by Wayne Grant
Conor Mac Lochlainn called a halt at mid-afternoon by a clear stream with good grass for the horses. He and his clan chiefs had ridden fifteen miles up the rough road that ran northwest from Armagh toward Derry and would spend two more days in the saddle to reach the Mac Lochlainn stronghold there. The young chieftain wandered down by the stream as his men made camp. He had a need to be alone after a week filled with conflict and disappointment.
After the defeat at Tandragee, some of his chiefs had advised him to wait before making his bid for the kingship of the Cenél Eoghain, but he had insisted on quickly calling the council at Armagh. He knew that Hugh O’Neill would challenge him, but thought that, in the end, the clans would turn once more to the Mac Lochlainns for leadership. He’d been bitterly disappointed when they hadn’t.
What made matters worse were reports that some of his own adherents had favoured O’Neill, among them Margaret Maelchallain. Her reported defection had been a particularly painful blow. As Keeper of the bell of Saint Patrick, the chief of the Maelchallains carried far more influence than the sept’s small size would warrant. But the pain was more than political—it was personal.
He was in love with Meg Maelchallain—had been for years. He’d known her since he was a boy and even then he’d been drawn to her wit, her daring and, yes, to her beauty. Unlike most, she seemed entirely unimpressed that he was the King’s son and that had made her friendship all the more precious to him. When his father had arranged his betrothal to Eamon Maelchallain’s oldest daughter, he’d been secretly overjoyed. Yet he’d never told her that.
Now she had turned to Hugh O’Neill to lead their people, or so the whispers suggested. And there were other reports that tore at him. Meg had been seen having genial conversations with this outsider, Sir Declan O’Duinne. This he’d dismissed as an innocent encounter until she had insisted on riding off with this stranger to Down. He could not help but feel a sharp pang of jealousy at the thought of it.
It had all been too much. He’d ordered his clans to pack up and head home. He sat down and leaned against a sapling, closing his eyes and listening to the gurgle of the stream. It had been an exhausting week.
***
“Conor!”
Mac Lochlainn jerked awake. For a moment he was unsure of where he was, then realized he had fallen asleep down by the stream. Standing over him was Trian Mac Shane.
“You have a visitor, Conor,” Mac Shane said.
Conor scrambled to his feet, brushing leaf litter from his breeches.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Meg.”
Conor stopped brushing himself off.
“Thank you, Trian. Would you see her to my tent? I’ll be along in a moment.”
“Aye, Conor. I’ll tell her that.”
The young chief of the Mac Lochlainn clans watched Mac Shane head back to the campsite and took a deep breath.
It was time to see for himself where Meg Maelchallain stood.
***
She was standing outside the tent when he got there, looking more weary than he’d ever seen her.
“Meg, I’m pleased to see you safe back from Down. Please come inside,” he said, holding the tent flap back. She nodded and stepped through the opening. He followed her through and helped her off with her cloak.
“I had not expected to see you here,” he said. “Why have you come?”
“I had not expected to find you gone when I returned from Down,” she replied, turning to face him. “Why did you leave Armagh?”
“Answer my question first,” he said. “Why have you come here?”
“You are my clan chief,” she said simply.
“Am I still, Meg? There are reports you have found a new chief to follow.”
Margaret’s face flushed at that.
“Have you set spies on me, Conor?”
Mac Lochlainn shook his head.
“I’ve not, Meg, but people see things. They hear things. They tell me you prefer Hugh O’Neill to be king. Is that so?”
Margaret stood very still in the centre of the tent as his question hung in the air.
“I do, Conor. I’m sorry, but I do,” she said finally.
“You would have me submit to O’Neill then? Support him as our king?”
“Yes! I know you have a claim, Conor, perhaps the stronger claim to the title, but the O’Neill line is as royal as your own.”
Conor Mac Lochlainn stared at her, his face pained.
