Working Title: Máiréad’s Folly
This is a novel in progress and is also written with the Young Adult reader in mind. So far I have the first 12 chapters written to second draft stage and the remainder chapters 13-25 outlined. I might open another page to show my writing process, some might find it interesting 🙂
This novel follows on from ‘Young Blood Rising‘ and as I was writing it, I realised that I was becoming more involved with the development of the characters. They are all becoming much more rounded. In this novel, the youth take over completely and the adults hardly get a look-in (as it should be!).
Máiréad is about 20 years old and a fiercely independent business woman who refused an arranged marriage with an Ó Súilleabháin man who had already buried two wives. The possible romantic entanglement with Andrew, a norman cooper, rears its head once more, as does the shenanigans of the ‘pious‘ Friar Benedictus.
I am probably biased, but I think this novel is better paced than ‘Young Blood Rising‘ – but why don’t you decide.
Some sample writings – at Draft-2 Stage (Most likely typos and Grammar errors!). It is highly likely that some of the scenes won’t make it into the third draft – they seem very slow and, should I say, boring!
This book is set during the second half of lent in 1233.
Chapter 1: Trouble Brewing
Mar 15, 1233, 4:25 AM
Darkness smothered Eochaill like a wet cloak. Máiréad’s teeth chattered, and not just from cold. The scratchy Dominican robe itched at her neck as she kept pace with the monks shuffling toward the North Gate.
“Don’t look up,” Andrew muttered beside her. “Just walk.”
“I am walking,” she hissed.
Ahead, Fiachra moved with eerie calm. Was he brave – or just too old to care?
“What if this is a setup?” she whispered.
Andrew glanced at her, eyes shadowed. “You think I’m in on it?”
“I don’t know,” she shot back. “You are Norman.”
They approached the North Gate, where two sentries stood with gleaming helmets in the torchlight.
“Hold there,” one called. “What business takes Dominican brothers out before dawn on Christmas Eve?”
Fiachra stepped forward. “God’s work waits for no hour. We bring alms to the poor beyond the walls.”
The guard pointed toward Máiréad and Andrew. “Those two at the back. Haven’t seen them before.”
“Recent arrivals from Vadrefjord Priory,” Fiachra answered smoothly.
The first guard approached, yanking back Andrew’s hood.
“This one’s no monk!” he shouted. “It’s the cooper from the harbour district!”
Everything happened at once. Guards drew swords. Monks scattered.
“Seize them both!” the guard ordered, grabbing Andrew’s arm.
“Let me go! It’s her you want!” Andrew shouted, pulling away. “The woman! She’s the thief! She tricked me into helping her escape!”
His words struck Máiréad like physical blows. “Andrew, no! We promised…”
“She forced me to help her!” Andrew continued. “I’m a loyal subject of the King!”
Andrew watched as they dragged her backward, his face shifting until it was Sir Edward standing there, cold satisfaction in his eyes.
“NO!” Máiréad screamed. “ANDREW! YOU PROMISED!”
Andrew’s laugh transformed into the harsh caw of ravens as darkness closed around her…
“Máiréad! Wake up!”
Her eyes flew open, a scream dying on her lips. Stone and daub walls surrounded her, not the castle dungeon. Gráinne Uí Fearghusa stood over her, concern etched on her kindly face.
Behind her stood Fionn, rush light casting warm amber across the interior. Outside, an owl called into the night. No ravens. No guards. No betrayal – at least, not this night.
“The nightmare again?” Gráinne asked softly.
Caitlín and Cormac, the 16-year-old twins, stirred from their sleeping pallets, exchanging worried glances.
Máiréad nodded, unable to speak as the terror slowly ebbed. “It wasn’t how it happened,” she whispered. “Andrew didn’t … he never … ” She couldn’t finish.
“Dreams twist even our memories,” Gráinne said gently. “They mean nothing.”
“Three times this week,” Máiréad said, sitting up. “Three times I’ve seen him betray me. Three times I’ve been dragged back to Edward’s dungeons.”
