Lord of the Sea Castle

by Edward Ruadh Butler

  Strongbow looked like he was going to address Raymond again, but seemed to think better of it and instead raised his hand to signal his harpers to begin playing. Raymond groaned internally. They had elected to play one of the earl’s favourite songs, a lament based around the story of Lot, son of Noah. Raymond was in a good mood, and would rather that the troubadours would play a whimsical and jaunty tune – the one about the love between Tristan and Iseult at King Arthwyr’s court, or, even better, the splendid Song of Roland and his glory at the Pass of Roncesvalles. That was Raymond’s favourite and he knew every word of the great saga by heart. Instead the minstrels sawed slowly on their stringed instruments, accompanied by the mewing melody and dreary deeds about people being transformed into pillars of salt.

  Dismissed, Raymond bowed and turned to leave the dais when Sir Roger de Quincy’s voice pierced the hubbub in the great hall. ‘He tied bodies to the back of horses? I would have ridden down Seisyll’s archers in a grand charge worthy of the Lord of Striguil,’ he boasted to his father-in-law. ‘I would not have needed to use trickery or allowed Sir William de Braose the pleasure of winning the victory.’ Lounging at Strongbow’s side at the top table, Sir Roger sneered down at Raymond.

  The captain returned his jeer with a look of incredulity. He knew that Sir Roger had never faced a Welsh bowman in the open field, or, like Sir William, understood the damage that those marksmen could inflict on a horse or an armoured man who foolishly charged at them without the support of infantry or crossbowmen. He had once heard a Welshman boast that he could drive an arrow through an oak door. He might doubt that claim, but his experiences in Gwent Uwchcoed had made him even more impressed by the weapons borne by Seisyll’s men.

  Strongbow had caught the look on his captain’s face and interjected before Raymond could make a joke at Roger’s expense. ‘I see you have brought back a lady from your conquest.’

  Raymond’s eyes flicked momentarily towards Basilia who sat on her father’s left. Something in her father’s tone made him think that Strongbow had insinuated a lack of propriety on his behalf. He held up his hands and began to deny any wrong-doing as far as Alice of Abergavenny was involved, but Strongbow stopped him short.

  ‘So my old friend Henry de Hereford had his secrets?’ the earl mused. ‘Two bastards? What do we do about them?’ He began drumming his long fingers on the table. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘They claim that they were accepted as Sir Henry’s heirs before their cousin disinherited and imprisoned them,’ Raymond described.

  ‘It was Sir Henry’s right as a Marcher Lord to dispose of his property as he saw fit,’ Strongbow stated swiftly and reached out to take his daughter’s hand. ‘Bastard-born or not, it was their father’s right and no one else’s.’ The earl made no secret about his intention to leave all his property to his only child. Denied King Henry’s permission to marry a noblewoman of equal standing, Basilia was the illegitimate product of Strongbow’s relationship with a merchant’s daughter from Bristol. The king’s aim in refusing the earl the licence to marry was so, upon Strongbow’s death, the powerful Welsh fiefdom would revert to him. Strongbow disputed this. Striguil had not been the gift of any king, he argued, but won by the efforts of his family. In Striguil, Strongbow believed he was sovereign and no other. ‘I will defend the independent rights of every Marcher Lord to my dying day,’ the earl warned. His eyes glowed passionately.

  Raymond bowed dutifully. ‘Sir Henry’s children were put in a religious house just outside Abergavenny by their cousin, Sir William de Braose. They escaped and were planning to seek out King Henry in London and to make an appeal to him to recognise the boy Geoffrey’s claim. That’s when they were recaptured by Sir William. I think that the attack on your manors was opportunist and that he was attempting to hide his presence and his reasons for being on your lands.’ Raymond scratched his chin. ‘Whether you believe them or not,’ he admitted to his lord, ‘I am sworn to protect the girl and she does not want to return to Abergavenny unless it is with her brother’s rights recognised.’

  Strongbow linked his fingers together and screwed up his eyebrows in concentration. ‘Sir William’s father will not stand for this. He will send someone for them, Raymond. If his son was determined to get them back before, he will be even more desperate now.’ He hummed and rested his lips on his hands, deep in thought. ‘Rivals to Abergavenny,’ he sighed. ‘What, I wonder, would my father have done in this position?’

