Lord of the Sea Castle

  ‘These goodly Danes will take you somewhere safe while I chase off these outlaws,’ he said with a sly smile. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘King Harry will come for me,’ Alice spat at him but Sir William merely laughed and kicked his horse into a canter which took him past the group of cavalry awaiting his orders.

  ‘Follow me,’ he shouted. ‘Let’s get rid of these scum,’ he ordered. He pulled his chainmail coif up onto his head and drew his sword from his red scabbard. Sir William could not help but let a smile spread across his face. Finally, after so many weeks of fretting, his cousins would be gone and his rich Welsh inheritance secure. First he had to deal with the outlaws who had unwittingly provided him with the perfect cover for Geoffrey and Alice’s murder. Their heads would be presented to the Sheriff of Surrey, as would their blame for his cousins’ deaths. His troop of horsemen trotted over the brow of a hill and down into the belly of the valley where the ambush had occurred. As he slid his war helm onto his head, William de Braose noted that it was strangely silent in the glade, but for the rustle of leaves, the tinkle of running water and the clip of horses’ hooves.

  ‘Fan out,’ he told the men who followed him. Locked inside his great helm, William could see almost nothing except that which came from directly ahead. The stillness in the valley worried him and he gripped and re-gripped his sword hilt nervously.

  Then he saw the Danes. Each had at least four or five arrow shafts protruding from his chest or face. They were all dead.

  ‘Where are the outlaws?’ he shouted at his men who, like he, searched the trees on either side of the road for any sign of the bandits. ‘Fan out!’

  Why woodsmen would think to attack heavily armed warriors, Sir William did not know. Normally they relied on hunting down travellers, tradesmen and pilgrims. This attack was not in keeping with what he knew of outlaws and Sir William’s eye drifted back over the bodies. For the first time noticed that some of the Danes were missing armour and weapons. Often the dead were stripped of their arms by their enemy, but Sir William wondered why only a few of the mercenaries had been foraged for equipment. Closer investigation showed that the stripped men, alone of the dead Danes, had not been killed by arrows. Instead they had been brought down by shots to their legs, and then their throats had been cut. Sir William shook his head in confusion.

  ‘No sign of the bowmen,’ Guy Wiston shouted from further up the road. ‘They must have scarpered as soon as they saw us coming.’

  ‘No,’ he replied, his eyes screwed up in concentration, ‘there is something else going on.’ Sir William dismounted and knelt at the side of one of the Danes who had been stripped of his leather armour and weaponry. There were two arrow wounds in the man’s legs one in the ankle and a second in his left thigh. ‘They were trying to capture these ones without killing them,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Looks like they killed him anyway,’ Wiston said as he dropped down beside his lord. A pool of blood gathered from a gaping wound on the dead man’s throat.

  ‘But why bother?’ Sir William asked. ‘They took him down with arrows as he ran away, stripped him and then cut his throat. Why?’ he asked.

  ‘They liked his armour too much to ruin it,’ Wiston answered with a smile. ‘I wonder why they didn’t take the same from these other fashionable wretches? Twenty coats of good armour would fetch a pretty price at market.’

  William froze as a thought entered his head. ‘How many bodies are there?’

  ‘Twenty in total,’ Wiston answered, sweeping a hand over the dead and counting them one at a time. ‘This fellow and nineteen others. Why do you ask?’

  ‘If there are twenty bodies here, and we only had twenty in our company, then who were the three that came back to the top of the glade?’ Sir William quizzically swept around and looked back through the trees to where he had last seen Geoffrey and Alice of Abergavenny. ‘Who the hell was that Dane I spoke to?’

  Without another word he threw his leg over his horse’s back and thundered back up the hill.

  The Dane untied Alice’s hands delicately. He did not speak and nor did he raise his helmeted head to look at those who he had been paid to murder. His five crewmen gathered around him.

  ‘Where are you taking us?’ the girl asked as she watched her hated cousin and his conrois disappear through the trees to flush out his enemy. She had watched Sir William’s conversation with the Dane intently, and prayed that she had misread what had gone between the men. Her wrists were raw where she had clawed at the ropes in an attempt to free herself and her brother. ‘Why are you taking us away?’ she demanded.