“I can’t live like this anymore,” she finally said, her voice stronger. “Hiding. Afraid of shadows. Dependent on your kindness.” Her fingers clutched the small silver cross pendant hanging from her neck; the only possession she’d managed to bring from Eochaill, given to her by her mother. “I need to fend for myself again and not be a burden.”
***
Mar 15, 1233, 9:11 AM
The rhythmic tap of Andrew’s hammer echoed through his coopering shop as he carefully secured a metal hoop around a newly crafted barrel. Shavings of oak curled about his feet, and the rich scent of fresh timber filled the small workshop tucked against the eastern wall of the Norman town of Eochaill in March 1233.
A prosperous cloth merchant leaned against the door frame, watching Andrew work with appreciation.
“They’re holding together well, those barrels you made last month,” the merchant said. “Not a drop leaked during the entire journey to Corke.”
Andrew straightened, wiping his hands on his leather apron. “Good Irish oak and proper technique – they’ll outlast us both if treated right.”
He’d been back in Eochaill for nearly three months now, and outwardly, his life had returned to normal. The familiar routines of town life had welcomed him back, his skills as a cooper ensuring steady work and coin in his pocket. Far better than the harsh uncertainties of life on the run or the primitive conditions at the Ó Fearghusa clachán.
Yet sleep came uneasily these nights. Memories of his flight with Máiréad haunted him – not just her disappointed eyes when he chose to return to Eochaill, but what he’d witnessed here in Eochaill before they fled. Barrels of brew disappearing, documents being falsified and powerful men making coin from these ghost shipments. Men like Friar Benedictus and the bailiff.
“I’ve ordered another six for the spring shipments,” the merchant continued, oblivious to Andrew’s inner disquiet. “My wines deserve your craftsmanship.”
“I’ll have them ready by…” Andrew’s voice faltered as the doorway darkened.
The tall figure of Sir Edward de Berkeley filled the entrance, his practical surcoat beneath a finely woven practical cloak.
The merchant, recognising authority when he saw it, bowed hastily. “Sir Edward! An honour, sir.”
Edward acknowledged with a slight nod. “I trust your winter trading went well?”
“Well enough, my lord. The Bristol markets were kind this year.” The merchant backed toward the door. “I’ll leave you to your business. Andrew, we’ll speak of those barrels later.”
When the merchant had gone, Edward stepped fully into the workshop, his keen eyes surveying the space with a practised assessment. Andrew wiped his hands nervously on his apron, uncertain whether to bow or continue his work.
“Your reputation grows, Andrew,” Edward said, lifting a nearly completed oak stave to examine the craftsmanship. “Many speak highly of your work. Quality English craftsmanship is valuable here.”
“Thank you, Sir Edward,” Andrew replied, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’m indebted to you, sir, for bringing me here where I can develop my skills.”
Edward set down the hoop with care. “Indeed. Not every man finds his proper place so readily.” He moved to the window, looking out at the bustling street beyond. “Particularly not those caught between worlds.”
The statement hung in the air like a drawn blade. Andrew’s hands stilled on his tools.
“I’m not sure I take your meaning, sir.”
Edward turned, his expression unreadable. “Come now, Andrew. I sponsored your apprenticeship, brought you from Bristol. I’ve watched you grow from a frightened boy into a capable craftsman.” His voice softened slightly. “I’d like to think there’s trust between us.”
Andrew swallowed hard. “Of course, Sir Edward.”
“Then perhaps you might explain your… adventures at Christmastide.” Edward’s tone remained conversational, but his eyes had hardened. “Your disappearance caused quite a stir. You have a debt to me, yet you choose to flee in the dark of night like a thief. Some even suggested you might have been involved in certain irregularities at the brewhouse.”
“I wasn’t thinking clearly,” Andrew said carefully. “The Mac Cárthaigh woman – Máiréad – she was frightened. She believed herself in danger and asked for my help.”
“And you provided it, without question?” Edward raised an eyebrow. “Rather impulsive for a man known for careful craftsmanship. Your decision reflected badly on me.”
Andrew looked down at his hands. “I should have come to you, but I felt… responsible. We had become friends of a sort. When she said Friar Benedictus and Bailiff Adam had falsely accused her – “
“Ah,” Edward interrupted, raising a hand. “So it was concern for justice that motivated you? Noble indeed.”
