‘He is a gambler and as ambitious a man as any I have met before,’ said the bearded Máelmáedoc. ‘FitzStephen will back his skill against any enemy, no matter their number. Eventually every gambler loses, and it is my view that he will ultimately fail when it will cost my king most.’ Like many of the Irish ruling classes, Máelmáedoc could speak both Latin and French, Richard’s native tongue, fluently and it was in that language in which they conversed. ‘What Diarmait needs is an older, experienced warrior to rule his kingdom with a steady hand after he has gone. That is if the warrior’s assistance is prompt,’ continued Diarmait’s emissary.
Richard raised a sandy eyebrow at Máelmáedoc’s impertinence, but before he could retort his son-in-law Sir Roger de Quincy interceded:
‘King Diarmait should not trust FitzStephen. He is a bandit proven capable of any underhand scheme. We should go to King Diarmait’s side as soon as possible before that Welsh cur robs us of what we were promised. I could even go ahead with a small force of a thousand warriors?’ Roger looked from face to face searching for support in this view, but received none. Everyone in the room knew that there was a dark history between Sir Roger and Robert FitzStephen, and even Máelmáedoc had heard the lurid stories about how Roger had betrayed FitzStephen to his enemies six years before. Richard de Clare, however, preferred to ignore such gossip about his daughter Basilia’s husband.
‘King Henry declared FitzStephen a rebel,’ Roger exclaimed when no support for his opinion was offered.
‘You raise a valid point, Roger,’ the earl said and leant back on his chair, enjoying the heat from the distant fire upon his face. ‘FitzStephen failed to get express permission from Henry to go to Ireland and if he ever falls into the king’s hands he will suffer the consequences of that decision.’ Obviously FitzStephen, a man who had been sprung from a Welsh prison months before his deeds in Ireland, had nothing to lose, Richard thought. ‘I will have to get definite sanction from Henry in person before I do anything,’ the earl stated, much, it was obvious, to the dislike of the three other men. ‘The risk to my last estate … to Striguil … is too great and Henry FitzEmpress is not a man who can be so easily disregarded.’
‘The king has been wintering in Poitou, nephew,’ Hervey de Montmorency informed. ‘It is dangerous to journey across the sea so late in the year. But if we could make for Ireland immediately …’
‘Before Robert FitzStephen becomes the power behind King Diarmait’s throne?’ the earl mused. If anything Sir Hervey seemed even more desperate than he for the great endeavour to go ahead. His uncle had been the first to see the potential in King Diarmait’s plea for warriors, and thus could be assured of collecting a grand share of the spoils. But he was totally reliant on his nephew’s participation. Not for the first time the earl caught Sir Hervey throw a hungry, wolfish look in his direction.
‘I must visit King Henry. But you, Uncle, will return to Ireland with Master Ua Riagain and my answer for Diarmait. Tell him that I will come to his aid in the summer.’
Hervey stroked his hands over the long thin greasy locks which fell from his balding head and studied Richard’s face. He seemed to be searching for an untruth in his nephew’s words.
‘What of Raymond le Gros?’
‘Raymond?’ Richard raised his eyebrows. ‘I had completely forgotten about him. It is easily done,’ he joked. The earl had indeed overlooked the man who commanded his household warriors, the man who Sir Hervey had scathingly called Raymond the Fat.
‘He is a traitor to our cause, nephew. I have it on good authority that it was Raymond who directed King Diarmait to search out Robert FitzStephen last summer.’ Hervey spat the words through his grizzled mouth. His eyes flicked towards Máelmáedoc.
‘Raymond may be a blabbermouth but he certainly has his uses,’ Earl Richard replied with a smile. ‘They are few, as well you know, but those that he has are valuable. Especially if fighting or food is involved.’ The earl giggled at his small levity. ‘In any event, I have no doubt that news of King Diarmait’s offer would have reached FitzStephen’s ears without his nephew’s help, one way or another.’
‘I don’t know why you don’t get rid of Raymond and make me captain of your conrois, Lord Father,’ Roger de Quincy snorted. ‘Raymond is a drunken oaf and if what Sir Hervey says is true, he is not to be trusted.’
