Sir William grimaced as he slowly finished his mouthful of oatcake and mutton. ‘I have an offer for you, Raymond,’ he said. ‘We left two alive amongst these houses. I will give you ten marks for them both.’
‘A lot of money,’ Raymond nodded. ‘So who are you getting for such a price?’
‘No one of importance,’ Sir William claimed. A nervous smile stretched across his face. ‘Escaped prisoners only.’
‘Expensive prisoners.’
Sir William’s cheeks flared pink. ‘I think you will find the toll to pass through the valley expensive also.’ He nodded southwards. Raymond could see a number of fires which gave away the position of the Abergavenny warriors. ‘Hand over my prisoners and I will let you go with my thanks and pocket full of silver.’
Raymond did not have the chance to answer. A scream behind them startled both men who jumped to their feet spilling their stew on the ground. Alice of Abergavenny burst from between the houses fumbling with her crossbow. In her haste she dropped the bolt and stooped to retrieve it. Behind her came young Geoffrey, her brother, heavily bruised but finally conscious and pleading with his sister to stop.
‘You!’ she yelled at Sir William, ignoring Geoffrey as the tears poured down her dirty face. Finally righting the crossbow, she brought it up and pointed it at the nobleman’s chest.
Sir William raised a hand as another smile spread across his face. ‘Alice, my love,’ he managed to mumble before she squeezed the crossbow’s release trigger. It was a point blank shot and he could not have done anything to stop the bolt. Not even a shield could stop a quarrel at that range, but in her anger Alice had not taken aim properly and the bolt seared through the surcoat and between his legs to become buried in the green grass at his rear. Not that Sir William realised immediately that he was not injured. He sprawled on the ground, only recognising that he was not hurt after a few seconds of searching his body for a wound.
‘Kill her,’ he commanded his two followers.
Alice was on her knees, crying and muttering incoherently. The boy, Geoffrey, stood over her, fists raised and fear evident on his bruised and swollen face. He tried to calm his sister and pulled the crossbow from her hands in an effort to defend her from the two advancing men-at-arms, but he did not have any crossbow shafts to shoot or the strength to load it.
In any event, Raymond stepped between William de Braose’s warriors and the two youngsters, his bulk as intimidating as any castle. ‘You will not touch her,’ he said, all trace of friendliness and humour gone as he pointed the leg of lamb at them as if it was a weapon. Both men had watched Raymond in action earlier in the day and had heard the many stories of his prowess in battle, but they seemed doubtful as they watched the stout man with the friendly face place his hand on Alice’s head. They may have been nervous but had been given a command by their lord and so they stalked forward tentatively, step by step, ready to strike.
‘I wouldn’t bloody try it if I were you,’ a voice sounded behind the two men. It was Borard and he had Sir William on his knees, one hand gripping a bunch of the nobleman’s long hair at the nape of his neck. The other held a dagger across his throat. Sir William tried to struggle but Borard held him still in a powerful grip. ‘One move and he is dead.’ Borard smiled as he spoke. Glancing at each other, the Abergavenny men lowered their swords and waited while Raymond’s men, drawn out of the farmstead by the noise, gruffly took hold of their hauberks, throwing them to their knees in the dusty mud like their lord. Sir William grimaced at his warriors’ meek compliance.
‘I’ll ask again,’ Raymond rounded on Sir William. ‘Who are these two that you so badly want dead?’ The young lord licked his front teeth beneath his sweaty upper lip, but said nothing. A nod from Raymond brought a huge clout from Borard’s forearm across William’s head.
‘The Devil take you,’ Sir William shouted in shock. His two warriors frowned but could do nothing to assist their lord. After a few seconds of rubbing the back of his head, the Lord of Abergavenny finally acquiesced and told Raymond what he wanted to know: ‘They are the bastards of Henry de Hereford, my uncle,’ he said, aiming a murderous glance at Borard.
‘That’s a lie!’ the young man, Geoffrey, exclaimed and jumped to his feet. ‘Father Peter told you that our parents were married under the eyes of God.’ His was an educated voice, like that of a priest or clerk.
