Declan O'Duinne

by Wayne Grant

“Sleep well?” he asked Declan as he squatted by the fire and warmed his hands.

  “Aye, lord, right well, and you?”

  O’Neill shook his head.

  “Nay, I was up till an hour before those damned Matins bells. After ye left last evening, I sat with each of my clan chiefs, one at a time. I had to be sure they were with me in this. You know it will be bloody before we’re done.”

  “Aye, lord. I’ve no doubt of that.”

  O’Neill turned back toward the elder O’Duinne who had been tending to the pork sizzling in the pan.

  “Smells good,” he said.

  “Yer welcome to have some, Hugh. Give it another minute.”

  O’Neill looked up at the sky, which had gone from near black to pale blue as dawn arrived.

  “I’m obliged, Cathal. All of this politics makes a man hungry!”

  Cathal speared the pork and flipped it to brown on the other side for a bit then cut it into three pieces. He gave his chief and his son each a slab of dark bread and a hot, greasy hunk of meat.

  For a while they squatted quietly by the fire, enjoying a fine breakfast on the Sabbath. Then O’Neill broke the silence.

  “Cathal, I’ve been thinking on yer son, Keiran. I lost my herald at Tandragee—a good man and dependable. I need another. I would be pleased to have yer boy take his place if he is up to it. It might give the lad something to occupy his mind other than the hand he lost.”

  Declan watched tears well up in his father’s eyes, but the man fought gamely to hold them back.

  “It’s a kind offer, Hugh, and I am obliged to ye for it,” he said, his voice husky, “but I fear he may refuse. The heart seems to have gone out of him.”

  O’Neill frowned.

  “Then make it an order—from me,” he said.

  The O’Duinne chief started to protest, but O’Neill held up a hand to silence him.

  “Listen to me Cathal. This isn’t pity. I know yer boy. He reminds me of you. There is a war coming and I will need men such as he if we are to win it. If he can walk and sit a horse, I will expect you both to be back here before the council reconvenes on the morrow. I’d like you there as well, Sir Declan.”

  The clan chieftain paused and laid a hand on Cathal’s shoulder.

  “Thank you for breakfast, old friend, now go see to yer son,” he said and headed back up the alley without another word.

  Declan watched him go and shook his head. Hugh O’Neill was a man standing at a crossroads for his country. His people, the Cenél Eoghain, were divided and a relentless enemy was on their doorstep. The council that had been called to heal the divisions and meet the threat had, thus far, come to nothing. The weight of it all had to be on the man’s shoulders, yet Hugh O’Neill had heard the pain in Cathal O’Duinne’s voice and had come to offer what help he could to an old friend.

  There walks a king, Declan thought as the man disappeared around the corner

  The sound of hooves on cobbles announced the arrival of the boy with their horses. The two led their mounts across the square and, skirting the crowded alleyways around the Mac Lochlainn quarters, made their way to Dungannon Road. It was a fine morning for a ride and Declan let his father set the pace on his smaller mount.

  As he gazed around at the countryside, memories came flooding back to him. He’d often ridden with his father and brothers to Armagh to trade cattle and horses with the monks there and the land had changed little in ten years. For the first few miles, the country was open pasturage and mostly flat, with hedges and stone walls separating neighbour’s fields. At this time of year, the green of the land was almost luminous.

  Passing out of the open grazing land, the road snaked through low, wooded hills. As a boy, he’d sometimes set snares and hunted red squirrels with a sling in this forest. Another two miles brought them to the broad valley of the Blackwater river. Here the road descended gradually toward the river and the trees gave way to pastures and peat bogs. He saw two cows sunk up to their hocks in the spongy soil beside the road contentedly chewing their cud. There was a boy with a long switch trying to drive them to higher ground. The boy was half covered in the black mud of the bog and the cows eyed him with docile indifference. The scene transported him back to his boyhood.

  Ten years ago, that would have been him.

