‘They maimed his son,’ Miles replied, quieting only when he saw that FitzStephen was equally shocked at the rage with which the King had struck. But Diarmait was not to be sated by just killing his enemy, and he attacked the head with his teeth like an animal. He tore at Tadhg’s lips, ears and nose. He ripped his eyelids, he shredded his cheeks. All eyes were on the King who stopped his attack and breathed heavily, casting the lifeless head aside as if he did not care. It rolled slowly and unevenly towards the riverside but Diarmait stood blankly staring at the sky, blood masking the lower half of his face. Slowly he raised his hand and dropped it to his side. Up and down the riverbank more blood was spilled as two hundred men were beheaded. It happened slowly in ones and twos as the young men steadied themselves for the murderous act.
‘We must stop this,’ Prendergast said to his companions.
Fionntán bowed his head and said nothing while Miles looked to FitzStephen for a decision.
‘I don’t like it any more than you do, Maurice,’ their captain replied. ‘But if a few hundred die here, then the next time we approach the Irish will surrender,’ the captain said, ‘or they will fight and they will know fear. You know how this works,’ he told Prendergast.
The Fleming was disgusted. He had seen bloodshed during his life on the Welsh march but this was different, even to the seasoned campaigner who had eventually smashed the Osraighe’s resistance in the mountains with his cavalry charge.
‘Look at them,’ he pointed at the few men of the Osraighe who still lived. ‘There is no fear in them, only anger.’
Miles Menevensis shrugged away Prendergast’s reservations. ‘The dead cannot harm the living,’ he said with hint of a smile.
‘Don’t you see that it will not matter how many times you defeat them, no matter how many you slaughter,’ Prendergast replied, ‘the Irish will fight on regardless, murder you in your bed, or attack you in these wet hills and woods. They will never forgive and we will never have peace on this island.’ He waved a hand towards the growing pile of heads. Each executioner had dropped a head at Diarmait’s feet after the deed was performed. The horror seemed so much worse in the idyllic setting, with the mid-afternoon sunny haze following the rain. Diarmait still stared at the sky, blood-drenched beard dripping down his saffron robes.
FitzStephen bit his lip. ‘The Irish are no different to what we faced in Wales,’ he told Prendergast. ‘Except here we are great lords in our own right. We will rule this land, not bow our heads to an unjust and jealous king.’
Prendergast shook his head. ‘You put the good standing of your purse over that of your soul,’ he told FitzStephen and without another word he stomped away, turning his back on his Norman allies.
The Fleming already had an argument with FitzStephen following the siege of Waesfjord; he had been promised plunder and payment, but instead he had been forced to accept a scraggy piece of land which no-one else wanted. But more than that, the Fleming could not condone being a part of Diarmait’s revenge over the Osraighe, Dubhlinn, and all the others who had contributed to his downfall. His soul could not take it and, more importantly, Prendergast could see no honour or reward in it for his men. God would surely damn the Normans for their support of such a man, and life would not reward them. He would not be a part of it. That he promised.
Chapter Twelve
Tuaim dá Ghuabainn, Connacht
September 1169
Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair considered the news brought to him by a haggard Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig. According to the King of the Osraighe, Diarmait Mac Murchada was back and had been declared King of Laighin again. Ruaidhrí’s puppet, Muirchertach Mac Murchada, had disappeared, assumed dead, and all of the tribes who had declared their support for the High King when Diarmait had been exiled had either been defeated, dispersed, or pacified. A quarter of the island had fallen to the Uí Ceinnselaig and Ruaidhrí had done nothing, Donnchadh accused.
‘So he is back,’ one-eyed Tigernán Ua Ruairc, King of Breifne, spat with delight. Of all the kings present at Ua Conchobair’s chief residence at Tuaim dá Ghuabainn, Tigernán alone was happy that Diarmait had returned to face them. The old warrior scented battle and a chance to kill his enemy. ‘We must take our armies south and crush him, once and for all.’
Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig, whose lands had been torn asunder by Diarmait and his foreign allies, nodded his antler-crowned head in agreement at Tigernán’s sentiment. And soon all were in accord; they would attack the Uí Ceinnselaig with all haste, kill Diarmait and anyone who stood beside him. All wanted war. All, that was, except Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair.