Sir William laughed sharply to show his disdain for Geoffrey’s opinion. ‘I tell all my whores that I will marry them if they spread their legs wide enough,’ he sneered and looked pointedly at Alice, who began bawling even more violently. Grinning, Sir William shifted his view back to Geoffrey. ‘And if you had stayed in the monastery like a good little boy you would have had a fine life for a bastard.’
‘Enough,’ Raymond told them. He already knew what had befallen, or could guess it; a rival claimant to a great castle had been discarded as illegitimate and hidden in a monastery. It was not the first time such a thing had occurred; however, there seemed to be much more to Alice’s story, a darker tale Raymond reckoned, and Sir William de Braose was central to it.
‘I imagine that you do not want to return to your Holy Order?’ Raymond addressed Geoffrey, but he looked to Alice to answer.
‘I am the rightful Lord of Abergavenny,’ Geoffrey stood slowly, bruises and blood covering his face, ‘as was my father, and I will no longer be an oblate at a monastery, but a warrior and a lord of a great citadel.’
Sir William laughed scathingly until Borard shook him to silence.
Raymond could see the tears glistening Geoffrey’s eyes in the effort of holding his gaze. Half of him wanted to chuckle at this frail youth who wanted to challenge the power of William de Braose for a barony in the Welsh mountains. The other part of Raymond pitied the desperate young man who obviously had spirit and bravery to match that of his sister.
‘If that is your wish then you have the protection of Raymond de Carew. You and the Lady Alice will travel with us back to Striguil where your case will be judged by Strongbow.’
Geoffrey allowed a long breath to release from his mouth while his sister bit her lip to hold back the tears.
‘Thank you,’ Geoffrey managed to say.
‘What will we do with him, Raymond?’ asked Borard as he gave Sir William a small kick. ‘We could get a big ransom for this one. Those two might fetch something too,’ he indicated towards the two men-at-arms who still stood in their midst.
Raymond considered the question. On the one hand it would make the journey a profitable enterprise, but he knew that it would not end there. William de Braose’s father, Lord Bramber, was rich and powerful and would surely seek vengeance on those who had brought about the ignominious fall of his heir. Doubtless that would mean a determined assault on the lands and castle at isolated Usk. Raymond did the calculation in his head and there was only one outcome that was beneficial to his master, Strongbow.
‘We will release Sir William and his men. Take their weapons, armour and saddles. Then take their oaths that in return for their release they will not attack us,’ Raymond told his subaltern. ‘Then to make sure of that, take their clothes and send them on their way.’ Within minutes Raymond’s men had chivvied the three naked warriors of Abergavenny towards their horses at spearpoint. As soon as he was free Sir William, furious at such treatment of a knight, began spewing venom on the men of Striguil.
‘You will be sorry for choosing a whore and a bastard over my friendship,’ he shouted at the captain as he spun his horse on the dusty ground a few metres away. ‘If we should cross swords again, Raymond the Fat, you will die painfully like the pig you are.’ With a final spin and glare of pure rancour, the naked knight was gone back towards his troops in the forest.
‘Well,’ Raymond turned towards his troops standing silently at his back, ‘that was dramatic.’ As they giggled, the captain knelt and delicately lifted Alice to her knees.
‘I am not a whore,’ she appealed to Raymond. ‘He is my cousin,’ she mo
aned, ‘and he said that he would help Geoffrey if I...’ she began to sob again, ‘but he lied.’
Raymond smiled and lifted her to her feet so that she could bury her head in his shoulder. He then gently hoisted her legs into his arms and carried her back into the farmstead. There, he laid her down on his cloak between the horses and the roaring fire and left her to whimper and to sleep. As he turned to leave she reached up and took hold of two of his fingers. She said nothing but looked deep into his eyes. He smiled and held her gaze. Alice let go as her brother approached and rolled up into Raymond’s cloak.
‘Thank you for helping us, my lord,’ Geoffrey said softly.
