Declan O'Duinne

by Wayne Grant

  “Are there any questions?” O’Neill asked. No one spoke.

  “Then see to your preparations. Assemble your men when you hear the bells toll the hour of Prime and may God and Saint Patrick be with you and the Cenél Eoghain on the morrow.”

  The gathering broke up as a stiff wind picked up from the west. Off in the distance, there was a rumble of thunder and a flash of lightning. Declan felt a first fat drop of rain slap against his arm as the storm approached

  O’Neill gestured for Margaret to stay behind.

  “Meg, I am indebted to you—for all ye’ve done. You are the Keeper of the bell and leader of yer clan—and no man could have done better. But none here expect ye to stand in ranks with yer men when the fighting begins. Be here on the morrow and show the men that Saint Patrick is with them, The Archbishop will bless the men, then both of you must shelter in the church once we are engaged.”

  Declan stole a glance at the girl and saw her bristle.

  “As you say, O’Neill, I am the Keeper and the leader of my clan. I would just be in the way in the shield wall, but I will not cower inside the church. The Maelchallains need to see their leader is with them and all the Cenél Eoghain need to know the bell and the spirit of Saint Patrick has not fled at the sight of the enemy. I will stand with my men!”

  O’Neill sighed.

  “Yer a headstrong woman, Meg. Do what ye will.”

  ***

  The fat drops of rain turned into a downpour as Declan and Margaret sought shelter in the entrance to Saint Patrick’s church.

  “This plan of O’Neill’s,” she said over the pounding of the rain, “will it work?”

  “It’s as good a plan as any, given the men we have,” Declan said, trying to sound more confident than he was.

  The girl stood quietly for a long time watching the rain beat down on the cobblestones of the abbey square.

  “I’ve…I’ve not been in a battle before, Declan. I’m afraid.”

  “So am I,” Declan answered honestly. “A battle is a dreadful thing.”

  “But I’m leader of my clan. I’m the Keeper. I must be there…,” she said, her voice trailing off. She lay her head against his chest, shivering in her soaked clothes. He wrapped her in his arms and stroked her hair.

  “Duty is a hard master,” he whispered to her.

  ***

  While he waited for Declan and his father to return from O’Neill’s war council, Roland shared Cathal’s cookfire with Finbar. Raindrops hissed and sizzled on the hot coals as the storm blew in. The old counsellor looked across the fire at him and shook his head.

  “Cathal has ordered me out of Armagh by morning,” Finbar said, his voice resigned. “He’s knows I’m of no use as a warrior, so I’m to mind the rath till he returns. But what of you, Sir Roland? Why are you staying here. If I was an Englishman about to be caught up in this fight, I’d think about saddling my horse and riding for Dublin—tonight.”

  Roland shrugged.

  “I sometimes feel only barely English, but for this fight, I will be Cenél Eoghain. Did Declan not tell you? I’m an adopted O’Duinne.”

  Finbar snorted at that.

  “Oh, I did hear something about that—boys swearing blood brotherhood! Very touching, but this is no boy’s game, Inness. There’s a good chance we all die tomorrow. You should go.”

  “With respect, Master Mac Cormaic, boys or not, Declan was my family when I needed one. I’ve come to Ireland to watch his back, and that’s what I will do.”

  “Then God help ye, lad,” Finbar said and shuffled into the tent to pack his kit.

  Finbar’s words made Roland think of another boy. He left the fire behind and headed down the hill as the rain began to fall in sheets. He found Finn in the stable, curled up on a stack of hay near The Grey’s stall. He shook the weary boy awake.

  “My…my lord,” Finn stuttered.

  “Sorry to wake you lad, but we must talk.”

  Finn rubbed his eyes and sat up. Roland sat down beside him.

  “The English will attack tomorrow,” he said.

  “Aye, lord. We all know that.”

  “I want you gone from Armagh when they do.”

  Finn frowned.

  “Do not squires stand with their masters in battle, lord?”

