The Fleming stepped forward suddenly and put his hand on Strongbow’s sleeve. The earl was taken aback. A man of Prendergast’s lowly standing should not have thought it appropriate to act like they were equals.
‘I have to warn you,’ Prendergast told him, ‘that I have seen things in that savage land of which even the Devil himself could not conceive. No matter what glory or realm which you think you will win, I promise you it will be fleeting. These Gael do not forget and are vicious in their search for retribution. I have seen it,’ he told him earnestly. ‘With God’s grace I lived to tell the tale, but I will not go back.’
Strongbow frowned deeply, not because of Prendergast’s warning, but because he was angry and frustrated. He did not wish the Fleming to see the effect of his words, but his ire bubbled. He wanted to call Prendergast a coward, to challenge him to prove his accusation of spinelessness wrong, but he could see that it would do no good and so he held his tongue. He refused to beg and barter like a cloth merchant on Gloucester’s wharf to secure the services of Prendergast’s two hundred-strong archer warband.
Prendergast had turned away and was waving his mug in the air to attract the attention of his steward bearing the jug of beer. He did not even think to excuse himself before leaving the earl’s side. He roared in the English tongue at the servant on the far side of the room. Strongbow sighed at the small insult and began staring out the window at the town of Haverford. A shadow, cast by the high cliffs above the crossing, seemed to cover the whole of the thatched settlement. Atop that natural motte sat the castle like a squat owl eying a fat mouse at its feet. As with Striguil, Haverford’s castle was perfectly placed to command the river crossing and anyone who chose to use its course to travel further inland. The similarity with his home led Strongbow’s mood to darken further. Haverford was one of the castles which belonged to the Honour of Pembroke, the estate and earldom which his father had won, and of which Strongbow had been unfairly deprived by King Henry. The anger at the injustice burned brightly in his chest. Cilgerran, Emlyn, Pembroke, Manorbier, and Tenby were some of the great Marcher castles that should have been part of his Welsh fief. Instead they were held by low-born royal constables like Richard FitzTancred who sent the profits from his estates to the crown treasury or, more likely, stole it to enrich themselves while he, the lawful owner, was almost ruined. His lips squeezed to white as he fought the all-too-familiar anger.
Had he been earl in deed as well as name, Pembroke would’ve provided him with two hundred knights’ fees, a thousand spearmen and as many archers as he required, while those from his share of the Giffard lands scattered across England and Normandy would’ve given half that number again. Strongbow closed his eyes and remembered a time when that power had been his, almost unmatched by any man in the kingdom, before the ascension of Henry FitzEmpress to the throne. He recalled riding at the head of a column of chainmail-clad warriors all sworn to the House of Pembroke, two thousand knightly pennants flying above their spears. He had been a boy, eighteen years old and raw, when his father had died, but King Stephen had treated him with great respect and in turn Strongbow had raised an army of thousands to serve the goodly monarch against his rebellious subjects in the north. It had been the earl’s proudest moment, exciting and terrifying in equal measure, as he had led his army in defence of his king’s throne. He had not had to scrape and bow to the likes of Maurice de Prendergast, men not worthy of his lineage, but had ordered them to do his bidding. That time had passed, but it would come again, he promised.
He reordered his thoughts to the present as Prendergast returned to his side, his mug refilled without bothering to offer his guest the same. Behind the Fleming, more men had made their way into the hall, talking loudly and bawdily as they entered. Not a few threw interested glances in Strongbow’s direction, but most simply sat down at the tables scattered around the room and called loudly for ale. It was obvious to the earl that Prendergast considered their business over and rather than spend any more time bartering and rebuffing his guest he had simply decided to make Strongbow feel awkward by inviting his captains into the hall.
The manor house was, to Strongbow’s eye, closer in design to a barn than the great hall at Striguil. The building was dry and stoutly built, and in a defensible position, but its lord had either not the sense or the finances to build a proper keep. Even the wooden walls which surrounded its bailey were in need of repair. A man with two hundred archers at his disposal was a powerful man on the March, but that, Strongbow decided, did not make him a rich one and a lord who could not pay his troops would not command them for long. That he knew from experience.
