Declan O'Duinne

by Wayne Grant

  O’Neill looked hard at Roland.

  “You saw these men?”

  “I did, lord. I watched five cogs tie up in the harbour and I counted heads as the men came ashore.”

  “English mercenaries, you say.”

  “Aye, they wore mail after the English fashion and I was introduced to their captain at de Courcy’s keep. They are English and veteran men, lord.”

  “And you saw others?”

  “Aye, lord. Before the mercenaries arrived, I counted four hundred men already quartered in the town, some Irish and some English—and there are eighty English-bred warhorses in the stables there. I understand that de Courcy can also muster Irish levies.”

  O’Neill’s shoulders sagged a little at this news.

  “Aye. If he really intends to strike at Tir Eoghain, he’ll have that many or more Irish from Antrim and Down to call upon, but tell me, Sir Roland, why would de Courcy confide his plans to you?”

  “He invited me to join him, my lord,” Roland said. “Three days ago, we stood on the curtain wall at Carrickfergus and watched the English mercenaries disembark in the harbour. He said there was land and gold to be had in Tyrone for men like me—once he’d chastised you stiff-necked Irish.”

  O’Neill bristled at the insult for just an instant, then he chuckled.

  “Perhaps ye should have taken the man’s offer, Sir Roland. If he crosses the Bann with a thousand men, it might be the better choice!”

  Roland shook his head.

  “My lord, I’ve kept company with a stiff-necked Irishman for five years. They make for better companions than de Courcy.”

  O’Neill smiled at that, but turned quickly back to business.

  “I’m not surprised that de Courcy plans to strike against us, but I’d hoped to have more time.”

  “My lord, he now has six hundred men quartered at Carrickfergus. No baron, not even the King of England, would keep that many men fed and paid for long without finding a use for them,” Roland said. “Three days ago he said they would march within the week. I believe him.”

  O’Neill nodded.

  “And if I know John de Courcy, the loss of the bell will goad him.”

  “What will you do, lord?” Declan asked.

  “I’ll fight, by God!” he snapped. “I’ll have scouts out at the fords over the Bann by day’s end and I’ll summon my men to Armagh.”

  “You believe he will strike here then?” Declan asked.

  “Until now, I had not thought so. A year ago he struck north of Lough Neagh and last month he marched west from Down and reached as far as Tandragee. I had expected him to strike north toward Derry again, but the theft of the bell changes all that. De Courcy will take the loss as a personal affront. The Maelchallain rath is but three miles south of here and while they are Keepers of the bell, they hold it for the Archbishop of Armagh. De Courcy knows this. He will come for the bell, Sir Declan. Whatever his plans were, he will change them. He’s coming to Armagh. I’d wager my best bull on it.”

  “You’ll fight him here?” Declan asked.

  O’Neil’s face grew hard.

  “I fear I must! This is sacred ground. I can hardly leave it to de Courcy without a fight,” he growled, pounding a clenched fist into his palm. Declan and Roland glanced at each other.

  Jerusalem.

  “ But I fear it won’t be enough,” O’Neill added with a frown and pointed across the square.

  The sight made Declan’s heart sink.

  The half-moon banner of the Mac Lochlainns was nowhere to be seen.

  “Gone?” Declan asked, shocked.

  Seamus O’Cahan, Hugh O’Neill’s most powerful clan chief, had torn himself away from the crowd still gathered around Margaret to join his chieftain. He heard the question and did not wait for Hugh to reply.

  “Bastards slunk out ‘for dawn this morn—too ashamed to do it in daylight!” he muttered.

  “I can see they’re gone, lord, but why?” Declan asked.

  O’Cahan scowled.

  “Conor Mac Lochlainn’s position was weak and he knew it! Our people back Hugh, to the last man. His people waver. He knew if he pressed for the kingship now, he would fail. So he’s left, and I say good riddance to him and to them all!”

  Declan shook his head.

  “You’ll wish them back, lord.”

  Before O’Cahan could protest, Hugh laid a hand on the man’s arm.

