Lord of the Sea Castle

  ‘A warship?’ Everywhere he looked there were enemies, even within his own camp, Raymond realised and cursed loudly. This time he did not deride himself for breaking his oath to Basilia de Quincy, for there was little hope that he would ever have the chance to apologise to her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Alice,’ he turned his head away. ‘I should never have brought you here. This venture was always going to be too dangerous…’

  Her hand was soft as she reached out and gently turned Raymond’s face back towards her. ‘We can still escape if we race back to the fort. We must go now,’ she emphasised.

  The captain took a breath of sea air deep into his lungs and tried to convince himself that he had no choice other than to abandon his bridgehead and make a break for home. He had to admit failure. The thump of many feet coming up the hill forced him to abandon his considerations, and he wheeled Dreigiau around to look back towards the inlet. There he saw his warriors charging towards him as if the hounds of Satan were on their heels. And well they might, for behind them was the enemy. The Ostmen had crossed the creek, forging ahead despite the deep mud underfoot, and the fastest of them were already on the southern bank, screaming profanities and awaiting their comrades to join them.

  ‘O Lord God save us,’ Alice said, her eyes to the heavens.

  Breathing out slowly, Raymond reached up to his neck and forced his much-mended coif back onto his head. ‘Alice,’ he said calmly while he tied the leather cords at the rear of his skull. ‘I need you to ride back to the fort with all haste.’ She began to make a murmur of resistance, but he quickly cut her off when he shoved his spangenhelm onto his head. ‘Please, Alice! We will catch you up, but I must make sure the conrois get to their horses.’ Tight-lipped, Alice cringed as she was assailed by equal part worry for Raymond, and anger at being dismissed. However, rather than argue, she glanced only once at the enemy army before nodding curtly and turning Rufus towards the sun.

  ‘Follow soon,’ she told him. And then she was gone, trotting southwards.

  Raymond forced his eyes from her back and made his way over towards the twenty horses, each secured by a single hobble above the hocks. They had spread out to find better patches of grass to eat, but each quickly raised their heads when Raymond and Dreigiau approached. He rode amongst the grazing horses and encouraged them to flock behind him. It took a minute for one of the younger coursers to fall in behind him at a walk, but thereafter their natural instincts stimulated more of the animals to join the snaking column. Raymond turned in Dreigiau’s saddle to check that he had enough of the horses and then led them into a tight circle at a walk. Minutes later, the first of the archers met the captain and his wandering fleet of coursers.

  ‘Thank Christ!’ the tired archer exclaimed. He was visibly shaking with the effort of climbing the hill and sweat was discernible at his brow and through his clothes.

  Raymond ignored his greeting. ‘Find your horse, get his hobble off and get back up to the top of the ridge,’ he told the warrior. ‘Keep your eyes open for the flanking force to the west.’ The Welshman nodded and quickly moved down the circulating line of horses. Raymond did not wait to see if his orders were carried out for Fionntán was part of the next group to reach him.

  ‘Ragnall is not messing about. He sent at least a hundred across the causeway at once,’ he described as he gasped for breath. Sweat spat from his top lip as he spoke. ‘We shot all the arrows we could and then had to fall back. We didn’t lose anyone, but we couldn’t slow them down.’ He grabbed the bridle of his horse and began loosening the rope hobble. ‘What the hell is the plan, Raymond?’

  The captain grimaced as he watched the last of his men struggle uphill towards him. ‘An army is to our front, a flanking force to the west, and now a shipload of Ostmen is at our backs.’ Raymond ignored the horrified look on Fionntán’s face as the new information hit home. ‘I don’t know what an Irishman would do, but there’s only one place for a Norman to be when he finds himself surrounded.’

  ‘Behind the walls of a castle?’

  Raymond nodded in answer.

  ‘And then to the sea?’ Fionntán asked as he snatched the hobble from his cob’s legs.

  ‘And then to the sea,’ Raymond answered resignedly. He circled his horse away from Fionntán to see that all his warriors were either already in the saddle or climbing in that direction. All had the look of hunted men on their faces.

  ‘Let’s get moving,’ he raised his voice so that the whole conrois could hear his words. ‘A quick canter to the top of ridge and then a trot back to Dun Domhnall,’ he told them for, yet again, the race was on and to come in second on this occasion would mean certain death. He whispered a single word to Dreigiau and they were off.

