by Wayne Grant
“Best dismount here and walk, Hugh,” Cathal advised. “There are archers on the far bank.”
O’Neill glanced off toward the river and hopped off his pony. As they moved toward the berm at a crouch, he turned to Declan.
“Ponies and shovels,” he said shaking his head. “If it wasn’t for yer sire, I might’ve ignored that request, lad, but he’s convinced ye do know how to beat these English. For my part, I thought I’d find ye all dead or halfway back to Armagh by now. Didn’t see how ye could slow down an army with but thirty men, but damned if you haven’t!”
They reached the berm and O’Neill crawled to the top to look over. A score of bodies or more lay piled in the ditch on the other side. More men lay on the river bank and a few, partly submerged in the stream, jerked as though still alive as the current tugged at them. O’Neill slid back down behind the muddy mound and shook his head.
“Ponies and shovels,” he muttered to himself.
***
A hundred yards from the ford, John de Courcy paced back and forth across the road and stared at the far side of the river. He turned to the man standing beside him.
“Captain Oliver, we’ve wasted most of a day trying to cross this river. I want you to take your men across and fill in that damned ditch. It’s time you started earning your pay.”
The last comment was clearly a taunt, a fact not lost on Charles Oliver. Since the day Sir Roland Inness made him look the fool in front of the Prince, de Courcy had used that humiliation to goad him. It rankled, but in his business there was no profit in challenging your paymaster, so he had swallowed the insults.
The blow he’d taken to his knee as Inness escaped had left him with no permanent injury—except to his reputation and in his work, reputation was everything. When some of his own men proved bold enough to make jests at his expense, he’d knocked heads together to put an end to that. Still, the injury to his pride stung. He looked across the river and wondered if the man who’d done him that injury might be over there with the Irish. De Courcy suspected Inness had fled to Tyrone. Though Oliver had come to doubt much of John de Courcy’s wild speculations, in this, he hoped the man was right. Killing Inness would do much to restore his standing with his men and with future employers.
Oliver looked across the river at the trench and the berm and the bodies. He’d seen worse. His men would make short work of this primitive little earthwork and its Irish defenders.
“Consider it done, my lord,” he said.
It was late in the afternoon when Oliver led his English mercenaries into the River Bann. Two hundred strong they came, draped in good mail and carrying shields. They did not hurry as had the Irish, for to lose footing on the mucky river bottom might doom a man so heavily armoured. But they came on steadily.
De Courcy mounted his magnificent white stallion and rode back to where his column of heavy cavalry was assembled on the road, waiting patiently for the Englishmen to clear the ditch. Once done, these horsemen would have their chance to avenge their losses from the morning. But he would not leave the outcome to chance. When the cavalry went in, the Prince of Ulster would lead them.
He drew his longsword, rested it across his saddle and waited.
***
Roland sent a half dozen clothyard shafts at the men crossing the river, but they were aware of the threat from the archer on the far bank and kept their shields high. Declan tapped his shoulder.
“Time to go,” he said.
Roland loosed one more arrow and stepped away from the berm. Together they ran for the trees where their horses were tethered. Hugh O’Neill, his guard, and the O’Duinne warriors were all mounted on their ponies.
Finn was waiting for them and handed Declan the reins of the chestnut mare and Roland the reins of The Grey. Brother Cyril was already mounted on his lanky bay mare.
“You understand the three of us will be on the road, lad,” Roland said to Finn as he climbed up on The Grey. “These big brutes will sink in the bog and so will those horses coming across the river. You stay on your pony and stay with the O’Duinne men—all the way back to Armagh! Understood?”
“Aye, lord. Ye already told me that,” the boy replied tartly. He grabbed his pony’s mane and dragged himself up. “Don’t let the Prince catch you!” he added and dug his heels into the small horse’s flanks. The other riders were already fanning out into the bog and the boy easily caught up to them.
