Lord of the Sea Castle

  Water and mud sloshed between the boards of the causeway as Raymond walked forward to meet the foreigners. He had not noticed the salty stink as he had led Dreigiau and his conrois across the causeway earlier in the day, but now it annoyed his nostrils like the first step into a castle marshalsea in the morning. Glancing to his right he hoped to see signs of the tide rising, but the estuary was too distant for him to discern. The landscape was filled with squawking waders and gulls which hunted amongst the slimy grasses and bare rocks for insects and molluscs. That those birds remained told Raymond that the water was frustratingly slow in rising. He stopped halfway along the causeway and drew his sword.

  ‘What are you doing?’ hissed Fionntán.

  Raymond did not answer and instead, in full view of the enemy, stabbed his sword downwards into the mud and water alongside the causeway. It slid easily into the mire halfway to the cross guard.

  ‘I’m at the bottom,’ he told the Irishman and gave the sword two more pushes. ‘There is no way they can cross unless it is by this path.’

  ‘And now they know that too?’ Fionntán chanced.

  Raymond flexed his eyebrows and stood up, feigning study of the wet blade before wiping it on the skirts of his crimson and gold surcoat. ‘And they already know that if they come in single file our archers will fill this waterway with their dead.’ He stooped to recover an arrow which Dafydd had missed, tucking it in his belt by his hip. ‘So they will have to go westwards, or waste another day sitting on the far side of the inlet staring at us. That will give us time to decide if we are going to stay or if we flee from Dun Domhnall.’ He sheathed his sword in his scabbard, waiting for his enemy to join him in the middle of the riverbed. They were led by a thin, unpleasant-looking man whose sharp, angular features stretched his mouth across his face and gave him the look of someone who had come across something foul. The green shirt beneath his chainmail was embroidered with black crosses and, though he wore some ornaments, they were not gaudy like those of his companions. The Ostman did not take his black eyes from Raymond’s face as he came forward.

  ‘It is Ragnall,’ Fionntán whispered.

  Behind the Konungr of Veðrarfjord were two Gaels. The younger man had the front of his head shaved closely from his brow to his ears, though his hair hung down his back almost to his leather belt. The other rattled like he was wearing mail though Raymond could see no armour amongst his thick woollen attire. He realised that the noise came from the man’s wrists, neck and fingers, loaded with gold and silver rings and armlets.

  ‘Do you recognise the other two?’ he asked Fionntán.

  ‘Neither, though the younger one has the look of the Uí Fhaolain about him,’ the Irishman replied with a sniff. ‘I fought with them against the Uí Meic Caille, must be fifteen years back,’ he said with a hint of wistfulness. ‘Good people, fond of the mead though.’

  Raymond bowed deeply as the men stopped before him. ‘Greetings, Lord King,’ he said. ‘I am –’

  ‘We know who you are Raymond de Carew,’ Ragnall of Veðrarfjord interrupted in perfect, if accented, French, ‘as I know that you are aware of our names.’ He looked pointedly at Fionntán over Raymond’s shoulder. ‘Don’t think that I don’t remember you, ship-master,’ he told the Gael with the hint of a threat. ‘I remember you very well.’

  Raymond felt Fionntán’s discomfort and rather than allow the Konungr of Veðrarfjord to unsettle his ally he took a different tack, mirroring Ragnall by looking around his shoulder towards the two men by his side. ‘I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,’ he said, ‘for I do not know your names.’ He smiled and nodded to each. The elder seemed shocked at being addressed in the overly familiar fashion, but the younger man returned his welcome. Ragnall, however, turned his toady face on Raymond immediately and searched his eyes for deceit. Finding none, his strained features settled somewhat.

  ‘He is Donnchadh Ua Riagháin of the Uí Drona,’ he flashed a thumb at the older man, ‘and Máel Sechlainn Ua Fhaolain of the Déisi. Now,’ Ragnall stated without waiting for any further pleasantries to be forced upon him, ‘we will talk of your people and what is going to become of you.’

  Raymond ignored the bluster of the Ostman and turned to Fionntán. ‘Day-sha?’ he asked. ‘O-drone-a?’ The wood beneath his feet squeaked as he half-turned towards his companion.