Something in Edward’s tone made Andrew look up sharply. The knight was watching him with an expression that seemed almost… sympathetic?
“You weren’t entirely wrong,” Edward said quietly, stepping closer. “There are matters in Eochaill that have concerned me as well. Patterns of behaviour that reflect poorly on Norman administration.”
Andrew stared, unable to mask his surprise.
“You seem shocked,” Edward noted with a thin smile. “Did you think all Normans are blind to corruption within our ranks? I serve the King’s law, Andrew. Not the personal ambitions of men like Bailiff Adam.”
“Then you know – “
“I suspect,” Edward corrected firmly. “But suspicion without evidence is merely gossip. And a knight does not traffic in gossip.”
He moved around the workshop, examining Andrew’s tools with apparent interest. “I’ve often thought our positions are not so different, you and I. Both craftsmen in our way. Both creating order from chaos. Both serving something larger than ourselves.”
Andrew remained silent, uncertain where this conversation was heading.
“Your return to Eochaill was wise,” Edward continued. “Here you have purpose, respect, a future. And yet…” He turned to face Andrew directly. “I sense you’re not entirely at peace.”
The statement struck too close to Andrew’s private thoughts. “I’m grateful for my place here,” he managed.
“But memories linger,” Edward suggested. “Of the girl; of what you saw – or thought you saw – before your departure; of choices made in haste.”
Andrew felt the blood drain from his face. How much did Edward know?
Edward’s voice dropped lower, almost intimately. “Eochaill needs men who see clearly, Andrew. Men who understand both English order and Irish ways. Men who can help bridge these worlds rather than allowing corruption to widen the divide.”
He straightened, his manner shifting back to the formal knight. “I merely came to welcome you properly back to town. Your skills honour Eochaill, and we value your contribution.” He moved toward the door before pausing. “Should you ever wish to discuss what troubles your sleep, my door is open. Some burdens are too heavy to carry alone.”
Andrew found his voice at last. “Thank you, Sir Edward. That’s… most generous.”
Edward nodded once. “We all serve in our own ways, Andrew. Remember that.”
With that cryptic statement, he departed, leaving Andrew staring after him, the half-finished barrel forgotten as new questions swirled in his mind.
Had Edward just offered protection? A warning? Or something else entirely?
Mar 15, 1233, 11:00 AM
Spring sunlight danced through the smoke hole above the hearth, casting golden patterns across the circular bothán. Despite March’s lingering chill outside, the interior wrapped Máiréad in welcome warmth from the crackling fire.
She stirred a fragrant pottage of barley and wild garlic while Gráinne’s strong hands kneaded the dough beside her, the rhythmic motions creating a peaceful rhythm between them.
“Where’s Cormac?” Máiréad asked, noticing the quiet lad’s absence.
“Out talking with his birds again,” Gráinne replied with a hint of fondness in her voice.
“He’s a unique lad, isn’t he?”
Gráinne’s hands paused briefly. “Sometimes I worry about him, but he seems happier now – not like last Christmas.”
“That was quite a revelation,” Máiréad agreed, remembering how the boy had spotted Norman scouts that everyone else had missed.
“What exactly does he do with those birds? He leaves with them but returns alone, yet they always find him again.”
“He insists they’re his friends,” Gráinne said, shaping her dough with practiced movements. “Says that’s why they return to him. You should see it – ravens, jackdaws, even a kestrel sometimes. They follow him like he’s one of their flock.”
“Fionn doesn’t approve,” Máiréad observed.
“You’ve noticed that, have you?” Gráinne sighed. “Fionn wants a son to plough fields, sow crops, milk the cows… But Cormac wants … ” she glanced at the bothán walls where intricate charcoal drawings covered the whitewashed surface. “Look at those. I whitewashed those walls at Christmas, and now they’re covered in what he calls maps.”
Máiréad studied the detailed drawings more carefully. Each bothán of the clachán appeared in exactly the right position, with careful markings for paths, trees, and streams. Beyond that were drawings of Lios Mór, Eochaill, and other settlements; all connected by precisely drawn routes.
“It’s remarkable,” Máiréad murmured. “He sees patterns others miss.”
