“Let’s seize this monastery and shuttle water back to the company,” said Robert. “Is the heather still in my hair?”
“That enchantment only hides you from Sidhe and won’t work here. Besides, we can’t capture this monastery, as Celtic monks are often armed, and we don’t know how many there are. We’ll just quietly slip in and take what water we can carry.”
At that moment a young woman bearing a wooden tub walked out of the smallest building and over to the well. Singing softly along with the drifting music, she unlaced her dress, slipped the top off her shoulders, and rolled it down to her waist. She filled her tub from the shallow well, set it on the stone ring, bent forward, and began washing her long black hair.
Music from the old sanctuary fell away, chanting rose in its place. “We must be quick,” whispered Diarmait. “They’ve started the Sext prayers, and they don’t last long. Careful, though, there may be a watch in the tower.”
“I’ll cover the tower,” said Robert, fitting an arrow into his bow. “You three”—he indicated the soldiers carrying two buckets each—“to the well. If it won’t let you draw water, make the woman do it. Diarmait, you stay with me, and as soon as we have the water, lead us back to our camp. Go now.”
The three men ran to the outer wall, paused, and then looped through the opening, quietly approaching the distracted woman from behind. Before they reached her, a monk leaned out from the tower’s highest window, shouting a warning. The woman looked up just as one of the men seized her, pressing his dagger to her throat.
Robert stood and loosed an arrow at the monk. It clattered against the suddenly vacant windowsill. An alarm bell began to clang from the tower. The soldier’s grip on the woman slipped on her wet skin as she tried to spin away, but her footing failed in the mud and she fell, sliding her neck along the dagger, severing an artery.
The soldiers stared down at the woman as her life flowed out onto the ground, as did a cluster of monks now congregated outside the doorway of the old sanctuary. One, wearing a blue robe with a cream sash around his neck, stepped forward and pulled an iron bell from a leather pouch on his belt.
Diarmait grabbed Robert and yanked him down behind the hedge. “The Blood Bell,” he hissed. “That’s Patrick.”
Patrick rang the Bell at the soldiers who turned to run, but blood was already flowing from their ears, eyes, and mouths. They fell before they passed the outer wall. Diarmait and Robert fled, crouching low out of sight, back toward the woods.
Diarmait and Robert’s return without water and without their men further disheartened the company. They had no food left for a meal that night. In the dawn more men were missing. The only sign of them, other than trails of blood, was Diarmait’s head in the wooden tub that had belonged to the young woman whom they had killed the day before, an Irish cross branded into his forehead.
Robert sat, his back against a tree, as the sun rose, vacant eyes staring into the woods, waiting. A battle horn sounded in the distance, then a second, a third. More followed. As the sound built, Strongbow called to him, “Get the men up. The end is here.”
Robert slowly rose to his feet. He struck the shoulder of one of his remaining men with the flat of his sword. “Get up, all of you. Do you want to die sitting here or die with a sword in your hand? I don’t care how tired and thirsty you are. If you want relief, follow me and you’ll soon find relief in heaven.” None of the men moved. “Or stay here and find out what the Sidhe will do to you.” Men began to stand and gather their meager supplies.
“Leave everything but your weapons,” said Strongbow. “You’ll have no need for the rest.”
They had to walk for only a quarter hour before they entered a meadow. The Celtic force waiting on the far side began to laugh. Many mounted Celts made a show of falling off their horses and rolling around on the ground. Others, on foot, sheathed their swords and lounged on the grass. Some of the female warriors exposed their breasts while calling out to the Normans, asking if they needed milk. On horses in front of the Celtic army sat the same two young women that Robert had glimpsed on the rock before the flagship sank—the newly enthroned Morrígna twins of that time.
“Archers,” croaked Strongbow through parched lips.
“All of the bowstrings were cut last night,” Robert replied.
“Men, this is the end of your suffering. Gather any strength you have left—we charge to our death.” Strongbow tried to put some force behind his voice but failed. Still, the last of his men began to advance at a determined, if slow, pace, though no one would consider it a charge.
“That charge calls for one of our own. Send the dancers!” shouted one of the Morrígna twins. A large group of women detached from the Celts. They were not dressed as warriors. In their hands each held three or four darts that were smaller than spears, more like very long arrows. The women curtsied to the Celtic warriors, who bowed in return and then began to sing. The women spun their skirts and danced toward the Normans. Staying just outside the reach of Norman swords, they danced and spun and hurled their darts.
Normans began to stumble with a dart in their leg or arm or shoulder. Only a few died when a dart caught a throat or a chest—killing someone with a dart opened up the thrower to ridicule back in camp. With his men falling around him and a dart in his own thigh, Strongbow tossed his sword away and went down on one knee.
. . . . .
Eight days later, in a field adjoining the Leinster capital city of Fearna, scores of children sat on the top rails of newly erected pens and watched as the thirteen dozen survivors of Strongbow’s invading army were sorted by the skills they plied when they were not fighting: carpenters, blacksmiths, masons, fletchers, and cobblers, though most ended up in the general labor pen. From these pens they were led twenty at a time to the slave market and auctioned off. There was little resistance from the men; they had been relieved to discover that in Ireland most slaves earned their freedom.
