by Robyn Young
They joined the track that took them on the homeward stretch to Donough’s hall, past the remains of a ring-fort where sheep grazed in the ruins that were stippled with moss and yellow rosettes of butterwort. Robert stared at the crumbling stones, struck by memory. He saw himself, lean and long-limbed, straddling the highest point of the tumbled-down walls, fists raised in triumph as his foster-brothers clambered up behind him, panting from the race. His own voice echoed down the years.
‘I am the king! I am the king!’
He turned from the ruins as the track dipped with the slope of the land and the hall came into view. Cormac dug in his spurs and galloped ahead, his red hair wild in the wind. Niall and Thomas rode after him, racing one another. The hall dominated a grassy mound that rose over the banks of a shallow river. It was ringed by a defensive ditch and palisade, the stakes of which were unstained by weather or time. Eighteen months ago, most of the buildings had been destroyed by fire, leaving only the stone shell of the hall. It had taken months of labour, but with Donough’s determination, the devotion of his tenants and coins from Robert’s coffers, the place looked almost as it had when Robert lived here as a boy.
Following in the wake of the three young men, the rest of the company funnelled through the gate in the palisade. The guards nodded a greeting to Donough and Robert, who urged their mounts up the well-worn incline to the yard in the centre of the stables and barns, which still smelled of sawn timber. Thomas and Niall had dismounted with Cormac and were issuing orders to the grooms who came out to meet the party. Robert’s younger brothers had remained in fosterage when the war broke out between Scotland and England four years ago and were now more at home here than in the Bruce family’s strongholds in Carrick and Annandale.
As Robert swung down from the saddle and handed the reins to Nes, he saw Donough’s steward.
‘My lord.’ The steward raised his voice over the excited barking of the hounds. ‘I trust you fared well?’
‘A fine fallow, Gilbert,’ said Donough, dismounting. ‘We have meat for hanging.’
‘I will see to it. For now, my lord, you have company.’
Donough frowned. ‘Who?’
‘Two monks from Bangor Abbey. They arrived shortly after noon.’ Gilbert’s gaze lingered on his lord’s mud-caked boots and cloak. ‘Shall I bid them wait while you change?’
Robert stepped forward. ‘No, Gilbert. We’ll see them now.’
When the steward glanced at Donough, the lord nodded. ‘See there is food enough for all the company tonight. My men will dine with me.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
Leaving the steward to direct the huntsmen and the varlets to usher the hounds to the kennels, Robert and his foster-father headed for the hall. As he crossed the yard, Robert caught the eye of Alexander Seton. Feeling vindicated, and satisfied with it, he stepped into the smoky shadows, his anticipation rising.
Inside the hall, by the chamber’s hearth, were the two monks in black habits. They turned as Robert and Donough entered, the flames in the grate gusting with the rush of cold air. One was younger than the other and had a plain, earnest face and worried, darting eyes. The older of the two was more distinctive with a grotesque scar that carved its way down his cheek and through his lip. He stood erect, feet planted apart, meeting Robert’s appraising gaze with a bellicose stare that would have looked more at home on a warrior than a man of the cloth.
Donough didn’t seem at all affected by the hostility in that look, going straight to the scarred monk and clasping his hand in both of his. ‘Brother Murtough, it has been too long. You received my messages? I feared the worst when you failed to answer.’
‘We would have come sooner. But the danger was too great.’
The scarred monk’s Gaelic was rough and guttural, different enough in cadence from the way his own family spoke it that Robert strained to understand him.
‘Ulster’s spies have been watching us.’ Murtough’s eyes roved around the hall, taking in the new beams that criss-crossed the roof. ‘I am glad, Lord Donough, to see you were able to repair the damage his men caused here.’
Donough’s smile vanished at the name of the man whose knights had been responsible for the destruction of his home. ‘I wasn’t going to let the dogs think they had won.’ He turned to Robert. ‘And I had a great deal of help from my foster-son, Sir Robert, Earl of Carrick and lord of these estates.’
The scarred monk’s attention shifted to Robert. ‘Your name and pedigree precede you, Sir Robert. Your grandfather was a great man, God rest his soul. My brethren and I honour him still.’