  The foreign mercenary said nothing in reply to the girl but, keeping a hold on Alice’s hand, slashed the ropes which bound Geoffrey of Abergavenny to the cart. A shadow cast by the mercenary’s tall helmet kept his face and any human emotion hidden from Alice.

  ‘Why did he give you money?’ Alice questioned the foreigner again. When he didn’t answer she tried a different tack. ‘The Young King would pay a fine ransom for the lives of my brother and me,’ she said as sweetly as possible. ‘He will be here presently, and will reward those who protect his loved ones.’

  ‘No,’ was all that the Dane replied.

  ‘Do not do this to us,’ Alice screamed and attempted to loosen the Dane’s grip on her arm. The warrior’s hold was immovable as he hauled both to their feet and dragged them up hill away from William de Braose remaining column of servants and soldiers.

  ‘Come,’ the Dane mumbled as he hauled Alice up hill and into the trees. Geoffrey’s arm was taken by one of his cohorts. Both siblings fought against the mercenaries’ great strength, but loose soil provided no foothold and though they passed many trees, neither sibling could grab any hold to stop the march that inevitably took them towards a shallow grave in the woods.

  ‘I have a friend with money!’ Alice squealed as she fought.

  ‘The Young King?’ the Dane asked, his voice laden with scorn.

  ‘No, Raymond de Carew,’ she pleaded. ‘You have heard of him? He won the tourney at Westminster...’

  ‘Bloody typical,’ the Dane replied and angrily hauled the girl upwards with a sudden jolt and a scathing laugh. Moments later they reached the tree-lined ridge and they picked up pace as they hurried over the hollow roots which punctuated the ground beneath them. As they reached a small hollow, the Dane stopped and looked around him. He dropped Alice’s arms and put his fingers to his mouth, blowing a short, sharp whistle which reverberated around the trees. Alice of Abergavenny, despite her exhaustion, charged the Dane in a last effort to free her brother.

  ‘Wait,’ the man managed to say before Alice leapt on his back and began wrestling with him. She screamed and scrabbled at the armour wrapped around her would-be murderer’s face until she, the Dane and Geoffrey fell into a writhing pile in the belly of the hollow. The rest tried to pull the girl off their crewman until laughter pealed from their left.

  ‘How is it, Lady Alice, that every time we deliver you from death you thank us by threatening or attacking one of my warriors?’ asked Raymond de Carew calmly from a few paces away. He was surrounded on all sides by fighting men, all armed lightly with bows in hand and arrows nocked and ready to fly. ‘How about you two stop fighting and we all get out of here?’ he added with a laugh. All his men were amused at the sight of the girl straddling her captor, attempting to throttle him.

  ‘Raymond?’ the girl asked without removing her hands from the face of the man below her.

  ‘Get off me,’ the Dane commanded, rolling onto his back and launching Alice off him and onto the ground. Getting to his feet, he threw away the Danish helm and pulled the chainmail hood from his chin and head, revealing his face. She recognised him immediately as Borard, though his beard and most of his hair had been hacked off to disguise him. The other Danes began stripping away armour to reveal more of Raymond’s men: Asclettin FitzEustaceand Thurstin Hore.

  ‘Well, that was easier than I thought it would be,’ Borard told Raymond as h
e brushed twigs from his shirt. ‘Are we ready?’

  Raymond nodded and turned towards Alice, still sitting on the forest floor, disgruntled and untidy. ‘Yes, back to the horses,’ he said. ‘We have what we came for.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘What did you think you were doing?’ Basilia de Quincy shouted at Raymond and cuffed him around the head. The noise of his chainmail hood rattling on his shoulders echoed around the stone walls of Striguil Castle.

  ‘My Lady, wait.’ Raymond raised his arms to defend himself from another of meek Basilia’s stinging blows. Her gown was blue and he hated that he would get it dirty or, worse, cause Basilia to hurt herself as she continued her attempts to strike him.

  ‘You left my father to cross England alone to go off to … I don’t know what.’ She wrinkled her nose in anger. ‘He could have been set upon by thieves or brigands, and you don’t even care.’

