by Wayne Grant
This day he’d been used once more, but not ill-used. His brief meeting with the Prince of Ulster had told him all he needed to know about John de Courcy. Submitting to him would be the end of the Cenél Eoghain. If his words had swayed those who thought to surrender to de Courcy, then he had no regrets. Besides, every word he’d spoken was the truth.
Allies
It was well past dark when a man appeared at Cathal O’Duinne’s tent in the alleyway. They were being summoned once more to attend the O’Neill clan chieftain. The messenger led the two men around to the entrance of the dormitory and back to the corner room that served as O’Neill’s reception hall. Hugh was perched once more on the big chest, but he was not alone.
Two finely-carved chairs had been brought in for these new guests. Declan was surprised to see them occupied by Archbishop O’Connor and Margaret Maelchallain, both known to be supporters of the old Mac Lochlainn king. O’Neill slid off the chest as the newcomers arrived and made the introductions.
“Your Excellency and Miss Maelchallain, I believe you both know Cathal O’Duinne,” he began and both nodded at the leader of the O’Duinne sept. “This is his youngest son, Sir Declan,” he added. “Sir Declan has travelled from Cheshire to see his family.”
“And to trample local girls,” Margaret Maelchallain added acidly. Declan reddened as the three other men in the room looked at him curiously.
“I did, indeed, manage to trample Miss Maelchallain in the square yesterday, for which I am heartily sorry. I was relieved to see her at the council this morning, looking uninjured from the experience and full of questions.”
He gave the girl a small bow.
“If I might be of some service to you…to make amends.”
Margaret Maelchallain shrugged at that.
“If I should think of something, Sir Declan, I will let you know,” she said with a smug look. “In the meantime, all I ask is that you look where you’re going!”
Before Declan could reply, the Archbishop rose from his seat and strode over to Cathal, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder.
“I heard of your loss, Cathal. I know my prayers will be of little solace to you, but I will say them nevertheless. Surely your son is with our Lord in heaven even now and for all eternity.”
Cathal kept his head high.
“I thank you for yer prayers, your excellency. My boy died bravely and I must hope, not in vain.”
The churchman stiffened.
“As long as the Cenél Eoghain remain free, he will not have died in vain,” he said grimly.
Declan noticed the change in the man’s tone. It was curious. At the council, the Archbishop had spoken softly amidst the angry voices on both sides. He had tried to calm the passions that threatened to tear apart the Cenél Eoghain. Now, as the churchman spoke of his countrymen’s struggle for freedom, he had fire in his voice. Even more curious was the simple fact of the man’s presence here with Hugh O’Neill.
Cathal had told him that O’Connor’s candidacy to fill the role of Archbishop of Armagh had been supported by King Muirchertach Mac Lochlainn. The Archbishopric of Armagh, centred as it was on the mother church of Ireland, was the highest office in the Irish church and gave its holder spiritual authority over all of Ireland’s Christians. The Pope had confirmed the appointment and O’Connor had been loyal to the Mac Lochlainns ever since. Yet here he stood before the chief of the O’Neills. Declan wondered if Conor Mac Lochlainn knew of this meeting, and suspected he did not.
Margaret Maelchallain’s presence was also surprising. It had been a Mac Lochlainn king who had named the Maelchallains as protectors of Saint Patrick’s bell, the clan’s greatest honour. The clan, in turn, had given their complete loyalty to the Mac Lochlainns for generations. Yet here she was.
Hugh O’Neill had not failed to note the churchman’s tone when he spoke of freedom for the Cenél Eoghain and knew when to press home a point.
“You spoke of freedom, your excellency,” he began. “We are of like mind there it seems. Conor Mac Lochlainn wants to avoid bloodshed, I know, but at what price? If we agree to de Courcy’s offer we will surely lose our freedom and our blood. Most of the men we fought at Tandragee were the men of Antrim and Down. Does anyone think the Cenél Eoghain won’t be used in the same way when de Courcy takes up arms against the men of Connacht or Donegal? We will shed our blood, not for ourselves, but for our new master’s ambitions.”
