The Last Days of Magic (45 page)

“You can’t abandon your people,” said Liam. “We’re still at war. You’re still very much needed.”

“The war’s over.” Aisling ran into the stable.

When she rode out, Liam blocked the horse’s path. “Many said that you should have been killed years ago and returned to the Morrígna with your sister, to let the Goddess reincarnate fully. I chose to stand by you instead. I believed in you.”

“You made a mistake,” Aisling replied, swinging her horse past him.

. . . . .

From within the trees, Kellach watched Aisling ride away. Moving from tree to tree, he followed her for a while. He could sense that the heart segment that had once been in his keeping was destroyed. She had done to herself what he had failed to do, for when he stretched out his consciousness, she no longer glowed as a beacon to the Sidhe; she felt cold and dead. Kellach quickened his pace and moved ahead, making sure the English sentries did not stop her along the way. By the time Aisling reached the edge of the English encampment, Kellach was waiting for her with Nottingham and a company of guards.

“What do you want?” demanded Nottingham.

“Nothing,” said Aisling. “Nothing but safety for my daughter.” She surveyed the men in front of her. “Who will take us in? My daughter seldom cries.” She unwrapped her cloak. “I’m twenty-one and well experienced in pleasing a man. Doesn’t one of you want to marry me?”

“Quiet!” barked Nottingham to his men, who had begun talking among themselves. “Stand to order.”

“She poses no more threat to us,” Kellach said. “Particularly if she
comes into the bosom of your king. Better a living symbol of defeat than a dead martyr.”

Nottingham turned to the captain of the guard. “What’s your name?”

“Captain John Cooper, my lord.”

“Are you married, Captain Cooper?”

“No, my lord.”

“You are now. Take her back to Dublin and make sure she does not cause any trouble.”

John did not look displeased. “Perhaps there should be an adjustment in my pay for such a duty?”

“Yes, yes, an extra sixty-two pence per month, and tell the chamberlain I said to conscript a house for you to keep her in. Now, you and your men escort her to Dublin. Today, Captain Cooper.”

Kellach could not help but laugh quietly as Aisling was led away. He walked back into the woods, his mind already deliberating on how to defeat his next enemy, a much weaker adversary—the English. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he failed to notice the spread wings soaring high above.

. . . . .

Rhoswen, in her hawk form, watched Aisling ride off with a group of English soldiers. When Kellach disappeared into the trees, she swooped down upon the riders with a shrill screech. Several of the English ducked as she let one talon brush across Aisling’s hair. Aisling did not flinch. Rhoswen banked and flew up, then turned west. The contact had brought a clear vision: Aisling might want her involvement with the Irish struggle to be over, but it was not.

25

Tara, Ireland

January 1395

F
or two weeks envoys had journeyed back and forth between Tara and Dublin. The English army had halted its advance and established an encampment at Kilmessan, just three miles south of Tara. Richard had been clear that this truce would be canceled if talks broke down. In a field outside Tara, a dozen large tents had been erected, crowned with Richard’s banners, a white stag on green and blue. Across the field, a hundred yards away, their backs to the Irish capital city, stood three smaller tents bearing the banners of its high king, five ravens soaring over a crescent moon on a green background.

From the center Irish tent, Art looked out toward Richard’s camp, watching the snow fall. It had been an unusually harsh winter, blown in on the east wind, just like the English. He longed for spring, for this all to be over. Turning to the table, he picked up the negotiated
comairce
agreement and skimmed the pledge of fealty once again. A group of English and Irish scriveners waited, along with his youngest brother, the twelve-year-old Dermod.
Gods
, Art thought,
Richard loves his flowery language.
At any other occasion, uttering these words would make him the laughingstock of Tara, but he would say them now. With Aisling gone there was no standing against the English archers, and so the only alternative to surrender was death, his and his remaining fighters’—a noble death but a useless one, he reasoned. He read further down the document to confirm the compensation he would receive for being Richard’s lapdog: eighty pounds of silver per year and forty-three thousand acres south of Kildare, comprising the newly delineated barony of Norragh; his request for an earldom had been soundly rejected.

Grabbing the offered goose-pinion pen, dunking it in ink, and leaving a trail of black drops from the well, Art scrawled his name on the parchment and threw the pen on the ground. His personal scrivener applied the Irish royal wax seal. The Irish captain of the guard stepped outside the tent and sounded his horn. Art stared down at the agreement he had signed, then turned and strode out across the fresh snow. His brother trailed a few feet behind, creating a second set of tracks. An English scrivener gathered up the document and trotted after them.

As they approached, Richard emerged from the most elaborately decorated tent, followed by his retinue. Art stopped in front of a green-and-white-striped canopy, just large enough to cover the small table and the large chair under it. Richard paused, looking annoyed, as one of his pages rushed forward and brushed a trace of stray snow from the chair, then sat down. Behind him stood de Vere, as well as the now-ex-kings Murchada of Leinster and Niall of Ulster, who had already finalized their
comairce
agreements. Queen Gormflaith of Munster was dead, as was, it was presumed, King Turlough of Meath, though no body had been found. Only the young Queen Mael of Connacht still held out, her forces continuing to fight the Fomorians, who were striking inland from the west coast. In some ways Art envied Mael, who was still in the fight; in other ways he did not. The Fomorians were not known to accept surrender.

Nottingham took the agreement from the scrivener, checked the signature, then held it toward Art. “Kneel and read the pledge.”

