Declan O'Duinne

by Wayne Grant

  Two crossbowmen standing well to the rear did not have to face this Irishman’s deadly sword to strike at him. One was trying to get a clear shot at Declan and the other was bent forward, hauling back on the string of his weapon to cock it. Roland scrambled onto the roof and tried to find firm footing on the wet straw. A slip here would send him sliding over the lip and into the midst of the English attack.

  He went to one knee, his other foot braced against the far edge of the hole. He steadied his breathing and drew, taking aim at the man ready to discharge his bolt. It was an awkward angle, but the distance was short. It took over a hundred pounds of pull to draw his bow and when that stored power was released the bodkin head arrow drove through the Englishman’s mail and deep into his chest. As the man pitched forward his hand closed on the crossbow tickler and his bolt buried itself in the back of one of his fellows a few yards to the front.

  The other crossbowman looked up in alarm when he saw his comrade go down. He saw Roland on the dormitory roof drawing a second arrow and frantically tried to fit a bolt into the groove atop the crossbow stave. He was too slow.

  Roland looked back to the barricade and saw Declan raise his sword in salute. He didn’t linger to return the gesture as two spears whistled past his head. Below him, a man ignited a torch and plunged it into the thatch where the roof overhung the outer wall of the dormitory. The dry straw under the eaves caught instantly.

  It was time to move.

  ***

  The archer on the dormitory roof did not go unnoticed by Captain Oliver. He was standing no more than ten yards from his crossbowman when the man took an arrow to the chest. His second crossbowman tried desperately to get off a shot, but fumbled with his bolt for a heartbeat too long and fell beside his comrade. Oliver saw one of his men fire the thatch on the roof to drive off this nettlesome archer. As the bowman retreated, Oliver realized with a shock that he knew the man.

  Inness…

  It was the bastard who’d laid him low at Carrickfergus! A feeling of triumph swept over him. He’d hoped one day to avenge that stinging insult. Now fate had delivered Sir Roland Inness to Armagh—and that day was at hand. He might be a mercenary, but here was one man he would gladly kill for free.

  ***

  Roland ran down the narrow hall of the dormitory as clumps of flaming thatch dropped around his head. He beat out smoking embers on his shoulders and sleeves as he burst through the door and onto the square. Turning the corner of the burning building, he saw that the O’Duinnes were hard-pressed, but still holding back the English onslaught.

  Near Declan, he watched Cathal O’Duinne making efficient use of his long-handled axe. The heavy blade could not penetrate good mail, but not every man coming over the top could afford the best mail and those that could still risked fractured ribs or cracked skulls from the force of the man’s blow.

  He’d seen over a dozen English dead on the far side of the barricade, but the mercenaries had also drawn blood. On this side of the barrier, he saw five dead clansmen lying where they’d fallen, but for the moment, the barricade across the Dungannon Road was holding.

  Past the barricade he now saw smoke rising from the thatch of the stable roof. Inside he heard a horse’s shrill whinny of alarm, but there was no time now to think of horses. Beyond the stable he saw the small barrier thrown up between the stable and the small huts of the village was in danger of being overwhelmed. He ran past the burning stables and drew his sword. As he ran, he saw Brother Cyril among the defenders, wielding a short sword with surprising skill. It was well that he did, as more mercenaries were gaining the top of the barricade.

  Ahead he saw an Englishman with a short sword in one hand and an axe in the other standing triumphantly atop the jumble of wood looking down at an Irish warrior bleeding on the ground. Roland dropped his sword and drew his final arrow as the man bent his knees to hop down from his perch. The shaft took the mercenary in the gut and he staggered backwards, crashing into a pair of his comrades trying to scale the barricade from the other side. Out of arrows, he laid down his bow, took up his sword and ran to fill the gap left by the fallen clansman. As he stepped into the hole in the line, he hailed the monk.

  “Doing the Lord’s work, Brother Cyril?”

  The skinny monk’s eyes lit up and his mouth split into a gap-toothed grin when he saw who had stepped in beside him.

  “Not at the moment, lord!” he said, raising his bloody sword. “I’ll do me penance later.”