He paused for a moment to gauge O’Connor’s reaction, but the churchman simply stood there, his face revealing nothing. O’Neill changed tacks.
“Your excellency, I am aware that, with de Courcy holding the east and de Lacy the south, you are confined here in the northwest, cut off from your flock outside of Tir Eoghain. I know de Courcy’s offer to preserve you in your position as Archbishop and prelate over the holy church in Ireland would free you to be a shepherd to all Irish Christians. It must be tempting.”
Now the Archbishop’s face betrayed him. He scowled.
“Is that what you think of me, O’Neill?”
The chieftain’s face reddened and he started to reply, but Tomas O’Connor cut him off with a raised hand.
“De Courcy is a clever man,” the churchman said, his voice full of scorn. “He thinks to buy me, but knows not how. I need no Englishman to grant me powers already granted by the holy father in Rome!”
Once more O’Neill made as though to speak, but the prelate raised his hand again and he fell silent.
“You are also a clever man, Hugh O’Neill, and ambitious. You want my help, but I trust you are not foolish enough to bribe me with power or position.”
“You have me there, your excellency, on both counts. I am ambitious and I do need you. But if not power or position, what then is the price of your support?”
O’Connor’s eyes gleamed like an old testament prophet as he leaned in toward the O’Neill chief.
“You must fight!” he snarled. “You must never surrender.”
For a moment, O’Neill just stood there. Declan knew the man had misjudged the Archbishop and insulted him in the bargain, but instead of a rebuke, O’Connor had revealed where his heart lay to the O’Neill chief. And O’Neill sensed that much depended on his response at this moment.
“Your excellency, while I have breath in my body, I will not bend the knee to the English—not to de Courcy or de Lacy or any of that ilk. The O’Neills will fight, whether the Mac Lochlainns join us or not. This I swear on my soul.”
“Then you should be our king,” the churchman said simply and sat back down on his chair.
“You will support me?” O’Neill asked eagerly.
“I will not oppose you,” the prelate said.
“A weak endorsement for the man you think should be your king, don’t you think?”
The Archbishop sniffed.
“I loved Muirchertach Mac Lochlainn, with all his many faults. Out of respect for him, I will not openly oppose his son’s bid for the throne. Nor will I oppose yours, Hugh. If you are as clever as I think you are, then that will be all you need. If you can persuade enough of the Mac Lochlainn septs to support your claim to the throne, then you will be king. Some, I believe prefer to continue the fight,” he said, glancing over at the Maelchallain girl, “so there is opportunity there.”
All eyes turned toward Margaret Maelchallain. Hers was not the largest sept in the extended Mac Lochlainn clan, but as Keepers of Saint Patrick’s bell it was one of the most prestigious. Her presence here suggested the Maelchallains were not ready to make peace. The young woman had sat quietly while O’Neill and O’Connor had sparred with each other, but Declan could see she was not at all cowed by either man.
“There are those among our septs who do not agree with Conor Mac Lochlainn,” she said flatly, “though they are loathe to speak against him. Conor is a good man and wants to do what is right, but I fear that with the loss of his father and so many of our clansmen, he has lost heart for this fight. Our sept’s loyalty to the Mac Loch
lainns runs deep, but Conor is not the man who can preserve the freedom of the Cenél Eoghain,” she said, looking hard at Hugh O’Neill. “I am here tonight to judge for myself if you are.”
“I know what you risk by coming here,” O’Neill said softly. “The kingship is rarely decided without blood being spilt and it may well come to that, though I pray it does not. I expect there are those in your camp who would not hesitate to kill a clan chief they thought disloyal, no matter the sex.”
The girl shrugged.
“There are those in my camp who despise me simply because I am a woman who speaks my mind and others who dislike that I speak against this base surrender that de Courcy offers. If they knew I was here, they would not hesitate to kill me. But there are others who feel as I do.”