‘I am sorry that I cannot help you,’ Prendergast continued and slumped into a wicker chair, causing it to squeak and stretch beneath his weight. His beer sloshed from his mug, onto his hand and he grimaced as he wiped his fingers clean of the liquid on the thin table top before him. ‘But I will pray that your endeavours will bring you success, Sir Richard.’ A self-satisfied hint of smile twisted the edges of Prendergast’s mouth.
Strongbow summoned his courage. ‘I regret that you feel the opportunity in Ireland too dangerous for your men,’ the earl said. He had never had a strong voice but he now forced it to pierce the hubbub of the hall. ‘I had thought the men of Flanders hardier than that, but nevertheless I will visit with Richard FitzTancred at Haverford Castle this very hour and hope that his stomach is sterner and his ambition greater than that which I have found here at Prendergast.’ With that he turned on his heel and made for the door. His stomach churned as he realised that the clamour in the room had abated following his words and that all eyes were on him as he strode through the main hall. He kept his head high as he made his departure, picking a path directly towards the main door while being careful not to walk too fast or to appear apprehensive.
However, when a tall warrior rose from the bench and placed himself in his path, the earl began to worry that he had indeed miscalculated with his stern words.
‘Out of my way,’ he squeaked at the man before clearing his throat and trying again, more forcefully. ‘Out of my way, I say.’
The Fleming’s only response was to step closer and place a big hand on Strongbow’s chest, preventing him from leaving. The earl felt uneasiness pucker in his stomach. He was alone in this fortress amongst foreigners, foreigners who he had insulted. He gathered his courage to make another effort to move the warrior:
‘You will get out of my path,’ he stated, but the bearded man merely shook his shaggy head.
‘Wait, sir,’ he said and raised his chin to address Prendergast. ‘I don’t understand why you would turn down this opportunity, Maurice. Did you not see the size of that army?’ the Flemish warrior continued, earning a number of supportive grunts from his fellow captains scattered around the feasting hall. ‘We were able to claim Waesfjord last summer with an army half the size of the one that Lord Strongbow has mustered.’ The man kept his palm firmly on the earl’s surcoat as he turned towards the hall to encourage the like-minded amongst the warriors to support him. ‘Why would we not want to go back to Ireland?’
Maurice de Prendergast could not have missed the number of his followers who grunted encouragingly at the man’s words. ‘I did not think that you would speak against me, Osbert de Cusac,’ he said reprovingly, but his words were lost immediately as another man, younger than the first, weighed in:
‘I still don’t know why we left FitzStephen’s side in the first place!’ the second man snarled. ‘I barely made it back home with more money than I had when I landed in Ireland.’
‘That was only because we sold our horses to those crooks in Veðrarfjord,’ Osbert butted in again.
Strongbow, momentarily forgotten, watched quietly as the Flemings argued his cause for him. He stole a glance towards the dais where Maurice de Prendergast had climbed to his feet in an attempt to calm his warriors down. He held up his hands to achieve quiet and allow him to speak, but the discussion had already started between the war
riors below.
‘The summer is already upon us,’ Osbert barked, ‘and no offers have come from Philip FitzWizo for our service. We all heard how Rhys ap Gruffydd raided Llandissilio two weeks ago. Yet our lord in Wiston did not summon the men of Prendergast to help him fight our enemies.’ Osbert pointed an accusatory finger at Maurice. ‘There is something amiss when he does not bid his best warriors to join him in a fight! And now another offer falls right in our lap,’ he said, finally removing his hand from Strongbow’s chest and stepping back to allow everyone to see the Norman baron, ‘but Maurice wishes to let it pass him by so that we can sit on our backsides all summer and grow poorer.’
Amid the growls of agreement and ire, Prendergast was finally able to speak. ‘There will be other offers, of that I am sure. I have never let you down. Did I not get a good price from the Bishop of St David’s for our services? Did I not earn us land south of Waesfjord from Robert FitzStephen? Remind me, Osbert, who it was who found work with Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig when our allies betrayed us?’ He nodded his head. ‘That is correct – me. And I will find us riches again. We need not go back to Ireland.’
