The supply of arrows was also becoming a problem, but at least the dwindling number could be supplemented by those that were being shot at the castle walls by Rhys’ men. Oddly enough, this did not stop the archers from grumbling to Wulfhere, and him to FitzStephen about their seemingly hopeless situation. He could understand the stress under which the men toiled. He felt it himself yet he urged the feeling of peril away and sat up onto his elbows, tilting his ear towards the window beyond the bed drapes. Outside birds were already chirping and it had finally stopped raining. Richildis slept quietly, naked on his left.
He sighed, swung his legs out from under the woollen covers, and pushed open the bed curtains, catching his partially healed leg uncomfortably as he did so. Fully awake now, he pulled on a pair of hose and tied the front. Wandering across the darkened room, he upset a half-finished game of chess on a small table and cursed as pain surged through his injury. Behind him Richildis stirred, stretched, and rolled over onto her side, uncovering her smooth back and bottom from under the blanket. He grinned at his mistress as he pushed open the shutters and looked out onto the castle, his charge. As his eyes adjusted to the early morning light the first thing he again noted was the extent of Wulfhere’s fires which had destroyed much of the town close to the walls of the castle, leaving around twenty houses as piles of black ash and scorched struts of timber. Several single stripes of smoke were outlined against the low green and brown countryside showing him that the Welshmen still smouldered in Aberteifi, awaiting an opportunity to burst into blaze of violence.
Nothing looked out of place. Other than the huge army bent on wiping my small garrison off the face of the earth, he thought with a smile. He could see Welsh troops at the edge of town talking in small groups or huddled around the dead or dying fires beside the distant watermill. Much of that land had been cleared of forest by his father to stop Welsh rebels from skulking there, and he laughed when he thought what Stephen’s reaction would be if he knew his enemies were again using the assart land to besiege his castle. The sun was shining for the first time in weeks and FitzStephen had to shade his eyes as he looked at his lands in the distance beyond the town. He could see the sea off to the west and the outline of the mountains to the north and east. All seemed fine in the land of Wales.
As he turned to close the shutters and return to bed FitzStephen spotted something that put the fear of God in his soul – a body was lying in front of the closed gates inside the castle bailey. He looked again and squinted to make sure that he saw correctly.
It was Wulfhere Little-Fingers.
Men were gathered around the motionless warrior but he could clearly see from his armour that it was his friend, the Englishman. Blood was pooled around his head and a dog was sniffing at his hand. He was not moving.
A thousand thoughts entered FitzStephen’s head and panic grew quickly in his chest. His eyes remained frozen on the body. Was Wulfhere dead? What had happened? Was the fortress under attack?
FitzStephen pushed his head out the window to shout at the troops in the bailey, but froze when he spotted a number of fully armoured men appear out of the shadows of the flying bridge, move through the upper gate, and out onto the motte compound. Confused, he watched as Sir Roger de Quincy issued silent orders to some of FitzStephen’s own men-at-arms. These trusted men pulled out swords and walked briskly towards the keep.
Too late did FitzStephen realise his danger and it was only as Quincy skirted the wall and suddenly slashed his dagger across the neck of his yawning steward, Rhygewarch, that he truly understood his predicament. Blood arced high in the early morning air as the Constable fully understood that he had been betrayed.
And the enemy were already in his citadel.
‘Traitors,’ FitzStephen roared down on the fifteen armed men who quite naturally stopped in their tracks as they looked upwards at the source of the rancorous bellow. Sir Roger de Quincy looked up as Rhygewarch’s body fell at his feet and went into a death spasm. His eyes locked with the Constable’s as he raised his bloodied dagger to point at the door of the donjon.
‘Mutiny,’ Robert screamed his bellicose roar again, this time towards the bailey where his men stood stock-still in silence. FitzStephen pointed straight at Quincy as he shouted, not caring that the Welsh would also be alerted to the disturbance in the castle.
‘To me,’ FitzStephen barked at the men still standing around the body in the bailey, but they disregarded his cry. As he hung from the window the archers and milites turned their backs on the keep and on him one by one. He was betrayed.