  Sir Roger de Quincy had already made up his mind. ‘We should ransom them back to Sir William,’ he announced. ‘If he wants them so badly he will pay a great deal of silver for their safe return.’ Roger was drunk and his wife Basilia laid a gentle hand on his arm to stop him making a scene, but he ignored the advice and swatted his wife’s hand away. ‘If he wants to keep his fortress he should pay for the privilege,’ he smirked at Raymond from behind his perfectly groomed beard.

  Raymond was about to interject when another voice rang out over the mewing song and hullabaloo coming from the people in the hall below:

  ‘My Lord Strongbow, you and my father were great friends and comrades in arms,’ young Geoffrey of Abergavenny proclaimed. ‘That friendship between Abergavenny and Striguil brought about a golden age for Gwent. My place is as your comrade in Abergavenny. Together we could oust the Welsh rebels from Castle Arnallt and secure our borders in friendship. I doubt that William de Braose would offer you the same.’ Geoffrey swept into a dramatic bow before the earl which Strongbow returned.

  ‘And your mother,’ the earl replied, ‘you have proof of her marriage to Lord Henry? It will be easier for you to convince the king of your rights if we have that evidence to hand.’

  Geoffrey said nothing but dropped his eyes to the rushes-covered floor. ‘The only proof we had was the word of the priest who married our parents. Sir William killed him and left his body to be eaten by wild animals in Wentwood. But I will swear on any relic that they were legally married under the eyes of God.’ The boy raised his chin, proud and defiant.

  Strongbow said nothing. He knew as well as any in how precarious a position the Abergavenny claimants put him. William de Braose and his father, Lord Bramber, were powerful men who were said to enjoy the friendship of the king. They could make life difficult for Strongbow if they chose to do so. And at this moment in time, with his adventure in Ireland in the balance, that was unacceptable.

  Raymond saw his lord’s consternation and broke the silence. ‘At any rate, my lord, your decision can await our return from King Henry’s court. For now we should dance,’ he raised his voice for the last few words and directed all eyes to the main body of the hall from where he received a bellow of agreement from many of Strongbow’s warriors therein. At the same time he grabbed Geoffrey by the shoulder and leaned in close to speak: ‘This is not the time to annoy Strongbow,’ he whispered. ‘Until it is you will serve as my esquire. When we were in Gwent Uwchcoed, you told Sir William that you would no longer be an oblate but a warrior. Well, I can teach you the skills to become a great fighter.’ When it looked like Geoffrey would argue Raymond forced a wooden cup filled with wine into his hands. ‘Drink up, Geoffrey of Abergavenny, Esquire of Striguil.’

  Behind them, Strongbow rose from his wooden chair on the dais and signalled for all to be quiet. The huge tapestries showing scenes from Christ’s life swayed in the wind which swept across the land of Wales. ‘Tomorrow I depart for France and leave my son-in-law, Sir Roger,’ he laid a hand on the shoulder of the man to his right, ‘in command of my lands. Obey him as you would me or I will know why. But for tonight, enjoy this feast and before you sleep please include those of us who will make the dangerous crossing of the sea in your prayers. I bid you good night.’ And with that he bowed to his daughter before slipping off the raised platform and through the curtains towards his private chambers in the solar above.

  Pressed by Raymond’s gesticulations, the musicians began playing the Song of Roland. His milites, scattered around the hall, la
ughed as their captain bawdily sang along. Several people even stood up to dance but most kept their chairs to continue to eat, talk and drink their lord’s cheap wine. Allowing the minstrels to take the lead in the song, Raymond led Geoffrey back to a table below the dais where Alice and Borard sat.

  ‘Lord Strongbow seems to be in a shitty mood,’ Borard said as his captain joined them. ‘Something he ate? Or something Sir Roger fed him,’ he added as Roger’s drunken laughter echoed around the large hall of Striguil.

  ‘The earl worries,’ Raymond shrugged. ‘He worries about his visit to King Henry’s court, he worries about his daughter, he worries about Sir Roger ...’

  ‘But not about Geoffrey and I,’ Alice of Abergavenny leant forward as she spoke. ‘It seems like we are on our own.’

  ‘Alice,’ exclaimed Geoffrey, embarrassed as his sister spoke out of turn. Normally a girl of her age would never have questioned an important man like Raymond when a guest at his master’s fortress.

