More Cymri were coming through the gates with carts and materials. He wondered what all the activity was about and again speculated about what would become of his late father’s castle. He had failed Stephen and he sent another short prayer heavenwards in apology.
These thoughts soon left him as he was unceremoniously dragged to his feet and poked with a spear until he shuffled agonizingly towards the gates. FitzStephen snarled at his new guards who cracked him on the side with the shaft of the spear, laughing together as they cracked a joke in barely intelligible Welsh. He cursed angrily in French at the Welshmen and limped his way through the gate and over the footbridge into the village.
Here, before the gates of the castle, was where he, or a trusted lieutenant, had held court once a week. The king’s writ did not apply on the March, for one there was no way to enforce his laws, and like all the Marcher Lords FitzStephen had made his own edicts which lurched between the traditions of England and Wales. Court had been the best weekly entertainment and a large crowd had always gathered on judgement days to await his sentences. It was no different today though only one prisoner would be brought before the townsfolk to be judged. And the charges against him were lengthy.
Hundreds of men, women, and children were standing watching as the naked FitzStephen was coerced over the flooded fosse and into the soggy ash-strewn and muddy street. His guard barked something at the crowd and they separated, letting FitzStephen walk forward between the two banks of people, desperately trying to hide his nakedness with his hands. Somewhere in the throng someone shouted and everyone laughed. He knew the joke was at his expense, despite not speaking the language, and he felt the anger rise, but before he could react his guards hit him with their spear between the shoulder blades. He crashed forward onto his hands which were buried up to his wrists in mud from the rain and ash from the fire. He had barely put his hands to the ground before they were kicked from under him and his guards forced FitzStephen to crawl into the town through the filth. The Cymri mocked and jeered his slow progress and his shivering, caused by the cold November weather rather than fear.
It was agony and he fell forward onto his face several times until his guards stamped and kicked him into action. Each time he scrambled to his knees reluctantly and continued his way, too tired to fight them off or even shout. Boys ran up and down the street alongside him, feeding off the excitement and ridiculing the Norman further. He had never been truly aware of the true depth of hate that the Welsh felt for him or his people. He thought that he had been a fair lord – far more even-handed than the greedy local chieftains – but the animosity in the eyes of those in the town frightened him. Madness had taken the Cymri, he knew as two teenage girls dashed out of the screaming throng to spit on his back and slap him on the back of his head.
The crowd divided as he crawled onwards funnelling him towards a large house at the far end of the street where a Welshman called Jasper ap Gethin lived. As he often was, Jasper, who made honey mead, had been away on business in Cemais and Emlyn when the Welsh had attacked Aberteifi. His wife was not so lucky and her naked body lay face down in the doorway of their thatched cottage. Jasper and his wife had lost three children when a pestilence had come to Aberteifi during the summer and FitzStephen wondered silently if the two remaining girls had survived the siege.
In front of the house several men waited like a jury waiting to give their verdict. FitzStephen noted that each one of them had well-fitting armour and weapons, and were arrayed in the Norman style, in the red and white livery of the lords of Deheubarth. One was lazing close to the door with his leg flung over the arm of his chair. FitzStephen wondered if it was his cousin Rhys and if he would be the man to kill him. There was no other way that he could see this scenario ending. He had murdered Rhys’ nephew and he had defied his conquering army.
The lounging warrior inclined his head and shouted over his shoulder into the house in Welsh before taking a long drink from his cup. Behind him, FitzStephen could feel the crowd circle around behind him, facing the stage. His guard turned to the crowd and waved a hand to hush them. Their talking slowed from a murmur to a whisper to nothing at all as they anticipated action. Seconds passed before a thin man came out of the house reading a piece of parchment. He was small, dark, and clever-looking, with his forehead wrinkled in concentration. He stepped over the naked body in the doorway without pausing or even noticing it was Jasper’s wife. Without raising his head to greet the crowd, the man walked straight up to the prisoner and stood before him, his eyes never leaving the parchment.
