by Tracey Warr
In the courtyard, the first person I encountered as I dismounted was the Constable of Cardigan, Stephen de Marais. ‘Lady Nest,’ he said, handing me down and looking red-faced and flustered, ‘I wonder if I could trouble you to assist me? I am in urgent need of translation, with this fellow here.’
I smoothed my skirts and nodded to Amelina to take my children and belongings into the hall. ‘How may I help?’ I looked at the ‘fellow’ de Marais had indicated. He was a herdsman with an insolent smile on his face.
‘I want to know what this fellow means by this, by bringing this great herd of cows here, to Cardigan. It is not what was agreed.’
I spoke to the lead herdsman in Welsh, having to raise my voice above the constant mooing and lowing all around us.
‘He says it is the tribute from Maredudd ap Bleddyn, King of Powys, paid to Henry, King of the English,’ I told de Marais.
‘Yes, but why are they here, causing this obstruction?’ His voice was peevish.
I spoke with the herdsman again and kept the amusement from my face as I translated to de Marais, ‘He says he was told to deliver ten thousand cows to the King of the English and the King of the English is here.’ I knew that Maredudd and the herdsmen had deliberately taken their orders over-literally, merely to cause disruption. To drive this vast herd all the way here to the west of Wales meant that the King’s household would simply have to drive them all the way back, east across the country.
‘What am I to do with them all here? They will need fodder and water to deplete the whole city, as if the King’s court were not itself enough of a demand upon us here. Now we are overwhelmed by cows!’
I spoke with the herdsman again and could not fully repress my laughter this time, at his riposte. ‘He says you’d best start eating them straight away,’ I told de Marais, and picked up my skirts, walking swiftly towards the hall lest I laugh in his face, as the Welsh undoubtedly were laughing up their sleeves at the poor Constable. But then my smile slipped, when I reflected that annoying the Normans with a herd of cows was small consolation for everything that we had lost here in Wales.
People clustered in the hall before the King and his new wife. Henry was looking a little better. Queen Adelisa had a beautiful and intelligent young face. I thought that her glances at Henry suggested a real affection for him and I hoped she could help him with his sorrow and his burdens. My older sons were there: Henry, William and Maurice standing close with their friend, Gilbert FitzGilbert de Clare. I recognised Miles, the Constable of Gloucester and flinched at the sight of my father’s murderer, Bernard de Neufmarché, who was there with his wife, Agnes, and their grown-up children, Mael and Sybille.
‘I have been asked to rule on a dispute over the legitimacy of Bernard de Neufmarché’s heir,’ Henry announced. There was a surprised murmur, and both Bernard de Neufmarché and Mael de Neufmarché looked at the King and then at Agnes with expressions of shock and bewilderment on their faces. Clearly, they had received no forewarning of this ruling.
‘I have been informed that you recently mutilated a Welshman in your household,’ the King said to Mael.
‘He was an adulterer,’ Mael declared, his face still confused, trying to find his footing.
‘Yes, an adulterer with your mother, Agnes of Wales, so I understand,’ said Henry.
Mael made no response but his eyes were wide, his mouth open and his breath harsh in his open mouth.
King Henry turned to Bernard de Neufmarché. ‘Your wife has admitted that Mael here is not your son.’
Agnes looked over at me. She had confessed her Welsh lover to me long ago, at the time of Mael’s conception. Would I have to bear witness? Agnes was the granddaughter of Llewelyn ap Gruffudd who had been King of all Wales and she had been bitterly forced to the marriage with the loathed Norman, de Neufmarché. She told me when she was still newly wed, years ago, that she had tried and failed to kill her husband twice. ‘Murdering brides are a rare breed, more’s the pity,’ she’d said, fiercely.
In the event, there were plenty of others who supported the assertions made concerning Agnes’s lover and I was not called. After considering the evidence, Henry declared Mael illegitimate and disinherited. He declared Agnes’s daughter Sybille to be the legitimate heir to de Neufmarché lands and titles and betrothed her to Miles of Gloucester. I doubted that Sybille was de Neufmarché’s child either, but that would not signify to Henry, who simply wanted a man he could trust to take over from the aging Lord of Brecknock. I wondered what nefarious dealings Agnes had had with the King to bring this about to their mutual satisfaction. And I wondered at Agnes that she had seen fit to deal this blow to her hated husband, but at such cost to her son.
