Declan O'Duinne

by Wayne Grant

  “Rolf! Come see me, lad!”

  Millie smiled and came down the steps toward him.

  Declan recalled the first time his friend and fellow squire had met his wife-to-be on those very steps. That night he’d warned Roland that Millicent de Laval was hard on squires and it had not been a lie. The little lady of Shipbrook had made both boys the butt of her jests, but time had changed them all in seven years. Millie de Laval had proven herself to be as smart as her formidable mother and as brave as her renowned father. He’d seen Roland fall under her spell and it had worried him, but it need not have. He’d discovered that she was equally smitten with his friend. Together, the three had shared enough adventure to last a lifetime and now…now, Millie was a mother and Roland a father. In truth, he envied them both.

  When Millie reached him, the little boy held out his chubby arms and the Irish knight scooped him up, sitting him astride the horse’s neck. Rolf delighted himself by tugging on the palfrey’s mane and laughing. After a time, Roland led The Grey over to where Declan had started to tickle his little son. He held out his arms and Rolf lunged toward him, having no fear that strong hands would let him fall.

  “He moves like that monkey creature we saw in the market at Acre!” Declan said with a laugh.

  “Aye,” said Roland as he caught the boy. “One day I’ll have to teach him to look about before he leaps!”

  They’d named the boy Rolf after Roland’s father, murdered by William de Ferrers seven years ago. Millie had made the choice, and that had touched Roland.

  “We’ll have another and name him Roger,” he’d promised at the time.

  “And if it’s a girl?” Millie had asked.

  “I think Catherine would do nicely,” Roland had replied.

  Behind him Brother Cyril and Finbar Mac Cormaic had already mounted. A night’s rest had revived the old Irishman who seemed eager to get started on his journey home. Millie, who had been watching her son passed between his Godfather and father, held out her arms and Roland tumbled the boy into his mother’s embrace.

  It was time.

  “Say farewell to your sire, Rolf,” she urged. The little boy turned and stared at Roland with big eyes.

  “Bye,” he announced proudly.

  “And bye to you, son,” Roland said with a smile. Then he turned serious. “Do what Mother says while I am gone.”

  Rolf nodded solemnly and Roland turned to Millie.

  “It’s time to go, love,” he said, slipping an arm around her waist and kissing her hard on the lips. “Look for me before Midsummer.”

  She stood on tiptoes and kissed him back. They had said their private farewells the night before.

  “We’ll be waiting,” she said.

  Roland mounted The Grey as Declan raised a hand in farewell to Sir Roger and Lady Catherine. Together, they rode out of Shipbrook.

  The Trosc

  Domnall O’Byrne cast his eyes over the deck of his small trading cog and out to the broadening estuary of the River Dee. From long experience, he had timed his departure from Chester’s Shipgate to catch the turning of the tide from flood to ebb. With half-reefed sails for steerage, he let the current carry his vessel, the Trosc, downriver and out to the Irish Sea.

  It was a passage O’Byrne had made many times before, bringing woollen cloth from the millers of Chester and slate from the Welsh quarries to eager buyers in the Irish ports of Waterford, Dublin and Carrickfergus. With fair weather for the crossing and a hold full of valuable trade goods, he could not help feeling well-satisfied with this particular voyage, but he cautioned himself to remain vigilant. The Irish Sea was no place to let down one’s guard.

  But for the moment, the western horizon showed nothing but blue sky and empty sea. With no hazards in view, O’Byrne turned his attention to his four passengers gathered near the bow. While he was happy with the wool and the slate in the hold of his vessel, he was less so with these men. They were a curious lot. By their weapons and their bearing, two were obviously fighting men. In his eleven years as master of the Trosc, he had transported many such from England to Ireland. As always, he felt a twinge of guilt at the thought.

  He knew that men such as these were, bit by bit, imposing English rule over much of his homeland. While he was honest enough to admit that the new English overlords were hardly worse than the petty Irish kings they had replaced, it still rankled that foreigners held such sway. If the Irish were to be poorly ruled, let it by their own kind! But a man had to make a living, no matter who ruled and these men had paid their fare from Chester to his first stop at Carrickfergus in good silver. If he did not take the English coin, another shipmaster surely would.

