Lord of the Sea Castle

  ‘Blasted boy,’ Ragnall murmured.

  Rumours of Jarl Sigtrygg’s raiding had soon returned to the city; of a monastery in Tuadhmumhain burned to the ground, of a village in the Uí Maille lands far to the north put to the sword, and of a massacre at an Ostman village on Kerlingfjord. When he had finally returned, Jarl Sigtrygg had denied any involvement in those attacks before dumping a small fortune in good English silver coin onto the floor of his feasting hall to settle-up his debt to his father. Not one word of thanks had passed his lips, and for good measure the ungrateful swine had demanded payment for news from England; news which, he claimed, his father would consider of the highest importance. The konungr had agreed, though his son’s information only confirmed the whispers that Ragnall had already heard from his slave traders in Bristol and Chester: that the Earl Strongbow would bring an army to Ireland, and that he planned to take Veðrarfjord for his own.

  A roar of triumph sounded from Jarl Sigtrygg’s war band, startling Ragnall from his reminiscences and his warriors into sudden conversation as they awaited their konungr’s order to engage with the enemy. Sigtrygg Fionn noted his army’s demeanour and pumped his axe into the air, shouting the name of his city each time it reached its highpoint.

  ‘Veðrarfjord!’ the jarl shouted again and again, and the warriors joined his call to arms, beating their weapons on the back of their shields and shouting curses in the direction of the fort walls. Sigtrygg Fionn was not so stupid as to countermand Ragnall’s orders, but he worked the eight hundred warriors to frenzy and soon men began streaming past their konungr to join the fight by the gates.

  Ragnall was a patient man, but he ground his teeth in frustration. His allies amongst the Gael could not be roused to speed while his jarls could not be prevented from plunging into the fray at every opportunity.

  ‘Lead them on, then,’ he shouted at Sigtrygg Fionn, for what else could he do? His army was on the move and could not be stopped from joining his son’s attack on Dun Domhnall. All Ragnall could do was to make it seem like it had been his order to send them forth. Sigtrygg Fionn grinned as he accepted his konungr’s order and began bellowing the name of their city and invoking the name of the saints who would grant his people victory.

  ‘Onwards!’ shouted Ragnall of Veðrarfjord as he watched them charge the short distance towards the Norman fortifications. Despite his reservations about helping his son win glory, he watched with great pride as his folk marched towards battle. They sang as they pushed forward. It was the song of their people, of the founding of their city three hundred years before.

  One youngster stepped out of the cluster of men and vomited. An older man, an uncle or his father, slapped him twice on the back and pulled the boy back into line.

  ‘Onwards,’ Ragnall murmured as he watched them go. It was only the sound of savage drums, deep and disjointed, that made him turn his back on his army and Dun Domhnall. On the bluff at his back the Gael had finally arrayed for battle. Two and a half thousand warriors walked towards him, ready to attack, and for the first time in many days a smile broke across the Konungr of Veðrarfjord’s face for he knew now that victory over the foreigners was inevitable.

  Light began to seep in, like sunshine behind thick cloud, dazzling yet dull, uncomfortable. Then noise started to force its way past the blur to assail his ears. The sensation lasted only seconds. His head began to spin and his stomach churn. Then, a gust of alarm as he realised that he could not breathe. Raymond choked and panicked and attempted to grapple at his midriff, but only the fingers of his right hand found his chainmailed chest and searched for relief from the pain. His left arm was pinned down and, as he tried to sit up and force air into his lungs, he wondered if he had lost the limb. He did not wish to open his eyes. He did not want to confirm his fears.

  ‘Wake up,’ a voice shouted desperately, if distantly, from above. ‘Please, wake up!’

  He felt his shoulders shake before he was slapped twice across his cheek. Raymond was sure he was dying for no air was flowing down his windpipe, and his left arm was in agony. He felt his eyes bulge and reel below his eyelids while his tongue floundered like a landed trout, but finally, as he rolled over onto his left shoulder, a blast of cold, stinging air fought its way down into his chest, and for several seconds he heaved in and out ferociously. He swallowed back the desire to vomit and clung to the tough leather clothes of the figure kneeling at his side. The person was atop his shield which, still strapped to his forearm, pinned the captain to the ground. Despite his efforts to breathe he realised that he had not lost his arm and thanked the saints for that blessing.

  ‘Raymond!’ the youth appealed and shook him again by the armour at the nap of his neck.

  He quickly recognised that that voice belonged to Geoffrey of Abergavenny and he opened his eyes to look at his esquire. He immediately wished that he had remained unconscious.

  His last memory had been of a much different scene to that which he now observed. His brave courser was nowhere in sight, and in Dreigiau’s place was a lone warrior. He stood between Raymond and the packed ranks of Ostmen enemy. The figure was flanked on either side by the torn-down outer gates to Dun Domhnall, a shield on his arm and sword in his hand. But as Raymond and the Ostmen watched, the warrior stabbed his sword into the soil and removed his spangenhelm, casting it at the feet of his enemy while loudly extolling the heavens for strength and support. No-one, other than a man shorn of his wits, would begin a fight without a helmet, especially when faced with such odds as those against the lone warrior. It was suicide, Raymond thought. It was eighty against one.