  ***

  Charles Oliver watched Roland Inness disappear through the roof of the burning dormitory and rushed to the barricade at the Dungannon Road, forcing his way through the crush of his own men assaulting the Irish line. He clambered up the side, enough to see into the square, and was rewarded with a clear view of the man he sought.

  Inness had escaped the burning dormitory and Oliver watched as the man turned and ran to the south, passing out of view behind the stables. The mercenary captain climbed down from the barricade and pushed his way back to the rear. He tapped a sergeant on the shoulder.

  “Bring twenty men and follow me!” he ordered.

  The sergeant began grabbing men and pushing them to the rear to follow their captain. Oliver led them south, past the burning stable.

  ***

  Up the hill, the commander of de Courcy’s Irish troops looked up as the rain that had bedevilled his men finally ended and the sun broke through the clouds. Now that his troops had gained the high ground, he’d reformed his own lines and resumed the assault. Behind him, the north slope of the hill was littered with the dead and dying. The men of Antrim and Down had paid a high price to climb that slick hillside, but O’Neill’s men had suffered grievous losses as well. He looked at the thin line that now stood between him and the square of Armagh.

  “Over soon,” he said to no one in particular.

  ***

  Charles Oliver’s lungs and eyes were burning from the smoke of the blazing stable as he picked his way over the barricade, but he paid no mind to that. He had sent his score of fresh men over the barrier and they had driven the Irish back. He could see them giving ground slowly, forced back beyond the entrance to the stable. Oliver knew the outcome of battles hung on such moments. If his men could put this small group to flight, the entire O’Neill line holding the western approaches to the abbey square could be rolled up. Then de Courcy could have his massacre, but first, he would deal with a more personal matter.

  Twenty yards away stood Sir Roland Inness. The commander of the Invalid Company was at the centre of the Irish line, trying to keep their withdrawal from turning into a rout. Fate had now given him the chance to wipe away the stain this man had inflicted on his reputation. He moved forward slowly and watched as Inness stepped inside the arc of a battle axe and drove his short blade in under his man’s chin. As the man fell backwards, Oliver stepped in his place.

  “Inness!” he shouted, holding the hilt of his broadsword in two hands and moving cautiously forward. “You surprised me at Carrickfergus, but no surprises today!”

  ***

  In the swirling smoke, Roland did not recognize the mercenary leader for a moment, but his words were enough to mark him.

  “Captain Oliver,” he called back, “how is the knee?”

  “Well enough,” the man growled as he moved in closer. Behind him, dozens of English mercenaries were streaming over the abandoned barricade, but seeing their captain challenge this lone man in the Irish line, they hung back to watch. A few spread out and began to circle Roland.

  “Stay back!” the captain snarled. “I’ll kill ‘im myself.”

  The roof of the stable was fully ablaze now and the grey smoke grew thick around the men on the ground as Oliver continued to move slowly toward Roland.

  “Gut ‘im, Cap’n!” a rough voice urged from behind the mercenary captain.

  Other voices hurled insults at the lone man who stood waiting for Oliver’s approach. The Englishman affected a relaxed manner as he held his s
word almost casually in his right hand.

  “I’m told you dropped from Lord de Courcy’s privy to escape,” he taunted, sniffing at the air and wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Like a turd.”

  Roland paid no attention to his words or his manner. He watched Oliver’s midsection and his sword hand and when the Englishman suddenly uncoiled at him with a straight thrust of his long blade, he parried it easily. The English groaned at the miss as Oliver sprang back.

  As the mercenary readied his next advance, Roland sprang at him, directing a thrust at Oliver’s head that sent him lurching backwards, but not before the tip of Roland’s short sword opened a gash in the man’s chin. The mercenary captain stumbled into the ranks of his own men, blood streaming from the wound, his face pale.

  Sir Alwyn Madawc had once told him that there comes a time in a fight when a man knows he’s beaten. It might come after trading many blows, when the arms grow heavy and the breath grows ragged. Or it can come with blinding swiftness when a man realizes he is overmatched. As a breeze momentarily cleared the smoke, Roland saw the shaken look on the Englishman’s face and knew that Charles Oliver was beaten. Beaten men sometimes fight on even when they know they will die. It is a point of honour for some men. Oliver, being a stranger to honour, did neither. He pointed his sword at Roland and screamed at his men.

