Swordland

by Edward Ruadh Butler

  There would be blood on the following day. Either his enemies would be destroyed by his sword or they would be murdered by the hand of Diarmait Mac Murchada. Ruaidhrí considered no outcome other than victory, complete and final.

  FitzStephen was furious and stomped away from the tented meeting place through the darkening daylight. His long gait meant that he easily outstretched Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain and Bishop Seosamh Ua hAodha who struggled in the ever-worsening conditions. Snow bit high on their ankles as they ploughed upwards towards the tree line. But neither Irishman called for FitzStephen to pause nor, when he turned to catch a glimpse of his allies, did they look up, so deep were they in conversation, secretive and guarded. FitzStephen slowed as he reached the edge of the forest and, allowing the two men to catch up with him, he turned viciously on them.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ he pointed a finger at Máelmáedoc’s chest. ‘What did Ruaidhrí say? And why was I not permitted to speak?’

  If Diarmait’s secretary seemed surprised at FitzStephen’s questions, he covered it expertly, countering quickly with a question of his own: ‘What were you talking to the traitor Maurice de Prendergast about without me?’

  FitzStephen snorted back a laugh. ‘We were talking about leaving you damn Irish to fight it out amongst yourselves while we made a run for it,’ he said truthfully. ‘I told him no,’ he added, grabbing a hunk of the Máelmáedoc’s shirt. ‘Now, I have told you the truth, so about what did you talk to the High King?’

  The bishop began babbling in Irish at Diarmait’s advisor but Máelmáedoc silenced him with a shake of his head. ‘We … were … talking about lands that were taken by Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig after Diarmait’s fall,’ Máelmáedoc said with a forced smile. ‘I am dreadfully sorry that I fell into our native tongue, it was force of habit. You can trust me,’ he added throwing his hand up onto FitzStephen’s wide shoulder.

  ‘Land,’ FitzStephen repeated. It was Máelmáedoc’s smile that really worried him. ‘Land was all you talked about?’ he asked again.

  Diarmait’s secretary hummed an affirmative. ‘The bishop and I are going to report our findings to our king now. We will talk again soon. I expect that you have many preparations to make before the battle tomorrow,’ he said and walked away with the bishop stomping alongside.

  FitzStephen watched them move into the thick foliage, where he knew a contingent of Diarmait’s kern waited to shepherd them back to the Irish camp deep in the forest.

  ‘You heard it all?’ the Norman said, though he was seemingly alone.

  Fionntán Ua Donnchaidh stepped from the darkness where FitzStephen had asked him to wait. ‘Problems?’ the Irishman guessed.

  FitzStephen nodded, still watching the place where Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain and Bishop Seosamh Ua hAodha had just disappeared. ‘Do you still want to revenge yourself on the King of the Osraighe?’ he asked Fionntán.

  ‘Of course,’ the Irishman said.

  ‘Do you desire it more than you value your loyalty to Diarmait?’ the Normans turned to look directly at him.

  ‘I swore to have my vengeance before I swore fidelity to the Meic Murchada,’ Fionntán said plainly. ‘You think that we are betrayed?’

  ‘Perhaps. Not by Diarmait, I think. Not yet anyway. But by his secretary and the bishop?’ he shook his head. ‘Those two are out for themselves, I am sure of it.’

  ‘You have proof?’ Fionntán asked.

  ‘I do not,’ he said, ‘but I have been deceived before and I see the same treachery in Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain’s eyes.’

  ‘That one is a trickster alright,’ Fionntán nodded, ‘and Seosamh Ua hAodha is no different to every other greedy bastard bishop in Christendom.’ He breathed out, his face shrouded in misted breath. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Help me follow them and find out what they are up to,’ he told him. ‘If they are keeping something from me I want to know about it,’ he said. ‘I need you to translate.’

  ‘You trust me to tell you the truth?’ Fionntán asked.

  ‘I trust that you want revenge more than you want to live.’

  ‘And if it turns out that he is planning to deceive you?’ the Irishman said without denying FitzStephen’s statement. ‘What will you do then?’

  The Norman breathed out deeply. ‘I can beat the enemy in front of us, Fionntán. I truly can, but another behind will certainly bring ruin to our army. Pray that our friends are true.’