FitzStephen bristled and clenched his jaw as he looked at the man before him. It was the same man who had had spotted during the initial fight for the town. On his knees in the cold street, FitzStephen was panting heavily, his lips moving minutely in prayer, eyes open and unblinking and staring at the man who continued to read the piece of vellum. Agonisingly close and threatening, FitzStephen could not help but measure up the man. He was wearing expensive, though ill-fitting, lamellar armour, while at his side was a long sword, too long to his trained eye and it had no dents on the grip. This was no warrior. Behind him, FitzStephen could feel the crowd tense as they waited for the man to react. He could feel their collective menace; they all wanted blood, his blood.
Suddenly the man rolled up the piece of parchment and stuffed it into his belt. He looked down at FitzStephen for the first time. The Norman was determined to meet his gaze with his one good eye, but found it difficult, whether because of his injuries or because of the power of this man, he could decide. He examined FitzStephen quickly before he raised his head and began speaking to the crowd in harsh Welsh which FitzStephen could not decipher. The man’s voice was quite high-pitched, but strong like that of a monk used to speaking to large crowds. There was no fear in his tone as he pointed to the Norman at his feet and suddenly snarled at the mob. An unseen member of the crowd spoke back to their lord and several words of agreement from the gathered masses added to the general mêlée of sound. Prince Rhys answered straight away, raising his voice at the end until he was shouting at the crowd, but not angrily – it was if he was trying to convince them to follow his plans. FitzStephen gnawed on the inside of his mouth, desperate to know what was going between them but only able to understand words here and there: death, glory, and blood. Behind Rhys the Welsh noblemen listened intently and FitzStephen’s eyes flicked between the men in a frantic attempt to read the situation. Their stern brows gave nothing away.
Then the crowd grunted a reluctant but unmistakeable affirmation of whatever the Welsh leader had decided. For a few seconds there was silence and FitzStephen swept from face to face of the warriors before him. Each set of their eyes were now looking at him with fury. FitzStephen had seen that look a thousand times. It was the grim appearance that every man shared when he desired death of an enemy. FitzStephen began panting again and praying out loud:
‘St Maurice protect me, St Maurice protect me,’ he panted through gritted teeth. His time was up, he was sure of that now, and he began praying louder, his breath a steamy cloud before him.
Prince Rhys drew his sword and, standing in front of FitzStephen, he looked balefully into his eyes, daring the Norman to plead with him for his life. The Welsh leader did not blink as he hefted the long sword over his head, holding it precariously above his head for the stroke that would take his life. FitzStephen was more angry than terrified but he could not stop himself from staring into Rhys’ eyes, willing him to get it over with: ‘Kill me, damn it,’ he said. ‘Come on, you Welsh whoreson, kill me!’
Moments passed as the standoff continued before Rhys blinked abruptly and brought the sword swiftly downwards with a shriek. FitzStephen closed his eyes at the very last instant waiting for the pain and the darkness. But the death blow never came as Rhys purposely buried the weapon in the mud to FitzStephen’s left. The Norman heard the sword strike the ground and knew he was alive. Gasping, he fell onto his side, away from the blade with sweat streaming down his face. He
had no more energy in him. This traumatic day had truly beaten him now and he was simply calm. He rolled onto his back, caring not whether they killed him or let him live. Either outcome seemed as bad as the other. Around him the Welsh crowd laughed and mocked FitzStephen as he lay naked in the mud, caked in ash and surrounded by enemies.
Rhys was laughing too and leant down beside FitzStephen.
‘Hello, cousin,’ he spoke in French for the first time. ‘I have absolved you for the sin of murder.’
Relief flooded through FitzStephen, and he hated himself for the thanks he murmured to his saviour.
‘But you are still over-proud, a philanderer, and the product of adultery,’ Rhys continued, ‘and for that you must be taught a lesson. But as for the invasion of my country,’ the Welsh prince said signalling back over FitzStephen’s head with a lift of his chin, ‘consider us even.’ He stood and walked back towards Jasper’s house.
The Norman rolled onto his right shoulder and looked back at his father’s castle. There was heavy smoke pouring out of windows in the donjon while flames licked the roof of every building in the bailey. The smoke drifted westwards and for the first time he heard the faint crackling of wood aflame.
