‘They won’t be back,’ said Wulfhere with certainty. ‘Nor will the warriors. That’s why two popes tried to ban the crossbow,’ he said with pride, clapping the young bowman on the back with his disfigured hand.
More laughter issued over the white wooden walls causing FitzStephen to snort. ‘They’re all getting pissed as popes in my town on my booze.’
Wulfhere grunted.
‘Set the watches. Two hours on, six hours off,’ FitzStephen said. ‘I’m going up to the keep. I will be back in three hours,’ he said. He looked out over the thatched roofs of the settlement, depressing in the darkness and the rain. ‘Burn the town,’ he said again.
The Englishman turned to the nearest bowman, rubbing what was left of his hands together with glee. ‘Time to cook the little Cymri piggies,’ he said as the rainwater spat off the end of his nose.
FitzStephen planted a hand on his friend’s armoured shoulder. ‘Well done today, Wulfhere, my friend. It was the longest two miles I’ve ever covered,’ FitzStephen said of the retreat from the battlefield. Raising his eyebrows, he managed a small smile despite his utter exhaustion. ‘I don’t think we would have made it back into the castle but for your archers,’ he added, raising his voice for all nearby to hear. ‘For a lazy bunch of string-plucking minstrels, led by an old Saesneg piece of shit, you lads can fight!’ Some warriors on the palisade shouted their agreement at his assessment of the archers who, in turn, cried insults back in their direction for the quip.
FitzStephen had already climbed down from the allure when Wulfhere shouted: ‘And make sure you get some food down here, you damned Norman brute. I’m starving.’
Serlo de Brecon’s plump little wife looked terrified when FitzStephen walked into the cookhouse and asked her to organise some bread and water for the men on the palisade. Under the torchlight he could see that her face was still covered in soot from the thatch fire on the roof but she nodded, accepting her task and disappeared through the building to the castle well which stood behind the kitchens. FitzStephen quickly grabbed a hunk of bread and a cup of water before making his way towards the steps which led up to the keep.
The buildings in the bailey usually looked bright and welcoming with the white lime mortar between the timber frames sparkling under the sun. But after two weeks of rain the damp, discoloured thatch and mud-speckled walls looked grubby yellow, cold, and uninviting. Passing between the hay store and the small bath house, he waved at two boys who peered out of the smithy on the other side of the bailey. The bigger of the two immediately ducked his head below the window ledge while his brother stood up and returned the gesture, pale mouth dangling gormlessly. Terrified cattle collected at the back of their enclosure under the window of the house, Welsh arrows poking out of the mud around them like harsh tufts of coarse beach grass. Next to the smithy was the marshalsea and FitzStephen’s courser was easily recognisable as it shuffled amongst the group of rouncies. The horse was muscled and expensive and was the only one munching on hay. He walked over and reached through the fence to stroke the stallion’s nose, giving up the hard crust to the hungry horse.
‘Good lad, Sanglac. How is your leg, you big fool?’ The courser had cost him the best part of six months’ income, but he was worth it; small and fast, strong and sturdy, he was the perfect platform for handling his favoured weapons – lance, teardrop shield, mace, and sword. He had even learned to use his crossbow from his back. ‘How is he?’ FitzStephen asked the esquire who tended to his horse.
‘On the mend, Lord Constable,’ the boy replied before scampering off into the depths of the stables for a brush to get Sanglac’s coat shining again. The young esquire had been with FitzStephen all day, had seen things that should have scared him witless as he had attended to his master’s weapons and horses. But here, in the castle, he had simply resumed his day-to-day duties, seeking comfort from the horrors outside in his work. In his youth, FitzStephen had spent time attending to both horses and hounds for his master, and he knew how their companionship and his responsibilities to them could help shield a lowly esquire from the realities of life outside the marshalsea.
FitzStephen took a quick look at the wound where the arrow had grazed Sanglac’s flank before saying goodbye to the courser and continuing on his way to the keep. The castle citadel towered sixty feet above him on a man-made hill of earth and stone, commanding the river crossing between the lands of Cemais and Ceredigion. He passed through the inner barbican and began the slow climb up the flying bridge. FitzStephen groaned at the effort of the climb. His back hurt from carrying chainmail which grouped uncomfortably at his shoulders and where it was belted to his waist. His elbows ached from carrying his shield and sword, while his head pounded from lack of sleep.
