Galloglass Book One the Templar Read online

  Galloglass

  Book One

  The Templar

  Seamus O'Griffin

  2/21/2013

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2013 Seamus O'Griffin

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Prologue

  The Monastery of Bangor/ Ireland/ Winter, 1328

  My name is Ronan MacAlasdair. I am a Galloglass, a professional soldier and member of Clan Donald. In my youth, I had the honor of being a Brother of the Knights Templar. I served in Outremer, fought the Mamluk and survived the fall of the fortress cities of Tripoli and Acre. Later, I witnessed the destruction of my Order on that ill-fated thirteenth day of October, in the Year of Our Lord 1307 and through God's Grace, I was redeemed. I returned to the isles of my youth and sold my sword to clan chief and king. In time, I became the champion of my uncle, Angus Og MacDonald, Lord of the Isles and Chief of Clan Donald. I rode with him and DeBruce in the War for Independence, and I took my stand with the men of the Isles at Bannockburn. There, I had the great pleasure of participating in the defeat of Edward II and the destruction of his Sasanach army. For the next twenty years, I held my position against all who were foolish enough to stand against me. I have been brought here to Bangor in my sixtieth year at the insistence of my wife. She is my third. Aoife is a handsome woman, though past her child bearing years, and I must confess, I can refuse her nothing. As my time on this earth seems to be nearing its end, I have consented to her willfulness.

  I have been plagued with both cough and ague these past several months to the point where I can no longer rise from my bed. The Abbot himself has performed the rites of Extreme Unction, and even now I can smell the oil with which he anointed me. As penance, I have agreed to tell the story of my life to the fine brothers who now hover at my side, quill and parchment in hand, like so many crows, eager to feed on the carcass of my soul. Thus I will expose my most grievous sins and be cleansed in the sight of God. The Abbot says it must be done for the good of my soul.

  I have known the Abbot for much of my life, and I know how he loves a good tale, especially when that tale is chased by uisce beatha, whiskey. Besides, the uisce beatha that is made here at Bangor is outstanding and just the thing to keep these old bones warm. My friend, the Abbot, has always been a warrior at heart and so I shall oblige Cathal his tale. Forgive me if I do not reel off a list of murders and debauches. This is not simply a confession but a journey throughout the years of my life. I make no excuses. Along the way I lost my faith and everything I held sacred, yet somehow I survived. Cathal has often accused me of being too stubborn to die. Perhaps that is so. I made my peace with God long ago and was rewarded with wealth, power, loyal friends, and several fine women. What more can a man ask from life?

  I was born on the wrong side of the blanket in the Year of Our Lord 1268 on the Isle of Islay, the first child of Alasdair MacAngus, son of Angus MacDonald better known as Angus Mor, Lord of the Isles and Chief of Clan Donald. My mother was Fionna MacGuaire, daughter of Eoin MacGuaire, Chief of Clan Guaire and Lord of Ulva. My mother had been brought to Finlaggan, the village that served as the seat of Angus Mor's power on Islay, as a ward of Angus Mor, to ensure the loyalty of her father and their clan. My father's seduction of my mother caused my grandfather, Angus Mor, no small amount of discomfort, not to mention gold. Fortunately, he managed to marry my mother off to one of the many sons of the King of Connaught and in so doing, appeased the honor of one of his more unruly clan chiefs and secured alliances in Eire and the Inner Hebrides to boot. Bastard though I was, I was considered a MacDonald, and so I stayed on Islay with my father to be raised in my grandfather's hall. From the first moment my father held me and I pissed on his chest, ours was a stormy and oft times violent relationship. I wish I could say better of him, but he was a miserable bastard who ended his days in humiliation and shame as was both his fate and his due.

  My childhood on Islay was one of privileged neglect and not much different from that of my many cousins and uncles. My father ignored me for the most part. He was young, still in his teens when I was born, and he had little time for me. I suppose I was a constant visual reminder of his youthful indiscretion, something that my grandfather was want to remind him at every opportunity. I did not understand that and so in time, we grew to hate the very sight of each other. My grandfather, however, loved me as he loved all his children and grandchildren, and he treated me no differently. I was simply one more in a pack of hounds and children that boiled throughout the hall and village of Finlaggan, fighting and playing in a thunderstorm of noise and confusion. I did not lack for food or clothing. My education was not neglected, though our priest said I was an indifferent student. My training in the arts of war was befitting that of a warrior prince. As my father's bastard, I always understood that there would be no inheritance for me. Anything that I would have would be earned. I grew hard and strong and astonishingly lethal. In my fourteenth year, I killed my first man in a raid on the MacDougal's of Lorne. By my sixteenth year, I was larger than most of my grandfather's men. I was proud and arrogant and full of myself, confident in my ability to use sword and dirk and absolutely sure of my father's disdain. So it is here that my story truly begins, in the spring of my sixteenth year.

  On a fine May afternoon I found myself, along with my father's retinue, watching the waters of Loch Indaal from the high dunes that overlooked the beach where galleys put in to trade with Islay. Islay is beautiful at that time of year. The island is green from the winter rains, and the sun is just beginning to warm so that the dampness that pervades everything on the island is pushed away. The galley we were waiting for, my father noted, had made good time. How he knew this, I had no idea. I was not privy to his secrets and did not care to ask him at the time.

