The Queen's Tale: The Struggle for the Survival of Ireland

By DJ Birmingham

The struggle for the survival of Ireland in the 14th Century

An Irish friar scribes the tale of an ancient Irish Queen whose tormented soul is imprisoned in a second century Gaelic brooch, The Golden Harp. The demonic destruction spread by the evil queens spirit will lead to the death of one of every three individuals in Ireland in the early 14th Century. The Queens Tale chronicles the journey of the brooch as it travels from Ireland into England, then to Scotland, and back again into Ireland, leaving a trail of death and destruction. Two individuals vie for the right to possess the brooch believing it to be a sacred relic of St. Patricks that will protect the one who wears it from all danger.

John de Bermingham, the second son of an Irish baron, is first to wear the brooch. He is obsessed with winning an earldom and becoming the English kings justiciar of Ireland. Despite being betrothed to one of the earl of Ulsters daughters, he rescues and falls in love with an Irish princess, deemed unsuitable. Three times he will regain possession of the brooch. Only a sacred rosary given to him by a mysterious Italian Franciscan friar protects his life. Unknown to John, he can defeat the ancient evil in the brooch if he is able to pass four preordained tests in his journey of life. The first is a test of devotion, where he bestows the brooch to an unattainable love. The second is a test of obedience, where he must give up the brooch to a weak king. For the third test he must decline to become a king. In the fourth and final test, he of Anglo-Norman heritage must become more Irish than the native Irish, and unselfishly give up his life for the undeserving king.

The second to control possession of the brooch is Edward II, King of England. He is weak and easily manipulated by false friends, seeking only wealth and power. He would rather thatch and dig ditches than be king. Married to Isabella of France, he prefers the couch of his male lovers to her. He gives the brooch to three of his favorites, who die violently. He leads England into civil war and the loss of Scotland. Only after being imprisoned, by his queen and her lover, and forced to abdicate, does he grasp and repent his folly.

After defeating the English at the battle of Bannockburn, the Scottish King, Robert the Bruce, gives permission to his younger brother, Edward, to invade and conquer Ireland. Edward Bruce leads his army of seasoned Scots into Ireland wearing the Golden Harp Brooch. He had taken it from the slain body of Edward IIs favorite nephew at Bannockburn. After three years of Bruces terror and defeat of defending armies, John de Bermingham steps forward to lead the Anglo-Norman militias of Ireland into the final battle against the never defeated Bruce, whom the native Irish had crowned High King of all Ireland.

The historical novel is based on actual historical events and individuals Only the motivations and inner feelings of the main characters are based on the authors imagination. Of the twenty-four characters in the novel, only four are fictional.

The opening sequence of the novel starts with a monologue given by the novels narrator, an Irish Dominican monk from Athenry, County Galway.

Grey Friars Church, London - 1528 A.D.

An Irish Friar speaks..

Have I gone mad? For the past two days I, Seamus Cassidy, a lowly Dominican priest, have been conversing non-stop in Gaelic with the devil. I am upset and fearful as to why this evil spirit from the depths of hell has chosen to disclose to me an incredible tale which reveals some of the darkest secrets of the fourteenth century.

Was the King of England brutally murdered in 1327? Or did the much maligned Edward II escape his intended murders, flee into Ireland, and then later live hidden for the rest of his natural life in Italy? I now possess all the knowledge I need to know to lay

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 26, 2007
• ISBN: 9781469101392

DJ Birmingham

D J Birmingham’s historical novel is the result of 30 years of research into the violent history of Medieval Ireland. A retired Computer Executive, he now Resides in San Diego, CA with his wife, Barbara. The Queen’s Tale is the first of four planned Irish historical novels

Book preview

Grey Friars Church, London—1528 A.D.

An Irish Monk speaks . . . .

"Have I gone mad? For the past two days I, Seamus Cassidy, a lowly Dominican priest, have been conversing non-stop in Gaelic with the devil. I am upset and fearful as to why this evil spirit from the depths of hell has chosen to disclose to me an incredible tale which reveals some of the darkest secrets of the fourteenth century.

Was the King of England brutally murdered in 1327? Or did the much maligned Edward II escape his intended murders, flee into Ireland, and then later live hidden for the rest of his natural life in Italy? I now possess all the knowledge I need to know to lay this shocking scandal to rest for now and for all time. But I doubt if any sane person will believe what I have learned or who it was that imparted to me such powerful insight into the turbulent history of Ireland and England.

