Lord of the Sea Castle

by Edward Ruadh Butler

  ‘King Diarmait granted this land to Lord Strongbow, as well you know. You and I are equals, Sir Hervey. If you wish, you can take command of the fort across the bay at Banabh while I command here.’

  In Striguil, Raymond would never have been so bold to question Sir Hervey’s right to lead the army, but they were beyond the frontier now, perched out on a cliff in a fort built by his own hands. This was his chance to prove himself and he was not about to allow the earl’s uncle to usurp his authority. Sir Hervey had returned to Ireland with the earl’s answer for King Diarmait and had waited until news of Raymond’s landing had reached his ears. Then he, three mercenaries and four sullen prostitutes from the Waesfjord slave market had crossed the estuary to the Siol Bhroin peninsula and walked south to the gates of Dun Domhnall.

  ‘I am the earl’s uncle,’ Sir Hervey rasped and climbed to his feet, sodden food spraying from his mouth in Raymond’s direction. ‘Do not forget your place, boy. You are no more than a hearth knight and I command you to get the men ready to march at dawn.’

  Raymond watched Hervey closely, angry at his insult but thrown off by his demand. ‘You wish to take the men outside the walls? All of them?’

  ‘All of them,’ Hervey repeated, his eyes shining. ‘We march on Veðrarfjord at dawn.’ He ran his dirty fingers though the remaining strands of his greasy long hair which were plastered across his balding dome.

  ‘Veðrarfjord?’ Raymond choked such was his surprise at Hervey’s declaration. The city was second only to Dubhlinn in size and power, and Raymond had done everything he could to conceal his small army’s presence from the Ostman colony town. Not for a moment did Raymond think to take his warriors outside those walls looking for a fight.

  ‘Veðrarfjord,’ Hervey repeated.

  Raymond put his hand to his forehead. ‘Forgetting for a second that we have a responsibility to maintain this bridgehead for Strongbow, what do you possibly think a hundred men could accomplish against the walls of Veðrarfjord,’ Raymond asked.

  ‘We claim it,’ Sir Hervey said calmly, his eyes flicking up to meet Raymond’s gaze, ‘in my nephew’s name, of course.’ His countenance changed suddenly. ‘If Robert FitzStephen can take Waesfjord with but a few more warriors, we can storm Veðrarfjord’s walls.’

  Raymond knew Hervey to be ambitious and desperate, but he had never thought him fool enough to take on the impossible task of assaulting that stronghold. The city was said to be twice as large as Waesfjord and twice as wealthy in warriors. FitzStephen had led an army of a thousand spears to capture the walls of Waesfjord and even then it had been a close-run thing, he had been told. Veðrarfjord, Raymond knew, could not be taken by anything less than that force, but rather than fight with the earl’s uncle, which he knew would be pointless, Raymond climbed to his feet and walked to the door of his billet. He pushed open the door and beckoned for Sir Hervey to follow. With a victorious look on his ancient face, his rival consented and shadowed him. It was already late, but most of the men sat around enjoying the warm weather as the daylight faded into the western ocean. They played dice and chatted of times past as they gathered around fires which dotted the headland. They gambled and chewed on the steaks from a bullock which their captain’s servant, Fulk, had slaughtered earlier that day. He was particularly glad to see that some of the longhaired Welshmen were intermingling with the Normans of Striguil.

  ‘Men, listen up,’ Raymond shouted as he forced an axe from its place buried in a chopping block. He nimbly leapt onto the rudimentary platform so that he could see all his warriors. A few started to get to their feet, but he signalled for them to remain where they were seated. ‘Sir Hervey here, who you know, wishes to talk to you.’ Raymond jumped down, the axe slung across his soldier, and bowed briefly to the nobleman.

  Sir Hervey looked angrily at the captain, realising that he could not evade addressing the warriors. His first attempt at clambering onto the low block of wood was unsuccessful and rather than try it again the spider-limbed knight stood beside it and cleared his throat to speak. ‘Your Earl Strongbow, my nephew, has given to me the task of leading this venture.’ He had to pause as the warriors’ disconcerting murmurs echoed through the camp. ‘And as such I have decided that the time is right to cross to Veðrarfjord and launch an assault on their walls. There will be riches for all!’