  Fionntán’s sunken eyes were black holes as he held FitzStephen’s gaze for a second longer. But then he was gone, crouching low and noiseless as he moved through the frigid forest.

  ‘Are you coming or what?’ asked Fionntán without turning.

  FitzStephen followed him into the Dark Country.

  Fionntán and FitzStephen were but shadows as they stood silently at the back of King Diarmait’s small dark hut hidden in the depths of Dubh-Tir. The Norman had abandoned his colourful surcoat and chainmail, donning instead a dull cloak and hood to hide his distinctive hair and lack of beard.

  The duo had passed quickly through the trees where they had discovered the path used by Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain and the Bishop of Fearna to return to Diarmait’s camp. Hundreds of Irish warriors had descended on their king’s secretary and his companions as they entered the snowbound mottle of turf houses. They demanded news. They wanted salvation and the clamour had provided FitzStephen and Fionntán with the perfect opportunity to slip inside the camp, and then to scuttle into the smoky atmosphere of Diarmait’s lair, where he and his derb-fine listened to the advisor’s account of his talks with High King Ruaidhrí.

  ‘What are they talking about?’ FitzStephen quietly asked his accomplice as the room erupted in anger. Twenty Meic Murchada – Diarmait’s closest family – as well as his bard and his brehon crowded into the large hut made from roughly cut boughs and sodden turf slabs. In the centre of the room was a large fire dug into the cold earth and ringed with stone and it hissed each time a droplet of melted snow dropped into its midst. The blaze warmed the faces of the men who, like FitzStephen and Fionntán, were cloaked and hooded against the winter cold. Smoke drifted amongst the tribesmen and upwards to the roof.

  ‘Máelmáedoc tells Diarmait which tribes were at the meeting with the High King,’ Fionntán replied softly. ‘It is a daunting list. Some of those men had promised help to Diarmait,’ the Irishman said. ‘The derb-fine are not happy.’ He nodded towards Diarmait’s kinsmen who surrounded the King of Laighin, crouched down on their hunkers before the simple hearth. The oldest and most powerful had long beards which touched almost to their waists while around them their sons and brothers and nephews listened and passed comment on the secretary’s report. In the midst of the derb-fine Domhnall Caomhánach, his head shaved to the crown where his hair grew long to his neck, prowled in support of his father.

  ‘Has Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain made any agreement with them?’ asked Robert FitzStephen.

  ‘Not yet … wait,’ Fionntán paused and listened in on Máelmáedoc’s report. ‘He speaks of a pact which the High King suggested … it would be of benefit to Diarmait’s family …’ Fionntán’s eyebrows creased as he translated. For many minutes he only listened, ignoring FitzStephen’s urging appeals for information. He put a finger to his lips to hush the Norman.

  Fionntán’s silence made the fury in FitzStephen’s soul grow. His imagination ran wild as he listened to the tone of the Irish conversation and the look of utter contempt on Fionntán’s face. What could they be saying, he wondered. As his frustration increased, FitzStephen angrily eyed the King of Laighin who crouched soundless in the centre of the room wrapped in smoke and backed by ragged bracken and timber walls. An ornate sword rested on his shoulder while his long, bony forefingers touched to his lips as he listened to the report from his advisor. This was the man who had promised to be true to him when they had met in the great hall of Llandovery so long ago, FitzStephen thought, and now he flirted with treachery. He felt like throwi
ng off his cloak and charging Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain and set his sword to singing through the air. He would kill the poison-tongued scribe and demand that Diarmait tell him exactly what had gone on behind his back between his secretary and Ruaidhrí.

  His body must have tensed for Fionntán suddenly reached out and grabbed FitzStephen’s arm. The Norman turned angrily on the Irish mariner, shaking his arm from his grip, but this only succeeded in attracting the attention of several men who knelt in front of them by the fire. Fionntán’s eyes widened in warning, appealing to FitzStephen to stay quiet lest they be discovered eavesdropping. Two men of the derb-fine eyed the Norman suspiciously for a second, but then Diarmait climbed to his feet and indicated for the hut to go silent so that he could speak and the two men looked away. The hoarse tones of Mac Murchada’s natural tongue rasped around the smoky hut like a pagan ritual. FitzStephen, unable to understand, watched the King’s manner intently for any sign of the threat which he believed Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain had advised. Diarmait looked old and grey as he talked, his arms swung by his sides limply, his shoulders loose and low. He looked, to FitzStephen, like a man whose dreams lay in pieces. In front of Diarmait, his secretary nodded along with the King’s words obediently and supportively while grizzled Bishop Seosamh Ua hAodha lifted his hands to heaven in prayer, as if the very words which Diarmait spoke were sent from God. Around the room the derb-fine growled agreement at the King’s decree.

