Lions of the Grail

by Tim Hodkinson

  On the sumptuous, tapestry-canopied bed lay Galiene. She was pale and her eyes were half closed. She looked like she was about to fall asleep. At the sight of Alys a drowsy smile came to her lips.

  ‘Mother,’ she said.

  Alys took Savage’s hand and led him over to the bed. The girl frowned at the sight of him.

  ‘What’s he doing here, Mother?’ Galiene asked.

  ‘Galiene, I want you to meet your father,’ Alys said.

  The little girl looked really confused now.

  ‘Mother, you said my father was a worthless bucket of scum who left us alone in the world,’ she said.

  Savage glanced at Alys, who shrugged.

  ‘Well he is.’ Alys smiled. ‘But some people can change, Galiene. Maybe we should give him another chance.’

  Galiene looked doubtful. Savage sat down on the edge of the bed and took her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Galiene,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I left you. But now I have come back and I want to help look after you. I won’t leave you again. I promise.’

  The girl frowned again. She was too sleepy from the poppy draught to pull her hand away. ‘Are you a knight?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Yes I am,’ Savage replied.

  ‘Do you have a castle?’

  Savage grunted. ‘No. I have nothing.’

  ‘Can you get our castle back for us?’

  Savage patted her hand. ‘I’ll try, Galiene. And if I can’t, I’ll get you a new one.’

  For the first time, the little girl smiled. ‘Good. Ours was falling apart,’ she breathed as the poppy drink finally overcame her senses and she slipped into sleep.

  Alys sighed. ‘Poor thing. She needs some rest.’

  Savage stood up. ‘So do you. You look wretched.’

  Alys smiled. ‘Complimentary as always, Richard. I admit it though. I’m tired.’

  ‘Get in beside her and get some rest. There’s plenty of room for both of you,’ Savage said. ‘I’ll make sure you aren’t disturbed.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m riding down to Corainne with MacHuylin to see what John Bysset is doing at your castle.’

  ‘Do you really think you can get it back?’

  Savage sighed and looked her in the eyes. ‘I have to be honest with you, Alys. I don’t know. War is coming. The Scots are preparing to invade and I think Bysset taking your castle has something to do with it.’

  ‘You will look after yourself won’t you?’

  ‘Of course I will,’ Savage said. ‘When you have rested and Galiene reawakes, I want you both to get away from here. There will be fighting and when it starts it will be brutal and without mercy. We don’t know who is on which side and anyone could be an enemy. I need to know you are safe while I am away. Is there anywhere you can go, anyone you know who you can trust?’

  Alys shook her head. ‘No one.’

  There was a slight cough from the doorway and both of them turned to see Henry de Thrapston standing there, hovering awkwardly in the threshold.

  ‘Syr Richard, MacHuylin is waiting for you in the courtyard,’ the keeper of the castle said. ‘It is time to go.’

  ‘Syr Henry.’ Savage stood up. ‘Do you know anywhere Alys and Galiene can go where they will be safe?’

  ‘This is the strongest fortress in Ulster, my friend,’ de Thrapston said, patting the stone of the keep walls. ‘No safer place than here.’

  ‘Except last night…’ Savage said.

  De Thrapston nodded. ‘Granted. If the Scots invade we will evacuate all women and children anyway. They will all be sent south towards Dublin.’

  Alys shot a suspicious glance at de Thrapston. ‘You promise you will come back?’

  Savage took both Alys’s hands. ‘I will ride to Corainne and when I return if you have left I will meet you on the road to Dublin.’

  Alys frowned, not completely happy at the idea. Then she looked at the sleeping Galiene as if realising she had her daughter’s safety to think of also.

  ‘You promise you will come for us?’ she repeated.

  ‘I swear,’ Savage stated.

  She gave a little smile. ‘Swear by the Grail?’

  ‘By the Grail.’ Savage kissed her, then left to follow de Thrapston down the spiral staircase.

  ‘Come along, Syr Richard,’ de Thrapston said. ‘Let’s find out what is going on down at Corainne Castle.’