  Raymond had never seen Strongbow’s daughter so furious and he was not sure what he had done to prompt it. A week had passed since his men had attacked Sir William de Braose and his Danes in Surrey, and Raymond and his conrois had returned through the gates of Striguil that very hour to find an angry Basilia, a distant Strongbow, and a strange buzz around the walls of the castle. What had happened in his absence, he did not know.

  ‘Basilia...’ he began before being cut off.

  ‘You will call me Lady Basilia. We are not children playing games any longer, Raymond de Carew. I am the lady of this castle and you will treat me with the dignity of that position or you will be driven from Striguil like the lowly cur that you are.’

  ‘Yes, Lady Basilia,’ Raymond said and bowed his head. ‘I am sorry for whatever I did to offend you.’ Strongbow’s daughter was already gone back towards her rooms with a prickly whip of her heavy linen wimple. Already feeling guilty over his whirlwind affair with Alice of Abergavenny, Raymond was compelled to follow the woman who he had loved from a distance for so long. He wanted to explain himself, to tell her how embarrassed he was at having taken a lover, at abandoning her father. He could see no other reason for Basilia’s anger. He watched her disappear onto a staircase and Raymond was after her in a second, his chainmail coif rattling on his hauberk as he ran.

  ‘Lady Basilia, please wait,’ he shouted, aware that several pages had observed his contretemps with their lord’s daughter. He hit the first step and could hear Basilia’s dainty footfall upon the winding stair ahead of him.

  ‘Go away,’ she called over her shoulder as she climbed. ‘I want nothing more to do with you.’

  However, Raymond was faster and quickly caught up with Basilia. He grabbed her elbow as she flew upwards into the tower. She stopped in her tracks beside a tall window looking out over the steep cliffs to Afon Gwy. As she turned Raymond saw tears in her eyes.

  ‘Lady Basilia, what has happened?’

  ‘Nothing, I caught my foot.’

  ‘Is it your father? Sir Roger?’ Basilia turned her face aside at mention of her husband. ‘Sir Roger, then,’ he said with a slow nod of his head. ‘What has he done?’

  ‘I am sorry,’ she mumbled, breaking free of Raymond’s grasp and dashing up the steps away from the captain. Raymond tarried for a few moments before his feet again took him upwards.

  ‘Lady Basilia, wait,’ he called. He rounded the curling corner as she opened the door to her rooms.

  Inside, in full view of his wife, was Sir Roger de Quincy’s bare backside. Below him was one of the Welsh serving maids, her heavy skirts strewn across her face as the knight had his way with her. The girl’s feet tugged at the small of his back and she moaned in delight. Strongbow’s daughter froze in the doorway, unsure what to do as she saw her husband in bed with another woman. Raymond quickly reached forward and pulled the door shut to block her sight of his betrayal.

  ‘What the hell?’ he heard Sir Roger shout within the room as the door slammed shut. His cry was accompanied by a muffled squeal of ecstasy from his conquest.

  Basilia slid down the wall and slumped onto the stone step, burying her head in her hands as she wept. Seconds later, a red-faced serving girl appeared through the door and disappeared down the stairs. She had left the ancient oak door ajar and Raymond caught a glimpse of Sir Roger pacing around the low table in the bedroom, stuffing his loose bliaut into his hose and wringing the hair above his forehead. For the first time that Raymond could remember the ever-immaculate knight was ruffled and untidy. The door again swung shut, hiding the colourful bed curtains and wall hangings, and closing Raymond and Basilia in the cold grey confines of the staircase.

  ‘My Lady, let me help you,’ Raymond said softly and reached out his hand towards the weeping woman. As he leant downwards the door gulped open, allowing daylight to flood onto the stairs.

  ‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’ Roger de Quincy demanded as he poked his head through. He stopped when he recognised Raymond, but did not seem to notice Basilia in the darkness of the step. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ Sir Roger seemed surprised to find him outside his room. ‘What are you doing here? Are you a peeping tom now?’

  Raymond was seething and a single look from his livid brow silenced Roger. ‘How could you do this?’ Raymond whispered. Every word was soaked in anger. He could not understand how someone who possessed Basilia could do anything other than worship and love her. ‘Why would you betray her?’ His fist gripped the hilt of his sword at his hip.

  ‘A little fun, Raymond,’ Roger replied. ‘You understand. I have seen how you act with that lass from Abergavenny...’

