Swordland

by Edward Ruadh Butler

  Tigernán turned back towards Ruaidhrí. ‘I will go north then. Keep some of Fearna’s plunder for me,’ he shouted and then he was off, his rugged horse cantering, the one-eyed king bouncing on its bare back, feet gripping awkwardly to the horse’s sides for balance. From the dark trees emerged a thousand warriors, most on foot but some, the Uí Ruairc derb-fine, were on horseback.

  Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair turned his back on Tigernán as he and his warriors disappeared beyond his view around the shoulder of the sloping hill and into the depth of the forest. Tigernán would not stop until either he or Diarmait was dead, of that he was sure.

  ‘Why did Mac Murchada burn Fearna?’ Hasculv Mac Torcaill asked in his strangely accented Irish. His Ostman forefathers had fought against the armies of Brian Bóruma, the last Irishman to claim to be High King of Ireland. Yet here the King of Dubhlinn stood beside his natural enemies, dressed in heavy links of steel and iron, alongside the latest claimant to be Lord of Teamhair na Ri.

  How times have changed , thought Ruaidhrí. Back in Brian’s time, a century before, the Uí Conchobair had only been in control of a tiny tuath but now only Diarmait Mac Murchada and Domhnall Ua Briain stood between Ruaidhrí and his ultimate goal of the unopposed rule of Ireland. He had already been crowned High King on the ancient hill fort of Teamhair na Ri but he wanted more – to hold the title without challenge and bring the whole island under his rule.

  ‘He burned Fearna because he didn’t want us getting our hands on his riches,’ Muirchertach Mac Murchada, Diarmait’s brother, answered Hasculv’s question with a grimace.

  Ruaidhrí doubted the accuracy of Muirchertach’s response, but said nothing. Both Ruaidhrí and his father had invaded Laighin before and had defeated the Meic Murchada. Yet both had believed Diarmait’s promises, forgiven him his many transgressions, and had left him in power. Always, they had been betrayed. But not on this occasion, the High King thought. This time he would kill Diarmait and force Laighin to pay such a heavy tribute that they would be unable to leave their toil in the fields until the day of judgement. They would be incapable of raising a sword against him if their backs were broken by work. Diarmait must have known that the jig was up this time and guessed that Ruaidhrí would place his own man in his seat of power. That was the real reason Diarmait Mac Murchada had burned Fearna – it was a statement which said that Diarmait would rather destroy Laighin than have it controlled by any other man than himself. It was a concept that was alien to Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair for despite being a successful king who had won countless battles, he was naturally a man who loved peace and wanted to inspire friendliness amongst his subjects; up to a month ago the King of Mide and Tigernán Ua Ruairc had been sworn enemies, but he had made them allies under his rule. In truth, Ruaidhrí had never had to fight an enemy on a level pegging as his political skills meant that he had always been able to raise huge armies from the tribes under his rule. Most of the time he didn’t have to fight at all – the majority of chieftains surrendered before the huge power which he could muster. And now Ruaidhrí saw Laighin as another potential ally, strong in warriors, to take on Domhnall Ua Briain and to make his dominance of the island complete, but it would not happen if Diarmait remained king.

  ‘When your brother is dead,’ Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair said towards Muirchertach, ‘you will be King of Laighin.’ He held Mac Murchada’s eye meaningfully, waiting for the old man’s answer. Ruaidhrí knew exactly what his response would be. Muirchertach was the church’s price for the disposal of Diarmait. His ally started to mutter his thanks to his new master but Ruaidhrí held up a hand to stop him, ‘You will be king but I want hostages and a tribute of two thousand head of cattle every year. Do we have terms?’

  ‘Two thousand cattle?’ Muirchertach stammered. It was a heavy tribute even for a rich kingdom like Laighin, but there was no other way that he would ever be king. The law said that any great-grandson of a monarch could take the kingship if the derb-fine elected him. However, Muirchertach knew that the Uí Ceinnselaig had already chosen his nephew Eanna as heir to the kingdom of Laighin.

  Ruaidhrí seemed to read his mind: ‘Don’t worry about the derb-fine; they have abandoned Diarmait and I have your nephews, Conchobair and Eanna, as hostages. With your brother gone I need someone sensible to lead your people,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Will you do it?’

