The Last Days of Magic: A Novel

by Mark Tompkins

  “No, we cannot retreat now. We’re too close to victory.”

  “Aisling is gone. There will be no victory today. Save as many of your warriors as you can.”

  Art peered between the shields. The air was thickening black with arrows. “Sound withdraw!” he shouted to his horn bearer. The call of two short notes followed by one long one was taken up by other Irish horns. “Have your Sidhe fall back to Tara,” Art said to Fearghal.

  Fearghal shook his head. “My time in this world has come to an end, as has the time of all loyal Sidhe. I have passed the word, all who now wish to seek a new world, withdraw to the Middle Kingdom. Those ready to travel to the After Lands, stand with me and fight to the death.”

  “My king,” said Rhoswen, who had just slid behind the shield wall to join them, “I will not abandon this land. I believe the Morrígna will return, and I know there are others who believe the same.”

  “My daughter, I do not see that, but my sight has grown dim. Choose that path if you wish, but do not die on this field today.”

  “We may all have no choice but to die here,” said Art, surveying the English movements. Their captains had restored order among the mounted archers, and a troop was already moving around to cut off the Irish vanguard’s retreat.

  A howl pierced his thoughts. He spotted the giant red she-wolf as it raised its head and let out a louder howl, compelling English and Irish alike to take heed. A vast pack of gray and black wolves took up the cry, carrying it forward as they swarmed past the red wolf toward the battle. Horses reared in blind terror as the pack closed in. Others spun as their riders tried to regain control. Men fell to the ground. Just before reaching the first of the English, the wolves rose up and finished the charge on their back legs, with human faces howling.

  “Wolfcoats! Berserkers!” shouted Art.

  “The last of the Woodwose,” said Rhoswen. “I sense their lust for revenge.”

  The Woodwose, dressed in wolfskins with razor-sharp claws strapped to their hands, bounded into the English, tearing the bellies out of horses, the throats out of men. A desperate sword stroke cut the skin-draped arm off a lead Woodwose. The crazed look in his eyes intensified as he raked the face of his attacker, blinding him before lunging for another.

  “This is your chance,” said Fearghal. “Be quick and get your warriors out. It will not be long before the English regroup.”

  Art clasped Fearghal on the shoulder. “Kill all you can.”

  “Go. When it is your time, I will meet you in the After Lands, and we will feast as if we had won the day.”

  AISLING STUMBLED up the stairs of Dunsany Castle and flung open the door of her bedchamber. She stepped inside and paused, trembling. King Turlough rose from the chair where he awaited her. His bloodstained sword fell from his hand and clattered on the stone floor next to the decapitated body of Mamos. Mamos’s head sat on a table in the center of the room.

  One daughter was wailing from her crib. Only one. It took Aisling a moment to force her eyes to focus on the other one, Uaine, lying dead on the table next to Mamos’s head. A dagger was beside the infant—a few drops of blood had fallen from the blade onto the wood. Aisling gasped for air. “Why?” was all she could get out.

  Turlough handed her the dried-up piece of heart. “I am sorry. We thought . . . I thought . . . It was the Test. To save Ireland. My life is yours to . . .”

  Aisling screamed at him, bending over with the effort. Turlough’s skin turned the black of absence, his chest caved in, his shoulders folded together, his body crumbled and disintegrated into a patch of dark mist, which was sucked into the fireplace and up the flue. Silence fell. Deirdre had stilled. Aisling gripped the piece of heart in her hand, rough and leathered with age. Tears flowed down her cheeks. “Never again,” she whispered, flinging it into the fire, which erupted in blue flame and then went out.

  . . . . .

  Dark had settled in when a procession of riders led by Art approached Dunsany Castle by torchlight. Treasa rode with one hand on Conor’s back, his body draped in front of her over her horse, Earnan riding beside her. Liam was cradling Brigid tight against him, breathing warm air into the cloak wrapped around her. Even with all his efforts, he had felt her body cooling as they traveled. When Liam had overtaken Jordan and Najia, he’d been prepared to kill them both until Art vouched for Jordan, convincing him to spare their lives. “Now we’re even,” Art told Jordan.

