Swordland

by Edward Ruadh Butler

  He was lost in his thoughts until he spied ten esquires lead a mottle of horses from the marshalsea and into the bailey below him. Immediately he realised that the rugged mounts were being saddled for war and that the esquires’ steeds had provisions hanging from their flanks. A raid was being prepared! He sank the remainder of the cider in one and grabbed his clothes from the table. The embroidery at the neck of his red winter shirt snagged painfully for a moment on his beard before it pulled on. None of his former compatriots in Aberteifi would have recognised him now; his blond hair was long and he had grown a full beard. Visitors thought him no different to the other Welsh nobles that came to pay homage to Prince Rhys in Llandovery. His father would have said he had gone native and that thought sometimes made FitzStephen wince. He fixed his shirt at his waist with the leather belt which his cousin had given him. The buckle was brass and heavy and was adorned with a bear design – Arthwyr’s symbol. Would the man never give up, he thought as he wrapped the long length of leather beyond the buckle to secure it, letting the excess hang down to his knee. From a basin in the corner he wet his hands and ran them through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes and hooking the long blond strands behind his ears.

  Outside the shuttered windows, he could hear the horses neighing and whinnying excitedly as they heard their masters’ approach. FitzStephen began to hurry. Their leader would be getting his men ready to leave and he did not want to miss them. He was more excited than he should have been at the thought of a simple Welsh raid. He could not help but wonder what their destination would be? Cardiff, Brecon, or Striguil were all within range, but FitzStephen thought that the Flemings at Haverford, or the Normans of Pembroke, were more likely targets. It was so long since he had been allowed the ride to war and he ached to be involved, no matter how small the part he could play. Above him, he heard Prince Rhys and his wife bump around on the oak floor of the solar as they too rose to greet the winter’s day. FitzStephen’s eyes floated towards the sound coming through the thickset timber floorboards.

  Grabbing a heavy dark cloak from behind the door, he stepped out of his room and made his way down the winding stone steps towards the great hall. Twice he stumbled as he forgot the uneven steps in the stairway. The oak door to the great hall felt heavier than usual as he pushed through. Inside castle servants were busying themselves with the readying of the prince’s first meal of the day. FitzStephen spotted Hywel the steward at the far end of the room, attempting to coax more life from the fire, and FitzStephen quickly and quietly made his way across so as not to be seen by the servant. His winnings from playing dice with Tewdwr, Rhys’ son, had paid off some of his debt to the steward but FitzStephen still owed Hywel a huge sum and the Norman doubted that the bald Welshman would accept any more excuses for non-payment. He crossed to another door on the western wall and forced his way through onto another set of twisting hard steps just as Hywel turned and shouted his name. He did not turn to respond or to stop.

  The guardroom was on the first floor above the kitchens. It was empty as he crossed towards the mighty castle door which divided the main keep from the stone fore-building. No-one expected an attack on the feast of St Stephen and so the main gate was left ajar to allow easy coming and going into the castle. The cold air from beyond soothed FitzStephen suddenly, as it drifted through the iron-embossed door. Ornate and adorned with heavy iron hinge joints, the gate had been blackened with paint by the castle’s former castellan, Walter FitzPons de Clifford and his coat of arms still festooned the wall above the door. The portcullis was open too but he could still see the lower edge of the criss-crossed steel armament in the ceiling above the door, hidden between the thick walls. His leather-wrapped feet slapped noisily upon the stone floor as he stomped into the fore-building. A cold wind whipped him as he ducked through the outer door and turned left along the castle wall and down the stone, sloped and icy pathway to the bailey floor. There, he greeted a few men in the group of Welsh warriors who were making small talk while the final preparations were being made before their departure. Jealousy coursed through him as the horses nervously circled with their riders on their backs. He hated not being able to ride out on a raid himself and it was accentuated by the memories brought forth by the sounds, smells and excitement of these metal clad warriors readying themselves for war.

  ‘Tewdwr,’ FitzStephen waved to a man in the colours of Deheubarth who had just clambered into the saddle. His horse stamped brightly, circling on the hard ground, as Prince Rhys’ eldest son turned to greet his cousin.

  ‘Robbie Boy!’ he exclaimed. ‘How’s the greatest drinker in Wales? I bet you have a sore head this morning?’ he asked cheekily.

