Lord of the Sea Castle

by Edward Ruadh Butler

  ‘Ssh-ssh,’ Marshal slurred. His breath was heavy with drink. ‘There is an abbot around here somewhere and his voice would ring your ears like the bell calling monks to Lauds. So be silent.’

  Together the pair rushed across the grassy cloister, heavy with dew, which clung to the side of the abbey. They wobbled drunkenly and laughed like two esquires up to no good. From there they skirted around the stone arcade which surrounded the cloister quietly. Checking every heavy oak door, Raymond finally found one unguarded and unlocked, and he pushed through only to find that he was faced with the rear of a tapestry. However, the tasselled edge of the wall-hanging was within his reach and he pulled it carefully aside so that he could peer into the south transept of the abbey. Beyond it was the nave where the greatest noblemen of England were beginning to assemble before the tomb of the King-Saint Edward the Confessor. He turned back to where Marshal waited just outside the door.

  ‘I’ll stay here,’ he whispered, ‘and watch the ceremony from behind the tapestry. You go inside to your seat and I’ll meet you afterwards so you can sneak me into the great hall for the feast.’

  ‘Alright,’ Marshal replied as he rubbed the effect of ale from his tired eyes. ‘How’s your view?’

  In answer Raymond pulled the tapestry aside again. ‘Good God,’ he whispered as he arched his back and stared up at the stone cathedral as if for the first time. Raymond gawped at the scene before him, dazzled by the colours, the sounds and the smells. He swayed under the effect of booze. Stretching his neck, he stared upwards at the huge dome at the western end of the nave. There, sixty feet high, was a gargantuan picture of Christ. His stern-featured and splendid head was wrapped in saintly gold leaf as he looked down upon king and commoner alike, his vestments of impressive blue and red. Raymond had to clutch at the collar at his throat to allow him more room to breathe as Christ’s eyes bore down upon him from above. Light poured through a hundred tiny coloured windows, allowing God’s presence to penetrate the dusty walls where brightly-coloured scenes from the story of Christ were adorned. The nave alone must have been two hundred paces in length and it was cold. He had seen the dome from the riverside, but it seemed even more gigantic as he stood directly under its majesty. He had to adjust his feet as the night’s drinking unbalanced him again.

  ‘You could fit the whole of Striguil inside the cloister,’ he told Marshal, who was giggling at his friend’s reaction to the great building. Raymond struggled to even comprehend how man created such a structure. Before he had arrived in England, he had thought the Cistercian Abbey of Tyndyrn impressive, but this dwarfed even that holy site. Surely God would see the church from Heaven and would heap rich rewards on the people who created and maintained the mighty building. Norman prayers would echo to the Heavens, though the distance was great, and would be heard above all others, of that Raymond was sure.

  ‘I will say a prayer for Lady Basilia before I leave this holy place,’ he said and made a move to walk into the nave.

  ‘No, stay hidden, you drunken fool,’ warned the equally inebriated Marshal as he grabbed Raymond’s arm and hauled him back under cover. ‘I don’t want you getting skewered by the royal guards who think you are here to assassinate the two King Henrys. Kings Henry?’ he attempted before slapping Raymond hard on the shoulder. ‘And you must forget about that hussy of Abergavenny,’ Marshal continued. ‘Women like her are better in other men’s beds. Trouble, trouble, trouble,’ he muttered as he left Raymond to his own devices and joined the growing assembly of people inside the great Benedictine abbey.

  Raymond ducked back through the door and crouched beneath the cold stone archway. He was still covered by the dusty tapestry depicting St Thomas the Apostle, but beyond the drapery he could hear hundreds of people talking excitedly. He stole a look around the tapestry’s edge to again admire Westminster Abbey. Massive columns of stone seemed to hold the whole interior of the structure up while coloured glass high in the building cast a thousand shapes across the smoky interior caused by braziers on the walls and the aroma of incense. Bright painted icons showing the lives of the saints adorned every inch of the walls whilst somewhere unseen a choir sung the most beautiful song that Raymond had ever heard. The murmur both lulled and excited the mind and it was all he could do not to be overcome by the size of greatest building in the Kingdom of England.

  The music and the light, the smoky atmosphere from burning torches and the drink he had consumed the night before soon caught up with Raymond de Carew. He burped vomit suddenly, but somehow kept it down, and within a few minutes he had leaned back against the archway and fallen asleep.

