by Wayne Grant
“Lovely land,” said Roland.
Declan sighed.
“I’d almost forgot how green it all is.”
Finbar joined them at the rail.
“I heard one of the crew say we will make port within the hour,” he said.
Roland and Declan looked at each other. The two had stayed awake well into the night worrying over what they would find at Carrickfergus. Finbar had passed through the port in route to Chester but a week ago. He’d told them there were armed men patrolling the docks, but that none had questioned him.
But Finbar was an old man, leaving the country. Two armed men entering de Courcy’s domain might generate more interest. One thing was certain, they could not admit they were bound for Tyrone without arousing suspicion.
As the night wore on, they’d tried to concoct a credible lie as to the purpose of their visit, but a convincing story proved elusive. In the end, they’d given up and drifted off to sleep on the deck.
Declan turned to Roland and asked again the question they’d struggled with through the night.
“What if we’re questioned by de Courcy’s men?”
Roland shook his head.
“We must hope the guards at the docks are not that curious,” he said at last.
Finbar snorted beside him.
“Hope in one hand and spit in the other,” he said, acidly, “then see which one fills up first.”
Carrickfergus
The castle stood on a rocky crag that rose on the north shore of a wide bay. Like the Tower in London, its square stone keep loomed unnaturally over the surrounding land. But unlike the gleaming white of London’s Tower, the dull grey stone of Carrickfergus seemed to draw in and deaden the light of the sun rather than reflect it. It proclaimed, with no room for argument, that John de Courcy ruled this land.
As the ship drew near the dock, O’Byrne proved his skill with the steering oar, bringing the Trosc in to touch the side of the pier as gently as a head striking a pillow. Two of his crew leapt over the rail with lines in hand and lashed the cog to the dock. Other crewmen drew forth heavy timbers that served as ramps to bring up the horses from below.
Roland took the reins of The Grey and led gelding up onto the deck. Crewmen had removed a section of railing and the horse stepped from deck to dock without hesitation. It was The Grey’s first voyage and the big horse had handled the journey with its usual steadiness.
Declan’s chestnut mare was skittish, but the Irishman had a natural gift for handling horses and calmed the animal with a few strokes of his hand on its neck and a few whispered words. Reaching the dock, he handed the reins to Roland and went below to fetch the palfrey Sir Roger had given to Finbar. The old Irishman stepped gingerly onto the dock as his mount came up from below. Brother Cyril had chosen to bring his own tall, gangly mare. The horse shied away from the ramp at first, but after a stern scolding from the monk, followed its master docilely up and onto the dock.
All members of the traveling party safely ashore, Declan turned and waved to the master of the Trosc.
“Well done, Master O’Byrne!” he shouted.
Domnall O’Byrne stared at Declan for a long moment then turned and spat into Carrickfergus Bay.
***
They had barely got clear of the dock and onto dry land when two guards posted at the waterfront saw them. One pointed and the other marched down to meet them.
They were not going to pass through Carrickfergus unnoticed.
“You there! Who are ye and what’s yer business in Antrim?”
Roland glanced at Declan, who was looking back at him expectantly. Roland cleared his throat.
“Well, we…,” he began hesitantly, but was cut short by Brother Cyril who stepped in front of the guard.
“We travel to Down,” the monk said with authority. “I’ve come at the behest of the Bishop of Chester to pay homage at the tomb of the blessed Patrick and to confer with the fathers there. These two,” he said, motioning absently toward Roland and Declan, “are for my protection. It seemed hardly necessary, as God watches over me, but the Bishop insisted.”
The guard stared at the monk, then at the two armed men flanking him for a long moment.
“What about him?” he asked pointing at Finbar.
“My clerk. I will be expected to give the Bishop a written report of my pilgrimage, but alas, my writing seems to be hard on the man’s eyes, so this old scribbler has been sent along to chronical everything.”
By now, the second guard had joined the first.
“What’s this lot about?” he asked as he studied the new arrivals.
