from the west hiding the moon and stars and leaving only guttering torches to light the cobbled square at Armagh. Declan and Cathal made their way back to the main entrance of the monk’s dormitory and were directed to a corner room where Hugh O’Neill sat on a wooden chest holding court. When the clan chieftain saw the two men enter, he politely asked the four men with him to leave.
“Come in, come in, have some ale,” he said, gesturing toward cups and a pitcher on a small table by the lone window of the room. Declan glanced around as Cathal poured two cups of the amber liquid. It was truly a monk’s lodging with nothing more than a wooden crucifix on the wall for ornamentation and a straw mattress beside the chest where Hugh O’Neill was perched. A half dozen stools had been dragged in from elsewhere in the building to accommodate the many clansmen who had business with the leader of the O’Neills.
Cathal handed a cup to Declan and the two men settled onto stools. O’Neill took a deep draught from his own cup and rose, looking out the tiny window into the black of the night.
“After the last battle, all the clans limped back to Armagh or further into Tir Eoghain to bind their wounds and mourn their many dead,” he began. “All thought…all hoped, that there would be no more campaigning after such a battle. For, while the Cenél Eoghain suffered terrible losses, the English were bloodied as well. Then, a fortnight ago, we heard reports from Carrickfergus that de Courcy was gathering new forces to continue his campaign against us. That is the last information we have received. Our man who watched the comings and goings at the port and castle has gone silent.” He stopped and turned toward Declan.
“I asked you here, in part, to find out what you saw there.”
Declan grimaced.
“Lord, there was a head on a spike over the castle gate. That might explain the silence of your spy.”
O’Neill frowned.
“I expected as much. Fergus was a brave man and deserved a better fate, but his loss has left us blind. So tell me, what did you see or hear as you passed through that damned place.”
“I did not count heads, my lord, but in the town itself I saw at least a hundred fighting men lounging in the streets. Some looked to be Irish, but others had the look of Englishmen. I saw two men with longbows—likely Welsh archers. If I saw that many fighting men on the street, I’d guess as least three times that number were in the taverns and barracks.”
“And the garrison?
“No more than eighty men.”
O’Neill took another drink from his cup of ale.
“Your interview with de Courcy—tell me about that.”
“Most of the conversation centred on Brother Cyril’s story that he was a pilgrim sent by the Bishop of Chester to confer with the Abbot at Down regarding the saint, Patrick. De Courcy heartily approved of such a pilgrimage and gave us a letter of safe passage and introduction for the Abbot at Down. He strongly urged us to view for ourselves the bell of Saint Patrick, which I gather he placed in the abbey after the battle.”
This caused Hugh O’Neill’s face to redden.
“We played right into de Courcy’s hands by parading the saint’s bell before our army that day. I saw him take the bell from the dead hands of Eamon Maelchallain after they broke our lines. It was a grievous loss, Sir Declan. Saint Malachy himself entrusted that bell to the Cenél Eoghain and the Maelchallain clan. Now it’s in the hands of our enemy. It’s loss has caused many to lose heart, but not the O’Neills!” The clan chieftain slammed a fist down on the table causing a cup of ale to spill and drain out on the floor.
“This de Courcy is a clever man. In many ways, he understands the Irish better than any of the English barons. He has used our divisions to defeat us in battle and has venerated our saints to ease the burden of his rule. De Courcy has elevated St. Patrick to a more exalted position than even the church of Rome has. He seeks to sway the Irish to his side by his reverence for our greatest saint, but I for one see through him. He may pay his respects to our saints but he has no respect for the Irish themselves. He has banished the Irish priests at Down who had maintained the church there since Patrick founded it seven hundred years ago and brought in droves of English monks to replace them. Still, I’m not sure his veneration of Patrick is just an act.”
“My lord, the man believes Patrick speaks to him,” said Declan, “and it is no act.”
O’Neill shook his head.
“I had not heard that he was in direct contact with the dead saint, but I’m not surprised. De Courcy is half mad. Did he have anything else to say?”
Declan thought for a moment.
“He seemed most interested in the fact that my comrade and I fought under Earl William Marshall at Towcester. He wanted to hear a detailed account of how we beat Prince John’s mercenaries. Sadly, he kept my friend, Sir Roland Inness, as a hostage until our return from Down. I expect it will fall to Roland to explain how we bested John’s army.”
“Towcester—that ended John’s rebellion against his brother, or so we heard.”
“Aye, it was John’s last throw of the dice and he had the stronger force that day, but we had the better strategy.”
O’Neill arched an eyebrow.
“Then perhaps I should ask the same question that de Courcy asked—how did you beat John’s army?”
For the next hour, Declan related the details of the battle at Towcester that secured Richard’s throne. Throughout his telling, Hugh O’Neill peppered him with questions on terrain, tactics, and weaponry.