“His uncle Mattie understands him,” Gráinne said softly.
“Yes,” Máiréad agreed, noticing the hint of sadness in Gráinne’s voice. “Mattie does.”
They worked in companionable silence for a moment before Gráinne spoke again.
“Lent isn’t what it once was, thanks be to God,” she said, punching down the dough with extra vigour. “My grandmother would have us on dry bread and cold water from Ash Wednesday till Easter.”
Máiréad smiled, adding a pinch of precious salt to her pot. “My father was just as strict. We’d be flogged for even looking at butter during the forty days.”
As they worked, Gráinne glanced toward the opening before lowering her voice. “Most women your age have husbands and children by now. Yet you chose brewing instead. That’s unusual, even in a Norman town.”
Máiréad’s hands stilled. “A fair question.” She set the lid on her pot and gazed into the fire. “I come from high birth among the Mac Cárthaigh. My father’s brother is our clan Taoiseach.”
“At fifteen, they arranged my marriage to an O’Súilabháin chieftain’s son; a man three times my age who had already buried two wives. I didn’t fancy being the third for him to bury!” Though her voice remained steady, her fingers twisted in her apron. “The alliance would have brought twenty cattle and access to southern harbours.”
“I refused publicly, shaming both families. My father gave me a choice: the marriage or shunning.”
“You chose freedom,” Gráinne said with quiet understanding.
Máiréad nodded. “I left that night with only what I could carry and this cross.” She touched the small pendant at her neck. “My grandmother had taught me brewing since I could walk. ‘It’s in our blood,’ she’d say. So I travelled to Eochaill where no one knew my face.”
Gráinne reached across and took Máiréad’s hand. “The old ways aren’t always the best ways,” she whispered. “You built something with your own hands, your own mind. There’s courage in that.”
Her eyes met Máiréad’s with something that looked remarkably like longing before she squeezed her hand once and released it. “Now we must help you build again. And I think I know the person to get you started – wise old Gobnait – difficult as she can be. She knows more about possibilities than anyone in the clachán.”
The opening darkened as Fionn’s frame blocked out the light.
“That son of yours has disappeared again,” he announced without preamble. “Halfway through clearing the haggart, he vanishes like morning mist.”
Gráinne exchanged a knowing glance with Máiréad. “Which son would that be, husband? Your son or my son?”
“Cormac,” Fionn grumbled. “Always wandering off when there’s real work to be done.”
As they settled around the fire for their midday meal, surrounded by the warmth of their easy banter, Máiréad felt tentative hope stir within her. Perhaps this Gobnait might hold the key to reclaiming her independence; and perhaps with it, freedom from the nightmares that still haunted her sleep.
Mar 16, 1233, 10:00 AM
The bailiff’s office, on the ground floor of the castle, seemed perpetually dim despite its south-facing window, as if the chaos within somehow absorbed the light. Scrolls and documents littered every surface, dust gathered in corners, and the sour smell of old ale hung in the air, mingling with the scent of tallow candles burned down to stubs.
The lord’s Steward paused at the threshold, hesitant to enter such disarray. Bailiff Adam sat behind his desk, a man whose appearance matched his surroundings – rumpled tunic stretched across his ample belly, stubbled jowls, and hair that looked as though it had been arranged by a particularly vigorous spring wind. Yet his eyes were sharp and calculating, missing nothing of potential value.
“Steward! What an unexpected pleasure,” Adam called out, hastily shoving what appeared to be a half-eaten meat pie beneath a stack of parchments. He rose, knocking over an inkwell that he caught with surprising agility before it spilled. “To what do I owe this rare visit to my humble quarters?”
The Steward stepped carefully around a precarious tower of ledgers. “Official business from his lordship. May I?” He gestured to the cluttered desk.
“Of course, of course!” Adam swept an arm across the surface, sending several documents fluttering to the floor. “Just creating some space for proper work,” he added with a wheezing laugh.
He remained standing rather than risking the suspicious stains on the offered chair. Unrolled his map onto the newly cleared space, weighing the corners with various objects from the desk – a tarnished seal, a heavy key, and what appeared to be a confiscated dagger.