Strongbow was penned with Robert and a handful of men who could read and write Latin, along with one musician who demonstrated his skill with a flute. Their sale would be the highlight of the day’s festivities, which had a distinctively carnival feel. The auction master had been hoping for a poet, but none stepped forward.
When their time came, the men in Strongbow’s group, like the others, were required to remove their clothing before being led into the yard of the slave market. Their hands were bound behind them to a ring in one of the many short posts dotting the auction ground. Interested buyers strolled among them, inspecting the wares, writing their bids in blue paint on a particular slave’s chest, crossing out any previous bid.
Aoife was interested. The only daughter of Tigernan Ua Ruairc, the current king of Leinster, she had heard of Strongbow’s abnormality. As she walked into the market, she could hear the slave crier: “The Earl of Pembroke! Come see why they call him Strongbow!” A large crowd had gathered to do just that, talking excitedly among themselves. “Buy him for your daughter and your grandsons will be renowned throughout the five kingdoms.”
Aoife pushed to the front of the crowd and gave a small gasp.
“Let’s see this Strongbow in his full glory,” she said to her attendants. “Stroke him.”
The two girls moved eagerly forward and, with shouted encouragement of the crowd, began to arouse Strongbow. He raised his head and expressionlessly locked eyes with Aoife. She looked at the long list of bids that already ran down his chest to his abdomen and, turning to the slave master, asked, “How long until bidding on this one closes?”
“If my lady would like to make a fair offer, we’ll call the auction complete.”
Aoife took the small brush from him, crossed out the last bid, and wrote another, twice as high.
Strongbow’s appeal to Aoife extended beyond her bed, for she married him a year later, and a year after that he was elected king of Leinster. When King Henry heard that Strongbo
w had become a king, he thought he finally had a powerful ally among the Celts. But when his envoy arrived, delivered by the Vikings under a flag of truce, he discovered that Strongbow had become Irish and had no interest in helping the English.
“SO THAT’S WHY Strongbow was his nickname,” Anne said with a laugh. She stopped abruptly and frowned. “Are you sure de Vere will be safe?”
“We will make sure of it, my sweet queen, by sending the largest army by far that has ever sailed aginst Ireland, ten times the size of Strongbow’s force. All paid for by the pope’s Jews.”
“But tell Us, Our noble king, does de Vere really have to meet with Jews, and in Our palace? They make Us uncomfortable.”
“They bring gold and silver, more than We can trust with anyone but de Vere.”
The Jewish financiers were delivering the first installment of funds for the Irish campaign. The Vatican had agreed to send Richard a total of over four hundred thousand pounds, a sum many times more than the Crown’s annual peacetime tax revenue. Anne had already ferreted out this information. Resisting pressure from the Exchequer to cut her lavish expenses, which were blamed for the Crown’s deficit the previous year, Anne had cornered de Vere a month earlier with pointed questions about the agreement with the Vatican. Looking through the figures during one of their private sessions, she had quickly identified a portion of the budget with the most potential.
“De Vere tells Us that a large amount is being provided for new ships. More than one hundred thousand pounds.”
Richard sat up and studied her face. “Does he? Well, We must have a fleet of ships for the invasion. What are you plotting?”
“Our dear king, can you not just press merchant ships into service?”
“Of course. We can do as We like. But, Our clever queen, by building new ships We buy the support of the high guilds, particularly the shipwrights and blacksmiths.”
“You are their king. They have no choice but to support you.”
“Even a pressed ship has the legal right to a charter fee, and many of them would need expense for refitting.”
“We are told that the charter fee is but ten pounds, and how much refitting will really be required for such a short journey?” She slid one of her delicate hands between her legs and began to stroke herself. “We are hoping, Our kind and generous husband, that you will consider transferring forty thousand to Our allowance. It would be but meager compensation for having to suffer through your distraction and de Vere’s coming absence.”
“No,” he said, watching her movements.
She continued to touch herself, looking at him, knowing that his no was a playful no.
He leaned against her body, embraced her. Placing his head against her small, sharp breasts, he said, “We will transfer fifty thousand to your allowance, Our queen.”
For the second time that afternoon, Anne brought herself to climax while Richard watched.
. . . . .
The next morning Richard strode into the crowded chamber that had been set up as a war room. De Vere, Mortimer, and the Earl of Nottingham, Richard’s appointed war council, were standing at the counting table laughing at some comment when the steward announced Richard’s arrival. All in the room hurriedly bowed. With a casual wave of his hand, Richard motioned for them to rise and joined his earls. De Vere would command the invasion with Mortimer as his second, while Nottingham had been appointed marshal and would led the troops in battle.
The chancellor of the Exchequer was laying out small gold and silver bars on one end of the counting table, the bars that de Vere had received from the Vatican’s Jews in exchange for an unsigned note from the Crown. Next to them was a stack of wooden bars, blanks, signifying the balance of the funds the Vatican had agreed to provide.
