‘I remember the stories,’ said Domhnall, his long wet hair striking his back as he spoke.
‘While I was at Mellifont, I was the guest of the old abbot and we grew to be friends,’ Cillian continued. ‘One night after prayers he told me what St Máelmáedoc had told him: that it had not been a pilgrimage that took him to Rome but a mission to inform the Pope of the degradation of the Irish Church,’ Cillian looked contritely at his hands which were folded in front of his dark clothing. He bowed his head so that Domhnall could see the tonsured back of his head. ‘And perhaps he was right,’ the friar said. ‘For too long we had been isolated from the rule of the Holy Father in Rome. For too long we had governed ourselves, making decisions beyond our capacity. Moral and spiritual laxity was ignored and allowed to spread over the years.’ Friar Cillian seemed angry at the accusations even if he knew that they were correct. ‘Laymen had come to the forefront of many religious houses,’ he gave Diarmait a nervous look, ‘bishops married and begat children who in turn assumed their positions like mere poets, smiths, or princes,’ he shook his tonsured head. ‘The good work we were doing was forgotten. That was the report that St Máelmáedoc brought to the Holy Father in Rome,’ he continued, ‘and Pope Innocent ordered changes to be made. You remember that a Synod was called at Kells organized by the Blessed Máelmáedoc.’
‘The four archbishops and the thirty-six sees,’ Diarmait answered as he recalled the event. Synods were uncommon and the last one had abruptly changed the entire makeup of the Celtic Church. The upheaval had been felt by everyone.
‘Indeed,’ the Friar continued, ‘but then Pope Innocent went to paradise, as did the Cistercian Pope Eugene, and reform on our island was forgotten. It was only when a Norman of England from my own order came to the Papal Throne that the Celtic Church was remembered again. Pope Adrian had heard the stories of the decline of the Irish church and even claimed that we had reverted to paganism,’ he managed a laugh. ‘He wanted change –’
‘He wanted our tithes,’ interjected Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain.
‘He wanted to bring the Church back into the loving embrace of Rome,’ Cillian told him sternly, ‘and he had just the man to do it. Henry FitzEmpress had brought order to England after twenty years of anarchy and theft from the Church. The Pope gave Laighin, Mumhan, Tir Eoghain, Mide – all the lands of Ireland – to Henry and his heirs if he could push through the church’s reforms. They say that he even gave him a Papal Bull and an emerald ring to confirm the grant. That was just twelve years ago.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Domhnall said to his father. ‘What has any of this – the Synod, Henry of England – got to do with us?’
The King of Laighin smiled. ‘Do you remember the story of Mac Con of Munster?’ Diarmait questioned his son.
‘No,’ Domhnall answered.
Diarmait shook his head as he turned towards Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain, ‘What type of history are they teaching youngsters these days?’ He turned back to his son. ‘Mac Con was defeated at the Battle of Cennebrat,’ he said to Domhnall, ‘and fled to the land of the Scots. He returned later with an army of mercenaries and at the Battle of Magh Macruimhe he won back his kingdom.’ He paused and raised his eyebrows expectantly at his son. When Domhnall did not answer, Diarmait continued to speak: ‘We will do the same as Mac Con except we are going to England to the royal court of Henry FitzEmpress to seek Norman mercenaries. As you have heard, he has had his eye on Ireland for years,’ Diarmait told his son. ‘But he has never had the chance to do anything about it because he is always at war with his subjects and the King of the Franks. So in return for warriors, I am going to give him Ireland.’ Diarmait was quivering with anticipation, gripping and re-gripping his fists as he gestured towards his son.
Domhnall looked from Diarmait to his secretary to Friar Cillian and back again. ‘Give him Ireland?’ he repeated.
‘Yes,’ Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain smiled evilly, ‘we will journey to England to talk with Henry and do homage to him for all of Laighin, just as the Holy Father demands.’
‘But … Henry is a … a … foreigner,’ Domhnall exclaimed. He was dumbfounded; all the tribes of Ireland had stood behind Brian Bóruma when he led a crusade to expel the Ostmen from the island a hundred and fifty years before. Everyone knew that Ireland had never recovered from that war and Laighin, who had supported the Ostmen, had taken the worst of the damage. Now his father was suggesting bringing more foreigners to the island? Domhnall couldn’t understand Diarmait’s decision, and he would made his opposition known had not his father interrupted.