  It could only have been a short while later that Raymond woke up. A throng of colourfully robed people had crowded into the chairs beside him in the transept, seemingly unaware that a fully armed warlord from the Welsh March was hidden behind the tapestry feet away from them. All were staring towards the chancel, where Raymond could see a blond teenager in a fine red cloak lined with ermine kneeling before a cleric who extolled the Heavens in Latin. The youth, who could only have been Prince Harry, was sniggering despite the solemnity of the occasion and he received a jolly clout to his head from a ginger-headed man with a stubbly chin who towered over him. It was the Old King, Henry FitzEmpress. It was the first time that Raymond had seen him and he was thoroughly shocked at his appearance. Short, stocky and unkempt, the king looked more like a blacksmith than the almost mythical figure of whom he had heard. His arms appeared powerful and strong while his ginger hair was close-cropped yet dishevelled. The king was clothed in the gaudy robes of his office, a splendid Angevin surcoat and a golden crown rather than the unremarkable hunting attire Raymond had heard he usually wore, and he certainly looked incredibly uncomfortable in the rich clothes. He scratched his groin, uncaring, it seemed, that some of the greatest men in England watched his every move with inordinate interest. For some reason Raymond immediately found himself laughing along with the king, his good humour infectious even amongst the serious surroundings of the grand abbey. Even from a distance he was drawn in by the king’s distinctive eyes – they were of the brightest blue and while now they sparkled with good humour, Raymond imagined that they could as easily repel an onlooker if Henry burst into one of his legendary fits of anger.

  As Raymond watched, Henry returned his son’s smile and rolled his eyes at the ludicrously lavish and dramatic ceremony. Above both men the feeble-looking Archbishop of York stumbled over his words, causing more mirth from the irreligious father and son. The archbishop looked disgusted with the two men but knew better than to complain. Behind him there were two thrones awaiting the kings of England.

  Raymond could see many of the great churchmen of England in the transept on the far side of the cathedral, or at least those that had not followed Becket into exile. Bishop Gilbert Foliot of London looked nervous as he watched the service going ahead while beside him the Bishop of Salisbury, the brother of the Lord Constable of England, looking as daunting and severe as his famous sibling. On the other side of Foliot sat the elderly and venerable Bishop Walter of Rochester. Raymond was surprised to see the old man as he was said to be like a father to the rebel cleric, Becket. What must King Henry have threatened to have him at Westminster, he wondered? Plenty more bishops from England, Wales, Normandy, Maine and Anjou watched the ceremony. The rest of the men who populated the abbey were the lords of the land: earls, counts, barons, viscounts and knights, and their banners emblazoned the walls of the church like the billowing sails of a great colourful ship. Through the abbey walls, Raymond could hear the crowds from the small town and its hinterland who awaited the popular young prince’s first parade as King of England. It would be they who would acclaim Henry the Younger as their rightful king, as had the English for each monarch for hundreds of years.

  ‘Greetings, Raymond,’ a voice like silk whispered through the door which was ajar behind him.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Raymond de Carew squeaked as he was lurched from his daydream. He quickly drag
ged himself to his feet and ducked out of the abbey lest the newcomer attract a guard to his hiding place. There he met a jovial Hubert Walter who stood in the arcade with a young and vaguely familiar teenager trailing in his wake. Raymond tried in vain to place the barrel-chested teenager but, unsuccessful in his attempts, he instead greeted his acquaintance, the priest.

  ‘You scared me, Hubert. It’s not like you to miss out on an event like this,’ he said, squinting as the sun penetrated his drink addled eyes.

  ‘Indeed, but young Geoffrey here,’ he indicated towards the youngster and raised his voice, ‘had to make a fool of himself with Rosamund de Clifford and so I suggested that we should get some air.’ Beside him the young man looked angry and embarrassed and bowed his head to his chest.

  Suddenly it clicked who the young man looked like. ‘King Henry’s boy?’ asked Raymond.

  ‘My apologies,’ Hubert Walter exclaimed. ‘I had forgotten that you haven’t been at court because of Strongbow’s circumstances. Yes, he is Henry’s bastard,’ he sighed. ‘Geoffrey, the lay Archdeacon of Lincoln, and my reluctant charge.’