‘I expect that he simply did not realise the gravity of his chit-chat,’ the old earl responded, side-stepping Roger’s request as he had done many times before. ‘Raymond doesn’t think sometimes, but he is a demon in battle. And the men love him. He is a simple man.’ And no threat to my position, Richard thought as he talked to his ambitious and graceful son-in-law.
Sir Roger de Quincy, looking extremely irritated, and mumbled that he was a much better candidate for high command than a lowborn man of mixed Welsh and Norman heritage like Raymond.
Richard ignored Roger’s gripe and left his chair on the dais to stand before his Irish visitor. ‘I am decided,’ he told Máelmáedoc. ‘I will visit Poitou and obtain royal permission to assist Diarmait in this great endeavour. Tell your king that I am coming and soon, Master Ua Riagain. Tell him that I will bring an army, the like of which he will never have seen. Diarmait’s throne will be secured,’ he said, ‘and once that is done I will marry his daughter and he will name me his heir.’
Máelmáedoc nodded. ‘That he will, Lord Strongbow.’
Strongbow; it was a name that spoke of the great power of Richard de Clare’s family, and its mention made the earl lift his chin with pride to stare at his family arms which were chiselled in stone on the trusses of the roof beams above him. Where the name was mentioned men perished and great deeds were performed. Alone of his father’s titles it was the one that the king could never take away from Richard de Clare. It was also the one which he had always struggled to live up to. But now he had the opportunity to outshine even his great father, who had first borne the name of Strongbow. His father had fought a hard battle of war and politics to become Earl of Pembroke. Could his son make himself a king in Ireland? If he succeeded the scorn which Richard had endured would be quieted and history would never forget him. His reputation would be saved.
But to do that he would have to travel to France and there convince Henry FitzEmpress, the most powerful, jealous, antagonistic, and autocratic monarch in Christendom, to let him go to Ireland. Strongbow had to persuade the man who despised him most to let him seek his fortune across the sea.
Chapter One
The race was on and the captain from Striguil was in no mood to come in second as he led his conrois up the slick valley beside the Afon Wysg. Down in the lowlands it had been easy for the Norman horsemen to follow the raiders’ progress; dead men, burnt out homesteads, and the sorrowing wail of women and children had led the horsemen northwards towards Gwent Uwchcoed where Seisyll ap Dyfnwal was lord. Their pursuit had led them into disputed territory.
It was almost midday when the captain called a halt. The ten men from Striguil had exited the wooded valley moments before and come into a bright meadow bounded by evergreen trees on all sides. Close by was a small group of hovels, obviously Welsh for no sane Norman would live this far from Usk Castle without a palisade to protect his home.
‘We are certainly in Seisyll’s lands now, Raymond,’ tall Denis d’Auton told his captain.
Raymond de Carew gave no indication that he had heard the miles. Instead he leant downwards to investigate hoof marks on the ground. His chainmail hood shimmered as it tumbled across his wide shoulders. Like a hound confused by the scent of a wounded hind, Raymond’s blond head bobbed from side to side as he scrutinised the marks. He then sat straight to survey the horizon, a large hand over his eyes to shield them from the hot sun.
His manner caused Denis to tense and like his captain he began to scan the hilly landscape for possible threats. A large number of sheep and cattle had been grazing between the valley mouth and the Welsh houses, but, as Denis watched, they fled eastwards
away from the Normans of Striguil who had stopped behind their captain.
‘That’s a large number of animals for such a small farmstead,’ Raymond said, pointing his lance at the grazing animals. ‘So where are the stockmen?’ The beasts were the most valuable commodity on the March and should have been protected by a number of herdsmen. ‘The hoof marks are wider-spaced than before,’ he said as he turned his horse and pointed at the ground where the grass was flattened. ‘They broke into a gallop here and made off towards those buildings. Something is not right.’
‘I don’t think there is anything to fear,’ Denis replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.
It was an unfortunate statement to make because at that moment, with little more than a whinny and the solid thump of hooves on the heavy ground, fifteen horsemen emerged into view from between the Welsh hovels. Inscribed upon their red and blue surcoats were the three golden wheat sheaves of the Braose family. Their leader marshalled his force forty feet from Raymond’s men.
