They murmured and nodded at each other, then Madoc looked back expectantly at Owain his father, who, as always, dominated any gathering at which he was present.
‘I have found you a job already, my son … though you be hardly off the sea, I must send you journeying straight away.’ His eyes flicked towards the Frenchmen and Madoc knew immediately what the task was to be.
Owain Gwynedd stood looking as if he was carved out of the very granite of Snowdonia.
‘I want you to go back to the French lands with these men, to sound out how things lie in Paris. You have heard what I propose – an alliance with Louis their king, against Henry Plantagenet. We must move soon and until we know how the Franks view the matter, I do not wish to provoke the Normans.’
Madoc nodded. He regretted having to leave Annesta so soon after having found her again, but his father’s wishes and his father’s benevolence were all-important.
‘When shall we leave, sire?’
Owain grinned under his big moustache.
‘That’s what I like,Dafydd.’ He turned to his petulant-looking son and slapped him roughly on the back. ‘Madoc doesn’t ask questions or argue, like you. He just says “when do we leave”.’
Madoc sadly sensed that this hearty criticism, however jovial, only served to deepen Dafydd’s enmity against him.
‘You leave tomorrow, lad. They call you Madoc of the Ships, and you’ll have your fill of them this month. On the way to Paris I want you to call at Ynys Wair, the island the Norsemen call Lund or Ely. Do you know it?’
Madoc nodded. ‘I have been there a number of times, sire. There is a brisk trade between Lund and the Norse settlements in Dublin. It is also a shelter from storms on the passage to Brittany.’
The prince’s smile grew broader and he jabbed a fist into Dafydd’s side. ‘This Madoc becomes a greater paragon of virtues with every question I set to him, eh?’
If Dafydd’s look could have killed, Madoc would have lain dead at his feet.
‘Is the visit to Lund of the same nature as to France, arglwydd?’ asked Madoc.
Owain wagged his great head. ‘Jordan de Marisco, who rules the island, has no love for King Henry and some time ago offered his help should it be needed. I wish to confirm the treaty with him, to strengthen all the power at my command against this coming battle with Plantagenet.’
The meeting broke up soon afterwards, with a promise from Owain Gwynedd that final details would be settled after the evening’s feasting.
Aberffraw was more of a scattered encampment than a palace. Around the great hall was a collection of thatched wooden buildings. The largest, adjacent to the hall, was the dwelling of Owain and Cristin and a number of the other larger erections housed the other members of the immediate family and the more important officers, like the Chancellor, the Chief Judge and the Penteulu, the Chief of the Royal Household. Less imposing buildings tailed off from the central group towards the boundary palisade, with kitchens, servants’ quarters, barracks, stables and the huts of the more lowly families. Chickens, goats, dogs and urchins wandered about freely. The whole atmosphere was one of peaceful and leisurely routine, that seemed at odds with thepreparations for war that were being so actively planned.
The fat Porter took him into one of the medium-sized buildings and found him a bed in a small room on the upper level, reached by a wooden stairway outside. There were three wooden bunks in the room. Each had a woollen sack stuffed with hay and a rolled blanket at the foot.
‘There is no one else in the other beds this night, Prince Madoc,’ commented the old man and gave a knowing wink. Again Madoc marvelled at the efficiency of the local grapevine – he half expected the Porter to offer to take a message to Annesta, but he waddled off, still wearing a smirk on his face.
Madoc threw himself onto the mattress and stared at the straw weaving under the thatch above him. His homecoming had been nothing like he expected, but had gone off far better than he could have hoped.
Finding Annesta so quickly was the high spot, as far as he was concerned. During the years he had been back in Ireland, he had always had Annesta in the forefront of his mind. He had thought that she might have been married off by now, being a good many years past the betrothal age for girls. But when he heard that he was coming back to Wales, he had made special enquiries through Riryd and found that Annesta was still unmarried. As he had told her, he was intent on seeking her out in Dolwyddelan and to find her right under his nose in Aberffraw was indeed a bonus.