  Later I was told that the trader came out of Bristol and quickly traversed the Irish Sea, dropping off a load of iron ingots and sheepskins at Dubh-Lynn. Soon after, the captain crossed the harbor there to the settlement of Clontarf on the opposite shore and picked up a lone passenger. Wasting no time, the captain then plowed his way north, hugging the coast and making the crossing to Islay in less than two days. The winds had been fair, the seas calm, and the voyage mercifully uneventful. It was the Year of Our Lord 1285, and Eire and the Kingdom of the Outer Isles were at peace, though everyone knew, as with all things in those two lands, peace was in the hands of a strong arm and a keen blade and could be a fleeting thing. The galley beached itself along the gravel shore of Lock Indaal late that afternoon while its lone passenger stood, stretched, and then made his way to mid ship where he picked up his gear from one of the crew and prepared to disembark. I was my father's bannerman, a position with which he grudgingly rewa
rded me a month before, after I killed a McLeod clan chief in another of our endless raids along the shore of Alba. From the shelter of our high dune, my father's companions and I watched the man speak briefly with the captain before leaping nimbly over the side and trudging up the beach.

  I was not impressed, though my opinion of the Sasanach would change soon enough. The man was grey haired and of middling height. By his movements I could tell he was not old. In fact, his motions were deft and economical, yet at the time, I was too young to recognize and appreciate the stride and bearing of a true warrior. As he came closer, I noted his skin was burned dark by years of wind and sun. More importantly, I noted his arms. White linen, with a red cross embroidered on the left breast, covered an expensive mail hauberk. His legs were encased in mail chausses. His coif was open and hung behind his neck. About his waist, on his left, was belted a fine sword and in his hand he held a spear such as that borne by men-at-arms. He toted a pack and strung to his back was a shield bearing the distinctive black and white device of the Temple. I saw no helm, though I was sure it was somewhere in his pack. It was obvious he was ready for anything, though not overtly seeking trouble.

  My father motioned me forward, and we walked our horses down the track from the dunes followed by the rest of his men. We were all mounted, heavily armed, and dressed in leather and mail. When the warrior saw us, he stopped and casually grounded his spear.

  Alasdair MacAngus, my father, was a big man. Dark haired, fair skinned, with the broad shoulders and thick wrists of a warrior prince. Handsome in his way, he was educated and intelligent with an affinity for gold and fine clothes. On this day, the gold broach fixed to his cloak would have fed one of our poor villages for a year. Alasdair's eyes were blue, yet they were so dark they were often mistaken for black. When he studied a man, it was with the look of a hawk sizing up his prey.

  We halted a few yards from the warrior and spread out so that we formed a semi-circle. Alasdair slowly walked his horse forward and took the measure of the man before him. After noting the red cross on the stranger's breast, he asked in fair Latin, "Ave frater, quomodo possum adiuvare vos? Hail brother, how can I help you?"

  Surprised that my father spoke Latin, the man responded in the same language. "I am Brother Himbert. I have been sent by the Temple to speak with Angus Mor, Lord of the Isles."

  Alasdair nodded and again answered in Latin. "Ego Alasdair Mor Mac Angus. An intelligitis?"

  "You are the son of Angus Mor," responded the monk.

  For the first time, my father smiled. Switching to Gaelic, he said, "I believe he understands." He turned to one of the warriors beside me and said, "Liam, leave your horse for the monk. I'll send Gaynor back with a replacement once we get to Finlaggen."

  The clansman slid off his mount at once and handed the reins to Brother Himbert. My father inclined his head toward his guest and switched back to Latin. "Take the horse, brother. You are in luck. Angus is sitting in court this very moment on Eilean Mor. I was told he would speak with you as well."

  The monk's eyes widened in surprise, "You were expecting me?"

  "I think you will find that nothing that concerns these northern waters goes unnoticed or unreported. We know much of the goings on in both Eire and Alba, even as far as Sasana, what you call England."

  Himbert smiled and tucked that knowledge away for the future, like a starving man hoards bread. "So then you know the answer to my questions?"

  My father threw back his head and laughed. "I would be rich as a Genovese merchant if I knew my father's thoughts ahead of time. Sadly brother, prophecy is not one of my talents. You will first have to ride with us to Finlaggan to find your answers."

  Himbert shrugged and then strapped his gear to his horse's saddle. In moments he was mounted and we were on our way. We rode most of the journey in silence. The monk took in the wild beauty of Islay as one who had seen such things and more. He asked few questions of my father, yet his eyes never stopped moving. We wound our way northeast and skirted the cobalt blue loch where Angus Mor had his capital. The track we followed meandered through stone houses nestled close to the loch, eventually coming to the stone causeway that led to the island of Eilean Mor. The island was once a crannog of the ancient ones and was still used by the Lord of the Isles. Sitting several hundred yards out in Loch Indaal, the island was approachable only by means of the causeway.