  Silence followed Sir Hervey’s declaration and Strongbow’s uncle cast an angry eye at his own ragged band of warriors who, sitting separately, began half-heartedly clapping their master’s words.

  ‘Bloody crazy idea,’ Asclettin FitzEustace shouted.

  ‘There are not enough of us to assault Tyndyrn Abbey, never mind a city. We must wait for the earl to come,’ called Thurstin Hore, firelight bouncing off his bald head as he spoke.

  ‘What does Raymond say?’ Caradog’s heavily accented question was taken up by five other men: ‘Yes, what does Raymond say we should do?’

  ‘I command here! I make the decisions,’ Sir Hervey shouted back at them, his bony finger pressed into his own chest. Boos emanated from around the camp and drowned out Sir Hervey’s shrieks for silence. In the end the French nobleman threw a hand in the air and walked away from the crowd and back towards a small house that he had commandeered for himself. He stopped in his tracks when the din subsided. He turned to find Raymond de Carew had once again leapt atop the chopping block.

  ‘Men,’ Raymond called and held his hands in the air. ‘Sir Hervey has every right to put forward his claim to command our army,’ he said. More jeering followed but it diminished as he smiled at them. ‘No, no he has the connections, the status, the experience, the trust of the Earl Strongbow, and a knighthood which, as you know, proves that he can fight better than any man.’ Sarcastic laughter rattled around the ancient Gaelic fort. ‘I have no knighthood and few connections to the nobility,’ Raymond continued. ‘My family is less esteemed than your average gaggle of geese, but you know me and I imagine that you will have recognised that I wish to keep building the wall to protect Dun Domhnall. If the time comes when the Ostmen want to make a fight of it, I want us to be ready to protect our bridgehead.’ Grunts of agreement echoed from the veterans at Raymond’s words. ‘So who do you want to lead you?’ he asked. Only one name rang out from the army and with a smile Raymond hopped down from the chopping block and, one-handed, buried the axe back where he had found it. He then walked past Sir Hervey towards his billet.

  ‘You think that asking the opinion of the men you are meant to command gives you any right to lead them?’ Sir Hervey called after Raymond. ‘The opinion of these men matters not a pinch. They are sworn to my family.’ He flapped an arm in the direction of the army. ‘I lead and they will follow.’

  Raymond did not turn. ‘I will enjoy your attempts to get those men to move out without my say-so, Sir Hervey.’

  ‘You are neither of blood nor birth worthy of command. Captains are not chosen by acclaim, but by birth and by blood!’

  That stopped Raymond in his tracks. He turned around to look at Sir Hervey. ‘Yet kings in England are chosen by acclaim. I heard it myself at the Young King Henry’s coronation in Westminster.’ He gestured towards the warriors. ‘And our people have spoken!’

  As he spoke one of the soldiers, his head covered by a hood, detached from the rest and came forward.

  ‘May I speak to you, Lord,’ the hooded man said to Sir Hervey. He nodded his assent. ‘I can promise you this,’ the man rasped, ‘if you give me the kiss of friendship before the army’s eyes,’ he said as he drew down his chape, ‘then they will trust and follow you Veðrarfjord.’

  Hervey offered Raymond a victorious look as he turned to meet the fawning supplicant who offered him leadership. ‘Of course,’ he said as he looked William Ferrand dropped his hood so that Sir Hervey could look full in his leprous face. The knight immediately recoiled in disgust and hopped away in horror at its decaying appearance. Laughter rolled around the camp.

  ‘Come on, give me a kiss!’ Ferrand appeale
d again causing even more mirth to issue from the assembled army.

  Sir Hervey recovered quickly from the shock of being face to face with a leper. ‘You will stay away from me,’ he told Ferrand. ‘And you,’ he turned to Raymond, ‘I will have command of this army, one way or another, and I will have Veðrarfjord.’ With a last sneer at the two men, he turned on his heel and walked towards his tattered troop of warriors.

  Raymond watched him go, keeping his eyes on him as he disappeared into the building followed by one of his threadbare prostitutes. Sir Hervey’s warriors had set up bivouacs at each corner of the low-roofed house, almost as if they expected to be attacked by Raymond’s men from any direction at any time. He was about to suggest that Ferrand double the guard on his own billet when the leper interposed.

  ‘So that is Strongbow’s uncle?’ Ferrand wheezed. ‘I must tell you that I don’t like the look of that man,’ he said as he wrapped a scarf around his leprous face.