“Traveling to Down on church business, they say.”
The second man looked them over.
“Church business or no, we have our orders. Any man who carries a weapon is to be taken up to the keep fer questionin’, so these two,” he said pointing to Roland and Declan, “have to go. Might as well take the others. Ye know how his lordship loves to talk to churchmen.”
The first guard, finding no fault with that assessment, nodded.
“All of ye. Leave yer mounts here and follow me,” he ordered and turned toward a path that led from dockside up a narrow ravine. The second guard hailed a boy who’d been hovering nearby and ordered him to take charge of the four horses.
“Give them water and hay and there’ll be a coin in it for you,” Declan called to the boy as they were led away up the path.
As they walked, Declan sidled up to the monk.
“Down?” he asked in a whisper.
Cyril had a pained look.
“You kept me awake half the night, my lord—the two of you worrying about what story to tell when we landed,” he whispered back. “I finally drifted off without knowin’ if you came up with a good lie.”
“We didn’t.”
“So it appeared to me,” said Cyril. “But while I laid awake I thought of one myself. Hope you didn’t mind.”
Declan threw an arm over the monk’s shoulders as they walked.
“I knew ye’d prove useful!” he said.
The path ran a short way up the ravine toward an earthen ramp that led up into the town. As they walked, Declan’s eyes were drawn to the right where the grey walls of the keep loomed a good eighty feet over his head. The square tower covered one corner of the rocky crag that thrust out into the bay and a stone curtain wall, twenty feet tall, encircled the rest. The ravine where they were being led was ten feet deep and twice as broad. It was partly a natural cleft in the rock and partly excavated, cutting across a narrow neck of land to serve as a kind of dry moat on the landward side of the fortress.
Formidable, he thought.
The opposite side of the ravine was topped by a wooden palisade that protected the small trading village that served the port and the castle. The guard led them up the broad earthen ramp and through a wide gate set in the timber wall. Inside were the usual storehouses, stables and markets of a port town as well as the houses of merchants, traders, laborers and soldiers who made their homes there. By the look of several of the larger houses, the place was prospering. It was certainly busy. The narrow streets were fairly clogged with men, though only a few looked to be conducting the business of the port.
Declan nudged Roland in the ribs and inclined his head toward the knots of armed men loitering everywhere among the buildings. A half dozen of these, unmistakably soldiers, lounged near the gate while another group sat on benches outside a shed where a smithy was hammering away at a glowing length of steel. The men contented themselves throwing dice to pass the time as they waited on repairs to weapons or mail.
“Heavily armed for a trading town,” Roland whispered.
Declan nodded. The business of every port city he’d ever seen was business, but this looked like more of an armed camp than a trading centre. It would appear that the primary business of Carrickfergus was not wool or cattle or slate.
It was war.
***
Their escort led them through the crowd
ed streets to a wooden drawbridge that spanned the ravine. Passing back over the dry moat they turned left along a path that clung to a narrow strip of land between the stone curtain wall and the natural escarpment of the rock crag that dropped into the sea. Sixty yards on, they finally reached the gate of the castle.
Declan took careful note of the layers of defence that protected de Courcy’s stronghold. To enter the castle at Carrickfergus one had to pass through the walled and garrisoned town, then cross the wooden drawbridge that spanned the dry moat. If the drawbridge was up, the castle was protected on three sides by water and the fourth by the deep ravine. And even if the bridge was down, it did not lead directly to the castle gate. To reach that, one had to cover another sixty yards along the base of the looming curtain wall to find the one arched entrance to the inner ward. Any attacker would face a rain of death from the defenders on the wall simply to reach the only gate and once there would find there was no room to employ a ram.
Whoever built this knew his business, Declan thought.
As they approached the gate, a troop of ravens perched above the arched opening took noisy flight, drawing Declan’s attention. Their departure revealed a sight that made him stop in his tracks and grasp Roland by the arm. Above the gate, maintaining a sightless vigil over all who entered or left the castle, was the severed head of man. The thing was mounted on a spike, its eye sockets empty and its mouth agape as though in a final agony. It wasn’t the first time Declan had seen such a thing, but it served as a sobering reminder that they were not in a peaceful realm.
