FitzStephen smiled politely and nodded, glad that the deal was done. King Diarmait Mac Murchada would never know how close he had come to calling off the expedition, but now, with Yossi’s help secured, the adventure to Ireland was back on track.
‘Do you know a good armourer?’ he asked the Jew, ‘and somewhere that I can buy a good courser?’
‘You are expecting a fight?’ Yossi ben Ysaac asked.
‘In Ireland?’ replied FitzStephen, ‘definitely.’
The night was still and cold as Yossi watched FitzStephen and Maurice lead their horses away from his house. In his hand the candle flared wildly as the meagre wick and molten wax combined and sparked.
‘Goodbye,’ the Jew shouted at the two Normans, ‘and good luck,’ he added with a small smile, barely more than a wrinkle of his lips. It had been enjoyable to reminisce with the Norman, his charge for a few short months over a decade before, but the deal that he had made was all the better. He waited until the two men had disappeared into the darkness and the clamour of Gloucester. ‘Shmuel?’ he then called.
His son slinked out of the dark doorway. ‘Father?’
‘You heard everything?’
‘I did.’
Yossi did not turn to look at him. ‘So?’
Shmuel shrugged as he joined his father in the light cast from the entrance. ‘I have made my enquiries. It was a good price for Carew Castle.’
‘So you think that they succeed in their adventure across the sea?’ Yossi asked with a smile. ‘Or perhaps you wish to have a castle and live like a great lord like Sir Robert there?’
Shmuel scowled at his father. ‘I wish that Robert FitzStephen would die a hundred deaths, I wish his every endeavour fail, and his crops turn to dust. If that leads to our ownership of his lands,’ he shrugged, ‘then all the better. He stole my wife and forced me to send her away. I wish him great harm.’
‘Yet you did not think to attack him in the streets as he left my house,’ he nodded his head at the gates of his compound through which Robert and Maurice had departed. ‘The Normans are but two and your friends could easily make it look like an accident.’
‘If my friends were involved, no one on earth would think it an accident,’ Shmuel replied. ‘Fortunately for them, people will have seen them come into our area and we Jews have enough trouble as it is. I do not want the sheriff’s men poking around our business. Not even if it led to his death.’
‘That is more like the thinking I require in my business partner,’ Yossi replied and threw his hand onto his son’s shoulder with no little pride. ‘No more anger. No more running off into the darkness with a blade in your hand. Those days are done?’
‘Yes,’ he replied with a glower.
‘Good boy,’ he patted his son on the arm as he turned to look at him. ‘But that does not mean that we cannot have our revenge on that Godless savage.’
Shmuel blinked and did not answer. ‘You mean it?’ he stumbled. ‘I admit that I am shocked. I thought you liked him.’
‘Do you think I could like a man who cuckolded my own firstborn? A man that accepted my hospitality and then threw it back in my face?’ Yossi spoke calmly but Shmuel could tell he was on the edge of fury. His long beard quivered. ‘Yet civility costs me nothing and I will exact a high price from FitzStephen in recompense for the slight on our family.’
‘How?’
‘By using my brain,’ he replied. ‘This is the only way for our kind to survive in this place.’ He began to stroke his long grey beard and looked up at the stars which punctured the meagre light from the town. He waited for his son to speak.
‘They have our gold,’ Shmuel said, ‘and we have the deeds to Carew,’ he paused and licked our lips. ‘Do you want me to rob them?’
‘No. But if FitzStephen defaults on the loan then we can sell the castle off,’ said Yossi, ‘and for a lot more than what they asked for.’
‘So how do we make sure that he defaults? How do we make sure that he will fail in his plans in Ireland?’
‘I would be inclined to wait,’ his father replied, looking up at his son. ‘No, do not look so shocked, Shmuel! Ireland is a long way away and not even the might of Rome could conquer it. So the castle may well fall into our hands given time and patience.’
Shmuel shook his head. ‘That is not revenge. Hadar …’ He stopped and breathed in deeply. He had not said his wife’s name in many years. ‘She deceived me and FitzStephen betrayed your trust. I do not want him to taste even a moment of success. I would sail across the sea myself and warn the men of Ireland of his approach if it denied him but a single smile.’
‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’ Yossi frowned. ‘He has taken our money and within the week will have spent it on those things he requires to do his fighting and conquering.’
Shmuel breathed out in anger in frustration.
‘But that,’ Yossi said with a smile, ‘is the trap. Once the money is spent he cannot get it back. So if his enterprise was to, I don’t know, be prevented from leaving port by some unforeseen circumstance, then FitzStephen would find himself in a very difficult bind.’ Yossi smiled at his son and walked back through the door. Shmuel followed.
‘You have something in mind, don’t you?’ When Yossi didn’t answer his son continued to badger him. ‘Please, Father, tell me your plan.’
In response, Yossi led his son from the antechamber towards his brother’s body in the room opposite. ‘It is such a shame that we must send Uncle to London with only strangers to care for his body.’ He kept his hand on his son’s arm as he stroked his dead brother’s hair. ‘Better that one of his blood travel to the Tower and bury him with his people …’
‘Father …’ Shmuel interrupted but Yossi held up a hand.
