Lord of the Sea Castle

  The noblemen of England and Normandy cheered their overlord, thumping tabletops and raising their cups in salute. For so long, civil war between the heirs of William the Conqueror had troubled the land, almost leading to the fracture of England. Now, the kingdom’s succession was assured and they would have peace and prosperity.

  ‘And what of Louis of France?’ the king asked the crowd, sensing their goodwill. ‘He trembles in his bed in Paris wondering if he will ever be man enough to beget a son!’ Laughter accompanied the Old King’s words. ‘We must never forget that we have enemies, my friends. That twice-damned devil Becket plots, prays and fumbles his beads at Louis’ feet, whispering to the pitiful Frank that he should raise an army to crush poor England. I am here to say, no, not while I am alive!’ he shouted, his voice echoing around the heavy beams and stone floor. ‘And not while my son sits on the throne by my side.’

  The noblemen in the room roared agreement but Raymond noticed that many of the churchmen in the great hall bowed their heads when Henry abused Becket’s name.

  ‘All of you get on your knees while I serve the new King of England his first cup of wine,’ Henry commanded. The shuffling noise from the people climbing to their knees was loud but Raymond had eyes only for King Henry, who turned to his son and bowed, though his eyes never dipped or deferred authority. With a smile the Old King handed him the golden bowl filled with wine to the new.

  ‘Beat that speech, pup,’ Raymond heard the Old King whisper.

  The younger man scowled deeply and momentarily looked like he would not accept the wine from his father. But as quickly as the defiance appeared on his face it was gone and the blond teen smiled swiftly and climbed to his feet, raising his hands to the cheers that accompanied his opportunity to speak.

  ‘Thank you, Father, for your words, though perhaps they should have mentioned more of my accomplishments, not simply those of your friends King Louis and Archbishop Becket,’ he smiled at his father and raised the bowl of wine so that everyone could see it. Henry returned his son’s leer with a warning in his shining eyes. Harry did not heed it.

  ‘I thank you for serving me my customary first cup of wine, my loving father,’ the Young King said as he took a long draught. ‘I think everyone would agree that it is only fitting that the son of a mere count serves the son of a king.’ The newly crowned Harry smiled and drank deeply from the golden bowl a second time. The silence of Westminster Hall was followed by murmurs which blossomed into shocked chitchat at the Young King’s words.

  ‘What did you say?’ King Henry asked. He was almost quivering with rage, his good mood gone in an instant. ‘What did you say?’

  Harry smirked as he sat in his seat. ‘I was merely pointing out that I am a king’s son, while you are no more than the whelp of a count.’

  The Old King let fly a bellow of maddened Angevin gall and swept plates of food from the tabletop before him. Raymond smiled as a pigeon pie scattered all over Sir William de Braose before he was forced to dodge out of the way of a wayward steamed lamprey.

  ‘You scurrilous hound, you bastard pup, you chirping chick!’ the king roared. ‘How dare you speak to me like that? Do you think I give a fig for your opinion?’ He cast his seat aside and grabbed his son by his shirt, pulling him so close that the Young King seemed to struggle under the stench of his breath. ‘I have more sons than you that could sit on this throne beside me, you little shit,’ he continued, launching the Young King backwards. Luckily Bertran de Born was on hand to catch King Harry before he fell from the dais and cracked his head open on the stone floor. ‘At least your brother Richard is not in the pay of France!’

  ‘If I was in the pay of England I would be above these accusations,’ the Young King called back, without actually denying receipt of a pension from the Frankish monarch. ‘If you had given me Anjou or Normandy to rule with my own court, then –’

  ‘You will get nothing of mine while I live,’ the king snarled and pointed a large finger at his son.

  ‘Then we can have nothing more to say to each other,’ his son stated and made to leave. ‘Sir William,’ the Young King called to Marshal, ‘we are for Normandy on the morrow. Please make the arrangements for my household…’ he paused and corrected himself, ‘for my court to travel.’

  ‘Yes, Lord,’ Marshal said to his new lord with a look of apology to the Old King.

  ‘You little bastard,’ Henry shouted at his son, ‘you ungrateful little whoremonger. I will get you back for this insult. I will hear of it if you go to Louis and Becket in Paris!’

