Swordland

by Edward Ruadh Butler

  ‘Oi, Welshy!’ shouted Walter de Ridlesford across the table in William’s direction. As diffident as a destrier at dinner time, Ridlesford had used a variation on William’s nickname, the Welshman, to attract his comrade’s attention. Walter also used the moniker scornfully, not at William, who he treated like a son, but for the benefit of the Cymri warriors who hated the label Welsh. In the English tongue it meant foreigner but the Normans had also adopted it as their name for the native people beyond the Severn. ‘Where is Robert?’ Ridlesford asked as William swung his legs back under their table from his conversation with their enemy. Ralph raised his head from the food at the mention of his father’s name and scanned the room again for the man who he had last seen humiliated, naked, and bleeding on the day of Aberteifi’s fall.

  ‘He’s not here,’ said William with a shrug. ‘Those good fellows,’ he indicated with a leg of mutton towards the Welsh warriors seated at the bench behind him, ‘say that something happened in the mountains two winters ago and Robert was imprisoned in the oubliette. They haven’t seen him since but suggest that maybe Rhys moved him to another fortress. They wouldn’t say more.’

  Ralph looked anxious while Ridlesford ran his hands over his bald skull and cursed the Welshmen for their lack of Christian values. Civilised people did not imprison captured knights. They were supposed to treat them with honour and comfort.

  ‘Bollocks to these bastards,’ said Walter.

  Hugh de Caunteton, leaned over and, in no uncertain terms, told the two warriors to be quiet and craned his neck to listen to the animated conversation going ahead on the dais where Rhys was on his feet again accusing Maurice of cruel acts against his people.

  ‘… Llansteffan where my people tell me that you have burned and pillaged since Yule. So tell me again why I would choose to talk,’ he said signalling to some of his men to sit, ‘and to keep my men from killing each and every one of you – including your twice-damned brother, Robert?’

  Walter, Ralph, and William swapped glances as the Welsh prince confirmed that FitzStephen at least still lived.

  It was Bishop David who answered Rhys. ‘The King confirmed my brother to those lands of Llansteffan, Lord Rhys,’ he said, his mouth stuffed with oatcake.

  ‘What the King gives, God can take away, Father David,’ Rhys sneered. ‘And Our Lord seems to favour the Cymri these days.’

  ‘Maybe if your troops would stand and fight rather than running scared into the hills every time my troops get near them,’ Miles Menevensis said. ‘You Welsh are bloody cowards,’ he added causing Tewdwr and Rhys’ other noblemen to leap to their feet and began pointing across the table at their foes, shouting accusations and abuse in equal measure. Bishop David jumped up to support his son while Walter de Ridlesford added his voice to the clamour from the belly of the hall. Maurice FitzGerald, sitting beside the window, remained quiet but allowed a small grin to pass across his face as he watched the war of words ensue.

  It was Diarmait Mac Murchada who stopped the heated exchange by slamming his trencher against the wall, scattering food everywhere. Taller than everyone in the room by a head, he screamed a bellow that resounded off the walls like a battle cry and slammed a fist onto the table top, making it bounce on the stone floor. With all eyes upon him, he settled himself back into his chair calmly.

  ‘We are here to talk about Robert FitzStephen, not your petty grievances,’ Diarmait said quietly, forcing every ear to concentrate on his words. His blue eyes flashed and his hoarse voice pumped out a melodic accent for all to hear. ‘I do not care if we get this man or not – for my great expedition I already have the support of Strongbow,’ King Diarmait let the powerful name sink in while all the men around the table settled themselves back into their seats, ‘but at least let us talk about the subject at hand instead of arguing like children.’

  ‘Strongbow,’ Prince Rhys breathed the name slowly. It was tough to find a place in Wales where the name was not feared or respected. Where he moved men died. ‘He has agreed to go to Ireland?’

