Filling the tankard again, Montmorency continued quietly, ‘I fully understand your frustration, Lord King. You have the ambition and decisiveness befitting your great position. Not matched by others in your family, I might add. But such a course of action would not be advised. It would be highly dangerous for you and a great loss to Ireland should its greatest king come to a sorry end.’ He paused, watching MacMurrough, constantly amused at how this pitiful creature was so susceptible to flattery. He went on, ‘It’s not a risk we should take. However, I fully agree that you should return, and to do so, I might just have a suggestion.’ He waited patiently for whatever trivial thoughts occupied MacMurrough to dissipate.
He had learned to despise MacMurrough; however, he had also learned that he was easily manipulated. If he returned alone, he would most likely be quickly apprehended, and God only knew what would happen then. He would be lucky to get away with his life, but certainly with his sight. The Irish had a barbaric practice of blinding their captives before releasing them to burden their families. They had a primitive belief that the fertility of their soil and health of their livestock were inextricably intertwined with that of their king. Physical impairment precluded a man from being king: lose an eye in battle, and the other will not see a throne again.
Montmorency knew that Strongbow could not send any of his followers without the king’s permission. He alone, amongst Strongbow's men, had that permission, as did any other knight he could recruit to his cause. The king had granted him this when he placed him in Strongbow’s court. However, this plan to return to Ireland now was fraught with danger; he would not take such risks. But MacMurrough would need some protection if there was to be any chance of him surviving unscathed, and there was nothing to prevent some impulsive young fool acting of his own accord.
Montmorency also knew that in returning, MacMurrough would certainly imperil his captive son, Eanna. But male heirs to the king of Leinster were an inconvenience as far as he was concerned. Any scheme that might rid the world of their presence was to be welcomed. And if MacMurrough returned with enough protection that he didn’t get himself killed—not just yet, anyway—Montmorency thought he might just be able to put Diarmuit’s other sons in harm’s way in the process, just for good measure. So his scheme had its benefits. MacMurrough himself just had to survive long enough to marry his daughter to Strongbow. He had a plan.
‘You will need a guard to ensure your safety. I assume Donal will accompany you, and could I also suggest you bring your youngest son, Conor,’ he said.
MacMurrough nodded. He would bring him. It would be important to show confidence to the tribes if he was to gather their support. Bringing both Donal and Conor back made clear his confidence in regaining his kingdom; no potential heir would be hidden in a foreign land to preserve their bloodline should they fail. It spoke of his will and determination.
‘Very wise, Lord King. In addition, his presence might encourage others to accompany you. Someone who could provide adequate protection for you in your endeavours.’
‘Go on, I’m listening,’ MacMurrough said, more thoughtful now.
As Sir Hervey replenished MacMurrough’s tankard, he continued, ‘I think we can create the conditions where some eager knight is keen to accompany you. And with that end in mind, with your permission, Lord King, I’ve asked the Princess Aoife and Sir Myler FitzHenry to join us later.’
Looking at him long and suspiciously with his sunken, dark eyes, MacMurrough scowled. ‘What is this plan of yours, Montmorency?’
‘Well, m’lord, before we get to that, I think you’d agree that in all my endeavours, I always have your best interests first and foremost in my thoughts.’ He paused while Diarmuit wiped the ale from his beard on his tunic sleeve. ‘As a great warrior king, I am only surprised by the modesty of your ambitions. Why limit yourself to Leinster when by right, the lordship of Ireland is your entitlement . . . and if I might say so, your destiny.’ Montmorency almost laughed as he saw the lavish praise do its work on MacMurrough, who sat nodding and mumbling into his tankard. ‘I am sure I can be of significant service to you in your just quest.’
MacMurrough stirred from his reverie of imagining himself on the throne of Ireland as ard rí, high king—O’Connor vanquished, O’Rourke dead. He turned on Montmorency and laughed, shaking his head.
‘You? And what do you have to offer? You’re useless in battle, so I hear. You’ve no army I can use. You talk a lot. What use is a man like you to me?’ he spat, draining his ale, waving his hand dismissively.
Undeterred, as he had expected this from the brute, Montmorency smiled. ‘Lord King. All great men of destiny require good and loyal counsel.’ He went on. ‘In particular, they need men knowledgeable in the affairs of their allies, who can look after their interests and keep them informed of matters which might otherwise escape their attention.’ He scrutinised Diarmuit to make sure he understood what he was suggesting. Satisfied that he did, he continued, ‘Working together, I can ensure you are kept fully informed. In addition, as Strongbow’s uncle, I do have some considerable influence, which could, in the right circumstances, be used to your benefit.’ He had gone far enough now. If word of this reached Strongbow, he would at best lose his position in the campaign, along with the spoils and wealth to be had should they be successful. Montmorency needed this.
His long career in the service of the king in France had not yielded him any great fortune. Landless and of no means, he had crossed the sea to enter the service of his nephew, Strongbow, having won the confidence of King Henry. Word of MacMurrough’s pleading to the king and the spoils he promised had also reached Montmorency. Having no followers or reputation for military prowess, he had learned to use his guile and tongue in the courts of great men. Myler suspected the king had granted him permission to go on the understanding that he would be his eyes and ears in Strogbow’s court.
MacMurrough stared moodily at him. Eventually, brushing his long, dank hair from his face, he said, ‘I see, Sir Hervey. You will be my spy in this camp.’
