Declan O'Duinne

by Wayne Grant

  “Of course I am tempted, my lady, but Sir Roger raised me—every bit as much as my own father did and I’ve come to find a home there in Cheshire. If you could see Shipbrook, sitting there looking down on the River Dee, you would understand better why I am drawn to return.”

  “It sounds like a lovely place, Sir Declan, but I would have thought it took more than a scenic spot by a river to make you leave Ireland behind. Do you not have a wife or a sweetheart back there in your Shipbrook?”

  “Why no…no, my lady, I do not,” he answered honestly.

  “Pity,” the girl said, though she did not seem at all sorry for his single state.

  “My lady,…,” he began, a little flustered by this unexpected turn in the conversation.

  Now Margaret waved a hand to stop him.

  “Oh please,” she pleaded. “I find I’ve already grown weary of all this ‘my lady’ business. Call me Meg.”

  Declan smiled, grateful to be done with this questioning of his plans and his status.

  “Fair enough, Meg, but you must call me Declan.”

  “I will,” she said gaily. “‘Sir Declan’ sounds so very formal. So, tell me…Declan, if the girls of Cheshire do not interest you, how did you find the Saracen women on Crusade? Were they as beautiful as the stories make them out?”

  Declan wrinkled his brow.

  “My lad…eh, Meg, the few women I saw there were either poor farm wives or prisoners in Acre. The former generally fled as we came near and the latter were more woebegone than beautiful. Life is not easy there for women.”

  “Life is not easy anywhere for women,” the girl said, turning suddenly serious.

  “I expect that is especially so for one who must lead a clan in times such as these.”

  She gave a little shrug.

  “It is only until the end of summer when my brother will be of age.”

  “And when summer is over, what will you do? I’m told yer betrothed to Conor Mac Lochlainn.”

  She shot him a hard look, searching to see if there was some censure in his words. Seeing none, she shrugged again.

  “That was my father’s doing—an agreement he struck with the old King. Both are dead now.”

  “And where does Conor Mac Lochlainn stand on the issue?”

  She let a small smile come back to her lips.

  “You’ll have to ask him, Declan, but I suspect I am out of favour just now.”

  They reached the stables and Margaret turned her pony over to a boy to be fed and watered.

  As they turned to retrace their steps up the hill, she reached out to touch his arm.

  “When will you leave?” she asked.

  “In three days. Brother Cyril and I must pay a visit to Down, then return to Carrickfergus before taking ship for home.”

  “Why would you risk passing back through that place—and why Down first?”

  He quickly related the circumstances of their arrival at Carrickfergus and the necessity of returning there.

  Meg nodded.

  “I see,” she said. “De Courcy is more than a little mad. I hope your friend is delivered back safe into your hands.”

  As they reached the square at the top of the hill, Margaret turned back to him and gave a little curtsy.

  “Is this how they do it in England?” she asked sweetly, her blue eyes wide and questioning.

  For a moment he felt a wild urge to tell her to renounce her betrothal to Conor Mac Lochlainn and come back to England with him, but knew such a demand could only be met with shock and disdain.

  “I’ve never seen it done more beautifully,” he said—and meant it.

  ***

  Long into the night and through the next day, the factions of the Cenél Eoghain met in the nave of the church without result. Cathal attended as chief of clan O’Duinne and Keiran sat near Hugh O’Neill, should he have any messages to dispatch. Margaret Maelchallain took her position with the Mac Lochlainn chiefs, but said little as the two sides argued and cast dispersions on each other.

  On the second day, Brother Cyril took leave of his monastic activities to pay Declan a visit. He had spoken little to Cyril since they’d arrived and the skinny monk had much to report.

  “The brethren here at the abbey are Augustinians!” he said with obvious pleasure. “Much less rigid than those Benedictines in Chester.”

  “Aye, or that Father Tibold that attends Lord de Courcy,” Declan added. “His robes marked him as one of the Black Monks.”

  Cyril gave a little shiver.

