Declan O'Duinne

by Wayne Grant

  As he jerked on the reins to bring the horse around, he saw that the element of surprise was now gone. Three of De Courcy’s men had turned their mounts away from the Irish line to deal with this new threat. Before they could ride him down, Declan whipped the horse into a gallop. The animal thundered across the cobbles, cutting directly across the path of another wave of riders bearing down on the Irish line. Horses and riders veered away, thinking one of their own men had lost control of his mount. The Irish, seeing this rider sow chaos among the enemy horsemen parted their line to let him pass. He rode through the gap and into the middle of the square.

  As the heavy cavalry milled about in confusion trying to reform, Declan saw de Courcy sitting still as a statue on his huge white stallion. The magnificent horse stood a good seventeen hands high and the man looked to be over six feet tall. Atop this huge horse the Prince looked like some giant out of legend. Declan thought back to what Sir Roger had said about this Prince of Ulster.

  One of the most dangerous men in Christendom.

  In his full battle array, De Courcy certainly looked dangerous. He was staring into the square, like a hawk searching for a hare. For a moment, the Prince’s gaze lingered on Declan then it moved on, sweeping across open ground until it reached the high cross. De Courcy stiffened and leaned forward, staring intently at Meg Maelchallain. He bent down and seemed to speak into his horse’s ear.

  Declan watched this odd display, then patted his new mount on the neck and spoke quietly to the animal.

  “Yer Prince is daft,” he murmured.

  ***

  De Courcy could not believe his luck. The girl was standing there unguarded in the centre of the square, with the bell of Saint Patrick in her hands. He’d expected the Irish to send their precious relic south on a fast horse once it had been used to whip up O’Neill’s troops before the battle. He’d hardly dared hope O’Neill would keep the thing at Armagh, but these men of Tir Eoghain seemed incapable of prudence. Now he would make them pay once more!

  He dug his boot heels into the stallion’s flanks. The big horse lurched into motion, gaining speed with each stride as it charged toward the Irish line. A man flung a spear, which de Courcy turned aside with his shield as the warhorse smashed into the thin line of men south of the square. It was hardly a contest. Men went flying as horse and rider burst cleanly through the Irish line and into the open ground beyond.

  De Courcy did not slacken his speed, whipping the horse with his reins as the animal barrelled toward the high cross, its hooves striking sparks on the cobbles. Margaret saw him coming and stood frozen to the spot. Declan kicked his own horse into motion. De Courcy saw the rider coming at him and veered away from the cross to meet him head-on. He raised his shield on his left side and drew back his broadsword. As the riders met, de Courcy thrust his shield forward, leaving Declan with no angle to employ his sword and almost unhorsing him. As de Courcy swept past, he twisted in the saddle and unleashed his longsword in a vicious slash that missed Declan’s head by inches.

  Both riders hauled in their reins and turned for another charge. At the high cross, Margaret could not bear to watch and closed her eyes tightly. Declan watched de Courcy whipping his big horse back into a gallop and realized that with no shield this fight would not end well for him. He slapped the bay warhorse on the rump and charged back toward the oncoming rider. With no more than spear’s length between them, he jerked his horse’s head to the left.

  The bay swerved into the path of the white stallion, slamming into the larger horse with a sickening thud. The impact knocked the bay off its feet. As it fell, Declan went with it, striking the ground with stunning force and sliding across the cobbles. The big stallion, unable to stop its momentum stumbled over the fallen bay, pitching forward. John de Courcy flew over the horse’s head and landed with a crash twenty feet past Declan.

  For a moment, neither man moved, then Declan stirred and sat up. His head was swimming and there was blood in his eyes. He could feel his left arm was broken above the wrist, but everything else seemed intact. He saw his sword lying just out of reach and dragged himself over to grasp the hilt. His horse had managed to scramble to its feet and wandered unsteadily off across the square.