My curse of the Dogs of Annwn had finally caught up with de Neufmarché. He was old and sick and now he lost his heir. He had conquered vast lands and achieved vast wealth through cruelties and injustices, including the murder of my father and my half-brothers, Cynan and Idwal, but now he had lost everything and must watch it slide through his fingers like sand.
‘Lady Isabel de Beaumont,’ Henry called out, interrupting my thoughts. Isabel was standing with Elizabeth and myself, the child in her belly quite evident. She turned to the King in surprise at the sound of her name. ‘Now what!’ Elizabeth hissed under her breath.
‘Lady Isabel, I have arranged a marriage for you,’ the King said.
‘What!’ Elizabeth exploded.
‘With the agreement of your guardian, of course,’ Henry continued, ignoring Elizabeth’s outburst, and glancing instead towards William de Warenne who flushed and looked away from Elizabeth’s furious eyes.
I saw Isabel swallow. ‘Be brave, Isabel,’ I told her in a low voice. ‘He will not be cruel to you.’ I hoped that this was true.
‘Gilbert FitzGilbert de Clare will take you in marriage,’ Henry announced, ‘and he will add to his duties, command of my fortress at Pembroke.’
Now it was my turn to stare at Henry, agape. At Pembroke?
‘Lady Nest.’
Without thinking, I stepped forward, my heart beating hard. I had not expected any significant pronouncements about myself.
‘You have brought your youngest children with you?’ Henry asked me, his voice gentle.
‘Yes.’ Fear rose within me and I fumbled for my own so recent words to Isabel. He will not be cruel to you.
‘I have arranged for your daughter, Angharad FitzWalter, to be betrothed to the son of Odo de Berry at Manorbier.’
I took a small breath. That was not a bad thing. ‘Thank you, Sire.’
‘And your youngest son, David, he is eight years old?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have arranged that he will go as an oblate to St David’s Cathedral.’
‘Sire,’ I found my voice now, thinking to protest, but floundered without any real opposition in my own mind. Perhaps this was not such a bad option for David. Better perhaps than being a soldier frequently facing death, as my older sons did. I had often thought of my hands on Gerald’s cold skin as I wrapped him in his shroud and trembled for my sons. But why did the King make arrangements for my children with such haste and without speaking with me about it in private?
‘And you, Lady Nest, will be married to the Constable of Cardigan, Stephen de Marais.’
I closed my mouth. I stared at Henry. I felt rather than saw a shift in the group of people, as Stephen de Marais stepped forward.
No. I stared at Henry, pleading in silence. No, Henry. I could not voice my dissent.
‘Your sons, of course, give their consent for this marriage,’ Henry told me, holding my gaze. I shifted my stare angrily to my sons, who looked a little shamefaced but nodded their heads in confirmation. It was ludicrous that I could be disposed of like this on the say so of three beardless boys. I glared at William and Maurice but had to temper my angry expression, realising that, as usual, it was the King I should feel angry with. He did not intend to leave me available for exploitation by a Welsh Prince who might try
to use me as a symbol for the Welsh resistance once more, or try to claim Deheubarth through me. My sons needed me to stay safely in ‘their’ Norman camp, and not ‘stray’ to the Welsh. My sons needed to be more Norman than the Normans because they were half-Welsh, they were mongrels. They thought of themselves as the sons of Gerald FitzWalter. They loved me but I was merely their Welsh mother and they were a little ashamed of that. And my boy, Henry. He did not flinch from my gaze as William and Maurice had. I had loved him so hard all my life. His eyes were liquid at the sight of me. No doubt I looked stricken, but he could not disagree with his father, either, he must be seen as a strong Norman lord in the Norman court. At this juncture, they must all betray me. They knew nothing of my love for Haith and my despair at his death. Only King Henry knew of that knife twisting in my gut, that sharp hook ripping at the corner of my tender blubbering mouth. I fought to maintain control of my expression, my stance.
I looked down, horrified, as Stephen de Marais took my hand. ‘I am greatly honoured,’ he said quietly.
