Madoc

by Bernard Knight

  Svein snorted and they resumed the familiar argument that they’d had a score of times, about flat-bottomed boats being easier to beach versus deep keels for sailing ability.

  They were interrupted a few minutes later by a leadsman in the bows shouting at them and waving his arm.

  Svein muttered an instruction to the sailor hanging on the great steeringoar hanging over the steerboard7 quarter. Then he walked forward, skirting the deep cargo well amidships to get to the man in the bows. The rest of the crew, with the exception of two tending the running rigging, were lying or squatting in the belly of the ship, letting the sail do all the work until they came into calm water.

  The leadsman had found bottom with his line and he and Svein now peered over the bow to study the colour of the water and the way the currents were setting, ready for the tricky approach to Aberffraw. After a rapid exchange, the shipmaster hurried back along the deck and yelled instructions to the men in the hold, who scrambled out and began making ready for the entry into the little estuary, upon which lay the royal capital of Gwynedd.

  ‘I’ll only stop long enough to refill my water barrel, Madoc,’ said Svein when he came back to the stern. ‘I’m off then down to the Isle of Lundy to give my beautiful Iduna a real chance to show off her paces.’

  Madoc looked enviously at his friend. ‘I wish I could come with you, I’d give much to see how she handles on a long run against the set of the wind.’ He slapped Svein on his shoulder. ‘But you wait until I’ve built my perfect ship. I’ll race you to Lundy or Brittany – or even Iberia and meet you halfway when I am coming back!’

  The palace of Aberffraw was no fortress like Dolwyddelan. Sited on the flat open land of south-west Anglesey, it was indefensible in the military sense. When danger threatened the court of the Prince of Gwynedd just took up its bed and vanished into the gaunt mountains of Snowdonia, which towered over the fair island like the backcloth of a stage. Never meant to withstand a siege, it was not fashioned out of stone. Until the coming of the Normans, all Welsh dwellings were wooden and most of them ‘disposable’, as the pastoral people left their winter dwellings each summer and went with their flocks to their hafodau up in the hills. If an enemy came and burnedthe house down, well, there was plenty more wood in the forests and plenty of hands to fashion it.

  After the French of William the Bastard came, the more powerful Welsh nobles began to hanker after more solid and permanent fortresses, like those of their opponents. By the middle of the twelfth century, a few small castles like Dolbadarnand Dolwyddelan began to rebuild in masonry. But though Aberffraw never merited stone until the following century, it became the main dwelling of a succession of Welsh princes, some of whom later became rulers of all Wales.

  As Madoc walked up the track from the landing stage, he thought that this was a strange way for the prince’s son to come home. No cortège, not a single servant and not even any baggage, apart from the bag slung over his shoulder. This contained a change of clothes, some parchments about shipbuilding and his precious crwth.8 His other few possessions in Ireland had been shared out between friends, as he wanted to make a clean break with Clochran and a fresh start back in the country of his birth.

  He walked up the dusty path through the scattered huts, almost as bare as when he came into the world twenty-three years before. Each step was taking him further from Svein and his last links with his life in Dublin and nearer the unknown that lay ahead in the stockaded palace of Aberffraw.

  He remembered his life at Clochran, the shipyards along the Liffey, reading and writing lessons from William the monk – then the poignant few hours at Dolwyddelan, when he had seen his mother for such a short and final time. The meeting with the enigmatic Llywarch ap Prydydd Moch – and, by no means least, that startling time with Annesta, whose face had been with him for the past four years. He wondered whether she was still at Dolwyddelan or had been disgraced – or worse –for her part in helping him to escape.

  By now, his ponderings had brought him right to the gate in the palisade, where a drawbridge lay over a moat as a token of defence. A guard stood at the side of the wide open gates, again more as a symbol than a sentinel. Madoc felt that if he walked straight past, the sentry would not even have noticed. In fact, just at that moment, two urchins ran screaming past him and vanished into the palace grounds without the sentry batting an eyelid, but Madoc went across and spoke to him.

  ‘Where can I find Riryd, son of Prince Owain, lately come from Ireland?’

