Declan O'Duinne

by Wayne Grant

  Declan waved him off.

  “Later. It’s not deep and we’ve no time now.”

  Roland saw the two runners sent to alert the fort scramble over the berm and pelt down the road to the east. Declan’s injury would have to wait, but another pressing question came to mind.

  “Your father?” he asked gently.

  “He lives!” Declan answered brightly, “It was a worse wound by far than this one,” he said looking down at his torn shirt, “but he is a tough old man. You’ll like him.”

  Roland smiled.

  “I’ve no doubt of that, but tell me,” he asked inclining his head toward the beautiful young woman climbing onto the bare back of an Irish pony, still clutching the bell shrine to her chest. “Who is the nun and is that the bell de Courcy spoke of?”

  Before Declan could answer, the girl pulled the tight-fitting white coif from her head and shook loose a cascade of raven hair.

  Declan shook his head.

  “Aye, that’s the bell of Saint Patrick, but the girl is no nun!”

  ***

  Declan winced as Margaret dabbed blood from the wound on his chest with a piece of damp cloth she’d ripped from the sleeve of her nun’s habit.

  “Hold still,” she said softly. “I’m almost done.”

  They’d ridden hard for an hour through open country to put Down and its garrison behind them when they came to a stretch of woods. Roland had demanded they get off the Armagh road and see how bad the wound was under his friend’s blood-soaked shirt.

  The girl finished cleaning the jagged cut and bound it with a another piece of cloth she’d torn from her discarded scapula.

  “There,” she said, standing back and inspecting her work. “That should heal with nothing more than a bit of a scar.”

  “Not my first,” Declan said sourly.

  “I can see that,” Margaret said, glancing over the half dozen marks left by old wounds on the young Irish knight’s arms and torso. “You seem to collect them.”

  Declan stood up and frowned at her.

  “You should see the men who gave them to me,” he said as he gingerly pulled his one spare shirt on over his head, “but you’d have to dig them out of the ground.”

  This made the girl laugh.

  “Yer a bold man, Sir Declan,” she said. “I didn’t think I’d like you when first we met, but you do grow on a girl.”

  Declan ignored the olive branch.

  “You almost got us all killed back there, my lady.”

  Margaret stiffened.

  “I did not intend to,” she replied, tartly.

  Declan gave her a hard look.

  “Did you intend to steal the bell all along?”

  Margaret dropped her eyes. Then looked over at the sacred object sitting near her. Even in the shade of the old trees, the shrine shone brightly.

  “I must confess, the thought did enter my mind, but Hugh O’Neill knows me too well. He warned me not to do it and I promised to follow his advice.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I couldn’t. You heard what the Abbot said. That sack of horse turds called my father a heretic! What would you have done?”

  Declan started to reply, but then looked over at Cyril and Roland. The two had been hovering nearby watching Margaret minister to him.

  “What say you two?” he asked.

  Brother Cyril rubbed his chin for a moment.

  “Well, theft is a sin, sure enough,” he opined solemnly, “but I’m not sure if this could properly be ruled a theft, since the lady was simply retrieving what was her family’s to begin with.”

  Declan scoffed.

  “A fine legal point, Brother Cyril, but this,” he said, sweeping his arm in an arc to take in the thick woods, “is not the Hundreds Court!”

  He looked at Roland.

  “What say you?”

  Roland shrugged.

  “I know little of this bell, save that John de Courcy puts great stock in it. I’m not surprised those he took it from feel the same.”

  He walked over to where Margaret had gently laid down the precious relic and picked it up, giving it a gentle shake. A dull clank could be heard, but nothing that sounded like the ringing of a bell. The girl leapt to her feet, her fists clenched.

  “Be at ease, miss, I’ll not harm it,” Roland assured her as he examined the object. “This jewelled case—the bell is inside it?”

  Margaret stepped forward with her hands out.

  “I’ll show you.”

  Roland handed the ornate shrine to the girl, who flipped it over and fiddled with a hidden latch. A moment later, she slid the bottom bronze panel out to the side. With great care she reached in and drew forth the bell of St. Patrick. The girl’s eyes were shining as she held it up for all to see.