  Beyond the Irish line, he could see the Prince’s men gathering to come to de Courcy’s aid. Using his sword as a crutch, he got shakily to his feet. Margaret Maelchallain, who’d opened her eyes at the sound of the collision between the two horses, thrust the bell into Finn’s hands and ran to Declan’s side, putting an arm around his waist to steady him and draping his good right arm across her shoulders.

  “You’re hurt,” she said.

  Declan looked down and saw that he was bleeding on her blue dress and stepped away from the girl. A few feet away he saw de Courcy jerk and raise his head. He pushed Margaret back toward the high cross.

  “See to yer bell,” he ordered and turned to face de Courcy in time to see the big man drag himself up on all fours and lift his head. He looked right by Declan as though he wasn’t there and stared at Margaret and the bell. There was madness in his eyes.

  ***

  In the chaos of battle, the orderly passage of time can seem to gather speed or slow to a crawl as events unfold. Roland watched Declan disrupt the cavalry charge and make his way back inside the Irish lines in what seemed the blink of an eye. But as John de Courcy broke through the Irish line and Declan swerved his stolen charger into the path of the man’s huge stallion, time seemed to slow as though in a dream. He saw the horses collide and go down. He saw the riders flung from their saddles. His gut twisted into a knot as he saw Declan slam into the cobbles and slide across the stones.

  Seeing Declan lying motionless on the ground, caused time to snap back to its normal pace. Roland picked up the shield of a dead clansman and turned away from the Irish line. He ran toward his fallen friend and felt a surge of relief when he saw Declan stir and get to his feet. Behind him, he heard a new uproar and turned to see three horsemen slam into the Irish defenders, punching a ten foot hole in their line. A dozen English mercenaries followed them on foot, charging through the gap and converging on their fallen leader.

  Roland sprinted toward the high cross where Declan stood leaning on Meg. As the English mercenaries fanned out and moved toward them, Roland saw Finn backed up against the high cross, clutching the bell.

  “Get to The Grey, boy!” he shouted, pointing to where the big gelding stood placidly a few yards away from the cross. “Watch for an opening, then ride and don’t look back.”

  The Irish boy had tears in his eyes, but he did not protest. He thrust the bell back into Margaret’s hands and ran to the horse. Declan stood on his own now, swaying slightly from side to side, waiting to face the approaching English.

  “Yer bleeding,” he said as Roland reached him..

  Roland looked down and saw bright red blood seeping through the mail on his left side. In the heat of the battle he had not noticed the wound and had no memory of receiving it. He looked at Declan’s own bloody face and laughed.

  “Maybe we’ll bleed to death before they kill us,” he said.

  ***

  John de Courcy jerked his arms away from the men lifting him to his feet. He reached down and picked up his steel helmet and jammed it on his head.

  “My sword,” he said, pointing to his weapon lying where it had fallen on the cobbles. One of his men ran to secure the blade and passed it to the Prince who grasped the hilt. Sword in hand, he strode across the cobbles and barked an order for the mercenaries to make way for him. They spread out to let the big nobleman pass, then closed ranks behind him. De Courcy stopped ten yards from the two men backed up to the high cross. He looked at them with utter disdain.

  “Ranulf’s men,” he hissed. “I might have guessed.”

  “Earl Ranulf cares not a whit for yer shitty little kingdom,” Declan declared.”

  De Courcy snorted.

  “You lie! But when you two fail to return to Chester, perhaps he’ll
choose to tend to the Welsh Marches and leave Ireland to me!”

  Roland held his arms out to his sides in exasperation.

  “Are we going to get on with this—or do you plan to talk us to death?”

  De Courcy’s lip curled and he moved toward them, his long blade held ready. Roland moved to meet him, but Declan stopped him, slapping the flat of his broadsword blade against his friend’s chest.

  “Not with that.” he said, nodding toward Roland’s short sword. “And you know I’m the better man with a blade. Watch my flanks.”

  With that, he went forward to meet the Prince of Ulster.

