“Well, everyone knows where the so-called Jewel of Ulaid came from. It was looted in a raid on Mercia led by Righ Aed Allan, nine centuries ago, after the original Jewel of Ulaid was hurled into Lough Neagh by the defeated Righ Cathussach, just before Aed Allan caught up to him, killed him, and took his throne. Of course, where the Sassenachs came by such a diamond is probably a long and most entertaining saga . . . did any one of the filid but know its verses to sing.
“Getting it into this tray promises to be a very sticky, messy business, for it is said by those who know that Righ Conan, by-blow of a bastard Ui Neill, who has begun to style himself and his low, dishonored house Mac Dallain, has had the stone reset in a golden ring that he never removes at any time or for any purpose from his left thumb, having bruited it widely about that on the day he does remove the ring, he will cease at that moment to be righ and his life will be forfeit. So I know better than to ask him for the loan of his Jewel.”
Brian leaned the full weight of his big-boned, muscle-rippling body upon the arms of the stool and stared down at the tray with its two Jewels and five yawning cavities. At long last, he spoke again. “I’d have to have a larger tray fashioned for me, of course, but for such a prize, I’d do that much and far, far more, and right willingly, too. It’s been often described to me and I even own sketches and one full-color oil painting of it, but what pale thrills the painting, in all its true beauty, must be compared to seeing, holding, the real thing.
“The Jewel of Great Eireann. There, across the ocean, I understand that it’s called by the name of St. Brendan’s Plate, but in Connacht, they call it the Emerald of the West. That disk is a foot or more in diameter, and those who’ve seen it say that it’s near as thick as is my smallest finger. But it’s not pure gold, it’s something they call white gold, though it contains no silver, it’s sworn, rather some strange other metal peculiar to those lands that though colored like silver is much harder and more difficult to melt for alloying or for casting. That rare oddity alone would be enough of a marvel, but those stones, now. . . .
“Just within the rim of the plate is set a close-packed circle of small emeralds alternated with small yellowish pearls. A finger-width of space toward the center is another circle of the yellow pearls and sapphires, then, inside that circle, another one of opals and shiny jet-black stones. The next circle is of more slightly larger opals alternated with an opaque, whitish stone streaked irregularly with a bright green. The innermost circle is entirely composed of pearls—round, black ones and tear-shaped, bright orange ones. Inside that last circle is the Emerald itself, clear, dark-green, and large as a hen’s egg.
“That fabulous plate is meant to be worn upon the breast, and each golden link in the chains is covered by a small red-gold disk, and in the center of each disk is set a tiny replica of the Great Emerald, each one identically shaped, each just as clear, each of exactly the same color.
“I wonder if, by a holy miracle of God. I’ll ever actually see that plate, hold it in my two hands? Only God or one of His holy instruments could bring such to pass, I fear, and I am a sinful man.”
His Grace Sir Bass Foster, Duke of Norfolk, Earl of Rutland. Markgraf von Velegrad, Baron of Strathtyne, et cetera, was just then thanking God that he had been blessed with a capable, intelligent, and. above all willing and seemingly tireless staff. After being exposed to the endless lists of minutia involved with transporting him, his staff, his squires and servants and theirs, his squadron of galloglaiches. their mounts, his, his staffs, and all of the squires’ and servants’, plus all the weapons, armor, firearms, clothing, equipment, food and drink, tents, bedding, necessary wheeled transport, and mules to draw them, he was very relieved that he was not in it all alone.
He recalled the early days of the war against the Crusaders, when he was a mere captain of cavalry and all of his possessions could be borne about in a single footlocker. Now, his field necessaries alone—and stripped to what his servants swore on the Rood was the barest of essentials, at that—required four waggons or large wains, plus six or eight pack animals, nor could he blame his servants for misjudging needful items or quantities thereof, for the most of the men all were former servants of noblemen killed in the wars, had been on many a protracted campaign with King Arthur’s army, and presumably gave only good counsel.
Following a protracted, in-detail conference between his staff, his shipmasters, and his military leaders, with Sir Paul Bigod’s secretary sitting in and Colonel Sir Richard Cromwell representing the king, it had been decided that the squadron and the trains, the spare mounts and draft animals, Bass, and at least half of his staff would march cross-country from Norwich to Liverpool, there to be met by the duke’s personal fleet, plus as many horse barges as their staff deemed necessary. They would enship at and embark from Liverpool, sailing directly to Liffeymouth, where the beasts would be swum ashore, then to the Port of Dublin, where the troops and goods would be disembarked.
In a private meeting after the conclusion of the conference, Sir Richard had remarked, “Your Grace would, I know, enjoy a shorter and more comfortable trip around to Liverpool did he sail there aboard one of his fine big ships, I know well. But there is the matter of his squadron to consider, to be on the march through a peaceful countryside. Your grace has proven abilities to control those galloglaiches—indeed, to see the way that those murderous miscreants worship Your Grace is almost to be witness to idolatry—therefore, I am certain that His Highness would be quick to concur that the master must ride with his hounds, lest there be some regrettable occurrences involving Englishmen and their goods during the course of the march west from Norwich Castle.”
“Which is a polite, roundabout way of saying, my friend,” thought Bass, while Sir Richard sipped at his wine, “that my sovereign lord Arthur III Tudor, King of England and Wales, highly values the combat abilities of these galloglaiches I seem to have inherited, but doesn’t trust them any farther than he could throw my destrier. Oh, hell, Arthur and Cromwell are both right, though, stone-cold sober, the most of the squadron are more dangerous to noncombatants or men of other friendly units than any other group I’ve seen or heard of on either world—cold-blooded murder, rape, arson, robbery of every type and nature, lightheaded torture and maimings, sacrilege, these all would be everyday diversions for them, were they given their heads; and drunk, they’re worse, if possible; drunk, they start attacking each other.
“But not for me, for some reason, be they drunk or sober—I seem to be completely safe from them, even if I’ve apprehended them in misdeeds and am in the very process of disciplining them. I’ve never had so much as one of them raise a hand to me, my gentleman, or their Irish officers. So I guess if anyone can prevent them from doing to the English countryside what Sherman did to Georgia, it’s got to be me.”
Then, a bare three weeks prior to his planned day of departure for the march westward, with Sir Colum, his squires, one of Cromwell’s captains, and some members of Bass’s staff already out reconnoitering the projected line-of-march, Carey Carr stopped off at Norwich Castle on his journey to Greenwich with word that the Archbishop. Harold of York, would like to speak with him at some time prior to his leaving for Ireland.
Lacking either the time or the energy for the hard, often long trip by road or the harder, though shorter, overland hellride, Bass, with Sir Ali—just returned from a pilgrimage to the Shrine of St. Thomas d Becket—Don Diego— also just back from a trip of a personal nature, having to do. he solemnly averred, with the good of his soul—and a handful of bodyguards and servants, boarded one of the smaller ships of his peronsal fleet, sailed up to Hull, there borrowed horses from the resident royal garrison, and rode from there to York. That ride, on the long, narrow, rutted and holed bogs that passed for roads, took longer than had the ship passage up from Norfolk. The only thing that Bass was really looking forward to in Ireland was that folk all said that the Irish roads were mostly far superior to those of England or Wales.