  For a long moment there was silence as everyone in the little clearing stared at this object held in such reverence by the Irish.

  “It looks like a cowbell,” Finn said, disappointed.

  Margaret shot him a dark look.

  “We were almost killed over a cowbell,” Declan said sourly.

  Margaret’s eyes welled with tears and she thrust the dull iron bell back into its bronze shrine.

  “My father was killed over this,” she said, her voice a mix of pain and defiance. “I suppose a man like you who fights for Normans couldn’t understand such a thing!”

  Now it was Declan who bristled, but before he could speak, Roland laid a hand on his arm.

  “What would you have done in her place, Dec? If they’d killed your father for this thing?”

  Declan jerked his arm away, but the question seemed to cool his fury. He turned to look at the girl who was glaring at him, tears streaming down her face. It was to her he spoke.

  “My pardon, Margaret. It is a fine bell—just the sort a saint would have.” He shot a look at Finn, who needed no coaxing.

  “It’s a very nice bell, my lady,” he said sheepishly. “I’m sorry I called it a cowbell.”

  Margaret seemed to soften a bit at Finn’s sorrowful apology. She turned back to Declan, not yet ready to forgive.

  “What would you have done in my place?”

  “In your place,” he said, “I’d ‘ave taken the bell, killed the Abbot and not lost a moment’s sleep over it.”

  ***

  With Declan’s wound dressed and the bell returned to its shrine, the riders mounted and rode through the afternoon. They picked up Margaret’s escort on the fly and, as darkness fell found a sheltered ravine to pass the night and made camp, only a half day’s ride from Armagh. Finn went instantly to sleep after eating a cold supper and Margaret Maelchallain did the same, exhausted, but still clutching the bell of Saint Patrick to her chest. Roland and Declan left Cyril tending a small fire and walked out to the edge of the ravine as the stars started to show in the sky.

  “I see young Finn has attached himself to you,” Declan said as he found a seat on the thick trunk of a deadfall tree.

  “Aye, he has. I’d have never got free of de Courcy without him. He has ambitions to be my squire, but I’m not sure I can afford him. His services don’t come cheap!”

  Declan laughed at that.

  “Oh, I can vouch for that. I’d like to see what’s in that boy’s coin purse. I’ll wager its heavier than yours or mine!”

  “I’d not take that bet, but you can’t blame the lad. An orphan boy has to shift for himself.”

  “And Irish lads do make the best squires,” Declan said with a grin.

  Roland sat down next to him on the tree trunk. It had been a long time since the two friends had shared a campsite and they sat for a while in silence, just enjoying the company. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted, calling to its mate.

  “What will you do now?” Roland asked quietly.

  Declan shrugged.

  “I did not come to Ireland looking for a fight. When we left Carrickfergus, I’d hoped to simply see to my father and brother, put in an appearance at Down and get
back to de Courcy with a story that would satisfy him and get you out of there,” he said gazing up at the lights in the sky. “Didn’t know ye’d already managed the trick.”

  “Or that Lady Margaret had plans of her own,” said Roland.

  Declan gave a little hoot at that.

  “Aye, she did and we’re lucky it didn’t end badly. Had we been taken with you still in de Courcy’s hands, we all would have lost our heads I expect.”

  “That’s why you’re so angry at the girl?” Roland said.

  “I think I’ve a right!” he said. “That bell means more to her than flesh and blood and it was very nearly our flesh and blood today—and could have been yours as well. She knew you were a hostage, but gave no thought to what de Courcy would do to you if she stole his bell.”

  Roland shrugged at that.

  “People put great store in such things, Dec. How many men died trying to take back Jerusalem from Saladin? It wasn’t the city they wanted—England did not need another city—it was what the city stood for.”

  “That’s true enough,” Declan admitted. “But the damned girl still almost got us killed.”

  “She’s pretty though, isn’t she,” Roland said.

  Declan nodded, his anger spent.

  “Very. And she has courage. She had to kick a fat monk in the balls to steal the thing, which I rather enjoyed!”