He turned his mind to the weightier matters that had so rapidly been placed on his shoulders. The business with the French envoys had been equally fortunate, in that it had so rapidly cemented his acceptance by Owain Gwynedd. But for leaving Annesta so soon, the prospect of sea voyaging to the Isle of Lund and then to France was something to be relished. Madoc’s feet felt more at home on a swelling, creaking deck than on the solid turf of land.
All in all, it had been a memorable day – and one that is not yet over, he thought with a warm glow of anticipation. But there was one black cloud in his otherwise rosy sky. It was obvious that Dafydd, his half-brother, was to be an implacable enemy. Riryd had already told him of the present intrigues that were boiling up amongst the sons of Owain.
Madoc, though loth to condemn such a close relation, felt that there was evil in his sullen-faced brother and that some of it was going to be directed at himself,if he was not careful.
His reverie was interrupted by the sound of feet on the stairway. A moment later, the moonlight from the bare doorway was dimmed by the silhouette of Riryd, his full brother and greatest friend.
‘Are you staying here too, brother?’ asked Madoc, as Riryd stretched himself out on the bunk opposite.
Riryd turned his head and grinned at him. ‘Never fear, Madoc. I’m lodged nearer the aristocracy. I’ll not play gooseberry this night.’
Madoc flushed in spite of himself. ‘Does every man, woman and child in this place know my private business?’ he muttered.
‘Aye and every dog and goat,’ cackled his brother mercilessly. ‘The other maidservants have been talking of nothing else since you walked through the gate today.’
Madoc changed the subject. ‘What think you of this business that I am pressed into, the moment my face is shown to our father?’
Riryd became serious. ‘You are very fortunate, brother. This sets you in good stead with Prince Owain. Carry out this mission well and you will have no fear of him ever again. Rough and cruel he may be, but he is a man of his word. What he promised to our mother Brenda on her deathbed, that will he carry out. And if you show him you are a man of action as well as words, he will value you for yourself, as well as for the pledge.’
Madoc pondered for a moment.
‘I want to keep well out of this game between the many sons, Riryd. I am afraid that if I gain too much favour with Lord Owain, that I will fall foul of these others. I liked the looks of brother Dafydd not one little bit.’
Riryd swung his legs back to the floor and bent earnestly toward Madoc. He was smaller than his younger brother, but had the same blond looks and fine blue eyes, though there was a thinness of his face that gave him something of an impish look.
‘Madoc, I fear for what will happen when our father leaves this life. I have told you before, when we were in Clochran, of the feuds and intrigues that go on here, but I see on this visit that it is becoming much worse. As our father gets older and nearer death, so does the rivalry increase.’
Madoc was silent. There seemed nothing to say.
‘I hope to be well out of it when the time comes,’ went onRiryd, ‘and unless you have any aspirations for the throne of Gwynedd, I suggest you try to do the same. Be in Brittany or Ireland when Owain’s time comes, otherwise you may wake up one morning and find your throat cut!’
Madoc stared at him. ‘Could it be as bad as that?’
Riryd nodded. ‘One of the main contenders isIorwerth Drwyndwyn, the one with the deformed nose whom y
ou have never seen. There is now talk among the other brothers of getting Owain to disinherit Iorwerth on the grounds that such a disfigurement cannot be consistent with the princedom.’
‘They will never manage to do that,’ said Madoc, aghast.
‘They are well on the way to doing it,’ replied his brother.‘They have many of the court officers agreeing with them, too. Dafydd, Hywel, Cynan and Rhodri, though they hate each other, are all willing to reduce the odds by one. That means one less for each of them to fight against when the time arrives.’
Madoc shook his head sadly.
‘You are right, Riryd. It will be well to be a long way from here. I would like to build a ship … the best ship in the world … and sail her away over the western horizon to seek the Isles of the Blessed and the Fountain of Eternal Youth.’
Riryd stood up and grinned.