  Well before noon they splashed across the ford and rode for one more mile to the O’Duinne rath. Declan felt a tightness in his chest as the familiar timber enclosure set on a small rise came into view. He’d ridden out of this place in haste ten years ago, not knowing he’d not return. Looking at it now, it seemed that time had frozen in place. Cattle browsed in the lush spring grass of the surrounding pastures, women tended the large vegetable garden that was snugged up to the south side of the palisade and a shepherd, no more than eight or nine years old, was driving a flock of sheep down toward a small pond for a morning drink.

  A man standing near the timber gate saw the riders approach and, recognizing Cathal, gave out a loud hallo. This brought a few of the household folk scurrying to the gate and others soon joined them. Finbar had returned to the little fortified village in the valley of the Blackwater the day before with news of Declan’s return and it seemed the entire population of the clan chief’s rath had turned out to greet the long lost O’Duinne son.

  As the riders reached the gate, there was a excited buzz in the gathered crowd. Cathal reined in his pony and dismounted. Declan did the same. They handed their reins to eager boys who had appeared from every direction to see what the excitement was about.

  Cathal raised a hand and the crowd quieted.

  “For ten long years, our rath has had an empty seat at the feast table, a missing laugh in the courtyard, a missing voice, when voices were raised in song. Now, my son…my dear son Declan has come home!”

  A cheer went up as men and women, some Declan recognized and some who were strangers to him, crowded around, shaking his hand and slapping him on the back. Amidst the welcoming crowd, Declan saw his father craning his neck to look up toward his own house. Given the uproar in the courtyard, he would have expected his brother to emerge from the arched door of the clan chief’s house to greet them but there was no sign of Keiran. Cathal had told him his brother was not bedridden when he’d departed just three days ago, but a chill thought struck him. Had the wound festered in the few days since?

  As they broke free of the crowd and hurried across the courtyard, Finbar suddenly stalked out of the house, a frown on his face. The counsellor hurried forward to greet them.

  “Welcome home, lord,” he said with a slight bow toward Cathal, “and to you, lord,” he added, nodding toward Declan.

  Cathal brushed aside the niceties.

  “Where is Keiran?” he demanded.

  Finbar shook his head sadly.

  “He’s inside, lord. I told him of your arrival, but he refuses to step outside, even to greet you and his brother.”

  “His arm?”

  “Is healing well, lord. There is no putrefaction there that I can see.”

  Cathal sighed and turned to Declan.

  “This wound…it has affected the lad’s mind.”

  Declan nodded.

  “I’ve seen such as this before and it’s as bad as the rot.” He looked at Finbar.

  “Take us to him.”

  Finbar led them into the main room of the house and pointed toward a door on the left. Cathal pushed it open and stepped into the dimly-lit room with Declan close behind. Keiran was lying on his cot with his eyes open, but he did not rise.

  “Ahh,” he said dully, “my long lost brother. Come home at last.”

  Declan walked past the cot and pulled the shutters open on the lone window, letting light pour into the room. Keiran groaned and shaded his eyes with his one good hand.

  “And it’s good to see you too, brother,” Declan said briskly. “How’s the hand?”

  Keiran sat up, a crooked smile on his face.

  “Why it’s gone, little brother,” he sai
d, brandishing the stump at Declan. “Misplaced it somewhere. Have ye seen it?”

  Quick as a snake, Declan reached out and grabbed his brother’s wounded arm above the elbow and jerked the man to his feet.

  Keiran howled but dared not pull away as Declan stuck his nose down and sniffed at the stump where the man’s right hand had once been.

  “Smells as clean as fresh mown hay,” he observed, then drew back and sniffed again, wrinkling his nose, “which is more than I can say for the rest of ye.”

  “Declan!” Cathal shouted and laid a hand on his son’s shoulder as though to restrain him. “Is this how ye greet yer brother?”

  Declan did not answer. He pulled away from his father’s touch and released his grip on Keiran’s arm. His brother snatched it back, glaring at him.

  “Why have ye come back here?’ he snarled. “We did well enough without ye!”

  “And I did well enough without you, but I came to see our father—and to see my brother as well.”

