Declan O'Duinne

by Wayne Grant

  Tomas O’Connor was of the royal line of Connacht—grandson to one Connacht king and nephew to two others. He had taken holy vows as a boy and was reputed to be devoted in his faith, but he was no simple, humble priest. He was a prince of the church and he held himself like one.

  “O’Connor was Muirchertach Mac Lochlainn’s choice for the Archbishopric, but he’s purported to be his own man,” Cathal whispered to Declan as O’Neill halted his party in front of the church. “He has met more than once with de Courcy, but no one doubts his loyalty to the Irish church or the Cenél Eoghain. His opinion will carry weight here.”

  A moment later, the Mac Lochlainn chieftains arrived, led by Conor Mac Lochlainn. Declan had seen kings and princes at close hand. He’d fought under Richard the Lionheart and helped Llywelyn ap Iowerth win his throne. He knew the look of royalty and this young Mac Lochlainn had that look. He was tall and slender and wore an embroidered linen shirt over tight-fitting breeches. A dark blue cape was thrown over one shoulder and a silver crucifix hung from his neck.

  Declan glanced at the portly Hugh O’Neill and sighed. If the choice of king was to be decided on looks alone, the O’Neill cause was lost. As he looked at the two contenders, he was reminded of King Guy of Jerusalem and that gave him some comfort. King Guy had looked every inch a king—tall and handsome and elegant, but the man had led his small kingdom into ruin. Regal looks alone did not make a king.

  As Conor’s followers gathered around, Declan saw that, like the O’Neill chiefs, they were a mix of young and veteran clan leaders, their own ranks painfully thinned at the battle at Tandragee the month before. He was about to turn his attention back to the Archbishop when he was shocked to see a woman among the rough clan chiefs—the very woman he had knocked off her feet in the square the day before.

  Declan elbowed his father.

  “The woman…”

  Cathal O’Duinne leaned in close, a small smile on his lips.

  “She’s a Maelchallain and a fetching lass she is,” he whispered. “The Maelchallains are the hereditary Keepers of Saint Patrick’s bell. Her father fell in the battle and her younger brother is but thirteen years old. He will not be of age until the end of summer. She leads her sept until then.”

  “Her name?”

  “Margaret, though many call her Meg. I’ve heard she may marry Conor Mac Lochlainn.”

  To his surprise, Declan felt a small twinge of jealousy.

  “Pretty girl,” he said, wistfully.

  Cathal snickered.

  “Prickly, I’m told.”

  ***

  The benches in the nave had been rearranged so that they faced the aisle. As Archbishop O’Connor led the clan chiefs in, the Mac Lochlainn adherents found places on the left side of the nave and the O’Neills occupied the benches on the right. Once all had found a place, the Archbishop began a prayer of benediction.

  Declan found his eyes straying to the Maelchallain woman, but jerked his head away when her eyes unexpectedly met his. He felt his face flush, embarrassed that he had been caught staring and was thankful when the Archbishop finished his prayer and began the proceedings.

  “Welcome all to the house that Saint Patrick built. May his spirit speak to each of you as you determine what course the Cenél Eoghain must follow. The chief of the Mac Lochlainns called for this Council of the clans to assemble and, by rights, should speak first.”

  Conor Mac Lochlainn, son of the dead King, rose to speak.

  “Archbishop O’Connor, I thank you for your good offices in arranging this gathering,” he began. We value your wise counsel as we consider what is to be done.”

  The Archbishop gave the speaker a small nod to acknowledge his role in bringing the clans together. Mac Lochlainn then turned to face the O’Neill chiefs directly.

  “Men of the O’Neills,” he began, “our two clans have ruled the Cenél Eoghain since the days of Niall of the Nine Hostages. For three hundred years we have kept Tir Eoghain free of foreign invaders, be they the Northmen or the ambitious kings of Connacht and Meath.”

  Mac Lochlainn stopped his speech suddenly, his face reddening. He turned to the Archbishop, whose grandfather and uncles he had just labelled as foreign invaders.