  The Irishman nodded. ‘The Déisi are from the mountains west of Veðrarfjord. They pay tribute to Ragnall. The Uí Drona are from lands a long way to the north. I don’t know what brings them here, but it cannot be anything good.’

  ‘They are here because of your friend, Diarmait Mac Murchada,’ Ragnall stated bluntly. ‘The Uí Drona lands are between those of Diarmait and the Osraighe so no matter to which Donnchadh allies himself he will make an enemy of the other.’

  ‘So he chooses to pay tribute to you?’ Raymond chanced.

  Ragnall scowled. ‘My ships can be up the river to support him in less than a day. How long will it be before your master can join you from Striguil?’

  That statement shocked Raymond and he felt the icy grip of fear grapple at his heart. How, he wondered, did the Konungr of Veðrarfjord know about Strongbow?

  Ragnall laughed at Raymond’s disquiet. ‘Perhaps you thought us all witless savages? Or just ill-informed to your master’s reasons for sending you to Ireland?’ He sneered widely as Raymond remained mute. ‘You are his cowhand, yes? His chief drover, sent here to steal cattle so that when his actual army arrives it will be well provisioned before his proper warriors attempt to claim my city by siege?’ Ragnall smirked as he delivered his insult.

  The captain had been called many names in his life, but to have his position belittled to that usually held by a serf infuriated him. He was no cowhand. His face flushed with anger.

  ‘I have known about Strongbow’s plans for almost a year, you fool!’ mocked Ragnall. ‘I knew that he had met with Diarmait Mac Murchada, and what that Uí Ceinnselaig bastard offered him for his help. Should I be offended that you are all Strongbow sent to fight me?’ His sneer flashed across his face again as he sniggered. ‘Well, here is what I know of you, since you obviously know nothing of my people: you are done, finished,’ he said bluntly. ‘You have no hope of help…’

  ‘My uncle, Robert FitzStephen…’ Raymond spluttered.

  ‘Is in the far west fighting beside the Uí Briain,’ Ragnall countered quickly. ‘So he will be of no help to you.’ He let the implication of his statement hit home, watching Raymond squirm for several seconds, before speaking again. ‘You are alone, without hope of support – not from north, south, east or west – with, what, little more than three hundred men out on your headland?’ Raymond didn’t correct Ragnall’s inflated assessment of his army’s strength. ‘I have over five thousand warriors at my side – five thousand,’ the konungr lied. ‘Do you actually believe that your little cattle pen can withstand us?’

  Again the Norman captain did not offer an answer.

  ‘No,’ the Ostman continued, his eyes narrowing in concentration. ‘For you know as well as I that there can be only one outcome of this campaign. So you will abandon your little fort and scamper away in your ship.’ He smirked knowingly as Raymond shifted his weight nervously between his feet. At his back the usually composed Fionntán cleared his throat and licked his dry lips, equally taken aback by the konungr’s words.

  ‘But where will you go?’ Ragnall asked. ‘Not back to Wales in disgrace? No, you are a cowhand with ambition. I can see it in your eyes. You wish to prove yourself. So you must be considering merely crossing the estuary?’ The Ostman studied his enemy through narrowed eyes. ‘At Banabh will you be in a better situation than at Dun Domhnall? No, of course not, for you know that I will be only a few days behind you.’ Ragnall jabbed his gnarled finger at Raymond’s heart as he made the declaration. Behind the Konungr of Veðrarfjord, the two Irishmen shared a silent joke which Raymond was sure was at his expense. Ragnall did not join in their laughter.

  �
��Thus, you will make for Waesfjord,’ he continued. ‘But you will find no friends amongst my folk, only people who hate you and wish to throw off the new Norman yoke imposed by your uncle last summer. Consequently, you will be forced to go north to FitzStephen’s new castle at the crossing of the River Sláine.’ He paused and for the first time a smile spilled across his face, his hands stretched out as if in prayer. ‘And that is where my army will find you in a week’s time.’ His eyes narrowed suddenly, maliciously. ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘call me a liar, cowhand.’

  Raymond blinked a number of times as he tried to come up with a response to Ragnall’s outline of future events, but the glut of information, delivered with such accuracy and self-assurance, had caught him completely unawares.

