Lord of the Sea Castle

  The Gael nodded but kept the details of that association silent. ‘Ship,’ he said instead as, in the bay, Waverider appeared.

  ‘Ours,’ Raymond replied quickly. ‘I sent them upriver for timber and to pilfer a few more cattle. We will need to be ready with provisions when Strongbow arrives – whenever that will be.’

  Fionntán nodded approvingly. After Sir Hervey’s departure, Raymond had given him a short tour of Dun Domhnall and the Gael had been mightily impressed by the strong defences and preparations that Raymond had made. Not, of course, that he told him that, preferring instead to concentrate on a few minor defects before giving his suggestions about how the fort could be improved.

  ‘I’ll go up to Cluainmín with you in your ship,’ Fionntán told Raymond. ‘All Trygve, their king, cares about is his silver mines, so if you can convince him that you have no knowledge of them, he will not interfere with you in your fort,’ he assured.

  ‘My interest is only in Veðrarfjord.’

  ‘He won’t be opposed to that. They are trading rivals after all.’ Fionntán’s eyes were dark hollows. ‘A word of warning: the King of Veðrarfjord, Ragnall, is no fool,’ he said. ‘And if he has heard of your little castle on the cliffs he will come for you with many men. He may even guess that you will send envoys to Trygve of Cluainmín. I heard about your landing in the corn market in Waesfjord and my guess is that those same traders will have wagged their tongues in Veðrarfjord as well,’ he turned back to Raymond, suddenly serious, and poked a finger into his chest. ‘Konungr Ragnall hears all.’

  ‘Which make it all the more important that we come to an agreement with Cluainmín and that they stay out of our business here,’ Raymond insisted. He had indeed spotted a great number of sailors eying up the fort as they crawled their way along the coast in their merchant vessels towards Corcach, Hlymrik, Veðrarfjord to the west, as well as Waesfjord and Dubhlinn in the east. ‘We must leave before the tide turns,’ Raymond informed his new ally.

  Fionntán grunted in response as he watched Waverider head towards the beach at Dun Domhnall. ‘My last experience of Norman seamanship was less than perfect. At least this time we will not be sailing at sea.’ Fionntán stopped suddenly and his lined face contorted into shock as he turned and stared over Raymond’s shoulder. ‘Who is that?’ he muttered.

  Raymond turned around to follow his new friend’s gaze and spotted Alice of Abergavenny in the sunny distance. She had come out of the lodging which she shared with her brother. In her arms, Alice had some fish for Raymond’s supper, though as usual she would give it to her brother Geoffrey to serve. The captain immediately dropped his eyes and turned back towards Fionntán. He had still not spoken to Alice since coming to Dun Domhnall and only Geoffrey’s insistence had led his former lover to agreeing to act as his cook.

  ‘Who is that?’ Fionntán again gasped as he shaded his face from the bright sunshine. He raised his hand further to wave as Alice turned around to look at them. Raymond was surprised to see her return the gesture before scampering off towards her small hut.

  Raymond paused, unsure how to answer. ‘She is my …’ he shook his head. ‘My cook, my ward. Her name is Alice of Abergavenny.’ A sudden surge of anger emanated from deep within Raymond as he watched the effect of Alice’s beauty on the obviously entranced Fionntán. ‘So we leave for Cluainmín in the hour?’ he added.

  ‘We will leave once your ship has broken bulk, yes.’

  Raymond nodded, annoyed by Fionntán’s interest in the woman he loved, had loved; the woman he had saved from William de Braose; the woman who still refused to speak to him. Fionntán noticed the change in Raymond’s manner and raised a heavy eyebrow in his direction.

  ‘I must oversee the work at the new cattle pen,’ Raymond stated and walked away rather than have to answer any more of Fionntán’s questions about Alice.

  ‘I will come and get you,’ Fionntán shouted after him with a knowing smile on his face. He watched Raymond march towards the main wall of the fort before turning back to observe Waverider‘s slow progress down the estuary.

  ‘How goes it with you?’ Raymond greeted the group of labourers who were on their backs enjoying the glorious sunshine rather than completing the work which he had set them.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ William de Vale exclaimed as he jumped to his feet, urging his two companions to follow his example. ‘I was giving the guys a little break,’ he lied.