  “Well now ye’ve seen me,” Keiran said, bitterly, “so get out and leave me be.”

  Declan shook his head.

  “Oh, I’ve seen you,” he said with disdain, “but not my brother Keiran. I’ve been gone for ten years, but I remember him well. Fagan bullied me. Keiran never did. It was him I looked to when I was in trouble. It was him who took my side, even when I’d been up to mischief. I loved my brother Keiran, but I do not see him here.”

  Silence fell over the small room as the two brothers glared at each other. Keiran seemed to sway a little and reached out with his good hand to steady himself against the wall.

  “I…,” he began, but the words caught in his throat. “I…,” he tried once more, but the words would not come. His shoulders began to heave and he slowly slid down the wall to the floor, an anguished sob escaping his lips.

  Declan squatted on the floor beside his weeping brother.

  “Keiran,” he said, “let me tell you of the men of the Invalid Company.”

  ***

  Cathal and Finbar slipped quietly from the bedchamber, leaving the two brothers alone. Declan told Keiran of his first encounter with the Invalids. They had been mustered outside the walls of Oxford with orders to ride into Wales to find Ranulf of Chester. Half had been drunk and the rest ill from the effects of drink.

  “Three men puked from horseback that morning and half a dozen were dead asleep in the saddle before we got them moving. These were men who’d stormed the city of Messina, fought their way into Acre and charged with King Richard against Saladin’s cavalry at Arsuf. They’d been hurt, many more grievously than you, Keiran, and sent home. Out of gratitude, the King offered them pay and quarters in London, but gave them no duties. After months living on the King’s coin they turned to drink, lechery and banditry. In time, the good folk of London insisted they depart. That’s when they were put into our care.”

  As Declan talked of the Invalids, Keiran remained sitting on the floor with his back to the wall and his arms circling his bent knees. His eyes were cast down, his chin resting on his chest. Declan wasn’t sure if his brother was listening, but continued to talk.

  “Thomas Marston, who the men call Patch, is the senior sergeant of the company. He lost an eye at Arsuf. Sergeant William Butler, lost a leg at Acre. Sir John Blackthorne lost an arm above the elbow at Sheffield. Sir Edgar Langton has a crippled leg. There are one hundred twenty men in the Company and each of them has suffered grave injury.”

  There was no reaction from Keiran.

  “These men were castoffs. For a long time they behaved as you do now, as though they were of no worth to themselves or to others, but an odd thing happened. They were given a job to do, a job they did not want and that none who knew them thought they could do. I was there when they went into battle against long odds, against hard men, mercenaries who had not known defeat. I saw them slaughter those men. The Invalids are feared now, and justly so. They helped save the very crown of England for their King. And all it took to claim back their pride was being given a job to do.”

  Declan paused and looked at Keiran who had still not moved.

  “If they can, my brother, so can you.”

  Declan stopped and let silence fall over the room. For a long time, Keiran didn’t move, but at last he raised his head and met Declan’s eyes, his own red-rimmed. But he said nothing and Declan could not read what was behind his brother’s eyes.

  “Hugh O’Neill has asked for you to be his herald, Keiran. In truth he has ordered you to come take up that duty at Armagh tomorrow. You are being given a job, brother.

  Keiran shook his head slowly.

  “Out of pity,” he said.

  “Perhaps, though he said he knew you and needed men such as you. It matters not what Hugh O’Neill thinks. There is a war coming and soon. If you lie here and let other men fight in yer place, you are as good as dead.”

  Declan rose to leave. Keiran stayed on the floor. He looked up at his brother, but did not speak. Declan turned as he reached the door.

  “You are more than a sword hand, brother,” he said.

  ***

  A short walk from the O’Duinne rath was a small hillock that looked down on the valley of the Blackwater River. Save for a few trees, the hill was covered with grass and at its summit lay the graves of generations of the O’Duinne clan. After the initial round of welcomes had been completed, Cathal had led Declan up the hill. The newly turned earth marked where Fagan had been laid to rest, next to his mother, Maeve.