“I had expected loyalty from my chiefs, Meg, especially from the Maelchallains. Especially from you…”
Margaret shook her head.
“Our clan has been faithful to your line for longer than we’ve guarded the saint’s bell, but I will not see the Cenél Eoghain made slaves for the sake of the Mac Lochlainns. Your father was a good man, but no leader, Conor. You are a good man too, but you are not the man the Cenél Eoghain need at this moment.”
“And Hugh O’Neill is,” the young chieftain said bitterly.
“I believe he is,” Margaret replied without hesitation. “He understands that we can have peace with de Courcy, but only at the price of our freedom. You think that price is bearable. He does not, nor do I.”
“So you turn against me?”
“Not you, Conor, not you.”
He turned on her, his face cold.
“I have tried to chart a course that might save our people from destruction. I am sorry that in so doing, I’ve lost your regard, Meg. You are leader of your clan and must do as you think best for your people. I will release you from our betrothal,” he said. “It seems your heart lies elsewhere these days—with O’Neill and perhaps with this new man, come from England.”
“Conor Mac Lochlainn!” she lashed out. “You may do as you wish with the marriage agreement our fathers made. I’ve never once heard from your own lips that you approved of the match in any case! As for Declan O’Duinne, he is a good man, but ill-disposed to be my suitor after what I did at Down.”
“Did he make advances?” Conor asked, suddenly concerned.
She couldn’t suppress a laugh at the notion.
“Sir Declan? No! He was at all times proper with me, even when I angered him.”
“How did you anger him?”
“I stole back our bell,” she said simply, reaching into her bag to draw it forth and handing the bell shrine to the shocked clan chief. Mac Lochlainn’s eyes grew wide
“My God, how…”
Margaret shook her head.
“I did not intend to do it, but the damned English abbot maligned my father’s good name and I lost control of my senses for a moment. After that, of course, it was too late.”
“I can see why this Sir Declan was upset with you,” the young man said, the anger drained from his voice. “It was a foolish thing to do, Meg. You might have been killed—or worse.”
Conor handed the bell shrine back to her.
“But it’s a miracle,” he said in a hushed voice.
“And we are now in need of another,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Conor, John de Courcy is marching on Armagh with a thousand men. He could be at the Bann in three days and Armagh in four. I believe O’Neill will defend the place.”
“He’ll lose,” Mac Lochlainn snapped.
“Perhaps,” she said, “but at least he will fight and the Maelchallains will be with him. Will you, Conor?”
The Gathering Storm
A score of warriors from the O’Duinne clan, bristling with axes, spears and shields, were the first to answer Hugh O’Neill’s summons, their lands being only six miles away along the Blackwater River. Finbar Mac Cormaic, perched atop a shaggy pony, followed them into the square at Armagh. Cathal O’Duinne and his sons were there to greet them as they marched in.
Next to arrive were fifty warriors of the O’Hagan clan. They had been sighted on the Dungannon Road at noon and trooped into the square an hour later after a long march from their raths near Tullyhogue.
“How many more do you think?” he asked.
“The O’Neill men should be here from Dungannon by tomorrow. Hugh says he expects two hundred warriors from his own clan. But he worries about the O’Cahans. They have over a hundred men, but their raths are out near the Sperrin Mountains. Seamus O’Cahan sent his best rider on his fastest horse with the summons, but it could take three days or more for them to reach us. My father says the other septs might bring another hundred all together.
“So, half the strength de Courcy has—if the O’Cahans arrive in time.”
“It’s good Lady Catherine taught you sums,” Declan said grimly, “though yer answer provides little comfort.”
“Aye, no comfort at all. How many will this Mac Lochlainn bring if he returns?
Declan rubbed his chin.
“They took heavy losses at Tandragee. I’d guess he has no more than three hundred men fit to fight.”
“Can eight hundred defend this town?”
“Well, I’d not count on those three hundred from Mac Lochlainn, but let’s have a look at the ground,” he said and headed up the hill toward the church.