  A crowd of villagers had gathered as word of our coming spread. I doubt any had ever seen a Templar knight before that day, so our guest was an object of curiosity and much speculation. We pushed our horses through and mounted the stone causeway that brought us to the gates of Eilean Mor. A fortress guarded the end of the causeway that led to my grandfather's hall. Thick, steep banked, earthen ramparts topped by a heavy wooden palisade made any attack on the island a virtual impossibility unless the attacker possessed siege equipment. We paused a moment in front of the gates while our presence was announced and then we were waved through. I remember the wind had picked up, bringing with it the smell of rain, and I was glad to be home as I had not thought to bring my cloak.

  The fortress on Eilean Mor is not large, and it is necessary to ride through it to get to the village that unfolds behind it. It is there that my grandfather had his hall and held court for the Kingdom of the Isles. The hall itself was well built and still stands today. Made of stone, it has two fireplaces and a slate roof. I watched the Templar's eyes widen in surprise when he viewed it. Later he told me he was not expecting to find such wealth in a land he considered to be occupied by savages. His opinion of us would change dramatically upon meeting my grandfather.

  We dismounted before the hall. Grooms came and took our horses while the rest of my father's men left for their homes or the small barracks nearby. My father ushered his guest inside and I followed. My father scowled at me but did not order me away. Not that I would have listened.

  My grandfather's hall was spacious. The walls had been white washed and were covered with tapestries and battle trophies. On both ends, massive fireplaces covered much of the wall. Yet more impressive than the fireplaces was the roof. Covered in slate rather than the usual thatch, it was a statement of my grandfather's wealth and sophistication. The Templar was escorted to a raised dais to the right of the fireplace. Before him, seated in a large oak chair, looking much like a throne, sat my grandfather, Angus Mor, Lord of the Isles.

  Angus was also a big man, bigger in fact than my father, thick, with corded ropes of muscle that stood out like cables with the smallest of movements. Though he was in his fifties, he was formidable and physically impressive. His iron grey hair was long, like that of his men, and pulled back in a queue. Bearded, with a face burnt dark from wind and sun and piercing, deep set, blue eyes that could command silence with a mere look, Angus was regal without trying to be so. That day he was dressed in an embroidered, saffron tunic the Gaels of Eire and Alba called a leine. He was surrounded by his hounds, sons, and close advisors and completely at ease. As was his habit, he was also direct and to the point. Without waiting for any introductions, he asked, "Dic frater, quid quaeritis in regione Templi MacDonald? Tell me Brother, what does the Temple seek in the land of the MacDonald?"

  Brother Himbert inclined his head and bowed slightly in a show of respect. Sensing a need to be just as direct, the monk replied, "We seek safe passage for our ships, lord, and access to trade in your northern ports."

  My grandfather grinned and then asked rather pointedly, "Tell me Brother, what do we, the MacDonald, receive in return?"

  "Simply put," answered the Templar, "access to the world. Trade with us and we can put you in touch with markets of which you have only dreamed. Your wool, your cloth, your timber, shipped to any port on the continent. We can bring you trade from France, Germany, Spain, Italy, Cyprus, Outremer and beyond. If need be, lines of credit, especially to those who are our friends."

  Angus paused a moment and stroked his beard, his eyes bright with thought. "How is it, Brother, that the Temple
avoids the Church's ban on usury?"

  The Templar shrugged. "We have a Papal dispensation that allows us to raise money for our war against the Saracen. That war is exceedingly costly and the means by which we fund it are, how should I say, many and varied."

  "Indeed," mused Angus Mor. He turned slightly and leaned to his left as my father spoke quietly in his ear. He nodded and then turned back to the Templar. "My son Alasdair, whom you have already met, would like to know why the Temple would choose to be so generous, especially now? Why not approach Alexander of Lorne? The MacDougall have galleys aplenty."

  I watched Himbert as he paused a moment and gathered his thoughts. Choosing his words carefully, he replied, "The English king, Edward of Carnarvon, now holds Wales with an iron fist. Make no mistake, in time he will turn his attention north. We would rather you trade through us than through him. Edward's talk of Crusade is just that, talk. He does it to placate the Pope. Meanwhile, he borrows heavily from us to finance his own petty wars. The Temple's business, however, is Crusading. Our holdings in Outremer must be constantly refitted and equipped. To do this, trade is essential. As far as the Temple is concerned, it finds Alexander of Lorne, like his benefactor Edward, less than trustworthy. Besides, my lord, you are strategically in a better position to dominate the western seas with your galleys."

  Angus barked a hard laugh. "The Temple is well informed, and you, Brother, are being diplomatic. The MacDougall's are a treacherous lot, and Alexander of Lorne is a murderous bastard who I would like to gut and feed to the pigs." My grandfather paused a moment to scratch his chin. "I believe your offer to be a fair one. Yet, I would think on it. Join us and enjoy our hospitality here on Eilean Mor. I will not keep you waiting long for your answer."

  Brother Himbert bowed and said, "I am at your pleasure, my lord."

  "In the meantime, my son Alasdair will accompany you, provide for your needs, and answer any questions you might have."