Encroachment
Corradovar village lay before the strangers, neatly tucked into a gap between the luscious forests and the lake whose waves gently lapped upon the shore. The villagers had laid out fields of barley at every available opening as a protective barrier against starvation. Cows roamed freely and grazed on the delicious grass with a profusion of young calves to support the healthy herd. Pigs poked around the periphery of the village and searched the nooks and crannies of the palisade and the gnarled and knotted roots of the trees on the shore of the lake for any morsels of food they could find. The village had thrived under several years of peace. However, the scars of raiding scratched the surface of the prosperous facade, as testified further up the lake shore by the blackened soil of burnt crops. The lead stranger smiled. He had his leverage.
Out in the fields a boy called Eunan Maguire was roaming with his Irish wolfhound, Artair. A striking lad of muscular build, Eunan energetically threw a stick for his dog and when Artair returned it he showed how well he had been named by the boy’s father, for he was like a bear compared to the thirteen-year-old. The dog’s grey coat appeared matted, for he loved nothing more than swimming in the multitude of lakes around the village or lying in the mud outside Eunan’s house along the shore. Eunan could never work out his dog’s obsession with mud, and when he indulged Artair with a mud bath, his father would reward him with a good clip around the ear. But Eunan was fast gaining on Artair’s athleticism as he chased his dog through the fields and low hills at the perimeter of his village.
Now Artair froze, forgetting about his stick, and through his exposed teeth came a blood-curdling growl. Eunan ducked behind his dog. Between the tufts of fur on Artair’s back as the dog’s spine shook to his guttural growl, Eunan saw the cart and the two strangers who had come from the direction of the Pale stand up on the driver’s seat and observe his village. He stooped behind a tree to spy on them and saw the sun glint off something metallic hanging from one man’s belt. Eunan took to his heels and ran all the way back to the village screaming, “The English are coming! The English are coming!” at the top of his voice.
He ran through the centre of the village to his father, who was warming himself by a fire at the lakeside beside his house. His father was making jokes with men from the village who sat with him before they had their evening dip in the lake to clean off the dust and mud from working in the fields all day. The boy stopped and stood in silence as his dog bounded onwards, for his father looked jovial and at peace. He was here to ruin his father’s day again. But his father could not miss the flash of his son’s red hair or his giant dog bounding through the village, even if he could ignore him screaming his head off.
“What do you want, boy? Save us from your infernal racket!”
“Father, father! Strangers are here! Englishmen with a cart full of grain! I think they are armed.”
His father scowled and repaid the boy’s diligence with a clip round the ear.
“Go see where they are and be quick about it, boy!” he replied. “I suggest the rest of you come with me and see these visitors off!”
The two men and their cart entered the outskirts of the village and smirked at the fear their appearance brought out on the faces of the locals. After clearing a path for the strangers, the villagers gave directions to the shoreline and the chieftain’s house. The men of the village came out from behind the stone and thatch buildings and surrounded the cart. They signalled for the men to get down. They escorted the Englishmen into Eunan’s father’s presence and stayed in case they had invited in assassins. The strangers bowed.
“My name is Peter Squire, originally of Leicester,” said the larger of the two men, “and this is my friend, John Brodie of Liverpool, but we now live pleasantly in the Pale. We bring you greetings from Queen Elizabeth and her Lord Deputy in Dublin and a cart full of goods and grains from Dublin port.” He was paunchy, a little weather-beaten, with a tan from sitting exposed on his cart in the summer sun. Eunan’s father stood forward.
“I am Cathal O’Keenan Maguire,” he said, his face as friendly as granite. “I am the chieftain of this village and the surrounding countryside. Sit, eat, and drink, but you’ll find no business here. It is harvest time, and I am expecting the men from the Maguire to collect their dues any day now. If they catch you here, it’ll mean your death. Your deaths will mean my lands full of Galloglass until I can fill the Maguire’s pockets with enough reassurance of coin that I am loyal. If that fails, I’ll have to send him the first male born of the finest men in the village to persuade him of my loyalty. As time is short, excuse my bluntness, but why are you here, and what have you got to offer me?”
“The protection of the Crown and an army far more powerful than all the Gaelic lords can put together!” replied Peter Squire.
“As much as I wish the world outside the boundaries of my village would not come and bother me, I know it will never happen,” replied Cathal. “Now no disrespect to your Queen, your Lord Deputy or whoever. The Maguire is my kin, and it is to him I pledge my loyalty. If you want to play politics, go play it with him.”
Peter Squire smiled and pointed to the large log seats that created a circle for the men to sit around the fire.
“May I?”
