March 8th, 1180 AD-
Fáelán mac Lochlainn set about gathering his meager possession from his small farm, situated just a mile or so from Cork. For months, rumors and whispers of war had been gathering like a storm. One due to erupt without warning.
“Da?”, a child's voice called.
Silence answered the boy's attempt to get his father's attention.
“Papa, are you listenin' to me?” he asked.
Again silence, though now a smirk had bent Fáelán's lips into a gentle curve as he continued to pack provisions.
“Sometimes I think our son is more of an adult than yourself, Fáelán mac Lochlainn. Can't ya see he's worried?”
Fáelán turned to the boy and called him over.
“What's the matter boy?” a simple question.
“Where are you going?”
“Well, I am off to fight. To help the King fight off these greedy noble bastards who think they are better suited to rule, and the good Lord knows that if I'm not there, we'll surely fail.”
Again, the simple smirk was upon his face while the eyes of the wife rolled and the son laughed. Such was Fáelán's gift, able to unburden the heaviest of hearts by offering a reprieve into laughter. Now at ease, the boy left his father's side and went about his chores while a simple stew was tended to by the mother.
March 10th, 1180 AD-
The family of three gathered upon the road which led to Cork, and the rest of the Army, which had been gathering for a month or so. Embraces and kisses were shared between the family as a borrowed horse danced softly to the side.
“Don't you worry none love, I'll be back before you know it. In fact, knowing you, you'd say I wasn't gone nearly long enough!”
Dearbhorgaill inghean Fhearchair smiled and gave her husband one last kiss upon his cheek as he climbed up into the saddle.
“And remember! God is good, but never dance in a small boat!”
Dearbhorgaill inghean Fhearchair and her son Cúán mac Fáelán watched as he vanished over the small rise, and off to fight in what had been called The Noble War.
January 24th, 1181 AD-
Winter had come and was on it's way out, and still men and boys continued to bolster the ranks of High King Toirdhealbach's armies. Fáelán mac Lochlainn had been trained as a Finadi, as were most men who had come to the call of their King. Fáelán had joined the Army under the command of Tanaiste Muircheartach, the Heir-Elect.
Pride filled those men in this small Army of four companies, and word was that once the snow was fully gone, they would be marching east to meet one Lord Brian, one of the rebel noble leaders.
“Ye boys ready?” the Finadi Captian, Fothud ÓDiarmait asked.
They gathered their small force just outside the walls of Cork, waiting for winter to end, eagerness shining bright in their eyes.
February 19th 1181 AD-
As quick as a hare, the company of Finadi had been tasked with scouting east of the city, observing the movements of Lord Brian and his men. Their numbers were still a speculation, despite the scouting parties, but due to the cold and a bitter snowfall several nights prior, soldiers on both sides had decided to hold up and wait.
Fáelán had been away from his home, which was not very far away, for nearly a year and had not yet experienced combat. No one had. Idle hands, they say only lead to trouble. Impatience and boredom, coupled with the cold weather slowly eroded the excitement felt by the men only a few months before.
Those in command could see the change, and so found tasks to keep the occupied. They marched, they helped fortify the walls, anything to keep their minds busy.
May 1st, 1181 AD-
Spring was ushered in with many gleeful cheers and praises. Not solely by soldiers, but everyone. The ground was soft, and it was time to start planting.
Fáelán dug his fingers into the soft, sponge-like earth and drew up a handful of rich dirt, which he smelled. By now his son would be out in the fields, planting the food which would sustain his family for the year, with little to spare which might be sold in town.
“Fáelán! Fáelán mac Lochlainn!”
The man looked up from the black soil to the source of the voice and saw a man on horse approaching him. He was clad in garments and armor far more luxurious than his own, though saw that he was not in good health. He was gaunt, suffering from illness brought on by the cold. This was the Heir-Elect, addressing him personally.
“Sire!” Fáelán exclaimed as he bowed and crossed an arm across his chest in salute.
Fáelán had applied himself diligently to his craft, which was now soldier, and had caught the attention of Tanaiste Muircheartach. He had proven to be adept at moving unseen during the course of the various scouting missions.
“As you were, mac Lochlainn,” he said as he slid slowly from his mount and approached.
“You haven't seen Captian Diarmait anywhere by chance?”
Fáelán shook his head while keeping his eyes to the ground.
“No sire, I have not,” he replied.
“Look at me please, I'm not going to bite,” the future King said.
Looking upwards, he was met with a soft smile.
“Where the Captain is isn't important, because he is no longer Captain. You are. Get your men ready, we're on the march.”
May 5th, 1181 AD-
The Battle of Midleton
The Battle at Midleton was the first test of the Heir-Elect. His father, the High King of Ireland had tasked him with driving Lord Brian from the county, and he accepted without hesitation.
Six companies, five-hundred men marched east towards Lord Brian's army, eager and ready to punish those foolish enough to side with rebels.
The men were deployed along the breadth of the battlefield, waiting as Lord Brian advanced his men forward, archers in the lead.
“Spread out boys, and be watchful or you'll be ending up a pin cushion!” Fáelán shouted to his Finadi, who obeyed.
Several were struck down quickly, while the rest escaped the first volley. He waited, and as the strings of the bowmen were drawn the Finadi were ordered forward, along with the rest of the companies, meeting their foe head on. They thought they had them.
The tide changed in the blink of an eye, one company was already routing, and fear spread quickly through the men. A disease, causing them to waver. A second company dropped their weapons and ran, many cut down by Lord Brian's cavalry or arrows. Several of Fáelán's own turned to run.
“Cowards! Take up your arms or Lord help me I will kill you myself! I will not stand for a coward in my company!”
An arrow pierced the Captain's shoulder and a blade came for his neck as he attempted to inspire the men back into the fight. Anger flowed through Fáelán, and the enemy intent on decapitating him was met with a javelin up through the jaw. He wasn't quitting, and it was this that gave his men courage.
Half of an hour passed, two units had fled, one had been wiped out completely. Fáelán looked on saw Tanaiste Muircheartach running in his direction.
“Fall back to Cork, Captain, the Almighty has decided we are not to be victorious this day. Fall back!”
The order was obeyed, and of the seventy-six men under him, ten remained. It was a crushing defeat, one which in the future would be the motivation to win.
Of the five-hundred men sent to dispatch the rebel leader, only thirty-two walked through the gates of Cork, none unscathed.
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The Devil At Your Doorstep - An Irish AAR(Updated)
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Will be interesting to see how it goes.