‘Ferrand, bar the door,’ he screamed into the household, praying that his lieutenant, who slept downstairs in the hall, had remained loyal to him. As he turned, he crashed into a small chest and sent his vial of the Virgin Mary’s breast milk fell towards the ground. Cursing and grasping, he could only watch as the ornate relic smashed, white powdery contents spilling pathetically as gold wire imagery came loose and green glass shattered. A travelling cleric had charged him four months’ income when he had come preaching crusade several summers before. He had held the precious vial between his hands as he had prayed every night for six years and now it was gone, and he was cursed.
‘Robert,’ Richildis whimpered, but got no answer as he crouched on his knees, delicately picking at the fragments of the vial. ‘Your soul will keep for now, Robert. It is our lives which are in danger.’
For many seconds he did not speak, but then he gathered himself: ‘You are right, where are my weapons?’ he asked as he scanned the room. ‘Damn it,’ he shouted when he remembered having sent them away with poor Rhygewarch to be cleaned. He cursed his vanity and quickly reassessed his position without his weapons.
‘Get dressed,’ he told Richildis, who was sitting up in the palliasse bed, pulling the covers to her chin as though they would stop a sword strike, ‘and hide in the brattice,’ he told her. ‘I will keep them away for as long as I can.’
‘Is it the Welsh?’ she asked as the tears started to flow down her face. She knew what would happen if the enemy found a pretty girl like her in the keep.
‘No, it is much worse than that,’ FitzStephen said, and unsheathed two hunting daggers which were hung on the wall. Testing the weight in either hand, he realised that one was the same weapon which he had used to murder Einion ab Anarawd at the monastery up north. Specks of black blood had dried on the blade and his mind slipped back to the moment he had claimed his cousin’s life. Einion’s murder had done nothing but strengthen his Cymri enemies and though FitzStephen had got his wish – war with Rhys – he had been bested in battle. He had stood tall when all Wales rose against him, but the treachery of his warriors tore at the very strings of his heart. He had stood alongside them in shield walls and cavalry charges, feints and ambushes; he had drank and laughed with them; faced hardships and threats and challenges, and yet they had betrayed him.
Downstairs there was shouting and the sound of metal on wood rang through the building. Screamed curses and swearing told him that there were casualties. He knew there was no escape from the keep, or from Ceredigion, or from Welsh revenge if he left the fortress.
‘Who is it?’ Richildis asked as she pulled on clothes, tears flowing down her face.
FitzStephen shook his head and despair took him. In the hall the shouting intensified and the clash of steel on steel told him that Quincy’s allies were inside his keep. He couldn’t think straight but whispered soft, soothing words to the distraught Richildis whom he took in his arms.
‘It will be alright,’ FitzStephen repeated again and again but suddenly shook his head slowly and brought his hands to his face. The knife which he was holding in his left hand nicked the skin on his forehead, shocking FitzStephen from his wretchedness. He looked at the weapon in his left hand, turning it over in his palm. His father’s knife was older than the murder blade and was thin from use and sharpening. He wondered if his was the first blood that it had drawn since his father had held it. He could have benefitted fr
om Stephen’s guidance now.
Anger rose in his soul and swept away his self-pity as he considered what his father would have thought of him at that moment. Stephen had been a man who had faced down everything that life in Wales could throw at him to defend the land that, though not his own, he had left to his bastard son. Danes, Norse, Cymri, and Normans had tried to eject Stephen de Ceredigion but he had held on because Aberteifi was his home. He had bled for the land and he had died protecting it still.
FitzStephen had taken an oath to protect this fortress, whatever the cost. Down on one knee before King Henry, he had been made a knight and had promised the Earl of Hertford that he would defend these lands and his castle until his death. He had been young, but he had meant every word and had sworn in the name of the Trinity and St Maurice that he would fulfil his vow.
He had failed God, his king, and his lord. He was cursed. And yet pride would not let him give up. There was still a chance to earn revenge on those who had betrayed his trust and a madness rose in his chest. He would keep his oath by dying in defence of his castle. The thought enlivened his warrior spirit and he gripped and re-gripped the weapons in his hands.