  When they reached the castle, the steward and the servants, who had been squatting by a fire outside, rose.

  “We’re here,” Liam whispered to Brigid, who opened her eyes but said nothing.

  Earnan dismounted and tried the door. It was bolted. He pounded on it. Aisling appeared at an upper window, her gray eyes ringed with red, lips tight. She clutched Deirdre against herself with both hands.

  “Aisling,” called up Liam. “We bear Conor’s body to you.”

  “You think I didn’t feel his passing? I’ll have no more death, no more pain in my home. Take it away.”

  The steward approached Art’s horse and silently handed a cloth-wrapped bundle up to him. Art, the day’s events hanging on his face, took the parcel, the size of a loaf of bread, and began to unwrap it. The others watched in silence. Art froze when a dead Uaine was exposed. “The Morrígna has abandoned us,” he said softly, rewrapping the bundle.

  “Aisling,” called Liam. “Let me help you, let us in.”

  Aisling stared down, silent.

  “At least help Brigid, I beg you. She’s badly wounded.”

  “I can do nothing more,” said Aisling, withdrawing from the window.

  “We have failed.” Brigid’s words slipped out on a wisp of breath. “Aisling is lost to this land.” She turned her eyes to Liam. “I’m sorry, I tried to help her.”

  He hushed her. “You did all anyone could do. Save your strength.”

  “I wish I could stay. How I long to be with you.” Brigid closed her eyes, and Liam felt the last of her life drain away.

  . . . . .

  On the order of Art, the steward retrieved axes from an outbuilding, and trees were cut and a simple pyre built. Moonlight glowed faintly through the overcast as Earnan placed Conor’s body on top. Treasa climbed up and carefully positioned his daughter in his arms. She paused there for a moment, then climbed down and took Earnan’s hand. Liam laid Brigid’s body next to Conor, kissed her on the lips, and said, “Until I join you.” The wood was green and damp, but with an enchantment from Najia flame roared to life, lighting up the front of the castle. They all watched it for a while; dense smoke billowed up in the firelight, disappearing into the night sky.

  “What are you going to do now?” Art asked Jordan.

  “I’ve come to believe there’s a place for me somewhere in this land.”

  “You’d be welcome to join me in Tara. I could use your knowledge of the English.”

  “I’ve had enough of kings for a while,” Jordan responded without malice. Then he and Najia mounted their horses. “Which way?” he asked her.

  “The Sidhe believe that magic comes from the west,” she replied, and they rode out of the firelight.

  A horse was brought from the stable for the steward, and a team was hitched to a wagon for the servants. Art led the ensemble north toward Tara—all except Liam, who insisted on standing a solitary vigil for the dead.

  . . . . .

  Sun broke through the clouds as noon approached. Wisps of smoke still drifted from the smoldering ash of the pyre when Aisling came out the door wearing her finest gown. She was carrying Deirdre and a large leather satchel.

  Liam emerged from behind the stable. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going where I need to go to protect Deirdre, to the English camp. She’s all that’s left in my life now.”

  “You think it’ll be better there, that she’ll be safe with them?”

  “Safer there than with the Celts or the Sidhe. They murdered my daughter and took everything from me—my h
usband, my sister, my friends, my followers, my very purpose. Everything I ever valued! The English know nothing of the Morrígna. They won’t sacrifice an infant in a futile attempt to bring a Goddess forth for their own greedy desires. They have no need for Goddesses. They have no enchantments to hide their evil intentions. I can handle their dull mortal senses.”

  “You can’t abandon your people,” said Liam. “We’re still at war. You’re still very much needed.”

  “The war’s over.” Aisling ran into the stable.

  When she rode out, Liam blocked the horse’s path. “Many said that you should have been killed years ago and returned to the Morrígna with your sister, to let the Goddess reincarnate fully. I chose to stand by you instead. I believed in you.”

  “You made a mistake,” Aisling replied, swinging her horse past him.

  . . . . .