“I like the lad’s advice,” Declan said as the first English mercenary managed to hoist himself up to the top of the mud berm. “He’ll make a good squire.”
Roland shook his head, then guided The Grey up onto the Armagh road. Declan and Cyril joined him and all reined in fifty yards from the berm. Mercenaries were clambering up and over the mound and some were starting to loosen the packed mud with their swords, pushing it down into the ditch. None made any effort to advance toward the riders sitting and watching them. That would be the cavalry’s job.
***
De Courcy saw Captain Oliver’s signal and led his mounted men across the Bann. The ditch had been filled in across the width of the road and the horses bounded up and out of the ford without hesitation. As he reached level ground, de Courcy saw three riders mounted on English-bred palfreys watching them from up the road and wondered who they were. In these parts few would have such mounts. He knew his slower warhorses could not hope to ride them down and so he paid them no further mind.
North of the road he saw more horsemen mounted on Irish ponies moving slowly to the west across the open grassland. Their lack of haste puzzled him, for on open ground like this, he knew his heavy cavalry could catch the smaller Irish ponies. He turned to one of his lieutenants and ordered him to take forty men and chase down the riders north of the road. The rest he would lead on toward Armagh.
The man saluted and barked orders to the riders behind him. He spurred his horse in the flanks and the big animal plunged off the road. Three riders followed close behind. Within yards, all were flailing in the sucking mud and hopelessly mired. Seeing the danger, de Courcy whirled around and screamed at the next rider to halt. The man managed to back his horse out before it became entrapped in the bog. De Courcy leaned forward and stared at the ground beside the road.
A peat bog!
He knew of no bogs like this in Antrim or Down, but he had seen one, years ago on a campaign north of Lough Neagh and should have recognized the signs! He cursed under his breath, then quickly sent up a prayer of contrition. This had been his own fault. He’d already lost most of a day to this unexpected rebuff at the ford and it had galled him. He’d been too hasty, too careless, too certain.
God punishes the prideful!
He looked across the flat expanse of the bog at the horsemen lurking there. Most had halted and were looking back at him, but some were beginning to edge back toward the road. Their ponies splashed through the standing water and managed to keep their footing in the spongy peat. They did not charge. They simply picked their way across the firmest ground they could find until they were close enough. Then their riders began to hurl their throwing spears at the men jammed together on the road.
A prickle of apprehension ran through him. He’d faced light cavalry like this before—hobelars the Irish called them. They had always been easily driven off by his own heavier mounted troops, but now, protected by this damned bog…
Perhaps it would be best to move on to Armagh.
He turned and ordered the column forward. The word was passed to the rear and the infantry began crossing the ford. North of the road, the men on ponies waited to greet them.
***
For two hours they harassed the advancing English host tramping along the road, darting in on their ponies to strike at them with throwing spears. A squad of Welsh longbowmen tried to protect the column, but they could not be everywhere. The men on the road shouted curses at these nettlesome riders and vowed vengeance, but could do little else. To leave the road would have been death.
W
hen the English column finally reached firmer ground, the riders melted away and found smaller paths that joined the Armagh road miles ahead. Declan, Roland and Cyril were waiting at the rendezvous as the riders straggled in. Men and horses were caked with mud, but the three on the road were relieved to see Cathal, Keiran and Finn among them. When the last man closed up on the road, Hugh O’Neill counted heads. No one was missing.
O’Neill rode up beside Declan and looked up at the young knight aboard his much taller mount.
“Ye’ve given me an extra day, Sir Declan and I’m in yer debt. Now let’s be on to Armagh and see what use I can make of yer gift.”
The Eve of Battle
Twilight had settled over Armagh when a sentry on the road saw them coming and galloped up to the church to pass the word. Clansmen hurried into the square to greet the mud-spattered riders. Many had expected the next riders to appear from the northeast to be de Courcy’s men and cheered at the sight of their chieftain as he led his exhausted men into the abbey town. Archbishop O’Connor hurried down from the church to meet him.