Sir Robert FitzStephen was twenty-eight years old and everything he had, and everything he had ever promised to become, was gone. Norman rule in Ceredigion had faltered and all Wales lay open to conquest.
Chapter Three
Laighin, Ireland
1166
Five men stood on the bare hill looking across the heavily wooded valley towards the great fort of Fearna. Their long hair and beards looked ragged as the wicked wind swept westwards, revealing their saffron hose and shirts beneath dull-coloured cloaks. The large stone building in the centre of the rath was aflame and smoke plumed from the reedy thatch towards the sky, where it was lost against the low shapeless clouds. Even the heavy tree-trunk palisade and grassy bank were smouldering and curling grey and white in the heat.
The five watched as fugitives streamed from the fort, down the steep hill, and into the surrounding fields towards the woods. More hopelessly tried to gather their horses and cattle and move them out of range of the fire and the threat posed by the foreign warriors. They would not get far with the rich prizes. But it was not a cattle raid that the five warriors led. This was a venture of vengeance against one man. And now they found that their quarry had fled his lair.
‘God damn him!’ Tigernán Ua Ruairc snarled. His one good eye shone terrible with rage and spittle foamed down his grey beard. ‘Where is he?’ he pointed accusingly at Muirchertach Mac Murchada. ‘You said he was here,’ he screamed. ‘Where is he? Where is Diarmait?’ The King of Breifne was almost screaming as he stomped across the long green ridge towards his enemy’s brother.
Muirchertach shook his head nervously, gesticulated at the rath and stumbled over the words which he hoped would calm the anger directed against him. ‘I, ah, he was definitely … I don’t …’
Tigernán was Diarmait Mac Murchada’s most fervent enemy and had sworn to have his revenge against the King of Laighin whatever the cost. His scouts had been the first to get to the fort earlier in the day and had reported back to their king telling him that Diarmait had set his home on fire and had fled; to where they did not know. Tigernán had been unwilling to believe it until he saw the flames with his own bloodshot eye.
‘God damn that treacherous bastard. He has gone!’ Tigernán screeched the last sentence, his voice almost distraught with rage. ‘He is gone,’ he wailed like a dog wolf.
‘Do calm down, Tigernán,’ said the young High King of Ireland, Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair. The golden adornments at his wrists and neck jangled as he shook his head disapprovingly. How he wished that the old man would act his age rather than throwing a tantrum. Tigernán Ua Ruairc’s passion for retribution against Mac Murchada was useful, even understandable in the circumstances; Diarmait had abducted Tigernán’s wife fifteen years before, making the King of Breifne a laughing stock throughout the many nations on the island. However, Tigernán’s constant tirades about his vendetta against Diarmait did become tiresome after a while. Sometimes Ruaidhrí wondered if his anger against Mac Murchada was all that kept the seventy-year-old Tigernán alive. It was funny that the few times that Ruaidhrí had met Diarmait Mac Murchada face to face he had been immediately reminded of Tigernán Ua Ruairc. He would never admit as much to his ally but both men were so alike, both revelling in argument, invigorated by confrontation and energised by enmity. Despite the Ruaidhrí’s words, Tigernán climbed onto his shaggy horse for a better view, craning his neck to its greatest extent, as if he would be able to locate the man who had cuckolded him. He signalled one of his tribesmen forward from the trees.
‘Catch one of the fugitives,’ Tigernán ordered him, ‘and find out where he has gone.’
Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair held up a long, thin hand to stop the man. ‘There will be no need for that, thank you. Think, Tigernán,’ he urged his ally. ‘Where can he go now that he has burned Fearna?’ Ruaidhrí asked, ignoring the anger and snarling energy that exuded from his ally. ‘This was Diarmait’s only fortress. His people have abandoned him. So where would he go?’
The question seemed to confuse Tigernán and he went silent. He was unused to being asked for his opinion by the clever, young High King who now stared at him expectantly. Tigernán shook his great shaggy head as he considered Ruaidhrí’s question. He pointed across the trees that stretched between the hill and Fearna towards the building in the belly of the valley. ‘Hiding in the monastery?’