  From within the trees, Kellach watched Aisling ride away. Moving from tree to tree, he followed her for a while. He could sense that the heart segment that had once been in his keeping was destroyed. She had done to herself what he had failed to do, for when he stretched out his consciousness, she no longer glowed as a beacon to the Sidhe; she felt cold and dead. Kellach quickened his pace and moved ahead, making sure the English sentries did not stop her along the way. By the time Aisling reached the edge of the English encampment, Kellach was waiting for her with Nottingham and a company of guards.

  “What do you want?” demanded Nottingham.

  “Nothing,” said Aisling. “Nothing but safety for my daughter.” She surveyed the men in front of her. “Who will take us in? My daughter seldom cries.” She unwrapped her cloak. “I’m twenty-one and well experienced in pleasing a man. Doesn’t one of you want to marry me?”

  “Quiet!” barked Nottingham to his men, who had begun talking among themselves. “Stand to order.”

  “She poses no more threat to us,” Kellach said. “Particularly if she comes into the bosom of your king. Better a living symbol of defeat than a dead martyr.”

  Nottingham turned to the captain of the guard. “What’s your name?”

  “Captain John Cooper, my lord.”

  “Are you married, Captain Cooper?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “You are now. Take her back to Dublin and make sure she does not cause any trouble.”

  John did not look displeased. “Perhaps there should be an adjustment in my pay for such a duty?”

  “Yes, yes, an extra sixty-two pence per month, and tell the chamberlain I said to conscript a house for you to keep her in. Now, you and your men escort her to Dublin. Today, Captain Cooper.”

  Kellach could not help but laugh quietly as Aisling was led away. He walked back into the woods, his mind already deliberating on how to defeat his next enemy, a much weaker adversary—the English. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he failed to notice the spread wings soaring high above.

  . . . . .

  Rhoswen, in her hawk form, watched Aisling ride off with a group of English soldiers. When Kellach disappeared into the trees, she swooped down upon the riders with a shrill screech. Several of the English ducked as she let one talon brush across Aisling’s hair. Aisling did not flinch. Rhoswen banked and flew up, then turned west. The contact had brought a clear vision: Aisling might want her involvement with the Irish struggle to be over, but it was not.

  25

  Tara, Ireland

  January 1395

  For two weeks envoys had journeyed back and forth between Tara and Dublin. The English army had halted its advance and established an encampment at Kilmessan, just three miles south of Tara. Richard had been clear that this truce would be canceled if talks broke down. In a field outside Tara, a dozen large tents had been erected, crowned with Richard’s banners, a white stag on green and blue. Across the field, a hundred yards away, their backs to the Irish capital city, stood three smaller tents bearing the banners of its high king, five ravens soaring over a crescent moon on a green background.

  From the center Irish tent, Art looked out toward Richard’s camp, watching the snow fall. It had been an unusually harsh winter, blown in on the east wind, just like the English. He longed for spring, for this all to be over. Turning to the table, he picked up the negotiated comairce agreement and skimmed the pledge of fealty once again. A group of English and Irish scriveners waited, along with his youngest brother, the twelve-year-old Dermod. Gods, Art thought, Richard loves his flowery language. At any other occasion, uttering these words would make him the laughingstock of Tara, but he would say them now. With Aisling gone there was no standing against the English archers, and so the only alternative to surrender was death, his and his remaining fighters’—a noble death but a useless one, he reasoned. He read further down the document to confirm the compensation he would receive for being Richard’s lapdog: eighty pounds of silver per year and forty-three thousand acres south of Kildare, comprising the newly delineated barony of Norragh; his request for an earldom had been soundly rejected.

  Grabbing the offered goose-pinion pen, dunking it in ink, and leaving a trail of black drops from the well, Art scrawled his name on the parchment and threw the pen on the ground. His personal scrivener applied the Irish royal wax seal. The Irish captain of the guard stepped outside the tent and sounded his horn. Art stared down at the agreement he had signed, then turned and strode out across the fresh snow. His brother trailed a few feet behind, creating a second set of tracks. An English scrivener gathered up the document and trotted after them.