“You look like hell, O’Neill,” he said with real concern.
“And I feel the same, excellency, but we bought ourselves another day.”
“Then it was time well spent. You’ll be pleased to know that the last of your own clansmen arrived in the early afternoon and the O’Cahans are just two hours away. When they arrive, you’ll have over four hundred men!”
Hugh O’Neill gave the churchman a weary smile.
“That is good news, Tomas. Now do ye suppose ye could ask some of your monks to bring up buckets of water? My lads did themselves proud, but it was filthy work.”
The monks from the abbey were immediately put to work hauling oaken buckets up from the abbey well to the square where men lined up to scrub off the dried mud from their clothes and faces. Declan had just turned a bucket of cold well water over his head when he saw Margaret Maelchallain coming toward him across the square. He squeezed the water from his hair and went to meet her.
“You’re back,” he said simply.
“Aye, and yer alive,” she said with visible relief. “I arrived this morning to find you had gone off to the Bann to fight de Courcy with thirty men. It did not sound promising.”
“I told ye I knew how to beat the English,” he said with a grin.
“Aye, ye did, but ye didn’t say ye’d survive the effort.”
“I never expect to die, Meg.”
Margaret laughed at that.
“Then one day yer in for a big surprise, Declan O’Duinne! But tell me, are the English beaten?”
“No, not yet. But we bought time and now O’Neill has most of his men here.”
“Plus forty from the Maelchallains,” she added. “My clan will stand with the O’Neills to defend Armagh.”
“And Conor Mac Lochlainn?”
The girl’s face fell.
“I think not. I begged him, but he is too proud.”
“Too proud to listen to his betrothed?”
The girl started to answer, but seemed to notice for the first time the crowd of men standing nearby.
“Come and walk with me,” she said.
He followed her as she walked up toward the church. It was fully dark now and as they walked, she looked up at the night sky. There were portents of rain, with low clouds blotting out the moon and stars. She sniffed the air.
“Storm coming,” she said.
Declan nodded. He felt it too.
When they reached the edge of the slope that fell away to the north she froze. A half mile from where they stood, scores of campfires blazed in the night casting a ghastly yellow glow on the low-hanging clouds.
John de Courcy had come to Armagh.
“So close!” she gasped.
“Aye, I expect they’ll come at first light.”
“Do we have a chance?”
Declan wanted to reassure the girl, but this was no time for lies.
“Not much. Not without Mac Lochlainn’s men.”
Margaret’s shoulders slumped.
“I thought I knew him,” she said sorrowfully, “I truly did.”
“You did what ye could, Meg. It’s all any of us can do.”
The girl did not speak for a while as she stood and looked at the evil glow in the northern sky.
“After this is all done,” she said, “if you live, what will you do?”
“Go home, I think, back to England…back to Shipbrook. And what of you, Meg?”
She gave a short bitter laugh.
“Well, there is to be no marriage to Conor Mac Lochlainn. That’s for certain! And in another three months, my brother will take the leadership of the clan. There won’t be much expected of a clan chief’s spinster sister I presume. Perhaps I’ll put back on the nun’s habit and take vows.”
Declan reached over and took her hand.
“That would be a terrible shame,” he said and drew her to him. She did not protest, and in the glow of the enemy campfires, he kissed her and she kissed him back. When at last they drew back she wrinkled her nose and giggled.
“You smell like a peat bog,” she said.
“My apologies,” he said with a grin.
She raised a hand to touch her lips, her eyes shining.
“That was my very first proper kiss, Sir Declan,” she said and stepped back into his arms.
“But not yer last,” he said and kissed her again.
***
The Compline bells had rung when Declan saw Margaret back to her quarters. Returning to his father’s tent, he found Roland sitting with Cathal and Keiran around the cookfire. He beckoned to his friend and together they walked out into the square. It was practically empty as men made preparations for the next day or tried to get some rest.