  The man looked at him rather stupidly, then muttered something and went to the door of a small hut behind the gate and yelled into the interior. Out came a fat man, also wearing a green tunic and white trousers, which seemed to be the uniform of Prince Owain’s household.

  ‘You want Riryd ab Owain. You know him?’ he asked, rather loftily.

  Madoc grinned at him. ‘I should do, as he’s my brother.’

  The several chins of the fat Porter wobbled. ‘Brother! Are you lately from Ireland also, sir?’

  ‘Not ten minutes since, did I leave the ship from Dublin.’

  The Porter, official guardian of the gates of Aberffraw, grasped Madoc by the forearm, in a token of greeting.

  ‘Then you must be that Madoc ab Owain that we have heard whispers about. Welcome, bonheddig9, welcome to your own house.’

  Madoc felt a wave of relief pass over him. In spite of Riryd’s reassurances, he’d had no direct word from his father that he would be welcome, but now it seemed that the whole household was expecting him and that he was not to be cast into the nearest subterranean storeroom.

  The Porter himself escorted him, yelling to the nearest passing servant to carry Madoc’s sack of belongings. Madoc walked slowly behind the waddling official as they made their way to the central group of buildings. Curious heads popped out of huts and around corners, as the news spread with the extraordinary haste of rumour. Even the two urchins gaped at him in wonder, as they somehow came to know that this was the lost son of the prince, come back to life after so many years.

  ‘Prince Owain is in the Great Hall, arglwydd, in audience with some more Frankish emissaries.’

  The sniff that the Porter added to his words clearly conveyed his opinion of French envoys.

  The largest building was roofed with a great crown of neat thatch that swept down almost to noselevel. The large wooden doors were wide open and inside, a curtain hung across the entrance. The Porter pushed it aside and stood back for Madoc to enter.

  As his eyes got used to the dim light, he saw a group of people clustered halfway up the building. They were dwarfed by the row of great treetrunks that held up the roof, but as he got nearer, he saw that one of them was a good head taller than the rest. Almost instantly, he recognised the face of the terrible apparition that had burst in on him and his mother back in Dolwyddelan. An unreasoning panic gripped him and he stopped so abruptly that the man who carried his bag walked into his back.

  He swallowed uneasily as he saw that great head slowly lift and stare down the hall at him.

  The discussion died as they came near and half a dozen heads swivelled around to follow the direction of Owain Gwynedd’s gaze.The Porter banged his staff importantly on the hard earthen floor.

  ‘Lord Owain, I bring the visitor we have been expecting.’ He turned with portentous drama and indicated Madoc like a conjuror performing a trick. ‘Your son, arglwydd – Madoc ab Owain!’

  There was a silence one could cut with a sword. Almost paralysed, Madoc at last forced himself to drop quickly onto one knee in a rapid gesture of respect. As he got up, he saw for the first time that his brother Riryd was on the other side of the little group.

  Riryd smiled quickly at him, rather nervously, Madoc felt. But his attention was soon riveted again on the face of his father, who had been staring at him with an expression that could not be described. His lined and rather ruddy face was partly hidden by a large moustache of a tawny colour, which matched his abundant and rather wild hair. Hea
vy, leonine features just escaped being cruel; it was the face of no ordinary man, but one of the leaders of men who form the pace-making minority of mankind, for good or evil.

  The tableau was suddenly broken by Owain Gwynedd stepping forward a pace towards Madoc. An arm like the branch of agnarled tree grabbed Madoc’s shoulder in a vice-like grip.

  ‘So we meet again, my long-lost infant!’

  The deep voice bellowed from the throat of the prince and for a moment, Madoc wondered again whether he would be consigned to the nearest prison cell. But the seamy face of the prince cracked into a smile full of bad teeth as he shook his son violently by the shoulder.

  ‘I’m a fool for admitting yet another bastard to fight me for my kingdom, but I promised your mother, Jesus rest her.’

  The mood of the group changed instantaneously. Even the Frenchmen, conspicuous in their more flamboyant clothes, grinned and shuffled in the sudden relaxation of the atmosphere.