  “Seamus, de Courcy is on the march with a thousand men. He may reach Armagh in four days, maybe less.”

  O’Cahan’s face turned pale.

  “Are ye sure of this, Hugh?”

  “Aye, Seamus. I just bet my best bull on it.”

  ***

  Fifty miles to the northeast, a lone rider reined in his mount as he neared the fortified port of Carrickfergus. He’d ruined two horses in his haste to reach Lord de Courcy with Abbot Layton’s message and now the Prince’s castle was in sight, perched on the shore of the bay. He had been forced to slow the horse to avoid trampling any of the hundreds of men who were congregating around the coast road. The men were moving between scores of tents pitched along both side of the track. Some were cooking a noon meal, some sharpening weapons and some casting lots—all signs of an army waiting to march.

  When he reached the shingle by the harbour he leapt from his saddle and hurried up the ramp and into the town. Guards tried to bar his way, but he waved a scroll with the seal of the Abbot of Down affixed to it and bullied his way to the very entrance of the keep. There the guards were less impressed.

  “The Prince is done with audiences for the day,” one guard said flatly. “Come back tomorrow.”

  The man stuck the parchment under the guard’s nose.

  “If I come back tomorrow it will be so I can see the birds peckin’ at yer stinkin’ head stuck up above the gate there,” he screamed hoarsely, pointing at the entrance to the inner ward.

  That gave the man pause and he snatched the scroll from the courier. He unrolled it and made a show of scanning the words, though he could not read a single one. He did, however, recognize the blob of red wax with the seal of the cross. That seal belonged to the tall, frightening Abbot of Down. He’d seen enough.

  “Very well,” he said officiously. “I will inform the Prince that he has a message from the Abbot.”

  ***

  Orders had been given for the army to march at dawn the next day, but an hour after the message from Down reached Carrickfergus, new orders were issued. Sir John de Courcy sat atop his magnificent white warhorse and watched as tents were struck, packs shouldered and men shouted into ranks by their sergeants. He knew they would not get far before darkness forced a halt, but he’d be damned if he’d sit idle after the report arrived from Down.

  They had stolen his bell!

  He’d immediately dispatched couriers to Down with orders relieving Sir Randolph Quincy of command of the garrison there and sacking Abbot Layton. He had entrusted his most precious possession to these two men and they had failed him miserably! But he reserved part of his rage for himself. The Abbot had reported the thieves had a letter of introduction—a letter that bore his own seal!

  The moment his scribe read those words, he’d known. His suspicions about the Earl of Chester were no imaginings! This man Inness had already been exposed as Ranulf’s man and his companions had used his letter of introduction to get near the bell. He couldn’t fathom the Earl’s purpose in these strange events. Perhaps he simply wished to stir the Irish up against him, but that hardly mattered now. The thieves had fled to Tyrone with the bell and he would have it back!

  With the sun already low in the sky, the army of the Prince of Ulster lurched into motion, trudging west along the bay. As he rode, de Courcy was flanked by Sir Charles Oliver, captain of his English mercenaries and by the senior chieftain commanding his Irish troops. He slowed his horse to a walk and addressed them.

  “I had thought to march north of Lough Neagh then swing south to strike at the O’Neill
stronghold at Dungannon, but there is a new plan. We will march on Armagh. They have taken something of great value to me, and I expect I will find it there. If the Irish do not come out to meet us we will sack the town and destroy the church and the abbey there. I’ll not want one stone sitting atop another when we are finished! If they do defend the place, we will crush them and then destroy the church and abbey. In either event, we will recover the bell of Saint Patrick. Patrick himself has assured me of this!”

  The two men shot quick glances at each other, but rode on in silence.

  ***

  Hugh O’Neill did not dally. Within the hour, a dozen men were dispatched to watch the fords over the Bann and four of his best riders were ordered to range further east and north to find John de Courcy and his army. More riders were sent west to summon the fighting men of the Cenél Eoghain clans to Armagh. With his scouts and messengers dispatched, he called a hasty meeting of his clan chiefs in the nave of Saint Patrick’s church.