Roland followed him through the graveyard on the east side of the church and out to the crest of the hill. From this vantage point, a grassy slope fell away steeply to the north.
“Good high ground here, Dec,” he said.
“Aye, but that road troubles me,” Declan said, pointing to the dirt track that came in from the northeast, then turned west and ran along the base of the hill. “That’s the road we travelled to get here from Carrickfergus and if de Courcy marches on Armagh, he’ll likely so the same.”
Roland looked at the road snaking over rolling green fields to the northeast. He walked along the crest of the hill toward the west following the road’s course as it curved along the base of the slope before passing over a low rise and turning south. A quarter mile on, it intersected with another road running off to the west.
Where the roads met just west of the abbey, there was nothing but gently rolling fields and pastureland that came right up to the edge of the abbey grounds. He shook his head. From that quarter, Armagh would be very difficult to defend. Declan joined him.
“See the problem?” he asked.
“Aye. If we can’t block that road, de Courcy will just follow it around and attack from the west. We’ll be hard pressed to hold the place if he does.”
Declan looked back to the northeast. He could see for miles in that direction and it was a beautiful sight—green rolling hills to the horizon. But beyond that horizon, he knew John de Courcy could already be on the march with twice the strength O’Neill could muster—and he’d bring with him veteran mercenaries and heavy cavalry. On proper ground, O’Neill’s outnumbered clansmen might hope to make a stand against a force such as that, but while the hill he stood atop was good ground to defend, the road was a fatal weakness. Flesh and blood, no matter how courageous could not stop heavy cavalry down on level ground like that.
“I doubt the road can be held against de Courcy’s cavalry, even if Mac Lochlainn brings in his men,” he said. “I’ll have to tell O’Neill.”
Roland laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Better you than me.”
***
“You would have us abandon Armagh without a fight?”
Hugh O’Neill rose from his seat at the suggestion, his face turning crimson.
“Do you not understand what this hill and this church means, O’Duinne? Your own brother died at Tandragee to keep it out of English hands as did many another good man. Now you would have me tell my clan chiefs we can’t hold the place? That they must abandon their raths and flee into the Sperrins to live like wild animals?”
Declan did not flinch from O’Neill’s anger. He had expected it.
“My lord, I do understand what Armagh means to the Cenél Eoghain, but that does not change the fact that the road de Courcy is likely to come down runs right around the high ground to open fields and pastures!”
“We’ll block the road.” O’Neill insisted.
Declan shook his head.
“Ye’ve seen what English cavalry can do to foot on open ground like that, my lord. They’ll punch right through whoever you put there to block the road and be in your rear in short order.”
O’Neill brushed aside his words as though shooing away annoying flies.
“If Mac Lochlainn rejoins us, we can make a fight of it! Or would you have us turn tail and flee?”
“No lord. I would not have you flee and certainly not to the Sperrins. If de Courcy drives the Cenél Eoghain into those mountains, I doubt you’ll ever recover your land. The English can be beaten, but not if they can ride into Armagh from the west on level ground. We must find another way.”
“Another way? If yer friend here is right,” he said, pointing at Roland, “de Courcy could be crossing the Bann in two days!”
***
It was growing dark when Ronan Mac Ada guided his horse off the road and into a strip of trees that grew along the banks of the River Lagan. He had ridden hard since before dawn, covering twenty miles of bad road from the River Bann to reach this place. A half mile to the north was a ford over the Lagan. He planned to cross it at first light, but first he had come here.
On the far side of the river he knew there was a neck of land protected on three sides by a bend in the river. And on that neck of land a motte had been rising since early in the spring. It would be completed by winter, but it was not the fortress that interested him. This protected neck of land would be an easily defended place for an army to pass a night.
He slid off his pony and tied the reins to a branch well back from the river. He crawled on his belly through the underbrush until he reached the riverbank. From there he had a good view of the far shore, but in the dim light of dusk he could see nothing but trees lining the northern bank of the river and the top of the earthen mound set back from the water. He settled in to wait.