  “You are not my squire, Finn. You can sleep until you hear the bells toll the hour of Prime. Then you will saddle The Grey and ride south. The first good patch of trees you find that way, hide yourself there. If I don’t come for you in a day, do not come back here. Find your way to Dublin. Take ship for Chester in England. When you reach there, you will go to a place north of the city called Danesford. Folk in Chester will know of it. Tell them at Danesford that I’ve sent you. You’ll be welcome there. Do you understand?”

  “Aye, lord,” the boy said quietly, “Dublin, then Chester, then Danesford.”

  “Good lad! I know you have money, Finn, a good deal of it from Sir Declan and me, but not enough to buy your passage to Chester. Sell The Grey in Dublin if you must to pay your way. You’ll get a good price.”

  He reached in his belt and drew out a dagger. A bright red stone was set in the handle. He passed it to the boy hilt-first.

  “Take this with you. It is for my son. He will be at Danesford.”

  Finn took the dagger. It was a blade that had once belonged to the assassin Ivo Brun. He looked up at Roland.

  “I’d a been a good squire,” he said, his eyes welling. Then he turned away, but Roland had already seen the tears he wished to hide.

  Onslaught

  Sir John de Courcy, Prince of Ulster, looked up through the driving rain at the thin line of Irish troops arrayed near the top of the slope. Their line curled around the crest of the hill with the spire of Saint Patrick’s church visible behind them. De Courcy frowned. It was good ground to defend, particularly with the storm turning the grassy hillside slick.

  He looked off to the west and squinted through the downpour. His scouts had reported that the road curving around the hill to the west was clear, but he could hardly believe it. He had expected the Irish to block that road and defend it to the death. For if the steep slope on the north side of Armagh’s hill was good ground to defend, the western approach to the abbey town was anything but. There was nothing west of the abbey but open ground and the gentlest of slopes.

  He shook his head. These Irish might fight like devils, but they were children when it came to planning a real battle. Now he would make them pay for their failure to block the westward road. He’d decided that he would not destroy Saint Patrick’s church, but where the abbey now stood he would raise a motte. Then any who made the pilgrimage to Armagh would do so only on his sufferance.

  He wiped the rain from his eyes and peered once more up the hill at the centre of the Irish line. Standing in front of the line was a man de Courcy knew all too well. Archbishop Tomas O’Connor, prelate of the Irish church, stood with his arms outstretched exhorting the defenders, his fine linen robes hanging sodden on his thin frame. De Courcy uttered a soft curse. He’d offered O’Connor his full support as head of the Irish church. In return, he’d only asked the man to stay neutral in this fight. He now had O’Connor’s answer, but no matter. Irish priests had roused their countrymen against him on other battlefields and had died for their trouble.

  Of more interest was the woman who stood beside the Archbishop. She held an object aloft and even at this distance, there was no mistaking the shrine of Saint Patrick’s bell. He felt his face grow hot, even in the chill rain. He had counted on his victory at Tandragee and his seizure of the bell to leave the men of Tyrone disheartened and in disarray. Now they had the bell back and had gathered once more to fight him.

  He wondered if the woman parading the shrine before the Irish host was the one who had stolen it from Down, but that was of little consequence. De Courcy leaned forward in the saddle, as though he might simply reach out and pluck the treasured artefact from the woman’s hands. Then he rocked back and s
tared up the hill grimly. He had taken the bell once from the dead hands of a clan chief and it mattered not to him if he took it now from the dead hands of a woman.

  Patrick had promised it to him!

  As he looked up the hill, he saw a single banner snapping in the blustery wind. Emblazoned on it was the familiar blood-red hand of the O’Neills. That was no surprise. He’d known he’d never seduce the O’Neill chief. He was pleased to note the absence of the crescent moon banner of the Mac Lochlainns. De Courcy had thought the young Mac Lochlainn heir could be bought, but he’d not received an answer to his offer of peace. Perhaps the boy was straddling the fence, awaiting the outcome of this campaign before picking sides.

  Foolish lad, he thought. My price for peace will be higher, once O’Neill is off the board.

  De Courcy counted no more than three hundred men at the top of the hill, further evidence that not all of the Cenél Eoghain had rallied to the call. He had five hundred Irish foot at his command, men from Antrim and Down, ordered to be here by their chiefs who now answered only to him as Prince of Ulster. It was more than enough men to send against the thin Irish line atop the hill.

