DAHLQUIN, Continued

Lord Hubert, Sir Reginald, the seneschal and several Dahlquin knights spent the afternoon in conference with the six guests. They were Sir Davydd and his brother Sir Byron, who shared the same flaming red hair, with bushy eyebrows that bobbed dramatically when they spoke. Cousins Sir Ioan and Sir Ryan, and Ryan’s half brother, Sir Arnolf. One overworked squire was shared between them all. The six guests, Hubert and Reginald sat around a small table. The seneschal and remaining knights stood near Hubert. Pitchers of wine were available plus some good well water.

“Tell us more of this army,” Reginald asked, sitting back in his chair.

“They mean to take revenge on Meath,” Davydd said. “Young Timothy O’Neill got his nose out of joint!” he laughed.

“And the O’Neills, does Lord Magnus stand behind Timo? I mean Timothy,” Reginald asked. The O’Neill’s still considered themselves the monarchy of all Ireland, claimed it was their ancestral right, High Kings of Ancient Tara. But young Timothy was one of many landless younger sons of the O’Neills. And out of favor.

“How was he offended?”

“The usual,” Davydd snickered, “Horses, whores and honor.” His friends laughed as well, but the Dahlquin men remained silent. “He seeks redress,” Davydd shrugged, “is all I know.”

“Seems extreme,” Reginald commented, “to seek out the Danes and Norse Hebrides. “It is an army large enough to threaten the peace.”

“Expensive, too. Timothy O’Neill has naught the resources,” the seneschal added. Nor was Dahlquin the most direct route to Meath in central Ireland.

“Not for revenge. Reeks of war,” Reginald said. “Does King Henry III know? Is England behind this?”

“Nay, Timothy acts alone, for revenge on Meath, no more,” Byron said as jovially as possible.

“Good Sirs, Lord Dahlquin,” Ioan offered, refilling his cup with wine, “we have told you all we know. It is an army of some magnitude. But we are not aligned with the O’Neill’s nor Timothy.”

“Kill not the messengers. We only bring you news of what we saw. Surely the six of us were naught in command to interrogate ‘Tim’o’neill’! We spoke with them only briefly,” Davydd added.

“Send your own enquiry, lord,” said Byron, revealing some agitation.

“Aye, bears watching, doesn’t it?” Ioan added.

Hubert nodded. He had been content to let his men ask the questions. Impassively he watched the six strangers before him with cold, deep-set blue eyes. Graying brown hair receded well behind his head, not unlike a tonsure. Years of hard combat showed on his face and in his lined expression. Still he sat tall and firm and confident. No one would doubt he was still a man of action.

“Who are you aligned with?” Reginald asked pointedly. “Who is your liege lord, then?” Valuable information, most armed men were funded by a lord or baron, thus did they owe him their allegiance in all things. This was the core of their society. Sworn fealty to one’s lord or the patriarch of the family unit.

“We are knights-errant, sir. It is our plan to travel the length and breadth of all Ireland. There are many good works to be done, and in so doing, we might yet find our place and pledge ourselves.”

“I am from Wales, sirs, and would seek new opportunities,” Arnolf claimed. “My lord, William de Braose crossed King John, his men were ‘excused’. Not wishing to die, I left.”

The Dahlquin men shrugged. Ireland had no love of England, and they were too familiar with that sad tale of years past. William de Braose had told all that England’s King John strangled his own nephew, Arthur of Brittany. John in turn left William’s wife to starve to death in prison and confiscated all de Braose’s lands. The vassals were dispersed.

“My condolences,” Hubert said, thinking the man would have been a mere child then.

“Lord Dahlquin, your forebears hail from Wales, eh?” Arnolf said. “Ireland has been good to the Welsh and English alike, we have much to offer each other,” and he held up his cup in tribute.

“Sir Davydd, here, is leaning towards the monastic life,” Ioan said with a shove and wink. Not unusual, many landless sons sought a career within the church; daughters too.

“I may feel the calling, now and again,” Davydd conceded, nodding his red head thoughtfully.

Knights-errant, bah. Hubert had little regard for the renegade nobility who would not or could not make the pledge to one liege. They were dangerous, unpredictable. In some circumstances it did happen, as with de Braose’s vassals.

Hubert’s men exhausted the possibilities, gaining as much information as the travelers were able to divulge. The knights were happy to oblige.

“Let us send word to Ashbury,” Hubert concluded. “Our allies should be forewarned as well. An army the size of which you speak will be a plague upon the countryside.”

The guests exchanged subtle glances, but Hubert detected little. Ashbury was southwest of Dahlquin. These men had come in from the north, was Ashbury their next stop? Then the dreaded Scragmuir’s further southeast? There was plenty of time to warn these six strangers of the devious Scragmuirs.

“The Norsemen will eat dirt for lack of anything better,” said one of the Dahlquin knights. The Hebrides islands were known for a harsh environment. The men laughed as they left the conference.

“Let us clean and rest before dinner!” Hubert said grandly as he rose ushering the men out.