Madoc

by Bernard Knight

  Guiot grinned. ‘He must have had a small appetite, then. And what of this island?’

  ‘The abode of the Saints in the western sea –he found it to the west and south-west sailing from Ireland –it was full of singing birds and the trees were full of fruit, but when he lit a fire upon it, St. Brendan’s Isle of the Blessed shuddered and moved.’ Having delivered this marathon speech, Padraig subsided into silent prayer again.

  Guiot and Madoc whiled away the time by exchanging more stories of sea ventures.Madoc found a fascination growing within him about what lay to the west of the coastal fringes of Britain and France. Superstitious sailors crossed themselves and told of the precipice out in the mists where the edge of the world lay in wait for any blasphemous shipmaster who dared to go beyond the bounds that God ordained. But he knew that for hundreds of years, Vikings had sailed their boats far beyond the settlements in Iceland and Greenland, without being annihilated by divine vengeance.

  Guiot used to go to the university for some part of every day, to pore through the manuscripts in the library and to talk with other sages. Madoc gathered it was more of a debating society than a school.

  One day Guiot brought home another priest, an Englishman, who seemed to be a pupil of Guiot’s. He also intended writing yet another book in the future. This was Alexander Neckham, a monk of St. Albans, near London, who shared their interest in novel methods of navigation and new-found scientific trickeries. He was much less knowledgeable than Guiot de Provins, but good company, especially by contrast with Padraig, who had sunk back into his stupor after his brief revitalisation on the subject of Saint Brendan.

  The visit to the court of Louis turned out to be an anti-climax. When Madoc was eventually summoned there, he did no more than kiss the hand of the king, who seemed to know nothing of Madoc’s identity or purpose.The only satisfaction he got was a brief interview with Hugh de Soissons, to whom he delivered his father’s letter. This seemed to impress the French nobleman, but he was still not very forthcoming.

  ‘We must think on this and meet again when matterswith Henry Plantagenet are settled,’ he told Madoc, this being almost the sum total of the result of the Welsh emissary’s visit. But he was promised a letter to take back to Owain Gwynedd and was requested to wait in his lodgings until it was delivered.

  ‘Spend your time with Brother Padraig in praying for a rapid answer,’ chaffed Guiot de Provins.

  They laughed, then Madoc said, ‘I’d rather have more details of these navigation methods you spoke of to Brother Neckham. One day I’m going to build the best ship in the world and sail her to unknown parts – this magic stone you speak of would be a boon when sun and stars are shrouded in fog.’

  Guiot reached for his pouch that lay on the windowsill.

  ‘I’ll do better than tell you about it, I’ll give you some of this remarkable substance.’

  He unwrapped a cloth and took out a little leather bag. Shaking it over the table, he displayed three pieces of ragged, brown stone each about the size and shape of a little finger. ‘These are the magic-makers – they come from the land of the infidels beyond Byzantium, but more and more are appearing in the Mediterranean as Crusaders and Arabian travellers bring them from the eastern lands. Here, take one, I can get more when I return to Provins.’

  He held out one of the slivers to Madoc, who took it gingerly and turned it over reverently in his fingers.

  ‘It is too precious to just give away like that,’ he said.

  Guiot brushed away his feeble protests. ‘Take it, friend. You are a man who can make true use of it. Do not drop it or allow it to get heated, as I have discovered that this makes its properties weaker or even vanish.’

  Madoc gazed down at the ordinary-looking piece of rock with awe.

  ‘Lodestone!For this alone, my visit to Paris has been worthwhile a hundred times over. How can I thank you?’

  Guiot grunted. ‘By remembering how to use it. You heard Alexander Neckham and I talking of how the Arabian shipmasters manage it. They take a needle and lay it in a split of straw, like a baby in a cradle, then float it on a bowl of water. Understand?’

  Madoc nodded, hanging on to every word of the scientist-poet.

  ‘Then the lodestone is approached closely to the needle and whirled around twenty times, so that the needle spins in the bowl. Then the lodestone is taken to a distance and the floating needlewatched until it comes to rest – when it will always be north and south.’

  Guiot fixed him with a beady eye. ‘But which is north and which is south, eh? Do you remember how to tell?’