  Alice scowled at her brother. Geoffrey did not know it but she had already saved his life by mollifying Sir William using the only weapon at her disposal. To make sure that he was safe again from the politicking of Strongbow and Roger de Quincy she needed a warrior’s support. Her brother’s future – her future – depended on Geoffrey earning King Henry’s recognition of his claim to Abergavenny, and that was why she had rescued him from the monastery and shepherded him across South Wales. If Sir William had not captured them both, she knew that she would’ve already been in Gloucester, and from there it would’ve been easy to make the long journey to the royal court in London in the company of traders or pilgrims. However, if what she had heard from Strongbow was true then the king was not in his English capital but across the sea. Alice recognised that she and Geoffrey had to get on board the ship to France so that she could find a way to get her brother into King Henry’s presence. Alice looked at Raymond de Carew again, the man who had already saved her from certain death at the hands of Sir William de Braose. She smiled sweetly at him and leaned forward to talk. However, with a cry of joy, he bounded away from the table before she could speak. Annoyed, Alice turned to see what had drawn his attention away from her.

  ‘Rat!’ Raymond said joyfully as he planted a bear hug on a short, ungainly-looking man with auburn hair. ‘Good to see you again! Alice, Geoffrey. May I introduce Milo de Cogan, my cousin and a scoundrel like you will never have met!’

  Milo raised his chin to all at the table as he pulled his chape hood from his head and onto his shoulders. Alice thought him the oddest-looking man that she had ever seen. He was not the ugliest, but certainly little about him was handsome. His shoulders looked far too big for such a small man and they made him look hunched and old.

  ‘Everyone calls him Rat,’ Raymond said of Milo, ‘and so should you.’

  Milo raised an eyebrow in his cousin’s direction as he sat down. ‘Unlike you, some of us have been taught how to conduct ourselves in polite company. So I hear you are going with Strongbow to France. How big is the boat exactly?’ he asked and prodded Raymond in the stomach with his finger.

  ‘Big enough,’ Strongbow’s captain laughed and turned towards Geoffrey and Alice. ‘Milo leads a company of hobiler-archers and holds the castle at Goodrich for Strongbow.’

  Alice nodded. ‘What brings you to Striguil?’

  ‘Strongbow’s business in France,’ Milo said as he munched on a leg of chicken stolen from Borard’s plate. ‘The earl wants me to babysit Sir Roger while he is overseas. It’ll be nothing but boring garrison duty,’ he conceded, ‘but it pays better than trying to rustle cattle from Baderon of Monmouth and our old friend Seisyll.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Borard added, raising his cup.

  ‘Still, business could always be better,’ Milo continued. ‘I hear that there is land in Ireland,’ his eyes lit up as he spoke of the kingdoms across the sea, ‘pissing reams of it.’

  ‘Milo de Cogan, you will find a better way to make yourself understood when in the company of ladies,’ Basilia de Quincy scolded suddenly as she appeared unseen.

  Raymond immediately jumped to his feet when he heard Basilia’s voice. ‘I am sorry, my lady. It will not happen again,’ he babbled and bowed. As he turned towards Strongbow’s daughter he spilled his mug of red wine all over Milo’s crotch.

  ‘Sweet buggering hell,’ Milo shouted as he jumped to his feet. ‘You’ll pay for the cleaning, you dullard.’ As he thumped his cousin hard in the arm the crimson liquid soaked through his shirt and trousers. Alice, Geoffrey and Borard burst into fits of laughter at his offensive remark while Basilia smiled and bowed her head to hide her embarrassment.

  Raymond was like a cat caught stealing cream from a friar’s table; he did not know how to react or which way to look and simply stared wide-eyed at Basilia, blushing and stammering for words as she admonished him with her eyes and shook her head in mock anger at Milo’s words.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry, Lady Basilia,’ Raymond stuttered at his master’s graceful daughter. ‘You should not have to hear such profanities. I will never curse again. Never, I swear it,’ he said as seriously as if he was making an oath to his king. Beside him a dripping Milo sniggered at his cousin’s overly dramatic statement. ‘And neither will Rat,’ Raymond stumbled on, still staring at Basilia, who looked amused. ‘I composed a ballad about you, my lady...’ he began, wishing that someone would interrupt him as he turned redder than Milo’s wine-soaked trousers.