  “Your excellency, I…”

  O’Connor waved a hand in front of his face as though brushing away any offense.

  “You will hear no disagreement from me that my kinsmen from Connacht have, more than once, cast covetous eyes on this land,” he said affably. “So do not fret, my lord. Your speech is well begun. Please continue.”

  Conor Mac Lochlainn cleared his throat and began again.

  “Men of the Cenél Eoghain, we have never failed to turn back invaders in the past. By the blood of our fathers and the favour of God, we have kept this land free. Would that it should remain so for a thousand years more.”

  The young leader paused and looked keenly at Hugh O’Neill.

  “But, my lord, you know what the English are doing east of the Bann. New mottes go up every month topped with timber walls. We have no engines to breach those walls, so if we strike into Down or Antrim, we must bypass them, only to have the English sally forth and attack us in the rear. Because of these forts, we cannot risk taking the fight to them.”

  There were murmurs of agreement from the Mac Lochlainn chiefs at this.

  “But they can and do bring the fight to us! We have been losing battles to the English for twenty years now, even when our numbers are greater. Their archers and their armoured horsemen—we have nothing to counter them,” he said and there was genuine anguish in his voice.

  “The Mac Lochlainns lost four sept chiefs and our King at the Tandragee. Our holy relic, the bell of Saint Patrick, was taken. I cannot but see it as a sign of God’s displeasure. He has withdrawn his favour from us and all we have left is our blood—and the English are happy to take that.”

  Hugh O’Neill leapt to his feet, shock written on his face.

  “Where are you heading with this, Mac Lochlainn?” he demanded. “Are you suggesting surrender, sir?”

  The O’Neill chiefs started to rise behind their leader, but he whirled around and glared at them.

  “Sit down!” he bellowed.

  They sat.

  Declan, who had not risen with the others, watched O’Neill bring his chieftains to heel. It was an impressive display. These were all men used to giving orders, not taking them, but they’d instantly obeyed this command. And their obedience was not out of fear. He’d seen what that sort of obedience looked like. No, they’d obeyed Hugh O’Neill out of respect. The man might be short and thick in the middle, but his complete command over these rough warriors erased any doubts in Declan’s mind about O’Neill’s qualities as a leader.

  Having brought his own men under control, O’Neill now turned back to Conor Mac Lochlainn.

  “I asked you a question, sir! Are you suggesting surrender?”

  Mac Lochlainn turned a baleful eye on his own men. Most had leapt to their feet at O’Neill’s accusation of surrender, but a few, including the woman, had not. Declan stole a glance at Margaret Maelchallain. She was sitting stiff and upright on a back bench with a stricken look on her face.

  Conor waited until all were back in their places, then turned back to O’Neill.

  “Not surrender, my lord, peace. I have been approached by an intermediary with a message from John de Courcy. He offers us a treaty of peace and the return of our sacred relic. He offers us continued possession of our lands and property and governance of our own affairs. He will acknowledge our Archbishop, Tomas O’Connor, and confirm him in his position at Armagh. All this he offers.”

  “In exchange for what?” O’Neill demanded. “What is de Courcy’s price for this ‘peace’?”

  Mac Lochlainn spread his hands.

  “The price is less than I feared, my lord. We—all of us here—must swear fealty to de Courcy as our overlord. He will then grant us back our lands to rule as we see fit.”

 
This was met with an angry rumble from the O’Neill men, silenced by a dark look from their leader.

  “What else?” O’Neill asked.

  Mac Lochlainn shrugged.

  “Not so very much. We are to come at his summons should any invade his lands east of the Bann and he, in turn, pledges to come to our aid against any attack from outside Tir Eoghain.”

  “That’s all?”

  “No. We…we are to allow de Courcy to construct a fort west of the River Bann and another at the ford on the Blackwater—to be garrisoned by his men.”

  Hugh O’Neill stood there, his jaw muscles working and his fists clenched, fighting to contain his anger. It took him a long moment to gain control of his fury, then he spoke.