Two guards stood watch at the gate, but recognizing their escort, waved them by without ceremony. Passing through the arched opening in the curtain wall they entered a small square, surrounded on all sides by fine buildings, some of stone and some half-timbered. On the right, the largest of these looked to be a great hall of some sort, perhaps for conducting the routine business of John de Courcy’s domain. To the left was a small chapel and along the west wall were various storehouses and workshops. Looming over all and taking up the northwest corner of the enclosed space was the massive keep.
Their guard guided them across the square to a set of narrow stone steps that led up to the only door in the structure, set fifteen feet above ground. They were met there by another guard.
“New arrivals fer questionin’,” their man explained. “Two armed, one churchman and a clerk.” The guard at the top of the stairs eyed them for a moment, then waved them through the entrance and into a small antechamber.
“Drop yer weapons here,” the man ordered.
Roland and Declan exchanged glances, but complied without complaint, unbuckling their sword belts. It seemed reasonable that armed strangers would not be allowed into the keep.
“Wait here,” ordered the first guard who disappeared through a narrow door. They could hear footsteps ascending a stairway on the other side. The man left to keep watch on them looked bored, but attentive to his duties.
“Nice keep,” Declan said cheerily.
The guard stared at him, but made no reply. Declan shrugged.
“Quiet, too.”
Any further attempt at conversation was interrupted by the return of the first guard.
“This way,” he ordered, and disappeared back through the narrow door.
***
They followed the guard up a narrow spiral stairway to the second level, where they were ushered into a large chamber with a high ceiling and windows set high up on each wall. There were two men in the chamber. One was a priest in fine black robes and the other was, unmistakably, the Prince of Ulster. John de Courcy was as Sir Roger had described him—tall, well over six feet in height, with broad shoulders and long, muscular limbs. His hair was cropped short and flecked with bits of grey, framing an angular, clean-shaven face burnt brown by the sun. He looked every bit the warlord that he was. Hearing them enter, he cut short an animated conversation he was having with the priest and crossed the chamber to greet them.
“An emissary from the Bishop of Chester, I’m told, and a pilgrim to the shrine of the good saint Patrick!” he said with a booming voice.
“I am Brother Cyril, at your service, my lord,” the little monk managed as de Courcy gripped his slim hand in a meaty fist.
“We don’t get many such visitors, Brother Cyril. May I inquire as to the health of his excellency, the Bishop?”
“Oh, very fine, my lord. Very fine indeed! He sends his blessings to all who sustain and advance the study of the works of the venerable Patrick.”
De Courcy started to speak, but the black-robed priest tugged at his sleeve and whispered in his ear. The Prince gave him a sour look, but nodded.
“My friend, Father Tibold,” he said, nodding toward the priest at his side, “had the pleasure of spending a day with your Bishop last summer while passing through Chester. He was wondering if His Excellency still keeps that tavern girl…,” de Courcy turned back to the priest, who whispered once more into his ear, “…the tavern girl, Tessa, in his chambers?” Roland glanced at Declan. This could only be a test of Brother Cyril’s bona fides.
Cyril did not flinch.
“I know naught of this Tessa you speak of, my lord.”
De Courcy arched an eyebrow.
“Perhaps she was the Bishop’s ward before Hilde.” Cyril continued. “Hilde was a most comely young maiden whom the Bishop took under his wing last winter. Though last I heard, he had discovered the girl lacked sufficient piety and sent her away. He’s recently adopted Sybilla, a more God-fearing maid.”
De Courcy glanced over at the hovering priest who raised both eyebrows and shrugged. The Lord of Carrickfergus turned back to Cyril with a small smile.