  ‘Your rest is over,’ Raymond said as he pulled his surcoat over his head. ‘Fulk,’ he spoke to the butcher’s apprentice from Westminster, ‘get me nails and a hammer.’

  William groaned.

  ‘Or would you rather take an extra shift mucking out the coursers?’ Raymond asked. ‘You could do with going on a hack you look like you could do with the exercise,’ he said and poked him in the stomach with the end of his mallet.

  ‘No, no,’ William apologised, ‘let’s make a start,’ he said, picking up a pile of hazel and ash rods. He began twisting the withies into the shape of a wattle fence. Raymond crouched on the other side, nails in his mouth, and tacked the flimsy rods to the sturdy upright posts which had been driven deep into the ground beside the inner gate. Despite his talk with Borard the night before, Raymond had decided to move the cattle pen to just inside the new double embattlements beside the thatched stables. A heifer had pushed through the old enclosure fence and had tumbled to its death during the early hours. The dying screams of the poor animal had woken the entire army until Caradog had hung over the edge and shot the animal. Although his milites had stolen over fifty of the small black cows, as well as a handful of bulls, he could little afford to lose any more to the sea. He knew that Strongbow could follow him across the sea at any time and he had to be ready to feed the army that came with him.

  ‘Why aren’t we building the new cattle pen outside the walls of the fort?’ Fulk asked. ‘They have already eaten almost every blade of grass inside.’

  ‘Yeah, and I … I mean we,’ William de Vale corrected himself, ‘are getting tired of having to drive the animals out of the fort and into the countryside every day.’

  ‘It’s necessary if the cattle are to remain healthy,’ Raymond replied and continued to knock nails into the fence.

  ‘Are you afraid of someone attacking us? Why else build a pen inside the bailey?’ asked Fulk.

  ‘I’m more worried about the amount of cow dung that they produce,’ William laughed as he twisted another rod into the fence.

  ‘I’m not afraid of being attacked,’ Raymond replied. ‘I am wary of it though. Now, no more questions, let’s get the pen finished.’ For many minutes they did not speak and Raymond was so engrossed in the labour that he did not realise that Alice of Abergavenny had made her way down from the old fort and was standing behind him. William de Vale’s wolf-whistle was out of his lips before he could stop himself and he quickly buried his head in the work as Raymond leapt to his feet, a snarl of anger issuing from between his teeth.

  ‘Alice,’ he greeted her as nonchalantly as he could. ‘You are well?’ His heart raced. ‘You are snug?’ He internally castigated himself for using the ridiculous word and he could feel his ears going red.

  ‘I am fine,’ she said, her discomfort apparent. ‘My brother says that you are going north. Are we to remain here?’

  Raymond hoped for a long-sought apology, thanks even for saving her life and that of her brother. He wanted her to admit that she had been stupid to have betrayed him when she had chosen the Young King over him. She was neither contrite nor apologetic.

  ‘Well?’ she insisted when he did not answer instantly.

  ‘I am going north. There is a town called Cluainmín,’ he waved a hand upriver, ‘but you will be staying here for your safety.’

  ‘Who was that man you were talking too?’

  Raymond did not answer and studied Alice. There was no hint of friendship in her eyes, only anger. ‘Have I offended you in some way, Alice of Abergavenny?’

  She g
ritted her teeth and turned to leave, but Raymond caught her arm. With a swish of hair she twisted back and slapped him across the face. Her eyes shone with fury.

  ‘Touch me again, and I will kill you.’ Her eyes narrowed to slits. ‘I don’t need you to take care of me,’ she said.

  ‘You could have told me that before my men and I chased halfway across Surrey to rescue you from William de Braose.’

  ‘The Young King…Harry, he would have come for me. You ruined everything! And now we are here in the last place on earth anyone would want to find themselves. I will never have Abergavenny,’ she raged, ‘and it is your fault.’ With that she stormed off towards the citadel. Raymond called after her, but she did not even break stride.

  William de Vale whistled slowly and swapped a glance with Fulk. ‘If she is typical of a damsel in distress I think the troubadours have been lying to us.’