  His son, Tewdwr, leant down and whispered in Prince Rhys’ ear: ‘If Strongbow’s is considering going to Ireland maybe we should think about sending some warriors? There could be something in it for us. I could lead them …’

  Rhys scowled and shook his head. His son had raised a good point, however. A man of Strongbow’s stature would give credibility to the expedition across the ocean. His involvement would draw Normans away from the Welsh March and over the sea. It could give him the opportunity to defeat his enemies while their numbers were thinned. Perhaps there was something that was to Rhys’ benefit in this meeting after all, he considered.

  ‘I am launching a mighty endeavour to regain my kingdom,’ Diarmait told the Prince of Deheubarth. ‘Not a raid, not a heist – an invasion. My friends,’ he indicated towards David and Maurice, ‘have agreed to come to my aid …’

  ‘… but they trust no other to lead their army than Robert FitzStephen,’ Rhys guessed the end of Diarmait’s sentence. ‘I have a prisoner of that name.’

  Diarmait grimaced. ‘We will need as much of the summer campaigning season as is left to retake the lands of the Uí Ceinnselaig and perhaps a year to secure Laighin. I must have this man now if I have any hope of securing my kingdom this year.’

  ‘Robert FitzStephen is a dangerous criminal,’ Rhys warned.

  ‘Perhaps, if you are not willing to release him, we should leave and come back in a fashion less fitting to noblemen than honourable negotiation,’ Bishop David said. The threat of attack with all the power of Pembroke and St David’s did not have any effect. Rhys remained unmoved, his fingertips dancing as he considered his enemy’s words.

  ‘When the Normans invaded your father’s kingdom many years ago,’ Diarmait began again, ‘he called to me for help and I provided warriors. Norse seamen and Irish kern came from my lands to save his. Your strength now is built on that friendship. How disappointed would your father be, Rhys ap Gruffydd, to know that you betray his friends by denying them but one man for a similar adventure across the sea?’ Diarmait’s strongly accented French was mesmeric and silence followed his short speech.

  ‘Robert FitzStephen comes with a high price,’ Rhys retorted quietly, ‘even to my father’s friends.’

  ‘There is swordland available for every warrior who accompanies me …’ Diarmait began only to be interrupted by Rhys.

  ‘We will continue these negotiations in private,’ he told Diarmait. ‘Everyone out, except, of course, for my honoured guests.’ The warriors in the hall groaned but acquiesced and trundled out of the hall, many carrying their bread trenchers and mugs of beer with them. Rhys watched them go.

  ‘When will Strongbow make his journey to Ireland?’ Tewdwr asked excitedly from behind Rhys’ tall chair.

  ‘I thought I told everyone to leave,’ his father growled.

  ‘In truth,’ Diarmait answered, ‘Strongbow dilly-dallies like an old woman in Striguil, promising much but risking little. It could be a year before he has his army prepared.’ He shook his head, betraying his impatience. ‘I need warriors now,’ he insisted, lifting his heavy lids to look at Rhys ap Gruffydd.

  ‘What assurance would I have that if I hand over Robert today, I won’t end up fighting a Pembroke supplemented by him and his warriors tomorrow?’

  ‘I thought we were all friends and loyal subjects to King Henry?’ Bishop David asked. ‘Are we not friends, cousin? So why would we ever face each other across a shield wall?’

  Rhys sneered, turning to Diarmait instead asking for an answer to his question.

  ‘I can promise you this,’ Diarmait began, ‘I will never leave Ireland again and Robert FitzStephen will be sworn to my service and the service of my sons. You may treat it like one of those ”death or glory” ventures I hear so much about from your minstrels.’ Diarmait coughed a chesty chuckle.

  The Cymri nobleman simply pursed his lips. He was concerned that the lure of land in Ireland would prove too great for his
own ambitious warriors. Better, he thought, to have Diarmait thin the ranks of his Norman enemies: Pembroke to the west, Strongbow’s Striguil and the Braose lands at Abergavenny, than his own. If Deheubarth was to enlarge its borders to an extent enjoyed before the Norman invasion then his principality would have to fight those strongholds. If Diarmait could encourage some of those turbulent invaders to go to Ireland it would be just as good as Rhys killing an army, but without any risk to his own troops. And all it would take was to release one man.