  The Young King did not even turn as he strode from the dais accompanied by a large number of followers and left the hall by a heavy door in the west wall. As the door thumped closed behind them, Henry FitzEmpress turned back to the shocked men in the body of the great hall of Westminster with a face like thunder. It was as if he was noticing for the first time that the nobles were in his presence and had seen his shame.

  ‘Get them out of here,’ he whispered in the direction of Sir Theobald. ‘The feast is over.’ The King of England was quivering. ‘Over!’ he screamed suddenly. ‘Get out of my hall,’ he shrieked as his face turned red. ‘Out!’

  Shambling feet began the exodus of men. Tables rumbled and benches screeched as they were pushed aside. Complaints echoed on the stone walls as great men shuffled towards the doors.

  ‘Wait, you, stay where you are,’ the king called. Every lord that had been leaving the hall suddenly stopped and turned to face the dais, believing perhaps that the king had retracted his command. ‘You,’ the king’s voice wavered, barely under control, and Raymond de Carew turned around to see the king’s finger settle on Strongbow’s chest. The heavily bejewelled embroidery at the king’s neck shook violently. ‘The Earl Strongbow,’ he said disdainfully. ‘Get you gone from me as far as your feet can carry you,’ he cried, his lip turning in disgust at the earl’s presence. With that the king turned on his heel and strode through a door behind the dais, Ranulph de Glanville and Theobald in his wake. The great hall of Westminster was left awash with conversation, a tumult of gossip and chatter.

  Strongbow did not turn but stood stock still before King Henry’s table staring at the crimson lion banner which decorated the walls. It was only when the oak door which led to the solar crashed shut, wafting the tapestry and making the lion rampant dance upon the flag, that he moved.

  On the far side of the dais Sir William de Braose eyed Raymond angrily. ‘I’ve not forgotten your insults,’ he hissed. His father’s hand landed on his shoulder for a moment before he shrugged it off. ‘I want my armour back. You were lucky at the Thorney Inn, but back on the March,’ he shook his head, ‘you have no hope.’ With that Raymond’s enemy disappeared with his father into the depths of the palace.

  ‘Lord, we should go,’ Raymond whispered to Strongbow, delicately placing his hands on his lord’s arm and guiding him towards the door.

  ‘We are done, Raymond,’ the earl whimpered, ‘done before we even set off. My dreams, my ambitions are in tatters. I dare not defy King Henry again.’ His shoulders slumped and he began coughing again.

  Raymond patted him on the back as he ushered him through the mass of men and tables towards the main door. They had sought the king’s permission to leave his lands, but they were no better off now than they had been when they last saw Striguil.

  Henry’s words still rang in his ears: Get you gone from me as far as your feet can carry you.

  They had failed and the earl’s dream for conquest was over. Not only the earl’s ambitions, Raymond thought with dismay. He was returning to Striguil where he was nothing but a simple hearth knight in the employ of a baron with few prospects. And he was alone. Gone was the adventure that he had shared with the earl, gone were the sea journeys. Finished was his affair with Alice of Abergavenny. What waited for him back in Striguil? Nothing more than patrolling the border regions, debt collection from his lord’s subjects, and his futile worship of sweet Basilia, who he loved but coul
d never possess.

  An image of Basilia overtook his thoughts. To be worthy of an earl’s daughter he knew that he would have to perform a deed which would astound all Christendom. For, despite her father’s fall from grace and her own bastard birth, Basilia was of a rank so far above his own that he could have no hope of ever having her. He was a man without fortune or property while she was the wife of one of the most high-born men in the kingdom and heir to Striguil. To win her hand he would have to earn a reputation and he knew of no way to accomplish this other than by his strength of arms. Excitement stirred in Raymond as King Henry’s words came to him again: Get you gone from me as far as your feet can carry you. He put a hand out to stop Strongbow and looked into his master’s face.

  ‘I don’t think we are done yet,’ Raymond told him. ‘The king did say that you were to get as far away from him as possible. Ireland is a terrible long way to go, Lord. So you could say that by going to King Diarmait’s side you were indeed following his orders,’ he said. ‘I say you have the king’s permission to cross the sea. I say we go to Ireland as he told us to do.’

