‘Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain,’ he shouted towards the forest where he knew the King’s two closest advisers would be hidden, ‘Bishop Seosamh, you too. We three are going to visit the High King of Ireland.’
The trio went down from the forest to talk to the men who had exiled their king, and disfigured his son. They walked calmly towards the temporary shelter which had been erected half way between the forest and the river. It was little more than branches holding up a tatty old Norse sail, but it would serve to hold off the sleet and keep the kings of Ireland dry while they met their foe. In the wind the sail pumped and sagged like a heartbeat, short wind-tells whipping and scratching the temporary structure.
‘We should just set fire to the tent,’ FitzStephen suggested to the Diarmait’s secretary, Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain. ‘As they come out, I will deal with the warriors, and you two,’ he indicated towards his companions, ‘can take down the rest.’ Bishop Seosamh shook his head with a grin at the Norman’s lack of propriety but did not disagree.
‘They will have many warriors with them,’ Máelmáedoc said seriously, ‘and priests.’
‘I didn’t say that I would enjoy it,’ FitzStephen shrugged.
A number of men came out of the temporary structure to meet the entourage coming down the hill. Not one of the men looked nervous at the meeting and all were content that they now looked upon a beaten enemy, ready to sue for their surrender. FitzStephen felt Máelmáedoc tense as he whispered the names of his king’s enemies to the Norman:
‘Behind Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair,’ he indicated towards a tall man with a pleasant face, ‘is Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig with the antlers on his head. It was he who slighted Diarmait’s son,’ Máelmáedoc said. ‘The ugly one with the bad eye is Tigernán Ua Ruairc, and Hasculv Mac Torcaill is the blond whose grandfather killed Diarmait’s father …’
‘… and that is Maurice de Prendergast who has betrayed us all,’ FitzStephen finished the sentence as the Fleming appeared at Mac Giolla Phádraig’s side.
‘Traitor,’ he hissed at his former friend, who looked disappointed at FitzStephen’s indictment.
High King Ruaidhrí did not wait for the accusation to be translated and instead greeted the Norman genially like a relative who had fallen on hard times. ‘Please come inside out of the cold so that we may talk.’ The High King’s warm greeting was translated into French by Máelmáedoc. ‘Diarmait did not come with you?’
‘He feared betrayal,’ FitzStephen shot Prendergast a baleful look. He had heard that the Fleming had sold his services to the Osraighe but FitzStephen had not expected him to be facing them at Dubh-Tir. That his former ally would fight against him sent a cold sweat down his back. He knew the skill of the Fleming crossbowmen and feared how this development would affect his plans. As they entered the tent they were stalked by Tigernán Ua Ruairc, who snarled venomously at Diarmait’s warlord.
‘We have you now, you bastards. You have nowhere to run this time. Maybe we will bury you with a dog.’ Tigernán was almost quivering with excitement at FitzStephen’s, and through him Diarmait’s, vulnerability. He skulked into the corner of the tent when the High King snapped at him to be silent.
FitzStephen was the last man to enter and he lingered outside, casting one final look up at the intimidating forest that looked down from above. The last shard of low cloud gathered above them on the northern ridge, clinging to the mountain and slowly sweeping westwards. Confidant that all his preparations were in order, he ducked his head into the tent as it was buffeted by the wind. A priest was saying a prayer in Irish in the middle of the room and all the kings had followed Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair’s lead by falling to their knees in prayer. FitzStephen joined them in supplication to the heavens, but tuned out most of the foreign entreaties for peace and said his own short prayer in Latin. He then studied High King Ruaidhrí who whispered silent words with closed eyes. He was a slight man, balding, and certainly no warrior if his feeble arms were anything to go by, but FitzStephen sensed strength of a different sort, for he was certainly in control of this vast army which he had collected. He considered that the High King was not a man to be underestimated; a king who used his intellect rather than brute force. And that made him dangerous.
‘So,’ Ruaidhrí spoke as his priest finished the prayer, ‘how are we to solve this problem?’ He addressed his question to Bishop Seosamh, who he saw as the most senior of Diarmait’s negotiators.