  “Kill the bastard!”

  The men standing idly watching their Captain be bested needed no encouragement. They surged forward. They were ten paces from Roland and the Irish line when a dark shape came barrelling out of the billowing smoke. A horse had bolted out of the burning stables and burst right through the English line, bowling over three men and scattering the rest. Even in the thick haze, Roland recognized the familiar lines of the animal.

  It was The Grey.

  And there was no mistaking the boy who was perched on the big gelding’s back. Having cut a swath through the mercenaries, Finn Mac Clure deftly swung The Grey’s head around and charged back through the startled ranks of Englishmen a second time, reining in before the line of Irish defenders. The look on the boy’s face showed something between terror and triumph, but he blanched when he saw the fury on Roland’s face.

  “Down!” the young knight screamed. The boy slid off The Grey’s back, his face flushed. Roland slapped the horse on the rump and it trotted off toward the empty square. Finn started to speak, but Roland grabbed him by the arm and shoved him after The Grey.

  “Get yourself to the cross and stay there!” he commanded.

  Finn saw no profit in arguing and fled behind the horse. Roland turned to Cyril.

  “Get to Sir Declan,” he shouted over the roar of the fire as the English recovered and started to advance once more. “Tell him to fall back. We can’t hold them here!”

  Cyril nodded and sprinted to the rear. Captain Oliver had managed to regather his men after they’d been scattered by the unexpected arrival of the horse. Now he ordered them forward once more. When they saw the O’Neill men falling back, the English sprang after them like dogs let off their leash. Roland watched them come and knew that if the Irish broke now, they would be slaughtered like so many sheep.

  “Steady!” he shouted down the line as the mercenaries pressed in on them.

  ***

  Declan gritted his teeth and shoved the heel of his boot against the man’s chest. The mercenary had made a bad investment in cheap mail and Declan’s broadsword had pierced it, sinking deep into the man’s ribcage. Now the blade stubbornly refused to be drawn out. He shoved with his boot and jerked at the hilt desperately as another Englishman, with proper mail, was nearly on top of him.

  At last the blade slid free and he raised it in time to block the new man’s vicious overhead slash. In the heat of battle, men tended to forget basic swordsmanship. An overhead slash carries great striking power—if the blow lands, but if it does not, the swordsman is overbalanced and exposed. It was one of the first lessons one learned. As their swords met, Declan slid to his left and tilted his blade, forcing the man’s weapon to slide harmlessly past. As the Englishman lurched forward, Declan slammed the steel pommel of his broadsword into his temple, dropping the man like a poleaxed steer.

  They’d lost eight men dead or wounded at the barricade and slain a score of mercenaries, but there were just too many English to kill. A new rush of thirty men scrambled up the barricade and the O’Duinne clansmen were forced back. They gave ground slowly, their line now anchored by the burning buildings on either side of the road.

  Behind him he heard someone shout his name and glanced over his shoulder to see Brother Cyril running toward him. The monk was pointing back toward where he’d come, and Declan did not have to wait for his message, He saw the Irish line that had held the southern barricades falling back toward the square. He grabbed Cathal by the arm and pointed to the O’Neill men off to their left.

  “Form on them!” he shouted.

  ***

  Up the hill by the church, the weight of numbers had begun to break Hugh O’Neill’s line. In the desperate fighting, quarter was neither asked nor given. The O’Neill men knew that defeat likely meant death, so they fought like cornered animals. Still, they were pushed back, a yard at a time, into the abbey square. O’Neill looked behind him and saw Meg standing forlornly beside the high cross holding the bell of Saint Patrick. He felt a wave of despair as he wondered if, by trying to save Armagh, he had destroyed the Cenél Eoghain.

  Inside the church, Archbishop O’Connor knelt behind the locked door of the nave and prayed. If O’Neill went down to defeat, he knew the locked door would be to no avail. He wasn’t afraid to die, but knowing that Saint Patrick’s bell would fall back into de Courcy’s hands and this church, the mother church of Ireland, would be desecrated, broke his heart. He wept as he prayed.