So why did this queen from the darkest recesses of hell reveal her extraordinary tale to me? At first I thought she was only trying to brag about her sins. Next, I guessed she was merely attempting to tell me her life story. But now after more reflection, I now understand that what she was after was my forgiveness and understanding. She argued that her soul had been unjustly condemned, and that only by revealing her story to a man of God would she receive redemption.

I am fearful and confused. This damned exorcism has gone awry.

My journey into insanity began a month ago when strange cries were heard emanating from the grave of the English Queen Isabella. It was she, the she-wolf of France, whom everyone believed instigated the murder of her husband, King Edward II. I am positive that because of her many grievous sins—including murder and blatant adultery—she was consigned to the fires of hell when she died one hundred and seventy years ago. When the wailing from her grave became more persistent, the monks here at Grey Friars became fearful and refused to perform their daily devotions. I was brought in from Ireland to perform the exorcism after the shrieking was confirmed to be in my native tongue.

When Isabella’s tomb was opened, a noxious smell assaulted me. It came direct from her decaying body. By now the queen’s corpse should have been all dried up, but it bubbled with an offensive liquid that smelled much like rotten eggs. Most of her body was decomposed, but her upper torso appeared to be undefiled, almost life like.

As I gaped at the partially decomposed remains, my gaze was drawn to a large Celtic brooch that rested on her right shoulder. Untarnished, it gave out an eerie glow from its jewels. At its center was the image of an Irish harp, the symbol of the Ireland’s long-dead royalty.

To my amazement I soon became aware that the evil spirit was not the tortured soul of Isabella! This demon turned out to be a long dead queen of Ireland whose spirit was imprisoned in the brooch. I cried out to St. Dominic and all the saints in heaven to give me strength and guidance!

I watched in awe as the image of a satanic figure materialized from the brooch. She greeted me with an ancient Irish blessing and invited me to hear her story.

Bathed in fear and at the point of panic, I doused the brooch with holy water and held up a crucifix to protect my soul while I recited in Latin the holy rite of exorcism. I commanded the unholy spirit to desist and leave. But she only mocked me. Some unseen force slapped at my wrist. The crucifix flew out of my hand. The harder I prayed, the more violent the struggle became.

On and off for a full week, I fought against this she devil without achieving anything. Then early yesterday in desperation, exhausted, and feeling faint from lack of food, I gave up and made a pact with this fiend after she had made me a proposition—if I would listen to her story and chronicle her life, she would desist and be quiet.

Please! Dear God! Grant unto me forgiveness, for I am only a weak old man!

For two full days, I have listened non-stop to an astonishing tale told by a dark spirit from Hades. I am a renowned historian, and have spent my last forty years studying and recording the fourteenth century history of Ireland and England. The evil that lives in this brooch has better information and insight into this period than I. Humbly I must now admit that I have become totally bewitched by my new knowledge. My soul must surely be in great jeopardy because of the new insights I have gained.

This devil of a queen told me that she and her host had been imprisoned twice. The first time was in the fourth century when the brooch was the implement of death used to kill a child queen of Leinster. She claimed both were innocent and had done nothing wrong. But the ancient druids of Ireland deemed otherwise and put a satanic curse on the brooch. In the curse, the two were joined together and confined to the darkness of the Irish underworld for over a millennium.

In the early fourteenth century they regained their freedom, but the curse of the druids that the brooch carried doomed all those who came into contact with it. This satanic queen and her evil came very close to destroying all of Ireland. She claims to have caused Edward II to forfeit his kingship, but says he deserved to lose it. She went on to tell me that her greatest sin was the long battle she waged against the Irish earl, John de Bermingham—he was the only leader who defied the curse and was instrumental in saving Ireland from total destruction. In the end this spirit of an ancient queen watched with a cold heart as the earl was murdered. She bragged that she was also active in the deaths of countless others: all the king’s male lovers, the king’s cousin, an army of over twenty thousand, a beautiful Irish princess, and the greatest harpist that Ireland had ever known along with all his students. Some were innocent, but she maintained many did deserve their deaths.