  ‘I still hold the crossing,’ he said belatedly and weakly.

  Ragnall was nonplussed as he turned to look at the west where a flock of seagulls had suddenly taken to flight from a large tree a mile distant. ‘And you can keep it,’ he said, ‘for that is all you will have if you remain here. Those birds,’ he flapped a hand towards the gulls, ‘were scared by the three thousand warriors I sent to outflank you two hours ago. They will have already crossed the river and, within an hour or two, they will attack you from the west, and then no amount of archers will prevent you from defeat and death.’

  Raymond’s eyes followed the Konungr of Veðrarfjord’s outstretched arm and settled on the great tree in the distance. Birds squawked and flapped in fear and made for the safety of the sea. Raymond considered that he should copy the seagulls’ example. However, before he could gather his thoughts Fionntán’s hand landed upon his shoulder and began to pull him back along the causeway to where the shield wall still stood.

  ‘Come on. We need to retreat…now,’ the Gael urged.

  ‘Yes, you must,’ Ragnall laughed as he followed the two men towards the southern shore. ‘Run back to your Lord Strongbow, and tell him that Veðrarfjord will never fall! I will tear down every stone and piece of timber at Dun Domhnall, and claim every cow that you have gathered there. Then I will march on your friends in Cluainmín,’ he exclaimed. ‘I have five thousand warriors at my back and I intend to use them to sweep clean this land of every foreign soul.’ His face turned sour again. ‘I will take Waesfjord and then bring fire to FitzStephen’s little castle while he is in the west.’ He stopped to watch Raymond and Fionntán clamber from the causeway up the bank of the river to join their companions. ‘There will be nowhere safe for Strongbow,’ he shouted in French so that all the warriors could understand. ‘You are finished, you and your cowhand captain!’ He spat disdainfully on the mud of the creek before turning on his heel and walking back towards his vast army.

  As he watched Ragnall casually stroll away, Raymond tried to think what he should do. He had expected to be assailed by his warriors’ questions about what had gone between him and the enemy, but they did not come. Instead silence had overtaken his conrois. That, if anything, was more disconcerting. They were stricken dumb with fear; mute in the face of their enemy’s bravado, and the irresistible force arrayed against them. To remain, they all knew, was to die. To return to Wales was to return to ignominy and pitiable poverty in the service of their pauper lord.

  The whistling arrow which struck the ground behind their lines came so suddenly and so loudly that it made each warrior jump in fear.

  It was Bertram d’Alton who translated the arrow’s significance: ‘A rider approaches from the south!’

  ‘Holy St Maurice, what next?’ Raymond asked and swapped a wary glance with Fionntán before turning to look at the top of the distant ridge where he had sent a single archer to act as a lookout. ‘Get your gear together,’ he ordered, ‘and get ready to move out. But for now, if anyone puts a foot on that causeway I want you to put an arrow in them.’ With that he began running uphill towards the picquet line.

  He could not believe that the flanking force despatched by Ragnall could be so close so soon, but then again, he considered, he had never actually believed that he would face a force even a fifth of the size of the one that currently threatened his small army. His armour thumped on his shoulders as he ran, his shield rolled around on his back, and his sword clattered against his thigh. The face guard of his chainmail coif twice struck painfully against his lip and, irritated, he whipped the headgear onto his shoulders feeling the breeze on his sweaty temples immediately.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Raymond breathlessly demanded as he reached the small clearing on the hill crest where the lookout waited with the company’s horses.

  The archer already had an arrow on his bowstring, but had not yet drawn the weapon. ‘A half a mile to the south-west, coming hard at us,’ he replied.

  ‘From Dun Domhnall?’

  The archer shrugged and said something in his Welsh mother tongue that Raymond did not understand. ‘Could be, could be,’ he added in French as he squinted at the distant figure, ‘though I am almost certain that the rider has long hair.’

  The captain held up a hand to shield his eyes against the power of the sun in the south. ‘So he is no Norman?’ Raymond’s mind was a forest of questions: who was the rider thundering towards the crossing? And what could his approach herald? If he pulled back to Dun Domhnall immediately, how long would it take? And how much time would be needed to load their gear onto Waverider? Would the tide be full enough to do that? How many hours would it take Ragnall to get his army across the causeway once the archers retreated? And where would he even take his army once they were at sea? The problems kept coming, threatening to overcome him, and no answers readily arrived to relieve his troubled mind.