“His lordship has arranged for a master tanner from Bristol to establish operations here in Eochaill,” he explained, maintaining his professional tone despite the surroundings. “The man requires suitable land, and I’m tasked with identifying appropriate options.”
“A tannery, you say?” Adam rubbed his stubbled chin, leaving a smudge of ink behind. “From Bristol, no less. His lordship does think grand.”
“The requirements are specific,” the Steward continued, pointing to his markings on the map. “River access for the tanning process and waste removal. Sufficient distance from town – the smell is notorious, as you know. Flat ground for the buildings and vats. And enough space for future expansion as trade grows.”
Adam’s demeanour shifted subtly, his casual manner giving way to focused interest as he leaned over the map. This was Adam in his element, no longer the slovenly bureaucrat, but a man who understood the true currency of power: information about land and its occupants.
“That’s quite a few options you’ve marked, Steward.” Adam’s finger moved across the parchment with surprising precision, stopping at each mark. “Mac Giolla Phádraig here along the north road… the Ó Broin brothers’ holding just beyond the east meadow… and here, the widow Ó Fearghusa near the ferry crossing.”
“All suitable from a practical standpoint,” he acknowledged. “But I’m concerned about the legal aspects. These lands have been farmed by Irish families for generations. Disrupting established tenancies could create unnecessary friction.”
Adam straightened, a dismissive expression crossing his face. “That needn’t trouble you, Steward. You’re thinking like a Norman still – all written deeds and formal contracts.” He tapped a grimy fingernail against the map. “Many of these lands were originally church properties loaned to families through verbal agreements made long before your grandfather was born. Particularly these near the river.” His finger circled the area near the ferry crossing. “The monastery has overseen them since before the Normans arrived.”
The Steward eyebrows rose slightly. “I was not aware the church held such extensive claims in that area.”
“Few are,” Adam said with a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “The records are… complex. Scattered across various church archives, some dating to the old monastery that stood before the Franciscans arrived.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “These matters operate differently here than in England, Steward. Land passes through families by tradition, not always by proper documentation.”
“And yet, we must have proper documentation for this transfer; his lordship is adamant about maintaining legal appearances.”
“Of course, of course,” Adam agreed too quickly. “With the church’s cooperation, acquiring suitable land won’t be the problem you fear. Documentation included.”
“And will the church cooperate?”
Adam’s smile widened, revealing yellowed teeth. “Leave that to me. Friar Benedictus and I have an… understanding in these matters. The church benefits from improved commerce as much as anyone. Their coffers will not suffer, I assure you.” He tapped a particular spot on the map. “This location near the ferry would be ideal. Close enough to transport goods easily, far enough to keep the stench away from town, and the land is flat and well-drained.”
“The widow’s plot, recently bereaved, I believe?”
A flicker of something – perhaps annoyance – crossed Adam’s face before disappearing. “Peig Ó Fearghusa. Her husband died of fever this past winter. Three children, I believe, but no means to properly work the land. In truth, Steward, relocating her would be a kindness. The plot is too large for a woman alone to manage.”
“Her children don’t help with the farming?”
“Young ones,” Adam said vaguely, rolling up the map with an air of finality. “I’ll consult with Friar Benedictus and identify the optimal location from among these options. No need to trouble yourself further with the details, Steward. This is precisely the sort of matter I’m appointed to handle.”
The Steward made no move to leave, his discomfort growing. “I should remind you that any solution must stand up to scrutiny. His lordship expects this to be arranged quickly and… quietly, but not at the expense of proper procedure.”
“And so it shall be,” Adam assured him, moving toward the door in a not-so-subtle gesture of dismissal. “It might take a week to collect all the documents, but you will have your tannery site secured, with all proper documentation in order, I promise you.” He patted Robert’s shoulder with a meaty hand. “Trust in my experience with these matters. I’ve navigated far more complex situations successfully.”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, the market inspections cannot wait. Spring brings all manner of questionable merchants trying their luck.” Adam said with a finality.
As the Steward walked back across the castle courtyard, the fresh air was a welcome relief after the bailiff’s stuffy office. Yet he couldn’t quite dismiss the unease settling in his stomach. The bailiff’s efficiency in such matters usually came at a price – one paid by others who lacked the means to protest.