‘These marriages and betrothals will take place tomorrow morning,’ the King declared. Queen Adelisa smiled serenely at him and they looked together back to all of us.
During the years of my influence as the King’s mistress, I had rarely asked Henry for anything. All I had ever asked him for was to leave our son with me and to leave me in peace with Gerald. Surely I could ask him to excuse me from this marriage? I tried to gain an audience with Henry to ask that he would leave me a widow at Carew but he would not see me. I considered arguing with my sons but knew that if Henry was adamant for this course of action, they would not, could not, disagree with him. Fury, I should feel fury, I told myself, but oddly, I felt nothing. Since Haith was dead, perhaps it did not matter. Nothing mattered.
‘He seems harmless,’ Amelina said quietly, referring to de Marais, as she brushed my hair.
I thought I would weep but no tears came. I sat, impassive under Amelina’s brushings and decorating. King Henry pronounced on us all but beneath his splendid show, he was weakened, and battling overwhelming grief for his lost children and all those young nobles of his court, their bones washed white on the sea-floor. Henry’s back was against the wall and he was taking the actions he had to, to secure Wales, so that he could continue his struggle to pacify Normandy and rule England.
I was nearing forty and could not relish the prospect of doing duty as this wife. Yet I also had no desire to risk abduction by another Welsh pretender. I would manage de Marais. He had duties in Cardigan, and I would spend as much time as I could at Carew and Llansteffan with Amelina and Ida-Benedicta, and with my boy, Robert, and it would be a few years yet before Angharad would leave me to marry. ‘Lady Agnes says her husband needs medicining, Amelina. She asked me if you might help him?’ I did not look at myself in the mirror. I did not want to see this woman about to marry a man she could not care for. I would just think of other matters.
She shook her head and I raised my eyebrows quizzically. ‘De Neufmarché! You hate the man,’ she said.
‘I do. I did. Yet I feel some pity for him now that he is brought so low and is aged, helpless in the power of Lady Agnes. Perhaps that is vengeance enough. If I am consumed with hatred forever, as Agnes is, then that hatred will consume me too.’ I thought about how my curse, my revenge against the Montgommerys and de Neufmarché had not cured my grief for Goronwy, my father, my lost Welsh life. It could not restore Haith to me in happiness. ‘If you can help de Neufmarché, I would not object to it.’
Amelina shook her head. ‘Not likely. Have you seen the way he walks?’
I frowned at her, uncomprehending.
‘He has a fistula. You know. Where the sun doesn’t shine.’
‘Amelina!’
‘I’m not going near that. Riding with a wet saddle, I expect,’ she added. ‘He’ll have to go straight to the wise woman himself for that.’
‘Well, then,’ I said, standing, and batting away her hands that were still primping and smoothing at my dress, ‘let’s go to the funeral of my wedding.’
I came last. We four couples stood hand in hand before Bishop Bernard of Saint Davids, King Henry, Queen Adelisa and the rest of the gathered court. My beautiful daughter, Angharad, had been betrothed to the boy, William de Barry, and was not displeased about it. Gilbert FitzGilbert de Clare had said the words of troth to Isabel de Beaumont and feigned not to notice her thrusting belly carrying the King’s child as he did so. Miles of Gloucester had taken the hand of the new heiress, Sybille de Neufmarché, and had been well pleased to find himself suddenly heir to Brecknock and everything else that de Neufmarché had stolen in blood and anguish from my countrymen. Now, it was my turn. I stood with Stephen de Marais listening to the words marrying us, my heart sinking at the prospect, despite my arguments to myself and the stone face I presented to the world. I voiced my consent tonelessly for there seemed nothing else I could do. I thought I glimpsed Haith’s face in the crowd, but I always thought so, every day, and every day I was wrong. So King Henry had created a new generation of Norman lords with a new stranglehold on Wales.
At the back of the crowd there was some disturbance. I glanced over to see the cause and saw Etienne de Blois step from the parting crowd. We had heard that he had disembarked from The White Ship before it sailed and so had evaded the fate of all of those other lost souls. So, he had made his way back then, perhaps sailing directly here to Cardigan to rejoin the King. Then I was astonished to see the tall, blond man stepping from the crowd behind Count Etienne. Haith!