  He only understood when the figure dragged his chainmail coif from his head so that the enemy could clearly see his face.

  ‘God grant this poor sinner redemption,’ William Ferrand wheezed towards the sky, oblivious it seemed to the threat of the men to his front. ‘Holy David, hear my prayer and give me the strength to stand when all others flee.’ As always, Ferrand’s voice was little more than a gravelly rasp, yet it carried even to where Raymond slumped under the shadow of the barbican. ‘Give me a good death,’ the leper continued ‘Give me back my honour.’

  Though only one man now stood between them and their victory, Raymond could see that Jarl Sigtrygg’s crew was hesitant. They encircled the yawning gates of Dun Domhnall, but none was willing to come forward and fight the spectral figure drawn straight from their foulest nightmares.

  ‘Look,’ Geoffrey whispered, staring over his captain’s head and down the length of the double fortifications. There, two hundred paces away, the second set of gates was opening to allow the survivors of the Ostman attack to pour through. Gasps of elation carried to Raymond and Geoffrey’s ears as the surviving Welsh archers and Norman horsemen attempted to force their way inside before the enemy forced their way past Ferrand.

  ‘We must hurry,’ Geoffrey insisted and began to help his captain to his feet. ‘We need to get inside before the enemy attack again.’

  Raymond leaned hard on Geoffrey’s shoulder as he climbed to his feet. Bodies were everywhere, both Ostmen and his own people, and the ground shone with blood. Injured men’s groans of agony echoed around the small space between the wooden walls while the smell of excrement almost made Raymond gag. He shook his head sharply to clear the daze caused by his fall from Dreigiau’s back. His helmet had come away, but he had no time to assess his injuries for he could see that one of the Ostmen had finally steeled himself to fight against the ghoulish Ferrand.

  It was Jarl Sigtrygg.

  The giant warrior did not speak as he strode forward. On his arm was a circular shield and in his right a long axe and, as he looked Ferrand up and down contemptuously, he said something in Danish which earned a small laugh from his men.

  ‘Go, sick man,’ he then told the Norman. ‘Run away or I will kill you.’

  Ferrand did not move, but mumbled a prayer to St Maurice as he prepared to meet the Ostman in battle.

  Geoffrey whimpered at the sight of the jarl and
hauled furiously at Raymond’s arm. ‘We need to run if we are to get into the fortress before the enemy reach the gates.’

  ‘No,’ Raymond croaked. He could see that the inner gates remained open and that there were still men attempting to gain entry. He turned his eyes towards the eighty-strong crew of Ostmen and then back down the length of the alley between the two walls. He gauged that if Jarl Sigtrygg was to send his men down between the fortifications and attack the gates the fortress would surely fall. ‘You go and I’ll be right behind you,’ he told the esquire, pushing the boy in the direction of the gates.

  ‘Come on then,’ Geoffrey exclaimed, skidding to a halt a few steps away, and urging Raymond to follow as he had said that he would.

  The captain merely shook his head. ‘Go on, Ferrand and I will catch up. Make sure those gates are closed.’ With that Raymond sucked another chest full of air in through his nose and drew his sword from his side. ‘Go,’ he ordered with more force than was necessary, and watched as the shocked esquire took a few steps towards the gates. Raymond did not have time to feel guilty, and turned his back on Geoffrey, locking the edge of his shield to that of Ferrand.

  ‘We will stand together here,’ Raymond told the leper, ‘the sick man on the left and the fat one to his right. We’ll hold them here and let our people get safely inside the bailey.’ As he turned to make sure Ferrand understood, he spotted the last emotion that he thought possible in the leper’s rheumy eyes: happiness.

  ‘God has given me a chance to keep my oath,’ Ferrand wheezed, tears of joy pouring down his gnarled and discoloured cheeks. ‘I told you that I would fight alongside you, whatever the odds. Eighty men against two – God will grant us good deaths,’ he said and turned back to meet Jarl Sigtrygg’s angry porcine eyes.

  ‘God grant us good deaths,’ Raymond repeated and pictured Basilia de Quincy.

  ‘Montjoie!’ he shouted and lifted his shield to meet his enemy’s blade.

  * * *

  Strongbow watched as his army sloshed through the ford of the sparkling River Cleddau and into the small town of Haverford on the far bank. Pride bubbled in his chest at the sight of the men who followed his family’s crimson and gold colours. Eight hundred warriors! Such an army had not been seen in Wales since King Henry had forced the native princes to submit to his will six summers before. Strongbow had, of course, not been part of that campaign, the king neglecting to request his presence or that of his diminished household. The earl felt his shoulders stiffen as he recalled that particular insult. It had saved him a great deal of money and trouble, of course, but the affront still found its target. Assailed by atrocious weather and complications with supplies, Henry had been forced into an embarrassing retreat by little more than a handful of Welsh bowmen. A smile broke across Strongbow’s thin lips before he could think better of it; many good men had perished under the Welsh arrow-storm as Henry’s army had crept back towards Shrewsbury. Worse, the Welsh, emboldened by their victory, had soon overrun more fortresses, killing, raping and pillaging as they had passed through Powys.