  Strongbow’s daughter smiled and raised her eyebrows in sympathetic pity at his outburst. ‘Raymond...’ she began but whatever she was going to say went unspoken when a drunken Roger de Quincy rumbled over and threw an arm over his wife’s shoulder.

  ‘Raymond the Fat – the lord of dead horsemen and now a troubadour to boot,’ he dropped down into an unsteady and sarcastic bow. He sank more of the red liquid from the glittering green glass as he rose, completely disregarding the other revellers at the table. ‘I think we should all hear your song,’ he paused, ‘about my wife.’

  ‘It is not finished,’ Raymond stuttered, suddenly aware that many of those in the hall had turned to listen. To make it worse, Sir Roger silenced the minstrels in the corner and announced to the room that the captain was about to sing a love song to Lady Basilia.

  ‘Go on, Raymond,’ encouraged a drunken voice from the midst of the hall. ‘Sing!’

  ‘Well?’ asked Sir Roger with a superior look. ‘You don’t want to let down your audience,’ he added with a hiccup. ‘So sing up.’ At his side, Basilia blushed and shook her head apologetically in the face of her husband’s brutish behaviour. It was that look that made up Raymond’s mind.

  ‘Lady, I love thee,’ he began to warble, enacting the dramatic pose which he had often seen used by the minstrels he most revered, ‘I love thee though your gentle touch would see me die. As the sun burns the grass that rises too high, I can approach your majesty but never touch it lest I die,’ he sang the mournful tune towards the woman he had loved from afar for so long. ‘As Abelard yearned, and Lancelot won, or Paris saw his city undone, I am born, I exist and my love forlorn.’

  Silence accompanied the echo of his last word and Raymond slowly lifted his eyes from the reedy floor to meet Basilia’s shocked gaze. Before he could apologise for his awkward manner and terrible singing voice, Alice of Abergavenny began to applaud and quickly her appreciation was taken up by those in the great hall of Striguil. Even Milo de Cogan, as hard-hearted a man as any on the March, slapped his heavy hand on the table top in ovation at Raymond’s song, and bellowed for another verse. Only Sir Roger de Quincy did not join in.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ the knight said as he intently studied Raymond. His annoyance was obvious; the captain of Strongbow’s army had not disgraced himself as he had hoped. ‘Not bad, Raymond. But enough singing, for I need your input in another important issue. One in which I trust only your substantial expertise.’

  ‘Go on,’ Raymond replied suspiciously.

 
‘The important issue is this...’ he paused for theatrical effect. ‘What should I eat tonight?’ he asked finally with a laugh. ‘As I said, in this issue I trust only the judgement of Raymond the Fat.’

  ‘Well…’ Raymond began, his eyes flicking towards Basilia who shuffled uncomfortably as Sir Roger’s arm moved down from his wife’s shoulder to fumble at her left breast. Roger looked straight at Raymond as he moved, his eyes daring the warrior to tell him to stop his shameful act, which his wife tried unsuccessfully to fight off.

  ‘The lamb is good,’ Raymond continued through grinding teeth. Behind him, he could feel the disgust of his friends at Sir Roger’s treatment of Basilia. All knew that Sir Roger would not have dared be so brazen had Strongbow been in the great hall. After draining his cup, the knight swept his eyes over the uncomfortable and embarrassed people who sat in silence at the table before him. His gaze finally settled on Alice of Abergavenny, sitting across from him and he flicked his hair from his face and licked his lips provocatively. His eyes bored into the beautiful woman and Alice wilted slightly under Sir Roger’s heavy stare. He pulled his arm away from Basilia’s breast and pushed Raymond out of his way so that he could see Alice properly. Behind him Basilia began to weep and fled back across the hall and out of sight, her colourful bliaut streaming behind her.

  ‘Basilia...’ Raymond called, but she did not stop.

  ‘Lady Alice, we have not been formerly introduced,’ Sir Roger said as he propped a hand on the table and leant towards her. He had not even noticed that his wife had gone. ‘Before the night is through you will get to know me better,’ he said. ‘If it is coin you want, I have plenty.’

  It was as if the whole hall had heard the exchange and went silent so that they could listen in. Alice gasped loudly, horrified, while Geoffrey shot to his feet to confront the knight, upsetting a candle. Sir Roger closed his eyes and laughed heartily as he leant forward on the table to insult Alice again.