Einion clambered down the short ladder into the hold and stood on the rough planking that covered the bottom. Moving to the curved inner side of the hull, he ran his hands down the overlapping planks and the sturdy frames that looked like the ribs of a huge beast.
The others watched him from above. ‘Every plank of best oak from the Gwynant valley,’ offered one of the shipbuilders.‘Pinned with sawn stag horn, as Lord Madoc directed.Stronger than any other vessel in the world.’
‘And with the best mast in the world,’ added another Gele man. ‘Our spars and rigging are the best in Wales. They may build good hulls on the banks of the Conwy, but they send them to the Gele for masting.’
This was true and was why Madoc had taken the trouble to have had the hull rowed around from Deganwy to this creek, after the main building had been completed on the Conwy. The men at this little boatyard community on the Gele were undisputed masters of the delicate job of lowering a twenty-foot tree trunk into place, without dropping its foot through the bottom of the vessel. They also had the art of making a good sail and rigging, which not only would affect the performance of the Gwennan Gorn, but might make all the difference between life and death in really bad weather.
Annesta settled herself and the child comfortably while they waited for the tide to flow in far enough for the men on the shore to start pulling the vessel down to the sea.
In an hour, to the cheers of farewell from the Gele shipwrights and their families, the Gwennan Gorn slid through the low surf, pulled along by four of the men using long oars poked through little windows in the sides.
‘Even the oar sockets have stoppers to keep the sea out when sailing,’Riryd proudly pointed out to Einion.
‘Right, we’lllet the wind do the work now,’ shouted Madoc, as the breakers were left behind. He took the big steering oar that hung over the steerboard side of the stern, whilst Svein and Riryd hoisted the single yard that carried the oblong sail of wadmal fabric, strongly reinforced at the edges and in strips by bands of leather.
‘Do you like our new machine, Einion?’ he called, pointing to the innovation that the Norseman and Riryd were using.
‘What’s it called?’ asked Einion, staring at the three-foot length of tree trunk that rested in sockets on the stern deck. Four spokes stuck out from each end and the rope that hoisted the sail was wrapped around the drum formed by the cylindrical log.
‘A windlass – used by modern Norsemen these days. The sail spar can be hauled up by two men, instead of needing four struggling and slipping on a wet deck, as before.’
Einion shook his head in wonder, thinking that progress these days was getting too rapid for his liking. As Svein and Riryd heaved at the spokes, the sail rattled up and began bellying in the breeze. The wind was coming off the land, but thankfully from the east, so the Gwennan Gorn soon pulled away from the coast and went along at a steady pace, the water gurgling and slapping under her bluff bows, music to the ears of Madoc and those others aboard with salt water in their veins.
‘It rolls and pitches a lot,’ complained Annesta, looking rather white about the cheeks already.
Svein, Riryd and Madoc laughed aloud. ‘This is like sailing an acorn cup on a dish of water, girl,’ yelled Svein, as he jammed the spokes of the windlass with a piece of wood. ‘Wait until you’re off Brittany in a sudden storm … you’ll not know which way is up nor which is down then.’
‘No, thank you very much,’ snapped the young woman, now looking decidedly pale. ‘I don’t mind this for myself, but I’m thinking of poor Gwenllian.’
The little girl looked perfectly happy, gripping the edge of the bulwarks and laughing delightedly as the breeze and a few drops of spray tangled her dark hair.
It was over all too quickly and before long they came around and headed back towards the land. The ship heeled slightly, having no cargo or ballast and Annesta’s protests became more vociferous, though her voice had become weaker as the pallor of her face took on a greenish tinge.
Her discomfort was to be short, however, as soon the Gwennan Gorn reached her destination. This was another little tidal creek, the Afon Ganol at Rhos, a mile or two from the great mass of the Orme Head. Here, a little stone quayside gave shelter and loading facilities for small vessels that squeezed through the surf at high tide and beached themselves in the creek under the gaze of Llandrillo church. The Gwennan Gorn was rowed into this haven, called Aber Cerrig Gwynion and Annesta’s ordeal was over. Svein dropped the bow anchor, a great stone perforated with a hole through which the walrus-hide cable was attached and the little vessel was home.