  “My lord, Mac Lochlainn. We have lost a king and you have lost a father. We have had our most precious relic taken from us. These are bad times for the Cenél Eoghain, but this…this is a peace for slaves! I’ll not deny that your father and I rarely agreed on matters, but I swear by all that is holy, we would have agreed on this. The Cenél Eoghain will not sell our freedom so cheaply!”

  “And I shall not see my people slaughtered for the pride of the O’Neills!” the young Mac Lochlainn shot back. “The kingdoms of Ireland have fallen to these English bastards one after another. The High King has submitted to the English King. Why should we be different? Why should we fight a war we cannot win?”

  “Let the other kings do what they will,” O’Neill countered. “We are the Cenél Eoghain and we can beat the English!”

  “So says you!” Mac Lochlainn shouted, pointing a finger at the O’Neill chief.

  Hugh raised a hand to cut off any uproar from his own men before it began, then turned away from Conor Mac Lochlainn spoke directly to the Mac Lochlainn clan chiefs.

  “There is a man in my company who knows the English way of war. He fought with Richard of England on Crusade and with William Marshall, Lord of Leinster, at the Battle of Towcester. On that field, Prince John’s army—an army very much like that led by John de Courcy—was routed.”

  Now there was low murmuring on both sides of the nave. Every man there had heard of this battle. That day had put an end to Prince John’s hopes of wresting the English throne from his brother and had sent many an Irish mercenary—those that survived the carnage—back home. Most gathered in Saint Patrick’s church knew at least one Irishman who had fought there, though few of the returning warriors spoke of that day of slaughter.

  Declan had been curious as to why O’Neill had invited him to this council. Now, with a sinking feeling, he knew.

  “This man you speak of, where was he a month ago when de Courcy put our army to rout?” Conor asked with a sneer. “We could have used his wisdom there! And where is he now, my lord? We would all like to hear what magic must be conjured up to defeat warbows and heavy cavalry!”

  There were jeers and hoots from the Mac Lochlainns as their leader finished. Hugh O’Neill turned to Declan, motioning for him to stand.

  “Here is the man, Conor—Sir Declan O’Duinne. He knows how to beat the English.”

  “By God, he is English himself!” shouted Mac Lochlainn, pointing an accusing finger at Declan. “You say he fought for Richard of England and for William Marshall. If not in breeding, then in body and soul he is English.”

  O’Neill raised a hand to object.

  “He is an O’Duinne, sir. The blood of the Cenél Eoghain runs in his veins! And who better than one who has fought with the English to teach us how to beat them?” O’Neill asked calmly. “He is the oath man of an English knight, but why should that cause you concern, my lord? A moment ago you were suggesting we should all give our oath to an Englishman. Let the man speak.”

  Mac Lochlainn sputtered a protest, but he’d been undone by his own words and knew it. He turned and raised his hands to his own followers then turned back to face the O’Neills. He stared at Declan, then nodded.

  “Say your piece then,” he said and sat down heavily on the wooden bench.

  Declan looked across the aisle at the Mac Lochlainn chieftains who now sat with arms crossed and sour looks, save for the one woman, Margaret Maelchallain. There was still a pained look on her face, but she was leaning forward, waiting to hear what he had to say. Declan cleared his throat and began.

  “As Hugh O’Neill said, I have given my oath to an Englishman and I make no apologies for that. There is no better man on either of these islands than the man I serve. He, like most who rule in England, is of Norman stock—a warrior race to be sure, but no more so than those they have conquered and no more so than the men here today. It is not Norman valour that has given them rule over half of Europe, it is the Norman way of war. The way they wage war has beaten down the Saxons and the French and the Sicilians and it is now grinding down the Irish.”

  “They fight like cowards, covered all over with mail!” a Mac Lochlainn chief shouted. “Even their horses are armoured!”

  “And our forefathers went into battle naked, I’m told,” Declan shot back. “Does that make you a coward for wearing clothes now or carrying a shield?”

  “Where then are we to get mail?” another man asked. “Our smiths do not know the craft of making such things.”

  “And what about the horses?” yet another man added. “Our Irish ponies can’t match those beasts!”

  Declan shook his head.

