Lord of the Sea Castle

  ‘I want you to promise me that you will not put yourself in danger, Geoffrey.’ Alice turned away from the sparkling inlet to look at her brother. ‘I know you wish to prove yourself, but it would be foolish to throw your life away trying to show your valour to Raymond.’

  Geoffrey looked angrily at his sister. ‘He has taught me to fight well,’ he replied, ‘and everyone will be needed to do their part if the enemy has the numbers that William de Vale says they do.’

  Alice was no longer looking at her brother. Her hand was outstretched and her eyes wide as they looked out to sea. To the south-west a sail had appeared around the end of the peninsula.

  ‘Ship,’ she told her brother. ‘Ship!’ she repeated with greater urgency, jabbing her finger towards the sea. Geoffrey spun on his heel and, shading his eyes from the midday sun, he followed the direction given by his sister’s hand where he soon spotted the dark hull going southwards under oar.

  ‘Is it a warship?’ Alice asked.

  The esquire nodded his head. ‘It’s too long to be a merchantman, too low in the water,’ he told her, though how he could tell at this distance, Alice could not comprehend. She could barely see the dark hull and the dipping oars as they rhythmically drew the ship southwards. In fact to her eyes it looked like the warship could not possibly be afloat, so low was she in the water.

  ‘If you were going to attack Dun Domhnall and you had a fleet of ships,’ she chanced, ‘surely you wouldn’t only send an army to attack from the north.’ She looked her brother deep in the eye. ‘You’d also send warriors by sea and surround the fort from all sides?’ She knew from her fireside conversations with Fionntán that the fortress-city of Veðrarfjord was up a river to the west, much like Cluainmín which was found at the top of the estuary to the east, and so she assumed that any war vessel coming around the western cape would be an enemy.

  Geoffrey bit his lip nervously. ‘Do you think…’ he stopped to gather his thoughts. ‘Do you think that they could be the first ship in an enemy fleet?’

  Alice nodded her head, deliberately slowly.

  ‘Then we better tell someone?’

  ‘We should.’

  Geoffrey offered his hand to his sister and, with another glance at the ship in the distance, she hitched her maroon skirts in her left and took it in her right. Together they ran through the citadel’s gate towards the main wall. Her linen headscarf dropped across her shoulders as they sprinted, but Alice did not stop to fix it. She was suddenly reminded of their flight from the Benedictine Priory at Abergavenny a few short months before. Back then, her heart had fluttered with excitement as she had led Geoffrey through the priory’s cloister garth. As they dashed towards the unlocked door by the buttery, she had attempted to convince him of her plans to take back Abergavenny from their cousin. The priest had been waiting for them outside the priory’s walls and on horseback they had fled along the course of the River Wysg and into Wentwood. That was where William de Braose had discovered them. Had Raymond not stumbled upon them and set their captor to flight, she wondered what would have happened. Would they already be dead? Or would they have been forced back into their respective Holy Orders? All that she knew was that she would never have found herself on the strange shores of Ireland with an enemy host bearing down upon them.

  Unlike their flight from Abergavenny, it was Geoffrey who now led the way through the broiling bailey of Dun Domhnall. Panic was palpable amongst Raymond’s tiny army and it was understandable, Alice thought, considering the rumours that abounded. All had heard the call of cattle and the bang of drums. Everyone knew what it meant.

  ‘Sir Hervey?’ Geoffrey shouted as they arrived at the inner gates. Warriors ran hither and thither to prepare the fort for warfare. ‘Sir Hervey?’ he tried again, dropping Alice’s hand to cup the sides of his mouth. Everyone ignored the youngster. Two men carrying bundles of arrows argued with a Welsh archer about the best place to store them. Another stepped between the warring trio to stop them from coming to blows. On the outer walls, pages and esquires distributed heavy rocks in preparation for an assault. They worked quickly with little care and each impact of stone on wooden walkway earned a whinny, squawk or mew from the animals that milled around the crowded pen and nearby in the bailey.

  ‘Where could he be?’ Geoffrey asked his sister as he dashed away from her to search along the fighting step upon the inner wall. ‘Sir Hervey?’ he called again, scaring some chickens to flight.