  ‘Every morning,’ FitzStephen replied, matching Tewdwr’s smile, ‘but luckily we Normans have bellies lined with chainmail.’ He slapped his stomach with one hand and caught hold of Tewdwr’s horse with the other. ‘Where are you headed, cousin?’

  ‘Why? Do you fancy a jaunt at our side?’ Tewdwr asked mischievously. ‘I’m sure we could make room for you but you might not be able to keep up with us.’ With a grin he nodded at FitzStephen’s sizable midriff.

  The Norman snorted at the levity and shook his head. ‘I wish I could go too. I would consider it if you were going north but …’ Robert trailed off.

  ‘But you don’t want to run into any of your relatives and have to bash their heads in.’ Tewdwr had heard his cousin’s stance many times, but did not completely understand it. He personally had no qualms about attacking his Norman cousins or indeed his Cymri kinsmen in Morgannwg, Glywysing, Brecon, Gwarthaf, Pebidiog, Powys, and Gwynedd.

  But FitzStephen was a man torn away from all that he knew, abandoned amongst his enemies; enemies who were also family. His life had become a hellish mix of confused loyalties and frustrating inactivity since his incarceration in Llandovery. In England or France, a captured knight was automatically afforded the right of ransom, if he was a nobleman or had rich friends willing to stump up the cash for his liberation. Sir Maurice FitzGerald, Robert’s half-brother, had sent an envoy to Llandovery with a very generous offer, but no ransom had come from his lord, the Earl of Hertford, or King Henry of England. That had stung FitzStephen’s pride.

  In any event, Tewdwr’s father had not wanted to release the dangerous Sir Robert FitzStephen back onto the March. The Norman was a man about whom strong men gathered and awaited adventure. Since his fall, the invaders had no-one to lead them and Rhys was not about to hand back that advantage. The prince had no doubt that once back amongst the Normans FitzStephen would continue to have misgivings about fighting his family and, just like before his capture, his Welsh cousins would feel the full force of his revenge.

  ‘So,’ FitzStephen asked Tewdwr, ‘where are you going? You can tell me. It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone.’

  To Tewdwr, Robert sounded like one of his younger brothers; hungry for information and longing for the day that they too could share in the adventure.

  ‘We’re headed towards Penfro,’ Tewdwr confirmed finally, using the Cymric name for Norman Pembroke. ‘Miles Menevensis has been pushing north from Pebidiog and needs to be given a good beating and sent home with his tail between his legs.’

  Miles was FitzStephen’s nephew, the illegitimate son of his half-brother, Bishop David FitzGerald. His brother’s bastard had become a talented fighter since his own incarceration and led the bishop’s troops in defence of Wales’ most holy site at St David’s. He had also become a constant pain in Rhys’ arse from what FitzStephen had heard.

  ‘And have no doubt,’ Tewdwr raised his voice so that his men could hear, ‘we will find the bishop’s son and chase him back to St David’s so his daddy can make it all better.’

  FitzStephen smiled, but listening to Tewdwr’s answer made the old hatreds threaten to rise. The Welsh lordling was just a child, yet was leading raids against the Normans for his father while he, a professional warrior, was left to rot behind Llandovery’s walls. He quickly swallowed his anger as
best he could, ‘Good luck, Tewdwr, don’t go too hard on my nephew.’

  Tewdwr laughed and then waved towards a pretty woman who giggled with her friends from the door of a building beside the stables. She was the daughter of the castle’s cooper.

  ‘I had her for the first time last night,’ Tewdwr admitted quietly to FitzStephen. ‘For luck and all that,’ he shrugged and blushed. ‘A second-to-none set of legs on her though,’ he laughed nervously.

  FitzStephen snorted. ‘I never worry about their legs. They are the first thing I throw out of the way to get down to the proper business.’ The horsemen nearest to Tewdwr overheard the exchange and giggled at FitzStephen’s jest, teasing Tewdwr by poking him the arm.

  ‘I heard your little lady has seen more pricks than an archer’s target,’ he said.

  ‘It’s Gwyl San Steffan, Tewdwr,’ FitzStephen told the beardless boy. ‘Custom insists that you give her a good spanking with holly branches.’ Everyone laughed again. Holming was one of the traditional practices of St Stephen’s Day when Welshmen would beat their female servants, and late risers, with branches. An odd tradition, FitzStephen, an outsider, thought.