  ***

  Sitting atop The Grey, Finn Mac Clure looked out over the horror that was the abbey square of Armagh and felt heartsick. He’d disobeyed his master and if, by some miracle, both he and Sir Roland survived the day, he knew he would never be trusted to be the man’s squire. But seeing men falling all around, he felt certain that there would be no miracle this day. He felt oddly unafraid, knowing he would likely die soon. He just hoped it wouldn’t hurt too much. It was sad that his life was about to end before it had well begun, but he had long ago concluded that it was an unfair world.

  Below him he saw Margaret Maelchallain standing alone at the base of the cross holding Saint Patrick’s bell. The relic had been taken from the Irish, stolen back from the English and would soon be back in de Courcy’s hands. He shook his head. If Saint Patrick was directing these events, he must be a fickle saint indeed!

  Near at hand, he saw the Prince moving toward Sir Declan with a dozen men behind him. He felt with his hand for the hilt of the dagger Sir Roland had given him. If he could only get close enough, he would plunge that blade into de Courcy’s black heart. But Sir Roland had given him an order and he was determined to follow it—this time.

  He stood up in the stirrups and looked out across the raging fight that completely encircled the square now and saw no path through the battle lines. The Grey was standing so steadily amidst the clamour of the battle that the boy squirmed around and stood up in the saddle to get a better view.

  The fire at the monk’s dormitory had largely burned itself out and through the clearing smoke he saw something odd off to the west. He looked again, straining his eyes and his breath caught in his throat. He slid down the side of the horse and ran to the high cross. He tugged on Margaret’s sleeve, pointing to the west.

  “Horses!” he shouted.

  The woman seemed not to understand.

  “Horses are coming up the road!” he shouted again.

  “It’s de Courcy’s cavalry, Finn,” she shouted back.

  The boy shook his head.

  “No, miss. It’s Irish horses. Hundreds of them!”

  ***

  The riders came out of the west and charged up the Dungannon Road, four abreast on their shaggy Irish ponies. Near the head of the column a man carried a standard that whipped in the wind. It was the crescent moon banner of Clan Mac Lochlainn.

  They did not slacken speed as they reached the smouldering buildings on either side of the road, plunging through the last of the smoke and into the abbey square. Every rider carried an iron-tipped throwing spear and as they drove in toward the English they launched them with deadly effect. Men on foot as well as those mounted went down in scores. The riders peeled off to the side so the next rank of horsemen could take their place.

  This sudden hail of spears tore holes in the English line and forced men to turn away from the hard pressed Irish in the square to face this new threat. As each wave of Mac Lochlainn riders hurled their spears, they dismounted and fell on de Courcy’s men with axes, swords and dirks.

  The surprise was total and the English mercenaries, assailed now from front and rear, began to fall apart. In dozens, then in scores, men began to break and run. At the north end of the square, the Irish levies, so near to breaking through the O’Neill lines, saw the Irish horsemen strike de Courcy’s cavalry and watched in alarm as the English mercenaries crumbled.

  The men of Antrim and Down had no love for the Cenél Eoghain. Nor had they marched to Armagh out of love for John de Courcy. They fought because they had been compelled to do so, but seeing the English break and run, they needed no encouragement to do the same. They turned away from the O’Neill line and fled back down the hill they had fought and bled to take.

  ***

  Near the centre of the abbey square, the men who had come to de Courcy’s aid saw the disaster unfolding behind them. One rushed up to the nobleman and grabbed his arm, frantically pointing to the collapsing English lines. De Courcy jerked away and turned on the man.

  “My bell, damnit!” he screamed, pointing at Margaret.

  But the three riders who had followed him into the square were already mounting their horses. The mercenaries, who had no mounts, saw their comrades being cut down and knew there was no profit to be had by dying in this square. Two Englishmen were the first to turn and run. De Courcy swore at them, but his oaths had no effect on the others who rushed to join the deserters. Their panicked flight left the Prince standing alone in the square, with only his three loyal riders begging him to flee.