  Madoc nodded eagerly. Anything connected with ships was branded into his mind, never to be lost.

  ‘You mark one end of the lodestone and always use that to approach the needle, then point it to the sharper end of the spike, so that that end follows the stone around. Do this when north and south are known from landmarks or sun or stars, so that when all is hidden, the needle will behave in a like fashion.’

  Guiot nodded. ‘But more easily said than done, boy. I have heard recently – just before I came from the southern coast – that some shipmasters use a new method. They actually stroke the needle in one direction only with a known point of the lodestone. This both sets the north-seeking end and also makes the needle more powerful for searching out the lodestar, which must be the heavenly body that attracts the needle.’

  Madoc stared down at the grubby piece of rock, fascinated.

  ‘All this I will try – on the journey home.’

  Guiot had a word of caution. ‘I would not say too much abroad of this device. Some folk think it is witchcraft and others would cut your throat for possession of the stone. Use it discreetly and keep the knowledge amongst fellow shipmasters for the time being.’

  Madoc wrapped up his precious lodestone in a piece of linen and hid it inside his shirt.

  ‘If this really can set the bows of our vessels in the right direction at night and in mists, then this surely must be the ultimate marvel in nature and in human ingenuity,’ he said fervently to Guiot as they parted next morning.

  The older man shook his head slowly.

  ‘There is no ultimate for the mind of man, Madoc. Some of us are fated to advance knowledge and so it will be until doomsday. We can never stand still – either we go on and on or we slip back into savagery. Somehow, I think that one day, you will be reckoned amongst those men who have done some deed that will mark their names on the book of history.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  May 1169

  ‘It’s like the Liffey river all over again,’ said Madoc gaily, bouncing his little daughter into the air in time to the ringing sound of a heavy hammer aboard the ship.

  They stood on the bank of a little creek, the Afon Gele, a few yards inland from the seacoast of North Wales. A small group was watching the final stages of the completion of the vessel that had been Madoc’s dreamship for more years than he could now remember.

  There was Madoc, his brother Riryd, his half-brother Einion and, of course, his wife Annesta and their four-year-old daughter Gwenllian.Riryd was now Lord of Clochran, as Merfyn had died and sinceBrenda, his cousin, had also passed away, the land came to Riryd, the eldest of her sons.

  Einion was the son of Prince Owain and one of his minor mistresses who had died when Einion was a child. He was no contender at all in the power struggle and had been allowed to live in court all his life, being fostered by one of the Chief Falconers to Owain.

  Einion was barely twenty and a cheerful, happy-go-lucky youth, liked by everyone who knew him. He was stocky and dark, quite different from Riryd and Madoc, thanks to a different mother. He had become deeply attached to Madoc, having an admiration almost amounting to hero-worship for his elder brother.

  They were all in holiday mood, come to admire the new ship and enjoy their bread and meat, sitting in the spring sunshine away from the intrigues and bustle of the court.

  To bless the ship properly, they had brought a priest, the same Padraig
who had mutely accompanied Madoc on his first visit to the court of France and who had, in the succeeding years, found that his voice improved with advancing age.

  Madoc let Gwenllian scuttle to her mother and then sank downon the grass, supporting himself on his hands so that he could watch the last touches of the shipwrights on the Gwennan Gorn which lay in the little river waiting for the tide to float her down to the sea.

  Riryd and Einion sat alongside him, their eyes also glued to the little vessel rocking on the incoming swell. As soon as the last rigging was finished and there was enough water under the keel, they were going to take the vessel back along the coast a few miles to Aber Cerrig Gwynion – another little creek named after some ‘white rocks’.

  ‘What’s so special about your precious ship, brother?’ asked Einion, who had not set eyes on it until today.

  Annesta gave a mock groan. ‘Don’t say such a thing, Einion. You’ll set him talking from now till dusk, explaining every splinter of wood and every piece of thonging on board.’

  Madoc grinned, delighted with life today and quite impervious to wifely sarcasm.

  ‘The Gwennan Gorn, the most perfect ship in the world!’ he exclaimed. ‘Not a wooden dowel in any of her planks, but all stag horn to secure the best oak that the forests of Nant Gwynant could provide.’