“If you must,” said Cathal. He rubbed the back of his neck with such aggression it turned red. But Cathal sat also, so as not to appear rude.
“We come to offer you that peaceful life you seek, free of all the inter-clan warfare,” said Peter. “We come with the offer of lands and titles supported by the Crown. Your son can inherit your title and your lands. You can pay a nominal rent to the Crown and owe no loyalty, duty or warriors to a chieftain who imprisons your children and forces them to fight to extend their power. You can have the protection of Connor Roe Maguire and live a life of peace.”
Cathal swayed from side to side, as if the battle in his brain had unconsciously manifested itself in his body movements.
“I want peace,” said Cathal, “but fear it will not come in the way you suggest. You want to side with one Maguire against another. I will be the pips squeezed and squashed on the floor when the winner grips his prize. Connor Roe Maguire has offered me better terms for my loyalty, and he is the lord of the closer branch of the Maguire clan. But as soon as I make a move against Cúchonnacht, my rival for control of the village, Michael O’Flanagan, will be straight to the Maguire to usurp me!”
Peter ignored his protests, for they were all the same from village to village.
“There will be no prize and no squeezing when the Crown gets its way. There will be no clan wars, no retributions. You will all be landed gentry, not interfering with one another, everyone minding their own business, bringing their produce to a central market and getting predictable, consistent prices, all under the protection of the Crown. You want to be on the right side of this war, which is coming whether you look over the top of your hill or not.”
Peter contemplated the reaction on Cathal’s face, which was a scowl of confusion.
“The Crown is weak in this part of the country.” Cathal stuck his hands out as if they were weighing scales for the pros and cons of the argument. “Cúchonnacht Maguire keeps the peace through his political skill while the old lords of Ulster slog it out for supremacy. That is why we have peace, not because of the Crown. As I have said before, sort out what you want with Cúchonnacht and don’t drag my villagers and me into it.”
Peter sat forward, for he realised the time to make his point was growing short.
“The Crown is coming to assert herself on her lands of Ireland once more. Look at the O’Reillys to the south. Have they not been quiet since they surrendered their lands back to the Queen and were regranted them with English titles? Hasn’t the raiding stopped? Surely it is best to be on the winning side?”
“I’ll be long dead before your Queen does any winning,” said Cathal, growing tired of the same regurgitated arguments. Peter saw he had to take another tack.
“I’m sorry you have so little faith in the Crown. However, we have brought you a gift of wheat seed as a declaration of goodwill from the Queen. You have no wheat, and this is merely the first down payment from your mutually beneficial relationship with the Crown.”
“And how does the Crown assert herself in Fermanagh exactly?” said Cathal as he turned and signalled to his men.
“Through Connor Roe Maguire and your support for him.” Peter smiled to assure him.
“I cannot support Connor Roe now. He is weak, and Cúchonnacht Maguire is strong and supported by the O’Neill clan. Now leave before you get me in trouble, and Cúchonnacht replaces me with a more pliant chieftain.” At Cathal’s gesture his men surrounded their guests.
“Thank you for hearing us out and please have the grain seed as a gift from the Crown, as a reward for being a loyal subject,” said Peter. He rapidly looked around to ensure he was still safe before making a last plea to Cathal. But Cathal cut him off.
“Leave the grain and come back when Cúchonnacht is old and frail, which I fear will not be too long.” Cathal pointed towards the Pale and bowed his head so as not to look upon his guests anymore.
“So we have your support if Connor Roe was ever to put himself forward to become the Maguire?”
“If those circumstances were ever to arise, then Connor Roe would be my favoured candidate.” Cathal walked towards the Englishmen to force them to leave.
“Then we bid you farewell.”
Cathal gave a sarcastic smile and instructed his men to unload the wheat seed, and the strangers departed with an empty cart.
***
Several days later, Cúchonnacht Maguire’s men rode past freshly hoed fields filled with the precious wheat seed as they made their way to the village. They came with empty carts to fill with their dues of barley. But behind them another wagon rattled along the dirt road, this one filled with prisoners. They were greeted with less distrust than was reserved for the Englishmen, for most strangers brought trouble with them these days. The men stopped their carts in the centre of the village and sent for Cathal O’Keenan Maguire. Cathal’s men went to the stores to fetch the sacks of barley they had set aside from the harvest. Cathal conjured an air of congeniality within himself, despite his feelings, as he strode down to meet the men. They greeted him with the grinning faces of ambitious youth – the worst kind for a job like this.
“Not travelling via boat this summer?” said Cathal. He pointed to the lake to emphasise his point and flashed a smile to create a good first impression.