  ‘I will agree,’ Muirchertach said quickly, ‘if you give me Conchobair and Eanna.’

  Ruaidhrí knew what that would mean for the two young men. Blinding or castration was the best method to stop potential challengers to any king’s power. Ruaidhrí had used these techniques himself when his younger brother, Aodh, had thought to force Ruaidhrí to concede half of Connacht after their father died.

  ‘No,’ Ruaidhrí told Muirchertach, ‘Conchobair will stay with me and Eanna will go to the Osraighe.’

  ‘To the Meic Giolla Phádraig?’ The Osraighe were the traditional enemies of the men of Uí Ceinnselaig, a constant threat to the security of Laighin, and even a traitor like Muirchertach hated them.

  Ruaidhrí ignored the disgust in his question. ‘Donnchadh requires some bartering power.’ He paused and put his hand to his chest. ‘Hadn’t I already told you?’ he said sweetly. ‘Donnchadh will be taking some of Diarmait’s lands – everything west of the Sláine and between the Corock and the Urrin Rivers should suffice. He has been a good friend to me and needs to be rewarded.’

  Muirchertach opened his mouth to protest but a single challenging look from Ruaidhrí made him shut it again. Diarmait’s brother may have won the throne of Laighin but it had just cost him a third of the Uí Ceinnselaig heartland. Muirchertach knew that things were starting to slip away from him but he was left with no choice other than to accept them. Blinking widely and breathing out deeply he turned back and stared at the burning embers that was the rath where he had grown up alongside Diarmait. It had been a bountiful harvest, thought a thankful Muirchertach, and it would need to be if he was to pay off the heavy tribute demanded by Ruaidhrí and leave him with enough to survive the oncoming winter. He ran his long, bony fingers through his beard. As if the weather sensed Muirchertach’s plummeting mood it began to rain. Little spits splashed against the new King of Laighin’s face as he looked up to see the lines of dark clouds clash against each other to the east. Then the rain began in earnest. Down on the fields, Muirchertach watched the people of his own tribe try to beat their animals towards the heavy woods that covered most of the countryside. They would have a chance of survival if they reached the woods ahead of Ruaidhrí’s Ua Conchobair’s army.

  Beside Muirchertach, Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair shouted over his shoulder towards his own derb-fine. Drawing his sword slowly he grinned at Muirchertach and the other kings. ‘We didn’t come all this way for nothing,’ he said with a smile. ‘Prepare to attack but ensure your men stay away from the monastery. I won’t have that sin on my conscience.’ Behind the High King a host of Irish warriors yelled and pushed forward as one like a flocking of birds heading south for winter. They sought blood and tribute from their enemy. Ruaidhrí tapped his heels to his horse’s flanks and lurched forward with a smile on his face. He had defeated Diarmait Mac Murchada and Ireland was almost his alone.

  Even from a mile away Diarmait Mac Murchada could hear the screaming and he revelled in its sorrow, laughing until it wrenched a harsh cough from his lungs. He could picture the warriors of Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair streaming down the hill like ants towards the defenceless people of Fearna who had betrayed him, and he cackled a cracked chuckle at the thought of their demise.

  His son Domhnall stirred uncomfortably beside him and murmured a prayer. The younger man was restless and nervous, and his father could tell that he did not like hiding from his enemy. His son had only recently returned from his fosterage at monastery of St Caomhan and had picked up some bad habits in his father’s opinion.

  ‘Are you angry that I shouted at the friar, or that I didn’t go north like you wanted?’ Diarmait ask
ed his son.

  Domhnall considered the question. ‘I’m angry that you burned Fearna,’ he replied. ‘I’m uneasy at going to ground so close to the fortress. Ruaidhrí is certain to look for us here.’

  The King of Laighin hissed a laugh in response.

  ‘And the monks are bound to suffer,’ he said though under his breath for he knew his father would consider any sympathy for the clerics as a weakness and would scorn him.

  Domhnall prayed that his father was right. It was too late to flee, and even if they could Domhnall was not sure where his family could go. Diarmait’s friends had frittered away like swallows with winter upon them, and those who had not fled his father’s side to support Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair had stayed away altogether. Diarmait only had a hundred and eighty warriors left and he had arrayed them around the monastery ready to give battle to the death should the need arise. But for some reason, either through trust in God or information that he had not shared with his son, Diarmait was supremely confident that Ruaidhrí would not find him in the monastery.