  ‘He has probably high-tailed it to Banabh,’ Alice chanced, though her brother was too far away to hear. It was then that she spotted the knight in the distance upon the outer wall. His profile was unmistakable with his stooped back, grizzled chin, and the long, lank hair which grew from his balding head. ‘There he is,’ Alice shouted to her brother. ‘I see him on the barbican.’

  His search of the inner wall complete, Geoffrey ran back to where his sister stood, a little inside the gate, and stared between the double embattlements to where Alice had indicated.

  ‘You’re right!’ He took off down the dark tunnel between the walls, nimbly dodging warriors and obstructions while scattering wood chips from the pathway beneath his feet. Alice followed more slowly, aware again of the eyes of men upon her. By the time she arrived at the barbican, Sir Hervey and his two ragged liegemen were engrossed in an argument with Geoffrey which she could hear as she climbed the ladder.

  ‘What about the men who rode out this morning with Raymond?’ Geoffrey demanded of Sir Hervey. Alice had never seen him so forceful and was momentarily unsure if she had heard correctly. Gone, it seemed, was the boy who had not wanted to leave the priory at Abergavenny, the boy reluctant to press his claim as lord and landowner. Gone was the nervous teenager who had quaked before Strongbow in the hall of Striguil. Instead there was Raymond’s esquire, determined, defiant and protective of his master. She reached the top of the wooden structure, but was disregarded by the four quarrelling men.

  ‘How do we know if they are still alive,’ Sir Hervey wheezed indignantly. ‘That idiot Raymond took ten men to fight ten thousand!’ The knight turned away from Geoffrey to look back over the sea at the Ostman vessel. ‘And now you tell me that there is a fleet on the way to attack us? You think that I will simply sit here and allow us to be wiped out?’

  Geoffrey scowled and snorted indignantly. ‘We should wait for Raymond to return. The tide is against anyone coming from the west,’ he said. ‘We still have time.’

  Alice wondered what had gone between her brother and Sir Hervey, and what the Frenchman had said to so anger Geoffrey.

  ‘She has the wind behind her,’ one of Hervey’s ragged companions told his master without acknowledging Geoffrey’s comment. ‘Once they get the sail up it’ll only take them an hour to make land.’ He nodded towards the beach to the west of the Norman fort and closer to the Ostman ship.

  ‘We could make a shield wall at the top of the path from the beach,’ Geoffrey intervened desperately. ‘We could hold them until Raymond gets back.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, boy,’ Sir Hervey hissed and shook his head. ‘God alone knows where Raymond is, or if he will even return.’ For his part, Sir Hervey looked distressed by the sight of the ship and he continued to stare at her, his lined face screwed up as the sun beat down upon him. ‘We cannot hold Dun Domhnall,’ he said quietly.

  Geoffrey took a deep breath as if he was again about to argue, but Alice took him by the shoulder and pulled him away towards the ladder. Her brother continued complaining as they descended to the ground from the raised wooden platform.

  ‘What did he say?’ Alice demanded.

  Geoffrey shook his head grouchily. ‘That a boy like me knows nothing of tactics…’

  ‘No!’ Alice snapped. ‘What does he plan to do before Raymond returns?’

  ‘He wants to take Waverider and evacuate to Banabh Island.’ Geoffrey nodded his chin towards the east, beyond the wall and across the estuary.

  Alice was taken aback. ‘He wants to leave
Raymond behind?’

  ‘He wants to leave all our supplies – the horses, the cattle – everything!’ Geoffrey threw his hands out from his sides in exasperation. ‘He’s going to abandon all of it,’ he exclaimed.

  The siblings had reached the inner gate and Alice took in the view of the bailey as she emerged from the shadows between the walls: to her left was the cattle pens and marshalsea with its roof thatched with dried reeds from the nearby estuary, and behind that was the ancient fort on the headland where she could see their quarters. She swivelled to her right to where, over the tents and rudimentary huts, she could again see the Ostman vessel. She had cleared the western cape and as Alice watched, the captain turned his stern into the wind and ordered his men to begin raising the square, yellow linen sail.