“Yet you are here and not they,” said O’Neill.
“They all deferred to a lady to speak for them,” she said with a wry smile.
Hugh O’Neill returned her smile.
“So tell me, what must I do or say to convince you that I am the man to be king of Tir Eoghain?”
For the first time since Declan and Cathal had entered the room, Margaret Maelchallain stood up.
“You’ve given me part of what I came to hear. You will not accept the peace offered by the English and will fight them to the end. That is a sentiment I share, but it is not enough. If we follow you into war and lose, then Conor Mac Lochlainn will have been right—needless blood spilt for the same outcome. So what I need to know, sir, is, can you win? This is why I asked that you have your Sir Declan join us tonight. I have other questions for him.”
“Fair enough. Ask him what you will.”
Declan rose to his feet. He had not expected to once more be questioned.
“What is it you want to know, my lady?”
“I want to know who you are and if you truly know whereof you speak, sir. O’Neill says you are a knight, Sir Declan. That title carries little weight among the Irish, but I would know who made you so and for what. He speaks of far off battles you’ve fought and I would know more of those. Your words were persuasive this morning,” she said tartly, “but anyone can spew words.”
Declan clenched his teeth. The woman’s questions might be reasonable, but her tone was insulting.
“Say please,” he said, simply.
The girl looked at him incredulously.
“What?”
“You must ask me nicely, if you wish me to answer, my lady.”
“Declan!” Cathal laid a hand on his son’s arm, but Declan pulled it away.
“Father, I came to Ireland because I was told you were dying. I did not come here to be used by Hugh O’Neill in his campaign to be king or to be insulted by this young lady,” he said nodding toward Margaret. “She will say please, or I will say no more.” He turned to Hugh O’Neill. “And you as well, my lord.”
An embarrassed silence fell over the room. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then the Archbishop gently poked Margaret Maelchallain’s arm with his staff. She turned and glared at him, but he just inclined his head toward Declan. Slowly she turned back.
“Very well,” she said through gritted teeth. “Please continue, Sir Declan.”
“Yes, please do, Sir Declan,” added Hugh O’Neill with an amused smile.
Declan nodded and turned to look directly at the girl.
“As for who I am, miss—I am an O’Duinne, a clan as old as yours though not as famed. I was knighted by Richard the Lionheart at the siege of Acre. I and eighty other fools were the first wave up the breach in the wall. Only forty came back down. It was at Acre that I understood that flesh and blood alone cannot take a fortress. You must have siege engines to breach the walls—or you must starve out the garrison. The Irish have not the skill to build these engines nor the men to sustain long sieges. This is why I said you must not let the English build fortresses on your land. On that same campaign I rode with King Richard’s heavy cavalry when we smashed through the lines of the Saracens at Arsuf. When on favourable ground, no men on foot can stand against Norman cavalry. Doing so got your King killed a month ago.”
“I was also at Towcester the day we broke Prince John’s cavalry. That day we fought on ground of our choosing. The Prince had summoned his army to London and we placed our smaller force athwart the only decent road leading there, which compelled them to attack us where we stood. Earl Marshall set our men at the top of a long, muddy slope with deep forest on each flank to anchor our lines. We buried sharpened stakes into the ground to our front and set our spearmen in the front rank to blunt the shock of the heavy cavalry.”
“Just as de Courcy did against the Cenél Eoghain, the enemy sent their foot in first to weaken our lines, but we held. Then the heavy cavalry was ordered forward to break through and begin the slaughter, but their great warhorses found little purchase in the mud of that slope. When they reached our lines, there was no momentum in their charge. An armoured knight on a warhorse at full gallop is almost impossible to stop or to kill, but the same man, on a horse brought to a standstill by mud, or spikes or spears, can be taken down. This we did at Towcester. We butchered their cavalry on that muddy slope.”
“In the war you face here, de Courcy’s cavalry are the key. Give them the right ground and they will ride you down. Choose more wisely and they can be broken. That is what I’ve learned from serving a Norman for ten years.”