  ‘I’ll have to leave greeting you properly, Madoc of the Ships,’ grunted his father. ‘These popinjays from Paris are demanding all my wits at the moment.’

  As he spoke in Welsh, it was obvious that the envoys knew nothing of the native language.

  ‘The devil’s taken hold of all our tongues today. These idiots know nothing but their Frankish mouthings and Cynan, who is usually our interpreter, is sick with a bloody flux.’

  He turned away and began speaking to the Frenchmen in a painfully halting brand of Latin, delivered slowly and loudly, as if that would improve its quality. He was trying to ask them in what state of health was their master, Louis VII of France and whether he was likely to be disposed to receive ambassadors from Wales.

  To Madoc, who was an accomplished linguist, the whole exchange was painful to the ears. When one of the Frenchmen made a horrible mutilation of the meaning of his reply, Madoc involuntarily came to his aid in rapid and fluent French. It happened almost without thought, an automatic reaction to help another man out of acute embarrassment.The envoy smiled at him gratefully and replied in his own tongue.

  Madoc was suddenly conscious of all the others staging at him, almost open-mouthed.

  His father turned hard blue eyes upon him. ‘So, it’s not only Madoc the Minstrel and Madoc of the Ships? It’s Madoc of the Many Tongues, eh?’

  Madoc was not sure whether the prince’s voice held amusement or censure. He reddened.

  ‘I have been many a time to Brittany, sire. I spent a whole summer there and though theirown tongue is our Celtic, there are many Franks who speak as these gentlemen do.’

  Riryd spoke up, half-defensive, half-proud of his favourite brother.

  ‘Prince and father, our brother has a gift of languages, aided by his travelling in the Norse ships. He has Irish and Norse, as well as a good command of French. His Latin and even English are passable, also.’

  Owain Gwynedd’s bushy eyebrows rose up his forehead. ‘I have a long-lost prodigy, it seems! Perhaps it were better that I had banished one of the other louts that plague me, rather than this seeming angel.’

  This time, Madoc felt that his words held no sarcasm, but a thoughtful admiration. He bowed his head to his father.

  ‘My services, such as they are, are yours, sire, until Cynan recovers.’

  For the next hour, he smoothed out the course of the discussion between the two French envoys and his father. It soon became apparent that his father was engaged in sounding out the possibility of gaining French aid against the English king, Henry II.

  Louis VII of France had no love for Henry, partly because of the offence arising out of Henry having married Louis’ divorced wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine. Even more than this slight, was the loss of half of France to Henry, by his acquisition of her dowry lands of Aquitaine, Gascony and Poitou.

  The dispute between Henry and the new Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas à Becket, was beginning to boil over and Louis had openly offered the cleric sanctuary.

  Madoc soon gathered that Owain would like an alliance with France; Wales was now becoming an influential nation in Western Europe, since Owain had formed such strong links with the Lord Rhys in the south. It was premier in matters of literature and had a model legal system, so that, in spite of its relatively small size, it was a worthwhile member of any alliance and a valuable ally against Norman England.

  However, Madoc gathered that matters were still in a very early and delicate state. Prince Owain was still supposed to be adhering to the peace settlement of 1157, when he and Henry had fought themselves to a standstill. There had been an uneasy peace for the last seven years and Owain wanted to tread carefully with his negotiations with France, so that he did not bring down another English army on him before the help of Louis VIIwas signed and sealed.

  So far, all the initiative had come from Owain and,as far as Madoc could make out, the French king was not yet aware of what the Welsh ruler had in mind.

  ‘We must send envoys of our own,’ declared Owain, after an hour of skirting round the subject. ‘This court of Paris has never seen a Welshman yet. We have to convince them that we are real live people, with brains and a culture, as well as strong muscles.’

  At this point, serving men brought in a long trestle table and began laying it for a meal. Owain had retired to a large chair near the fire, which smouldered under its peat blocks in the centre of the hall. As it was a mild May day, it was banked down until the chill of the evening, but the royal chair, which passed for a throne, stood ready in the place of honour. All the rest stood in a half-circle around him, except the Chief Judge of the Court of Gwynedd, whose corpulence and feeble legs, as well as his precedence, allowed him to have a small chair on the prince’s right hand.