  ‘Tewdwr,’ he signalled to his son, ‘bring our guest up from his room. Let’s see what Robert has to say for himself.’

  Aoife stared at the oaken doors as if her eyes could penetrate the wooden boards through sheer will and allow her to be included in the negotiations beyond. The dusty tapestries billowed and sighed in frustration as the feeble spring wind found the cracks in the forgotten masonry of Llandovery Castle. Frowning as her attempts proved forlorn, Aoife listened instead to the male voices inside the hall crescendo and then fade. How she wished that she could be beside her father as he and his new allies talked of war and of the future of her homeland. To be told to wait in the anteroom outside the hall like a scolded child was embarrassing, but the condescending attitude of the servant, who had brought her a small trencher of food and had ruffled her red hair, was utterly abhorrent to Aoife. She had cast aside the stew despite her hunger, daring the woman to admonish her for the act of petulance. Despite her family’s penury, Aoife remained a princess of the Uí Ceinnselaig and that noble birth and bearing was evident as she had stared down the unfortunate servant until she had scuttled away towards the castle kitchens. That she was left alone while the men conducted the business in the hall was another shame to add to a growing list, and all had common origin: Diarmait Mac Donnchadh Mac Murchada. She loved her father like any good daughter should, but all her life’s ills found their source in him and his intractable greed. Not that she thought his ambition a sin – far from it – but simply she was sick of her father reaching too far and falling well short of his target. A king, like everyone, had a role to play in society and Diarmait had failed in his duty because of his insatiable need for power. He was a dreamer and his imaginings had lost Aoife everything – her home, her brothers, her position, and her wealth. All their absences hurt, but she was not sure which upset her most. She recalled how, when she was sixteen, she had received a small herd of twenty cows and one bull from her father. He had also given her three slaves to care for the animals, just as he had her elder sisters when they had come of age. Órlaith and Sabh still had those same small herds, whereas Aoife now had two hundred livestock and ten slaves who sold butter and milk in Waesfjord on her behalf. There were richer women than she in Ireland, but few who did not have to share her fortune with her husband. And yet she had little hope of recovering that wealth, or hope of an advantageous marital match with a man of equal royal status. She was almost twenty and few daughters of provincial kings remained unwed at that age. Aoife’s face burned in embarrassment as she thought about that indignity. She knew her sisters and cousins would not forget it. They would gossip about her in her absence and make jests about her. And all the while Aoife was unable to do anything to change her circumstances.

  Angry foreign voices swapped insults inside the room, causing Aoife to again look at the door at the end of the corridor. She could identify a few of the words as they were thrown across the great hall of Llandovery by the French speakers, but the Welsh tongue was unrecognisable to her. Soon, the word war quietened and Aoife released the breath she had not realised that she was holding. Why her father required more warriors in addition to those that Earl Strongbow had promised to provide, she did not know.

  Aoife sighed and climbed to her feet, bored and alone in the corridor. She did not like the castle of stone, and had yet to find herself inside one such building which made her feel comfortable. It was warm and summery outside yet in the keep of Llandovery there was a piercing chill. Her father’s stone house at Fearna had never been so cold, not even in the depths of winter, and the smell of rising damp and mould coming from close by assailed her nostrils. A castle was a cage, she decided; a cold, dank, smelly cage. And to make matters worse it was a cage which gave the impression of security. She had been guest in many fortresses since her family’s exile from Laighin five years before, and she promised that she would never reside in such a horrible place, not if all her father’s dreams came true and they won back his place at the head of the Uí Ceinnselaig. That said, she had always enjoyed the view from the roof of a Norman keep, and rather than remain on her sullen vigil before the hall doors, she made for the winding stone stair and the roof.