Declan stopped. It was the longest speech he’d ever made.
“Did I answer your questions, my lady?” he asked at last.
Margaret Maelchallain did not speak as silence descended on the room. Then she hiked up the hem of her dress and walked past Declan to the door. She took hold of the handle and looked back at him standing there.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, you did.”
The Broken Brother
Declan awoke to the sound of the abbey bells calling the monks of Armagh to Matins. Near him in the dark he could hear his father snoring contentedly, his sleep untroubled by the bells. Silently he rose and slipped out of the tent. It was still dark, with barely a hint of dawn to the east and there was a slight chill in the air, but the sky was clear and it promised to be a fine Sunday. He stretched and walked out onto the abbey square. No one else was about yet.
As he watched the sky begin to lighten with the approaching dawn, he saw a man stroll out from the dormitory across the way where the Mac Lochlainn clans had found quarters. He raised a hand to acknowledge the newcomer’s presence, but the man just stared at him and did not return the gesture. Declan sighed.
As gratifying as his reunion with his father had been, being drawn into the bloody politics of Ulster was another matter. The relentless aggression of the English and the endless bloody infighting among the Irish had changed not at all since he’d left ten years before. It left a sour taste in his mouth.
The man who had joined him on the square returned to the dormitory where the crescent moon banner of the Mac Lochlainn’s hung limply in the still morning air. He wondered if his words the day before had reached the Mac Lochlainn chiefs. By all accounts their young leader, Conor Mac Lochlainn, was no coward. He’d heard that the man fought bravely at Tandragee and barely escaped with his life. But he knew that such a crushing defeat could weaken a man’s resolve, even if it did not make him a coward.
In the end, perhaps Mac Lochlainn was right to seek the best terms he could get to have peace with the English. With de Courcy to the east and Walter de Lacy to the south there were threats enough to consider such a course, particularly if there was no unity within the Cenél Eoghain. With the O’Neills and Mac Lochlainns contending for leadership, the unity needed to face the English seemed unlikely. But he knew now that Hugh O’Neill would never accept such a peace. The man had sworn to the Archbishop to die first and he meant it. If Conor Mac Lochlainn hoped to avoid more blood, he was going to be sorely disappointed.
Down the hill to his left, he saw a line of monks making their way up toward the church, answering the cal
l of the bells. Evicted from their dormitories by the arrival of the Cenél Eoghain chiefs, they had spent the night in whatever accommodations they could find in the small village at the bottom of the hill.
Near the end of the line, Declan saw Brother Cyril, trudging uphill with the others. Cyril had spent the night with his brother monks and gave Declan a cheery wave as he passed by. The Irish knight had admired the courage of the skinny little monk when first they’d met in Wales and had further warmed to the churchman during this journey. Seeing him grinning as he followed his Augustinian brethren up the hill for Matins services lifted his spirits.
As the monks filed into the church, the bells fell silent. For a moment the calling of birds was the only sound filling the square, then a soft chanting rose from the church as the monks began their devotionals. Declan turned and walked back toward his father’s tent and saw Cathal O’Duinne step out of the opening.
The man still moved a bit stiffly, favouring his left side where the English broadsword had left its mark, but he looked fitter than the day before. Clearly he was recovering his health and vigour. Seeing his son, Cathal beamed and came to meet him. He took Declan by the shoulders, holding him at arm’s length as though admiring some fine object.
“I still can’t believe yer here lad, but it’s grand to have ye, if only for a while,” he said, then pulled his son close and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Come, have some breakfast. One of my boys will be here soon with the horses. It will take half the morning to reach the Blackwater from here.”
Declan pulled up a stool by the fire that Cathal was busily stoking. When the blaze was sufficient, the older man ducked back inside the tent and reappeared with a pan, a half-pound of cured pork and a loaf of brown bread. He settled the pan in the coals and dropped in the pork. It had begun to sizzle when Hugh O’Neill came around the corner and headed their way.