As Strongbow looked around the faces in the manor, he could see that Osbert was losing the argument. Maurice de Prendergast was obviously a good lord and his men trusted him. In many ways the Fleming reminded Strongbow of Raymond de Carew and he felt a pang of jealousy rise in his chest. His father had possessed that power too, he remembered.
‘If your lord, Maurice, says that he can get you service in Wales, I believe him,’ Strongbow told the room of warriors. All eyes turned to look at him. ‘From what I have heard he has won you much, if not in terms of great wealth, certainly in renown.’ He allowed his words to traverse their minds. ‘I do not offer any man fame,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘I offer only riches and unless Maurice de Prendergast can promise, here and now, to lead you to capture both Bristol and Chester this summer then he cannot match what I offer to those who follow my banner. I mean to take both the Danish cities of Veðrarfjord and Dubhlinn.’ He stressed the names of both the famous Scandinavian settlements in Ireland. ‘You have seen Veðrarfjord for yourselves and Dubhlinn is said to be four times as big. That is what I offer in return for your bows. So you can stay here in hope of employment or you can join me and become rich. You have until I reach the ford to Haverford to make your choice.’
Again the room descended into the murmur of debate and argument and, with a final nod in Maurice de Prendergast’s direction, Strongbow strode from the hall without a backwards glance. He managed to hold off the panic as he climbed down the stairs to the ground floor. He was even able to swap some small talk with an esquire as he retrieved his palfrey from Prendergast’s small stable, but, as he passed through the gate in the defensive walls, worry reached into his stomach and twisted his guts. He had half expected to be called back before he had reached the main door of the manor house, to be told that the Flemish captains had convinced Maurice de Prendergast to take up his offer and follow him to Ireland. That he had made it to the outbuildings without one of the warriors dashing to stop him and beg him to reconsider made him worry that he had misjudged the temper of the room and Maurice’s hold over the Flemish bowmen.
‘Slow there,’ he whispered to the mare and pulled on his reins as he passed through the gates. He wanted to turn in the saddle to see if anyone followed him but he knew that he had to keep up the facade of confidence, his eyes straight ahead and fixed upon Haverford Castle. He emerged from between the heavy timber gateposts into bright sunshine, but his mood was anything but good. Strongbow had set the gates as his Rubicon and beyond them his hopes of securing a company of archers would be over. Before he had departed for Ireland, Raymond had made the earl promise that he would use all his efforts to engage a warband of bowmen, saying that with even a hundred more he would conquer a realm as large as Strongbow could imagine. Without them, his captain had told him, their campaign would be short and unsuccessful.
Strongbow felt a bead of cold sweat separate from his hairline and run down his face. He had not admitted as much to Prendergast, but he had already asked every Norman baron in Glamorgan to permit him to employ their archers, and had been turned down at every hall because he could not pay silver up front. It was the work of William de Braose, he was sure. Strongbow had hoped that in Little England beyond Wales, rather than the infuriating obstinance of landed lords, he would find desperate men willing to take any chance to plunder loot at his side. Strongbow had thought to inspire them as Raymond had Seisyll ap Dyfnwal with stories of great lands won by warriors with no less right than they. He had failed and now all he had accomplished and built in the last weeks and months seemed constructed on unstable foundations. He worried about the men he had appointed to high command and those he had chosen to stay behind. He worried about the condition of the ships that he had procured at Melrfjord and he worried about being cheated by all who surrounded him.
He wiped the perspiration from his brow as his mount began walking down the hillside. He felt his weight shift onto his hips as he leaned back in the saddle. On each side he watched as English serfs toiled in bountiful fields, spreading manure and buckets of water amongst Prendergast’s wheat crop.
It had all been for naught, Strongbow decided. He had reduced himself to penury for a folly that could never have resulted in success. He had gained an army to conquer a kingdom, but without archers he knew the odds were stacked against him. Doubt assailed Strongbow.