  42

  Savage, MacHuylin and MacArtain rode north. Leaving Carrickfergus, they galloped along the coastline, along the golden sand of the beach along the lough shore. As they rode, the rain finally ceased and the bright, early summer sun blazed down from gaps in the rapidly clearing clouds.

  Several miles north of the castle, the shore became rocky and they cut inland, riding through a little village and scattering a bunch of chickens up into a clucking cloud of distressed feathers.

  Out of the village they entered the wooded track that constituted the road to Vikingsford and Corainne Castle. It wasn’t long before their horses were labouring as they climbed the sharp rise of the headland that jutted into the sea, marking the mouth of Carrickfergus lough. From there the coastline turned sharply from an eastern to a northern direction.

  ‘We’ll meet my galloglaiches up here,’ MacHuylin said. ‘This headland above the Rinn Seimhne peninsula is so close to Scotland you could spit across the sea. This is where I sent my men after the seneschal asked me to this morning.’

  ‘This war will be a cruel one,’ Congal MacArtain mused as they rode. ‘There’s MacArtain family over in Scotland too, the branch of the clan who migrated with Fergus Mor a few hundred years back. They’re Scots now, but still our blood.’

  ‘And yet you’ll fight for the earl – an English overlord – against them and Ui Neill, a fellow Irishman?’ Savage asked.

  ‘The Kingdom of Iveagh has fought with the Earl of Ulster for the last hundred years,’ Congal replied. ‘The earl has been good to us, and in return we’ve fought in his battles for him. And his king’s battles. We’ve fought in Flanders, Gascony and Scotland, all in the service of the earl. Iveagh is a small kingdom, Syr Savage, and right now the earldom is the strongest power in this part of the world. Ui Neill may be a fellow Irishman but he and the rest of Clan Eoghan hate our guts. They’ll wipe us out the first chance they get. We have a long, bloody history between us and the feud between our clans goes back centuries. The choice for us is easy. It’s between survival and death.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather have a Gaelic chieftain?’ Savage asked. ‘Edward Bruce says he wants to unite Ireland and Scotland as Greater Scotia, to create a pan-Gaelic alliance.’

  MacArtain threw back his head and laughed. ‘We’re not soft enough to fall for that aul shite.’ He chuckled. ‘Some of Bruce’s army may be Gaelic clansmen but half of them are descendants of Saxons from the borders with England. Edubard a Briuis may like to pretend he uses the Gaelic version of his name but we all know fine rightly his first language is French. Edward de Brus is no more Gaelic than you are. He’s a Norman bastard like all your lot. No, “better the devil you know”, as they say. Don’t get me wrong: we’ve no love for any of you and you don’t belong here. We just hate them more than you. At least our Irish foreigners – Normans like yourself and the earl – have been here long enough for us to half civilise you. You’ve adapted to our customs; you share our sense of humour. Your cousins who conquered Scotland are a different matter. But what about you? You work for the English King. I hear you have no lands here now. Why are you still here, getting caught up in this fight that isn’t yours?’

  Savage found he did not know what to say. Exactly why was he still here?

  ‘Sure hasn’t he got family ties here now?’ MacHuylin interjected with a mischievous smile. ‘He’s in love with the witch Alys de Logan and her wee girl is his daughter.’

  The galloglaich chortled to himself but neither Savage nor MacArtain shared his mirth.

  ‘I won’t have a word said against Dame Alys,’ th
e young Prince of Iveagh said. ‘My own sweet wife, Emer, was struck down with the melancholy madness after the birth of our son. Dame Alys tended to her, made her a concoction of herbs to drink every day. It wasn’t long before she was back to her old happy self.’

  MacHuylin rolled his eyes. ‘Oh for Jesus Christ’s sake! Herbs? She probably just needed a good ride,’ he muttered.

  ‘What did you say?’ MacArtain was indignant.

  MacHuylin suddenly held up a hand. He reined his horse to a stop. Savage saw that he was no longer paying attention to them and was looking intently around. He too stopped riding. Congal MacArtain saw something had changed in the galloglaich’s demeanour. He immediately forgot his anger and he too brought his horse to a halt.