‘Call me Raymond, and you have no need to thank me,’ he smiled. ‘Thank your sister. She saved our horses and for that I will long be in her debt. I will take you back to Striguil with us, but do not expect a warm welcome from Earl Strongbow. Your presence could make the whole region unstable, especially if Sir William or his father gets King Henry involved.’ The boy looked at Raymond, trying to understand how his squabble with his cousin could possibly involve the King of England. The captain smiled. ‘Don’t worry, lad,’ he said, ‘take care of your sister now and I will protect you both. We leave tomorrow before first light.’
‘How will you get home if Sir William blockades the valley mouth?’
Raymond nodded the wall of the nearest house. Bows and bundles of Welsh arrows had been salvaged from the battlefield by his men. None had been left for the Abergavenny warriors to scavenge. ‘The same way that Seisyll did it,’ he described. ‘But with a little more success, I would suggest.’
With that Raymond went back to his men and made sure that they were all getting some much-needed rest and food. He then congratulated them on their great skills during the fight, recanting the story of William de Vale’s injury much to their delight. While they began their teasing of the esquire Raymond wandered towards the edge of the farmstead to take the first watch. There, alone with his thoughts for the first time that day, he passed the time planning the next day’s adventure which would take him back to Striguil and to Strongbow, his lord.
Raymond smiled as the sun sank behind the hills. Munching on a large piece of mutton, he reckoned that it was good to be a warlord on the March of Wales.
Chapter Two
Strongbow stared out between the stone merlons that topped Striguil Castle as Raymond’s conrois rode down from the hills of Wentwood. He espied a woman in the saddle behind Raymond, holding on tightly to his midriff, and that interested the earl far more than the lateness of his captain’s return. Even from where he stood on the great stone keep, Strongbow could see that the woman was a beauty and how closely she gripped his captain’s sides. Her head rested on Raymond’s mailed shoulder and their blonde locks mingled as the wind whipped around them so that he could not tell where Raymond’s hair ended and the woman’s began. He could see her bare legs on either flank of the dark courser.
‘Your friend Raymond seems to have found himself a companion,’ Strongbow said to his daughter who hugged his arm to shield her from the gusts which rode up the steep white cliffs of the Gwy Valley. ‘Obviously this woman is of a rank suited to his tastes.’
Basilia blushed at her father’s suggestion. ‘Raymond is a good Christian man,’ she told him, ‘and I am sure that he has been a perfect gentleman whatever her station.’ From below her white linen wimple, she too watched as Raymond and the woman with the wild hair approached through the fields worked by her father’s serfs. A sudden pang of possessiveness rose in her chest as she watched her childhood friend frolic with the newcomer, and Basilia scolded herself for the impulse. A long intake of air seemed to wash away the wayward emotion and gave her a moment to reflect on her surprise that Raymond the Fat had caused any feelings like that to arise. Embarrassed, she turned her head away from the conrois and stared southwards towards the bridge in the distance. Basilia attempted to picture her husband, Sir Roger de Quincy, somewhere in the castle below nursing a horrid hangover, but her efforts and affections fell short.
‘Raymond is late,’ her father commented, ‘exceptionally late. He was supposed to have returned three days ago. I wonder if he lost his way?’ He raised a sandy eyebrow in his daughter’s direction. ‘Or could it be that something else waylaid him?’ He giggled, enjoying the effect of his gentle teasing, as Basilia playfully punched her father in the side. In truth Strongbow was angry at Raymond’s tardiness. A flurry of effort, early mornings and late nights, had allowed him to have everything ready to go to France to visit King Henry, but he had been unable to do so without leaving someone in command of Striguil. He had assumed that would be Raymond, but in the end, despairing of his captain, Strongbow had acquiesced to Roger de Quincy’s request and agreed to leave his son-in-law in charge of his estates. Raymond would now join the earl on the journey across the sea, partially as punishment and somewhat as a necessity: France had been in turmoil for years thanks to the expansionist policies of the King of England. Henry had sought to impose his laws on more and more French lords, just as he had done in England, and stretch his rule beyond Normandy, Brittany, Maine, Anjou, and Touraine to Aquitaine and the Pyrenees Mountains. Dispossessed men who had stood against the king’s authority were said to roam France causing trouble wherever they could, raping and pillaging, and waylaying travellers. The earl reckoned that Raymond’s fighting skills would be far more use than Roger de Quincy’s quick tongue if they stumbled into one of those gangs of bandits on their journey.