  “Aye, that man looked to have no bend in him.”

  “The abbey at Down is Benedictine I heard,” Declan pointed out.

  “It is,” said Cyril with a sigh. “The brethren here at Armagh say that de Courcy ousted the Augustinians from the abbey there and installed the Black Monks. There is bad blood between Armagh and Down over the matter.”

  “Wonderful,” said Declan, sourly. “All we need is a religious feud to smooth our way!”

  Cyril shrugged off the concern.

  “God will protect us, lord—even from Benedictines. And if we leave on the morrow we will arrive on the Feast of Ascension.”

  Declan furrowed his brow.

  “There will be crowds at the abbey on a feast day,” he noted, a touch of concern in his voice.

  “It will distract the Abbot and the brethren,” Cyril said airily. “They will likely bring out their relics for a processional, which will make them less likely to concentrate on us.”

  Declan did not argue. He had a hostage to collect and had no wish to tarry at Down Abbey.

  “I’ll want to leave at dawn,” he said.

  “I’ll be ready, lord.”

  ***

  Late on the afternoon of the second day, Finbar rode into the square at Armagh and sought Declan out. He’d come to say his farewell, but not only that. He did not mince words.

  “Ye should stay here,” he declared. “Whatever yer ties to England, yer needed here with yer own blood! Yer father needs ye and so does yer clan, my lord.”

  Declan sighed. He knew his father had held out hope that he would stay and that had tugged at his heart. But in the end, Cathal O’Duinne had accepted his decision to go with grace. Finbar, however, was not a graceful man.

  “You yerself saw what de Courcy is gathering at Carrickfergus. He’ll not have those men sit around eating his food and drinking his ale all summer. No! He’ll march on Tir Eoghain before the harvest is in. But I guess that’s all our misfortune and none of your own,” he said bitterly.

  “We do not know what is in the mind of John de Courcy,” Declan said gently. “He may come next week or not at all. When he does come here, one more sword will not sway the balance, Finbar. The Cenél Eoghain have survived ten years without me. I think they can manage.”

  Finbar scowled at him.

  “As you said to yer brother, lord—yer more than a sword hand!”

  Declan laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder.

  “Finbar, you’ve given yer oath to my father, have ye not?”

  Finbar looked at him and squinted.

  “Aye, of course I have. All know it.”

  “Have you ever thought to break that oath?”

  Finbar started to answer, but stopped.

  “Ah, yer a clever lad,” he said, shaking his head. “Of course I’ve never broken my oath and here I am asking ye to break yer own.”

  Finbar’s shoulders slumped. He knew when he was beaten.

  “Well then go,” he said at last, his voice resigned, “and I’ll not wish ye ill, lad. You were a good boy and have growed to be a fine man. Losin’ ye near broke Cathal’s heart all those years ago. Findin’ ye again mended it. I must be content with that.”

  Declan wrapped the old man in an embrace, his eyes stinging.

  “You did a fine thing coming to find me, Finbar. I did not know I needed to come home until you brought me here. Thank you.”

  The old man nodded.

  “I did it fo
r yer father,” he said simply.

  Declan walked with him back to where he had tethered his pony and watched his father’s counsellor ride back down the hill and set out to the west—to the Blackwater River and home.

  The encounter had left him feeling glum. He would be departing in the morning for Down and might never see Finbar or his kin again. To shake the melancholy that clung to him, he walked down to the stables to check on the chestnut mare. He was examining the horse’s hooves when his father found him.

  “Making ready to leave for Down on the morrow, son?” he asked.

  “Aye, that’s the plan, father. How goes the council?”

  Cathal frowned.

  “I think more of Mac Lochlainn’s chiefs are leaning toward O’Neill’s position, but none have spoken up. I fear they value loyalty above good sense.”

  Declan smiled at that.

  “I’d reckon they’d say the same of you and the other O’Neill men. Are you not loyal to your chief?”

  Cathal looked uneasy at that.