  The business of transporting fighting men to Ireland had grown particularly lucrative over the past two years. With the return of King Richard from captivity and the failure of Prince John’s revolt against his brother, peace had descended on England like a balm. That led fighting men to look elsewhere for employment. Many joined in the Lionheart’s new war against Philip of France, but a large number of Englishmen found there was more profit to be made in the constant warfare in Ireland. And so it would seem with these two soldiers, were it not for the monk and the old man who travelled with them.

  The friar was thin and wore the brown robes of an Augustinian. He’d kept up an animated conversation with the two armed men in the group as they made their way down the Dee. Monks were common enough passengers in recent years as the church of Rome, through the English church, busily worked to “reform” the Irish church. Encouraged by the Pope, there had been a flood of English priests and prelates making this crossing to help bring the Irish into the light. O’Byrne sneered at the thought.

  After the fall of Rome, it had been the church in Ireland that had kept the flame of Christianity alive while barbarians stabled their horses in the holy places of the eternal city. Now, the Italian Pope and his lackeys in the English church thought to instruct the church of Saint Patrick on the proper worship of God. If anything, O’Byrne resented the English priests more than the warriors. It was as though the English could not be satisfied with Irish lands—they wanted Ireland’s soul as well!

  The fourth member of this odd group sat on a bale of woollen cloth and seemed to doze as the others talked freely. This man had seen many a summer and seemed ill-suited for a long journey, but O’Byrne had noticed the man’s eyes as he boarded the Trosc. They weren’t the rheumy eyes of a doddering old man. They were like the eyes of an osprey—taking in everything.

  Two fighting men, a monk and a grandfather. All in all, it was a strange traveling party, but they had paid well and without complaint. He was about to turn his attention elsewhere when he saw one of the warriors turn and make his way across the deck toward him. The man was built sturdily with long russet hair tied off in the back. He wore a broadsword at his hip and moved with an easy grace across the deck, despite the roll and pitch of the Trosc. Declan O’Duinne approached the man at the helm with a grin.

  “Master O’Byrne, it looks like we have fair sailing ahead!”

  O’Byrne shrugged.

  “We’ll see once we strike the bay,” he said brusquely.

  Declan dropped his grin.

  “If the winds are good, how long to port?”

  O’Byrne glanced up at his rigging. The wind was picking up as they neared the mouth of the Dee and it would soon be time to unreef the big square sail.

  “Wouldn’t count on the wind holdin’,” he said, “but if it does we should see land by dawn and if it’s clear enough to steer by the stars tonight, we might be near enough to Carrickfergus to drop anchor by late morning.”

  ***

  “Master O’Byrne is no Master Sparks,” muttered Declan as he returned to the group. Master Henry Sparks had sailed them safely to and from the Holy Land aboard his cog, the Sprite, and had never failed to be in a good humour, even when fighting off Moors and Berbers at the Pillars of Hercules. “He’s Irish and I don’t believe he thinks much of us.”

/>   Brother Cyril looked back at the man at the steering oar.

  “You can hardly blame him. To his eyes, we are but more outsiders, come to plague his native land.”

  “He took our coin readily enough,” said Roland.

  Declan arched an eyebrow.

  “He may love our money, but not us I’m thinkin’.”

  They had chosen to sail with Master O’Bryne when they learned he was bound first for Carrickfergus in the north of Ireland. Before they departed Shipbrook, they’d considered the safest route to reach Declan’s home in Tyrone. The two nearest ports on the eastern coast of the island were Dublin in the centre and Carrickfergus in the north.

  “A landing in Dublin means a three days’ ride through the de Lacy lands in Meath to reach the border of Tyrone,” said Sir Roger.

  “And the Dub Gaill still call Dublin their home port,” added Roland. “They’ll not have forgot the beating they took from the Invalid Company at Deganwy. Haakon the Black might be dead, but if any of that lot recognize me, we’d not make it out of the city without a fight.”