“Longbows?” he asked, after Declan recalled the death rained down on the mercenaries by Earl Ranulf’s Danish archers. “I thought only the Welsh used that weapon. De Courcy hires as many of them as he can find.”
“Aye, I think if the English themselves ever come to fully appreciate the power of the longbow, they might conquer the whole world. But they are as stubborn as the Irish. They have been taught from boyhood that it is the armoured knight and the motte that wins wars. They find it hard to change.”
“So how are we to win, without archers?”
Declan ran a hand through his hair. The longbowmen had played a crucial role in the battle. The ability to strike at the enemy foot as they advanced up the long slope and again at the armoured knights when they came within close range had been decisive. But the bow was not a weapon much favoured by the Irish. He thought back on what he knew of Irish war tactics and brightened.
“Do you still employ hobelars, my lord?”
O’Neill nodded. Since earliest times, Irish clans had used the nimble little ponies bred on the island in the incessant wars between petty kings. Men wh
o trained as hobelars would dart in close to enemy lines mounted on the swift little beasts, hurl light spears at their enemies, then turn and gallop away before the infantry could close on them.
“We have made use of them on raids and ambushes. But in a pitched battle, they would be cut to pieces by the English cavalry.”
Declan shook his head.
“Not if you pick the right ground, my lord.”
Hostage
“Psst…Master Inness!”
Roland’s head snapped up at the hissed greeting. He was passing by the arched opening in the eastern wall that served as the entrance to Carrickfergus Castle. He’d spent his first night as the guest of Sir John de Courcy in a room attached to the barracks in the inner ward. It was small and spare with a straw mattress on the floor and a stool, but wasn’t a gaol as there was no lock on the door. The guard who had escorted him there explained that guests of Sir John had the run of the inner bailey so long as they made no move to exit the castle gate and returned to their rooms at sundown.
He’d passed the morning wandering between the buildings that crowded the space within the castle walls and walking the perimeter of the curtain wall assessing the strengths and weaknesses of the fortifications. He’d found few weaknesses. Now he’d been hailed, but no one was in sight.
He glanced through the passageway at the two men-at-arms stationed at the gate itself. They were talking to a woman who held a basket of washing under her arm and were paying no heed to him. He swivelled his head around. There were only a few tradesmen and men-at-arms going about their business in the bailey and none seemed interested in him. But someone had called his name. He hadn’t imagined it.
“Up here!” came the voice again from directly above him. He looked up and found himself gazing at the round face of a boy, peering down from the wall walk above the gate. The boy motioned urgently for Roland to join him, then drew back out of sight.
Roland glanced at the gate guards. They were still engaged with the washerwoman. He moved casually to the stone steps that led up to the wall walk. At the top of the stairs he stopped and lifted his eyes to the towering keep. There was a lookout on duty on the roof, but the man was looking off to the west. Lowering his gaze, he searched for the boy, but saw no one.
“Psst, in here,” came the voice again.
The sound came from a small wooden structure that overhung the gate. The place was used to drop stones or boiling water on attackers attempting to breach the gate and could be accessed from the wall walk by a narrow door. Glancing around once more, Roland slipped through the door into the cramped compartment. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He heard the boy before he could plainly see him.
“Yer Inness, are ye not?” the boy asked quietly.
“Aye, lad. I’m Inness.”
“Then I have yer horse and yer kit too. The horse, he’s a good ‘un!”
Roland smiled. His eyes had adjusted to the light and he saw it was the boy who been left in charge of the horses on their arrival.
“Aye, he is, lad. I call him The Grey and he’s the best horse I’ve ever had.”
“Ye must be rich to own such a one as that,” the boy said, with just a touch of wistfulness in his voice. “I’ll need silver to keep him in hay and water.”
Roland looked hard at the boy. This was no doubt a lie. If Declan had left The Grey in this lad’s care, he would have paid. But the hollow cheeks and thin frame were no lie. This boy was fighting his own battle to survive in Carrickfergus. He took a coin from his purse and handed it over.
“What’s your name, lad?”
“I’m called Finn, m’lord. I work down at the stables in town. Yer friend, the one with red hair, he gave me a message for ye.”
“What was the message, Finn?”
“He says they will be back in a fortnight to fetch ye. Yer to stay put and enjoy the food and lodging here until they return. Yer not to do anything stupid.”
Roland stifled a laugh. It was sound advice, but Declan knew he might well ignore it. When he’d been imprisoned in Jerusalem’s dungeons by the great Saladin, there’d been other Christian prisoners there and all were waiting for King Richard to take the city and release them. But he’d seen Jerusalem’s walls and knew what a daunting task that would be. He chose not to wait and had found a way out. The men who had stayed behind were all dead now. It was a lesson he hadn’t forgot.
“You speak good English, Finn.”
The boy frowned.