  Despite turning even redder, Tewdwr laughed along with his troops and pulled on his chainmail hood, which he fixed with a leather cord at the back of his head. ‘Last chance to come with us, Robbie Boy,’ he said from beneath his chain mail as he placed his circlet helmet on his head.

  FitzStephen smiled and let go of Tewdwr’s bridle, allowing his cousin to wheel his horse towards the main gates. ‘Perhaps next time,’ he said with a forced smile.

  Tewdwr ap Rhys shrugged and grinned, happy to be in command. ‘Let’s get going, lads, we have a lot of ground to cover,’ he shouted to his men-at-arms before delivering a final big grin to FitzStephen and setting his horse into a trot towards the gate. His warriors wheeled their horses, the shake of brass and steel trappings ringing like a bell in his memory, the clip of hoof a drum in his chest.

  ‘It’s hard to see them grow up and leave the nest,’ a voice spoke behind FitzStephen just as Tewdwr disappeared through the gates and into the snow-bound countryside. The voice belonged to Prince Rhys, swathed in a cloak edged with fox fur and a heavy gambeson cap. Small snowflakes flurried down the walls of Llandovery around him, sticking to his beard as he walked gingerly down the walkway towards the bailey floor where FitzStephen stood.

  ‘You didn’t come to see Tewdwr off?’

  Rhys shook his head. ‘We said our goodbyes last night. His mother was tearful and I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of the men with a similar episode,’ he said with a slight shake of his head, ‘and after Maredudd …’ Rhys tailed off with a wave of his hand towards Tewdwr’s troop. Another of the prince’s sons had been a hostage of Henry of England before he was blinded in a vengeful attack by the King shortly after the capture of Aberteifi. It was a disgraceful episode that went against all the codes of chivalry – codes which Henry was supposed to champion. ‘Well, Tewdwr has got his chance now,’ Rhys continued with a smile as he stared out over stone walls onto the grassy fields where his son’s conrois of shaggy horsemen were slowly following the course of the River Bran southwards. ‘Our dear cousin, the bishop’s son, has been causing problems around Carmarthen. I would go myself but I think it is time that Tewdwr took on some responsibility.’

  FitzStephen huddled his arms around his chest for warmth against the cold wind. ‘He has a few sensible men in his conrois that will keep him right. He’s confident and is determined not to let you down. Tewdwr has a good head on his shoulders.’

  ‘Let’s hope that’s where it remains,’ Rhys joked lightly. ‘It could be you riding out you know,’ the prince said as he turned to face the Norman, lifting his eyebrows ‘You trained those men. It should be you leading them. I offer you greatness, wealth, and land if you would but forsake your father’s people. I offer you redemption for Einion’s murder if you will only join your mother’s folk.’

  ‘Safety in return for allegiance,’ FitzStephen replied quietly, his lips grinding together. ‘Salvation for a broken oath?’

  ‘An oath to an absent Saesneg king,’ Rhys returned. ‘I need you, Robert. I need your skills. I need your experience to win my war against England …’

  ‘You have had my answer,’ he snapped. ‘I assure you that it will not change.’ No matter how often FitzStephen dreamed about breaking his loyalty to King Henry, it always came back to one thing. ‘I won’t fight against my brothers,’ he told the prince sternly.

  ‘But you will fight your cousins – your mother’s people?’ The smaller man turned towards him. Reaching up, he put his hands on FitzStephen’s wide shoulders. ‘You are as much a Cymri as you are a Norman,’ Rhys appealed, ‘it is in your blood to fight for us. Holy God, will you continue in this horrid state forever? Getting drunk, womanising?’