  Strongbow exhaled deeply and ran his smoke-stained hands through his fading hair. ‘You think so, Raymond?’

  The warlord smiled. ‘The king will not stay in England for long. Across the sea he has the King of France, our errant archbishop and, it would seem, his wayward son, to keep him busy. He will need all his resources to subdue them. Would he even notice that we are gone from these shores?’

  Strongbow looked doubtful, cowed as he was by the Old King’s vitriolic outburst, but Raymond was not going to allow his lord’s delicate nature get the better of the opportunity.

  ‘We should leave Westminster tomorrow, Lord,’ he said as they stepped out into the sunlight. In the distance smoke tumbled skywards from the smouldering ruin of the Thorney Inn, ‘and the next time you see Henry FitzEmpress you too will be a king,’ Raymond told his lord. ‘Give me an army and I will give you a crown, Strongbow. Find me ships to cross the sea and I will win you a kingdom.’

  As the earl lifted his head, Raymond saw the defiance and determination return to his grey eyes. Together they would journey to the edge of the world where Raymond’s skill and Strongbow’s name would win a throne. That would show the King of England, Raymond decided; to be forced to meet his former subject Strongbow on equal terms. Alice of Abergavenny could have her King, he thought jealously, for he would create a better one across the sea in untamed Ireland.

  Chapter Six

  Raymond’s optimism continued into the next morning. He and Strongbow had talked long into the night about their plans and how they could bring them about. Ireland was all but unknown to either man, but what Strongbow had learned from his uncle Hervey de Montmorency led both men to agree that an army of no less than a thousand men would be needed, and that would take time to bring about.

  He had risen before daybreak to begin organising the earl’s household to leave Westminster, but even that had not been early enough to see the departure of King Henry from the town. The only thing left to indicate the presence of the royal court was a large dust cloud to the east, kicked up by the transit of the huge number of servants, warriors, councillors and other hangers-on, as they made their way towards London Bridge. With King Henry gone, Strongbow’s folk, like everyone gathered at Westminster, could relax and make their own preparations to depart.

  The earl’s horses and carts collected in the street, still warming in the summer sunshine, while pages and esquires ran to and fro to with their masters’ possessions. Westminster awoke while they worked and soon all the noises and smells of urban trade surrounded Strongbow’s men. Stalls selling all manner of wares had arrived; a honking flock of geese, a fruit stand manned by oblates from the nearby monastery, and a long avenue of fishmongers already rivalling the geese in the noise they made to advertise the freshness of their produce. English and French tongues battled for supremacy in the ears of potential clientele.

  ‘This fellow said he wanted to talk to you,’ Borard announced as he approached Raymond. The captain was sat on the stone step of the burnt-down inn cleaning his tack. He followed the direction of Borard’s dirty thumb as it indicated towards a young man at his side.

  ‘Fulk?’ Raymond recognised the boy who had helped him bring down the house during the fire the day before.

  ‘Sir,’ Fulk replied as he retreated from an awkward bow.

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Well, sir, I was out early this morning, before first light, making deliveries to the royal court for my master the butcher, and I saw a ship under oar making for the sea.’ He flapped an arm towards the Thames which sparkled in the morning sunshine.

  ‘And?’

  ‘It was a Danish vessel, sir. Irish-built or so it looked to my eye.’

  ‘Go on,’ he told Fulk.

  ‘Everyone in town has been saying that it was Danes who attacked the inn, sir. They are angry that someone would attack our town, so I made my delivery and then followed on foot up the London Road. Up at the Dane’s Street,’ he pointed downriver, ‘I got to talking with a shopkeeper. The captain of the ship had stopped and bought some supplies before making for the bridge at London. The man was able to tell me the name of the captain and their destination.’ Fulk looked expectantly at Raymond.

  The Norman fumbled at a pocket for a coin, placing it in Fulk’s hand. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Their leader is called Sigtrygg, a Dane from Ireland, sir. He was raiding in Wales when he was hired find your master, the archer…’

  ‘Strongbow.’

  ‘Yes sir. One of the crewmen told the shopkeeper that Jarl Sigtrygg was making for Bramber Castle to get his payment, but that they had also sent a company overland, I don’t know why, sir. They bought three goats and a sheep…’ He counted upon his fingers as he listed by foreigners’ purchases.

