The Falcon and the Flower (50 page)

He also warned Jasmine severely before he departed.

“Play Tam no tricks. My men will give their lives to keep you safe for me.” He had pledged his sword to William de Burgh, so to be certain they would get through to Boyle he would take half his men overland. The rest, under Montgomery, would sail up the River Shannon. This necessitated sailing south from Galway to the mouth of the river and following it all the way to Boyle. Though the overland route was shorter, it was by far the more dangerous.

If Falcon was not at Boyle Monastery first, something must have gone wrong, and Montgomery had orders to get William and his men aboard and sail back to Galway, which was comparatively safe.

In full armor astride their great war-horses, de Burgh’s fighting men met only token resistance, which they overcame with a minimum of bloodshed. The only fierce battle they fought was in a narrow pass in the woods when they were within a half-day’s ride of their destination. When their attackers saw the mettle of the men they were attempting to kill, they fled in boats across the Lough Gara.

Montgomery encountered clear sailing until the River Shannon narrowed at Athlone before opening up into the waters of Lough Ree. There John de Courcy’s knights challenged them, but when he learned they were de Burgh men sailing on King John’s ships, he grudgingly let them pass without incident.

When Falcon de Burgh’s two hundred clattered into the courtyard of the fortress of Boyle Monastery, he was greeted by a man in his own exact image but who was twice his age. William de Burgh, powerfully built with the majestic pride of a lion glittering from his crystal-green eyes, welcomed his nephew with frank relief. His pallor was the only indication that he was not enjoying the best of health. Murphy stood at his right hand. He
was enough to frighten anyone to death who didn’t know him, Falcon thought wryly.

William introduced him to Crovderg, self-styled king, and Falcon could not help an instant dislike for the man. Though Crovderg’s face was impassive, it was obvious the dislike was mutual. De Burgh and Crovderg had a hundred soldiers left between them, and Falcon estimated they could have fought their way out if they had been resolute enough and had a strong enough leader.

“How did you come? Were your losses great? Did you meet with much resistance?” asked William.

“So many questions.” Falcon laughed softly. “We sailed into Galway and took the castle. I brought half my force overland, the other half is sailing up the Shannon. There was no resistance to speak of.”

At this, Crovderg’s dislike turned to hatred. Young de Burgh’s disregard for danger seemed nothing short of contempt. The young fool had no sense of caution. He was nonchalant to the point of insolence.

Crovderg said, “You would do well to fear your enemies. In a new land you don’t even know who they are.”

De Burgh knew that fear in front of your men was a disastrous, fatal emotion. No wonder they had been holed up here like rats. He shrugged and answered Crovderg, “Caution comes in the planning. Once you are committed you succeed or fail by the strength of your determination and your sword arm.”

William de Burgh longed to be as young again as the man who faced him with all the untamed strength and incaution. The young man had offered his sword without reservation, and in that moment William loved him.

Perhaps it was because the Irish soldiers had been caged so long at Boyle, or perhaps it was a natural antipathy that existed between the Anglo-Normans and Crovderg’s men, but they constantly rubbed each other’s nerves raw, and fistfights were common. William de
Burgh and Captain Murphy acknowledged Falcon now commanded all, but this did not suit Crovderg and his men, who were undisciplined and almost impossible to control.

The monks at the monastery of Boyle brewed an Irish liquor called poteen that was one of the strongest drinks Falcon had ever tasted. He warned Gervase to see that the men used it in moderation. He chafed at having to wait for Montgomery’s ships to arrive. Falcon arose early, as he had done all his life, and for the second morning in a row he was offended by what he saw. The Irish and even some of his own men were sleeping off a heavy drinking bout. The place stank from an occasional pool of vomit and the odd places men had urinated.

De Burgh approached the offending men and put his boots into a soldier’s ribs. When he had the attention of all, including Crovderg and his captain, he hooked his thumbs into his belt and said with deliberate contempt, “I see we have a drinking problem.”

Crovderg’s captain sneered. “We drink, we get drunk, we fall down. No problem.”