Robert frowned in surprise. As far as he knew, his grandfather had never visited Ireland. The Bruce family’s lands in Antrim, from Glenarm to Olderfleet, had not been part of the old man’s legacy. Like the earldom of Carrick, they were part of the inheritance of Robert’s mother, acquired by his father on their marriage and granted to him eight years ago. Having taken his father’s place, Robert had found it strange, returning to Antrim as lord, to have his foster-father kneel before him to pay homage. ‘I didn’t know you knew my grandfather.’
‘Not personally,’ the younger monk clarified. ‘But we benefited from his generosity. He sent money to our abbey for years to pay for candles to burn at the shrine of our blessed founder, St Malachy.’
Donough nodded when Robert looked at him. ‘Your grandfather had the donations sent to me through your mother.’ He gestured to the long table that dominated the hall, where a jug of wine and goblets had been placed. ‘Let us sit.’
As they moved to the trestle and benches, Robert thought of the abbey at Clairvaux in France and other holy sites where his grandfather had paid for candles to be lit in honour of the saint. How many wicks still smouldered in chapels and abbeys, kept alight by the old man’s will, all in an effort to atone for the sins of their ancestor?
When travelling through Scotland, so the story went, Malachy, Archbishop of Armagh, once stayed at the Bruce family’s castle in Annan. Hearing of a robber who was sentenced to hang, he requested the man be spared, a plea the Lord of Annandale granted. When, the following day, Malachy saw the man hanging from a gallows, he brought his wrath down upon the lord and his line. The curse he laid upon them was said to have caused the river to rise and wash away their stronghold, forcing the Bruce family to build a new castle at Lochmaben.
Robert’s father had always mocked the legend, citing a winter storm as the cause of the damage to the castle, but his grandfather had blamed it not only for past misfortunes, but for all the events following the tragic death of King Alexander III that led to the crowning of Edward’s puppet king, John Balliol, and the loss of the Bruce family’s claim to the throne.
‘Last year, my brothers sought me out to tell me of the destruction of Donough’s hall at the Earl of Ulster’s hands,’ explained Robert, as he sat. ‘They said Ulster’s men were looking for a relic King Edward desired – a relic known by some as the Staff of Jesus and by others as the Staff of Malachy.’ He studied Murtough while he spoke, but the monk’s scarred features revealed nothing. ‘I resigned from the guardianship of Scotland in the hope that I might find this staff and prevent the king from seizing it. Lord Donough sent messages to your abbey in the belief that your order may know of its whereabouts.’
When the two men remained silent, Donough sighed roughly. ‘Come, Murtough, you may have kept your distance these past months, but word travels even if you do not.’ He poured a goblet of wine and passed it to the monk. ‘We know Ulster’s men searched your abbey after the staff disappeared from Armagh. Why else would they do this if they did not suspect you of having taken it?’
‘And why would he destroy your home, Donough?’ countered Murtough. ‘Are you believed to have stolen it?’
‘Our support of your order is well known. We became suspects by association.’ Donough scowled. ‘And doubtless it presented the excuse Ulster has been looking for to remove us from Glenarm for good. Under the lordship of the Bruce family we
have been protected all these years, while our countrymen were driven into the west by English invaders. I was one of only a handful of men who retained his lands. Of course Ulster wants me gone. But I say God help him and all his kind when our countrymen rise to take back what is theirs. Trouble grows in the south for de Burgh and his kin from what I hear. There are rumours of rebellion. Of war.’ He thumped his fist on the table. ‘A day of reckoning is coming. Mark my words.’
‘Richard de Burgh was an ally of your family for years, Sir Robert,’ remarked the younger monk. ‘We know too of your allegiance to King Edward. How can we be sure where your loyalties lie in this matter?’