  Sir Hervey was not the only addition to the garrison at Dun Domhnall that day. Late in the night Raymond was rustled from his sleep by a hand on his shoulder. Predicting mischief from Strongbow’s uncle, he swept a dagger from amongst his clothes and placed it against Borard’s windpipe.

  ‘Don’t bloody move,’ Raymond snarled before realising that it was his friend.

  Borard smiled as Raymond withdrew his dagger. ‘You have broken that oath you made to Lady Basilia at Strongbow’s feast,’ he said. ‘You cursed.’

  ‘Damn it,’ Raymond whispered, genuinely displeased at his misdemeanour. ‘What is going on?’ he croaked as his eye’s adjusted to the light from Borard’s torch.

  ‘We have a visitor waiting outside the gates. He says he wants to talk. He knew your name.’

  ‘You didn’t let him in?’

  ‘He is a Gael.’

  Raymond hummed neutrally as he righted his heavy cloak on his shoulders. ‘My sword?’ he asked and Borard grabbed it from where it hung on the wall of the little thatched house which the two men shared.

  ‘You have no need worry about being killed in your sleep, by the way,’ Borard told him as they made for the door. ‘I just discovered that you have a guardian angel.’ As they passed outside, Ferrand’s disfigured face caught the light of Borard’s flaming torch. He was sitting upright and staring into the heart of a small fire. A frightening sentinel if ever there was one, Raymond thought.

  ‘Captain?’ Ferrand asked, his eyes flicking suspiciously towards Borard, as the two men emerged from the building.

  ‘It is fine,’ Raymond replied, heartened somewhat by the efforts of the stowaway warrior. ‘Get some rest and I will wake you when I return from the gate.’

  Ferrand nodded, again glancing at Borard, before curling up against the stone wall of the house. ‘Be sure that you do,’ he said.

  Borard and Raymond giggled silently as they walked away from the leper through the old Gaelic fort. Everywhere men had repaired the tumbledown houses, or constructed their own using slabs of turf. Raymond nodded to the two men who guarded the gates to the fort before following the cliff face towards the distant main wall where torches burned brightly in the darkness.

  ‘Do you think our visitor is an emissary from King Ragnall of Veðrarfjord?’ asked Borard.

  Raymond had wondered the same, but had abandoned the idea. ‘Kings do not usually send one man to talk,’ he replied. ‘It may be different in this land, but they usually send an army of priests and warriors to put the fear of God in you.’

  ‘I suppose you are right,’ his friend considered as they climbed up onto the allure on the outer wall. ‘Do you think the Ostmen even know we are here at Dun Domhnall?’

  ‘I would imagine that it’s a certainty.’

  Cattle called to each other in the distance from the small pen that Raymond had built out on the southern cliffs. As they walked the length of the fortifications the two men chatted about the cow which had fallen over the edge two nights before. Raymond wanted to move their pens away from the cliffs, but Borard was concerned about putting them near too the well and inviting disease into their camp.

  ‘So where is our visitor?’ Raymond asked as they arrived at the barbican, their talk of cattle put on hold. Walter de Bloet was whittling a long stick and simply lifted his chin to indicate over the top of the gate.

  Raymond took Borard’s torch and leant over the wooden defences. ‘Is anyone there?’

  The sound of someone spitting echoed from the darkness. A figure shrouded in shadow clambered to his feet from where he sat with his back to the gate and moved out into the light cast by Raymond’s torch.

  ‘About bloody time,’ the man said as he stabbed his spear into the ground and dusted earth from his hands.

  ‘Who are you?’ Raymond said, thankful that the man, dressed in the Irish fashion of a long cloak, woollen trousers and leather armour over a linen shirt, could speak French.

  ‘Fionntán Ua Donnchaidh,’ the man said curtly, ‘and I come with a message for the Earl Strongbow.’ He had short curly hair and no beard, but otherwise his countenance was like the natives of the island whom he had seen during their cattle raids. His face was lined – with age or experience, Raymond could not readily tell – and he had a permanent smirk across his face, his eyes closed to mere slits beneath his heavy eyebrows.

  ‘You may give your message to me,’ Raymond told Fionntán, unwilling to let the Gael know that Strongbow was not yet at the Norman bridgehead. ‘I am his captain, Raymond de Carew. Would you like to come inside the fort and speak properly?’ The Gael studied Raymond for a moment before slowly and suspiciously nodding his assent.