  ‘There will be at least sixty warriors on that ship,’ Geoffrey stepped past his sister and looked out to sea. ‘That is nearly as many as are left in Dun Domhnall. If even one more ship follows the first, the fort will be in grave peril.’

  Geoffrey sucked air between his teeth and turned to tell his sister to go up to their quarters and gather anything of value to take with her on Waverider. For, he considered, there was no stopping Sir Hervey’s plan, and at the very least his sister would be safe from the army to the north if they crossed the estuary. However, Alice was no longer at his side. Geoffrey frantically turned in a circle to discover where his sister had gone, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Alice?’ he called and skipped back towards the battlements. He was halfway up one of the ladders when a sudden stamp of hooves made him turn.

  ‘Out of my way,’ squealed Alice as, mounted on a sorrel horse from the marshalsea, she cantered past Geoffrey and towards the inner gate. ‘On, Rufus!’ she exclaimed encouragingly as the horse bought in Cluainmín hesitated before the high and looming walls. ‘On, Rufus,’ she called again, and the horse responded, barging into the darkness.

  ‘Alice, wait!’ her brother called, but she did not turn as warriors jumped aside rather than be trampled below Rufus’ hooves. Geoffrey ran after her, ignoring the insults from the men who had been forced from her path. ‘Alice!’ he shouted again. However, his sister was already through the outer gates and, rather than follow futilely, he quickly clambered onto the allure through the rough-hewn struts. There he watched his sister urge her horse to greater speed, his mane flapping as they headed northwards through the grassland before Dun Domhnall’s walls.

  ‘Alice!’ he appealed one last time though he knew that his voice would not carry over the grassland to her ears. Yet he knew where she was headed.

  She was riding to warn Raymond. She was riding north to save him.

  ‘Loose!’ Raymond shouted again as he watched the single file of armoured men finally turn and flee back towards the nameless creek’s northern bank. Of the final flight of arrows only one struck home, burying itself in the thigh of an Ostman as he backtracked towards the far side. The remaining arrows splashed into the fast-deepening muddy water or clattered into the causeway, sending shivers up the wooden walkway behind the escaping warriors. Raymond’s ears still rang from the sound of one arrowhead colliding with an Ostman’s shield boss. The Norman captain momentarily marvelled at how such a slender object as an arrow could hit home with such great force. At his side, the ten archers had nocked the next flight, but he gave no order to shoot.

  ‘That should do it,’ he said instead and as one the archers relaxed their arms, letting the weighty draw of the bowstring gradually release. Sweat poured from the men’s brows as they let the breath finally escape their lungs, and returned their arrows to the pouches by their hips. Raymond congratulated them for their efforts but the Welshmen ignored him, sharing a joke of their own, spoken so quickly that the Norman could not understand. They all laughed.

  ‘Catch your breath and get some water into your bellies, but stay ready. If they come back you will be needed to do the same again,’ Raymond told the Welshmen as he waved his dismounted milites forward into the heat of the early afternoon sun. As they passed the archers, some of Raymond’s conrois nodded respectfully and joined their captain on the bank of the creek where the causeway met the southern shore.

  ‘Get ready to link shields here,’ Raymond told his warriors. ‘If they come across the walkway, they will be two abreast at most, so we will be able to stop them. I’ll take the right end, Bertram the left,’ he ordered before calling for Dafydd to run forward onto the causeway and collect as many arrows as he could. ‘We’ll need every one, but don’t forget that they have slingers,’ he warned, ‘so don’t go any further than halfway across.’

  Young Dafydd nodded once before scampering onto the willow and board causeway which stretched across the muddy riverbed between the two banks. Under his weight the walkway bent and squeaked and sank into the deep mire. It was, Raymond guessed, already two hours past midday and he could see that, as Dafydd ran across the boards, water squirted in every direction. The tide was slowly starting to turn and he once more allowed himself to hope that he could hold the enemy army here at the causeway. Another day would allow him time to decide what he was going to do. Could Dun Domhnall’s walls hold back an attack by so many foes? Or would he have to admit his failure and flee back to Wales before the might of Veðrarfjord?