  * * *

  The wind was against the tide and so sea spray spiralled over the bows of River-Wolf and collided in great torrents upon the wooden deck. The watery hammer-blows were nothing to the tumult which came with every impact of the white waves upon the ship. They curled and crumbled like rolling white vellum sheets and smashed into her hull as would a sword upon a shield. River-Wolf punched through each one, her dragon prow riding above the bowstave-high waves, dragged onwards by the wind, before again tumbling downwards towards the belly of the ocean and then soaring towards the sky.

  ‘It’s an unruly sea,’ the ship-master, Amlaith, called as he clung to the steering oar. ‘She’s being a right bitch.’ From his vantage point in the stern, Amlaith saw a rainbow appear above Jarl Sigtrygg as the sun struck the shower of saltwater and he took that to be a good omen.

  Flexing his bare arms, the jarl hung from the forestay and howled in delight, seawater dripping from his two beard braids as his cloak billowed around his shoulders. He laughed each time the battle between wave and ship was fought below him, tensing his body before each impact before gasping in delight as his beautiful ship navigated the danger.

  ‘Maintain this heading,’ Jarl Sigtrygg bellowed at Amlaith. The foreigners’ fort was dead ahead, less than a league, and he could see the closer, western beach which shone invitingly in the midday sun. He could even make out the Norman warriors milling around like ants on the green grass and on the tiny walls. At this distance their fort looked so flimsy that a decent gust of wind would knock it over! The rising waves momentarily hid Dun Domhnall from his sight and as River-Wolf broke through the next swollen wave, the jarl looked to the blue sky and began a prayer to St Olav for the protection of his crew. Impulsively, he added a short appeal for the support of Njord - the old god of the sea. Jarl Sigtrygg awaited some divine punishment, but nothing happened and he laughed, emboldened by the success of the treasonous act. He was Christian, but the ship-folk of Veðrarfjord had always gathered by campfires while on trading missions and told tales of their ancestors and their ancient deities. Huddled on strange shores, they had told of heroic deeds of the gods, and of seafarers who had journeyed the oceans for generation upon generation. They had sung of adventurers and of brave warriors who had come to Ireland and taken land for their own. Sorrowful, funny and full of daring, the stories flooded back to him now as his ship soared towards Dun Domhnall under full sail. Jarl Sigtrygg had often thought about the old gods, especially when he was surrounded by the awesome power of the ocean. Why had they vanished, he wondered? Why had his people chosen the meek Lord Christ over the many aspects of the Northman’s pantheon? Jarl Sigtrygg could not see one feature of Christianity which spoke to him: timidity; forgiveness; abstinence; chastity; denial. He was filled with desires which the priests said were sins.

  At his feet the woman captured at Dun Conán whimpered and huddled in the deep, dark belly of River-Wolf. Water clung to her woollen clothes as she gripped her children’s hands to her face and whispered that Lord Jesus would protect them from harm. She told her tearful children to admit their sins and to remember that they had said prayers at a Holy Well. She lied to them and told her children that they would be saved through the loving grace of the Holy Trinity.

  Jarl
Sigtrygg scoffed at that. It was the sort of mewing, sycophantic whine that he believed Christ would want of his followers. They offered Him their backs to thrash and in return He would give them everlasting life. He was the God of slaves, he reasoned. If there was an afterlife, their only way to get into the next world was to bow and snivel and obey, for they would never be accepted into Valhalla. The Valkyries would never allow a thrall access to the great feasting hall in the sky. Only the brave, who had proven themselves in battle, could share a table with the gods. Not that Jarl Sigtrygg sought that honour at Dun Domhnall. He pursued revenge and glory.