  ‘What is it?’ Savage asked.

  ‘Don’t you smell it?’ MacHuylin asked. Savage and MacArtain exchanged puzzled glances. MacHuylin sat in the saddle with his head tilted back. He appeared to be sniffing the air.

  ‘Blood,’ he said finally. Without another word MacHuylin swung himself out of the saddle and onto the ground. He began examining tracks in the mud. There were both hoof prints and footprints in the deep mire and to Savage it looked like a jumbled mess. MacHuylin seemed to be able to make some sort of sense of it.

  ‘There was a fight here, and not that long ago,’ the galloglaich said. He pointed to the darkened colour of a puddle in the trackway. ‘That puddle is darker than the others because there is blood in it.’

  Savage looked and sure enough the puddle was several shades darker than the others that had gathered on the track and more mauve than brown.

  MacHuylin began examining the footprints in the mud, bent over almost double and with a look of pure concentration on his face. He followed the trail of prints to the side of the track and into the dense undergrowth beside it.

  ‘God damn them to Hell,’ MacHuylin finally said in a flat tone of voice.

  Savage and MacArtain dismounted and joined MacHuylin at the side of the track. Lying half-covered by undergrowth were the corpses of two men. Both wore the armour of the galloglaich but their helmets had been removed. Three arrows protruded from the chest of one of the men. His companion had several stab wounds to his chest and stomach. Both had had their throats cut. They lay in a large muddy pool of their own blood that was almost black.

  ‘Are these your men?’ Savage asked. His question was unnecessary as the blazing anger in the glare MacHuylin returned to him showed.

  ‘It looks like someone didn’t want an eye kept on the crossing to Scotland,’ MacArtain commented. ‘We’d better let the seneschal know.’

  Savage shook his head. ‘Let’s go on to Corainne. This must have something to do with what Bysset and Montmorency were up to there.’

  MacHuylin nodded. ‘I agree. With any luck we’ll come across whoever did this to Niall and Tor. If we do I’ll gut the bastards.’

  In grim silence, the three men remounted their horses and continued their ride up the hill. As they neared the top of the headland the woods cleared and they entered the high upland, the very north-east corner of the island of Ireland that was so scoured by wind and rain driving in from the sea that anything that was taller than the height of a gorse bush simply could not grow.

  Eventually they reached the top of the headland. To their right sheer black cliffs dropped away into an angry sea. Ahead the ground sloped downwards towards the peninsula of Rinn Seimhne that wrapped itself round the inlet of Vikingsford. Behind them was Carrickfergus lough, its far southern shore where Bangor and the Holy Wood lay clearly visible in the summer sunshine. To the north-east was the sea, the North Channel, a short stretch of water that divided Ireland from Scotland. Where they now stood the Scottish coast was closer to them than the village of Béal Feirste at the far end of Carrickfergus lough. A brisk wind whipped their cloaks and hair and the same breeze was rapidly clearing the thick sea mist that had risen with the earlier rain. They could see the west coast of Galloway, clear and visible on the other side of the sea, so close that they could make out fields and the lines of wall boundaries between them. It was twelve miles away, but from this height it looked close enough to swim to.

  As the wind cleared away the fog, it also revealed something else.

  ‘Oh dear, sweet Jesus Christ,’ Congal MacArtain breathed. All three of them stopped riding once again, this time to simply stare at the sight that lay before them.

  As the fog rolled way, as the channel between the coast of Galloway and Ireland became visible, they could see hundreds and hundreds of ships, dotting the sea, all in a massive line.

  Savage had never seen so many ships, even on Templar raids into Egypt. A huge flotilla of vessels was making its way across the channel from Scotland to Ireland, and on the closest ships they could clearly see the sun glittering on the arms and armour of the men who sailed in them. Their purpose was unmistakable.

  The invasion of Ireland had begun.