Today I sealed my fate. I am now ready to live with any and all consequences. I gave the brooch and its demon the forgiveness it requested and resealed the grave. Now, against my better judgment, I must fulfill my part of the bargain and return home to my Dominican monastery in Athenry to scribe the chronicle of the queen and the brooch’s life. I will take great pains to disguise the fact that it is an evil spirit’s story, and do not plan to reveal the identity of the queen until the end of the story.

After I have finished, I will show the manuscript to no one, least of all my Dominican superiors, for they would surely have me burned at the stake for what I am about to write. I plan to secretly place the finished document deep in the monastery’s archives and call upon God and His blessed saints in heaven to insure that it never be found and read."

Book One 150-1300 A.D.

Dominican Friary—Athenry, Ireland

The Age of Christ, 150

In the second century of our Lord, when the pagan Romans were governing all of Western Civilization except for the Emerald Isle, Tuathal the Desired was the then reigning high king of Ireland. This powerful and wise king of kings had two daughters who were proclaimed to be the most beautiful of all the maidens in the Celtic world.

Eochaidh the Red, who was Tuathal’s client king of Leinster, sent ambassadors with gifts of gold to Tara to request the hand in marriage of one of the royal princesses.

The high king was pleased with the gifts, but told Eochaidh’s envoys that only if the king of Leinster could fashion a suitable bridal gift that pleased both him and his daughters would he bestow upon the king his most desirable daughter.

For a full year, Eochaidh challenged all of the learned scholars and poets in Leinster to come up with such a unique gift. But alas, none were deemed suitable by Tuathal. Eochaidh in desperation offered a purse of gold to anyone in his kingdom that could come forward with a winning solution. The offer was proclaimed throughout the Kingdom of Leinster to both noble and serf.

A master blacksmith from a small remote village took his king’s challenge and forged a massive gold brooch greater in size than the span of a man’s hand. This humble smith was also an accomplished artisan. He crafted at the brooch’s center a harp, the royal symbol of Ireland’s High Kings. Encircling the harp, he positioned four priceless red rubies that had been pirated from the great tombs of Egypt. He christened his work of art—"The Golden Harp Brooch."

When Eochaidh first viewed the smith’s masterpiece, he was more than pleased and had it sent immediately to Tara. He instructed the royal bard who was to deliver the brooch to decree that his bridal gift would forever be a symbol of his master’s undying love for his future bride. So sure was Eochaidh of his new gift that he gave the blacksmith his purse of gold. The king then ordered that the man’s hands be amputated so that he could never again duplicate the brooch.

Tuathal was so moved with The Golden Harp Brooch that he summoned the king of Leinster to Tara and gave him the hand in marriage of his youngest daughter, Dairine.

For a full fortnight, a lavish wedding feast was celebrated throughout all of Tara. The king of Leinster proclaimed that the high king had honored him with the most beautiful princess in the entire world. Tuathal bestowed the brooch on his daughter and asked that she wear it every day of her life.

But alas, only days after Eochaidh returned to Leinster with his new bride, a neighboring king informed the old king that he had married the lesser of Tuathal’s two daughters. The king of Leinster was furious. Determined to return and demand the other princess, he ripped the brooch from his new bride’s cloak, had her thrown into a dungeon, and returned to Tara. Once there, Eochaidh fell to his knees before the high king and tearfully told him that his beautiful daughter had died of a mysterious fever. The king of Leinster pleaded for her elder sister as a replacement for his dead bride.

Grief stricken and also in tears, Tuathal without hesitation gave his eldest daughter Fithir in marriage to Eochaidh, who quickly returned to Leinster with his new bride.

A full year after the couple’s return, the disgruntled blacksmith, devastated at the loss of his hands, bribed the castle guards, allowing Dairine to escape from her confinement. She went and immediately confronted her older sister. Fithir was so overtaken by the horror and shame of what had taken place that she mysteriously fell dead. Dairine stripped The Golden Harp Brooch from her dead sister’s cloak and fled. Three days later, she was found dead lying in a field with the shaft of the brooch impaled into her left breast.

The blacksmith, looking for revenge on the king of Leinster, journeyed to Tara and revealed to Tuathal the full details of the deaths of his two daughters. The high king exploded into a violent rage at Eochaidh’s deceit. A week later, Tuathal marshaled a powerful army. He burned and ravaged the entire kingdom of Leinster. Eochaidh the Red and all but one of his many sons were slain.