‘And what about your Annesta then, brother?’
Madoc looked up at him. ‘I’ll take her with me, of course … and never come back to this land of eternal strife.’
* * *
7Starboard - the side of the ship where the steering oar was.
8A type of lute
9A gentleman
CHAPTER FIVE
June 1164
No one would have recognised the figure on the rather sad pony as being that of a young Welsh prince, fresh from the winds around western Britain. Madoc was swathed in the drab habit and cowl of a Cistercian monk. The long ride from the ship at Saint Valery had bowed his back with discomfort and fatigue.
Yet, as his party trudged up to the gates of Paris, the novelty of the moment made him straighten up a little to see all that was to be seen of this fabled city, centre of continental learning and the new arts of romantic chivalry. He was a little disappointed to see yet another grey-walled town, albeit much larger than any other. Some of the flanking towers had pinnacled roofs that looked slightly exotic, but there was still the usual cluster of tattered huts with their ragged inhabitants clustered against the outside walls.
His companions were the two emissaries from the court of France that had been visiting his father, together with a priest – a real Cistercian – and four retainers from Aberffraw to see them safe from footpads. Madoc was still not clear just why the French courtiers had insisted that he swaddle himself in cleric’s robes and use the title of Brother Moses for this venture, but they knew best the curious ways of Louis le Jaune’s court and he bowed to their advice. He had a letter in his pouch that he had written under his father’s direction on the morning that they had left Anglesey, three weeks earlier, but he also had Owain’s instructions to amplify this by word of mouth, if he got the chance to plead the case before Louis.
The little cortège plodded through the narrow streets inside the west gate of the city and eventually came to some larger dwellings that were within sight of the towers of the palace and cathedral. The lodgings, Madoc discovered later, were reserved for visitors to the court and the university.
The two Frenchmen introduced the Welsh party to the concierge, then vanished in the direction of the royal court withpromises to send for him on the following day. The four guards were taken off to some more modest accommodation and the concierge showed ‘Brother Moses’ and his colleague Brother Padraig to a small room which held nothing but three truckle beds and a large pitcher of water.
‘We eat in the hall at dusk,’ muttered the Parisian as he left and when the door curtain had dropped behind him, Madoc knew that he was in for several hours of utter boredom. This was because his companion, a lean, asceticIrish priest, was as near speechless as made no difference. Why he had been sent by Owain’s Chief Judge, Madoc could not fathom – unless it be that the court welcomed any opportunity to get rid of the morose, introverted cleric.
Padraig went to the bed and knelt against it, prepared for at least an hour of silent prayer, so Madoc took himself to the unglazed window opening and leaned on the sill to look at Paris.
All he could see was a confused pattern of roofs, walls and a few spires – a conglomeration of tiles, thatch and stone. Below him was a narrow lane with the usual collection of town sights and sounds – tradesmen, passers-by, children and strident housewives. Apart from the language and some difference in dress, there was nothing that was excitingly new.
With nothing to hold his attention, his mind turned to the task his father had set him. He had already completed part of it, in visiting the island in the Severn Sea which most people were now calling Lundy.
One of Owain Gwynedd’s ships had taken him there from Aberffraw and though the vessel could not compare with Svein’s Iduna, it was sound enough to reach Lundy in three days, even across the prevailing wind.
His visit to Jordan de Marisco, the flamboyant ruler, had been moderately successful. De Marisco hated King Henry of England and was keen to join in any military alliance, but threats of annihilation had been sent to Lundy by the English court, should he take up arms against Henry.
Jordan wanted definite assurances of support from the Welsh Princes before he openly declared his defiance. Madoc did his best to reassure him and promised to return at a later date with further proposals from Owain.
The ship took them on after a few days, going from Lundy around the treacherous tip of Cornwall into the Western Channel. Here a fair wind took them up and across to the French coastand into the port of Saint Valery at the mouth of the Somme, as Harfleur on the Seine was firmly in English hands.