  “Aye, I am and that is why I’ve come to find you. There has been a request—from Hugh O’Neill himself. He asks a personal favour of you.”

  “What sort of favour?” Declan asked, uneasily.

  “He asks that you take Margaret Maelchallain with you to Down.”

  “What?”

  Declan wasn’t sure he had heard his father correctly.

  “Margaret Maelchallain is the Keeper of the bell,” Cathal replied by way of explanation.

  “I know who the woman is and what she does, but why, in God’s name, would she be going to Down?”

  “It seems she wishes to see the bell of Saint Patrick for a last time—or so Hugh told me.”

  “This makes no sense, father. We are going there only to make a show and will leave as quickly as we can—in and out! Then it’s on to Carrickfergus to retrieve my friend. We do not need this woman along to complicate things.”

  “I told Hugh ye wouldn’t like it,” Cathal said, apologetically, “but he asked me—as a personal favour.”

  “Gad! Yer high chiefs here are no different than the great lords in England,” Declan said, his voice rising. “They know damned well a favour requested is as good as an order.”

  “Perhaps you should speak to him,” Cathal suggested.

  “No!” he said, turning on his heel. “It’s Margaret Maelchallain I’ll speak with!”

  ***

  He’d sent a boy with an urgent message for her and she met him by the stables as the abbey bells finished tolling the mid-afternoon call to prayer. Margaret had been light-hearted and playful two days before. Now the girl once more appeared guarded and serious.

  “You are angry with me,” she said before he could speak.

  “What did you expect?” Declan answered, trying to keep his temper in check. “Or do you not understand that going to Down will be dangerous, not only for me and Brother Cyril, but for my friend who is in John de Courcy’s hands?”

  “I do, Declan, honestly I do, but please understand. My family are the Keepers. My father died trying to protect the bell. Its loss is a stain upon the Maelchallain name. I’m told you have a letter from de Courcy that will grant you access to the brethren who now hold the bell. I wish only to look upon it for one last time—to see that it is being properly venerated by these English monks. I will not make trouble.”

  “I am sorry for the loss, my lady, truly I am, but seeing the bell won’t bring it—or yer father—back to ye.”

  The girl’s eyes began to well and a tear trickled down her cheek. Declan waved a finger at her.

  “Oh for God’s sake, Margaret—tears? You don’t need tears to get yer way. You’ve already run to Hugh O’Neill behind my back. He needs yer support to be king and what’s my life or the lives of my friends next to the support of the Maelchallain clan for his ambitions? For my father’s sake, I cannot refuse this request, but there are conditions.”

  Margaret’s eyes quickly dried.

  “What are your conditions?” she asked.

  Declan held up a single finger.

  “I will take you only as far as Down, but not back to Armagh. I’ve a promise to keep to my friend who is hostage at Carrickfergus and I’ve lingered too long here as it is.”

  “Fine,” she said quietly. “I will bring one of my men along to ride with me back to Armagh, so you may be on your way with all due haste.”

  “That will do,” he said and held up a second finger.

  “Until we part company, you will follow my orders, in every particular, or I swear I will send you and your man packing, back to Armagh.”

  The girl briskly wiped away the last of the tears that had fallen on her cheek with a dainty finger.

  “Agreed,” she said. “When do we ride?”

  ***

  In the grey light before dawn, Declan stood beside his father and brother as the three men gathered by the fire to say their farewells. Further down the alleyway, Brother Cyril was already mounted on his bay mare and Margaret Maelchallain stood beside her pony talking softly to the young warrior who had been assigned to escort her to and from Armagh.

  Much had passed between the three O’Duinne men in only a week’s time and Declan struggled with what to say in parting. In the end it was Cathal who broke the awkward silence.

  “Stay safe, son,” he said as he draped an arm over Declan’s shoulders. “And if life in England ever grows old, you will always have a home here in Tir Eoghain.”

  “If fortune allows, I will come this way again, Father,” Declan said and turned to Keiran, extending his left hand. His older brother took it.