  ‘Stag horn! Why such expense, brother?’ asked Einion.

  ‘I know the Norsemen use such horn for fairleads and rowlocks, but you must have used hundreds to pin her planking to the frames.’

  Madoc nodded, delighted to have the chance to lecture on his favourite topic.

  ‘When our father offered to meet the cost of any ship I cared to build as a reward for my services as his envoy, I felt it improper to stint on any gift that came from such a notable prince.’

  Riryd poked him hard in the ribs. ‘Conceit ill becomes you, brother! We know you have been a good ambassador and gained our father’s favour –much to the disgust of certain persons.’

  There was a general guffaw at this, not unmarked by bitterness.

  ‘But spare us the innuendoes about why our rashly generous father met the shipwrights’ bill for this.’

  He waved at the Gwennan Gorn.

  Madoc’s blue eyes swung back to the vessel with pride. ‘The best ship in the world,’ he repeated.

  Einion groaned. ‘It looks like any other Viking knarr to me.’

  ‘It is a Norse boat,’ Madoc retorted. ‘They’ve had five hundred years to perfect them in the storms of the Western Ocean. But I’ve added things that more southerly sailormen have found useful, like the longer mainyard set lower on the mast … and above all, these strong staghorns to hold the planks … I’ll not risk another fright like that in the Bardsey channel last year, when we were in Svein’s Iduna.’

  ‘I was nearly a widow and little Gwenllian half an orphan,’shuddered Annesta.‘I don’t know why you risk your lives, you men, just to prove that a certain ship is stronger than another.’

  ‘I came nearer to drowning then than ever before,’ agreed Madoc. ‘The ship was a good one, but those races and whirlpools shook her near to pieces. When we limped into Aberdaron, we had to leave the Iduna on the beach for the villagers to use as firewood.’

  Riryd gave him an elder brother’s smile.

  ‘Are you going to pit this one against the channel of Bardsey, then?’

  Madoc ran a hand through his fair hair. ‘I might. But we’ll try her on some milder water first, come the next week or two.’

  Annesta looked sharply at him.

  ‘Indeed? Where will this be, then? I’m always the last to know where you’re off to.’

  Madoc looked with placid devotion at her. He loved even her solitary fault, the beginnings of a sharp tongue. ‘Brittany, my wife, where they speak our Welsh tongue, thank God.’

  ‘Next week?’

  ‘Prince Owain has become embroiled with some of the Breton barons who are revolting against Conan, their king. He has messages and men to exchange with them.’

  ‘Be careful then, brother ambassador,’grunted Einion. ‘I hear that this Conan is getting deeper in league with our Henry of England, who wishes to get his feet under the Breton table.’

  Padraig the monk nodded vigorously, a trick which he found helped him to get his tongue moving.

  ‘Henry wishes to marry that odious son of his, Geoffrey, to Conan’s daughter Constance, so be careful that the king’s men do not use your precious ship for target practice.’

  Madoc held up his hand placatingly.

  ‘Thank you all, but our father has warned me already. Never fear, Annesta,’ he said hastily, as he saw her opening her mouth.‘We’ll slip into the harbour of Saint Pol de Leone, miles from the king’s city of Rennes. We’ll not even beach the vessel, just put men over the side and pick up others. A quiet maiden voyage for the Gwennan Gorn.’

  There was a shout from the direction of the creek. A huge blond figure was advancing across the grass to them, waving his arms.

  ‘Svein, is it finished?’ Madoc jumped up and ran towards him.The big Viking grabbed him by the arms and lifted him clear from the ground.

  ‘Did you not hear the hammering stop, Madoc? They’ve driven the last wedge alongside the mast after tautening the rigging … she’s finished, man. Finished!’

  Everyone rose and ran gaily down the green banks to the water’s edge, joined by a dozen men, who were the shipwrights of the Afon Gele.

  Madoc stood with his feet in the advancing tide.

  ‘The Gwennan Gorn the ship that will take us far, far out into the Western Ocean,’ he said quietly, almost to himself.

  Riryd heard him. ‘Beyond the Isles of Africa!’ he shouted more exuberantly, caught up by the emotion of the moment.