  It started raining suddenly and heavily, and Domhnall watched as the smoke cloud lifted up from behind the tree-covered hill that hid his childhood home from sight. A great alder stood on the grass lawn just yards away and rainwater trickled down the rivets of grey bark and spilled from green leaves onto the stony ground. The two men were standing under the intricately carved triangular stone gateway to the grand Augustinian monastery and the smoke and light from the fire illuminated the great swirling scenes from the Bible that had been carved above the entrance. Depictions from the life of Saints Mary and Aodhán were given life by the dancing flames that engulfed distant Fearna. The great oak door stood open and a smell of hot oatmeal porridge drifted out, earning hungry glances from Domhnall.

  ‘The monks have hidden me when I was at my most vulnerable,’ King Diarmait told his son after taking a long slug from a skin. ‘Thank God I was good to this holy house when I had the opportunity to be. You should learn from my example, boy. Found a monastery and put someone you trust in place as abbot. Maybe your boy, Domhnall Óg.’ He nodded at the teenager who was fighting with his brother, Conchobair, in front of the chapterhouse.

  ‘Ruaidhrí may still come to the monastery,’ Domhnall answered, ignoring his father’s words. ‘We should leave as soon as possible.’

  ‘Ha!’ his father scorned. ‘I doubt Ruaidhrí would even consider that I would hide here. Our enemy shows the church too much respect. His mistake,’ Diarmait added. More screams pierced the austere atmosphere at the stone edifice and Diarmait again chuckled heartily behind his heavy grey beard. He shook his long hair of rainwater. ‘They thought Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair would treat them fairly if they got rid of me,’ Diarmait said of his own tribesmen. ‘Well that’ll teach the traitorous shits.’ His voice was hoarse, as though he constantly needed to clear his throat.

  Domhnall gave him an anxious look which his giant of a father ignored. Even to his son, Diarmait’s features were stern, terrible, unforgiving while his light blue eyes were alive with energy. Domhnall knew what type of man Diarmait was, just as well as those poor people who died amongst the trees. But Domhnall had little sympathy. By refusing to fight, they had forced Diarmait Mac Murchada to flee and the homes of the Uí Ceinnselaig had been left defenceless. Despite his misgivings about his character, Domhnall knew that his father was the only man who could tie together the bonds of the tribe and defend the Uí Ceinnselaig from those who would seek to destroy them. He was strong and sought advice from no man. Domhnall hoped he had that same strength of character, but for now he would be what his father needed him to be: loyal. First the Meic Diarmait had abandoned him to support Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair, then it was the Uí Gormain and soon after that news had arrived that the Uí Dimmussaig and Uí Faoláin had joined the King of Connacht against their lawful lord. As far as Domhnall knew, only the weak southern chieftains Cearbhall Ua Lorcain and Colmcille Ua Dubhgain had refused to join up with the invading Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair, but neither had they sent any warriors to protect Diarmait. Worst of all was the perfidy of the Uí Brain. Exiled from their ancient home in the north by the Uí Faoláin, Diarmait had received them with great honour and had given them land to call their own. Yet they had been amongst the first to answer the High King’s call.

  Just inside the monastery, Aoife and her elder sister Sabh were crying into Diarmait’s senior wife’s shoulder. When they finally lifted their heads, Domhnall could see damp imprints of both girls’ faces left on Mór’s expensive woollen clothes by their tears. Domhnall knew that Sabh was probably crying because of the fear of the approaching army, but Aoife was much braver and Domhnall recognized that his youngest sister’s tears were for their lost position and possessions, their former lives which were gone.

  A rustle of leaves heralded the arrival of Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain. He ran out of the downpour with seven warriors armed with spears and wicker shields. Máelmáedoc trotted up to the two men and panting for air, greeted his king.

  ‘Diarmait,’ said Máelmáedoc with a nod, ‘I need to speak to you,’ his eyes flicked to Domhnall Caomhánach and back to Diarmait, ‘alone would be better.’

  ‘Domhnall,’ said his father, ‘get your boys inside and take Aoife and Sabh to get some grub in their bellies.’