‘Those allegiances are three years dead. They ended the day I joined the insurrection led by William Wallace.’ Robert leaned forward, holding the monk with his gaze. ‘Both our countries have suffered under the English king’s dominion. If you know where the staff is, I can help you keep it from him.’ As the young man glanced at Murtough, Robert caught a flicker of hope in his face. He seized on it. ‘In Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain it is written that Brutus of Troy, who founded these islands, had certain relics in his possession. On his death, his sons carved up the land between them into what would become England, Ireland, Wales and Scotland, each taking one of the four relics to symbolise his new authority.’
‘I am aware of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s works,’ Murtough cut in.
Robert continued, undeterred by the monk’s tone. ‘According to a vision of the prophet Merlin, whose words Monmouth claimed to be translating, this division began Britain’s descent into chaos. Merlin foretold that these relics would need to be gathered again under one ruler to prevent the land’s final ruin. Both Utherpendragon and his son, King Arthur, came close to succeeding, but never fully achieved this. When Edward conquered Wales he discovered a lost prophecy that named the four treasures. For England, Curtana, the Sword of Mercy. For Wales, the Crown of Arthur, believed to be the diadem worn by Brutus himself. For Scotland . . .’
Here, Robert faltered, his thoughts filling with the bitter image of a block of stone in the belly of a wagon, careening down a dusty track. He was riding furiously in its wake, shield held high. Around him rode other men, blades in their hands and victory in their faces. All bore the same shield as him: blood red with a dragon rearing, fire-wreathed, in the centre. Shamefully, he had played his own part that day, in taking that most precious of relics to Edward.
‘For Scotland,’ he finished, ‘the Stone of Destiny, upon which all our kings have been crowned.’
‘We have heard of King Edward’s conquests,’ said the younger monk gravely. ‘We know he has taken these treasures for his shrine at Westminster. Only the staff of our founder evades him.’
‘Then you know how much he wants this last relic. How he will stop at nothing to get it.’
‘And what about you, Earl Robert?’ said Murtough, his eyes glittery in the candlelight. As he took a draught of wine, some of the liquid dribbled through the cleft in his lip. ‘Do you believe in Merlin’s prophecy?’
‘It does not matter what I believe. What matters is that the king’s subjects and many of his men believe. They fight for it, bleed and die for it. They are the sword that enabled him to conquer Wales. Now Scotland. The belief that they are saving Britain from ruin adds fire to their conviction. Edward conquers not just with might, but with the power of prophecy. He will make himself a new Brutus, a new Arthur. And all Britain will bend before him.’
‘If you had the staff, what would you do with it?’
Robert steeled himself to the challenge in the older monk’s stare, feeling Murtough could see right through to the desire in his heart – a desire that had little to do with protecting the relic and everything to do with atonement for his sin in the theft of another. If King Edward offered him the Stone of Destiny in return for the staff tomorrow he would gladly accept. He levelled the monk with his gaze, giving away nothing of his thoughts. ‘I would prevent him from taking it. My ancestor offended St Malachy and our family has suffered ever since. For my grandfather and my line, this is my chance to right that wrong.’
For a long moment, Robert didn’t think Murtough was going to respond, then the monk set down his goblet.
‘After Ulster’s men ransacked our abbey and found nothing we thought that would be the end of it, but then we discovered his knights were keeping watch on us, following our brothers when they left the abbey grounds, questioning anyone who visited – labourers, laundresses. A little over two months ago one of our acolytes disappeared. It emerged that he had been seen meeting with Ulster’s knights. Some time later, we discovered documents were missing from our vault.’ Murtough paused. ‘We fear Ulster may now know of Ibracense.’
Robert frowned. ‘Ibracense?’
The younger monk glanced at Murtough, who nodded. ‘When Malachy was elected Abbot of Bangor he rebuilt the abbey, but soon after it was attacked by a local chieftain and Malachy and his brethren were forced to flee south. On an island in a great lake, our blessed founder built a monastery where he and his brothers remained, isolated from the barbarities of the world, for three years. Malachy called it Ibracense. He was forced to leave this sanctuary when he took up his position as Archbishop of Armagh, wresting the Staff of Jesus from Niall mac Edan. He never returned. It is only recalled in the records of our abbey, which he rebuilt once more before he passed away. The documents that were stolen from our vault speak of Ibracense – not its location, which is known to only a handful of our brethren – but the description is enough to offer a guide. Soon after our acolyte disappeared, Ulster’s men vanished from Bangor. We believe they are looking for the island. If they find it, they will find the staff.’