  43

  ‘I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,’ Savage muttered out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ MacHuylin asked. ‘Do you not think I could pass as a proud Scottish clansman?’

  Savage and MacHuylin were walking right through the middle of the Scottish army. They had sent Congal MacArtain back to Carrick to warn the seneschal of the arrival of the Scots but remained behind themselves. With the galloglaich sentries on the headland murdered it was up to them to try to learn as much as possible about what was going on.

  As the young Irish prince had turned to ride off, Savage grasped the bridle of his horse.

  ‘Will you do me a favour?’

  Congal nodded.

  ‘Find Dame Alys de Logan at the castle. Give her this message from me: tell her to take Galiene and go south for Dublin straight away. I will join them when I can.’

  ‘I will,’ MacArtain said. ‘They will have to travel through Iveagh. I’ll make sure she has safe passage through the kingdom.’

  With that he had ridden back towards Carrickfergus.

  To get a closer view of what the Scots were doing, Savage and MacHuylin rode down from the headland by the base of the Rinn Seimhne peninsula to Corainne. Like Alys when she had been dispossessed the day before, they tied up their horses and crouched in the undergrowth at the edge of woods, thirty yards from the castle on the shore.

  The first ship to arrive flew the banner of the Byssets. The large cog led the way around the tip of the Rinn Seimhne peninsula and into the mouth of Vikingsford lough. It dropped anchor a little way offshore and curraghs set out from the castle to meet it. It was quickly followed by several sleek longships that rode straight up onto the beach like the Viking raiders who had given their name to the lough four centuries before. Heavily armed men leapt from these ships and ran up the beach to the castle.

  Savage and MacHuylin, watching from the trees, could see the men-at-arms taking up positions on the newly fortified walls and palisades around the old castle tower. Soon they were joined by men from another wave of ships. Before long the defences were thronging with soldiers and there was barely space for anyone to join them on the makeshift walls.

  Their bridgehead established, the disembarking of the bulk of the Scottish army began. Ship after ship sailed into the lough and disgorged men, horses, arms, armour and other material onto the beach. Within a short time the shore thronged with thousands of men and horses, so many that the defensive enclosures built around Corainne Castle to protect their bridgehead could no longer contain them and they began spreading out to fill the open land around the shore. Tents were erected and the flags and banners of the Scottish earls and barons were raised to flutter in the wind as soldiers and men-at-arms began unpacking bundles and chests of arms and weapons.

  Finally, a large ship flying a huge banner arrived. On the flag was displayed a silver lion, rampant on an azure background.

  ‘The arms of Edward Bruce,’ MacHuylin commented. ‘Our new king has arrived.’

  The earlier
rain returned in a steady, heavy downpour.

  ‘Come on,’ MacHuylin said, standing up and pulling his hood up. ‘Let’s go and see if we can find out what their plans are.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ Savage said. ‘We can’t just walk into their camp!’

  ‘Why not?’ the galloglaich said. ‘There’s no more anonymous place than in the middle of an army. Especially at the start of a campaign. There’s thousands of men down there from all over Scotland and they don’t all know each other. Who’s to say who we are?’

  ‘There are not just Scotsmen there. You’re the Captain of the Earl of Ulster’s bodyguard,’ Savage objected. ‘If anyone recognises either of us we’re both dead.’

  ‘Well let’s pray it doesn’t stop raining then,’ MacHuylin replied, pulling the front of his hood further forward to cast a shadow over his face. ‘Come on, before they start digging entrenchments. It’ll be a lot harder to get in when they’re finished.’

  Savage thought for a moment. It seemed madness but MacHuylin had a point. They just might be able to carry it off and any information they could glean about what way the Scots intended to march would help the seneschal to draw up plans to repel them.

  ‘Very well,’ he agreed, pulling up the hood of his own cloak. ‘If anyone challenges us, say we are scouts sent to check the headland for Irish troops.’

  As it turned out, no one stopped them as they strolled as nonchalantly as possible out of the woods and mingled with the Scottish army.

  Along the edge of the army, spearmen were being barged around into ranks.