  O’Neill asked Declan to collect Margaret from the crowd and bring her to the council of war. By now the crush around the girl had thinned a bit and he could see that the triumphant light in her eyes was fading into weariness. She looked wrung out, but the girl managed a small smile as he reached her side.

  “O’Neill has called his chiefs together and asks you to attend,” he said.

  She gave him a sceptical look.

  “I am no O’Neill chief,” she said dully. “I must see to my own.”

  She doesn’t know, he thought.

  “Meg,” he said gently, “Conor and the Mac Lochlainn chiefs have gone.”

  Margaret blinked in disbelief.

  “Gone? Why would they go?” she demanded.

  Declan spread his hands, a pained look on his face.

  “The O’Neill men give dark reasons, Meg, but I don’t know.”

  “Nor do the O’Neill chiefs!” she snapped. “They do not know Conor Mac Lochlainn.”

  “But do you really know him, Meg?” Declan asked, touching her arm. “I mean truly?”

  The girls shoulders slumped.

  “I wondered why I did not see him in this crowd. I had not thought he would go.” she admitted sorrowfully.

  “Nor did O’Neill,” Declan said.

  Margaret looked up at him.

  “What will we do, Declan? De Courcy will come for the bell!”

  “O’Neill knows that and I believe he’ll fight him here at Armagh.”

  “Without Conor’s men, he will lose,” she said and stuffed the bell shrine back into her bag. She seemed at a loss of what to do next.

  “Come, walk with me,” Declan said and offered his hand.

  She looked past him and saw the O’Neill chiefs hurrying toward the church

  “The council…,” she said, her voice weary.

  “They can wait a bit for the Keeper of the bell,” he said.

  She nodded and let him take her hand. Together they walked across to the monk’s quarters on the western side of the square, abandoned now by Conor Mac Lochlainn and his followers. As Margaret approached the empty building, she looked shaken.

  “Tempers run high when thrones are at stake,” Declan said gently as he led her to a wooden bench that sat against the wall of the dormitory. “Perhaps he felt he had no choice.”

  Margaret slumped down on the bench. She hung her head and twisted her fingers into knots, then looked up at Declan, her eyes red-rimmed.

  “I don’t think a man like you can understand Conor Mac Lochlainn. You never seem in doubt, even when you’re wrong, but Conor…Conor has the weight of six generations of kings on his shoulders. It makes him doubt everything, including himself. He is a decent man, but proud. He knows in his heart that O’Neill would make the better king, but his pride will not let him accept that—will not let him be the first Mac Lochlainn in a hundred years to not be king of Tir Eoghain.”

  Declan looked down at the girl. He had not thought a woman with her spirit could ever be an object of pity, but at this moment she seemed genuinely pitiful. He laid a hand on hers to still their nervous movement and she did not pull away.

  “Meg, I do not know what’s in Conor Mac Lochlainn’s mind, nor will I judge him. I may have been born into the Cenél Eoghain, but I’ve been gone ten years. I’m little more than a stranger here now, but this much I know. War is coming and if the men of Tir Eoghain do not unite, neither Mac Lochlainn nor O’Neill will rule here. De Courcy will.”

  Margaret gave him a dark look.

  “We were united at Tandragee and still we lost.”

  Declan stood up.

  “I’ve fought in three wars, Meg, and nothing is certain once swords are crossed. The English can be beaten, but not by the O’Neills alone.”

  “Then make my apologies to Hugh O’Neill and his chiefs,” she said rising quickly to her feet.

  “What will you do?” Declan asked.

  “I will go to my chief. I will make him see. Conor Mac Lochlainn may not want O’Neill for his king, but he’ll have John de Courcy if he will not listen.”

  ***

  He found Margaret a fresh pony and sent word to her young clansman that she would be in need of him once more as she went in search of her missing chief. The girl stood there, still half covered in mud, her face grey with fatigue, as they waited for her escort to arrive. She wearily wrapped a slender hand through her pony’s mane to haul herself up, then stopped. She turned back to Declan.