“Tomorrow will be bad, I think,” he said as they walked.
“It doesn’t look promising,” Roland agreed.
“It’s not too late for you and Cyril and Finn to ride south to Dublin.”
Roland shook his head.
“I’ve spoken with Cyril. He won’t leave. The boy was sleeping last time I checked. I’ll let him rest, then order him to get clear before things begin.”
Declan nodded. They had walked across the square and out to the Dungannon Road that passed through a gap between the monk’s dormitory and the stables on the western edge of the abbey. Here were the open fields where de Courcy would no doubt array his heavy cavalry on the morrow. Roland kept walking and Declan followed until they came to the place where the road from the northeast met the westward road that ran from Armagh to Dungannon. Roland stopped and turned around, looking back up the road toward the abbey. He stared at the scene for a long time, then muttered something to himself.
“Gad, Roland, speak up!” Declan implored. “Have ye thought of something?”
Roland shrugged.
“Nothing brilliant, but your trench down at the ford put me in mind of something. This road passes between the dormitory and the stables,” he said. “The walls of both buildings are near as high as the walls of Shipbrook.”
Declan looked at the layout of the buildings and understood instantly what Roland was thinking.
“If we can block up this one road and barricade the gaps south of the stable…,” he said in an excited voice.
“It might not stop them,” Roland said, “but they will pay hell getting into the abbey.”
“I knew you had a plan in you!” Declan said and slapped Roland on the shoulder. “Let’s go find O’Neill.”
***
The last of the O’Neill clans rode into Armagh on their shaggy Irish ponies as the monks filed down through the square at the end of Compline prayers. The O’Cahans, one hundred twenty strong, had covered the fifty miles from their raths near the Sperrins in two days.
An hour later, Hugh O’Neill called his chiefs together on the hill behind the church. Margaret Maelchallain was there as chief of her clan as was Cathal O’Duinne who brought Declan with him.
They stood beside Seamus O’Cahan, Turlough O’Hagan and a half dozen chiefs from smaller septs as Keiran O’Duinne lit a torch and O’Neill issued his orders for the defence of Armagh. The clan chieftain used a sword to draw an oval in the dirt.
“Here is the hill and here is the church,” he said, marking a cross on one end of the oval. “De Courcy is here,” he said, pointing his sword tip just north of the oval. “We will form lines twenty paces below the crest of the hill here to block his way directly into the town. If we are pushed back to the hilltop, I will give the signal to fall back to the church to form a new line.”
Declan nodded. O’Neill was showing a clever grasp of terrain and tactics. He would use the steep slope to maximum advantage, but if his men were forced back to level ground, that advantage would be lost. Retreating the hundred yards to the church would allow him to reform his men into shorter lines between the church and the abbey buildings.
O’Neill took the point of his sword and scraped out a furrow that ran toward the oval on the ground, then curved around the hill.
“This is the road Sir Declan says we cannot hold. I’ve looked at the ground there and, sadly, I must agree with him. We all were at Tandragee and saw what de Courcy’s heavy cavalry did there. I won’t make the mistake Mac Lochlainn made.”
There was a low buzz of agreement at that.
“But that leaves the western approach to the town open.”
The buzz of agreement turned to worried muttering.
“So we are going to barricade every road, alleyway and garden path on the west side of the abbey that opens onto the square. If we can keep their heavy cavalry out of the town, we have a chance. I’ve spoken to the Archbishop and even now his monks are blocking every way into town from that quarter. I want the O’Duinne and O’Hagans to man those ramparts. My O’Neill men, the O’Cahans and the Maelchallains will hold the line here on the north slope.”
No one spoke. O’Neill glanced over at Declan who gave him the slightest of nods. It was a simple plan, but with barely five hundred men to defend the abbey town against twice that number, it had merit. It did not ensure victory, but did guarantee that the English would endure a bloodbath to take the place. Having nothing better to offer, Declan held his peace.