Now his task was to open up a line of communication with the court of France.
How to get the ear of the French king was another matter. The two courtiers who had returned with him from Wales were more than a little vague as to when an audience would be granted, murmuring about having to wait upon the grace of Hugh de Soissons. It seemed that this nobleman was a major figure in the court of Paris, overshadowing the weak king in matters of diplomacy.
And vague the hopes turned out to be. Madoc waited for three days before anyone so much as came near the lodgings. He had no one to turn to for advice, as the semi-mute Brother Padraig was as much use as a deaf dog in matters of this kind.
Eventually a young, effeminate page came with a verbal message from Charles, one of the envoys to Wales, apologising for the delay and hoping that something could be arranged within a few more days.
‘Tell Monsieur Charles that I very much trust it will,’ snapped Madoc to the disinterested messenger. ‘I am the accredited ambassador of Prince Owain ap Gwynedd, ruler of North Wales, not some villager seeking a petty favour.’
The foppish youth shrugged at Madoc’s foreign accent and minced away, leaving the Welshman fuming at the door of the chamber.
‘Take little hope from a promise of that sort, friend,’ came a deep voice. Madoc turned and saw a tall middle-aged man in the garb of a priest, leaning against a nearby wall. He had a large bundle wrapped in a cloth and a few manuscripts tied with a leather thong. ‘The curator told me to find my bed in here,’ he said, walking to the door of the bedchamber and peering in. ‘That will be it there, no doubt.’
He threw his bundle on the vacant couch and nodded at Padraig, who was in his usual posture, kneeling on the floor with his hands clasped in front of him.
‘You’ll get little sense from him,’ said Madoc sitting on his own bed. ‘He talks only to God, except when he wants food.’
The big man, with blue sailor’s eyes like Madoc, grinned.
‘Three clerics together, eh. They’ve put us in here to form aholy choir, no doubt. I’m Guiot –Guiot de Provins they call me, as I’m from Arles in the old Roman province.’
Guiot turned out to be a scholar of all things connected with science and discovery, some very near Madoc’s heart. As not a word came from the court for another week, the company of Guiot was manna from heaven for the Welshman.
One of Guiot’s interests was navigation. In fact, he was in Paris partly to research a book he was writing on all manner of natural phenomena. It was to be called Le
Bible Guiot and the author and Madoc spent many hours talking of ships, the legendary voyages of explorers and new exciting ideas that were filtering into Europe from the new routes to the East, often via the returning Crusaders.
Guiot was intrigued to hear the tale of the Irish Saint Brandon, who had vanished into the Western Ocean centuries before, looking for the ‘Isles of the Blessed.’ Even the dumbstruck Padraig came briefly to life on this topic as, being an Irish monk, the tales of St Brandon were a matter of national pride.
‘The Holy Saint Brandon – there was a book written on his life back in elevenhundred and twenty-one by one of our brothers for Queen Aelis of Louvain,’ he murmured, as if a low voice was nearer silence than a more profane stridency. ‘Born in Tralee, was the good man, in the year of the Lord four hundred and eighty-four.’
Madoc and Guiot stared in amazement at Padraig. This was the longest speech they had ever heard from him. And yet more was to come.
‘Brendan he was also called – Brendan son of Finnloga. Eight years he sailed the great seas, before coming home in the care of Holy God to become abbot of the Benedictines at the abbey of Clonfert in Galway.’
Guiot was intrigued, seeing potential material for his book emerging. ‘And what did the good Brandon discover in the west, brother?’
Padraig’s eyes rolled and he cranked up his voice to a loud whisper. ‘The Isle of St. Brendan, of course –the island that moved, as if it were the back of a whale.’
Guiot made a derisive noise of disappointment. ‘That old tale – half the Arab sailors have the same story.’
Padraig became almost voluble in his indignation at this slur on his countryman. ‘The holy man would tell no lies! He set forth in a currach, a small boat of osiers covered with tannedhides and carefully greased, provisioned for seven years.’
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