He coughed, swallowed, and spat to clear the hoarseness from his throat and wondered why he had even bothered shouting orders during the chaos of the retreat from the battleground. His commands had been lost in the din of the battle anyway. His eyes flicked to the heavens where he guiltily hoped that God and the saints were ignoring him. It was not the first time that he had hoped to avoid heaven’s notice in the years since his assumption of control in Ceredigion. He paused to catch his breath and watched the silver River Teifi shimmer below him.
He wondered why the guilt of Einion’s murder was affecting him so badly. He had killed before, many times, and it had never cost him a second thought. Perhaps the Welshman had indeed cursed him? Such things were well known to occur amongst the strange people of the frontier. The Cymri claimed to be Christian, but their practices and saints were not like those he could recognise. Alien and repugnant, the Welsh were known to associate with ancient spirits and devils that could be sent against good Christian men like the Normans. Einion, no doubt, had been able to draw upon the same evil. The devil had come to claim FitzStephen’s soul, as he had his army, just as Einion had directed. The Constable grappled for a touch the vial of the Virgin’s breast milk which hung around his neck, but it was hidden far below surcoat, hauberk, and gambeson and barely discernible from the folds of chainmail and stuffed linen.
FitzStephen composed himself and turned to continue his ascent to the donjon. By the time he reached the top of the flying bridge his thoughts had turned away from the world beyond and were focussed on the dark, wet one in which he currently existed. He returned a young guard’s nod under the barbican before crossing the open ground in front of the white-plastered keep. The heavy keep door was embossed with ironwork, and FitzStephen grunted in the effort it took to push his way through into an antechamber packed with armoured men. His men-at-arms had taken a battering that day and, unneeded on the wall, were awaiting their constable’s orders. These warriors, above all, did not enjoy being cooped up in a garrison, desiring nothing more than firm ground beneath their coursers and an enemy before them to fight. They all turned to look at him.
‘My Lord Constable,’ an excited voice pierced the tumble of voices and the drum of raindrops on the wooden roof. A tall, thin, balding man dressed in a pale shift pushed through the crowded warriors from the kitchens and came towards him. The man looked incredibly uncomfortable as he gently urged one armoured and rotund man to move out of his way, earning a contorted frown from the warrior before a reluctant response.
FitzStephen greeted his steward, handing him his steel-tipped spear as he took off his sword. ‘Rhygewarch, let’s get these men into the hall and get them some food.’ With a groan, he removed the long shield from his back and handed it over to his steward. The armament was decorated with the three long red arrow heads on a yellow field, but also had haphazard chips and splashes of blood and mud over much of the surface. FitzStephen, as a knight, could have worn his own colours – a silver star on a sapphire field – but as the Constable of Aberteifi and Seneschal of Ceredigion he was expected to parade those of his suzerain, the Earl of Hertford.
He groaned as he dragged his soaking surcoat over his head and lobbed it through the air to the servant. His cold chainmail hauberk ne
eded even more effort, but FitzStephen eventually got it free and handed it over along with his conical helmet. The hauberk was made up of thousands of steel circlets and was worn to protect his real armour – a thick quilted linen gambeson. Steam rose from the sweaty jacket as it too was removed. FitzStephen turned to see Rhygewarch holding up his hauberk, poking his finger through a hole on the lower portion.
‘Are you injured, Sir Robert?’ Rhygewarch asked.
FitzStephen had felt the sticky and uncomfortable wound as he had climbed the stairs to the donjon, his damaged and bent mail scratching at the injury and causing it to start bleeding, though he could not remember when the wound had been sustained.
‘It is fine, Rhygewarch,’ FitzStephen told his steward as he handed over the gambeson, stained pink with blood. ‘Bring me clean water and cloth. I’ll wash it and ask Father Philip to say a prayer over the wound. Have one of the esquires scrub my armour and try to fix it as best he can. I’ll need it again in a few hours.’ He looked around the room at the warriors who milled around, awaiting orders. ‘Are William Ferrand and Roger de Quincy here?’