  Women began bringing food and drink and benches were brought to place around the table.They all sat down and for the moment, the affairs of state were put aside. Madoc talked eagerly with his brother Riryd.

  ‘The French? It all stems from the prince’s actions, not theirs. These are the first emissaries we have seen here; they are but a scouting party. I doubt if Louis himself knows they are here; it is more like to be the initiative of his Chancellor, Hugh de Soissons, as far as I could gather from Cynan’s interpreting, before he went off with his sickness of the gut.’

  Riryd’s neighbour on the other side engaged him in talk at that moment and Madoc was left to his food and his thoughts. All seemed to be going well on this second return. By the fortunate chance of his gift with tongues, he may well have made a good first impression on his royal father.

  Owain was deep in talk with his Chief Justice and another younger man, whom Madoc suspected was one of his own half-brothers. The Frenchmen were talking earnestly among themselves –there was no one else for them to speak to, except Madoc, unless they wanted to labour away in halting Latin again.

  Madoc looked around the large hall, at the scurrying serving women andthe servants carrying in more wine.Suddenly his attention was riveted by a slim shape standing just inside the back door that led to the kitchens. He immediately recognised her as Annesta! She seemed to be searching the hall with her eyes and, without a second’s hesitation, Madoc slid from his bench and hurried across to her.

  She saw him coming and her face lit up as she ran forward.

  ‘Madoc … they said you were here.’

  Behind the shelter of one of the great roof pillars, Madoc pulled her into his arms and kissed her, oblivious of the curious looks of passing servants.

  ‘Annesta! I thought you would still be in Dolwyddelan. I was going to seek you there as soon as I had the chance.’

  She pulled back, still holding his hands, and looked at him with a glowing smile.

  ‘And I thought you would have forgotten all about the little maidservant you flirted with four years ago.’

  Madoc grimaced at her. ‘Don’t talk like that –you saved my life, in all probability. Helping me out of that dungeon put me in your debt for ever.’

  She pretended to pout. ‘So I’m only a debt
to be honoured, Madoc ab Owain?’

  Then she laughed and he pulled her gaily into his arms again and hugged her. ‘It’s so good to see you. Are you still serving the Lady Cristin?’

  She nodded against his chest. With the dark-haired girl close against him, he felt both excited and at peace at the same time. He knew, quite clearly, that this was the woman for him and that sooner or later, he must marry her.

  ‘I’m here for good now, Annesta. You’ll not get rid of me so easily again.’

  ‘And I’m here until high summer, when they go back to Dolwyddelan. Are you never going back to Ireland, then?’

  Madoc shrugged and gently disengaged himself.

  ‘Much depends on what the prince wishes. During the last hour, I seem to have become his chief interpreter. I have the feeling that he will find more work for my tongue.’

  There was movement in the group near the fire and Madoc squeezed Annesta’s hand quickly. ‘I must get back there. I have been here little more than an hour, yet it seems a day. I’ll see you as soon as I can.’

  Within minutes, he found that his guess about his father findingmore work for him was already true. Owain Gwynedd, standing in front of his big chair, beckoned to him. As Madoc went near and bobbed his head respectfully, he noticed the podgy judge smiling benignly at him and a young man with flashily fashionable clothes scowling at him.

  ‘You haven’t so much as said a word to your brother, Madoc,’ boomed the Prince of Gwynedd, waving his gnarled hand at the young man. ‘This is Dafydd, the brat that most desires my power when I’ve gone.’

  Dafydd, some two years older than Madoc, forced a mechanical smile as he made some deprecating noises towards his father’s wit. Madoc felt that here was a natural enemy that needed watching twenty-four hours in every day.

  It was obvious that the ambitious older son saw Madoc as a new challenge to his hopes of becoming chief heir to the lands of Gwynedd. As such, to say that he was not welcome was a gross understatement. However, etiquette demanded that they made some formal greetings, especially in front of the Frenchmen, who were ambassadors not only of France, but of the new craze of courtly chivalry and manners that had been so enthusiastically taken up by Eleanor, England’s new queen.