  ‘He could be of Cymru, like me,’ the Welsh archer said encouragingly of the rider when he saw the worry on Raymond’s face. He grabbed the long hair at the nape of his neck and gave it a tug to emphasise his point. ‘You think it is time that we head home to Gwent?’

  As the clip of galloping hooves came closer, Raymond turned to the archer and nodded. ‘We can’t do any more good here.’

  The Welshman scowled at that. ‘Begging your pardon, for I haven’t been in your employ for long,’ he said, ‘but Seisyll ap Dyfnwal always said that there was never a trap which Raymond the Fat…’ He paused wide-eyed when he realised what he had said.

  His captain shook his head to make clear that he was not offended. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well,’ the archer cleared his throat, ‘he said that there was never a trap that Strongbow’s captain could bumble into that he couldn’t fight his way out of too.’

  ‘Not until now,’ Raymond said sadly. A roar sounded suddenly from behind them, louder than anything he had heard that day. Both he and the Welsh archer turned sharply towards the river and stared across at hundreds of Ostmen as they battered their axes on the wooden boards of their shields, shouting curses and singing battle hymns of their fathers.

  ‘They make a powerful lot of noise,’ the archer told him.

  ‘And that’s only half of them,’ Raymond admitted.

  ‘Well, they are terrible singers,’ the Welshman said dismissively as if that was the most important weapon in the hands of a warrior. He turned away from the din of battle and nodded southwards. ‘That rider is coming into my range. Shall I kill him?’

  Raymond again squinted into the sunshine. ‘I don’t recognise the rider,’ he paused and concentrated his eyes upon the figure, ‘but I do know the horse!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s Rufus, the horse I bought in Cluainmín!’ he stared at the shadowy figure as he slowed to a canter. At his side, the archer drew the bow back to his ear, awaiting Raymond’s command to kill.

  ‘So they’ve captured the fort?’ the Welshman said as his arm quivered under strain from the taught bow. The rider was a hundred paces away, an easy shot for the archer. ‘And they’ve sent this emissary on your horse – your own horse – to tell us of their victory, while we stood here and bartered with the Ostmen like fishwives.’

  Rather than answer, Raymond put his hand on the archer’s ar
m and gently forced him to lower the weapon. The Welshman’s grip on the bowstring naturally lessened as it sank towards the ground but Raymond stepped in front of him anyway so that he could see better.

  ‘Go down to the river,’ he ordered, ‘and tell Fionntán to send the men up here in groups of two; milites first and then the archers.’ His companion looked doubtfully at him until Raymond again ordered him to go. His eyes had not left the dark figure on the horse, and there was some murmur of recognition on his face.

  As the archer ran downhill to fulfil his instructions, Raymond jogged over to where his men had hobbled their horses. He quickly removed Dreigiau’s bindings and sprang onto his back, kicking him into a trot. With his thighs striking the inside of his bucket saddle, he urged the reluctant courser upwards towards the summit where the rider had again slowed, this time to a trot.

  ‘Alice!’ he called and stood in his stirrups to wave his hand above his head. ‘Alice?’ he exclaimed again with disbelief and confusion apparent upon his face. He was finally close enough to see the features of her face, and despite his worry his heart jumped as a smile broke across her sweaty face for him.

  ‘I found you!’ she gasped and grasped for his hand. Her smile, however, fell away quickly as she looked past Raymond to see the enemy on the far bank of the inlet, still hollering their war cries. ‘O Lord, protect us,’ she said.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  It took Alice a heartbeat to compose herself, and rip her eyes from the terrifying throng to look at Raymond. ‘It’s Sir Hervey,’ she began, ‘he plans to flee Dun Domhnall in Waverider. You must come back to the fort. Now,’ she stressed, ‘or he will leave you here to be killed.’

  ‘He wouldn’t…’

  ‘There is more,’ Alice interrupted and leaned across so that she could lay her left hand atop Raymond’s arm. ‘Geoffrey spotted an Ostman vessel coming around the headland to the south.’