  ‘I am not Cymri, I am … something else,’ he said, feeling his frustration and anger rise. Rhys’ offer was at once tempting and repellent. Simply, Rhys wanted FitzStephen to abandon his loyalty to the King of England and fight for him to free Deheubarth, Dyfed, and perhaps all Wales from the dominion of the faraway despot. FitzStephen could think of nothing he would rather do; he hated Henry of England and would have done anything to hurt him – Henry who had interfered and then abandoned the Normans of Aberteifi; Henry who demanded obedience and offered nothing in return; Henry who had forsaken FitzStephen to imprisonment. He let the now familiar anger rise in his chest. Had he not saved Henry’s army on Mona? Had he not saved his very life at Coed Ewloe? Who else could have held Ceredigion as long as he had done in the King’s name? What the hell did a man have to do to get some support and loyalty in return from his ruler? His father, Stephen, had been right – you can’t trust any of that devil’s brood from Anjou. During his time as Constable of Aberteifi FitzStephen had told himself that he was performing a duty for his king, but Henry had not even bothered to offer a ransom for his loyal subject. Henry had abandoned FitzStephen to his enemies. FitzStephen knew that if he fought for Rhys he would be joining the winning side in the conflict. For eighty years the Normans had been carving out lordships for themselves in Wales, but that expansion had come to a shuddering halt during the anarchy of King Stephen’s reign and with Rhys of Deheubarth at the forefront of the fight the Cymri had been resurgent ever since.

  But could he do it? Could he fight against his own people? The answer came to FitzStephen immediately. Rhys was a good man and he had enjoyed the company of the Cymri during his imprisonment at Llandovery, but he could not join a fight where he could only end up on the opposite side of a shield wall to his half-brothers Maurice, David, and William, and his Geraldine nephews and cousins who served them. His situation was hopeless, frustrating, and all-consuming, and Robert FitzStephen could see no way to escape it. He was surrounded, assailed from all sides by boredom and frustration, guilt and confusion. It was humiliating and he was going mad trying to fill his day, only looking forward to drinking and gaming when the warriors finished their duties. It was childish to be having this resentment pumping through him and he knew he was in a rut, but he could see no way out of it. Disgust kept him from thinking too deeply at his situation while boredom constantly pushed him towards those dark thoughts. An emotional war was being waged inside FitzStephen, one which he was ill-equipped to understand.

  Rhys reached out to him. ‘Reconsider, cousin!’

  ‘You know what I want,’ FitzStephen snarled angrily as he shook off his cousin’s hand. ‘Let me take the cross and go to the damned Holy Land. Let me fight the Saracens.’ This was the last hope. It was a long shot of course, but many footloose and desperate men had crossed Europe to Outremer. Most were younger sons looking for employment, some for religious reasons, but many simply for the excitement, fighting, and opportunity for plunder. FitzStephen’s reason was escape, and he was willing to trust in his skills with sword and steed to earn him reward in one of the Christian kingdoms in the east. ‘I could do penance for
my sins at Rome, Constantinople, and Jerusalem,’ he appealed to Rhys’ devout leanings. ‘I could be forgiven by the Holy Father himself!’

  The Prince of Deheubarth was too much of a realist to be influenced by FitzStephen’s toadying. ‘You know I can’t allow you to go without some guarantee that you will not come back six months later to give me problems,’ FitzStephen began to speak but Rhys spoke over him. ‘I have learned that I cannot trust any Norman, not just you, Robert, and not just because of Einion,’ he paused and shook his head. ‘And how would you get to Jerusalem? How can you afford such a journey? Do you expect me to fund the voyage? Perhaps you want some of my men to accompany you?’

  ‘I don’t want any of your troops,’ FitzStephen protested. ‘I can borrow money in Gloucester. I know a Jew there who would loan me the money to arm myself.’

  ‘A Jew?’ The prince shook his head. ‘You should not consort with moneylenders, Robert.’ Rhys shook off the snow that had gathered on his shoulders. ‘And I am sure you would not take any of my troops deliberately, but many of my warriors would follow you to the Holy Land nonetheless. You still don’t understand the power of your name on idealistic young men who think that you, the great knight, will make them rich in Jerusalem on some grand crusade. Tewdwr, my own son, would follow you on your adventures,’ the prince of Deheubarth told him as he wrapped the heavy cloak around his chest more tightly. ‘I can ill afford to lose any of my warriors at this time, and I still think I can convince you to join me in my adventure.’

  ‘I can’t stay here, cousin.’

  ‘But you will nonetheless,’ Rhys slapped him on the shoulder and started climbing the stone walkway to the donjon, past a page who struggled towards the kennels with two massive alaunts. Both dogs snarled at FitzStephen as he raised a finger to point at Prince Rhys’ back.