‘Why should we worry that Diarmait Mac Murchada is back among us?’ the High King asked the men who crouched on stools around the central fire in his gigantic stone house. No-one answered him immediately.
‘He has some frigging foreigners with him,’ Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig finally replied. ‘Frigging Flemings, or some such, and they are as sly as frigging foxes.’
‘How many of these Flemings does he have?’ Ruaidhrí enquired almost innocently of the man of the Osraighe. ‘I am no chick in a coop and it would take a lot of frigging foxes to scare me,’ he giggled and leant back on his chair. Behind him was some of the most beautiful artwork that Ireland had to offer: golden ornaments showing intertwining circles, the lives of Celtic saints, animals and crosses.
‘There are frigging thousands of them,’ Donnchadh said of the Norman-led army. ‘Some were on horseback, most in armour; all have frigging bows.’
Breandán Ua Gadhra, a local chieftain from the shores of Lough Ree, sniffed dismissively. ‘We have slingers, and we have horsemen,’ he said. ‘To hell with these Flemings, we will send them back over the sea – come summer.’
Ruaidhrí nodded his balding grey head, pondering over his under-king’s words. He agreed with his appraisal but said nothing for a few moments, deep in thought. ‘I have reports saying that there are only four hundred foreigners with him.’ He shuffled through a number of leaves of vellum which lay on a table beside him.
‘They did,’ Donnchadh admitted, ‘but the Ostmen of Waesfjord are with them now.’ The gathered men began chattering as this piece of news was discussed. All the men in the house were from the western reaches of Ireland, the furthest part of the land from Diarmait’s territory, and many had not even heard of Waesfjord’s capture. But Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair had heard a reliable report of the longfort’s fall from a Corcach merchant, who had heard it from a Scot who had actually been in the fortress when it fell. By his account the Ostmen had given up far too easily after their boats in the harbour had been burned by the enemy.
Ruaidhrí’s hatred of Diarmait had cooled in the years since he had expelled the troublesome King of the Uí Ceinnselaig from his seat of power. After Mac Murchada’s fall all Ireland had accepted his rule without question and two fighting seasons had passed without the Uí Conchobair clan mobilising for war. But just before the start of the summer, Domhnall Ua Briain of Tuadhmumhain had risen in rebellion, slaughtered some relatives of Domhnall Mac Cartaigh in Deasmumhain before coming north to raid Connacht. The High King was sure that the most pressing danger lay with the Uí Briain, not in the east in the lands of the Uí Ceinnselaig.
‘We must stop Tuadhmumhain first,’ one chieftain told the room. ‘Then we can move against Diarmait.’ As his under-kings argued about what was to be done, Ruaidhrí looked out the door of his stone fortress. It had been positioned to look out over the vast plain to the east almost to the River tSionainn. Though it was only mid-afternoon it was already getting murky and dark. The harvest had been late this year but it would soon be collected into all the small houses in his kingdom. That meant that soon, very soon, the creach could begin again – the thievery, killing, rape, and raiding season just before the fall of winter. The chief families of his tribe had been brought inside the vast timber walled fortress of Tuaim dá Ghuabainn in preparation to defend them from the savagery of their neighbours. Ruaidhrí sig
hed long and mournfully. Every year he had to collect the most important of his people into the fortress and every year the raiders came back to trouble him, no matter how many he killed. Just like Diarmait Mac Murchada they returned no matter how badly they had been defeated.
‘Forget the Uí Briain,’ Tigernán Ua Ruairc shouted at a chieftain from Ruaidhrí’s left. ‘They are like children having a tantrum. Diarmait is the real threat. He will never stop until he has murdered us all in our beds.’ Spittle sizzled in the fire as it flew from Tigernán’s angry, bearded face. His one good eye mirrored the blaze in the centre of the room. His opponent looked like he would make a fight of it but stopped as Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair took to his feet.
‘I have made my decision,’ Ruaidhrí said, pausing to gather his thoughts. ‘Muster the tribes at Teamhair na Ri,’ he exclaimed. ‘We will march on the Uí Ceinnselaig when the new moon rises. Diarmait Mac Murchada is a threat that must either be cowered or killed before I can take on the Uí Briain,’ he said. ‘I cannot allow one man to challenge my rule.’