  Her leather sabatons, bought for her by the merchant Robert FitzHarding in Bristol, could find little purchase as she climbed upwards through the draughty stairway, but she hoisted her heavy skirts in her arms to make the ascent less of a labour. Nevertheless, by the time she had passed the solar door on the floor above she was already damp with sweat. Inside she could hear women’s voices and she caught a glimpse of the insipid lady of the castle, surrounded by her servants, as she passed by without stopping. Lady Gwenllian did not seem angry to have been left out of her husband’s negotiations – in fact she looked content to be surrounded by the chit-chat and gossip rather than mediation and arguments which took place below. Not for the first time, Aoife felt anger at being forced by her father and his new Norman friends to either accept the company of these women or to exist in solitude. The daughter of the exiled king turned her back on the solar door without a second glance.

  There was no-one on the roof and Aoife thanked the Blessed Eithne and Sodelb for granting her privacy as she stared out over the sun-banked mountains, steeped in yellow flowers and trees heavy with leaf right to the horizon far above. Aoife clung to the battlements as the warm wind whipped through her Norman headdress, and she reached up to tear the veil from her brow and release her dark red locks of hair. During her first days in Poitiers, she had created a small scandal at the royal court when she had appeared in the presence of the English king with her head bared. It had been in the heat of the Frankish summer and her new clothes had been constricting, but it had taught her everything that she needed to know about a woman’s role in English society; that one was to be quiet and unopinionated, sedate and modest. In Ireland a woman had a job within the household, but in royal court she had watched the work of a wife being done by her husband’s steward. Aoife felt angry on behalf of all those women who were treated like brood mares rather than as partners who could share the burden of power with their husbands.

  The three river valleys seemed to stretch upwards and away from the castle like open arms ready to embrace the exiled king’s daughter. Below the high motte, she looked southwards to the low roof of the Norman church and the fields beyond where people toiled. She knew they were monks for they were all that remained in Llandovery during the spring and summer months. The rest had taken their flocks and herds into the hills where pastures were plentiful and Normans few. A wave of sadness overtook Aoife as she stared out over the green fields and hills. The mountains to the west of her home at Fearna were more distant, but somehow the scene before her prompted thoughts of her Uí Ceinnselaig homeland. She swiped a tear from her cheek and blamed the small wind for causing it to appear. Angrily she turned her back on the countryside and made for another door that would take back down into the depths of the tower. She did not know where she was going as she skipped down the stair passed many doors, the skirt of her Norman gown light as it caught on her heel. The light green wool provided her with little heat as she made her way down, and she wished that she had one of the thick cloaks she had made under her mother’s tutelage. She had been able to rescue one of her patchwork mantles when her family had fled Fearna, but the garment had been soaked during a rainstorm in Poitiers and then forgotten when the family returned to Bristol to the house of Robert FitzHarding.

  Lost in her thoughts, Aoife suddenly rea
lised that she had missed the door which would have taken her back to the great hall. She had no mind to return to that lonely vigil and rather than climb up the stone steps again, she kept going downwards into the belly of the castle. It was dark and the smell of damp continued to surround Aoife. The long stair was brightened only by a single window above and came to an end before another closed door. Distant voices above her, perhaps one of Rhys’ servants making his way to the kitchens in the bailey, or a warrior on the battlements, was the only noise that she could hear. Aoife leant forward and tested the door. The latch was not locked and though it scraped the dusty floor loudly, it swung open easily to reveal a cellar packed with stacked barrels. With only the light from the little window to guide her, Aoife stepped under the lintel and into the cold room. It was barely twenty paces wide and as she tip-toed further inside, she paused as she heard rhythmic breathing coming from behind the barrels. Aoife was not so naïve that she could not guess what was happening on the other side and she stopped in her tracks lest she be discovered and mistaken for spying on two lovers in the throes of passion. She could not bear the thought of such an embarrassing situation and, as quietly as she could she turned to leave.