Tigernán’s attempted answer received a scornful look from his overlord. ‘The Augustinians would not give succour to a man like Diarmait,’ Ruaidhrí told his ally. ‘They are scholars and would never hide a wolf like him amongst their flock. Remember what he did to the Abbess of Cill Dara?’
Tigernán again struggled with the question. ‘To his abbey at Bealach Conglais?’ he attempted a second time. ‘Or south towards Waesfjord?’
‘Ha!’ The King of Mide snorted a laugh.
Tigernán turned angrily on the man who had offended him with his scorn. ‘Shut your face, Ua Mael Sechlainn, unless you want it slapped off. If you are so clever how come I have been able to thieve so many of your cattle this summer?’ The old man coughed as he spoke the last words. King Diarmait Ua Mael Sechlainn snarled and looked as though he would round Ruaidhrí and attack Tigernán, but the High King was fastest and calmed the situation with a raised hand.
‘No, Tigernán,’ Ruaidhrí said sternly, slapping his thigh like he was scolding his hounds. ‘The Ostmen of Waesfjord hate the Meic Murchada and will not give him shelter. He will have to go elsewhere.’ Ruaidhrí did not elaborate immediately and an exasperated Tigernán physically struggled to keep his composure.
‘So where the blazes is he going to go?’ he finally demanded. Ruaidhrí did not answer straight away, ignoring Tigernán’s restless squirming and scanning the scene that extended out before him. Behind the smoke from the burning buildings he eyed the line of the River Bhanna, clothed in deep green foliage, which joined up with the River Sláine far to the south and flowed all the way through the Uí Ceinnselaig tribal heartland to the great city of Waesfjord. That fortress was held by the descendants of the heathen invaders, who the Irish called the Ostmen. A ready escape route, but Diarmait was far too canny to allow his people to be surrounded and if he led his people to Siol Bhroin where his only real allies ruled that is exactly what would happen. No, Diarmait would not allow that, Ruaidhrí decided. He considered that his enemy may have tried to escape to the west. His son-in-law was King of Tuadhmumhain and would have given the King of Laighin shelter. That thought scared Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair. He hated Domhnall Ua Briain more than any other chieftain, for he was his main rival for the high kingship. An alliance between his two bitterest foes was certainly concerning, but as Ruaidhrí looked to the west he knew it was unlikely that Diarmait would have taken that route; the great forest of Dubh-Tir
, menacing and dark on the steep slopes of the Black Mountains, Na Staighrí Dubha, was a daunting obstacle to any westward journey. And beyond those natural barriers was the kingdom of the Osraighe and Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig, Diarmait’s rebellious under-king. If he got his hands on the King of Laighin, well that didn’t bear thinking about, Ruaidhrí thought with a shiver. That way was certainly blocked to Diarmait Mac Murchada. It was to the east that Diarmait would flee, Ruaidhrí decided. From there he would go north into the mountains to where the Uí Tuathail ruled. An assault on that sparse and terrible terrain would be nigh on impossible for Ruaidhrí’s alliance, no matter how strong they were. He turned to Tigernán, who had been waiting while his ally observed the terrain.
‘They will go towards the mountains, of course,’ the High King told him, nodding and lifting his chin in their general direction to the north-east, ‘and they will be safe there unless we can get to them first.’
A slow, malicious grin slowly broke from behind Tigernán Ua Ruairc’s heavy beard as he began to understand. ‘A chase?’ he asked happily.
Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair nodded. ‘Kill Diarmait when you find him, Tigernán,’ he said. ‘He has betrayed my trust too many times. Kill him and anyone that you discover with him.’
Tigernán lifted his chin and barked a venomous yelp of victory towards the clouds. He then shouted at his derb-fine, his closest family and best warriors, who waited unseen behind the bluff of the hill. Hidden amongst the trees was a horde of grey- and black-clothed fighters from all the tribes of Connacht. Several of the derb-fine wheeled their horses around and screamed orders at the army, pointing swords and spears to the north-east. Hardened warriors from the far-off country of Breifne, armed with swords, spears, shields, and slings, detached themselves from the main group and started running through the trees. Armourless, they would be fast over the rough terrain and vicious to anyone that they encountered.
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