  “You can reach Tyrone from Carrickfergus in only a day and a half,” said Sir Roger, “though I don’t like ye passing through John de Courcy’s domain. In truth, I don’t trust de Lacy or de Courcy. Either man might look with suspicion on two knights crossing over into Tyrone—particularly if one of those knights is Irish.”

  Declan nodded. He’d listened carefully to the arguments for both routes. This was his journey and he knew it was his decision to make.

  “We’ll take our chances with Carrickfergus,” he’d said with finality.

  Now, their course set, they leaned on the rail of the Trosc and watched the shoreline fall away as they reached the protected estuary of the Dee and sailed toward the Irish sea proper. An hour before, the cog had sailed past the last ford on the river. Shipbrook was little more than a mile away from that ford, but not visible from the river. To port, they had seen the top of the cross that marked the final resting place of Sir Alwyn Madawc. Shipbrook’s old Master of the Sword now stood constant watch over this ancient crossing point between Wales and England.

  As the Trosc entered deeper water there was a brisk wind, but fortunately no large swells. As the land receded, Roland leaned in close to his friend and laid a hand on Declan’s shoulder.

  “How does it feel sailing for Ireland, Dec? I know ye’ve been of two minds on returning there.”

  “Ye know I’ve oft thought about taking this journey, Roland, but one thing or another has inclined me to put it off.”

  “Your father?”

  “That—and a crusade and a civil war.”

  Roland smiled.

  “Aye, you’ve had a busy ten years.”

  For a while they stood together silently watching Cheshire recede behind them.

  “Tell me about Fagan,” Roland said. “You’ve not had much time to grieve.”

  “Ahh, Fagan. As a boy, I confess I near hated him. He was six years my senior and regularly beat me when no one was watching. When I look back now, I think I understand. Ye know my mother died givin’ birth to me and I think he blamed me for it.”

  “Hardly fair,” said Roland, “but it’s what a boy might dwell upon.”

  “Aye, but I feared him and we do come to hate what we fear.”

  “What of Keiran?”

  “Keiran…Keiran was a gentler soul than Fagan, though on occasion he joined in the beatings. I always thought he was bullied into it by Fagan. He would come around later and say he was sorry and bring me a sweet cake or some other peace offering. Finbar says he should recover if the wound does not fester, but he is not dealing well with the loss of his hand.”

  “Would you?”

  “Probably not, to be sure. But after seeing what the Invalids can do in a fight, I’d be ashamed to complain about such a loss.”

  “Have you thought about meeting your father?”

  “I honestly don’t know what I’ll say to him.”

  “I’d give anything if I could see my father one more time,” said Roland solemnly.

  Declan looked over at his friend.

  “Your father didn’t give you away.”

  ***

  By midday they were out of sight of land and, as the sun set over the port rail, the wind held steady, driving the Trosc to the northwest. As night fell, the moonless sky grew crowded with stars. With the sun’s departure, Brother Cyril had fallen promptly to sleep curled up in his warm robes, while Finbar kept to his perch on the bale of wool and tilted his head back to gaze at the heavens. Roland and Declan lay on their backs looking up at the display as well.

  “What do ye reckon they are?” asked Declan. “My father told me as a child they were precious stones that belonged to the old gods, the gods of the Druids. He said they were fleeing the wrath of the Christian’s one God and spilled them across the sky in their haste.”

  Roland smiled. He liked that story. It reminded him of one his grandfather had told him when he was very young.

  “My grandsire claimed they were the hearth fires of Asgard where Odin and the gods of the Danes dwelled,” Roland offered, “but my father wasn’t so sure. He thought the gods of the Danes had long ago been overthrown by the God of the Christians and if those lights were fires, then it would for angels standing guard to keep the old Norse gods at bay. My mother claimed it was all nonsense and that any thinking person knew the stars were seeds dropped by the sun in its passage.”

  There was a long silence, before Declan spoke again.

  “That actually makes sense.”

  Roland laughed.

  “Maybe...”