CHAPTER SEVEN
June 1169
A month after the completion of the Gwennan Gorn, she was safely anchored in the creek near the palace of Aberffraw. The court was again in full residence in Anglesey – it was the only one of the royal residences large enough to accommodate all the family, officers, servants and assorted hangers-on that made up the full court of Owain Gwynedd. And this June, everyone seemed to be at Aberffraw, excepting the eldest son, Iorwerth Drwyndwyn, he of the Flat Nose, who was ostracised and virtually banished, skulking in a manor on the shores of the Menai Straits.
The main contenders for the princedom of North Wales were all there – Owain’s legitimate sons Dafydd, Rhodri, Cynan and Hywel. The first two were the pacemakers of the court, the finest dressed, and the loudest-mouthed.
Though Owain Gwynedd was far ahead of any of them in both personality and presence, Madoc could see the clear and ominous signs of the familiar scramble for power in the not-too-distant future.
‘It’s like those monkeys we saw in Spain, Riryd,’ he said sadly to his brother one evening. ‘Remember, they were in a great pit at the court of some prince near Cadiz. The young males fought amongst themselves, then, when the old leader grew tired, they crept up behind him and bit him.’
Riryd nodded. ‘It seems that monkeys and men are pretty near relations, Madoc.’
‘Our brothers have fine clothes and no tails, but there is little difference otherwise. I tell you, it sickens me. I hate to think to the future, when our father goes to his rest. Whilst these popinjays are squabbling, Henry of England will march in and hang them all.’
They were sitting in the great hall at the evening meal, looking around at the familiar scene. No women were present, only being admitted to the hall on festive days. The strict observance of theold Welsh court protocols of Hywel Dda had begun to fade, after more than a century of contamination by Norman influences, but the prince and his immediate following still sat at the upper end of the hall above the great fire.
Owain Gwynedd had the place of honour on the right-hand side, with his bards, judges and chief officers around him. The three elder legitimate sons were nearby, but during the years that Madoc had been serving his father, his reliability and popularity with the old man had gradually earned him a place above the fire and now he sat with Riryd at the bottom of the benches that lined the wall of the upper hall. The traditional wattle screens between upper and lower hall had vanished in the name of progress, but a low step demarcated the large nave of the hall, where all the lesser men sat in serried ranks of benches behind their food-filled trestle tables. The floor was now of roughly slabbed stone instead of beaten earth, but the great roof trees that supported the massive thatch were much the same design that had persisted since the Romans left Britain.
On the surface, there was a comfortable air of permanency and security, but to those in the know – like the two brothers and the sharp-eyed bards – there was an ominous tension that grew month by month.
Servants were clearing the tables of platters and scraps, to make room for the serious business of drinking. There was beer, mead and even French wine for the select group around Prince Owain. The contact that Madoc had substantially helped to form across the sea had resulted not only in treaties, but in trade.
Ships the size of the Gwennan Gorn, as well as more flimsy hide-covered currachs, shipped Welsh wool and Angle
sey corn across the channel in exchange for the more exotic produce of France.
It was time for song and verse, as well as for drink. The court Silentiary yelled and banged his staff for quiet and Owain Gwynedd rose to order Llywarch, now one of the court bards, to entertain them. The wily long-faced singer looks no older than when I first met him, thought Madoc.
As the prince spoke, Madoc looked with foreboding at his lined and tired face. Owain was now in his late sixties, an advanced age indeed for a warrior in those times. Though he had been as strong as an ox – and almost as large – for most of those seven decades, he seemed to have shrunk and bent duringthe past year. Several old wounds, each of which would have been fatal in a lesser man, had at last begun to weaken him and the rapid onset of old age seemed to have withered him pitifully. His voice and eye were as sound as ever, but by the way he leaned on the table and the way his clothes hung on his shrunken body, Madoc could almost see the finger of death upon him.