  Roland laughed at that.

  “I’d have liked to seen that, but Dec, you haven’t answered my question. I know you didn’t come looking for a fight, but it seems one has found you.”

  Declan rose to his feet, agitated.

  “What we should do is deliver Mistress Maelchallain to Armagh, say our farewells and head south to take ship in Dublin,” he said wistfully. “We could be back home in a week.”

  “And leave Tyrone, your clan and Mistress Maelchallain to their fate?”

  Declan groaned.

  “Sir Roger did not send me off to fight a war in Ulster, Roland, and I am his man.”

  Roland stood and looked Declan in the eye.

  “Roger de Laval would be the last man on earth to ask you to abandon your people when they are in peril,” he said flatly.

  “The Irish are always in peril,” Declan said glumly, “but very much so at the moment. My heart tells me I must stay and help them….”

  Roland laid a hand on Declan’s shoulder.

  “Then we’ll stay and see this through.”

  “No!” Declan said fiercely, pulling away from Roland’s touch. “Not you! This is not your fight. You must return to Shipbrook and tell Sir Roger that I’ll be back when the danger here is past.”

  At this Roland burst into laughter.

  “You want me to stand before Sir Roger de Laval and, God forbid, Millicent Inness, and tell them I left you behind in Ireland? Are you daft?”

  Declan managed a sheepish grin at that, but would not concede his point.

  “These are my people, Roland, not yours,” he said.

  “Ah, but you’re wrong there, Declan. Have you forgot the night in Towcester on our way to Richard’s coronation? That night I confessed to you that I had killed three of the Earl of Derby’s men. I stood there, an admitted criminal, and you did not haul me off to face justice. Instead, you took me into your clan. I still have the scar here on my hand where we shared our blood. From that day, I’ve considered myself an O’Duinne—if not by birth, then by blood. Would you expel me from the family now?”

  Declan knew when he was beaten. He plopped back down on the log.

  “Stay then and tell me what ye know of de Courcy’s plans. We’ll reach Armagh in the morning. The Cenél Eoghain chiefs are gathered there. They’ll need to know of the trouble heading their way.”

  “The Prince didn’t confide much to me, Dec. I gather he’s been waiting for his English mercenaries to arrive. On the day they disembarked, he said it would take three days to muster his Irish levies and then he would march.”

  “Which would be…” Declan said, mentally counting the days.

  “Tomorrow,” Roland said.

  Declan cursed softly.

  “That would put him at the fords over the Bann three days from now!”

  “If he comes this way,” Roland cautioned. “He did not tell me where, exactly, he planned to strike.”

  “When news reaches him of the theft of the bell, I think there is little doubt he’ll march to Armagh,” Declan said flatly. “Beyond the mercenaries, what do ye reckon his strength to be?”

  “I spent some time watching the town from the curtain wall of the castle and counted heads as best I could. I’d guess he has four hundred men quartered there, mostly English and some Irish. Finn tells me upwards of eighty English-bred war horses are stabled in the town, so there will be that many heavy cavalry. And now he has two hundred English mercenaries—well-armed veterans.

  “And probably five hundred Irishmen from Antrim he can call upon,” Declan added. “Let’s call it twelve hundred or more—a formidable host.”

  “Tell me what your Irish can muster to oppose him,” Roland said.

  Declan sighed, glad that his friend could not see the pained look on his face.

  “It’s hard to say,” he began. “If all the factions of the Cenél Eoghain unite, they can field perhaps seven hundred foot, some light horsemen and no heavy cavalry.”

  Roland grunted. It was far from favourable odds.

  “And will they unite?”

  Declan shrugged in the dark.

  “I’ve met the man who could bring the clans together. Hugh O’Neill is not much to look at, but he is clever and has no surrender in him. Sadly, the old King’s son believes he should succeed his father. They were still arguing over it when we left Armagh. It’s the bane of the Irish to fight amongst themselves, even with foreign invaders at the door.”

  He looked up at Roland.

  “I’m sorry I’ve dragged ye into all this.”