  ‘So,’ Raymond asked as he met Fionntán between the walls of the fort, ‘for whom do you speak and what has he to say?’

  In the light from the torches, the Gael’s heavy brow threw shadows over his eyes and although he was a thin man, Raymond knew instinctively that he was a tough one. He held out a hand which Fionntán took. It felt like an old rope made strong from holding down dancing ship sails.

  ‘I speak for Sir Robert FitzStephen. His messages are that you are welcome to Laighin and that you should keep your eyes open. Trouble surrounds you.’

  ‘You know Robert?’ asked Raymond keeping a cheerful smile on his face. ‘He is my uncle. How is he keeping?’

  ‘He is adventuring in Tuadhmumhain.’

  Raymond didn’t recognise the name. ‘And how is his brother, Maurice? Still barking out orders like a mare in heat?’

  ‘Maurice FitzGerald barking out orders?’ replied Fionntán. ‘That does not sound like him at all. He is quieter than a church mouse ...’

  Raymond held up his hands. ‘I apologise. I know Maurice’s true nature, but I had to make sure that you are who you say you are.’

  Fionntán grunted irritably at the small ruse.

  ‘Come,’ Raymond continued, indicating back towards the citadel on the point of the headland. ‘We will talk more and get you some food.’ He nodded towards Geoffrey of Abergavenny and pointed at the camp. The youngster understood him immediately and made to run ahead of the two men to arrange food for them both. However, Fionntán’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the shoulder to prevent Raymond’s esquire from leaving.

  ‘I would prefer to keep my presence secret from Hervey de Montmorency for now,’ he said with barely contained contempt. ‘He and Robert have a history...’

  Raymond nodded. ‘Most people have a history with Robert, but fear not – brave Sir Hervey has already let it be known that he wishes to lead a cattle raid tomorrow. He will be gone for several days.’

  ‘I will stay by the gate,’ Fionntán replied gruffly, ‘until he has departed and then I can find out who I can and who I cannot trust.’

  ‘Whatever you think best, but any friend of Robert’s is a friend of mine. You say he is at war?’

  ‘In the west, on King Diarmait’s son-in-law’s behalf,’ Fionntán replied. ‘Sir Maurice FitzGerald holds Waesfjord safe. Nevertheless both promise that they
will give you help if and when the need arises, and if they are able.’

  ‘At present they are not able to send aid?’

  Fionntán smirked and held his hands out from his sides. ‘I am all the help that you require, Norman.’

  Raymond smiled, already enjoying the company of the self-opinionated Gael. ‘That’s good,’ he said looking back at the ancient fort, ‘for I do believe that I need all the assistance that I can muster.’

  * * *

  Raymond and Fionntán watched from the allure as Sir Hervey and his ragged troop left Don Domhnall in the early morning sunshine. A weight seemed to have been lifted from Raymond’s shoulders as he watched his lord’s uncle push north through the grassy expanse towards the deep ford and the forests of the north.

  A number of goats, sheep and geese roamed freely outside the bailey under the supervision of the workers, and as Raymond watched, one of his milites, Dafydd FitzHywel, chased Hervey’s warriors away from the flock rather than let the unkempt soldier steal one.

  ‘That is a dangerous man,’ Fionntán said, flicking a hand at the departing horsemen. ‘Hervey will make trouble for you wherever he goes.’

  Raymond laughed. ‘If I told him not to attack Veðrarfjord he would go directly there with his poxy prostitutes and lay siege to the city.’

  ‘In that case you should tell him to stay away from the edge of the cliffs at night time.’

  ‘I only hope that his good sense can successfully combat his greed,’ Raymond raised his eyebrows. ‘While he is gone I was thinking that you and I might take a little diplomatic trip upriver.’

  ‘To the Ostmen of Cluainmín?’ guessed Fionntán, referring to the small market town ten miles to the north.

  Raymond bobbed his head. ‘They control the estuary and I need an escape route if Dun Domhnall falls to attack. The old fort at Banabh would seem the best rally point,’ he waved a hand towards the small island partially visible as the sun rose above Banneew Bay. ‘It would be easier if we were not set upon by longships while we ferried across. Have you had dealings with Cluainmín before?’