‘You are free to attack us,’ the bishop said, just as brusquely, ‘and then skulk back to Connacht, when King Diarmait beats you, to lick your wounds.’ He turned to look at Tigernán, ‘Or maybe get your dog to do lick your wounds.’
‘What’s going on?’ FitzStephen said loudly in French. He had been able to pick up some Irish in his time with Diarmait but could not follow what was going on now. No-one answered, ignoring the Norman and continuing to converse in Irish.
‘Damn it,’ he cursed. Attempting to cross the room to stand beside the bishop he was met by the tall, blond King of Dubhlinn, Hasculv Mac Torcaill, who put a large hand in the middle of his chest.
‘They are talking about cattle. Bloody Vestmen,’ he said in perfect, if heavily accented, French, ‘they are always talking about cattle or the weather or their dead relatives. Nothing else interests them.’ The warrior had a braided beard which made him look older than he actually was but FitzStephen guessed that he was not much over twenty-five years. The Norman raised an eyebrow at Hasculv’s proficiency in the French tongue but the youngster shrugged.
‘I am Konungr in Dyflin,’ he said, using his people’s name for Dubhlinn, ‘and we trade with Bristol and Chester. They speak French,’ was his simple explanation.
The Norman swept into a bow and was about to formally introduce himself when Hasculv interrupted.
‘So you took Waesfjord then. How?’ he asked bluntly.
FitzStephen shrugged. ‘God was against them after they burned the churches.’
Hasculv looked on impassively for a better response and the Norman consented. ‘The usual way; we battered them into submission,’ he said. Hasculv looked like he wanted more answers but Maurice de Prendergast had sauntered over towards the small group of foreigners.
‘Robert, what, in the name of all that is holy, do you think you’re doing here?’ Prendergast frowned at FitzStephen like a priest frustrated at teaching a particularly dense child his letters.
‘My duty, as I promised I would,’ FitzStephen retorted.
‘These Irish have an army of thousands ready to attack you. That is not duty but stupidity! You and your men will die, and for what, a wet patch of swamp around Waesfjord?’ The Fleming shook his head. ‘We should leave the Irish to their wars and words, your men and mine, and fight our way over the river. Then we sail for Wales together.’ FitzStephen looked at the King of Dubhlinn who was listening intently to what Prendergast had said. ‘Don’t worry,’ the Fleming whispered, ‘I have already worked out a deal with King Hasculv to sail home from his city. But we need your men to help me defeat the Uí Tuathail …’
FitzStephen grabbed his former ally by the arm and pushed him outside into the snow which was just beginning to lie. He leaned in close, making sure that the Fleming’s armour scored hard into his arm as he squeezed it.
‘Hasculv is playing you for a fool,’ FitzStephen warned his former ally. ‘Of course he’ll promise you passage if you help to create a rift amongst his enemies. But there will always be a reason to keep you in Ireland, another enemy to defeat. It will not end with the Uí Tuathail.’ FitzStephen shook his head. ‘I will not abandon Diarmait.’
Prendergast ripped his arm from FitzStephen’s grip. ‘Then you go up into those woods and die there. I will find another way home.’
FitzStephen nodded along silently. ‘I will look out for you in the battle tomorrow, Prendergast. We will sort out our differences then.’
‘If you somehow survive the first attack I will certainly look forward to that meeting.’
&n
bsp; The Fleming snorted back a sardonic laugh before turning and disappearing back into the tent.
Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain had watched as FitzStephen had taken Prendergast by the arm and forced him out of the temporary shelter. Diarmait’s secretary’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he gazed at the two men as they argued before his attention was called back to the conversation at hand. The bishops were still quarrelling about the ownership of some monastical lands north of Fearna when suddenly High King Ruaidhrí stood up and forced them all to be quiet with but a wave of his hand.
‘This is immaterial,’ he said, ‘what we are really here to do is accept Diarmait’s surrender.’
‘I offered no surrender so I don’t know why you think you can accept one,’ Máelmáedoc barely concealed his anger at the High King’s bold declaration.
Ruaidhrí laughed loudly, ‘You have, what, three thousand warriors at the most up in those woods?’