Down the length of the table, squares had been marked off with white paint and labeled by account, including ships, mustering, horses, staples, and supplies. Wages, one of the largest expenses, were divided among knights, archers, infantry, and retainers. At the far end of the table was an unlabeled square, which everyone knew belonged to Richard. The game was simple: the more money that ended up in Richard’s square, the more Irish land would be granted to each of the three earls of the war council.
As the chancellor double-checked the stacks of gold, silver, and blanks against his ledger, Richard walked around and stroked the end of the table where his box, waiting for its gold, was marked off. “Chancellor, did you bring your pot of white paint?” Richard asked.
“Yes, Your Royal Majesty, of course.”
“Then bring it over here and make another square next to Ours.”
The chancellor motioned to one of his assistants, who hurried over with a small paint pot and marked off a new square.
“Not as large as Ours, you fool. All right, now give Us that brush and move out of Our way.” Richard scrawled “50,000” next to the new square. “Chancellor, this is for Our queen.”
“As you direct, Your Royal Majesty.”
“Well, go ahead, move counters into it.” Richard tossed the brush at the chancellor, who caught it clumsily, white paint splattering onto his sleeve. “And it would be better for you if We did not hear that you are bothering Our queen again about her expenses.”
“Of course, Your Royal Majesty. My only concern was for your—”
Richard cut him off with one of his waves and turned away from the counting table to the map table. Fifteen feet long and six feet wide, the tabletop was painted with a map of England and Wales, showing each county and its sheriff. Several scribes hovered nearby with small pieces of parchment on which would be listed directives to the sheriffs or commitments received from them. The parchment notes would then be pinned onto the relevant county.
Nottingham began to speak. “Your Royal Majesty—”
Only to be interrupted by de Vere, who placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “I am sure we will find fifty thousand for the queen.”
Richard glanced at de Vere with a smile. “You will find it and more from the ships’ allowance. We have decided to press merchant vessels into service.”
“What of the shipwright contracts already signed, Your Royal Majesty?” asked Mortimer gently.
“Yes, what of the shipwrights? Tell Us, de Vere, and the promises made to the blacksmiths,” Richard replied. Almost half the two-hundred-pound cost of a new sixty-five-ton troopship was for forged-iron clinch nails.
All eyes turned to de Vere. “We will exchange the shipwright contracts for generous licenses for timber from Ireland. Any contracts the shipwrights have already placed with the blacksmiths for nails will be exchanged for arrowhead contracts. We will need—what did you say, Nottingham?—a million and a half arrowheads?”
Nottingham nodded.
De Vere continued, “Also, with contracts for modifications to the merchant ships and orders for new arms, armor, and supplies, the high guilds will be supportive enough of the invasion.”
“So We direct,” said Richard, and the scribes began scribbling. “Come, Nottingham, show Us how you will prepare.”
The men gathered around the map table. “Finding that many suitable ships and making any needed modifications will take some time,” said Nottingham.
“You have twenty-four months until the fleet sails, no longer,” Richard replied.
Nottingham called his secretary forward and directed while pointing at the map, “Dispatch surveyors to all ports from Thames to Exeter plus Somerset, Devon, Cornwall, Bristol, and Lancashire. Add the ports in Wales as well. They’re to inspect all ships from sixty to one hundred tons and compile a list of those suitable for the transport of troops or horses and any modifications required. A separate list is to be made of ships from forty to sixty tons for the transport of supplies. All reports are to be received by my office within the next three months.”
“Good,” said Richard, smiling and rubbing his
hands together. “This will be a fun game. If Our new Sidhe allies come through, then any old ship can make the short crossing.”
“And if these faeries cannot protect our ships, Your Royal Majesty?” asked Nottingham.
“Then no ship, not even those newly built, can survive the crossing, and your son will be most pleased at his early inheritance.”
Nottingham laughed, as was required. “On another matter, Your Royal Majesty, may I have your warrant to conscript supplies, men, and horses? An allocation has been drawn up by county, and it just awaits your approval to send word to the sheriffs.” Nottingham held out a document, which Richard did not take.
“You can conscript the men and the supplies, but not the horses. We do not want the sheriffs to send us their old, broken-down nags. You will pay one pound apiece for young, fast mounts. And let the sheriffs know that if any but their fastest are sent, they will incur a penalty of Our design.”
Richard walked back to the counting table. All squares remained empty except for the queen’s, which contained a stack of blanks and two small gold bars from the Jews’ initial payment. Richard picked up the gold. “We shall deliver this to Our queen.”
The assembly bowed as Richard left. To replace the bars, an officer of the Exchequer set two blanks, each bearing a gold dot, in the queen’s square and painted a red stripe on them to signify that payment had been made.
The war council gathered around the counting table and conferred with the Chancellor and his officers. Figures were consulted and discussed. Squares began to be filled.
They knew that transport was not going to be as simple as Richard had said. Tonnage had become the standard measure of shipping, a ton being the capacity to carry eight full wine barrels. While any old ship could indeed act as a troop carrier, it would need to be at least sixty tons to be efficient. The two dozen ships designated for the vanguard would also need bow and stern castles added to protect archers during the landing. However, most of the refurbishment funds would be spent on transports for the seven thousand horses Richard had decided to take.
The Last Days of Magic Page 20