  “It’s been good to see you again, little brother. Perhaps if peace ever settles in these parts I’ll come to visit you over there in England. I’d like to meet these Invalids you speak of.”

  Declan smiled.

  “You would be at home among them, Keiran.”

  Looking down the alley, he saw Margaret mount her pony and heard his own chestnut mare nicker. It was time. He mounted, raised a hand in farewell and rode out of Armagh to the east.

  Leap of Faith

  By his seventh day as a guest of John de Courcy, Roland had poked his nose into every part of the inner ward, making mental notes of everything he saw. He found no weakness he could use to aid in an escape and though Finn had appeared twice inside the walls, the boy had exchanged nothing with him beyond a quick glance. With nothing new to explore and no duties to attend to on a grey and drizzly afternoon, Roland made his way to the shed where the castle smith forged nails, weapons, pots and hinges for the lord of the castle and the tradesmen in the town. His offer to work the bellows was gratefully accepted and helped lift his boredom.

  Roland had worked up a good sweat when a shout from the lookout atop the keep drew his attention. The man was pointing across the inner ward toward the bay and the open sea. The lookout called down to the man standing guard at the entrance to the keep. Over the pounding of the smith’s hammer, Roland could not make out the message, but the guard disappeared inside. Curious, Roland excused himself from bellows duty and climbed to the south wall of Carrickfergus. He looked out to sea and saw a grand sight.

  Five sailing cogs had entered the mouth of the bay and were ploughing through the swells straight toward the protected harbour of the castle. An onshore wind had their square sails taut and he could see crewmen scurrying about working the lines. Such ships were common trading vessels in these waters, but the cargo of this small fleet was not wool or slate—it was men.

  Even at this distance there was no mistaking the men crowding the deck of each ship. Sunlight glinted off spear tips and steel helmets. There were at least forty men on each of the cogs. Roland could not guess where they had come from, but there was no doubt as to their purpose.

  As the five boats passed south of the castle, they fell into single file and began making graceful turns to starboard to enter the break in the jetty that formed the anchorage of Carrickfergus. Roland follow
ed their progress and moved along the wall walk until he reached a point that overlooked the harbour. He watched as each boat edged up to one of the two long piers and secured their lines.

  “Beautiful sight, is it not?”

  Roland jerked around to see John de Courcy coming toward him. He’d been so engrossed in watching the troop ships he’d not heard the big man’s approach.

  “Aye, my lord, as long as you were expecting company.”

  De Courcy laughed at that.

  “Oh, aye. This isn’t some invading force from Chester, Sir Roland. These men come from all over England and they are the best money can buy. With them and my local troops, I have what I need to finish these stiff-necked Irish here in the north,” de Courcy said, a gleam in his eye. “Look off west, Sir Roland. The land beyond the horizon is there for our taking! In Tyrone, the fields stay green all winter long. There are cattle and sheep in their thousands.”

  “And stiff-necked Irish in their thousands as well.”

  De Courcy shot him a dark look, but then chuckled.

  “Yes, that is a complication, but one I will soon overcome and if you’ve grown tired of being a hostage, sir, my offer still stands. If you join me, there will be silver and land. It will take three days to muster my Irish levies. Once they join me, we march. Fight for me and carve out a new destiny for yourself!”

  “Your offer tempts me, my lord. I will think on it.”

  De Courcy slapped him on the back with his massive hand.

  “You do that, Inness. It will pay better than the wages yer getting from that little churchman.”

  The lord of Carrickfergus started to turn away, then stopped.

  “My guards tell me that you’ve been busy, inspecting every inch of my castle. I hope you aren’t finding your stay here too confining.”

  “Not at all, my lord,” Roland said with a smile. “I do love to roam about, but having a few weeks of decent food and a roof overhead is nothing to complain about.”

  “Good! Good!” de Courcy said. “But tell me, when you roamed about on my battlements, did you find any weaknesses in the defences of Carrickfergus?”

  Roland shook his head.