  ‘I don’t need to be looked after,’ the acne-marked youngster complained. In his petulant features Raymond immediately saw how closely Geoffrey resembled King Henry, much more so than the youngster who would be crowned today. ‘My brother Harry doesn’t have a minder, Richard doesn’t need to be watched, and I am older than either of them.’

  ‘Geoffrey,’ Hubert warned, ‘if you persist in making improper suggestions to your father’s mistress within earshot of her lord father and the Bishop of London, then I have to say that you do indeed require an escort.’ The priest shook his head. ‘And your brothers don’t need chaperons because one is the Duke of Aquitaine and the other is about to be anointed King of the English.’ Hubert shook his head and turned to speak to Raymond. ‘Now be silent.’

  Henry’s bastard would not relent. ‘It’s not even a real coronation,’ he grumbled, his jealousy evident upon his face. ‘Without Archbishop Becket here it doesn’t count. I won’t bow to Harry anyway,’ he sniffed and puffed out his substantial chest. ‘I’m a prince too, Father told me so.’

  Hubert rolled his eyes and spoke to Raymond. ‘Apparently the Pope sent word that no one but his grace the Archbishop of Canterbury could perform the coronation. Honestly, Becket’s scheming gives all the clergy a bad name.’

  Raymond smiled, aware that Hubert was involved in every intrigue in England.

  ‘Pope Alexander tried to send my uncle Bishop Roger to stop the ceremony, but Father closed all the ports to prevent him from crossing the sea,’ Geoffrey gleefully described. ‘Unfortunately it also meant that Eleanor and her children would not be able to get here,’ he said, obviously happy at the absence of the queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine, and his younger half-siblings, ‘except for Harry of course.’

  ‘Geoffrey, go across the cloister to the kitchens and find us some food,’ Hubert Walter said sternly. The young archdeacon tarried for a moment before catching the priest’s imperious stare. That proved enough to make him think better of arguing and he slumped off down the stone arcade towards the kitchens. When he was gone, Hubert threw a despairing arm in the direction of the pantry. ‘I do believe that he still thinks his father will disinherit Queen Eleanor’s sons and he will become king thanks to some strange twist of fate.’ Hubert shook his head. ‘He refuses to be invested as a priest as his father desires, so he serves the See of Lincoln as a layman.’ Disbelieving, Hubert held up his hands, unable to comprehend why anyone with King Henry’s influential patronage would refuse to be placed in a position of power within the Church. ‘He could be Archbishop of Canterbury if he just submitted to Henry’s wishes.’

  ‘And what would that make you?’ Raymond asked.

  ‘Busy, I would imagine,’ Hubert replied. ‘I have news for you, by the way,’ he added, ‘regarding both Strongbow and your issues with Abergavenny.’

  ‘Do tell all,’ Raymond said with a smile, ‘starting with the earl’s news, I suppose.’ His heart fluttered momentarily as he thought about bringing Alice information that he had recovered her brother’s lordship, but knew that his allegiance lay primarily with Strongbow.

  Hubert sniffed deeply, leading Raymond to wonder if the priest was testing the air to see if he was drunk. He quickly realised that the priest was steeling himself. ‘The king will meet with Strongbow today, during the coronation feast,’ the priest said. ‘Pray that nothing happens between then and now to annoy him. Honestly, I have no idea what he will say to him, but this at least is a chance for Strongbow to plead his case directly to King Henry.’

  ‘That is all the earl wishes, Hubert, the opportunity to convince the King to release him or give him his lands at Pembroke back,’ he said. ‘What about the other news of Abergavenny?’

  The priest chewed on his upper lip. ‘Sir William de Braose is here in Westminster, Raymond, and is asking questions about the whereabouts of you and your two companions.’

  That news worried him. He had guessed that his enemy, like all the nobility of England, would come to Westminster but had hoped that his presence and that of Alice and Geoffrey of Abergavenny would have gone unnoticed. ‘Where did you hear this?’

  ‘That particular whisper came from within the king’s household. I was also told that Sir William has hired a mercenary crew from Ireland to kill you. I tell you this for free because we are friends. My source is close to the sheriff. He told me that a Danish crew rowed past London Bridge yesterday, claiming to be traders. They anchored across the river at Lambeth, paid the harbour fee, but they didn’t appear in the marketplace or make any purchases.’