  John de Courcy might be a madman, but he was not suicidal. He swore a final oath and spat on the ground. He looked for his mount and saw the big stallion had wandered to the far end of the square. With no time to retrieve the animal, he cursed again, and ordered one of his men to dismount. When the man hesitated, de Courcy dragged him from the saddle and mounted the riderless horse. In the chaos south of the square, the rest of his cavalry were fighting desperately to cut their way out of the trap, frantically whipping their horses toward the east, the only clear path out of the killing ground that was the abbey. With a last withering look at Margaret and the bell, de Courcy dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and joined the desperate mob fleeing for their lives.

  Having seen the English lines fall apart, Charles Oliver and a dozen of his men had already fled the abbey square and were running for a patch of woods only a half mile to the east. In the trees, they might hope to evade pursuers. As they ran, de Courcy, now flanked by a dozen of his precious cavalrymen thundered past them without so much as a glance. Oliver cursed at his employer, but kept running. Slowed by their mail, they’d covered only half the distance to the trees when the Mac Lochlainn men appeared on the road. As the English ran, men riding bareback on Irish ponies swarmed around them.

  None reached the trees.

  Victory

  Roland and Declan, too weary and injured to take up the pursuit, watched as de Courcy and his men were put to flight by the onslaught of the Mac Lochlainn clans. The wound in Roland’s side was still bleeding and he was beginning to feel the pain. He put a hand over the mail, pressing down to staunch the flow. He felt a little light-headed as he sat down on the stone pedestal at the foot of Armagh’s high cross. Declan plopped down beside him, cradling his broken forearm with his right hand. He looked over at his friend.

  “You look awful,” he said.

  “As do you,” Roland replied with a weak grin.

  He started to say more, but Meg appeared beside them and began to fuss over their wounds. She sent Finn to fetch a slab of wood for a splint and began undoing the lacing at the back of Roland’s mail hauberk.

  “Need to see what’s under there,” she said pointing at the seepage staining the mail at Roland’s side. She made him raise his arms and, grasping the end of the hauberk sleeves, she pulled the heavy mesh over his head. She dropped down on her haunches and examined Roland’s wound.

  “Deep,” she said flatly, “but you’d be spittin’ up blood now if it had struck any vitals.”

  Finn arrived with a small flat piece of wood he’d wrested from the back of a chair and Meg sent him back to find a clean cloth and water.

  “Keep your hand pressed hard there,” she ordered Roland as she turned her attention to Declan, gently sliding the sleeve of his hauberk up until she found the ridge on his forearm that marked the break.


  “This will hurt,” she said, as she grasped his elbow in one hand and applied a surprisingly strong pull to his wrist.

  There was a faint grinding sound as the bone slid back into place. Declan gritted his teeth but did not flinch. The bone set, she laid the wood along the top of his arm and tore strips from her dress to bind the splint into place. When Finn came hurrying across the square with a small bucket of water and a piece of linen he’d filched from a trunk in the dormitory, she set about cleaning and bandaging Roland’s wound. When the last knot was secure she stepped back to admire her handiwork.

  “I think ye’ll both live,” she declared.

  “Thank you, Meg,” Declan said as he got to his feet and extended his good hand to Roland, who hauled himself upright. All around them, there were pockets of de Courcy’s men surrendering, or still trying to fight their way out of Armagh. The dead and wounded lay everywhere and the Augustinian monks had already emerged from their hiding places in the village to minister to men of both sides.

  The thatch roofs of the stable and the western dormitory had fallen in on themselves and the fire was dying, leaving a thin haze of smoke hanging above the abbey. An odd stillness fell over the place as men looked at each other in wonderment that they had survived such a bloodbath. Some sought out companions separated in the fighting and more than a few went down on their knees to thank the almighty for letting them live.

  Then the strange stillness was broken as a young man rode back into the square from the east and leapt to the ground, his face flushed with the glow of victory. Men parted out of the way as Conor Mac Lochlainn walked up the gentle slope toward the church. He glanced at Meg standing by the high cross holding the bell and raised a bloodstained sword to her in salute. Behind him, a clansmen raised a bloody axe over his head and shouted.