“Not everyone has the fortune to live by a lake,” said the young Galloglass constable. “Some chieftains are paying with cattle, and we have to drive them overland. A much longer and arduous trip for me this year.” He was a young man barely in his twenties who stood wide-legged with his hands on his hips for he thought it would convey authority. Cathal’s smile did not falter, for he wished to end this encounter with the least aggravation in the shortest period.
“I trust all is in order and you have received twenty per cent of our crop as agreed?” said Cathal. He waved his arms towards the two full carts to show their abundance. The young man was having none of it and was determined to show who was in charge.
“I have looked in your stores, and I will take your word, for what it’s worth, that you have paid in full,” he replied.
“What do you mean ‘for what it’s worth’? You are addressing a Maguire chieftain, not some mercenary lackey you can throw a couple of coins at for his obedience!” Cathal’s patience had quickly evaporated, for even though the crop had been poor for several years in a row, the Maguire had not lessened his demands in accordance. The young man smirked and swaggered over to Cathal to assert himself.
“You, sir, are addressing Donal MacCabe, the recently promoted Galloglass constable and enforcer for Cúchonnacht Maguire in these parts. Let me assure you, I know who I am addressing. While we collect dues, we are also searching for disloyal chieftains, ones who take a fancy to the English coin, seed or presents of Connor Roe’s cattle.
“We noticed on our way in you had planted a new crop, straight after harvesting the other one. Now I said to my men, I can’t remember you planting so many crops when I was here six months ago, or a year ago! How did dear Cathal come into such good fortune to plant a second crop? Was it all the protection the MacCabes gave him to save him from being raided by the O’Reillys? Well, yes, and that is partly why the Maguire gets his twenty per cent, thank you very much. But if Cathal O’Keenan Maguire is doing so well, surely he should contribute more? Since I have recently been promoted, surely I should try to impress the Maguire and increase his yield from this area, and we’ll all get rich together? Wouldn’t that be nice? But the Maguire wouldn’t like me taxing loyal subjects too much, so I thought twenty per cent was just fine for everyone. That is until I discovered this!”
Donal clicked his fingers, and his men threw Peter Squire and John Brodie off the back of the prisoners’ cart and onto the ground. Donal’s men kicked out the Englishmen’s knees and made them kneel before Donal and Cathal. They looked almost apologetic as they raised their eyes towards Cathal.
“These two confessed to giving you the Queen’s wheat,” said Donal. The judgement of Donal’s index finger hovered above the prisoners’ heads. Donal then returned his attentions to Cathal enjoying the feeling of power of holding the chieftain, his village and these vagabond English merchants all to ransom. “Now we like to know where everybody stands. It keeps everything nice and simple. These people support the clan and the Maguire. These people should piss off back to the Pale and the English where they belong.” Donal moved his hands to indicate where boxes should be placed on different carts. But the judgemental index finger returned and circled the two Englishmen kneeling before him. “Now, these two, where do they belong? I’d say in the middle of a dark wood with their throats slit by robbers trying to steal their wheat seed.” He turned once more to Cathal. “But you? I don’t know where you stand. Do you support the Maguire? Will you sell him out if the price is right? But in your favour, you have an abundance of crops, more than enough for you and your villagers. The Maguire needs loyal servants in this area and to protect his interests from Connor Roe and his English masters. So it may be in everyone’s interests that the Maguire looks upon you favourably, exercises a bit of forgiveness, and takes you back into the fold. The best way for you to show loyalty and to repay the Maguire’s generous offer is to extend coign and livery to a troop of Maguire Galloglass and have them live here with you. What do you say to that?”
Cathal went pale.
“No!” said Cathal. “I mean, we have only had one good crop and are surely too far away from the county borders for the Maguire to base any Galloglass here! The O’Reilly raids have died down! We would be more than willing to make a greater contribution to the Maguire if that should meet his needs?” He panicked and pointed at the stores as an invitation for Donal to take more barley if he wished. Donal gave Cathal an evil grin, for now he knew his weakness, what he was really afraid of.
“Here is a perfectly fine place for my master’s Galloglass,” he said, relishing Cathal’s discomfort. “Please do all you need to make them feel welcome. Maybe they could replace the children that your disloyalty made us take? Nevertheless, they will be with you in due course.”
“Take whatever crops you wish,” begged Cathal. “I’m a loyal subject to the Maguire. I’m a loyal subject!”
Donal laughed as he ordered his men to throw the Englishmen back on the cart so they could meet their destiny in a wood in the O’Reilly lands.
Cathal gasped for breath as he felt his control slipping away, and his disgruntled villagers filed back to their homes.