‘Abergavenny men,’ Gilbert Borard, Raymond’s most trusted lieutenant, whispered loudly in his captain’s ear as he joined him from the back of the conrois. ‘I reckon it must’ve been them who were thieving from Earl Strongbow’s lands, not Seisyll and the Welsh. It might be a good time for us to leave.’ Borard stopped talking when the leader of the Abergavenny men detached from his troop and trotted forward, his red and blue pennant fluttering from his long lance.
‘What in seven hells does he want?’ Borard muttered from behind his heavy black beard to Raymond.
‘I’ve heard this is how they start a fight in England,’ Raymond replied. ‘He’ll ask for our surrender, I will refuse and then he will set the rules. We’ll have a scrap, but we aren’t allowed to kill anybody.’
Borard sniffed a laugh and shook his head to show his disbelief at the unusual conventions of the nobility. In the March of Wales such frivolities were rare. Here, on the frontier, ambush was favoured and murder common. On the edge of the kingdom men scratched out a living from cold earth under constant fear of attack. You killed or feared repercussions. Life made men hard, women suspicious and warriors merciless. It was a place where the King of England’s law did not reach.
Raymond clipped his heels to his courser’s sides and walked his horse forward to meet his fellow Norman.
‘I am Sir William de Braose, Lord of Abergavenny,’ the armoured man dipped his head in greeting as Raymond and Borard approached. Two warriors flanked the young man in the red and blue surcoat. ‘To whom am I speaking?’
Before answering, Raymond hungrily admired the newcomer’s armour which covered everything except his young, red-cheeked face. His chainmail was a hard fish skin of shining steel circlets and not only wrapped his torso but also his forearms and shins. The nobleman even had long chainmail gloves and socks to protect those extremities. By comparison Raymond’s hauberk was thin, with gaps between the links, and only stretched to his elbows. It was dented and had been mended in a hundred places, but it had saved his life numerous times. The skirts on his armour divided at his waist, covering only his thighs but allowing him to ride a horse comfortably, something Raymond doubted that Sir William could claim. But even still, the nobleman’s mail was impressive. Below the hauberk Raymond knew that the knight would have a thick gambeson made of padded leather and stuffed tightly with wool for extra protection and comfort. On top of it all was the surcoat of his family, of the brightest reds, blues, and golds. Of course Sir William had a new-fangled great helm hanging from his expensive Spanish-made saddle.
Raymond’s dented spangenhelm, cone-shaped and complete with bent nasal guard, would not have looked out of place amongst the warriors who had fought at Hastings a hundred years before. Likewise his shabby bucket saddle, which had belonged to his father, and his long leaf-shaped shield which bore no device. Sir William’s lance was standard, but his sword’s handle was inlaid with gold and wrapped in red cord to cushion the reverberations when it came together with another weapon. It matched his rich red leather scabbard and cushioned saddle. William de Braose looked every inch the Christian warrior, but he was out of place on the March of Wales. Apart from the few like Raymond who wore a surcoat bearing Strongbow’s arms, most warriors in Gwent wore dull colours, greys and greens, so that they could mix in with the countryside. Few men of the March could afford the rich gaudiness of the English and French courts.
Even from five paces away Raymond could see the strength and power of Sir William’s charger, which danced from hoof to hoof aggressively. The stallion was huge and was hidden beneath a long red rug bearing his master’s famous family arms. It covered the whole beast, including its face, to the knees. Raymond rode a smaller, more manoeuvrable courser without any garish devices.
‘My name is Raymond de Carew,’ the captain finally answered Sir William de Braose’s question, ‘and I serve the Earl Strongbow of Striguil.’
If he recognised either name, Sir William did not show any interest. ‘I am lord of these lands,’ he stated simply, ‘and you are either lost or trespassing. The second reason gives me the right to kill you and your men.’
Raymond raised his eyebrows at the sudden declaration, and chuckled. ‘I believe you are new to the March, Sir William, so it is my duty to inform you that you are the one who is lost. These lands belong to Seisyll ap Dyfnwal of Castle Arnallt.’