‘Henry of England or Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair, what does it matter who calls himself high king?’ Diarmait snapped his fingers in front of his son’s face. ‘Not a tot. But unlike Ruaidhrí, Henry, at least, won’t be sitting on our bleeding borders, threatening us with attack every summer. He has other enemies to fight, beyond the sea, and we will be left alone to rule as it was before.’
Domhnall supposed that it was true and opened his mouth to speak but Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain butted in, ‘Henry will give us warriors and ships the like of which you have never seen.’ The glint in his eyes confirmed to Domhnall that it had been his plan to approach the English King. ‘My father helped the Welsh fight against these Normans in his youth. He said that the very earth shook beneath them as they charged and it took five men to take down just one of their horse-warriors. They are the best swordsmen that he ever saw,’ Máelmáedoc continued with a grimace. ‘But they have one weakness – land.’
‘They crave it like clerics yearn for women,’ Diarmait joked. Beside Domhnall, Friar Cillian stirred uncomfortably, squeezing his lips together tightly. Diarmait laughed heartily at the joke and Cillian’s reaction.
‘Mercenaries?’ asked Domhnall and Diarmait nodded. ‘So we bribe the Normans with the pasture lands of our enemies if they help Diarmait retake Laighin?’ His father nodded his head. ‘Well that means taking to the sea,’ he said with a frown. Domhnall had never considered leaving his home. He did not want to leave, but if his father demanded it then he would see it through. ‘So when do we sail?’ he asked.
‘We are going south, Domhnall, through the forest of Dubh-Tir to the River Corock,’ his father told him. ‘Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain has a boat waiting for us.’
Domhnall gritted his teeth. ‘Four days’ travel? I’ll have the provisions and horses ready for first light.’
‘Already done,’ Máelmáedoc said as he turned and walked away with his bodyguard. ‘We leave in five minutes.’
‘Five minutes?’ Domhnall exclaimed, realising immediately that Diarmait and Máelmáedoc had been plotting this voyage for some time. Why had his father not included him in the plans, he wondered. He opened his mouth to speak but Diarmait pre-empted him.
‘You are staying here, Domhnall,’ Diarmait told his son, placing a hand on his strong shoulder. ‘You are my last son free to help me now that Conchobair and Eanna have been taken prisoner.’ He bowed his head to hide his anger. ‘I need you here to protect our interests and make sure the people know that one day soon I will return to take back what is mine.’ In any other man it would have seemed heroic but, coming from Diarmait, his promise to return to his homeland was simply intimidating, even to his son.
‘Diarmait,’ Máelmáedoc came back and handed him a monk’s robe which he threw over his head. Máelmáedoc did the same. Domhnall looked at them confused until his father’s advisor winked at him from underneath the pointed hood of the Augustinian robe. ‘Just in case,’ said Máelmáedoc.
‘We have a hundred and eighty warriors left,’ Diarmait continued, also clothed like a monk. ‘You will take a hundred and twenty deep into Dubh-Tir where you will hide out and take control of the Uí Ceinnselaig after Ruaidhrí and his army go back to Connacht.’
‘I will,’ said Domhnall, surprised and suddenly proud that his father had confidence in his ability to lead. He had commanded large raids before but never been trusted with so many warriors alone. He knew h
e had been set an impossible task but already his mind was plotting how to use the soldiers successfully in the coming months. To conquer the tribal lands of the Uí Ceinnselaig would take a thousand spears, he thought. Re-taking Laighin could take ten times that number.
‘Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain, myself, your sisters, and my wives will go to the town of Bristol,’ he struggled with the unfamiliar word. ‘I have a friend there called Robert FitzHarding. He will help us.’ Diarmait pulled the monk’s hood up onto his head so that it obscured his eyes. ‘God be with you, my son,’ he said sarcastically with a malevolent smile and his hands open in prayer, ‘or rather, good hunting.’ He slapped him on the back and pushed past him into the rain.