  ‘Their ship will be on the eastern side of the headland,’ he called to Amlaith and refocused his eyes to study the beach ahead. He had sailed these waters many times and, though he had never landed at Dun Domhnall, knew the lay of the land intimately. ‘Keep her headed towards those islands,’ he shouted down the length of the ship to the ship-master. Amlaith adjusted their course a little more eastwards on a course which would take River-Wolf past the rocky outcropping where the foreigners had their fort. ‘If they are prepared for us to land on the western beach, we’ll give them a surprise!’ Jarl Sigtrygg laughed and began marching down the length of his ship. ‘Get up, you sons of whores,’ he called as he cajoled his eighty warriors to readiness, ‘and prepare to get back on the oars. We’ve a lot of killing to do today, but we must make land before we can do that! Amlaith,’ he shouted to the distant steersman, ‘wait until the fort is off the beam, and then turn her at the point of the headland.’ The jarl pointed one large finger at the eastern extreme of the promontory off the port side. ‘The closer you get us,’ he warned, ‘the less we’ll have to pull to get her onto the beach. The rest of you,’ Jarl Sigtrygg shouted as he tightened up the steerboard side sheet, ‘get your armour on and your weapons ready, for we will not have time once we hit the sand to be pissing around looking for our spears.’ With that he strode across the deck to the port side and stared out at the headland.

  If the Normans were ready to repel seaborne warriors, they made no sign of it, for only one warrior had left the walls to watch their ship. He simply stood above the precipice and examined his enemy in the distance. The foreigner’s head and torso were wrapped in dark steel and his hand was upon his sword pommel. It was only when he realised that River-Wolf was not going to land on the beach to the west of Dun Domhnall that he disappeared into the depths of the headland to raise the warning.

  ‘You’re too late,’ Jarl Sigtrygg shouted after him though the distance was too great for the foreigner to hear. River-Wolf was already over halfway past the sea cliffs and he was able to study their little stone and bracken houses up on the eastern end of the headland. There were certainly not enough shelters for the three hundred warriors that Ragnall had said they would face. At most, Jarl Sigtrygg guessed, there were a hundred and fifty perched out on the rocks and that realisation was followed by a surge of ambition in his chest. Every one of his eighty crewmen was a veteran of many fights and all had stood in at least one shieldwall. Could the foreigners possibly say the same? He thought back to the slave market in Cluainmín when he had first laid eyes on the Normans. Their leader, Raymond, had been a pudgy youth who landed a lucky punch before hiding behind Trygve’s chair and whispering lies about him. If he was their best, then the rest of the warriors would be bloody useless. Of that he was sure.

  ‘We’re almost ready to come about,’ Amlaith called, and Jarl Sigtrygg raised his head to signal that he understood. With a last look at the headland, now four boat lengths off the stern, he crossed to the mast and called six men to assist him.

  ‘Now!’ he shouted and released the halyard from the cleat to begin lowering the sail towards the deck. The strain on his upper arms was immense. ‘Turn her into the wind,’ he managed to grunt at Amlaith through gritted teeth and, as the ship-master pushed the steering oar away, River-Wolf swung back towards Dun Domhnall and the estuary. His foot planted on the kerling, Jarl Sigtrygg clung to the mast one-handed and ordered his crewmen to furl the sail to the boom. The job was made all the more difficult due to the crewmen’s cold fingers and the high waves which struck from the leeward side. Hands grasped for the rail of the ship, such was the power of the tide smashing into the steering board side.

  ‘Keep her turning,’ Jarl Sigtrygg shouted at Amlaith when the soaked warriors finally completed their task. The power of the tide sweeping along the coast had already forced the ship dangerously back towards the sharp black rocks of the headland. Jarl Sigtrygg snarled at the menacing landmass and began hauling the furled sailed back up the mast. ‘Get up there, damn you!’ he roared at the dripping wet bundle of rope, linen and wooden spars as it ascended.

  Amlaith did not even wait for his jarl to get the sail out of his way. ‘Get your oars out!’ he called, his voice full of urgency. ‘Pull, you bastards,’ he exclaimed.

  With a growl of determination, Jarl Sigtrygg heaved the rope up the last few inches before lashing the excess to the carved stone cleat fastened to the mast. Panting and covered with sweat, he stared balefully at the foreigners’ fort. ‘I’m coming for you,’ he whispered before turning his eyes on the beach below Dun Domhnall. ‘Pull harder!’ he called to his crew. ‘Come on, you bastards, pull!’ he exclaimed and sat down on a chest, extending an oar into the sea to help his warriors. ‘To the oars, my boys, to the oars!’ he sang the old rowing song. ‘We’ll get this boat to shore. She needs a berth and I need a drink so we’ll get this boat to shore.’ Soon the whole crew were howling the fast-paced tune though they were soon lost in the combined effort of both tasks. Their arms, legs and stomach muscles burned and most did not even notice when the headland stole the wind and the waves below them lessened.