  Einion went one better, though he was new to the Gwennan Gorn. ‘To the Island of Eternal Youth … wherever that is,’ he added as an afterthought.

  The tide was flowing rapidly, swelling up quickly into the creek and the waterways of the big marsh that stretched away from the Gele towards the big river, the Afon Clwyd, a few miles away. The flat-bottomed vessel was already beginning to rock gently with the advancing ripples.

  Svein, his arm around Madoc’s shoulders, began to wade out to the vessel, pulling his friend with him.

  ‘Another hour and we’ll be afloat and ready to go,’ he roared in his bull-like voice. ‘These good men who masted her will tow us down to the surf, I’m sure.’

  The shipwrights grinned their assent and two of them offered to crew the Gwennan Gorn on its short trip back to Aber Cerrig Gwynion.

  ‘We’ll charge your royal father no more,’ the leader said cheerfully. ‘He’s already sent gold and goods to cover mostof the cost of masting her and has promised the balance by the month’s end.’

  Madoc tugged around in Svein’s giant grip. ‘Let’s put Annesta and Gwenllian aboard. No need for us all to get wet legs.’

  Soon they were all aboard, the five men and the shipwrights making ready to move the new vessel off. Padraig said the appropriate prayers for blessing her, then Annesta, Einion and Gwenllian went on a tour of inspection.

  ‘I never knew a thing about seagoing until I married you, Madoc,’ said Annesta severely. ‘Now you insist that I become an expert.’

  Madoc smiled forbearingly at her. ‘This ship will do great things, my love. It will weather any storm, like a good Norse ship should. Look at that high prow and stern.’

  It was Einion who showed the most interest in learning about the vessel. He had no great knowledge of the sea, like his two brothers Madoc and Riryd.

  ‘That is higher than usual, then?’ he asked.

  Svein answered for Madoc. ‘The Norse ships that sail the deep oceans have high sides and high ends, land-man – but never quite so high as this one.’

  ‘That is to ride the heavy seas and to prevent waves running behind from breaking into the waist of the vessel,’ added Riryd.

  The deck was planked only over the bow
and stern thirds of the ship. Narrow gangways joined these platforms at the sides – so much of the interior of the vessel was a gaping hole, from the centre of which the stubby mast rose.

  ‘Where are you going to live on these great expeditions of yours?’ objected Annesta, looking around the bare boards of the quarter deck. ‘You will die of exposure within a day of setting out.’

  Svein grinned and squeezed her round the waist. He was the only man who dared take liberties with her.

  ‘Don’t worry, wife of Madoc – he will be snug enough under here.’ He took her to the edge of the central hold and pointed down. ‘Under there, at the rearmost parts of the hull. When it’s furnished with straw pallets and blankets, it will be as luxurious as Prince Owain’s chamber in Aberffraw … and not much more damp, either!’

  Einion stood looking at the lines of the boat, now rocking more vigorously, with scraping sounds underneath as she began liftingoff the bottom.

  ‘She’s nothing like those longships that used to terrorise these parts years ago,’ he commented. ‘They were slim and flat. This is like a sow compared to a greyhound, alongside one of those dragonboats.’

  Svein pushed him playfully, almost knocking him into the six-feet deep hold.

  ‘Call our lovely ship a sow, would you, you rogue! But you are right, the langskip would be useless in a long ocean voyage. They’re too vulnerable to heavy seas and they offer no shelter for the crew. They were only for quick war expeditions, with crazy tough men like me, obsessed with fighting, looting and raping.’

  Madoc nodded his agreement. ‘This is a hafskip, the Norse word for ocean ship, only I’ve exaggerated the lines even more. Deep in the body, so the water can’t flow in over a low waist, and shorter and heavier to be more stable.’

  Einion looked forward to the rising bow. ‘How long is it … how many men will you carry?’

  ‘About forty feet. The crew need only be about ten, as far as the sailing is concerned, but if we need to use the long oars in calm waters when the wind fails, then a few more strong arms would be wanted. But for cargo or passengers, there’s room for two to three dozen people in the hold there, as well as a few sheep and cattle, with their fodder.’