  Roland sat down beside his friend and draped an arm over Declan’s shoulders.

  “We’ve been dragged into every war we’ve ever fought, Dec. I don’t recall you or I ever starting a single one.”

  War Clouds

  Five miles west of the River Bann, six riders were up and in the saddle before first light. By midmorning, the spire of Saint Patrick’s church was in sight atop the hill of Armagh. A sentry posted down by the road saw them coming and hurriedly mounted, galloping his horse up the long slope to the abbey with news of their approach. By the time they reached the square that fronted the church, men were beginning to gather.

  Declan reined in his chestnut mare and signalled for Roland and Brother Cyril to hang back. Margaret Maelchallain needed no word from him to know that this moment was hers. The girl guided her Irish pony to the centre of the square, as curious clansmen converged on her. Still dressed in her nun’s habit, she reached into the woollen bag at her side and without a word drew forth the shrine of Saint Patrick’s bell, hoisting it triumphantly over her head.

  The men in the square all stood frozen as though thunderstruck. Then, amid cries of shock and joy they fell to their knees. Disturbed by the sudden clamour in the square, Hugh O’Neill came rushing out of his quarters and saw the girl with the shrine held high. He went down on one knee, crossing himself, then rose and hurried to Margaret’s side, helping her slide down off the horse.

  “My God, Meg, what have ye managed?” he asked, his voice choked with emotion as men all around rose to their feet and crowded in around the girl and her sacred treasure.

  Aroused from prayer, Archbishop O’Connor appeared at the door of the church. He looked across the square at the growing crowd and at its centre he saw it, still held high over the girl’s head.

  The bell!

  He leaned against the door frame for support as his knees went weak. He raised his eyes to heaven.

  “Thank ye, Lord,” he whispered and rushed to join the crowd celebrating the return of the relic.

  Roland dismounted and Fi
nn slipped off the back of The Grey as the uproar in the square brought more men streaming in from all sides, among them Cathal and Keiran O’Duinne. Declan saw his father and brother forcing their way through the crowd toward him and hopped off his mare to greet them. Cathal grasped his son in a bear hug.

  “I’d not thought I’d see ye again, son,” he whispered.

  When Cathal released his embrace, Declan took Roland by the arm and pulled him forward.

  “This is de Courcy’s hostage, father, and my good friend, Sir Roland Inness.”

  Cathal’s eyes darted between Roland and the girl in the centre of the square holding up Saint Patrick’s bell and shook his head.

  “I don’t know how ye managed to collect the bell and yer friend and get back here alive, but it will be a story worth hearing,” he shouted above the noise.

  For a while, the men stood off to the side and watched the outpouring of joy in the abbey square. Roland leaned over and whispered to Declan.

  “I can see now why she stole the thing.”

  Amidst the tumult in the square, Hugh O’Neill edged his way out of the crowd and managed to reach Declan and his companions.

  “I’d not thought to see ye back here, O’Duinne,” he said.

  “I’d not thought I’d be back, my lord, but Margaret Maelchallain had other ideas.”

  O’Neill winced.

  “I told the lass not to cause trouble,” he said and sighed. “but following sound advice is not her nature. Still, she’s done a grand thing here. Her name will be venerated by the Cenél Eoghain.”

  “Aye, she’s a brave woman,” Declan said. “They’ll likely write songs about her, but taking the bell will prove easier than keeping it.”

  O’Neill stared at him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “My lord, John de Courcy has gathered a thousand men or more at Carrickfergus and may already be on the march. He intends to strike at Tir Eoghain and could reach the Bann in three days.”

  O’Neill’s eyes grew wide.

  “How do you know this? We’ve heard nothing.”

  Declan turned to Roland and motioned him forward.

  “This is Sir Roland Inness, my lord, the fellow knight I spoke of and my closest comrade. De Courcy held him hostage as surety for my return. He escaped three days ago. While he was hostage, Sir John spoke freely to him of his plans to march against Tyrone once he received additional troops. Two hundred English mercenaries disembarked at Carrickfergus three days ago.”