  ‘Quiet, and get back to work,’ Raymond commanded as he watched Alice of Abergavenny scamper towards the old fort. He was confused, utterly, by her anger, but he knew now that he would never find happiness with her. However, a lingering guilt remained and he knew that sentiment would never diminish. He had taken over a hundred warriors across the sea into a strange land where they could be assaulted at any time without hope of flight or support. He had defied lords and kings, he had almost started a war, and he had been named outlaw. And he had done it all because he thought it the only way to keep Alice safe from danger.

  ‘Well, no more,’ he rumbled.

  ‘Raymond,’ Fionntán’s shout interrupted his thoughts. ‘The ship is ready. Let’s go talk to the Ostmen.’

  With one final glance at Alice’s blonde hair, he turned on his heel and made for waterside.

  Chapter Nine

  Danger lay upriver. That, Raymond could feel in his bones as Waverider glided up the brown waterway where vegetation circled slowly and sank beneath her plunging wooden oars. On each side of the ship trees hung limply, the longest branches dipping into the river from the bank and blanketing the land beyond from the Norman’s view. The sails had been robbed of wind by the tangle of trees and the summery conditions, and so the men rowed, their dipping oars the loudest sound on the slowly swirling river. It was stifling, this country, and the sensation was not helped by the heavy armour which clad each warrior who journeyed north.

  ‘See anything?’ Fionntán asked. William de Vale hissed at him to quieten down. Everyone aboard, except the smirking Gael, conversed in hushed tones as they floated towards Cluainmín. Those who had been on ship during Amaury de Lyvet’s foraging trips told tales of darts, arrows and stones arcing suddenly from the shore from assailants unknown and striking down men as they toiled. Oddly Raymond had yet to meet anyone who had been wounded whilst sailing on the River Banneew despite the oft-told tales.

  ‘I can see nothing out there,’ Raymond squawked back at the Gael. His turn rowing was over and so he had taken up a position in the bows of Waverider, keeping watch on the shoreline for dangers unseen in the shallow riverway. Bright sunshine turned still pools of water on deck into vapour and more steam hung from dripping green leaves on shore. Beads of sweat ran down Raymond’s brow and he could feel more beneath his mail. The strong summer sunshine danced off shimmering surfaces and dazzled his eyes. As they rounded another bend in the Banneew, he espied a small homestead and farm carved from the forest. Two shirtless fishermen with long beards paddled coracles in the river, sweeping sculls in small circles to propel the ungainly craft forward. Both men gawped as Waverider swept past and began paddling with all their might for the riverbank. Raymond laughed at the men’s effort, their unwieldy vessels providing no speed for their getaway. The little coracles rocked as the wake from Waverider struck them and the fishermen clung onto the animal hide sheer-strakes as they span towards the reedy shallows.

  ‘How are we for depth?’ Amaury de Lyvet called from the starboard quarter. The steersman’s question was echoed up the boat by several men at the oars to the warlord’s earshot.

  Raymond looked over the side into the brown, sandy river and began swinging the sounding line around his head. The hollowed out lead weight spun as it flew, dragging the thin knotted rope from his hand and forward over the bows of Waverider. As the lead hit the water, Raymond began doubling the line between his outstretched arms. He felt the weight impact with the riverbed and, as the line ran alongside the boat, he began counting the fathoms. He did not get far.

  ‘Less than three fathoms,’ he shouted back at Amaury, earning another appeal from William de Vale to keep his voice down.

  ‘Slow oars,’ the steersman shouted to the crew of Waverider. Happy to stop the work, the men complied immediately and sat back on their benches, swiping sweat from their faces.

  ‘What is her draught?’ Raymond asked Amaury as he walked down the length of the ship.

  ‘Two yards and a bit,’ the sailor replied. ‘Enough, I hope.’

  ‘But you have been further up river than here,’ Raymond said. ‘Haven’t you?’

  Amaury raised his eyebrows, but did not answer.

  ‘No time like the present for a bit of exploring,’ Fionntán interjected. ‘The Ostmen can get up the river, so we can too. What is the bottom like?’ he asked.