‘Which of the tribes do you want to fight with us?’ Tigernán Ua Ruairc asked, obviously delighted at Ruaidhrí’s choice. He suspected that Connacht, Breifne, and the Danes of Dubhlinn would be enough to crush Mac Murchada and his little army of mercenaries, but perhaps Ruaidhrí would want the King of the Ulaidh to also take part and show their support.
‘All of them,’ Ruaidhrí replied. ‘Make sure every taoiseach knows, no matter if he rules over just ten men, that he is to meet me at Teamhair,’ he said.
Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair was a tall, thin man with a balding brow but he held more power than any man in Ireland and when he talked men listened. ‘I will know who my enemies are,’ he continued. ‘Anyone who does not assemble at the Hill of the King in Mide will be considered an ally of Diarmait Mac Murchada and will not be offered terms or mercy. They will be destroyed.’
The riders were sent out that day. They went to all the corners of Ireland with one message: Diarmait Mac Murchada and all who collaborated with him were doomed, for the High King was going to war.
Diarmait Mac Murchada was not, to Domhnall Caomhánach’s mind, an evil man. His father loved his family and had even forgiven his traitorous brother Muirchertach, allowing him to retire to a monastery in Aírgialla rather than face death or disfigurement, as was his right to mete out. He played with his grandson and namesake, Domhnall’s boy, and was always good and loving to his wives, his cousins, nephews, nieces and extended family. But his reaction when he found out that Maurice de Prendergast had fled Fearna was surprising even to his son. The King of Laighin had torn at his clothes and hair, cursed at anyone who came near him, and demanded that every remaining Fleming left at his stronghold be massacred.
‘You will not touch these men,’ Sir Robert FitzStephen calmly told Diarmait as Domhnall watched. The big Norman stood in front of his father as he had raged at Richard de la Roche and his men.
‘Domhnall,’ King Diarmait started to snarl an order and Caomhánach prayed that his father would not go through with his command to kill the Flemings, ‘on my order you will charge these foreigners …’ Whatever the King’s directive had been, it was never finished. Diarmait tailed off his order in the face of the steely determination in FitzStephen’s eyes.
Domhnall breathed a sigh of relief. Once again his father’s ambition had exceeded his wrath and he had realised that he could not afford to lose the Norman’s support by killing Flemings. Diarmait cursed impotently at FitzStephen before storming off towards his new stone house, ranting and raving about treason and loyalty. Domhnall Caomhánach held his hands up to FitzStephen, who nodded at him to show that he understood despite the language barrier. Domhnall then took off behind his father who had gone into the circular house in centre of the half-finished rath of Fearna.
FitzStephen watched father and son disappear before turning to face Richard de la Roche and his men. ‘I think it would be best for you to take yourselves across the river, Richard. We need to scout the great forest of Dubh-Tir anyway.’ With another look at Diarmait’s house he turned back towards his friend. ‘It would be sensible that you should leave as soon as possible.’
Roche raised a grey eyebrow and nodded. ‘Don’t worry. I am not hanging around here in case that lunatic changes his mind and fillets us in our sleep. Perhaps Prendergast was correct?’
‘You know my plans, Richard,’ FitzStephen continued, ignoring his mention of his departed second-in-command, ‘and at least up in the mountains you will be out of our host’s sight.’
Grey-haired Richard responded with a nod. ‘You really think that this is the best course of action, Robert?’
‘If what Mac Diarmait said is true, then there is no way that we can take on the High King’s army. Not in a fair fight anyway,’ he added with a broad grin. FitzStephen and Diarmait had been told of Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair’s muster at Teamhair na Ri by a rebellious nephew of Toirdelbach Mac Diarmait. Both men knew that it would take a long time for the mighty host to make their way to Fearna, but FitzStephen was not going to wait for Ua Conchobair to attack Diarmait’s capital. Neither was he willing to retreat southwards and invite an assault on newly won Waesfjord. What he had to do was find a way to make Ruaidhrí’s superior numbers irrelevant and he already believed that he knew the best place to do just that.
‘I hope you know what you are doing,’ Roche told him.
‘It’s a gamble, my friend,’ FitzStephen said, staring to the mountains to the west. ‘Make sure everything is ready for our arrival.’