William de Braose snorted. ‘That Welshman is a rebel, and I will catch up with him soon. Then the raiding will stop.’
‘It is funny that you would mention raiding – we were tracking a party about twenty strong who attacked one of Strongbow’s manors above Usk. Have you heard anything about them?’ He asked the question as innocently as he possibly could. ‘They passed through this way extremely recently.’
‘What exactly are you implying, Sir Raymond?’
‘It is simply Raymond, Sir William,’ the captain replied, ‘I am no knight, only one of Strongbow’s humble warriors. But in answer to your question, I am implying that you Abergavenny bastards were in my lord’s territory; that you burned his manor house, and attempted to mask your skulduggery by leaving a trail that led into the lands of the Welsh. I am telling you that I am here to beat you bloody so that you will remember not to stray into Earl Strongbow’s domains again.’
Sir William de Braose’s response surprised Raymond: he laughed, dramatically and long. ‘I will give your cheap sword to my son to use until I buy him a proper one when he becomes an esquire. Your little pony will be my daughter’s pet. Your meagre ransom I will keep for myself.’ Noting Raymond’s confusion at the statement Sir William nodded back towards the valley mouth. ‘You can surrender to my sergeant now, Master Raymond de Carew, while I take care of a little business in those houses,’ he said and nonchalantly shifted his reins to direct his stallion towards the Welsh farmstead.
Raymond swung around in his saddle to see at what his opponent was indicating. What he saw shocked him for, at the mouth of the valley, were ten more mounted men in the same surcoats as Sir William de Braose. They blocked his escape route home.
He had been outmanoeuvred, Raymond realised. He was outnumbered and he was surrounded.
Sir William de Braose’s men had indeed attacked Strongbow’s uplands manors. They had stolen all they could carry and had then fled back over the hills towards Abergavenny. But somewhere along the way they had discovered that they were being followed and their leader had prepared a trap for his pursuer. And Raymond the Fat had bumbled straight into it.
All this Raymond understood in a moment and already he had decided what to do: he launched his lance into the chest of the nearest rider. The man, who had accompanied the smug and smiling William de Braose to the parley, tumbled from his saddle and dragged down his frightened horse with him. Luckily for Sir William his spooked mount swept him out of range or he would have been next to be attacked. His other warrior was not so lucky. Instead of fleeing, the Abergavenny man raised his sword and slashed at Raymond. But his blow never fell.
Borard’s spearpoint punched through the air to strike his midriff. A good-looking man of thirty with long black hair, Borard smiled behind his beard as he dragged the weapon from the dead man’s stomach.
‘Brainless bastard,’ he said, sending a toothy grin in his captain’s direction.
‘We attack those men,’ Raymond said. His horse skittered excitedly in small twists in front of his warriors who had quickly surrounded their leader. He pointed towards Sir William’s men who gathered in front of the Welsh homestead. Sir William was already halfway to them and Raymond knew that speed was all if the men from Striguil were to survive a fight in the hills against the superior force. ‘We kill them all and then turn around and deal with those bastards over by the valley.’ He hoped that without Sir William’s leadership the smaller number of men in the distance would not react as quickly to the change of events and that the Striguil men could take advantage by attacking the larger group.
‘No ransoms,’ Raymond commanded, knowing that some would be tempted to take prisoners. If they did that then they would be out of the fight and he could little afford to lose any of them. ‘Then let’s go,’ he shouted as he hauled his courser, Dreigiau, around to look at the farmstead. The swift courser fought against the bridle for a second before he spotted the Abergavenny men in the distance. He then understood what his master desired and Raymond let the reins slacken so that the horse could take the lead. His legs still gripped Dreigiau’s flanks, urging him onwards with a squeeze. As he rode Raymond realised that he had not recovered his lance from the man he had killed and so he drew his mace from his belt.
His milites fell in behind him, gnashing their teeth as they thundered towards the enemy. Wind whipped at their surcoats and, as they hoisted their weapons to strike, their crimson and gold pennants flickered like dragons’ tongues. Some couched the eight-feet long lances under their armpits, but most held them over-arm, ready to stab down into the faces, chests and horses of their enemies.
Lord of the Sea Castle Page 2