I watched him bow to a beaming Henry and they embraced like two great bears, laughing in each other’s faces, clapping each other’s arms. ‘News travelled that you were safe, nephew,’ Henry told Etienne, ‘but we all presumed you were lost. My old friend Haith! I am delighted to find you resurrected from the sea! Thank God, Haith! Thank God!’ Henry gasped and spluttered through tears, as if Haith had just rescued him from drowning. The King indicated his delight to the gathered crowd, his eyes glancing and flinching from mine, as he remembered that Haith had asked to marry me and here I stood wed instead to this other man. Haith turned his gaze to me. My new husband held my hand firmly. Haith’s smile stayed in place, suffused with sadness.
O sea-bird, I thought, looking at Haith with wonder, beautiful upon the tides, bright as a sunbeam.
Historical Note
The stories of Nest, Henry, Haith and Ida continue in Conquest III: The Anarchy. This novel is based on historical research and on evidence concerning the real people and events that appear in it, although much is imagined beyond and around the evidence. Most of the events in Nest’s life, depicted in this story, actually did happen. She was mistress to King Henry I and bore him a son, she was married to Gerald FitzWalter, castellan of Pembroke Castle, she was kidnapped by Owain ap Cadwgan and Gerald did escape down the toilet chute. She was married to Stephen de Marais and she probably had a son with Haith, the sheriff of Pembroke Castle. My task in this novel was to try to bring some emotional and psychological interpretation to her lived experience of those events.
Amelina and Dyfnwal are my inventions. Haith (named Hait or Hayt in the historical record) was Sheriff of Pembroke but his close relationship to King Henry, and his sister, the nun Benedicta, are my inventions, although King Henry and Countess Adela are known to have had a very effective network of spies.
The medieval writer John of Worcester reported that kings ceased to reign in Wales in 1093. He was referring to the death of Nest’s father, Rhys ap Tewdwr, King of Deheubarth, who made a peace treaty with William the Conqueror in 1081 but was killed by the Norman, Bernard de Neufmarché, in 1093. We have a tendency, as Kari Maund points out of ‘viewing history backwards, looking back into the twelfth century in knowledge of the events of the thirteenth century, rather than taking events of the eleventh century as a starting point’ (1999, p. 68). The Norman conquest of Wales did not in any way resemble the swift conquest of England. For over two hundred years, from 106
6 until 1283, when the last Welsh leader was killed, it was by no means certain that the Normans would succeed in subduing Wales. Even as late as 1400 there was a successful Welsh rebellion led by Owain Glyndwr. It took the Normans over 200 years to subdue and conquer the Welsh and in the period covered by this novel, many Welsh people believed that they might yet oust the invaders.
John of Worcester’s assertion refers to the fact that after 1093 the Welsh kings were forced to acknowledge the Norman kings as overlords. Gruffudd ap Cynan, King of Gwynedd in the north, gradually took back his kingdom from the Norman invaders and Cadwgan ap Bleddyn, King of Powys maintained control of his kingdom for most of his long rule until his death in 1111. Both they and Cadwgan’s son, Owain, were obliged to play a careful game of clientship with King Henry I whose campaign into Wales in 1114 was forceful and effective. King Henry succeeded in maintaining control in Wales through his careful distribution of Norman lordships and castles, despite the fact that he spent substantial parts of his reign fighting in Normandy.
The 12th century was a time of great turmoil in the relations of men and women. On the one hand noblemen such as Fulk IV of Anjou and Guillaume IX of Aquitaine engaged in serial repudiations of wives, and women such as Agnes d’Evreux (the mother of Amaury de Montfort) were married by kidnap. But on the other hand there were a number of notable female lords such as Adela de Blois and Clemence of Flanders. Robert d’Arbrissel’s foundation of Fontevraud manifested a growing need to offer women both shelter and a sphere to exercise autonomy. At the same time, the Church was struggling to stabilise and impose their view of proper gender relations, with the abolition of clerical marriage and concubinage and simony. The Church’s teaching on women, however, only bolstered cultural assumptions about their inferior position and character. I took inspiration for Benedicta’s decision to leave the nunnery from the 16th-century runaway nun, Katharina von Bora, who married Martin Luther.