Not satisfied with just killing Eochaidh, Tuathal decreed that for all eternity Leinster would have to pay him and his successors a yearly tribute. The tribute, called the "Borumha," consisted of 150 cows, 150 hogs, 150 pieces of cloth, 150 cauldrons, with two passing great cauldrons consisting of the breadth and deepness of five fists, for the high king’s own brewing. He also decreed that 150 couples of men and women in servitude were to draw water on their backs for the said brewing; together with 150 maidens, with one of the king of Leinster’s own daughters in like bondage and servitude.

The High King commanded that for all future generations the queens of Leinster were required under pain of death to wear The Golden Harp Brooch on their right shoulder. The wearing of the brooch would be a symbol to remind everyone in Ireland of the old king of Leinster’s deceitful treason.

The Age of Christ, 302

For well over a thousand moons the kings and queens of Leinster faithfully obeyed Tuathal’s decree. Then on one fateful stormy night, as flashes of forked lightning exploded and danced across Kildare’s sky, a great calamity occurred that was destined to forever change Ireland.

Bolts of fire from the lightning strikes illuminated the thick walls of the royal palace of Leinster, which stood like a proud sentinel at the crest of Fairy Hill. The gods of the heavens were proclaiming with deafening thunder after each blinding flash their anger at the deeds of the king of Leinster. Nechtan, the then reigning king, had just murdered his bride. He had used The Golden Harp Brooch as the instrument of death in slaying his child queen.

Inside the Great Hall of the royal palace, a blind man passionately strummed an ancient Irish harp. His lyrical music did little to uplift the somber mood of the court. All stood frozen like pillars of stone, not knowing what was to come next. As hard as the harpist tried, he was unable to quiet the mournful cries of a lone Irish wolfhound who stood guard over the body of his murdered mistress.

King Nechtan, eyes closed, held the murder weapon next to his heart. He stood like the angel of death at the side of his dead bride. Tears of blood from the murdered queen dripped from the shaft of the brooch’s arm onto the cold stone floor.

Repeatedly stabbing her, the king had murdered his beloved Boand. Why? Only God in heaven knew for certain. Some whispered that the monarch was convinced his bride was carrying on an adulterous relationship with an evil spirit who dwelt in the royal well. The queen was named after the great water spirit Boand, who controlled the source of the River Boyne. It flowed up at the well from the depths of the netherworld. Others believed the young bride had spread vile rumors that the old king was impotent. Whatever the reason, the queen lay dead and Nechtan sought to lay the blame elsewhere.

Unable to look upon his murdered wife, Nechtan spoke to the brooch. You! Oh, you! You vulgar implement of shame and death! the king thundered. It was you and your evil spell that compelled me to kill my beautiful Boand. You, who are a symbol of humiliation, are nothing more than a handmaiden of the devil. I curse you and any that will ever possess you. Must Leinster be forever plagued by your diabolical presence?

The next day, Nechtan met in council with his druids. Let the queen’s body be cast into the royal well, he said without emotion. See if her lovers will still desire her after her body has been consumed by maggots.

What shall we do with the brooch? the eldest druid asked.

"The Golden Harp Brooch must remain pinned till the end of time on Boand’s shoulder. The king then gave the diabolical order that for all eternity would seal Ireland’s fate. Bring forth an evil spirit from the depths of the netherworld, he commanded. Lodge it in the brooch so that no mortal will ever dare to possess or wear it again."

But how will we insure that grave robbers will not steal such a priceless treasure? questioned a short druid with hawk eyes.

Tear down my royal palace and pile every stone in the well. Build a gigantic mound that will forever entomb both my bride and the shameful brooch.

We will never be able to stem the flow of water, a third druid said.

So be it. Let the waters of the cursed Boyne bring forth sorrow upon Ireland for all eternity. It shall be a grim reminder to all future generations of my great anguish.

Nechtan laughed. The druids cringed. Their king had gone mad.

Boand’s body, with the brooch securing her royal cloak, was wrapped with a cloth woven of spun gold, encircled by bronze chains. At midnight, guards carrying flaming torches escorted her bier from the palace to the royal well—a somber drumbeat marking every step. There, the queen’s body, weighted with stones, was cast without ceremony into the cold waters, which the Irish believed flowed up through a tunnel that led directly to the netherworld.

As the queen’s body slowly descended into the underworld, the only sounds to be heard were those of the king’s druids chanting, "Disgrace, disease, and a violent death will haunt any person who dares to disturb or wear The Golden Harp Brooch."