Riryd had the same feelings. ‘Our royal father looks ill tonight,’ he murmured to his brother.
Madoc nodded. ‘Annesta told me that he had blood in his phlegm last night. She hears everything from her old friends in the Queen’s bedchamber.’ His eyes swivelled to the opposite table. ‘Someone else has noticed it too, damn them.’
Riryd followed his gaze and saw Dafydd and Hywel staring up at their father and talking behind their hands.
‘Discussing the share-out already, I’ll wager,’ muttered Madoc angrily.
Suddenly Dafydd looked across at them and must have intercepted Madoc’s expression. He scowled and nudged his brother. Hywel also stared across the hall and his face began to show undisguised hatred and contempt.
The two of them never tried to hide their open jealousy of Madoc. It was made worse by the fact that Owain knew it only too well and goaded them with it by openly favouring Madoc, especially since he had proved such a successful ambassador and courier.Several times there had been heated exchanges in the court, with Dafydd commenting loudly on Madoc’s bastardy and previous banishment.
Since Owain had publicly rewarded Madoc with the cost of building the Gwennan Gorn, Dafydd’s seething hate had been a permanent feature of court life. Though Owain, in his strength, had pretended to make a joke of it, Madoc sensed that he sent Madoc away on voyages and errands merely to cool off an embarrassing situation.
The very next day, the Gwennan Gorn was to leave on her first long trip to Spain. This was really quite unnecessary from the diplomatic point of view, as any shipmaster could have delivered the letters that Owain was sending to the ruler of León and Castile. Madoc strongly suspected that the open breach between the legitimate and bastard brothers had prompted Owainto invent this bogus errand for the Gwennan Gorn and her pilot, but he was glad of the opportunity both to escape from the evil atmosphere and to put his new vessel to sterner tests. After calling at Spain, he was going to take his ship much further south to the Fortunate Isles10 off the coast of Africa.
But tonight was yet to be lived through. At the end of the songs and poems from the bards, the hall dissolved into drinking groups and isolated centres of singing and tale-telling. The orderly ranks of benches were broken up and those who did not wander off to go wenching or back to their families, remained far into the night to revel or talk or play games of tawlbwrdd and dice.
Madoc did not want to remain too long, as he would rather spend the time with Annesta, talking and watching the sleeping Gwenllian. However, he stayed for a while in a group consisting of Riryd, Einion, Svein and a few others who had an interest in ships and voyaging.
Einion was proudly declaring his brother’s naval prowess – since the Gwennan Gorn was launched, he had developed a passion for the sea and had been with Madoc on every proving trip that the new ship had made. He was going with Madoc on the voyage to Spain and his enthusiasm was unbounded.
‘We’re not coming straight back,’ he was telling those outside the Gwennan Gorn family. ‘Madoc of the Ships here is going to sail her down to the Fortunate Islands, far beyond Spain, off the hot coast of Africa.’
A few of the other shipmen had heard of these Fortunate Islands, which lay in the great ocean off the Pillars of Hercules, but none had ever been there, as this was beyond the ultimate limits of navigators from Britain.
‘They are at the very edge of the world,’ said one confidently. ‘Nothing lies beyond them, save the mists of the rim of the world – then the great void.’
Madoc had little time for those who described the bounds of the world from the safety of their chairs.
‘How do you know, if you’ve never been there, Iestyn?’ he asked. ‘There are other islands in the Western Ocean. Brandon the Blessed found them, hundreds of years ago.’
Iestyn scoffed at this. ‘Legends, Madoc … hundreds of years ago! The babblings of a mad Irish priest, like that Padraig of yours.’
Madoc nodded. ‘Very well, let’s forget Brandon for the moment. There are islands not far from the Fortunate Isles – which even you will not deny exist. They lie to the north and further out into the ocean.’
Iestyn was shaken by the quiet confidence in Madoc’s voice.
‘How do you know?’ he asked dubiously.
‘When I was in Paris, I spent much time with a philosopher from the shores of the Mediterranean, Guiot by name. He had great knowledge of the seas in that part of the world and had many friends amongst Arabian shipmen who used Massilia and often sailed the coast of Africa and out beyond the Pillars of Hercules.’