Montmorency winced at this, but at least the man was not entirely a fool. He understood what he was offering. ‘Well, I wouldn’t entirely agree with your choice of words. But be that as it may, you must understand that things are not entirely as they seem here.’
‘What do you mean?’ MacMurrough asked, interested now.
‘Well, one must be ever cautious about the motives of one’s friends. This damn family, the Geraldines, have won the trust of Strongbow for now. But I, for one, am more than suspicious. They are far too many here, and I suspect that as soon as it suits their purposes, Strongbow’s interests will be abandoned. You’ll understand, Lord King, that this will put you in a perilous position, with their armies roaming your kingdom at will.’
Intrigued but worried by what he’d heard, MacMurrough rose and paced the room agitatedly.
Watching him, Montmorency went on to describe the power of the Geraldines and how their tentacles stretched deep into the court of King Henry. Their armies were feared by friends and enemies alike. They were an ambitious Norman dynasty without a land to claim as their own, and that should make any king very wary of their offers of help.
‘So you see, Lord King, we must all be wary of the Geraldines. However, working together, looking after each other’s interests, I’m confident we can overcome any threat they might pose and make use of them for as long as is necessary.’
‘And what’s in it for you, Sir Hervey? Why should I trust you?’ MacMurrough asked.
‘Indeed. Lord King, I am at the stage in life when I would benefit greatly from the wealth and security that good land affords. I understand there are vast tracts of such land in the southeast of your kingdom. In return for my services, you could grant me four cantreds. It would be a mere trifle to you,’ he suggested.
‘Four!’ Diarmuit objected. ‘Four hundred thousand acres! Your spying would not be worth that. I might pay a price of two cantreds to the man who arrives with an army on my shore. But not for mere spying.’ He gestured dismissively.
Sir Hervey gave this some thought and then added quietly, ‘Agreed. I’ll take that. If I arrive with that army when you summon it, you will guarantee to me the grant of two cantreds. I think your offer is reasonable. So is that agreed, Lord King?’ He offered Diarmuit his hand.
After some hesitation from MacMurrough, who feared trickery, Montmorency allayed his fears, and it was agreed. The two men gave their bond on the terms of the agreement, which were to remain known only to them.
Montmorency was pleased with the outcome. He would have accepted one cantred or less. Two hundred thousand acres would provide richly for his needs.
Drawing closer to the fire as the light faded, they discussed their plans. Montmorency drank the French wine of his own country, while MacMurrough drew heavily from the jug of ale. And while MacMurrough dreamed of his return and sweet revenge, Montmorency filled his head with the ambition of the high kingship of Ireland. He could see this toxic mix of greed, ambition and revenge for outrages suffered bubbling to a dangerous broth of conceited invincibility in MacMurrough. Sir Hervey would just have to make sure that the inevitable catastrophe which follows such hubris would be confined to MacMurrough and his family—an outcome that was eminently possible with such an imbecile.
That was how I found them—ensconced by the fire, deep in conversation which fell silent when we entered. My father’s rooms were separate from those of the rest of the family, in a high tower in the southeast corner of the lower bailey. Treated as an honoured guest at the request of King Henry, Strongbow—forever trying to please the king—had made these privileged quarters available to my father. The thick walls and easterly facing orientation held the coolness, and the fires remained lit on the summer evenings to lighten the chill. Removed from the rest of the family, he often spent his evenings with Montmorency, who without doubt poured poison into his ears, inflating his fragile pride. That would not be difficult, and his sneering disdain told me as much when I unavoidably passed him while going about my business. I feared the ill-advised schemes he would concoct to tempt my father.
‘Ah, here they are, together again,’ Sir Hervey pointedly greeted Myler and me as we entered the dimly lit chamber, the last of the evening light lessening the gloom before the candles were lit.
‘Thank you for coming. Your father and I wanted to discuss his frustration at the delay in returning to Ireland.’ He rose and moved to arrange a chair for me, offering us some wine or refreshments.
‘No, thank you.’
My father remained slumped in his chair, the toll of the ale telling in his manner, as was often the case more recently.
‘Father,’ I acknowledged him and was rewarded with a grunt of sorts. I continued, ‘What is it you would like to discuss with us, Sir Hervey?’
‘Straight to the matter in hand. Excellent!’ He smiled, ignoring my hostility. ‘Your father, in his wisdom, has kept a close eye on affairs as they have been developing in Ireland recently. The treacherous dogs, O’Connor and O’Rourke, are completely embroiled in a turmoil of their own making in the north of the country, Ulster. He believes they are fully occupied and seriously weakened by events. Consequently, and I have to say I think this is most perceptive of your father, he believes there is an opportunity to profit from their disadvantage.’ I could feel a chilling fear rising in my chest, squeezing the breath from my lungs. Sir Hervey read my thoughts, writ large in the pale mask that drove the colour from my cheeks. Savouring it momentarily, he continued.
‘So he has decided to act decisively and return to Ireland immediately. He will slip quietly into Glascarrig and proceed quickly to Ferns to gather the support of your people.’ he said and sneered, relishing the impact of his words.
So this was it, the same stupid plan, except with no army this time. ‘No!’ I said. ‘You cannot . . . What about Eanna? You know they could kill him unless we return in force. That’s the only way they’ll negotiate—if they are afraid of us.’ I regarded my father coldly, standing over his slumped figure. There was still some shame in the man, but it hadn’t stopped him before.
He scowled into his tankard. ‘I’m going,’ he yelled, spitting ale through his thick black beard. ‘And that’s the end of it.’