The following day, slaves began the task of dismantling—stone by stone—the royal palace.

Age of Christ, 320

Years later, after the burial mound was completed, the Chief Druid made offerings to the gods, hoping to envision the future. He had been greatly disturbed by the recurring dream of someone, thirty-three generations in the future, freeing the brooch from its watery grave. In his dream the disastrous event would be preceded by an invasion from across the Irish Sea. Ireland was destined to become a conquered nation. He foresaw terrible afflictions for his people—famine, war, plague, and total desperation.

The druid feared the curse of The Golden Harp, once unleashed, could never be silenced. Please, oh merciful gods of the underworld, he prayed, tell me that somehow this curse will pass.

After fasting and taking only water for a full week, the druid received a new vision. Following thirty years of rampaging across Ireland, England, and Scotland, the curse could become contained, but only if a leader emerged from those conquering Ireland, who in the thirty-year period would possess the brooch three times and had to pass four tests. The first would be a test of devotion, where he bestows the brooch to an unattainable love. The second would be a test of obedience, where he must give up the brooch to a weak king. For the third test he must decline to become a king. In the fourth and final test, the leader must become more Irish than the Irish, and unselfishly give up his life for the undeserving king.

This leader will battle a false king from Scotland who, wearing the brooch, will come to conqueror Ireland in a conquest that will bring death to one of every three in Ireland. If all of the four tests are fulfilled, The Golden Harp Brooch will return to the grave again to rest on the shoulder of a newly deceased adulterous queen, whose king had ruled Ireland.

The druid with tears in his eyes dropped to his knees next to a sacred oak. Resting his head against the tree trunk, he prayed, Please, dear Great One, I implore you to grant the necessary courage to the only one who can save Ireland.

The Age of Christ, 460

In the fifth century, the followers of Christ swept away the old religion of the druids. As did most of the tales of pagan Ireland, the legend of queen Boand became assimilated into Christian lore and the brooch was totally forgotten. The great Irish bishop, St. Patrick, came to the old royal well of Leinster and drove the resident evil demons back into the underworld.

Blessed Patrick placed his treasured bishop’s staff into the spring and bellowed, Please, dear God, I implore you, the savior of mankind, the Son of God, Jesus Christ, to send your Archangel Michael, together with a legion of warrior angels to drive out the evil spirits from this well.

Lightning struck his staff. Winds blew. Trees were knocked down. The sky darkened. And the heavens thundered as the angels of God battled with the demons of the underworld for the soul of the spring.

God’s angels prevailed. The sun again revealed itself. The winds calmed and a sweet fragrance filled the air. The venerable St. Patrick said a prayer of thanksgiving, then blessed and re-dedicated the spring, renaming it Trinity Well.

The saintly Patrick proclaimed, Take stones from this well and build a chapel in thanksgiving. For as long as this house of worship stands guard, the evil spirits will be consigned to the depths of hell and can never return.

Age of Christ, 1170

In the late twelfth century, the then reigning king of Leinster, Dermot MacMurrough, was a man of many vices. He lived with two wives simultaneously, had an abbess raped, and abducted an aged ruler’s wife. For these and his many other sins, the high king of Ireland and others deposed Dermot. He fled to England.

God could forgive Dermot his many sins but not the one deed wherein he invited Henry II, King of England, to send an Anglo-Norman army to conquer Ireland and restore him to his former kingship.

Strongbow, the earl of Pembroke, led the English invasion of Ireland. As a reward for the earl’s support, Dermot gave him his daughter, Eva, in marriage. The earl brought with him an army of adventurers—to take land away from the native Irish and carve out new estates for themselves. Henry II gave the rule of Ireland to his youngest son, Prince John, and declared him and all his successors to be Lords of all Ireland.

Together, Boand and the brooch rested in peace for the prescribed thirty three generations. But in the early fourteenth century, destiny decreed that the time was up. The hairy arm of an Irishman would soon reach into the waters of the royal well and pull out The Golden Harp Brooch from the muck. Only the brooch would survive. Boand, together with the brooch’s jewels, had long before vanished into the gloom of the Sidh.

Book Two 1302-1332 A.D.

Chapter I

Westminster Palace—Late Winter 1302

The first of January was on a Monday and the twenty-fifth day of the moon, MCCCII. Sixth year of the Solar Cycle; eleventh year of the Lunar Cycle; fifteenth year of the Indication. Embolism year, G.