  ‘You and Alice?’ Basilia whimpered from the step. ‘You and … that puterelle?’ She shook her head and began sobbing harder than she had before.

  ‘Basilia, I am sorry...’ Raymond began but was interrupted.

  ‘Oh my God, you let my wife see me in there?’ Sir Roger accused, a finger pointed at Raymond’s chest. ‘You hedge-born miscreant, I knew that you were in love with my wife, but I didn’t think that even you could stoop so low as to tell tales like a jealous child and then lead her to find me here. I shouldn’t wonder that you paid that serving wench to seduce me. Yes, I wager that is what happened!’ Sir Roger’s eyes flicked about in his head and it seemed that he was already concocting a lie that he could tell Strongbow.

  ‘That’s not what occurred,’ Raymond told Basilia. ‘It isn’t true.’

  Sir Roger ignored Raymond’s words. ‘Oh do stop blubbing, Basilia,’ he ordered. ‘If you had been able to do more in bed than lie there like a side of ham then I wouldn’t have to find my pleasure some other way.’

  Without thinking Raymond reacted. He roared incoherently and drove a huge punch into Sir Roger de Quincy’s stomach before his under-cut lifted Strongbow’s son-in-law off his feet and back through the oak door of his bedroom. He would have done more had not Basilia screamed and laid a hand on Raymond’s leg to stop him.

  ‘No!’ she squealed.

  Sir Roger scrambled away from Raymond, holding his chest. ‘Are you mad? I am Strongbow’s heir! I will have you hanged for this, Raymond,’ he shouted triumphantly as he saw the blood drip from the cut on his chin and collect on his fingers. ‘You two must be having an affair!’ he suddenly accused as he clambered unsteadily to his feet. ‘Why else would you be up here? You wrote her a love song before you left for France! My wife has been deceiving me! I have been betrayed. Let me past,’ he ordered as he approached the door.

  ‘Not until you apologise to your wife.’ Raymond stood immobile on the top step. ‘And admit your guilt to the earl.’

  ‘Step aside, you whoreson, I am going to tell Strongbow who his daughter has been bedding,’ he replied just as forcefully, holding a hand to his bleeding chin. In spite of himself, Sir Roger de Quincy was beginning to panic. He was unsure about how Strongbow would receive an allegation of infidelity against his daughter, especially when both Basilia and Raymond would immediately launch their counter-accusation. A short conversation with the serving woman would quickly discern the trut
h. That Raymond had punched him would work in his favour, Sir Roger was sure, but how Strongbow would react, he did not know. Would he protect his family name by hiding his son-in-law’s misdemeanour? All Sir Roger knew was that he first had to get away from the violent dullard, Raymond de Carew, and his whining wife.

  ‘Step aside,’ he yelled.

  Gritting his teeth and with a final glance towards Basilia, Raymond moved away, allowing Sir Roger to flee down the stairs, his feet fading as they slapped on the stone steps.

  ‘My Lady,’ Raymond began, ‘I am so sorry that you saw what he was doing in there.’

  ‘It is not the first time that I have come across him with another woman,’ Basilia said, her head still wrapped in her arms. ‘While my father was away with you in Poitou, he was brazen. He flaunted his affairs in front of everyone.’ She shook her head and her sobs echoed around the dusty corridor. ‘It was humiliating.’

  Raymond reached out and touched his lord’s daughter on the arm, stroking the embroidered linen sleeve tenderly. ‘He is a fool and you deserve better,’ he told her and steeled himself. He could hide it no longer and her tears, if anything, made his desire for Basilia even stronger. ‘I would love you as you deserve to be loved,’ he blurted out. ‘I have always loved you. Since I arrived at Striguil as a page to your mother, and you were a girl. I’ve worshipped only you all my life.’

  For a long time Basilia said nothing but kept her head down and Raymond held his breath, not daring to disturb the silence of the corridor. Only the flickering flames from candles made noise and they wheezed and gasped and lit up the white-washed walls.

  ‘You tell me this now?’ Basilia looked up at Raymond with tears and anger in her eyes. ‘My husband has shamed me and accused me of betraying him and you think it is an appropriate time to tell me that you love me?’ She climbed to her feet and looked Raymond directly in the eye.