He paused, looking back at the administrative wing with a troubled expression. Perhaps he should conduct his own discreet inquiries about the widow’s land before Adam’s plan proceeded too far. But then, challenging the bailiff on his own terrain of local knowledge and connections rarely ended well for the challenger.
With a sigh, he turned away. Sometimes administration meant accepting uncomfortable compromises in service to greater progress. A tannery would bring prosperity to Eochaill – surely that benefit outweighed the displacement of a single family?
Yet as he climbed the stairs to his own office, he couldn’t quite convince himself of that comfortable rationalisation.
Mar 16, 1233, 11:10 AM
Mattie sat on the weathered oak stump in the forest glade, one leg swinging idly. The morning sun filtered through the canopy above, dappling the clearing with shifting patterns of light and shadow. Beside him lay a tattered leather bag, its contents a mystery save for the occasional metallic clink when he nudged it with his foot.
The peaceful solitude of the glade was shattered by the sound of young voices – laughing, arguing, rustling through undergrowth with all the subtlety of a charging boar. Mattie shook his head, amused at their cacophonous approach. A pair of wood pigeons burst from a nearby hazel thicket, startled into flight. Moments later, a fox slipped silently away through the ferns.
“Half the forest knows you’re coming,” Mattie murmured to himself, a smile playing at his lips. “The Normans would hear you from Eochaill.”
The voices grew louder; through the trees he caught glimpses of movement: a flash of dark hair, the swing of a walking stick, the brown of a woollen cloak.
They tumbled into the clearing like puppies, four of them in total – two young men and two young women. Less than Mattie had expected, but he kept his expression neutral, merely raising an eyebrow as they gradually fell silent, noticing his presence.
Cormac stepped forward, unconsciously mimicking Mattie’s stance. “Hi Mattie, you called and here we are.” He said with a flourish.
“So I gathered,” Mattie replied drily. “Along with every bird, beast, and Norman spy within half a day’s walk, I’d wager.”
The young people exchanged uncertain glances. Dónal, tall and confident despite his seventeen years, crossed his arms defensively. “Or we have frightened every Norman back to Eochaill.”
Mattie rose from the stump, surveying the assembly before him. Besides his niece and nephew and Taoiseach Maonlaoí’s nephew Dónal, he recognised the Sorcha, the blacksmith’s daughter.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked, pacing slowly before them.
“Cormac said it was important,” offered Sorcha. “Something about defending the clan.”
“And you all came, just like that? No questions asked?” Mattie stopped his pacing, studying their faces.
“We’ve been training already,” Caitlín said proudly. “On our own. Since they came at Christmas.” She added, referring to the fight that took place outside the Church when a friar, Norman knight and men at arms came attempting to capture Máiréad.
This caught Mattie by surprise, though he was careful not to show it. “Have you indeed? And what sort of training would that be?”
The young people glanced at each other, a silent communication passing between them. It was Dónal who finally spoke. “Show him.”
Without further prompting, they moved into what was clearly a practised formation. Spaced evenly with makeshift weapons at the ready; wooden staves, one crude bow.
“Impressive,” Mattie acknowledged, walking around them, noting their stances. “Who taught you this?”
“No one,” Dónal said. “We figured it out ourselves from the old lore.”
“Someone has to be ready,” Cormac added. “I warned you all that the Normans would attack at Christmas and you all ignored him.” He spoke accusingly at Mattie, who winced inwardly at the truth of his nephew’s statement.
Mattie nodded slowly, reassessing his approach. These weren’t just untrained children to be moulded, but young people who had already taken initiative. It changed everything – and nothing.
“Your formation is good for show,” he said finally, reaching for the tattered bag at his feet. “But it would get you killed in an actual fight.”
Their faces fell, confusion and disappointment clear. Mattie didn’t give them time to respond. He upended the bag, spilling its contents onto the forest floor with a clatter – a collection of smooth stones, small leather pouches, and what appeared to be scraps of fabric.