  Fionntán again grabbed the Norman by the arm, this time hauling him through the crowd and out of the turf hut towards the snow. Their exit earned a number of confused glances from the Irish warriors but Fionntán did not stop and the old sailor forced FitzStephen outside where they were immediately faced by a hundred more men wrapped against the weather and straining to hear what had happened when the King’s secretary had gone down the mountain. One of the men asked a question of FitzStephen but he could not understand, and shook his head under his heavy cloak.

  ‘This way,’ Fionntán said and roughly directed him through the crowd.

  ‘Fionntán,’ FitzStephen hissed as they pushed away from the crowd of people towards the forest. Each of the rough-barked trees was painted with a fine surface of white snow on the windward side. ‘What has befallen us?’ he asked, his lips stinging and peeling because of the cold.

  ‘Keep your voice down!’ the Irishman whispered desperately back. ‘You are not safe here.’

  For many minutes neither man spoke as the worked their way south and east towards the second camp used by the Normans and their foreign allies. When they had been walking for ten minutes Fionntán stopped and turned towards FitzStephen.

  ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘I would not believe it if I had not heard it with my own ears.’

  FitzStephen threw back his hood. ‘I bloody knew it.’ He smiled cynically and shook his head. Somehow it felt better now that he knew for sure that his instincts were correct. Now at least he knew who he had to fight. ‘What did Máelmáedoc say? Tell me exactly,’ he ordered the Irishman.

  Fionntán sucked in the cold air. ‘He spoke of an agreement between Ruaidhrí and Diarmait, a marriage of their children and a peace accord …’

  ‘Peace?’ FitzStephen fumed. How could Diarmait consider amity with the man who had driven him from his home and into the mountains? The man who had threatened his life and whose allies had slighted his son?

  ‘There is more,’ Fionntán interrupted his anger. ‘Ruaidhrí’s only price for the settlement is your life and that of your men.’

  For many minutes FitzStephen was speechless. ‘They make peace and there is no need for a few hundred foreigners in their land,’ he finally said quietly. ‘What else?’

  ‘They want it done by tomorrow morning,’ Fionntán replied, ‘or they will attack.’ He stumbled into a deep hole and sank up to his knee in the drifting snow. Cursing, he righted himself.

  ‘Divide and conquer,’ FitzStephen whispered. ‘What did Diarmait say?’

  ‘The derb-fine advised Diarmait to take up the offer,’ the Irishman replied, ‘and the King cannot afford to lose their support. He appealed to them to trust in your defences but,’ he paused, ‘they do not understand how such fragile-looking fortifications could possibly survive an attack.’ Fionntán shook his head. ‘Diarmait told them that they had to think of the future,’ he described, ‘he said that if we defeated them here then all Laighin would be his, Mide would also fall, and Dubhlinn would be subdued. He told them to remember Dun Cormaic and Waesfjord. But …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But the derb-fine told him that Ruaidhrí could provide all those things and without the loss of any lives,’ Fionntán said.

  ‘Except those of the Normans and Flemings who came to his aid when no one else would,’ FitzStephen snarled. He picked up the pace through the frozen forest. ‘Diarmait is a traitor.’

  ‘He allowed himself to be convinced,’ Fionntán admitted.

  With a roar of pure venom, FitzStephen punched an evergreen with all his might. As the thud resounded around the forest, flakes of snow smashed to the ground around the Norman, hitting Fionntán.

  ‘I must stop this,’ FitzStephen said as he examined his left fist. It was cut and bleeding

  ‘How can we prevent it?’ Fionntán asked. ‘Diarmait has made his decision.’