The contempt in Falcon’s eyes changed to amusement. He looked from Crovderg to the captain and asked pleasantly, “Which one of you will be their champion?” Both men were built like bulls with thick necks and massive chests, yet de Burgh knew Crovderg would let his man do his dirty work for him. He was relying on the man’s natural Irish belligerence as he grinned and invited, “Would you like to get your hands on me?” He stripped off his shirt and his big, scarred hands knotted into fists. He feinted with his right hand and as his opponent tried to parry the blow de Burgh’s left fist smashed into his ribs.

“Yer soft from drink,” de Burgh taunted as his opponent lashed out at the dark, handsome face. Falcon
ducked and drove in a succession of hammering blows to the gut and ribs.

The raging bull flung himself on de Burgh and hit him in the face, splitting his cheek below the high bone in the same place he wore Jasmine’s scar. The captain was no mean opponent, and the two men rolled over the stones, marking them with blood as they struggled for mastery, exchanging terrible punishing blows. Then de Burgh was astride him and smashed his driving fist into the captain’s jaw. The captain’s great bulk helped heave de Burgh off and he managed to find his feet. Falcon knew the man was finished—he swayed with eyes swollen closed while de Burgh mercilessly hammered his face until he crashed over backward and lay still.

Falcon breathed hard and wiped the dripping blood from his face with swollen fists. He looked at the faces gathered about. “If there is any man who does not wish to obey me, let him speak now. We are de Burghs and you’ll have to try to live up to the name.”

William’s men were impressed and gave him their instant loyalty. Crovderg’s men were filled with sullen hatred.

“Now, lads, let’s clean up this dung heap,” Falcon exclaimed.

When Montgomery arrived and reported clear sailing, Falcon decided to send William and his men back down the River Shannon by ship. William eagerly agreed and decided the time was ripe to stop and get Moira and his young sons from Limerick. Falcon decided to accompany him and put Gervase in charge of the men returning overland. He scribbled a quick note to Jasmine telling her to prepare for William, the Lord of Connaught, who would be arriving with his young wife and sons to establish their residence at Galway Castle.

Falcon was glad he had chosen to sail down the beautiful
River Shannon, for halfway down, at a spot called Portumna, he found a place that captured his heart and his imagination. For him magic danced in the air. Just there upon that cliff with a wide view he would build his castle and upon these lush fields he would graze his own horseflesh. From its gray stone tower he would be able to see the whole of magnificent Lough Derg, which must stretch for twenty or thirty miles.

Leaning on the ship’s rail with William, Falcon spoke of his future vision for Portumna. William waved his hand magnanimously. “Do it, lad … do it before it’s too late, like it is for me. Build your castle; build fifty castles!”

Falcon looked down the centuries in that moment. “I will,” he said with conviction. “The de Burgh dynasty will encompass Connaught with strongholds along the whole border to keep the rest of the world out. What we don’t finish, our sons will. What they don’t finish, our grandsons will.”

William knew his sons’ legacy would be safe with this man, and he felt a great peace of mind descend upon him. With eyes twinkling, he said, “If you spend all your money on Connaught, you’ll have no gold for your sons.”

Falcon laughed softly. “My sons will have a stronger heritage than gold. They’ll get their own gold and be better men for it.”

Crovderg and his men decided to part forces with the de Burghs. At that, Falcon heaved a hearty sigh of relief. The seeds he had sown had apparently fallen on fertile soil and sprouted, as he intended they should. He had told Crovderg that King John himself would be arriving in Leinster soon, most likely at its capital, Dublin, with a sizable army from all his barons. Since Crovderg had no chance in Hades of defeating John, he must join forces with him.

Falcon was surprised by the soft-spoken Moira with her freckles and sandy hair. God’s breath, she’d never attract him in a million years, but he conceded she had done well by William in breeding him a pair of proud, dark-headed de Burghs worthy of their birthright. Though only eight and nine, they were a sore trial to their mother as they ran from one escapade to another, fearlessly climbing the ship’s rigging, then disappearing belowdecks to scramble about between the murderous hooves of the great war-horses.