“Today, you begin learning the true way of the Ceithern,” Mattie announced, his usual lightheartedness giving way to unexpected gravity. “Not the way of standing armies or Norman knights. We don’t fight the Norman way, because that is what they want, and that is how they win. We are ghosts; remember that; We are Taibhsí Ó Fearghusa“
He fixed them with an intense gaze rarely seen beneath his typically carefree demeanour. “Your first lesson begins now. And it’s the most important one you’ll ever learn.”
Mattie gestured to the path they had taken into the clearing, where broken branches and trampled undergrowth marked their passing like a signal fire.
“How not to be seen.”
Caitlín stepped forward, studying the trail of destruction they had left. “We were careless,” she admitted, frowning at the obvious signs of their passage.
“Worse than careless,” Mattie corrected. “You were obvious. In a real conflict, obvious means dead.”
He bent down and picked up one of the smooth stones from the pile. “The Normans have their heavy armour, their warhorses, their long swords. We can’t match them in open battle – but we don’t need to.”
With a flick of his wrist, Mattie sent the stone sailing into the trees. There was a soft thud, followed by the rustle of leaves as something fell.
“A well-placed stone can unhorse a knight,” he continued. “A hidden snare can lame a warhorse. A whisper carried to the right ears can turn enemies against each other.” He looked at each of their faces in turn. “But first, you must be as if you were never there at all.”
“Like ghosts,” Cormac murmured, understanding dawning in his eyes.
“Exactly like ghosts,” Mattie nodded approvingly. “Unseen, unheard, but felt. Feared.”
Dónal straightened, a new intensity in his bearing. “Taibhsí,” he said, the Irish word for ghosts rolling off his tongue with solemn weight.
The word passed through the group in whispers – “Taibhsí… Taibhsí…” – until it seemed to hang in the surrounding air, an identity forming, a purpose crystallising.
Caitlín’s eyes gleamed with fierce determination. “We will be Taibhsí. We’ll leave no trace, make no sound. They won’t know we’re there until it’s too late.”
“And when they look,” added Sorcha, her voice soft but steady, “we’ll be gone.”
Mattie studied them, seeing the transformation already beginning. Children had entered this clearing; something else entirely stood before him now – the embryo of a fighting force unlike anything the Normans had faced.
“Taibhsí,” he repeated, tasting the word, approving of its sound, its meaning, its power. “A fitting name for what you will become. But the path from here to there will not be easy.”
He gestured to the items scattered on the ground. “These are your first tools – not weapons, but the means to move unseen. The stones for distraction, the pouches for carrying what you need, the fabric for disguising yourselves against tree and earth.”
Mattie pointed to the edge of the clearing. “Your first task is simple. Return to the clachán without being seen or heard – by anyone. Leave no trail that I can follow. Move as Taibhsí would move.”
“And if we fail?” asked one of the boys.
Mattie’s smile returned, though there was an edge to it now. “The next lessons will be twice as difficult.” He settled back onto his stump, crossing his arms. “Go now. Become ghosts.”
The young people gathered the items from the ground, distributing them quietly among themselves. A new seriousness had fallen over them, a purpose that transformed their earlier raucousness into focused intent.
As they prepared to leave, Mattie called out one final instruction: “Bígí arais anseo Dé Luain”. Remember, from this moment forward, what happens in the forest stays in the forest. The Taibhsí exist in shadow, not in fireside tales.”
They nodded their understanding, and then, with surprising coordination, melted away into the trees; not as the boisterous group that had arrived, but with deliberate care, already mindful of their footfalls and the traces they might leave.
Mattie remained on his stump, listening as their presence faded into the ambient sounds of the forest. They were still far from silent, but they were learning. He smiled to himself, satisfied with this beginning.
“Taibhsí,” he murmured, enjoying the irony. The ghosts who would haunt Norman nightmares were flesh and blood, sons and daughters of the clan – the very same young people his brother Fionn planned to set to clearing fields.
The storm brewing between those competing needs would break soon enough. But for now, Mattie was content to have laid the foundations of something that might just save them all, if given the chance to grow.
He rose from the stump and began erasing the signs of their meeting. A true teacher of ghosts, after all, should leave no trace of his own.
Ciaran Leamy - Author 