  Jarl Sigtrygg glanced over his shoulder at the beach and there he saw a tantalising target: the beached Norman ship. He recognised the vessel immediately as the one in which Raymond de Carew had sailed to Cluainmín, the one in which he had hidden for fear that Jarl Sigtrygg would try to murder him. She would provide no refuge for his enemy on this occasion, he thought as he pulled the pine oar through the water.

  ‘How far is it?’ he demanded of Amlaith. He had to shout so that his voice could be heard over the crew’s continuing song.

  ‘Eight ship-lengths,’ the ship-master replied and the jarl looked to his right and was surprised to see that River-Wolf was almost alongside the point of the headland. He could see the old Celtic fort walls had been rebuilt. Seconds later, his ship passed the new stables and cow pens. The sight of the double embattlements above the black cliffs gave him pause for thought, but a call from Amlaith that they were nearing shore grabbed his attention before he could give them serious consideration.

  ‘Stow oars,’ Jarl Sigtrygg boomed as the ship continued to drift towards land, ‘and ready yourselves for battle,’ he shouted as he tossed his oar aside and quickly threw his great helmet upon his head. His heavy belt held all manner of sidearms and they rattled against his chainmailed thighs. He stared at the shoreline. A number of people milling around the beached ship had spotted the danger approaching from the sea.

  ‘They are running away!’ one of his crewmen laughed when he joined his jarl in the bows. Indeed, at least fifteen boys were dashing away from the Norman vessel, scrambling and pushing up the earth cliff-face like frightened ants.

  The jarl also laughed and turned towards his men. Old and young, they shared a fury in their eyes, an excitement for battle and plunder. ‘Kill anyone left on that ship,’ he shouted, ‘and steal anything of any worth.’ A number of the men nodded in agreement. ‘Then we burn it and attack the fort. Are you ready to kill the bastards who humiliated us in Cluainmín? Are you ready to get revenge for the crewmen who died in the English lands?’

  As River-Wolf began to skid along the sandy bottom of the estuary, the Ostmen of Veðrarfjord roared their battle cry and waved their weapons above their heads. The ship had barely shuddered to a halt when Jarl Sigtrygg vaulted over the side to land in the shal
lows with a splash and a bark of pure hatred.

  ‘Kill them all,’ he screamed and charged out of the waves like a sea-raider of old. ‘Kill them all!’

  Raymond spotted the smoke before he saw those fleeing from the beach. A tall, swirling plume swept inland on the early afternoon breeze. It tormented the nostrils of man and courser alike as they trotted southwards along the grassy path under high sun. Generations of Gaels herding cattle between the highland pastures and their winter grazing territory by the brimming sea had caused the well-trodden track to be cut into the landscape, but it suited the mounted Normans well despite the grasping ferns and briars at either side. Dreigiau whinnied and shook his mane as the acrid smoke irritated his eyes, and Raymond soothed him by rubbing his rough hand along the horse’s neck. His eyes did not leave the pumping cloud of smoke, for he guessed its origin and what that entailed; there would be no maritime evacuation from Dun Domhnall for his army. The Normans and the Welshmen were surrounded and they were alone. There was no line of retreat.

  Raymond turned in the saddle to reassure his men. They had also spotted the smoke and had guessed that it came from the beached Waverider. Panic was already evident. His warriors flapped hands in the direction of the inferno and babbled to each other in frightened tones like those of the gulls that plagued the pages for scraps at mealtimes in their camp.

  ‘Asclettin,’ Raymond called to his most senior man, ‘take all the men except Bertram back to Dun Domhnall. Archers, find Borard and replenish your arrow supply. Stable your horses and then get up onto the walls and get ready to repel attackers.’ His orders were delivered so sharply and loudly that his detachment immediately stopped talking and began listening to what their captain told them. ‘Is everyone clear on what to do?’ he asked and received affirmative responses.

  ‘What about the gates?’ Fionntán called from the midst of the column. ‘They are still closed.’