‘They are already in the great hall,’ the servant replied as he handed his lord a fine shirt. FitzStephen threw the woollen garment over his head before buckling it at his waist with his thick leather belt. A swift rustle of his scalp had his short hair in order.
‘So what’s the plan, Sir Robert?’ one warrior asked of him as he moved towards the closed door to the great hall. ‘Sir Roger says that we need to retreat across the river.’ FitzStephen recognised the man who had spoken. Theobald Laval was one of Roger de Quincy’s friends and at his side were a number of other warriors who listened in and added their own nods of approval to Laval’s question.
FitzStephen was shocked at the impertinence of the enquiry rather than its content. He stared at Theobald, but neither he nor his friends backed down. The other milites in the room had also gone quiet and were awaiting the Constable’s response. Rain drummed on the wooden roof and trickled through gaps in the white walls.
‘We’ll have some food ready for you in a few minutes, lads,’ he pointedly avoided answering the question and food smells were already beginning to emanate from the three doors which led to the kitchen, pantry, and buttery. Theobald Laval gave the Constable an uncivil look in answer as FitzStephen pushed his way past him and into the main hall in the eastern wing of the donjon. It was dark inside, and warm. Heads and skins of hunted animals adorned the walls while simple tapestries retained the heat and cast colourful images of battles from long, long ago back into the room: William the Conqueror at Val-es-Dune and Hastings, Henry Beauclerc at Tinchebrai, and even a faded one portraying Bernard de Neufmarche’s victory at Brecon. There had been no great victory to celebrate in almost a hundred years, he thought morosely. It had only been that morning, before his army had marched north, that he had studied the woven depictions, wondering how long it would be before he could commission one made to commemorate his own victory over the Welsh – the great triumph which should have made his name and handed him a kingdom. Now those same images mocked him as a failure and he turned his back on them sharply. In the corner, three of his favourite dogs raised their eyelids, if not their heads, as they noticed their master. One of the dogs’ tails wagged, but only for an instant.
Ferrand and Quincy were alone at the far end of the hall perched on the edge of the dais, already eating and seemingly in the middle of an argument. FitzStephen ignored the two men as his hounds had him, and went over to the small chapel where he lit a candle and started a short prayer to Maurice, patron saint of soldiers. In truth the chapel was little more than a table with several candles and a surfeit of religious treasures taken on raids around Wales. Golden crosses, bejewelled icons, and silver cups caught the light from the candles and made it dance on the back of FitzStephen’s eyes as he knelt before them. The treasures meant that he could worship his God in all His glory and wonder. They had been taken, rescued even, from the devilish Cymri, and their strange practices. He pulled the vial of the Virgin’s breast milk from around his neck and held it between his hands as he attempted to find his words to say before the small chapel.
‘Ah, there he is,’ said Sir Roger de Quincy as he noticed FitzStephen. ‘Sir Robert, join us, please.’ Roger stood up and held out an arm to the Constable, offering him a chair as if he, and not FitzStephen, was the lord of the hall.
FitzStephen’s eyes narrowed as he continued to pray. His duties forced him to spend much time touring the Earl of Hertford’s extensive lands, mediating over disputes and dealing out justice at the manors loyal to his lord. FitzStephen, twenty milites, and a mass of servants and scribes, had spent almost three months before the battle touring the various manors to the north which paid rents to Aberteifi. His journey had taken him to the very extreme of Norman-held territory. Obviously Sir Roger de Quincy, whom he had left in command of Aberteifi, had become a little too self-important during that last absence. Ferrand did not get to his feet, but simply raised an eyebrow at Quincy’s forwardness before turning back to his hard-bread trencher filled with rabbit stew.
FitzStephen stopped praying and looked over his shoulder at the man in the red and yellow diamond surcoat of the Quincy family. Sir Roger was a fine-looking man: tall, dark, naturally strong, and equipped with the best clothing and the finest weapons; his curly hair was combed back from his face while his beard short and neat. In short, everything about him infuriated FitzStephen.