Only that morning a brute sent by the moneylender in Gloucester had caught up with his army, thundering along the length of his column on a palfrey worth more than that beneath the earl. The newcomer had demanded that Strongbow hand over silver before he set sail for Ireland in part payment of his debt – even the Godless Jew had realised the recklessness of the campaign and wished to extract what he could before the opportunity was lost for ever. What the debt collector did not know was that the earl had exhausted every single line of finance, and had called in every favour owed to his house. He had nothing left to give. Yossi’s man had argued, of course, had called Strongbow a liar and so the earl had ordered Milo de Cogan to hurry the man, as well as his six gruff and heavily armed companions, down the road without a penny.
Strongbow’s poverty remained. It seemed so long ago that Diarmait had made the offer to name him his heir to the kingdom of Laighin. Now he could not even afford a single sheep to load onto his ships for his army to slaughter when they made land in Ireland. If Raymond had not been successful in maintaining his bridgehead or, worse, had not obtained enough animals for them to eat, then Strongbow and his army would face starvation. They would have to range far and wide foraging for food. Spread thinly, his men would be easy pickings for any army arrayed against them.
Strongbow was so lost in his thoughts that when the shout came it almost made him tumble from his saddle in surprise.
‘Lord Strongbow!’ the Flemish esquire shouted from the manor house gate. ‘Please wait!’
He did not turn immediately, but he did bring his horse to a complete stop. Instead of addressing the boy Strongbow closed his eyes and murmured a prayer to St Benedict in thanks for sending his munificent aid. For he knew the message that the boy would carry: Maurice de Prendergast had reconsidered his decision. He would follow Strongbow to Ireland. And the crown that had seemed so uncertain could still be his – as long as Raymond de Carew remained true and his bridgehead secure.
It was the sudden coldness as it caught in his throat that Raymond noticed first, not the darkness. Only moments before he and Ferrand had been bathed in blazing sunshine as it poured over the inner wall, but now his breath misted before his eyes as their fighting retreat took them backwards between the two battlements towards the inner gates.
Not that Raymond felt cold. His shoulders and legs burned with effort as he fought against Jarl Sigtrygg’s crew. His mind was a blur as he attempted to keep his shield locked with that of Ferrand as well as to strike out and
to block the Ostmen’s attempts to kill him. Together, he and Ferrand filled the whole width between the two fortifications, but the weight of men who opposed them was immense and they were pushed inexorably backwards by the wave of colourfully painted circular shields. The only thing in the Norman duo’s favour was that so many of Jarl Sigtrygg’s crew attempted to kill them that they got in each others’ way.
Nevertheless two men could not hold out for long against almost eighty and step by step they fell back down the alleyway. Neither Norman had the chance to steal a glance behind them, to discover if the gates were open or closed, rather they could only block and stab before retreating again. Raymond had not even the breath to call Roland’s war cry, but breathed hot sweat through his chainmail coif as he felled his closest opponent. Another Ostman quickly took the place of the fallen man, leaping over his comrade to engage his retreating enemy. Raymond jabbed twice, low and hard, at his midriff and when the leather-clad Ostman dropped his shield, anticipating a third attempt, Raymond brought his sword pommel down hard on the man’s left shoulder, breaking the bone and sending the man to the ground. He wasted no time and withdrew another step to again lock his shield with that of Ferrand, battling equally hard to his left.
‘Stay beside me,’ Raymond wheezed in the leper’s direction as another warrior armed with a spear disentangled himself from the crush and threw himself upon their shields. The impact rocked both men onto their heels. The Ostman was soon joined by another bearded raider wielding a two-handed axe. He yelled something unintelligible as he swung the weapon in circles around his head to build up momentum, but he only succeeded in forcing the warriors behind and beside him to duck lest he cleave their heads in two. When his axe did fall Ferrand stepped back suddenly, allowing the blade to slam into the pathway at his feet. Woodchips and loose stones scattered everywhere but neither Norman was hurt. The Ostman was unbalanced and abandoned his weapon to slam his shoulder into Ferrand’s shield, tackling the leper backwards beyond Raymond’s vision.
Lord of the Sea Castle Page 36