“I speak it. I have to or I’d starve. I’ve more use for English than Irish in my work.”
“But you are not English.”
“No,” the boy said and spit in disgust. Then he realized who he was speaking to. “No offense, Master Inness.”
“None taken, but you said you might starve. Have you no family?”
The boy shook his head.
“None hereabouts.” My people are from Ulaid—what the English call Antrim. It was once ruled over by my grandsire as vassal to de Courcy.”
“Once?”
“Aye, once, my lord. Three years ago, my grandsire rose against Sir John, but was brought to heel. He swore to remain loyal to the Prince, but he went back on his word and rebelled once more. This time de Courcy was not so gentle. He crushed the rising and left my grandsire dead upon the field, I’m told.”
“What of your father and mother? How did you come to be here in Carrickfergus?”
“They are both dead. My mother died of a fever two springs ago and my father was killed.”
“Killed? In battle?”
“No,” said Finn and paused for a long moment before continuing.
“When first my grandsire rose against de Courcy and lost, he was forced to provide a hostage to ensure his future loyalty.”
“Your father was the hostage.”
“Aye, he was like you,” the boy said. “He was a guest of Sir John.”
“But your grandsire rose again.”
“Aye lord, and the Prince had my father’s throat cut.”
Silence fell in the dim interior of the alcove.
“I’m sorry, Finn.”
Finn shrugged his skinny shoulders.
“My grandsire was a fool to break his word and de Courcy…he’s a bad man, Master Inness, a dangerous man.”
“Aye, lad. That’s plain enough and I thank you for the warning.” Roland took another coin from his purse and held it up.
“You seem a clever lad and it seems you can come and go as you please around here. How would you get out of Carrickfergus if you were me?”
The boy gave a small smile. He reached out and took the coin.
“Let me think on that, Sir Roland.”
The Council
The dawn broke with no sun to be seen, only dark clouds rolling in from the west and a fine drizzle soaking the abbey, the town and all in it. In late morning, a horn sounded from the top of the hill near the church announcing an hour until the beginning of the council of the Cenél Eoghain. Near noon, the sun managed to show through a break in the overcast as Hugh O’Neill strode out of his quarters in the monk’s dormitory followed by thirteen men. A dozen of these were the heads of the major O’Neill septs. One was not.
Declan stood nervously with the sept chieftains, the only man among them who was not a known leader within the O’Neill clan. A messenger had appeared at Cathal’s tent a little after dawn with the unexpected request that he attend the council. He’d pulled a clean tunic from his kit and brushed the mud from his boots and now stood with men who looked at him curiously.
Some of the older chiefs he recognized from his childhood, but he was struck by the number of younger men among this gathering, no doubt the legacy of the slaughter inflicted on the clans not ten miles from where they now stood. That defeat had thinned the ranks of veteran sept leaders, men of his father’s generation. Now their sons had taken on the burdens of leadership.
As they waited for Hugh to lead the way up to the church the older men
yawned and scratched themselves while the younger men tried not to look nervous. Hugh turned to look at his followers.
“Weapons?” he demanded.
All raised open palms and shook their heads. No man was to bring a weapon to the council, which was being convened in the church. The meeting would be overseen by the Archbishop of Armagh as further hinderance to any bloodshed between the parties. But Hugh knew these men and knew the violent history between his own clan and their cousins, the Mac Lochlainns. He intended to take no chances.
“Any man among ye that raises a hand to a Mac Lochlainn, lest it be in his own defence, will answer to me,” he announced. “The Archbishop has my word on this and any of ye that makes a liar of me will regret it.” He paused and looked at each man in turn.
“Are we clear on that?” he asked finally.
A chorus of ayes came back and he nodded.
“Right then,” O’Neill said, airily. “Let’s go see what the new Mac Lochlainn chief has to say for himself.”
He turned on his heel and started across the rain-slicked square toward the stone church that crowned the highest point in the town. It appeared that the entire populace of Armagh had gathered at the edges of the square to look on. Monks, novitiates, tradesmen, warriors, fat merchants and skinny boys shirking their chores all watched as the O’Neills assembled. This gaggle buzzed with excitement as Hugh led his men toward the church.
On the opposite side of the square, another group was forming. Declan looked over his shoulder and could see a youngish man addressing the Mac Lochlainn clan leaders, but could not make out what was being said. The appearance of the Mac Lochlainns caused a new round of excitement among the onlookers. All knew that the men gathering in the church would soon decide who would rule Tir Eoghain and its people.
As O’Neill and his followers neared the church, they saw a figure standing in the entrance. It was Tomas O’Connor, the Archbishop. Tall and thin, the prelate was an imposing figure, clad in a spotless white linen cassock accented by a silk tunic of green and gold. A peaked mitre sat atop his head and in his left hand was a long staff of oak, topped with a cross of gold, a symbol of his spiritual authority.