Sir Roger could charm a trout straight from the River Teifi , Wulfhere often joked, and FitzStephen did not doubt that this was true. He had added that he believed that Quincy could have crept up on a startled cat and convinced the animal to do the trout charming for him.
‘What do you want?’ FitzStephen asked Quincy as he returned to the pretence of praying.
‘For you to join us,’ Sir Roger countered with more than a hint of impatience. ‘We must talk about how we make contact with Prince Rhys and negotiate our retreat to Cemais.’
FitzStephen snorted as he heard Quincy’s words, but did not turn or open his eyes. ‘We aren’t going anywhere, Sir Roger. The Welsh will be gone within the week and then life will return to normal,’ he replied and attempted to concentrate, thinking only of God.
‘Normal?’ Quincy spluttered. ‘They killed half of your milites and threaten to overrun our walls …’
‘I am trying to pray for the souls of the dead,’ FitzStephen interrupted him, ‘so if you wouldn’t mind shutting up …’
‘You can’t ignore that we are surrounded,’ Roger exclaimed. ‘We must negotiate with Prince Rhys!’
FitzStephen sighed, finally abandoning his prayer, and rose slowly to his feet so that he could look directly at Sir Roger de Quincy. ‘Ferrand told me that you were going to abandon your post and follow the baron across the river.’
‘They said you were dead. He is a baron …’ Sir Roger shifted uneasily under FitzStephen’s unblinking gaze before the Constable suddenly turned aside without another word and walked towards the doorway to the stone staircase in the eastern wall. Quincy quickly followed him to the foot of the stairs, scattering dry reeds on the earthen floor aside in his haste.
‘Where are you going?’ he demanded.
‘To my bed where there is a delicious little morsel waiting for me,’ FitzStephen called back as his feet touched the first steps which led to his private rooms in the solar.
‘Damn your floozy, FitzStephen, there’s an army outside our very walls! We must come up with a defence … a strategy … something.’
FitzStephen stopped in his tracks. Some day he would marry a noblewoman who would add prestige to his family name, a rich dowry, and powerful connections for his political machinations. But for the moment Richildis, a beautiful Norman woman, kept his bed warm and he felt a pang of defensiveness on her behalf at Quincy’s words and turned on the step to stare directly at his lieutenant.
‘This isn’t Jericho, Sir Roger, and the Welsh have neith
er God’s trumpets nor siege towers,’ he scorned. ‘So if you get nervous, come and get me and I will make it all better.’ He spoke slowly as if he was addressing a spooked child. ‘Otherwise sit tight and listen to what Wulfhere tells you to do.’
‘I won’t do anything that bloody savage tells me,’ Roger said under his breath. ‘He should listen to me, I am a knight and he is no better than a beast of the field.’
FitzStephen sighed loudly, the tiredness and frustration quickly getting the better of him. Roger still stood at the bottom of the steps and FitzStephen deliberately leaned forward, face just inches from his subaltern’s head. ‘If I want your opinion, Sir Roger, about any man under my protection or the way I command him, I will ask for it,’ he said as he held his gaze, daring his lieutenant to respond.
Roger recognised the challenge and stubbornly refused to back down. ‘Do you think you are better than me, FitzStephen?’ he asked, his voice brimming with caustic anger. ‘You’re nothing but the son of a spear-carrying farmer who slimed his way under a noblewoman’s skirts.’ William Ferrand gasped in shock at Quincy’s slur and, for his part, Sir Roger looked stunned at the ferocity of the words which had escaped his mouth.
FitzStephen did not react immediately. His low birth had long been a point of resentment, but he had learned to live with it. His father had indeed been a lowly Norman spearman whose viciousness had won him some renown and a Welsh princess for his bed. Oddly it was never that royal part of his parentage that FitzStephen’s detractors fixated upon, but the shame of illegitimacy. That, he thought, he could live with. A subordinate’s defiance was another matter.
FitzStephen grabbed Quincy by the throat and slammed him onto the nearest tabletop with a crash of wood against chainmail. The piece of furniture was strong though it strained loudly under the weight of the two warriors. Quincy tried to kick FitzStephen and grappled at the hand which pinned him to the table. But the Constable would not let him go and gripped his fist above his head ready to strike downwards.
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