They immediately adopted Falcon as their model hero and imitated his speech, his walk, and his mannerisms.

No trouble was encountered until late at night when they were sailing past Castle Bunratty in the Shannon estuary. Suddenly the first ship was assailed by flaming arrows dipped in pitch. Falcon ordered his ship to weigh anchor. Fifty of his knights disembarked with their horses and he ordered the ships to proceed. He would join them at Galway only after he had taken the castle. He was furious. Bunratty was a Connaught stronghold, and he already thought of Connaught as his.

Falcon took the offensive—he knew no other way to fight—and within half an hour his fifty knights were inside the castle’s curtain wall. Falcon’s horse scattered the coals of the fire used to set their arrows aflame and he felt the soft thud of a body as it fell away from the stallion’s hoofs. All was in confusion as men ran about in the darkness. The surprise was complete—the enemy neatly penned in the courtyard or trapped high on the ramparts. With unsheathed broadswords and knives, his men rounded up the enemy in the center of the yard and lighted bright torches so they could get a good look at each other.

“I am de Burgh of Connaught. By whose authority do you occupy my castle?” Falcon asked incredulously.

Their leader cursed aloud and spoke up. “Meiler fitz Henry, the justiciar of Ireland.”

Falcon’s eyes narrowed and his voice became dangerously quiet. “You are damned fortunate we didn’t slit your throats and send you back to fitz Henry slung across your saddles.”

“We were only passing through—”

“To where?” de Burgh cut off coldly. There was no answer. “If fitz Henry is giving his cronies carte blanche to occupy other men’s castles he won’t be justiciar long, and you can tell him so.” There was an uncomfortable silence then Falcon said, “Well, you’d better get started. You’ll have a long walk to Dublin.”

His men were grinning from ear to ear. Falcon was going to keep their horses! Fitz Henry’s men marched stiffly through the gates to the accompaniment of whistles and jeers.

Falcon left half his men to hold Bunratty and waved the other twenty-five through the gate. They would ride directly north to Galway. As the last torch was doused, he felt his horse plunge sideways as if to avoid a collision, then Falcon felt a sharp stab of pain in his shoulder as he took one of the renegade’s steel. Numbness began to spread through his body and he heard the clatter of hooves fade away. He put out his arms to grasp his horse’s mane, but felt himself fall into blackness. He opened his eyes to see the anxious face of Gower bending close to pad his wound with moss. Another knight held a flask of poteen to his lips. It tasted raw and burned his throat, but it gave him the strength to mount.

“’T is good we’re still at Bunratty,” said Gower, his face gone pale.

De Burgh shook his head. He couldn’t waste his breath on words. “Galway,” he said grimly. Gower was appalled. Galway was sixty or seventy miles off.

Before they even reached Crusheen Falcon’s shoulder
and arm had begun to throb incessantly. Now he felt light-headed from loss of blood. He gave the stallion his head and they rode another fifteen miles. At Gort he reined in his horse and slid from the saddle. Again the flask was pressed upon him.

“Take it all, sir.” He downed the poteen without stopping; it blunted the edge of the pain.

“Send the men ahead to warn my lady.” He had difficulty keeping the words from slurring together.

Gower helped him mount slowly, but it took a concentrated effort for him to stay erect in the saddle. Each jolt of his destrier made the pain seem like burning flames. He was too weary to give any more orders. All he asked was enough strength to walk into Galway Castle. He did not want to scare Jasmine by being carried into the fortress feet first.

At Oranmore he had to fight the urge to roll from the saddle to the comfort of the grass. He had begun to feel sick and dizzy with the constant sway of the stallion’s stride. Dawn was lighting the sky by the time he dismounted at Galway Castle. Gower supported his sagging body. He was half-unconscious when he felt another steadying hand at his side. His eyes licked over Jasmine wearing a red velvet bedrobe, her beautiful hair tumbling wildly about her shoulders. They had him inside now.