Edward I, by the grace of God, King of England and Lord of all Ireland, had reached the limit of his patience. The hour was three past mid-night. The aging king and his Irish earl had faced each other for hours debating the fate of Ireland. Edward would listen no more to Ulster’s arguments. Everyone can go to hell for all I care! the king shouted. My goal is to annihilate all resistance to my rule in Scotland. If Ireland is destroyed in the process, then so be it.

Richard de Burgh, the Red Earl of Ulster—a muscular man with a rust-colored beard, heavy jowls, cat-like eyes, and thinning hair—sat silent, staring at the faded tapestries of his sovereign’s bedchamber. Refusing to answer the king’s latest outburst, the earl’s snarl was more like that of a sinister gargoyle.

Exhausted with drooping eyelids, Edward slumped back in his chair and slowly took a drink of spiced wine. He grimaced. Richard, my mind is made up. I’ll forsake Ireland for the greater good, the crushing of Scotland. I don’t give a turd about Ireland. Scotland must and will become an English vassal. If necessary, I will take every fighting man, every last morsel of food, every farthing, and even the very lifeblood of Ireland to meet my needs in Scotland. I want the Irish levies in Scotland by the end of the harvest.

De Burgh clenched his fists and cursed under his breath. He did not intend to let Edward destroy all he had achieved in Ireland. The earl rose ready to shake his fist. But hesitated first, took a deep breath, and then spoke in a subservient but firm manner. Sire, I must disagree, the barbarian Irish chieftains will rise up and massacre all the Anglo-Normans and destroy—

God damn it, Richard! The king jumped up and threw his tankard at one of the tapestries. I gave an order, not a request! To de Burgh, the blood-red claret that splattered and dripped across the pastoral scene foretold the slaughter and despair that would soon envelop England and Scotland.

Edward I, who towered a full head over his earl, raised his right arm and shook his finger. As your king, I will consider it high treason if you or any of my barons of Ireland do not heed my call to arms. Remember, I am Lord of all Ireland as well as your king.

De Burgh answered in a lowered voice, Then if it pleases your Majesty, at least permit a token force to garrison the Irish castles. We must maintain a foothold from which we can reclaim the country. He vowed silently that he would not let his king’s ravenous lust for Scotland destroy his earldom, which, in the eyes of many, was a kingdom unto itself.

The anger disappeared and a broad smile flashed across Edward’s wrinkled face. He placed a bejeweled hand on the earl’s broad shoulder and continued, If I know you, Richard, all you will need to do is to scatter a few gold coins to the Irish chieftains. Then they will spend the next year killing each other. If not, after the Scots are broken, I will come to Ireland and hang every last rebel chieftain in that blessed isle.

De Burgh plopped into his chair like a whipped cur. Edward, with a baleful grin, sat down and ran his fingers through his steel gray hair. The thick smoke in the room made Ulster weary.

Richard, I am not yet finished with you. I will not tolerate unfulfilled promises of support for my next campaign into Scotland. Your opinion of what Ireland owes me for the Scottish campaign cannot be relied upon. What I expect from you and the other Irish barons shall be written down and attested to by you. You may find my requirements burdensome, but do not fret, all England will pay an equal price.

Edward rose and summoned his trusted confidant, the earl of Surrey, to tally and witness the feudal levies of the Irish barons.

My ever faithful Richard, I expect you and your cousin, William de Burgh, and the barons of Ireland to come with no less than one hundred knights, and a thousand foot.

Richard gasped! The cost of maintaining such a large force would be staggering. He feared the king’s requirements would force him to go and borrow money from the hated Order of the Knights Templar. He banged both fists against his chair. But Sire, that will leave the entire pale of Ireland open to easy plunder. I told you earlier of rumors that the king of Connaught is gathering men for a revolt.

Then you have a problem that needs to be resolved immediately, the king said with a wave of his multi-ringed hand. Tell me more about how you plan to handle it.

One of your Irish barons has proposed a solution, but I care not for it, Richard replied. For I fear he would be placing his own son’s life at risk.

I never knew you to be sensitive to any man’s plight, Edward replied. What is this boy’s life to you?

Yes, tell us, Surrey said with a sneer, the king wants to know.