Strongbow stooped to test his knees. He groaned with the effort. He had spent the last few days at the great abbey of Tyndyrn, endowed by his grandfather’s brother almost fifty years before. There he had prayed to St Benedict for a swift and fruitful end to what would be his most important journey in many years. Strongbow had already made a solemn promise that he would donate another large swathe of land to the Cistercian brothers if his journey to France was a success. It was a gamble for him to even appear in King Henry’s presence and he reckoned that he could use every piece of good fortune available to him. He had prayed to each of the Trinity, begged the assistance of saints strange and familiar, from across Christendom and even from amongst the Welsh pantheon. Strongbow had beseeched holy icons for help, and had paid for the influence of priests, but it would all be worth it if they would intercede on his behalf. King Henry was known to be the most turbulent king ever to sit upon the English throne; constantly plotting, always suspicious. Nothing escaped his notice. And yet Strongbow had to make the journey so that he could obtain a definite licence from the king to invade Ireland and aid Diarmait Mac Murchada in the recovery of his throne. He felt sure that he had to meet Henry face to face and demand his independence in the presence of his bishops and nobles. That way the king could not consequently claim Richard had contravened his commands nor have reason to declare his estates in Wales forfeit. Strongbow’s heart fluttered with nerves as he imagined his meeting with the king. He reached out and placed a hand on the wall of his castle. The damp stone steadied him and strengthened his resolve. The king had no claim over Striguil, he reminded himself. From his position atop the keep, the earl stared southwards towards the two towers which dominated the gates and beyond, over the deep fosse, to the weather beaten cliffs which defended one side of the castle.
You are the Earl Strongbow, he repeated over and over again.
‘I am going indoors, Lord Father,’ Basilia said suddenly and angrily, interrupting his thoughts. She curtsied once before crossing the heavy oak roof to the tower which led back towards the solar, main hall and the rest of the castle rooms.
Strongbow wondered momentarily what he had said to annoy his daughter, before dismissing the girl’s irrational behaviour and returning to his vigil, watching Raymond as he passed through the town and then into the castle bailey. His warlord jumped down from horseback at the marshalsea before taking the young woman by her hips to help her from his courser. Both laughed at the small exchange and Strongbow felt his lips purse in
anger at the sight of Raymond the Fat with a beautiful woman on his arm. The wind off the estuary buffeted Strongbow’s gold and crimson surcoat and the slowly fading orange-red locks upon his head. He was jealous of his servant, he realised. He was carefree. He did not have to meet with King Henry.
The earl sighed, wishing that his mother was still alive to counsel him. She had always been confident and decisive no matter the circumstances, and her wise words would have been comforting to him now. He looked to the heavens and said another prayer to St Peter for his true hand of guidance in the coming weeks.
For the hundredth time he questioned whether he was indeed doing the right thing by going to France. His legacy, and possibly his life, depended on successfully convincing Henry to grant him licence to leave his service. Raymond’s absence had meant that he had an excuse to delay the daunting journey, but his warlord had returned and so now Strongbow’s great undertaking could begin.
* * *
‘That was some tale, Raymond.’ Strongbow told him when the captain had finished recanting his story. Raymond had to strain his ears to hear his lord over the victorious cheers that rose from those in the great hall.
‘You strapped the villagers’ bodies to your coursers to conceal your whereabouts from the Welsh?’ Whether Strongbow was impressed, disgusted or disbelieving, Raymond could not tell. He had left out the part where he had stripped the Lord of Abergavenny of his armour though he did not doubt that his warriors’ story would soon set tongues a-twittering in Striguil – especially when he appeared wearing Sir William’s expensive chainmail and sitting on his expensive saddle. The rest he would sell in Gloucester or Hereford the next time Strongbow sent him on an errand to Goodrich Castle. His conrois hadn’t been paid in two months and if the earl couldn’t afford their wages, it fell to him to provide for them until their lord could.
Lord of the Sea Castle Page 5