‘Let them come,’ he growled, eyes closed in anger. ‘Let them come.’ If he could not hold Ceredigion then he was damned sure that his betrayers would not either. His eyes flicked open as he heard the first footsteps run up the stairs towards the solar. Half-dressed and badly armed, but warmed by his father’s memory, FitzStephen snarled and ran to the door to greet his first foe, his knives ready to strike.
Richildis shrieked, ‘Robert, please, no!’
William Ferrand was halfway up the steps when he spotted FitzStephen and slowed down. The half-dressed lieutenant had a deep gash in his side and was armed with a sword and a small axe. He had obviously been caught as unawares as FitzStephen to the attack and he leant against the wall of the stone staircase for support.
‘I am with you, Robert,’ he exclaimed and held up one hand in deference, ‘but Roger de Quincy’s men are in the hall,’ he said as sweat flew off his upper lip, ‘and there is no way to get out. John FitzLionel and Maredudd de Guerin are dead.’ The warrior’s eyes pleaded for inspiration from his commander. ‘What should I do?’ he groaned as more blood soaked his side.
‘Give me your sword,’ FitzStephen said gruffly, offering no hope to his man-at-arms. ‘Get behind me and protect Richildis. When I fall, please protect her for as long as you can.’
‘Sir Robert, we cannot beat them,’ Ferrand said without handing over his weapon. ‘Quincy has all the men on his side, even the archers. There are ten milites in the hall already,’ he pleaded. ‘No help is coming for us.’ He took a step backwards.
But FitzStephen would not be persuaded. He would not surrender as long as he got an opportunity to kill Sir Roger de Quincy. It had become his one reason to survive and he raised his daggers like cat claws, ready to pounce. Ferrand took another step back towards the hall, as much because of the menace in his commander’s eyes as the weaponry in his hands. Ferrand looked at FitzStephen and saw a madman looking for death in battle. He had seen it before. His eyes were demonic and glowed with an urgent desire for blood.
Ferrand spoke slowly and deliberately as if he addressed a child. ‘Robert, my friend, my men are dead or gone over to Quincy. The milites in the bailey are united against you. They are scared and desperate. Quincy has been telling them that we only have a week’s food left and that the FitzGeralds of Pembroke have sent a message saying that they cannot come to save us. He said that you are to blame for our predicament, and they believe him.’ He took several steps backwards, making sure to keep his sword ahead of him in case of sudden attack. ‘They believe him.’
‘Does he wish to be Constable?’
Ferrand shook his head. ‘I don’t know. All I know is that to fight is to die and I cannot die here,’ he pleaded. ‘You must submit …’
‘This castle is my life, Ferrand, and this land,’ FitzStephen said through gritted teeth, ‘is mine. I will not give it up while I am still breathing. I swore oaths to King Henry, Earl Roger, and my father. I intend to bloody well keep them.’
‘Then you will die here,’ Ferrand said with a shake of his head. FitzStephen stood immovable with his back to the solar door and watched as Ferrand retreated back down the stairs. The anger surged in his breast but he was not fool enough to rush headlong onto his erstwhile friend’s sword. It had gone very quiet at the bottom of the steps and he could not see around the stone corner of the winding stairs so he waited, rigid, for an assault, his father’s dagger out in front in his left hand, his own blood-stained weapon held upside-down in his right. He quieted his thoughts and listened for movement on the stairs that would signal the inevitable attack.
Everything went silent.
‘Robert FitzStephen,’ Roger de Quincy’s voice resounded around the stone work of the stairs, ‘pray throw away your cutlery and come down here.’ Much laughter accompanied his cackling call. ‘You will not be harmed. You have my word.’
Ferrand had obviously given Quincy all the information on his impossible situation. Still, his enemy was intelligent enough to know that an animal was at its most dangerous when backed into a corner. They knew they had a rat caught in a trap but they still did not want to attack up the stairs. Not against a fighter of FitzStephen’s skill.
‘Your word means nothing to me, Roger,’ FitzStephen shouted down the stairs, not dropping his guard. ‘You are an oath-breaker and a traitor and before I kill you I will cut out your deceitful tongue and nail it to the wall of my castle for the birds to peck,’ he said.