  As they approached, Richard emerged from the most elaborately decorated tent, followed by his retinue. Art stopped in front of a green-and-white-striped canopy, just large enough to cover the small table and the large chair under it. Richard paused, looking annoyed, as one of his pages rushed forward and brushed a trace of stray snow from the chair, then sat down. Behind him stood de Vere, as well as the now-ex-kings Murchada of Leinster and Niall of Ulster, who had already finalized their comairce agreements. Queen Gormflaith of Munster was dead, as was, it was presumed, King Turlough of Meath, though no body had been found. Only the young Queen Mael of Connacht still held out, her forces continuing to fight the Fomorians, who were striking inland from the west coast. In some ways Art envied Mael, who was still in the fight; in other ways he did not. The Fomorians were not known to accept surrender.

  Nottingham took the agreement from the scrivener, checked the signature, then held it toward Art. “Kneel and read the pledge.”

  Art batted it away. “As if I’ll ever forget what I must swear to today.” Art dropped to his knees in the snow, grateful that at least it was not red, bowed his head, and spoke in a loud, clear voice. “I, Art MacMurrough, pledge my fealty to my most excellent lord, His Royal Majesty Richard the Second, true divine king of all England, Wales, and Ireland, to his successors, and to whomever they are pleased to appoint as their Crown representatives in Ireland. I am filled with joy to drink at the fountainhead of royal justice. I pledge obedience to Crown laws, compliance with Crown decrees, and I pledge to come when summoned, all this without complaint, and bind all my issue as well as all men who are subject to my will to do the same. I will collect the Crown’s taxes and submit them without offset. As my king’s faithful liegeman, I will aid him in all fights against his worldly enemies, and I do bind my liegemen to do the same, even to death. I seal this pledge with my property, my lands, my life, and the life of my brother Dermod, whom I love dearly and give as hostage.”

  Nottingham cried out, “Let it be so transcribed on the memoranda roll of the Exchequer!”

  Contrary to the instructions he had received, Art raised his head and watched as Richard leisurely signed the document and the chamberlain applied the privy seal.

  “Thanks to the Lord for such pleasant news,” said Richard. “Baron Art MacMurrough, We welcome you into Our Royal protection, the glow of Our mercy. As Our vassal—oh, Nottingham, add ‘vassal’ to that pledge when it is recorded—as Our vassal, We are sure your only desir
e now is to obediently watch over Our interests.”

  Richard walked around to Art, extended a hand, and pulled Art to his feet. “Rise. Come join Us in a feast in your honor.” Richard made a sweeping gesture toward the long tent to his right.

  . . . . .

  Three hours later Richard sat in the middle of his English lords on a raised dais watching the surviving ex-kings of Ireland grow increasingly drunk and loud, none more so than Art. The Irish high lords’ dais sat perpendicular to Richard’s, at half the height. Tables were set on the ground around it for guild heads and minor lords, now even more minor than they were before.

  I hold the Irish queens above the kings, Richard thought, picking at the roast beef in front of him. Neither had surrendered. One queen died in battle, the other, if not dead already, would be soon. He leaned over to de Vere. “It would have been so much more fun to have executed the kings. We loved that blood-eagle thing.”

  “Let’s do that, then. Shall I call the guards?”

  “No, unfortunately, We do not have enough loyal English lords willing to stay in Ireland, so We need these Irish chieftains to help keep Our peace. The secret will be for you to find ways to encourage them to hold one another in check so none becomes too strong again.”

  “Me? Am I not coming home with you?”

  Richard gripped de Vere’s knee under the table. “My sweet man, We could never let anything bad happen to you, yet your enemies in court have rallied during Our absence. There is even a rumor being spread that you died of some foul disease already. We are told that a plot is in the making to have you assassinated on the journey home. You must stay here with members of Our most trusted Cheshire guard.”

  De Vere turned away from Richard, drained his goblet, and refilled it. When he turned back to Richard, his eyes had grown moist. “What shall I do here without you?”