  He called forward the commander of his Irish levies. When the man reached him, he pointed to the top of the hill.

  “Drive those men off that hill and hunt them down,” he yelled above the roar of the storm. “I do not wish to see them again a month from now on some other field. I want them dead! Is that understood?”

  “Aye, yer grace,” the man shouted back.

  “And you see the woman there, the one with upraised arms?”

  “Aye, lord.”

  “If you or your men take her, the thing she holds in her hands is mine! Any man who thinks to keep it for himself will wish he had not. Is that clear?”

  “Aye, yer grace. None of my men will touch the thing.”

  “Good man! Now wait for my word to advance.”

  The Irish commander hurried back to his men and began barking out orders in Gaelic.

  De Courcy twisted around in his saddle and looked down the column formed up on the road behind him. Waiting patiently in the rain were four score men mounted on English-bred war horses. These were the men who had broken the Irish line at Tandragee a mere month ago. On that field, his horsemen had slaughtered hundreds of these stubborn Irish.

  Standing in ranks behind his heavy cavalry were his mail-clad English mercenaries, veterans all. He sent word for his cavalry commander and Captain Oliver to come forward. When they arrived, he pointed up the Irish line.

  “My Irish infantry will occupy those men on the hill,” he shouted. “Once they are engaged, we will follow this road and attack the abbey from the west. The ground is good there. If the Irish on the hill haven’t broken by the time we enter the abbey, we will take them in the rear.

  He pointed toward the woman on the hill, still holding Saint Patrick’s bell high overhead.

  “I know not who that woman is, but she has my bell and I will have it back! If they run, we will follow them, come what may. If I am wounded, or my horse stumbles and falls, you are not to turn aside. Is that clear?”

  “Aye, your grace,” both men shouted back.

  “Return to your men and wait for my command,” he ordered.

  The cavalry commander wheeled his warhorse around and trotted back to join the rest of the horsemen on the road. Captain Oliver trudged back through the mud of the road to where his men stood in ranks.

  De Courcy now motioned to a lieutenant to send the archers forward. A few shouted commands were issued and the Welsh longbowmen, all business, tramped forward through the pelting rain and planted their spare arrows into the ground at their feet. They drew waxed bowstrings from their tunics where they had secured them against the rain and strung their bows. He’d only been able to hire a score of the Welshmen, but that should be sufficient to further thin the ragged line on the hill before he sent in his infantry.

  As the Welsh archers prepared for their first volley, de Courcy looked back up the hill at the sodden ranks of Irishmen and shook his head.

  They never learn, he thought.

  ***

  The movement of the archers had not gone unnoticed up the hill. A sharp command from Hugh O’Neill brought the Archbishop and Margaret Maelchallain hurrying back to the rear of the Irish lines. Both were drenched

  “Best get back to the church,” said O’Neill brandishing his shield as they passed. “Those robes won’t stop an arrow.”

  The Archbishop nodded to the burly chieftain.

  “God be with you, Hugh, and all here this day,” he said as he passed.

  “And with you,” Hugh said absently, as he watched the movements on the road at the base of the hill.

  Roland Inness stood a few feet away from Hugh O’Neill. He had chosen to begin his day atop the hill where he could more readily use the range of his longbow. He watched the Archbishop retire to the church and looked at the girl who was trailing behind him, trying to shield the ornate bell shrine with the sleeves of her robe. Her black hair clung wetly to her cheeks and her dress was soaked, but her eyes were shining and her jaw was set in grim determination. To his surprise, she stopped and picked up a shield. Roland turned to O’Neill.

  “My lord…the Lady Maelchallain …”

  Hugh O’Neill frowned and shook his head wearily.

  “You try talking to the lass, Inness. She’ll not listen to me. Says the men will lose heart if she runs to the rear with the bell.”

  Roland watched as Margaret raised her shield and crouched behind it, ready to receive whatever the English sent her way. Below, he heard a barked command in Welsh. It was one he’d heard before and he raised his shield.