Beyond the departing Diarmait, between the tall alders and the edge of the gateway, Domhnall could still see the smoke from the burning hall at Fearna drift over the land of Laighin. For just a moment Domhnall had been convinced that Diarmait knew what was best for his country but the smoke said otherwise. It was indicative of Diarmait’s determination to hold onto his kingdom no matter the cost. And now it meant leaving his home and his eldest son behind to become an exile. Domhnall looked up to see Diarmait heave himself into the saddle of a waiting pony and ride off into the trees. With a wave and without a backwards glance, Diarmait Mac Murchada, the deposed King of Laighin, was gone.
Chapter Four
Llandovery , Wales
1166
‘God damn it all to hell and curse the bitch who bred me,’ Sir Robert FitzStephen groaned and rolled onto his back as he awoke. Stretching out his legs and arms, he panted sharply and coughed as he lay in his bed. Wincing and groaning he snapped his legs back up to his chest and breathed hard, as though he had just fought all day in full armour. ‘I swear that I will never drink again as long as there is breath in me,’ he gasped, peeling his eyes open one at a time to let in the early morning light that found the cracks in the window shutters and bed curtains. FitzStephen breathed out forcefully as if it would rid him of his headache which thudded like a sword blow ringing a spangenhelm. The smell of stinking Welsh ale engulfed him and he retched, but nothing came up. He seemed to remember vomiting in the darkness as he had stumbled through the great hall, making his way back to his room in the early hours. What I would give for some good French wine or Norman honey mead rather than that horrible Welsh muck, he thought.
The heavy embroideries that hung on the stone walls of Llandovery Castle seemed to spin before his eyes but, with a concerted effort, FitzStephen was able to hoist himself up onto his elbows and so look at the girl who lay asleep beside him, covered by a woollen blanket to protect her against the Christmas cold.
She looked better last night , he thought as he examined her in the semi-darkness. She was younger than him, probably twenty-five, rotund with black hair and a pale, slightly unhealthy look. As he turned his head back he glanced at his own sizable belly. He grimaced and he quickly threw the corner of the blanket to cover his lower half, embarrassed at how he had let himself go in the two years since the capture of Aberteifi.
‘Oi, you there,’ he croaked towards the woman. He was hoarse from singing too many songs with Rhys’ warriors after their lord and his family had retired to the solar. He coughed and tried to speak again: ‘Hey, time to go.’
The woman stirred but did not wake up so FitzStephen cleared his throat a second time and poked her pudgy, naked shoulder with his forefinger. Again this did not wake her so instead he whistled sharply as though she was one of Prince Rhys’ hunting dogs.
‘What? What’s wrong?’ she asked.
Without answering, FitzStephen climbed out from beneath the blanket and, pulling the bed curtains open, wandered naked over to get himself a mug of cider. The coarse liquid was warm but he did not care and drained the mug with two swift gulps.
‘It’s time to go back to the pantry before they miss you …’ he said, pausing awkwardly as he searched his throbbing head for her name, ‘Gwen-do-lyn?’
‘My name is Gwen,’ she stated as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, shivering against the cold morning air, ‘as I have to tell you every time you sober up.’
‘Gwen? Surely you are the beauty Gwenhwyfar come back to earth,’ said Robert yawning and without sentiment.
Nevertheless Gwen giggled at FitzStephen’s gallant reply, oblivious that his habitual charm was shorn of feeling. She pulled her grey woollen shift over her naked breasts as she sat up in bed. ‘Well recovered, Sweet Tongue. I suppose if I am Gwenhwyfar that makes you Arthwyr?’
‘No, but he is of course my ancestor,’ he replied with a wry grin hidden from the woman. He shook his head sarcastically as he remembered Rhys’ audacious claim of their descent from the famed warrior. He may have scoffed at Rhys’ ludicrous assertions, but FitzStephen privately wanted them to be true. Few could declare descent from such prestigious and noble lineage. Arthwyr’s songs were being sung as far away as Gascony and Languedoc in southern France, encouraged, it was said, by England’s queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine. She was the talk of all Christendom since her divorce of the King of France to marry Henry FitzEmpress, the lowly Count of Anjou who had later become King of England. The couple were said to encapsulate the growing fashion of courtly love, romance, and chivalry, revelling as they did in the arts, religion, manly pursuits, and goodliness; a veritable Arthur and Guinevere. Robert had met King Henry and could think of no man less romantic and chivalric than the invidious, squat monarch.