Diarmait Mac Murchada seethed as he watched the Flemings march out of the rath of Fearna. He mumbled distant curses as he stared through the sandstone-lined doorway at the leather and steel armoured foreigners as they departed. It was not a question of loyalty, though the King was fast running out of people he could trust; all the tribes of northern Laighin had again betrayed him and flocked to Ruaidhrí’s banner at the Hill of the King. No, it was not a matter of loyalty. It was a question of ambition, Diarmait’s ambition, and Prendergast’s betrayal, along with the High King’s impending crusade against him, had put his new objective at risk. For Diarmait Mac Murchada, Chieftain of the Uí Ceinnselaig and sometime King of Laighin, no longer dreamed solely of revenge on his numerous enemies, or even retaking his place on his provincial throne. He now desired Teamhair na Ri and the high kingship, and he wanted the skills of Robert FitzStephen to take him to that goal. He had not forgotten the slighting of his son or all those other wrongs done against him, but ever since he had watched the small number of Normans in action at Dun Cormaic he had been unable to stop the wild horses of his ambition and his imagination from running amok. Every night since he had been exiled he had prayed to God for the chance for vengeance, his prayers all the more impassioned because he had believed them so farfetched. That was until Robert FitzStephen had shown himself to be a brilliant soldier. Since then the man of the Uí Ceinnselaig had prayed only for supreme rule of Ireland. But the loss of two hundred Flemings put all that at risk and so he fumed and prayed and promised God that he would endow churches and monasteries to His glory if only he granted his loyal servant Diarmait his heart’s desire.
From the darkness, behind the low doorway of his new house, he watched the Flemings ride through the settlement and out of the thick wood and stone stockade which encircled Fearna. Soon they were out of sight amongst the alder trees which surrounded the fortress. The new building had been erected on the highest point on the ruins of the palace which he had been forced to burn three long years before. A new stockade, twice as big as the last and made from stone, surrounded a handful of domed thatch houses on three sides.
‘This changes nothing,’ FitzStephen told the King as he stomped noisily into the main room. As always, the house was stuffed with old men who stared at the Norman, suspicious and silent. Diarmait’s derb-fine, his bard, and his brehon crouched around the curling stone walls, barely visible through the heavy smoke that circled from the ce
ntre of the room towards the roof. Animal carcasses adorned the walls as trophies and herbs burned limply in silver plates.
‘Diarmait,’ he said again, ignoring the narrow-eyed stares from the men thereabouts, ‘this changes nothing.’
Diarmait snorted. ‘We cannot defend Fearna without Prendergast’s men, and if we can’t defend here, we certainly cannot defend the walls of Waesfjord. And if we cannot hold that place,’ he shook his head, ‘we are finished. All my friends have abandoned me,’ he snarled suddenly, not even looking at FitzStephen. ‘I have nowhere to run. It is finished.’ He referred to his dream of Teamhair na Ri, but the Norman did not know it. ‘How long will it be before you leave me?’ he asked. ‘How long before I am left to the cruel fate of my father?’
‘It is true, we are too few to defend Fearna or Waesfjord,’ FitzStephen replied. Mac Murchada’s head dropped towards his chest as if he had not truly realised the extent of their predicament until the Norman had confirmed it. ‘However, we are anything but finished,’ FitzStephen said and flashed a massive grin. ‘You forget that you have the indomitable Normans of Wales at your side!’ He threw his hand onto the King’s shoulder. Diarmait looked at the spot which FitzStephen touched and for several moments he stared at the Norman’s hand. In the darkness the derb-fine stirred. Long beards and angry mouths beyond the smoke caught FitzStephen’s attention.
‘Ruaidhrí is marshalling a multitude of warriors,’ Diarmait said and reached up to pull FitzStephen’s hand away. He turned his back on the Norman and sat down amongst his tribesmen.
‘Fionntán told me an old Irish saying,’ FitzStephen said suddenly, his voice rebounding off the heavy stone walls. ‘ It is essential for the man who is not strong to be cunning. Do you know the verse, Diarmait?’ he asked.
The King smiled grimly, remembering the old proverb. ‘It is true, but what can we do against such a horde? We would need walls as big as trees, a ditch as wide as a river, and a keep like a mountain,’ he said with an ironic shake of the head.
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