Richard sighed. The boy is the son of Piers de Bermingham, your baron of Tethmoy. He is betrothed to my daughter, Mathilda. Piers has proposed to foster his son to the king of Connaught so that he can monitor the Irish king’s every move. I fear it is too dangerous.

Edward broke into laughter. I should have known, you are always forging alliances with your daughters as fodder for your many schemes. Why are you so worried? You have two of Connaught’s sons as hostages. You can kill both if the boy is harmed.

The king of Connaught is ruthless. He has little regard for human life, least of all for his own sons.

Edward shrugged. Do you have another solution? If not, go ahead and risk your future son-in-law’s life. If the boy is killed, a generous dowry for your daughter will attract others. I might even give you one of my royal grandsons for your daughter. So, tell me, Richard, have you not yet finished scheming for the marriages of your gaggle of daughters?

The corpulent earl of Surrey let out a guttural laugh.

Almost, Richard said with a sigh, fortunately I have only two more marriage contracts to settle. I’m currently negotiating a dowry with the Fitzgeralds of Kildare for one of them.

"Mon Dieu! exclaimed the king. I cannot think of anyone you haven’t forged an alliance with in the marriage bed? I’ve yet to forgive Robert Bruce for marrying your eldest daughter Elizabeth without my permission."

De Burgh’s voice trembled. Is not the earl now back in your good favor?

Yes, if anyone with a claim to the Scottish crown can be trusted, I would place my full trust with the Bruce. But I expect that you, as a loving father, have advised Elizabeth to keep the lusty Robert occupied with the pleasures of the flesh. Better to play in bed than scheme to win a kingdom. Now heed my warning. Richard, you will not be absolved if the Bruce rebels again.

Your Majesty, as my daughter and as your godchild, Elizabeth knows where her duties lie. Despite these words, de Burgh worried that the perspiration beading on his forehead betrayed his doubts.

Hidden under a darkened stairwell adjacent to the king’s chamber, two huddled eavesdroppers let out soft breaths. One was Prince Edward of Caverdon, destined to become Edward II of England; the other was Piers Gaveston, the prince’s favorite companion from Gascony. The two handsome young men half giggled with muted voices as they mimicked the king and his earls. The prince loved to spy on the high affairs of state. He rationalized that he needed to know the intrigues of the realm in order to be always prepared to take control of England upon his father’s death.

Piers Gaveston, dark eyed with long black hair, whispered, My sweet prince, what will be my life when you become king?

When my father is deceased, gentle one, we shall share my kingdom together, the tall blonde-headed prince replied. He stroked his friend’s hand and gave him a reassuring smile.

Gaveston put his arms around the prince, placed his mouth next to the prince’s ear, and whispered, Besides being the king’s favorite, what honors will you bestow upon me?

You shall be an earl of the realm with great estates. No! I will give you two earldoms and, as my Lord Chamberlain, you’ll answer to none but me, your dearest friend.

Gaveston knew there was nothing the young prince would deny him. He reached over and passionately kissed Prince Edward on the lips.

Chapter II

In the West of County Kildare, Piers de Bermingham, the ruling English baron, demonstrated little regard for the heritage of the Irish. Piers, a direct descendant of one of the twelfth-century invaders of Ireland, ignored local superstition and built his Norman-style castle directly over the site of the home of the ancient kings of Leinster. Carbury Castle was constructed from the stones piled up in Trinity Well. He did this to demonstrate his total domination of the Irish. He even ordered the dismantling of the Chapel of St. Patrick adjacent to the well and used the consecrated stones to build a stable for his war-horses.

It was late spring. Darkness had enveloped Carbury Castle several hours earlier. Fourteen-year-old John de Bermingham, second son to the baron of Tethmoy, lay half-naked tossing and turning on a pallet in a windowless sleeping chamber next to the castle solar. He was wide-awake. The air in the room was heavy. The constant snoring of his older brother sleeping across the room was deafening. John was distraught. Early today he had heard rumors about his impending fosterage with the king of Connaught. He was confused; he had expected to leave next month to become a squire to earl of Lancaster in England. He stood up and paced across the room. He thought about his place in life.

As a second son, he would inherit none of his father’s wealth and power. His only function in life would be to wait and see if his older brother might die before inheriting the Barony of Tethmoy. He knew that he would have to make his own way in life with little help from his family. He looked at his sleeping older brother with envy. He grumbled to himself, Why could I have not been born first? He felt like a failure. He had none of his older brother’s cunning or capabilities as a warrior.