As he pulled on his hose FitzStephen remembered that it was St Stephen’s Day and he said a short prayer to acknowledge that great holy man just as his half-brother Bishop David FitzGerald would have wanted. Drinking on Christmas Day? Having carnal relations with an unmarried woman? Bishop David would have given him a sermon which would have left his ears ringing. Eleven hundred and sixty-six years had passed since the birth of the Saviour and Robert FitzStephen prayed that it wouldn’t nearly so long for his hangover to clear. He made towards the small window to get some fresh air. Behind him, Gwen pulled her leather sabatons onto her feet and stood straight beside his bed. She put her hand on her hip and raised an eyebrow.
‘Are you sure we could not just stay here today?’
‘I’m going hunting,’ FitzStephen said without turning around to look at her. Opening the shutter, he looked out on the morning. It was cold but promised to turn into a beautiful day despite the light shower of snow that swept across Deheubarth. He burped and tasted alcohol, venison, and vomit, so refilled his mug with more warm cider and took a long draught. ‘Isn’t it time for you to go?’ he asked the girl who still lingered beside the bed.
‘Can’t you leave hunting until another day?’
‘Qui m'aime, il aime mon chien,’ he told her with a shrug.
‘What?’ she asked. ‘I don’t speak Saesneg.’
‘An old proverb,’ FitzStephen said without elaborating or correcting her that it was the French tongue. He opened a small scroll and began reading a passage about St Jerome, hoping that she would get the message and leave. Surprisingly, reading had come quickly to FitzStephen. His teacher, Brother Meilyr, was supposed to have been teaching him humility through God’s words, to make him understand his great sins, but those lessons had been incomprehensible to the illiterate FitzStephen and so the monk had begun the laborious study of letters. A study of FitzStephen’s soul had never started, for it became quickly apparent to his teacher that any investigation to that end was pointless.
As he read St Jerome’s words, Gwen stared at the Norman warrior’s back. She liked FitzStephen, and knew she was not alone among Prince Rhys’ serving girls in that respect. Merwyn had scorned and reviled the Norman warlord when he had first arrived in Llandovery, two years before, but she had still ended up in his bed just a few weeks afterward his coming. He had not been with Merwyn for a long time now, not since she had given birth to his bastard, Maredudd, and this had allowed Gwen to become his latest fancy. He had been lean when he arrived in Llandovery, Gwen recalled. His year
s spent fighting and hunting on the Welsh March had turned any of his soft edges into solid muscle. However, she had watched as the subsequent years of inactivity, as well as his fondness for drink and good food, had piled the weight on. All the servants whispered that he liked his drink too strong and too often. Bored, Hywel the steward told them all, bored and going to waste. He had warned them all to stay away from the Norman, though Gwen knew it had not stopped Hywel himself from enjoying FitzStephen’s company when at his wine or dice.
Despite his flaws, Gwen thought him a good-looking man, probably inheriting his looks from his famously beautiful mother who had even had a former King of England as her lover. His heavily accented Welsh was endearing too, she thought. He drank, hunted, and joked with the Cymri, and he had quickly learned their songs and poetry. Some of Prince Rhys’ noblemen even considered him to be a friend, a surprise after years vying against him across a shield wall. The murder of Einion ab Anarawd was long forgotten, it seemed.
FitzStephen cleared his throat expectantly and continued to read from the vellum scroll.
‘Fine then, I’m off,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you tonight?’ she asked as she pulled the dark oak door open.
‘Of course you will,’ he said, leaving her with a flash of a smile as she left the room. Alone, he immediately let St Jerome’s words tumble to the table-top and turned back to staring out of the window, looking down on the bailey and the top of the stone fore-building. The countryside beyond was a patchwork of greens and whites, hills and snow, sparse trees and rivers. He closed his eyes as another wave of nausea hit him. The noises which stirred throughout the household told him that the castle was wakening and that the first meal of the day was being readied. In the distance bells called brother monks to the mid-morning prayers and he inhaled heavily, slapping himself four times in his bearded face in time with the tolling. The stink of lovemaking and alcohol was all over him. He would have bathed, but the Cymri had turned the castle’s old bathhouse into a chicken coop. He did not enjoy the thought of a dip in a frozen river and, with a pre-emptive shiver, decided that he would put off his wash for another few days.
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