  FitzStephen grimaced. ‘The same way that Ruaidhrí would drive a wedge between us. Divide and conquer.’

  King Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig watched the flames from five fluttering torches as they hovered on the edge of the vastness of Dubh-Tir. Nothing else could be seen in the darkness. He had watched the small group of torchbearers approach and knew what their arrival heralded.

  ‘Diarmait has agreed to the plan,’ Donnchadh mused. ‘It is about frigging time.’ It was beginning to get really cold, but it was not the temperature, the secrecy, and the waiting that annoyed the King of the Osraighe. It was the embarrassment of being despatched back across the river by the High King like some damned messenger to hear Diarmait’s answer. He spat in the snow. What made it all the worse was that if all went to plan and Ruaidhrí kept his word to the King of Laighin then all the lands that Donnchadh had taken three years before would revert to the Uí Ceinnselaig and the man he hated most in the world would again become the strongest king in the east. Diarmait would no doubt demand his submission by force of arms.

  ‘What are they frigging doing up there?’ he asked one of the warriors, huddled in a robe against the cold. The five torches still burned on the hillside above them. ‘Do they expect me to walk the whole way up there to accept their message? They can go frig themselves if they do.’

  Hidden in the darkness, his brother Cian laughed. ‘They are probably worried that we will murder them if their answer is the wrong one.’

  ‘It had crossed my mind,’ Donnchadh replied pulling his hooded cape closer around his neck. ‘If Diarmait is with them I frigging will kill him,’ the man of the Osraighe swore and straightened his antler crown on his brow.

  The tent where the kings had met earlier in the day had been agreed as the meeting place for Ruaidhrí’s intrigues, however, the snow which had fallen since then had collapsed part of the shelter and Donnchadh’s men had been forced to huddle a little way from the crumpled tent, unable even to light a fire to warm the small group for fear that the vicious Norman cavalry and archers would discover them and sweep down from the forest. As if to confirm their fears, distant screaming and shouting emanated from the woods above and Cian looked nervously at his brother the King. ‘What is that racket?’

  ‘Mischief,’ the older man said and listened to the far-off crash of weapons and screeches of the dying. Both brothers still stared up at the torches on the hill though they were unable to see the figures that had borne them through the trees. ‘They did say that they would kill the foreigners.’

  ‘Should we get back across the river?’ Cian asked nervously. ‘We should get back across the river.’

  Donnchadh ignored
his brother. ‘What the hell is frigging happening up there?’ As he strained his eyes in an attempt to penetrate the blinding gloom all hell broke loose around him. Spears and swords fell on Osraighe necks from all sides. In the darkness their assailants were like vengeful ghosts that Donnchadh could not see.

  ‘Die!’ attackers called in the Gaelic tongue, throwing themselves into the fight like madmen in the darkness. ‘Die!’

  Donnchadh grabbed his brother and threw him to the ground just as a spear blazed over his head. The King of the Osraighe dealt a savage kick to the assailant’s chest, sending him sprawling back towards the tented meeting place shouting something in a language that Donnchadh did not understand. He cursed when he understood that the men had hidden in the half-collapsed temporary shelter.

  ‘Damn it to frigging hell!’ Donnchadh cursed and hauled Cian to his feet. ‘They are behind us.’ He turned around to see the five torches still flickering on the hillside. While the Osraighe had waited patiently for their king’s answer the Uí Ceinnselaig had crawled silently towards them in the darkness.

  ‘They are on both sides of us,’ Cian shouted. ‘Let’s get out of here!’ he screamed at his men who obeyed their captain’s call and ran headlong down the slope.

  ‘Diarmait betrayed us,’ Donnchadh stammered as he swept a spear aside with his sword and looked through the darkness for someone to kill.

  ‘Donnchadh, we need to get out of here,’ Cian shouted as he grabbed his arm and dragged him into the night.

  ‘We will see you tomorrow,’ the King of the Osraighe screamed towards his enemies. ‘We’ll be back to burn you out of your damn wood.’

  A spear sliced out of the shadows and crashed through one of the antlers which adorned his head. Slicing the bone in two, the spear thumped into the snow at Cian’s feet. Donnchadh snarled again, in shock and anger and unbalance, and, like his few remaining warriors, ran for his life.