  “The Ostmen smiths in Dublin know the craft of making mail. You could go there and offer a man enough gold to come north and teach your smiths the secrets. You could send merchants to England to buy horses. You could hire Flemish mercenaries who know the craft of building siege engines that can knock down the walls the English build. All these things you could do, but you do nothing but fight in the same way as your fathers fought. That is what lost half of Ireland to the English and will lose the other half in due time.

  “So you would make us Normans?”

  This question came, surprisingly, from the Maelchallain woman.

  “Nay, my lady. I do not say you must become Normans to beat them.”

  “How then?” she asked, with genuine curiosity in her voice. “To do the things you say will take months if not years. De Courcy won’t wait for us to ship over horses from England.”

  Declan drew a breath. How to explain this? He found himself wishing that Roland Inness, with his clever mind for tactics, was here to lay out a plan, but his friend was still a hostage. It was up to him to convince his own people they could win a war against the English.

  “First, you must not allow any of their mottes to be built on your land,” he began and saw Conor Mac Lochlainn scowl at that. “The English plant these wooden forts at choke points—fords and passes through the hills. As my lord Mac Lochlainn noted, once a motte is in your rear, your lines of supply or retreat are at risk. It only takes a small garrison of mounted troops, secure on top of their hill, to threaten any force that passes by and once the wooden fort is built, a stone one will soon follow. Unless you are prepared to pay a very high price in blood, you must not allow them to build these things.”

  “We had no mottes in our rear a month ago and still we lost,” Margaret Maelchallain noted.

  “Aye, my lady, but had the English built a motte here in Armagh they could have blocked your retreat and you would likely not be sitting in this church today as free men and women. I was not there, but I’ve been told what happened that day. If I’ve heard aright, you were bound to lose that fight.”

  This brought a renewed outcry from the Mac Lochlainns. A few brandished their bandages and scars received on that day. More than a few insulted the O’Duinne family name. Conor Mac Lochlainn let the uproar go unchecked for a bit then stood and raised his hand to quiet his men.

  “Let him finish so we can be done with this…lecture,” he said, disdain clear in his voice. “Tell us, Sir Declan, why we were bound to lose that day.”

  Declan did not hesitate.

  “On better ground, you might have won, my lord, but you fought
the English on ground of their choosing. It was ground favourable for their heavy cavalry. On that sort of ground, no men on foot can stand against them.”

  Declan paused and looked at the men across the aisle. Some seemed to be listening. He could not read the look on the face of their leader or that of the Maelchallain woman. It mattered not at this point.

  “I’m told the centre of your line was on the valley floor, on level ground, with nothing but flesh and blood to stop their charge. As I said, my lords, you were bound to lose.”

  With that, Declan sat down. Archbishop O’Connor, who had been watching the rancorous debate from a bench set in the middle of the aisle, rose quickly to his feet.

  “My lords, we have heard much today and have much left to decide. I think it best to take our leave to consider all that we’ve heard here. Tomorrow is the sabbath. Let us take that day to lift up prayers and beg God for wisdom in these matters, and come back together the day after.”

  ***

  Declan felt numb as he joined the O’Neill chiefs filing out into the square. The Mac Lochlainns held back, wisely avoiding the chance that a harsh word might incite a brawl inside the holy confines of the church. Declan glanced over his shoulder and saw that the Mac Lochlainn chiefs had clustered around their young leader, leaving Margaret Maelchallain alone on the bench. She had asked the sort of questions he might have expected from the clan chief, but Conor Mac Lochlainn had shown little interest in what he had to say. As for the Maelchallain girl, her curiosity did not seem to be welcome among her fellow chiefs.

  For his part, he had known Hugh O’Neill was prepared to make a case for fighting the English, but he had not expected to be called upon to personally sway the Cenél Eoghain towards war. Hugh O’Neill had used him for his own purposes and without apology, but such was the habit of great men. He’d been used by Richard of England when he and Roland had been sent off to scout Saladin’s army and by Earl Ranulf when he needed to retake his city of Chester from William de Ferrers.