  Declan had come here often as a boy. It was a good spot to hide from Fagan or from Cathal if he wanted to avoid some chore. But he would also pass the time having conversations with his dead mother, a woman he’d never known. But today was not the day to commune with the dead. The demands of the living were too urgent. Together they stood silently over the graves for a while, then said a quiet prayer and turned to go.

  They both stopped as they saw Keiran climbing the hill towards them. When he arrived at the top, a little breathless, he nodded to his father then turned to Declan.

  “I can barely scratch my arse with my left hand, brother,” he said.

  “Then ye should master that trick before picking up a sword,” Declan said with a grin.

  It was a start.

  ***

  The three men were up and on the road to Armagh by dawn, riding down to the ford through mists rising up from the Blackwater. The council was to reconvene at noon and it would not do to be late. They spoke little as they rode, but Declan stole glances at his older brother. That morning in the stable, Keiran had struggled to put the bridle on his pony with one hand, but had managed it. As he rode, he looked pale and uncertain, but the air of bitter despair that had marked him was not there.

  The day before, Cathal had left them alone among the graves on the hill and they had talked until the sun was well down in the west. They spoke not of battles they’d fought, but of their lives since the day they were parted ten years before. They might have talked on for hours more but for a passing rain squall that sent them hurrying back to find shelter inside the rath.

  Now as they rode out in the dawn, Declan felt a sense of peace. He’d sailed for Ireland to find his father, whether alive or dead, and had found much more. He’d brought old wounds with him and the scars were still there, but the gnawing pain in his heart was fading. As with Keiran, it was a start.

  Margaret Maelchallain

  The abbey bells were announcing Sext when the O’Duinnes rode into the square fronting Saint Patrick’s Church. Cathal led Keiran off to present him to Hugh O’Neill and Declan took their horses down the hill to the stables. As he walked back up the slope, he saw Margaret Maelchallain coming his way, leading a pony by the reins. The girl ventured a little smile as he approached.

  “My lady,” he said and made a small bow.

  “We don’t much use that form of address here in Tir Eoghain,” she said, her voice playful, “but I rather like the sound of it.”

  “
Then I shall not fail to use it as much as possible, my lady,” he replied with a grin.

  “Walk with me down to the stables,” she said.

  “With pleasure.”

  As they walked, Declan could not resist stealing glances at the girl. On a bright afternoon in early May, she looked especially striking. Her dark hair fell in cascades over her shoulders and her blue eyes were almost a perfect match for the clear sky overhead. And unlike their earlier meetings, her mood seemed lighter, less guarded.

  “I wish to apologize for insulting you at our last meeting,” she said, turning serious. “You appeared here at Armagh as if you dropped from the sky and I was suspicious, but I had no cause to be rude.”

  “Perhaps I took offense too easily, my lady. But tell me, do you still find me suspicious?”

  She stopped and looked him directly in the eyes, as though trying to divine what lay behind them. Then she arched an eyebrow.

  “No more so than any of Hugh O’Neill’s adherents!”

  There was a bit of mischief in the girl’s eyes when she spoke, but Declan recognized her words were only part in jest. He might have been gone ten years, but to her, he was an O’Duinne and the O’Duinnes were loyal to O’Neill.

  “My lady, I am an adherent of no man,” he said, earnestly, “save the one I’ve given my oath to.”

  Margaret looked at him now with genuine curiosity.

  “This English lord you are pledged to—he must be an unusual man to inspire such loyalty.”

  “Sir Roger de Laval is most unusual, my lady. Should you ever meet him, you would know it.”

  “I expect I would. I’ve always liked unusual men.”

  There was a teasing note in her voice, but then she turned serious once more.

  “You will be returning to England—to your Sir Roger?”

  “Aye. I’ve given my word.”

  “But are you not tempted to stay here, with your own people? You said yourself that John de Courcy intends to invade, and soon. If he does, the Cenél Eoghain will need men such as you—men who understand the English.”

  Listening to Margaret Maelchallain and looking into her sky blue eyes might be enough to tempt any man, but he recognized flattery when he heard it.