  “I’ve been a lot of trouble,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  Declan looked at her. There was a small clot of dried mud on one cheek and he gently brushed it away with his hand.

  “Meg, you’ve been a great deal of trouble,” he said, “and I’m not sorry for any of it.”

  For a moment the fatigue vanished from her face. She leaned in quickly and kissed him gently on the lips, then drew back.

  “You’re a good man, Declan O’Duinne,” she said. “You should stay here.”

  Before he could reply, she turned and hauled herself up on her horse.

  “I see my escort has arrived,” she said, looking over Declan’s head. He turned and saw the young warrior who had ridden with them to Down trotting up from the stables. He turned back to the girl, searching for the proper words.

  “Meg…,”

  She laughed at him.

  “I didn’t mean to cause more trouble,” she said, but the look in her eyes said the opposite. She made a little clicking sound and the pony pricked up its ears and started forward. He watched her ride off to the west on the Dungannon Road until she was out of sight.

  ***

  In the nave of the church there were heated discussions underway when Declan entered. His father was seated on one of the benches that had been pulled into a half circle facing Hugh O’Neill. He motioned for Declan to join him.

  O’Neill had not missed his entrance and abruptly halted the debate, intercepting Declan near the door.

  “Margaret?” he asked tersely.

  “Gone, my lord. Gone to find her chief.”

  “The bell?”

  “Gone with its Keeper.”

  O’Neill sighed.

  “Meg’s a hard-headed lass. I hope she knows what she’s doing.”

  “She headstrong to be sure, lord,” Declan said, “but she sees thing clear enough.”

  “Then let us hope she can lift the scales from Mac Lochlainn’s eyes.”

  ***

  Through the long afternoon debate raged over how best to meet the new threat from John de Courcy. Most argued for defending Armagh to the death, relying on the high ground the church and abbey occupied and the presence of Saint Patrick’s bell to make up for their lack of numbers. Hugh O’Neill chose not to tell them that the bell was no longer in the abbey town.

  Others argued that defending the town without the Mac Lochlainn men was suicide.

  “We should fall back and harass de Courcy wherever he may march!” Seamus O’Cahan demanded.

  “And a
bandon Armagh?” Archbishop O’Connor asked sharply.

  Before O’Cahan could reply, a man shouted from the benches.

  “And how far shall we fall back, O’Cahan? To the Sperrin Mountains? To the western sea?”

  “We’ve used the Sperrins as a refuge in times past,” O’Cahan retorted, “and could again. I’ll avoid the western sea as I cannot swim!”

  That brought a chorus of laughter and not a few derisive hoots from the gathered chiefs.

  Aidan Mac Gorley stood and pointed a finger at O’Cahan.

  “Our raths are east of here, Seamus, and yours are out near the Sperrins. A retreat there would be convenient for you but disaster for us!” he shouted.

  Hugh O’Neill rose quickly and raised a hand for silence. If the debate grew much more heated, weapons might be drawn. It was time to end the discussion.

  “We will do what we must to defend Armagh,” he said with finality. “If John de Courcy gains this place, we’ll never get it back and it won’t end here. Dungannon will fall and Omagh and Derry. De Courcy means to have all of Ulster, so we must stop him here. We have three days to prepare.”

  With that he adjourned the meeting. As the clan chiefs filed out of the church, Hugh beckoned Declan and Cathal to his side.

  “Sir Declan, you did not speak,” he observed. “Did you have nothing to say?”

  “I didn’t think it wise, lord. Would yer clan chiefs have listened to an outsider on a matter of this weight?”

  This brought a small smile to O’Neill’s lips.

  “So you do have an opinion?”

  “Oh, aye, lord. Only two choices were offered—starve in the Sperrins or be slaughtered here in Armagh. Neither looks good to me.”

  O’Neill frowned.

  “You have a better plan?”

  Declan shook his head.

  “Not yet,” he said truthfully.

  O’Neill’s frown deepened.

  “Then ye’d best work on one,” he said.

  Conor Mac Lochlainn