  “I think the stars are other worlds, some like this one, some very different.” It was Finbar. He had dozed off and on and hardly spoken since they took ship in Chester, but it seemed the old man had been listening all the while. Roland and Declan sat up.

  “You’ve learned some English these past ten years,” Declan said admiringly. It seemed age had not slowed Finbar’s curious mind.

  “Aye, some,” Finbar said. “To know your enemy, it helps to understand their speech.”

  “Fair point,” said Declan, “but these other worlds you think are up there, do they have people and horses and such like?”

  “I don’t see why not,” said Finbar. “If God made this world, why should he not make others?”

  “Better ones perhaps?” suggested Roland.

  “God works to perfect this world.” Now it was Brother Cyril who weighed in. Having been roused from his own slumber by the discussion of the heavens, he sat up and yawned.

  “Perhaps he does,” said Finbar, “but I fail to see his progress.”

  “You must have faith, my friend.”

  Finbar shook his head.

  “Faith we have aplenty in Ireland, even if the Pope and the English church think otherwise. It is not faith we lack, but strength, strength enough to throw all the English back into this sea,” he said gesturing to the waves sweeping by the bow of the Trosc. “That’s what I pray for.”

  “Perhaps the Irish should invest in good mail and heavy cavalry rather than prayer,” countered Declan. “God did not throw the Normans into the English Channel despite all the prayers of the Saxons and I doubt he will smite the English on behalf of the Irish now.”

  Declan looked at his old family counsellor and expected the man to take some umbrage at his harsh words, but Finbar just nodded eagerly.

  “It is as you say! If we are to remain free, we must learn how to beat these English with their enormous horses and their armoured men,” he said fiercely. “We have neither the horses nor the armour, but there are surely other ways.”

  Declan stared at the old man for a moment. Finbar had spoken little since arriving, exhausted, at Shipbrook—beyond the news of the recent Irish defeat and his clan’s grievous losses—but Declan could see that he was recovering some of his strength and all of his conviction. This was the Finbar he remembered from his boyhood.

  �
��Finbar, I know you see and hear everything that passes through my father’s house and much else besides. We are less than a day’s sail from Carrickfergus now and we need to know what you know. What will we be ridin’ into?”

  The old man did not reply at once, but sat there stroking his long grey beard.

  “Lord, in truth, we’ll be ridin’ into the eye of a storm. In three days’ time, the Mac Lochlainns and the O’Neills will meet at Armagh to choose a king. If yer sire lives and can ride, he will be there. I know not if Keiran will make the effort.”

  “Will it come to a fight?” asked Declan.

  “Well, there hasn’t been an O’Neill take the kingship in a hundred years,” said Finbar, “but Hugh O’Neill believes it is time that changed.”

  “And the Mac Lochlainns?”

  “Believe otherwise, of course,” said Finbar. “So, yes, it might well come to a fight, but it does not need to be your fight, lord. If yer sire is not at Armagh, we will ride on to our rath by the Blackwater. There we will visit his bedside or, God forbid, his grave. In any case, I’d advise we not tarry in Armagh.”

  Declan nodded.

  “On that we agree. I’m not coming to Tyrone looking for a fight.”

  “Then I will pray one doesn’t find you, my lord,” Finbar said and climbed back atop his bale of wool.

  “Thank you, Finbar. You still see further than most men.”

  Finbar yawned sleepily and pulled his robe close around him against the sea breeze.

  “It is my job, lord,” he said. “It’s all I’m good at.”

  ***

  Dawn broke clear with the wind still steady from the southeast. At first light, a sail was sighted to the north and the crew of the Trosc brought pikes and axes onto the deck should the unknown ship have hostile intent. After a few tense moments, the sail disappeared over the horizon and was seen no more. The crew returned the weapons to the hold and the Trosc continued to run with the wind.

  True to Master O’Byrne’s prediction, land was sighted at mid-morning. Roland and Declan stood by the port rail and watched it emerge out of the morning mists. The coast was low-lying with a few green rolling hills, dotted with cattle.