  Raymond swung the wet sounding line and caught the lead weight so that he could study a thick wad of tallow which he had pushed into the space where the rope was tied. As it had been dragged along the bottom the sticky material had picked up debris.

  ‘Nothing but sand,’ Raymond said as Amaury and Fionntán swapped concerned glances. Raymond had learned that the Gael was also a sailor and knew the waters of Ireland’s south coast as well as any man. The two launched into a conversation about whether or not they should continue upriver on foot or by ship. After a few minutes of discussion between the two, Fionntán sat down at his bench and Lyvet gave the order to continue rowing.

  ‘And you,’ Amaury added with a finger pointed at Raymond. ‘Keep your bloody eyes open. I don’t want to ground her on this damned sand.’ The journey continued as slowly as before with the noise from the sounding line falling in the water the only thing interrupting the squeak of wooden oars on the rails of the ship. The men continued to toil as the sun shone above them.

  ‘Two fathoms,’ Raymond shouted as the river began to narrow and sweep westwards. Amaury pulled the tiller into his stomach sending Waverider into deeper water closer to the eastern bank.

  ‘Keep bloody casting,’ he shouted at Raymond, but the warlord was no longer listening for, over a vast expanse of rushes and mud flats, were the masts of many ships. And beyond that, the Ostman longfort of Cluainmín came into view.

  Raymond inhaled sharply as Waverider slid into enemy territory.

  The Ostmen of Cluainmín looked on suspiciously as Raymond led four of his warriors through their town. Ahead of the small party was the hustle-bustle of commerce but by the time they passed the noise had lessened to only whispers. Fionntán, William de Vale, Amaury de Lyvet and Geoffrey of Abergavenny all wished they had weapons at their sides when they saw the animosity of the bearded men and guarded women who watched them from shadowed doorways.

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Geoffrey whispered as they marched behind the three warriors who had met them at the shoreline. The trio had mail shirts and carried brightly painted circular shields by their sides. All had spears which they rolled around in their fingers.

  ‘I don’t like this at all,’ repeated Geoffrey.

  Amaury growled his agreement. ‘Why did they disarm us?’

  ‘It is fine,’ Raymond replied. ‘They are nervous of outsiders and jumpy, so keep your mouths closed,’ he raised his voice so that all his men could hear, ‘and if they offer us hospitality leave your cups full. We don’t need any drunken arguments today.’

  Raymond’s sabatons clattered on the street made of split timber which wound its way between the little cottages. More roads peeled off between the little plots and gardens where the townspeople grew their
vegetables and kept their pigs and goats. Cluainmín was built on flat land cleared of trees on a large curl in the river. The town had a long, tall wall of earth and heavy wooden posts which was surrounded on three sides by a deep fosse. Beyond the walls were more low thatched cottages of those people not important enough to possess a home within the longfort defences. Everywhere he looked were shops and moorings, fishermen and merchants, inns, tradesmen and clients of every kind. The townsfolk milled, traded and talked, and bartered, and swapped news within those moss-covered walls. That the inhabitants were Ostmen surprised Raymond, for the people seemed to dress no differently to Fionntán. However, as they passed he could identify both the Gaelic tongue and Danish being spoken.

  ‘Is it true that they mine silver here?’ William de Vale asked his captain. ‘Where do you think they have it?’

  Raymond stopped and turned on the youngster. ‘What was the one thing I told you not to talk about when we entered the town?’

  William looked sheepishly at his feet.

  ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ Raymond said when the esquire began to apologise. ‘Get back to the ship. You aren’t going any further,’ he said.

  William smiled, but quickly saw that Raymond was serious, and moved away, grumbling about missing the possibility of a feast. The three Ostman warriors watched the exchange suspiciously, but a cheerful shake of the head from Raymond seemed to allay their fears and they directed the remaining guests onward.

  ‘Are we going up to your king’s house?’ Raymond asked, but the nearest warrior simply shook his bearded head to indicate that he did not understand the French tongue.

  ‘þræll,’ the guard shouted to one of the small crowd who followed the Normans through the town. A small, bald man in a dirty woollen shift tied with a length of rope scampered between the warriors and began babbling in the Danish tongue to the leader, his head bowed towards the ground in submission. He then turned around to face Raymond.