“Well, Brother Cyril, it seems your news on that front may be fresher than ours,” he said with a wink. “It’s hard to keep current with the good work your Bishop is doing on behalf of the young women of Chester! But I am glad he has sent you. There is much the English church can learn from the works of Patrick! He was an Englishman, you know.”
Cyril nodded eagerly.
“Aye, lord, I know Patrick’s story well! I have long been fascinated by the works of the saint and, for me, this pilgrimage is very personal.”
“Personal?”
“Aye, my lord. Like Patrick, I too was taken as a slave from my home in England and carried off to a foreign land. And like Patrick, I escaped and took priestly vows on my return. His story has inspired my own journey of faith!”
“Splendid!” said de Courcy and slapped Cyril on his bony shoulder. “I’ve taken Patrick as my guide as well. He lifted the pagans of this island up from darkness and into the divine light of Christ, though many have fallen back into apostasy. In the lands we English have yet to control, the most loathsome and barbaric practices are performed with the sanction of the Irish church. By God, I fear many souls are being lost to this blasphemy! It must end, and by all that is holy, I will end it!”
De Courcy’s face slowly became flushed as he spoke, his eyes burning with intensity. Declan had seen this before—in the eyes of the holy warriors who fought for Saladin and in those of the Knights Templars at Acre. They were the eyes of men burning with a passion for a world beyond this one. They were the eyes of a fanatic.
“God’s will be done,” Cyril replied calmly.
“I will see to that!” de Courcy said with finality. “Now who are these others? Guards and a clerk, I’m told.”
“Aye, my lord, these are dangerous times and the Bishop insisted that I take precautions,” he said gesturing toward Roland and Declan. “I’ve hired these knights for escort. They tell me they fought with King Richard in the Holy Land. The Bishop also insists that I chronicle all that I see and hear at the shrine, my lord. It pains me to say that the clerk is along because my writing is hurtful to the eyes of His Excellency.”
De Courcy nodded sympathetically.
“We can’t all be scribblers, father. I, myself, can neither read nor write. As for your guards, you will have
no need of them, I assure you. All the land between here and Down lies within my domain, and I do not tolerate brigands.”
De Courcy motioned toward an alcove in one corner of the vast room and a monk, dressed in the black robes of the Benedictines scurried over.
“Prepare a letter of introduction for Brother Cyril to Abbot Layton at Down and also grant him safe passage through my lands.”
“Aye, your grace,” said the monk, bowing quickly and hurrying back to his alcove.
As the clerk disappeared, de Courcy beckoned Cyril to come closer and draped a huge arm across the monk’s shoulders. He leaned in close and whispered.
“While you are in Down, father, you must have the Abbot show you the bell.”
“Bell, my lord?”
“Aye, the very bell used by Patrick himself to call the faithful to worship. It is encased in a shrine of bronze and gold and is the most sacred relic in all Ireland. I took it from the heretics of Tyrone a fortnight ago and with it came a great blessing.
“What sort of blessing, my lord?” asked Cyril.
“Visions, Brother Cyril. I’ve had visions in the presence of the shrine. Patrick himself…he speaks to me. He has blessed all my works!”
He drew back and smiled again.
“So, you may be off with my blessing. I ask only that you pass this way on your journey home. I would hear of your commune with Patrick.”
“Of course, my lord,” Cyril said hastily. “We’ve already taken up far too much of your time. I will remember you in my prayers at Down.”
Cyril brought his hands together prayerfully and made a small bow. The clerk came running over, blowing on a small sheet of parchment to dry the ink. He handed the safe passage document to Cyril who shoved it into his robe. He bowed again and turned to go, but de Courcy reached out and grasped him by the arm. His grip was like a vise.
“One more thing, father,” he said. “As you have no real need for guards, I will keep one of yours here, as my guest until your return.”
Cyril started to protest, then bit back his words. The keeping of hostages was a common enough practice when nobility wished to bind someone to their word. To refuse was out of the question. To balk at this would only draw suspicion from a man who was suspicious by nature. He could see in de Courcy’s face that there would be no appeal to this order.