  Below, twenty longbows were drawn in unison. The distinct snap of twenty bowstrings sounded and a score of arrows arced through the rain, falling among the Irish on top of the hill. Most struck nothing but mud at the feet of the defenders or were impaled on linden wood shields, but two men, less careful than the rest were struck and went down. An angry growl rose up from the packed ranks of the Irish. Men began to bang swords and axes on their shields and shout insults at the Welsh archers gathered at the bottom of the hill.

  “Steady, lads,” O’Neill called, as the next flight of arrows dropped from the stormy sky. Roland caught a shaft on his shield then set it aside to quickly draw a waxed string from his leather jerkin and string his longbow. He nocked an arrow and turned to O’Neill.

  “With your permission, my lord.”

  “By all means, Sir Roland.”

  Roland looked over the heads of the Irish warriors closely packed to his front. He could see the archers below reaching for their next arrow. He elevated his bow, drew the string back to his ear and loosed an arrow into the storm. A moment later the first Welsh archer lurched backwards into a pool of muddy water, a clothyard shaft in his chest. Roland had come to know many Welsh bowmen during his time fighting with Llywelyn and hoped that none of those men were down below.

  More’s the pity if they are, he thought.

  He nocked another arrow and drew his longbow.

  ***

  John de Courcy watched as four of his twenty Welsh archers died one after another. He hastily ordered men forward with shields to protect the remainder. A moment later, men in the massed ranks of his infantry began to fall. He had counted the shafts and the time between shots and knew it was but a single man—but a man with damned good aim. He unhooked the shield strapped to his saddle and raised it to his chest. His exquisite mail shirt would protect him from edged weapons, but not an arrow with a bodkin head.

  He knew not where the Irish had found a longbowman, but was thankful they had not found more. One archer, no matter how good his aim, could not stop what he was preparing to send up the hill at O’Neill’s men. He sent word back for the Irish foot to advance.

  A dull drum beat began as the men of Antrim and Down shook out into a line three-deep for the attack. More commands rang out and men began moving forward
up the grassy slope, their leaders screaming at them to stay together and keep the line solid.

  De Courcy watched them go. This was the only moment in a battle that left him anxious. Once the lines met and men began to hack and stab at each other, the worry departed, replaced by a wild quickening of the blood. He was a man born to war and knew it. Some might say his lust for battle was a sin, but he knew better. His love of battle was all part of God’s plan. The Almighty had been vexed by the Irish for too long and had sent John de Courcy to chastise them.

  ***

  On the hill, Roland watched as the line of Irish warriors moved up the slope. He sent arrow after arrow into their ranks as their leaders screamed at the men to move faster and stay together. On top of the hill men hurled insults down at the approaching attackers. Somewhere a chant rose up and spread down the entire length of the Cenél Eoghain line.

  “O’Neill, O’Neill, O’Neill!” they roared.

  Hugh O’Neill raised his hand high overhead as the enemy line drew within twenty yards of his men. When he dropped it, a hail of spears came whistling out from the rear ranks of defenders. The spears tore ragged gaps in the enemy line, but these were quickly closed. Roland loosed his final arrow, laid his bow down and drew his short sword. It would be close work now.

  On both sides, men sent up fervent prayers, gripped their weapons tighter and girded themselves for the carnage about to descend on the hillside. Some screamed defiance, some cursed the enemy and some pissed themselves in terror, but none turned aside, their fear of dishonour stronger than their fear of death. The shouted orders of their leaders meant nothing now as the two lines met with a sound akin to the rumble of thunder.

  Shield met shield, axes arced overhead, swords and spears hacked and thrust, seeking exposed flesh. Men began to fall onto the wet grass of the hillside, some dead, some wounded and some simply losing their footing and being trampled in the melee. Once down, few rose again.

  Roland looked over at Hugh O’Neill. The man had dismounted and, taking his battleaxe in hand, moved along the centre of his line, letting himself be seen by his men. The clan chief was short and squat, but on this day he carried himself like a warlord. Roland had but a moment to admire the O’Neill’s mettle, before a huge man with a two-handed sword managed to burst through the line to his right.