  He raised his eyes from the sparkling pools which peppered the muddy creek to the low, green ridge which faced him. There, the enemy waited for their chance to flood across the last barrier keeping them from attacking Dun Domhnall. Cattle calls, stomping feet and hide drums had heralded the arrival of the allied army of Gael and Ostman, but now the only thing that Raymond could hear was the rumble of many voices as they carried over the riverbed to where his small force prepared to meet them. He could see the enemy amongst the trees as they sat down in ringed groups, talking and making last minute adjustments to weaponry and armour. Those on the hillside were the men of Veðrarfjord. Even from more than a bowshot away he could identify them as Ostmen. Unlike the Gaelic tribesmen, nearly all wore helmets and most had painted circular shields. Those that had chainmail shone when the sun struck their steel rings, as did the blades of sword, spear and axe as they were sharpened by communal whetstones. Most had hardened leather coats over their clothes and in their hands were knives and axes more used to domestic chores than to war. They were many, he reasoned, but they would be unproven. Where the Irish were camping he could not discern, but from the sound of the cattle mewing, he knew that they too could be not too far away.

  ‘Raymond!’ an uneasy voice called from below him and his gaze switched swiftly from the treeline above to the riverbed. Dafydd, laden with an arm-full of arrows, was racing towards him, his feet clattering over the thin boards. Splashing water gave the miles the appearance of great speed. Beyond Dafydd, Raymond spied movement on the much-trampled bank opposite. Enemy warriors had again ventured out onto the causeway.

  ‘Shieldwall,’ Raymond exclaimed and leapt down from his vantage point upon a large stone. Seconds later Asclettin and Thurstin had joined him on the mud and pebble bank, and had linked their shields with his. The jangle of chainmail and snarls of anger from his left told him the remainder of his small company had taken their position alongside their fellows. Raymond stole a glance down the line of locked willow boards, and counted nine lances protruding from his small conrois.

  ‘Ready,’ Bertram shouted to his captain from the far end of the shield wall, indicating that he was on the extreme left of the position.

  ‘Stay sharp,’ Raymond called back and settled his eyes on the far shore. The enemy warriors had stopped to rescue the bodies of those killed during the first assault, their feet clattering on the walkway as they were dragged away. Raymond quickly counted seven dead, but it was the party standing behind them that interested him more. The glint of gold at their necks and wrists marked them out as members of the nobility.

  ‘Archers!’ Raymond shouted over his shoulder to the ten men lounging in the shade of the trees. As they gathered be
hind the shield wall, he momentarily considered unleashing a volley of arrows on the enemy as they worked, but quickly dismissed the deceitful notion.

  Fionntán leapt up onto the rock which Raymond had vacated. His shadow stretched all the way to the river as he raised his hand to his brow to block the reflected sunlight from dazzling him.

  ‘They want to talk,’ he stated, nodding a head in the direction of the nobles. ‘There are three of them … and one is Ragnall Mac Giolla Mhuire.’ He spat on the muddy bank. ‘The King of bloody Veðrarfjord.’

  Raymond allowed his teardrop-shaped shield to dip, and he stared over the rim along the line of the causeway to where a small group tarried by the far bank.

  ‘They are scared of your archers and are awaiting your permission to come forward,’ Fionntán told the captain. ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘We lose nothing by being mannerly,’ Raymond said and removed his spangenhelm from his head. Fionntán scowled and the Norman countered with a wide smile, tossing his lance to one of the archers before strapping his crimson and gold shield across his back.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Fionntán told him. ‘They don’t even have a priest with them to assure your safety.’

  ‘Our safety,’ Raymond corrected, and chuckled as Fionntán gave him a horrified look. ‘You don’t think I’m going out there by myself? It could be dangerous, and I need you to translate.’

  Fionntán looked disturbed despite Raymond’s grin. ‘Ragnall speaks French,’ he replied, his lined face giving away a hint of worry. Nevertheless, the exile from the lands of the Osraighe followed the captain onto the rickety causeway with little more than a barely audible curse.