Sir Roger de Quincy lost his temper immediately. ‘You are a lunatic, FitzStephen! We could never have hoped to hold out against this army. You would kill us all for your pride and stupidity. You drove us to this,’ the knight at the bottom of the stairs insisted. ‘King Henry himself was not able to beat Prince Rhys. What made you think that you could do it? Your cousin is too strong and your pride too great.’
‘You are a coward, Quincy, and all Wales will know it,’ he shouted down the stone echoing stairs. ‘Lord Hertford will know it and King Henry will know it.’
‘Dead men tell no tales,’ said Quincy after a few moments, accompanied by growls of assent from his companions. ‘I will be the hero who brought this garrison out alive and you will be the disgrace that caused a war to ravage Wales,’ said Quincy suddenly and angrily. ‘You are a murderer and a bastard not fit to command.’
FitzStephen snorted maliciously and the noise of it was heard at the bottom of the steps. ‘I am a bastard, Quincy, a Norman bastard like the William the Conqueror and Richard the Fearless before me. I am from a long line of murderous Norman bastards, Quincy, and if you dare come up these stairs you’ll find out just what a murderous Norman bastard can do.’ FitzStephen almost screamed his challenge to his enemy. ‘Come on, you Angevin-loving scum. Come on, you son of a Tours whore. Come up here and find out what a true Norman bastard can do!’
The only answer from below was the quick stomp of heavy feet on the first steps. He tensed and adapted his stance to the sound. However many men were on the staircase, FitzStephen knew that they would only be able to come up one at a time and the curve of the stone walls would make any swordplay awkward – for them. He doubted Quincy would consider any of these factors. Had he ever had to fight in the close quarters of a castle? Never, he knew.
The first man who came around the corner was Thomas de Cressy, a vicious miles that FitzStephen had disciplined several times for murdering defenceless Welsh women. Cressy crouched and glided up the steps at a quick and steady pace with his spear, couched under his right arm and close to the curling wall. FitzStephen retreated quietly back a few steps and then charged suddenly with his shoulder tight to the outside wall on his right-hand side. He was past Cressy’s spearpoint before the warrior even saw him and all the miles could do was roar loudly before FitzStephen crashed into his shield and tackled him backwards down the steps a
nd onto the lance point of his compatriot who followed a few steps behind.
Cressy screamed as the spear punched through his chainmail and deep into his back. The Norman tried to arch away from the blade while behind him the second of Quincy’s men, Gilbert de Pevensey, tried in vain to extract his spear from Cressy’s back as he too fought to keep his feet. But FitzStephen kept on pushing as the two sweaty warriors, weighted down with armour and awkward with weaponry, stumbled backward down the stairs. Blood splattered all over FitzStephen as Cressy panted, the spear having forced its way further into his back and punctured his lungs and scraped his ribs. But he kept the momentum going with a loud roar.
Halfway down the stairs FitzStephen’s attacker dropped his own spear and reached backwards to try to pull out the weapon from his back. His efforts brought both of the armoured men down onto their backs. Cressy screeched in agony. In an instant FitzStephen was on top of them. Unhindered by chainmail or weaponry he quickly scrambled across Cressy’s prostrate body to attack Gilbert de Pevensey, who cursed as he struggled to free his arms from beneath his own red shield. He could not react quickly enough before FitzStephen slammed on top of him, pinning the shield to his breast. Slipping his father’s dagger inside the neckline of Pevensey’s hauberk, FitzStephen said a silent prayer as Gilbert struggled desperately against the weight of the man on his chest. FitzStephen ignored Pevensey’s short appeal for compassion and his attempts to bite his hand, and stabbed down hard into the jugular. Blood poured between the steel rings and Pevensey’s eyes glazed over as he died. FitzStephen was already on top of Cressy, and finished him by pushing his dagger deep into the man’s right eye and into his brain with a sickening twist.
Panting and sweating, he left the two dead men obstructing the stairwell and shouted down the stairs, ‘Come on up here yourself, Quincy, you bastard! Bring your traitor’s guts to my knives.’ His blood was on fire and he let the familiar joy that accompanied violence and victory wash over him like a gale. He wanted more men to power their way up those stairs, desiring the contest that could only end in his own death. But he would send more to meet the Devil, by God he would. FitzStephen’s breathing was heavy through clenched teeth as he took up his position on the stairs ready for another attack.
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