Murtough looked at Donough, his expression now weary, defeated. ‘It is why we answered your summons. We do not have the ability to keep moving it, or soldiers to guard it. The relic’s concealment was all we could rely on.’
Robert spoke. ‘I can take it to Scotland and secure it until both our countries are free of Edward’s control. When it is safe to do so, I will return it to you.’
After a silence, Murtough nodded. ‘We will take your proposition to the abbot.’
Loughrea, Ireland, 1301 AD
Richard de Burgh, Earl of Ulster and Lord of Connacht, took the roll of parchment the clerk handed to him. The royal seal hung heavily from it, the red beeswax, imprinted with King Edward’s coat of arms, cracking around the edges. The earl’s face, webbed with scars, was grim as he scanned the inked rows of letters and numerals. Around him the chamber bustled with servants, packing clothes into chests and removing tapestries from the lime-washed walls, emptying the chamber of its movable wealth.
‘As you can see, Sir Richard,’ said the chancellor carefully, ‘the revenues requested from Westminster have almost doubled this past year. The exchequer has been forced to raise taxes in order to meet King Edward’s demands without further impoverishing our administration at Dublin. We are stretched to the limit as it is.’
Ulster looked up from the roll at the chancellor’s solemn face, thinking the man was shrewd to blame the office for the rise, rather than himself as the exchequer’s chief clerk, or indeed the king.
The chancellor laced his thin fingers. ‘You must know how much King Edward relies upon you, Sir Richard. You have the power to change his fortunes here. He needs the revenue only a man of your stature can provide in order to succeed in his fight against the Scots. Victory is close. His enemies suffered grave losses at Falkirk and a new campaign has been planned for the coming months, but the king’s treasury was drained by the war against his cousin in Gascony and the rebellion he was forced to crush in Wales. He has been compelled to raise taxes throughout his crown lands. We, every one of us, must suffer that burden if our king is to succeed in bringing Britain under his dominion.’
‘It was Ireland’s grain that fed his troops in Gascony and Wales,’ responded Ulster, his deep voice grinding over the chancellor’s mollifying tones
. ‘My tenants and I suffered this burden long before today.’
‘And for that you have his gratitude. King Edward will reward your sacrifice when the war in Scotland is won. There are rich lands there, ripe for the picking.’
Ulster rose, his gold-embroidered mantle of fine Flemish cloth shifting around his large frame as he walked to the windows, through which the steel-bright February sun was streaming. Beyond the panes of leaded glass Lough Rea was spread out before him, its blue expanse ruffled by wind. His family had built this castle, their chief stronghold in Connacht, and the walled town that surrounded it sixty years ago, but their supremacy in the land extended back further still to the Norman lords who sailed to Ireland under King John, continuing the conquest begun by his father, Henry II.
Those men had carved out a broad swathe of territory from Cork to Antrim, taming the landscape under the plough, altering the face of it with castles, mills and towns. Here, in the fertile east, they settled for generations, the native Irish driven into the harsh, mountainous west. During those years, the de Burgh family had grown in prominence and power until, under Richard, they had reached their zenith. But things were changing. The Irish were pushing back. Already, there was war on the borders, native kings banding together to force out the English along the frontiers. The conquerors’ control was deteriorating as the economy weakened under King Edward’s increasing demands.
How galling, Ulster thought, now to be looking down from the heights of the illustrious position he had attained and seeing only the slope of decline. He turned to the chancellor. ‘The building of my new castle at Ballymote has put a strain on my resources and with the exodus of so many of our countrymen, unable to protect themselves from Irish brigands, I am left to shoulder the duties of many. Whole settlements have been abandoned by those choosing to return to England. The more men leave, the more soldiers the rest of us have to find for the breach. If King Edward takes much more, we will no longer be able to hold back the tide of felons and marauders who wait on our borders, testing them always for signs of weakness.’