‘We have more than enough to send you back over the mountains,’ Máelmáedoc warned, unwilling to give away that their numbers were significantly less than the High King had guessed. ‘FitzStephen is ready for you.’
Maurice de Prendergast appeared beside Ruaidhrí and whispered loudly to a translator, who passed on his message to the High King that Sir Robert FitzStephen could not be bribed into betrayal as had been his plan. Ruaidhrí frowned at the information, for he did not truly feel the confidence he showed outwardly. While his Gaelic allies had advised swift attack, the Fleming Prendergast had convinced him that the forest above the river could hold any number of surprises for his army. His scouts had been unable to force their way into the deep, dark woodland and had found nothing to report, but it was still the enemy’s chosen battlefield and Ruaidhrí did not want to have to lumber into the dark woods without any idea of what faced his army. There were other methods to winning a battle other than fighting, Ruaidhrí decided.
Robert FitzStephen returned from outside and stood beside Máelmáedoc. High King Ruaidhrí gazed at the warrior who had to stoop so that his oddly cut hair did not touch the woollen sail above them all. In his bright blue and silver clothes, and amongst the dull robes of the Irish and Norse, the Norman looked as colourful as a figure from the famous Book of Colum Cille. But not gaudy, the High King thought, his clothes spoke of confidence, marking him out in battle and life. Here I am, they said, come and get me if you dare. And the robes hid circlets of steel armour, Ruaidhrí knew.
‘What do you think will happen here?’ Ruaidhrí asked Máelmáedoc. ‘Do you think that if we leave now, we will not be back here at the start of spring? And then the year after that? Diarmait will die one way or another. You might as well hand him over now.’
Máelmáedoc said nothing. He was desperate to talk his way out of a devastating defeat, truly believing that his silver tongue was all that stood between the High King and Diarmait’s defeat. He had been a soldier before joining Diarmait’s household, but even he could not understand how the Norman excavations in the woods could possibly help Diarmait’s cause. Máelmáedoc knew that they would be overwhelmed if even a quarter of High King Ruaidhrí’s army attacked. He could not allow that to happen.
‘Four hundred deaths,’ Ruaidhrí said suddenly. No-one said anything for a few seconds as they struggled to understand what the High King’s statement meant. ‘Four hundred deaths,’ he repeated, ‘and I will leave your king in control of Laighin.’ As his translator started to speak, Ruaidhrí stopped him.
Máelmáedoc was stopped in his tracks. ‘Four hundred deaths?’ he asked quietly. ‘Who do you wish dead?’
‘Your foreigners, the Flemings or whatever they are called, including that big, angry one behind you,’ he nodded towards Robert FitzStephen. ‘I don’t like the look of him at all. Slaughter them, Máelmáedoc, and Diarmait will remain King of Laighin. Kill them, and Diarmait will be my friend forever.’
Máelmáedoc looked around to stare at the Norman who, unaware that the conversation going on in Irish was about him, took a seat at the back of the tent beside a mischievous Hasculv Mac Torcaill who grinned broadly and did not admit what had gone between Máelmáedoc and Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair. In unison Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig and Tigernán Ua Ruairc jumped to their feet and began shouting their opposition to the plan; that Diarmait Mac Murchada could not be trusted, that he was the High King’s real enemy, and that the foreigners did not matter. Ruaidhrí’s brehon silenced them both with a sudden, severe shout for silence on behalf of his king. Both men grudgingly sat down again, throwing desperate and impotent glances to each other about how they could proceed.
‘How can we trust you?’ Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain asked when the furore subsided. To his right Tigernán Ua Ruairc laughed sarcastically about how one of Mac Murchada’s men could possibly ask such a question. ‘If we do this – and I am not saying that we will,’ Máelmáedoc continued, ‘then my king will be utterly defenceless. How can we possibly trust that you will not wait until it is done and then finish the job by attacking us?’