  Raymond dropped a hand onto the boy’s shoulder. He now had a name for the man who had killed Nicholas de Lyvet during the attack on Strongbow at the Thorney Inn. He promised that should the opportunity present itself, he would kill Jarl Sigtrygg, the sword-Dane from Ireland with the red-braided beard and the charging boar standard.

  ‘You’ve done well, Fulk,’ he told the boy.

  ‘Lord, I would like to go with you to Wales,’ Fulk told him, an eager look on his face. ‘I can cut meat and did a lot of droving for the master butcher. You could use me in your country.’

  ‘Would your master not miss you?’

  ‘He has five sons, sir, and all will learn the trade. I won’t get rich being a butcher in another man’s business.’

  Raymond smiled at the ambition of the young freeman of Westminster. ‘Alright, lad, go and say goodbye to your family and then you can start by helping Borard get the earl’s belongings onto those packhorses.’ He pointed at several animals, tied to the side the house that Raymond had appropriated for Strongbow.

  Fulk nodded quickly and excitedly at the ease of Raymond’s agreement. ‘Can I tell my father that I am in the pay of the Lord Strongbow?’

  ‘No, no. You work for Raymond de Carew,’ he told Fulk, who looked less impressed. ‘And that means a lot of hard work. So be back soon.’ His new servant ran off towards the white wattle-walled houses leaving Raymond to ponder Fulk’s words. Why, he wondered, would William de Braose’s mercenary Danes be travelling to Bramber to collect payment when, as far as he knew, they had failed in their mission: to kill Alice and Geoffrey of Abergavenny. Before he could consider the question fully he was interrupted by a shout from amidst Strongbow’s noisy horse train.

  ‘That boy has just told me that he is your servant now,’ Borard demanded. ‘Exactly how are you going to pay for him? You said that you are poorer than King Henry on Maundy Thursday afternoon.’

  ‘Sir James FitzJames came through last night with half his ransom,’ Raymond told him. ‘He bought back his armour and horse. That, and the other ransoms I took during the tourney, will allow me to have a hundred servants!’
/>
  ‘And what about your poor warriors?’ asked Borard. ‘How will they fare from your sudden windfall?’

  Raymond laughed, producing a purse from his jacket and tossing it to his friend. ‘Make sure everyone gets their share and buy them a drink on top of it from me.’

  Borard caught the money and tested its weight. ‘A small cup each might do no harm,’ he replied, secreting the purse amongst his clothes. ‘I will not partake, of course.’

  Raymond nodded at his lieutenant, but he still could not shake the feeling of unease brought on by Fulk’s words. ‘Any news from William Marshal?’ he asked.

  ‘None,’ Borard replied, realising instantly that Raymond actually wished for news of Alice of Abergavenny. ‘I am sure that is because Little King Harry kept him up late with his drinking and gambling.’

  ‘The Young King gambles?’

  ‘According to one of his household cooks,’ he said with a wink. ‘She told me that he owes half of Maine to Sir Bertran de Born. Could you convince him to give me a game of dice?’ he asked as he tapped his pocket. The purse of coin clinked cheerfully.

  Raymond de Carew did not laugh; the wound caused by Alice’s departure with the Young King was still too raw for merriment.

  ‘Oh look, our brave new recruit is back,’ Borard said and nodded in Fulk’s direction. ‘I will make sure he has something to do. The sooner we get the horses ready the sooner we can get out of this stinking rat hole.’ Borard had made it clear that he and the rest of the conrois were keen to get back to Wales. While their captain had plotted with Hubert Walter, played war with William Marshal, and conducted his romance with Alice of Abergavenny, they had become bored and idle in Westminster, missing their families and the routine of the Welsh frontier. The summer was upon them and whereas in fat, lazy England it was a time for peace before the harvest, on the March it was a time when men went raiding. The Striguil warriors were desperate to get back to their homeland before all the best plunder was taken and the best treasures hidden. Raymond understood their desire, but his aim was a land beyond the frontier. For many minutes he stared north towards where the river turned back in the direction of London. That was the route that the Young King would travel on his way to Normandy. That was the road that would take Alice from his life for ever.