Irritated, John stopped pacing and ran his fingers across the cold stone wall next to his pallet. The smooth feel of the stones reminded him of when he was a child. An Irish nurse had once told him that if he put his ear to the stones he might hear the long past melodic sounds of an Irish harp or the ancient rhythmic poems of the bards. He stood up and put his left ear against the wall. To better hear, he placed a finger in the right year so that his brother’s labored wheezing was diminished. Through a crack in the mortar, instead of the sounds of ancient Ireland, John heard an angry argument coming from the adjacent solar.

Listen to me, Piers de Bermingham, you unholy bastard! John recognized the shrill voice of his mother, Ella. I will not let you destroy John. No matter what you say or do, he must return with me to England next month to fulfill his destiny.

No, never! cried his father’s voice.

Oh yes, he must! his mother shouted. One day, he will win knighthood and, if God wills it, an earldom.

John smiled, only his mother had real faith in him.

You, wife, have only the false dreams of an ignorant woman. John is nothing but a second son who will achieve little in life. For now, he must do my bidding and leave with me in three days for Roscommon. Once there, he will be fostered to the Irish king of Connaught.

A cold chill ran through John’s body.

John’s mother retaliated. I will never let you foster my son to that evil monster, Hugh O’Connor. If my father were alive, he would flay your arse for even proposing such folly.

Woman, your father has been dead for years. You have no say in this matter. The king of Connaught will treat your precious son as if he were his own. John needs to learn what real life is like in Ireland. I will not let a son of mine become a court dandy like your relatives in England.

John could hear his father stomping his foot on the stone floor.

"Listen to me Piers, John’s destiny is to become what you have failed to become, the English king’s justiciar. Like my father, someday he will rule Ireland for the king. I will not let you stop my son from achieving his God-ordained, rightful place in this world."

Ella, you are nothing but a mad hare. I have made my decision. You will obey me without question.

His mother was unwilling to relent. She screeched, And you will leave your son with that murderer and ride off with your knights to Scotland to do the king’s bidding while your family is left to be attacked by rebel O’Connor chieftains!

The O’Connors will not attack! shouted back his father. It is against the rules of fosterage. Ireland has a time-honored culture that guards the peace when there is a bond of fosterage between two families.

It is also against the rules of the Holy Church to murder your brother and blind his children. Hugh O’Connor has done that and even more, shouted back Ella.

That is all in the past. The king has decreed that I must take all my knights and go to Scotland in two months. The fosterage ceremony must be completed before I leave.

Then why send John? Why not send your precious William?

John knew that his mother had no love for his older brother, born of Piers’ first wife who had died in childbirth.

William is my heir, the baron said his voice crackling with anger. The heir’s life must always be protected. John’s is expendable. If necessary we could always have more sons.

Not on my body! his mother railed. All you will have is more bastards from the Irish maids.

John felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He wanted to vomit.

If you are truly worried about John’s life, his father said with a sneer, you should have your priest pray a novena for his safety. Believe me; your God, if there is one, would be more apt to listen to a priest than your incessant chatter.

Sacred water from Trinity Well was sprinkled on John’s head this morning. God will send me a sign.

By the holy saints in heaven, your so called God doesn’t even know you exist, but surely the devil in hell does. As for waters from Trinity Well, they are reserved for my war-horse.

A pox on your soul! Ella cried. A door slammed. And then silence.

John pushed away from the wall. Closing his eyes he tried to fathom what he had just overheard. He ran his fingers through his long blonde hair, shaking his head in disgust. His body was covered with sweat. Was real danger ahead for him? Would he never be allowed to go to England and become a squire to the earl of Lancaster? He did not know anyone to turn to for the answers to his questions. Would he live and someday be knighted or would he be killed only to decay and mold away in an unmarked grave in Roscommon?

Chapter III

Early the next day, two young Irish grooms from Castle Carbury jogged down the grass-covered hill from the castle grounds to Trinity Well. The baron required that fresh water from the artesian spring be given to his favorite war-horse each morning.

The young men, Daniel McNavin and his companion Sean McGrath, sauntered down the low embankment that led to the holy well. There they planned to fill their animal skins with the waters that bubbled up from the bowels of the netherworld.

To McNavin, the water