Soon he began to hear faint sounds—a horse whinny, the clatter of metal on metal and muted voices. Perhaps it was just a labour detail wrapping up their work on the mound, but then he saw a score of men troop down to the river to fill wooden buckets with water. This was more than a work detail.
He lay there for another half hour as the darkness grew, then he saw a light flare among the trees opposite him, a campfire being stoked. Then he saw another and another. By the time it was full dark he counted almost a hundred fires. He turned and crawled back through the brush to his horse and mounted. He’d found what Hugh O’Neill had sent him to find.
Now, darkness be damned, he had to get back to Armagh.
***
Dawn brought clouds and thick fog that clung to the low places beneath the hill of Armagh. The stone church atop the hill seemed to float above the surrounding countryside. Three men and a boy sat around Cathal O’Duinne’s cookfire waiting for a small cauldron of porridge to come to a boil. Finn, who’d claimed a preference for sleeping in the stables, had joined them as soon as it was light and stood eagerly over the pot with an empty bowl.
“Yer new squire looks hungry,” Declan said.
Roland sniffed.
“I can’t afford a squire.”
“Neither could Sir Roger when he took on a second one, as I recall.”
Roland gave him a sour look and changed the subject.
“Now you’ve slept on the problem, have you a plan to beat de Courcy? Your man O’Neill seems averse to fleeing to the Sperrins. He sees only one course, defend Armagh to the death.”
Before Declan could answer, Cathal O’Duinne spoke up.
“Fagan and I spent a summer and fall in the Sperrins two years ago when de Courcy threatened Derry. Those mountains can barely sustain a few hundred fighting men in any season. The clans cannot shelter their women and children there. They’d all starve! If we let de Courcy drive us into those mountains, the Cenél Eoghain are
finished. Better to die here on the hill of Armagh.”
Those gloomy words cast a pall over their gathering, save for Finn.
“Porridge is ready!” he announced eagerly, stirring the thickening mixture with a wooden spoon.
Declan looked across the fire at Roland.
“No great plan came to me in my dreams, Roland. I’m good with this,” he said holding up his sword, “but yer the planner—what say you?”
Roland frowned.
“We know more about what de Courcy brings to the fight than what the Irish will bring, what with the Mac Lochlainns in doubt and the O’Cahans fifty miles away. Hard to make a plan around that.”
Declan sat silent for a while, poking at the fire with a long stick.
“What we need is time,” he said, “time for the O’Cahans to reach us and time, I pray, for Mac Lochlainn to have a change of heart.”
“If it’s more time you need, I doubt John de Courcy will oblige,” said Roland.
Declan stood up and dropped his stick into the flames.
“Then we mustn’t leave it up to him. He has to cross the Bann to get here. Perhaps we can slow him there.”
Roland stood up.
“Then let’s ride out that way and have a look.”
Seeing the two knights stand, Finn hastily shovelled porridge in his mouth and held up a finger.
“I’ll fetch the horses, my lords,” he managed as he gulped down two more spoonfuls of breakfast.
***
The road that ran northeast from Armagh was better than most. It was a pilgrimage route for the faithful from Antrim, who from time to time made the trek south to worship at Saint Patrick’s church and to see the Saint’s bell on feast days. Thus Tomas O’Connor, Archbishop of Armagh, set aside funds to have brush cleared away and logs set in the low places to smooth their path. Pilgrims brought offerings to Armagh, so it was only good business.
Three riders followed the road as it ran through gently rolling hills for seven miles. Two miles from the River Bann, the hills gave way to land as flat as a tabletop and nearly treeless. The riders reined in atop the last of the high ground as a weak sun broke through the clouds. Patches of fog still clung to low land beyond the hills, but the riders could make out a dark line in the distance—a fringe of trees marking the river’s course.