‘So … what did this oracle tell you?’ asked Iestyn.
‘That, not only were there these Fortunate Islands, but others about three days sailing northward from the Fortunate Isles. They had no inhabitants, though there were some animals … the most noticeable being the profusion of hawks.’
Madoc was so definite that the others lost their cynical attitude.
‘What else did this man tell you?’ asked Iestyn.
Madoc exchanged a quick glance with Einion. The othershook his head slightly, telling Madoc not to say any more about the secret navigating device that Guiot de Provins had given him.
Madoc covered up. ‘That there are seven or more islands, some very small. A few rise to a great height, sheer out of the sea there, which cannot be plumbed with a line even close inshore. These must be the tips of underwater mountains – Guiot thinks they may be the remnants of the fabled continent of Atlantis that the Greeks described.’
‘Can you land at these distant isles?’ asked one of them, a practical man.
‘They are very steep, but there are a few bays and coves that are accessible. There is fresh water and an abundance of fruit.’ Iestyn looked thoughtful.
‘The Irish talk much of the Isles of the Blessed and the Isle of the Fountain of Youth, far out in the Great Ocean … are these supposed to be they?’
Einion answered for Madoc.
‘No, those are the Gwerddonau Llion – the Isles of Llion – that Brandon sought. It is said that they have wondrous fruit and trees full of birds and the seas around them have strange fish of enormous size … though as no one has ever returned from there, I fail to see how such tales ever came about,’ he added practically.
‘These are the blasphemous tales that you have been filling my father’s head with,’ cut in a new voice from the edge of the group.
Madoc looked up at the newcomer. It was Dafydd, accompanied by several of his burly, extravagantly costumed acolytes.
‘I was merely retelling old legends, brother,’ said Madoc mildly.
‘Brother! You are no brother of mine, Madoc the Bastard,’ snarled Dafydd, his face flushed with drink and his voice slightly slurred by both hatred and French wine.
Riryd started forward in anger, but Madoc restrained him with a hand on his arm.
‘Those are hard words, Dafydd ab Owain Gwynedd,’ he said evenly, striving always to avoid confrontation.
‘They are true words, you interloper, you snake in the
grass!’ Dafydd was nearly shouting now. ‘Son of one of my weak father’s whores, expelled in disgrace … then you come worming your way back into his favours, hoping to carve out some inheritance for yourself when he dies.’
Madoc’s face began to redden. He had one of the slowest tempers in Wales, but to hear his mother being insulted like that began to tax even his iron self-control. ‘I think you are not well,or over tired, brother,’ he said with icy quietness.
‘I am very well, well enough to recognise deceit and fawning treachery when I see it,’ raved Dafydd. He staggered a little and one of his creatures took him by the arms to support him. His fair hair was a legacy from his father, just as Madoc’s, but a big frame and handsome face was spoiled by a petulant mouth and weak chin.
Riryd took a step forward.
‘Dafydd, you are drunk,’ he said bluntly. He was older and more pugnacious than his brother and had the independence that came from a settled domain across the Irish Sea. He cared for nothing for Dafydd or his jealousies and made the fact quite obvious. ‘You are an insulting knave, brother … and brother you are, to me, to Madoc and to twentyothers and more, whether you like it or not. So take yourself off, you and your rabble here. Brood elsewhere on your envy and jealousy.’
Dafydd lurched around and faced him with seething hatred. He opened his mouth to spit insults, but Riryd took another step nearer and glared right into Dafydd’s face.
The fair dandy stared back, then his eyes dropped. He turned and swayed into his companions.
‘Let us leave this band of bastards … but you, Madoc of the Ships,’ –he turned and gave his half-brother a look of crazed, drunken malice – ‘you will regret ever coming back to this court. I will see to that.’ He made his way unsteadily across to the high tables.
‘There goes an evil man – and a dangerous one, Madoc,’ muttered Riryd.
Madoc Page 8