  ***

  Declan parried a slash at his chest, bringing his own sword down in a short chopping stroke that shattered the Englishman’s shoulder. As the man recoiled, he looked to his left and saw Roland among the men falling back from the southern barricades.

  “Roland! To me!”

  Quickly the two lines merged and the retreat slowed. Roland drew up next to Declan, breathing hard from the fighting and the choking smoke from the burning buildings. In the wake of their retreat, both men could see de Courcy’s mercenaries tearing apart the barricades they’d just abandoned.

  “Cavalry next!” Declan shouted, pointing toward the Dungannon Road.

  “Aye,” Roland shouted back. “Going to get bloody soon.”

  ***

  Sir John de Courcy, Prince of Ulster, had waited a long time for this moment. He watched as his men tore apart the barricade across the Dungannon Road. It had taken longer than he’d expected for his men to drive the defenders off that infernal barrier, but soon the way would be clear. He turned in his saddle and looked down the line of his heavy cavalry, the most feared fighting force north of Dublin.

  “Make ready!” he shouted and drew his long broadsword, holding it high overhead.

  All down the line men drew their own swords and gripped their reins tighter. De Courcy patted his great white warhorse on the neck and leaned forward to whisper in the animal’s ear.

  “Now is your time,” he said. “You were born and bred for this!”

  The big horse pawed the ground, its nostrils flaring. De Courcy lowered his sword and pointed it toward the new opening on the road. He kicked his horse into a trot and eighty men followed him.

  ***

  Declan chanced a look over his shoulder and saw that O’Neill’s lines up by the church had grown dangerously thin and were beginning to be breached in places. Soon they too would be forced back into the square. He started to turn back, but something else caught his eye. It was Margaret, standing at the foot of the high cross, cradling Saint Patrick’s bell in her arms.

  He cursed under his breath. The girl was maddening! When they’d met at dawn, she’d promised to take shelter in the church when the fighting began. He admi
red her courage, but as he’d come to learn, a promise from Margaret Maelchallain was a flimsy thing.

  He was turning away when he saw movement behind the girl and realized Meg wasn’t completely alone. Standing near the high cross was the skinny boy, Finn Mac Clure. He knew Roland had ordered the lad to get out of Armagh the night before, but here he was. He uttered another oath.

  Will no one in this damned country do what they’re told?

  As he turned back to face the advancing English, a line of horses charged out of the smoke.

  ***

  The heavy cavalry surged up the Dungannon Road like a dammed river unleashed. A few of the mounts were spooked by the raging fires on both sides of the road and bolted, but most held formation as they charged between the burning buildings toward the abbey square. It was a sight to make even the bravest man quail, but the clansmen of the Cenél Eoghain had nowhere left to run, so they stood and fought.

  Declan saw a spear on the ground. Plucking it up, he braced the butt against his foot just as a man on a bay warhorse was whipping his mount straight at him. No matter how well trained, a horse will not mindlessly impale itself on a steel blade and this horse was no exception. As Declan raised the spear, the animal reared and twisted away. For an instant, the rider’s side was exposed and Declan drove the spear in under the man’s ribs. Only six inches of the spearpoint penetrated the mail, but it was enough to unhorse de Courcy’s man.

  With its rider on the ground, the big warhorse pranced about skittishly, unsure what to do. Declan did not hesitate. He grasped the pommel and hoisted himself up into the saddle. Seizing the reins, he steadied the horse, then drove his heels into its haunches. The warhorse needed no further encouragement as it bolted into the path of an oncoming wave of riders.

  De Courcy’s men did not recognize the threat. The Irish at Armagh had no cavalry and the mailed warhorse with a mail-clad warrior in the saddle looked to be one of their own. By the time they realized their mistake, it was too late. Declan stood in his stirrups and smashed his blade into one rider’s helmet causing him to tumble over his mount’s backside. Uncoiling back to his right, he took a second rider in the side with a vicious backhand slash of his broadsword, unhorsing the man. Before any could stop him, he’d cut his way through the formation and was in their rear.