  ‘Danes?’ Raymond’s felt his pulse rise as he tried to comprehend the news which Hubert had given him. The king had mercenaries from Iberia and Gascony in his employ and they were considered the worst of all those damned souls who sold their swords for money. But a crew of Danes? He had never heard of anyone in Christendom foolish enough to hire a boatload of those bloodthirsty pirates to do their bidding. His father still told stories from his youth of when he fought against the crewmen of the dragon-headed ships who had crossed from Ireland to fight for the rebellious Welsh chieftains. Entire monasteries and whole Norman towns had disappeared, killed during a brutal campaign which had engulfed the Dyfed coast. His father had told him that there were none as pitiless or as savage as the Danes. Never had he mentioned them being used to garrison or protect – only to rampage and to kill.

  ‘I ask this with fear in my heart,’ Raymond began. ‘Will Sir William send these Danes to take Alice and Geoffrey by force?’

  Hubert considered the question, pressing his lips together and narrowing his eyes. ‘Here in Westminster at the coronation, under the king’s very nose? I find it hard to believe that he will break the peace. But it is a long road back to Striguil with lots of places for an ambush, especially near the Thames. You had, I assume, intended to return home via Oxford?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Raymond said inattentively as he considered the advice. All trace of his night’s drinking had disappeared though he felt a new sickness rise in his belly. ‘Both William de Braose and his father are in the abbey with the king?’

  ‘Yes, both were told to attend upon the king. I saw them both in the nave.’ Hubert said and Raymond allowed himself to relax.

  However, at that second, the king’s bastard, Geoffrey, reappeared from the kitchen with several pears balanced on a bread trencher. ‘I found some fruit,’ he said absentmindedly, staring down at his load. ‘I had more but I dropped three down some stairs when William de Braose surprised me coming out of the lay brothers’ dormitory.’

  While Hubert and Raymond swapped a surprised glance, Geoffrey examined one of the pears and then bit deeply into the fruit.

  ‘William the Younger?’ Hubert asked his charge.

  ‘Um-hmnn,’ Geoffrey hummed. ‘It was strange, though. He didn’t speak to me and had armour under his surcoat.’ The king’s bastard shrugged and took anoth
er bite of his pear. Juice squirted down his chin.

  Hubert immediately understood what Geoffrey’s words meant and he turned sharply towards Raymond, but Strongbow’s captain was already gone, running through the stone arcade of Westminster Abbey. His sabatons slapped hard on the stone walkway as he sprinted in the direction of the river.

  The Thorney Inn was one of the best known drinking dens and whorehouses in Westminster. Some said that the alehouse had been there before the abbey, before the river had silted up to form the land on which the town was built. The first King Henry, who had been nicknamed Beauclerc, had frequented the establishment on so many occasions during his reign that it was rumoured that half of Westminster was populated by his baseborn offspring. He, and his liegemen, had made the owners of the inn rich and his presence had attracted many others who were assured that the wagging tongues of the court would not hear about what went on inside the low-roofed alehouse.

  However, the Thorney whores’ best pickings did not come from the infrequent visits of noblemen and lonely knights, but from pilgrims. They came in their droves to see the shrine in honour of the greatest of all English saints, the Saxon King Edward the Confessor. Westminster’s memorial to St Edward was superior even to St Cuthbert’s in Durham or that of St Edmund in deepest Norfolk. Hundreds made the journey from all over the kingdom and beyond. They wept and prayed before his tomb, appealing to their angelic king-saint to deliver their prayers to God and allow them peace and rich rewards in a hard world that gave them nothing but pain and destitution. And they were willing to pay for that privilege. They had only but to leave a small donation for the good of the humble Benedictine brothers who maintained the abbey and they would be assured of the noble saint’s help for their interests. The Benedictines had become rich from the pilgrims’ goodwill.

  While the godly needs of the pilgrims were distributed by the brothers at the abbey, their earthly desires were seen to by the women who plied their trade in the Thorney Inn, and for far less than those religious men up the riverbank. Inside, nothing but the best ales and the finest whores, depending upon your budget, were to be found at the famous alehouse night time for pilgrims, and between prime and terce for religious brothers. Thanks to that steady flow of traffic, the Thorney was one of the most popular haunts in town and was normally stuffed to the rafters with people. Except, of course, on a day when England would see a second king crowned and paraded through the small town.