Ruaidhrí considered the question. ‘Diarmait’s son, Conchobair, has been living in my household for a year and I have grown to like him – a smart young man and a good Christian boy,’ the High King said. ‘If you are true to your word, my youngest daughter Roisin needs a husband …’
Máelmáedoc hesitated. Before him was an unbelievable offer. Not only would he be safe, but Diarmait would bolster his rule of Laighin by tethering his house to that of the High King by marriage. He would be a closer ally than even Tigernán Ua Ruairc was to Ruaidhrí. Máelmáedoc was barely able to keep his relief concealed as he came to terms with what the High King was offering. It was more than for which he could ever have hoped. His people were saved.
But Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair was not finished: ‘Bishop Seosamh, what did you make of Waesfjord?’ he asked. ‘It is a good town with lots of souls in need of counsel, I hear.’ He knew that Diarmait could be swayed by the churchmen who had supported him so fully in his recovery of power. Their appetite would have to be sated too.
FitzStephen sat up straight as he identified that High King Ruaidhrí had made mention of his prize. He said nothing but listened intently as the Bishop of Fearna answered in his alien tongue.
‘It is indeed a flock that is in need of guidance,’ the bishop said.
‘I can arrange it that you will be named Bishop of Fearna and Waesfjord. How many more churches is that to your flock? Seven? Eight, even?’ Ruaidhrí asked but did not allow the bishop to answer, turning to Máelmáedoc instead. ‘I am sure I could make it so that the lands I gave to the Osraighe were returned to Diarmait of the Uí Ceinnselaig. So, do we have an accord?’
Máelmáedoc was taken aback by High King Ruaidhrí’s generous offer, which promised everything that they had lost before Diarmait’s exile; Laighin and the tribal lands of the Uí Ceinnselaig would be theirs and the Meic Murchada would once again be closely allied to a holder of the high kingship. All it would take was to betray the trust of a few mercenaries from Wales in exchange for a kingdom.
‘What the hell is going on?’ FitzStephen finally asked from his place at the back of the tent.
Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain ignored FitzStephen, eyeing a way out of the stand-off.
‘I will need to get my king’s agreement before I can approve it,’ he said.
‘Don’t take too long to decide because my armies attack at daybreak,’ Ruaidhrí warned casually. ‘I want to hear the foreigners scream under the moonlight or we come for you all and there will be no mercy.’
Máelmáedoc stood and nodded. He was paler around the gills after the High King’s threat. ‘I will tell Diarmait all of this,’ he said. ‘I will return with your answer,’ he said taking a swift glance at Robert FitzStephen. ‘I will meet your representatives here in this tent.’
Ruaidhrí nodded and turned to converse with Maurice de Prendergast while Máelmáedoc signalled to a confused FitzStephen to leave. Behind them the bishop bowed to the High King, smiling slyly before fol
lowing the Norman and his king’s secretary out the door. Ruaidhrí held up a hand to stop his allies from questioning his decision and continued to talk quietly and secretly to the Fleming for a few moments.
It was Tigernán Ua Ruairc who predictably broke the silence. ‘You promised me I would get vengeance on Diarmait,’ he snarled desperately at High King Ruaidhrí. ‘But you offer him his life, his kingdom, and your daughter! Why?’
Ruaidhrí calmly got to his feet, fixing his cloak and tunic so that they were straight. ‘You do not understand, Tigernán,’ he said flippantly. ‘I did not offer you vengeance but justice, and you will get it. But I will get what I want first, and that is a man I can trust in Laighin. You will get ample justice for Derbforgaill, I promise.’ The King of Breifne looked at Ruaidhrí, struggling to understand what he meant and not for the first time Ruaidhrí questioned how a man of Tigernán’s stupidity had got himself onto, never mind kept, the throne of Breifne. Could he not see the bigger picture? If he subdued Laighin then he would control all of Ireland except for Tuadhmumhain, where Domhnall Ua Briain still threatened the southern borders of Connacht. How could the Uí Briain hope to stand against him if Laighin, the second most powerful country in Ireland, was allied against them?
‘It hardly matters, Tigernán,’ Ruaidhrí told him. ‘There is always a chance that Diarmait will not accept, and if he does that we will kill everyone in that dark wood.’ Ruaidhrí cast his eyes over every face in the tent. ‘If he refuses me we will scour the forests and pursue these rebels until they are all dead.’
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