  No, he chastised, that is not a memory to be enjoyed.

  The lesson taken from that campaign, however, had to be acknowledged: that a force of only a few archers could meet a host and emerge victorious. Raymond de Carew had believed that to be true and had used his friendship with Seisyll ap Dyfnwal to hire a small troop of bowmen for his vanguard now across the sea in Ireland. Strongbow had no friends among the Welsh, and he refused to go on bended knee to beg assistance from any man, let alone the bandit Seisyll. Instead his requirement to find archers had led him into Little England-beyond-Wales.

  They told strange stories about those lands to the west of Pembroke, where the tongues of English serf and Cymric prince were predominant, and only a few barons of breeding spoke French. Traders described strange men, hermits, druids, and ancient evils that could no longer be found in Christian England or Gwent but still lived in the extreme west. They said that Little England-beyond-Wales was a place where faery folk and fantastical beasts still resided, and where forests emerged from the sea at the turning of the tide. They spoke of trolls who lived in the mountains and of spirits that inhabited rivers. It was only the light of Christ in St David’s and the Norman manors and castles which kept the evil at bay. Here, Strongbow was sure he would find a company of bowmen to rival any in Christendom.

  From the hall, high up on the plateau to the north of the crossing, Strongbow watched as his army’s vanguard emerged from the river and passed into the darkening streets of the market town on the far bank. He hoped that his captain, Robert FitzBernard, had taken the necessary steps to prevent any of his warriors from disappearing from the column and into one of the many dank taverns of thatched Haverford. His army would only be in the town until dawn when they would make the final leg of their journey to the port of Melrfjord where they would prepare to take ship to Ireland. He could not afford to be without even one of those who had agreed to join him on his expedition and he knew from his youth how an army’s ranks could thin as men deserted their duty for a night’s drinking, never rousing from their drunkenness until it was too late and their comrades departed.

  ‘Lord?’ a tall man in green vestments hailed Strongbow as he marched into the great hall. Like many Flemings, his French was spoken with the distinctive clipped Germanic tone of his ancestors. He set aside a heavy bow and arrow bag as he came in, trailed by the short, stout steward who had first greeted Strongbow at the manor house door.

  ‘Greetings sir,’ the earl replied, inclining his head slightly in the man’s direction. Strongbow had never trusted the Flemish as a race, not since he had seen first-hand the depravity of their kind during the reign of King Stephen, but he forced a friendly smile onto his face as he confronted Maurice, the lord of the manor of Prendergast. ‘Your steward was kind enough to show me into your hall to await your return.’

  The Fleming slowly nodded his head as he backtracked towards a table and began sorting through a number of rolls of paper, storing them in a box. ‘I’m afraid that my household is quite unprepared for a visit from a person of your eminence, but I can ready a room for you? I suspect that I will not be able to house all your companions.’ Maurice waved a hand in the direction of the army in the belly of the valley and smiled. Strongbow did not share in his attempt at mirth and Prendergast quickly changed tack: ‘Might I offer you some small beer instead?’ Without waiting for a reply he waved his steward forward and, as his mug was filled, he began whispering furiously in his own language into the man’s ear.

  Strongbow would’ve gladly accepted wine but, rather than be impolite, he accepted a cup filled to the brim and slowly sipped at the cloudy brown liquid. ‘I am honoured by your offer of hospitality, sir,’ the earl began, ‘but I have already agreed to stay...’ He indicated through the open window at his side towards the church half-hidden behind Haverford Castle on the hill opposite. A morose look passed over Prendergast’s face as both men stared at the town on a high spur of land across the river. Strongbow suddenly remembered hearing news of some trouble between the two neighbouring lords, a squabble over the theft of animals and an abandoned marriage proposal from a few years before. ‘I will not be the guest of Richard FitzTancred,’ Strongbow described quickly to ease any awkwardness. ‘I am to stay with the archdeacon at St Martin’s Church. My army will camp to the south of the town tonight.’

  Prendergast smiled politely and for many minutes neither man said anything. Instead each supped silently at their beer and stared out of the keep’s south facing window as the army marched through the town opposite. The murmur of conversation between the warriors reached even to Prendergast’s manor house, two long bow shots away.

  It was the Fleming who broke the silence: ‘Lord, I know what brings you to my hall, and I do not wish to waste your time, but I will not return to Ireland with you.’

  ‘I was led to believe that you had acquired a large estate there.’

  Prendergast nodded. ‘I a
lso acquired enemies – Robert FitzStephen and King Diarmait – and I don’t think either would permit me to visit his domain again.’

  The Fleming had been Robert FitzStephen’s second-in-command, Strongbow knew, and had fought alongside the Norman when they had stormed the walls of the Norse city of Waesfjord the year before. But something had triggered a breakdown between the two men, leading Prendergast to flee FitzStephen’s side, along with almost a third of their army, and join the service of their enemies on the eve of battle with the High King of Ireland. FitzStephen had somehow managed to win that fight despite facing overwhelming odds and Prendergast had returned home to Wales in defeat with barely the clothes upon his back to show for his efforts across the sea.