Art batted it away. “As if I’ll ever forget what I must swear to today.” Art dropped to his knees in the snow, grateful that at least it was not red, bowed his head, and spoke in a loud, clear voice. “I, Art MacMurrough, pledge my fealty to my most excellent lord, His Royal Majesty Richard the Second, true divine king of all England, Wales, and Ireland, to his successors, and to whomever they are pleased to appoint as their Crown representatives in Ireland. I am filled with joy to drink at the fountainhead of royal justice. I pledge obedience to Crown laws, compliance with Crown decrees, and I pledge to come
when summoned, all this without complaint, and bind all my issue as well as all men who are subject to my will to do the same. I will collect the Crown’s taxes and submit them without offset. As my king’s faithful liegeman, I will aid him in all fights against his worldly enemies, and I do bind my liegemen to do the same, even to death. I seal this pledge with my property, my lands, my life, and the life of my brother Dermod, whom I love dearly and give as hostage.”

Nottingham cried out, “Let it be so transcribed on the memoranda roll of the Exchequer!”

Contrary to the instructions he had received, Art raised his head and watched as Richard leisurely signed the document and the chamberlain applied the privy seal.

“Thanks to the Lord for such pleasant news,” said Richard. “Baron Art MacMurrough, We welcome you into Our Royal protection, the glow of Our mercy. As Our vassal—oh, Nottingham, add ‘vassal’ to that pledge when it is recorded—as Our vassal, We are sure your only desire now is to obediently watch over Our interests.”

Richard walked around to Art, extended a hand, and pulled Art to his feet. “Rise. Come join Us in a feast in your honor.” Richard made a sweeping gesture toward the long tent to his right.

. . . . .

Three hours later Richard sat in the middle of his English lords on a raised dais watching the surviving ex-kings of Ireland grow increasingly drunk and loud, none more so than Art. The Irish high lords’ dais sat perpendicular to Richard’s, at half the height. Tables were set on the ground around it for guild heads and minor lords, now even more minor than they were before.

I hold the Irish queens above the kings,
Richard thought, picking at the roast beef in front of him. Neither had surrendered. One queen died in battle, the other, if not dead already, would be soon. He leaned over to de Vere. “It would have been so much more fun to have executed the kings. We loved that blood-eagle thing.”

“Let’s do that, then. Shall I call the guards?”

“No, unfortunately, We do not have enough loyal English lords willing to stay in Ireland, so We need these Irish chieftains to help keep Our peace. The secret will be for you to find ways to encourage them to hold one another in check so none becomes too strong again.”

“Me? Am I not coming home with you?”

Richard gripped de Vere’s knee under the table. “My sweet man, We could never let anything bad happen to you, yet your enemies in court have rallied during Our absence. There is even a rumor being spread that you died of some foul disease already. We are told that a plot is in the making to have you assassinated on the journey home. You must stay here with members of Our most trusted Cheshire guard.”

De Vere turned away from Richard, drained his goblet, and refilled it. When he turned back to Richard, his eyes had grown moist. “What shall I do here without you?”

“You must help young Mortimer. While We are appointing him as lord lieutenant for Ireland, he is in truth too inexperienced. You must advise him, teach him how to handle such as these.” Richard inclined his head toward the Irish lords, who had broken into some kind of song.

“If I must stay here, why are you not making me lord lieutenant?” De Vere drained another goblet.

Richard slid his hand along de Vere’s thigh. “Because We will be bringing you back to Us soon, as soon as We have ferreted out and dealt with those that would do you harm.”

“As Your Royal Majesty commands.” De Vere drummed his fingers on the table. “What of the Sidhe? They expect you to turn over Ireland to them. Kellach is already furious with you for not killing Art and the others. Yesterday he took his Sidhe followers and disappeared. God only knows what he is up to.”

“So We were informed. It will not matter. The legate has sent word that the Vatican is providing a replacement for their wayward marshal, someone of higher rank. The Sidhe are the Vatican’s responsibility now, not Ours.”

“Well and good, but he’d better arrive soon to protect Your Royal Person, and mine, from the sorcery of these creatures.”

A platter stacked with roast pigeons crashed from the hands of a page, sparking a fight with the drunken squire who had tripped him. Several Celts, whose station did not merit a seat on the dais, threw food in appreciation of the brawl.

“How long do we need to stay?” asked de Vere.

“Until We see which of the Irish chiefs passes out first. Make a wager with Us.”

. . . . .

Twilight was settling over Dublin quay. A dozen Viking guards huddled around a glowing brazier at one end, anxiously talking among themselves while watching the Fomorians at the other end tear apart the body of a Celtic prisoner, the nightly offering. Their snarling came to a sudden stop. Still and quiet, the Fomorians looked toward the sea. One barked a command. Although unintelligible to the Vikings, it carried a clear tone of fear, and the creatures slipped into the water, leaving much of their victim behind. A ship’s bell sounded.

The Vikings took up their shields and spread out along the quay, though not too close to the bloody pile of flesh and bone. A war galley emerged from the gloom, its rowers straining in their stations. The Vatican flag flew from the ship’s mast, its linen sail furled and its prow dominated by the figurehead of an angel holding a flaming sword. Bolted to each side of the bow was a large medallion on which the initials VRS glowed with an unnatural light. In the forecastle stood black-robed and -hooded figures. The Viking closest to the entrance of the quay shouted, “Treat them as royalty if you wish to keep your newly won soul!” Then he sprinted toward Dublin Castle.