  Máelmáedoc gave Domhnall a grin like a victorious older sibling would have done and, as he walked back through the archway into the monastery, Domhnall heard Máelmáedoc and Diarmait begin confiding secretively. He had never liked Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain; he was nobody, a simple spearman from a minor tuath who Diarmait had raised from nothing to be his chief advisor above his brehons and his derb-fine. This should never have happened, and it was one of the indictments that the people of the tribe had placed at Diarmait’s door. Every position in Ireland, from king down to farmer, from bard to spearman to slave, was hereditary under the law and Máelmáedoc’s usurpation of authority had ruffled many feathers in Fearna, especially amongst the Filid, the poets and lawyers who kept alive the tribe’s traditions. Lacking their assent, no man could hope to hold the power of the Uí Ceinnselaig without opposition.

  Outside, Diarmait barked another laugh in response to Máelmáedoc’s news and Domhnall roughly cajoled his sisters, stepmother, and sons through the doorway into the monastic building. The friar of the house, Cillian Mac Giollagáin, stood with some of his brother monks in their dark robes, eager to please their generous benefactor. They all bowed to Domhnall before realising that he was not their king. One of the monks looked hungrily at Aoife who, if anything, looked more beautiful as she angrily swiped the tears from her face. She was embarrassed that the monks should see her cry.

  ‘What?’ she demanded of the monk when she spotted him gawping at her. The man bowed his tonsured head and scampered away. Aoife then threw a similar look at Domhnall, daring him to offer her pity for her tears. Instead, he looked up the aisle to the transept and circular chancel where the friar would lead the brothers in prayer many times every day. Beams of light poured in through the high windows and danced off the intricately carved stone curves of the nave. It all added drama to the spiritual setting and Domhnall felt compelled to murmur a short prayer to Our Lady. He thought St Mary’s beautiful and he knew that his father was extremely proud of the monastery, which he had built so close to his own fortress. Domhnall’s stomach grumbled loudly and he quickly signed off from his message to God with the sign of the cross. Surely, when said in such a place his prayers would be answered and his family delivered from the brink of destruction.

  The kitchen was on the far side of the cloister. As he began to shepherd his sisters across the aisle and through the nave in that direction, Domhnall’s father called his name and that of Friar Cillian. Domhnall made the move towards the doorway immediately and obediently while the friar stared up at the great silver cross at the far end of the nave.

  ‘They went for it, the stupid bastards,’ the King shouted as his son joined him outside. He was delighte
d and his blue eyes shone below the overgrown grey and unkempt hair. ‘Máelmáedoc says they think we have gone north. They have already sent warriors to catch us.’

  Domhnall smiled and congratulated his father. ‘So what happens now? Are we bound for Tuadhmumhain like we discussed?’

  Diarmait stared back at him with a wry grin. ‘No, my boy, we are going to a place that they will never ever consider,’ he said. He turned on Friar Cillian. ‘Tell him what you told me.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Friar Cillian paused and tapped the ends of his fingers together before starting to speak. ‘Last year I was sent on pilgrimage to our brothers of the Cistercian Order in Mellifont Abbey in Aírgialla …’

  ‘He banged a Norse whore in Waesfjord,’ Diarmait butted in and the monk’s face bright red in embarrassment, ‘in his cell and had to scamper before the bishop caught him.’ He laughed harshly. Máelmáedoc politely joined with his mirth.

  ‘Even the Blessed St Augustine himself had a son with Floria Aemilia …’ started Cillian, looking up at the doorway and waving his hand to indicate the stone carving which portrayed the eponymous patron saint of his order.

  ‘Was that before he took his vows or after?’ Máelmáedoc asked calmly. Friar Cillian’s eyes widened as the layman called his bluff. He looked like a spearman but Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain was in fact a voracious reader, employed as Diarmait’s secretary and translator but in reality much, much more.

  Diarmait laughed and signalled the Augustinian Friar to continue rather than argue the point. ‘Better a whore than a boy, Friar.’

  ‘Anyway …’ the embarrassed monk started as he attempted to compose himself. ‘You may remember that Mellifont was founded by the Holy St Máelmáedoc who, twenty years ago, was ordered by Bernard of Clairvaux to found a church for his new Cistercian Order of St Benedict …’