‘And perhaps while he was there my kinsman could pay a visit to a friend of mine who has the ear of the King.’ Yossi reached inside his heavy robes and produced a pouch full of coin which he handed to his son, who looked at it shiftily. ‘I didn’t say he was a good friend,’ Yossi joked as he looked down at his brother, ‘but he is one who will listen to a poor Jew with information that he can use to his advantage.’
‘And what is to his advantage?’
‘A share in the spoils of the sale of Carew Castle,’ Yossi said with vigour and gripped his son’s arm. Shmuel nodded his head as his father pushed the purse into his hands. ‘His name is Hubert Walter, a priest and a Baron of the Exchequer. You will find him – or rather he will find you – in the shadows at the Palace of Westminster. Tell him that FitzStephen plans to subvert King Henry and make himself King of Ireland.’
Shmuel raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that true?’
‘Who knows?’ Yossi said with a shrug, ‘but Hubert will convince King Henry of its truth. The King will not allow another to threaten his power. He has enough problems with the Franks and Scots without another rival rising to power on his western shore. He will stop FitzStephen from departing and then –’
‘He will default on the loan,’ Shmuel interrupted.
‘And then we win.’
Shmuel tested the weight of the gold in his hand. ‘Ruining FitzStephen and his brothers will not bring Hadar back, but it will suffice for now. You want me to go to London tomorrow?’
‘No my boy, you will leave tonight,’ He laid his hand on his brother’s head. ‘We deserve vengeance for this wrong, and luckily for us vengeance can be easily bought.’
Tewdwr ap Rhys was dead. Richard de la Roche brought the news, and his five battered men-at-arms, back from Ireland in a merchant ship bound for Bristol. Diarmait was devastated, Roche told FitzStephen in his deep voice, and had taken up hiding in a monastery outside Fearna with his family. There he brooded and plotted against one and all. There he waited for the coming of FitzStephen and for the violence to begin.
‘It is a country of contrasts, Sir Robert,’ Roche told the knight from Ceredigion as they stood in the bows of the moored ship in Melrfjord sound. ‘It has rich soil but few g
ood farmers. Forests dominate the almost the entire island but they do not try to build castles.’ The Fleming shook his head in disbelief. ‘The warriors are naturally brave but they have no training or discipline. The churches are packed with riches and students while their warriors are few. They are virtually leaderless but nearly indomitable. It will not be easy to put King Diarmait back on his throne,’ he said as he shook his head, ‘even the Danes have given up trying to conquer these stubborn Irish.’
‘What of Waesfjord?’ Robert asked.
‘I know not. We landed well to the north of the city,’ Roche said, ‘though the way the Irish talk of it, Waesfjord may as well be impregnable.’ He then recanted the story of Tewdwr’s death. The boy had gone ahead to Ireland with Diarmait and Richard de la Roche, without his father’s permission or many warriors, and upon arrival had led a small sally into the north of Laighin against an enemy called the Osraighe. It had been little more than a skirmish at a place called Cill Osnadh, and their aim had been to rustle some cattle.
‘However,’ Roche said, ‘the locals were many and we were few, they were well prepared for our approach and they fell on us with animal savagery.’ He bowed his head. ‘Crazy eyed and naked as the day they were born,’ he said. ‘It was terrifying. Nevertheless, we fought them off. Young Tewdwr was our only casualty. A throwing spear took him in the throat as he marshalled our line to meet their charge.’ He wiped a hand down his face. ‘His life was extinguished before his body had even hit the ground. We buried him there and retreated. After that I took charge. I sought out Diarmait’s son, Domhnall, who had been hiding in a forest near his home and together we took back Diarmait’s fortress at Fearna, but there was no plunder to be had so I brought the men back here on a merchantman out of Dubhlinn.’
‘And Diarmait?’
‘Forced into hiding for fear of attack by more powerful of the tribes around Fearna,’ Richard said. ‘He was confident that the Augustinians would protect him.’
FitzStephen blew air out between puffed cheeks as he listened to the tale. The sun’s morning vapour had already begun to creep over the land to the east and the Welsh headland, which guarded the mouth of the Cleddau estuary, was already starting to appear out of the distant dark. Robert directed his short prayer for the soul of Tewdwr ap Rhys towards the sun. He had been a brave man who was in heaven ahead of his time. He would have to send someone north to tell the mourning Prince Rhys the tale of Tewdwr’s brave demise. Perhaps he would even employ a bard to write a tune to remember the Cymri nobleman. FitzStephen did not want to send a warrior to Llandovery and lose a sword at this late stage, but manners required that he send someone of rank and he could not bear the thought of his cousin hearing of Tewdwr’s death from any other source, no matter what had gone between them in the last years. Maybe he would send that chattering priest Nicholas, he thought, even though he doubted that the cleric would tell the tale nearly as well as a fighting man.
Richard de la Roche yawned and FitzStephen dismissed him to his bed, leaving the Norman alone on the ship which rocked slowly in the shallows of the river. His Flemish friend had done the right thing by bringing his men back to Wales and FitzStephen had immediately taken the older man’s oath of fealty. Roche, who would accompany him back to Ireland on the next day’s tide, had also brought news from Diarmait of a suitable landing place for FitzStephen’s invasion, an island in the mouth of a river in the extreme south. To that end the Fleming had also brought an Irishman back with him, old in years and wise in the oceans between Ireland and Wales; a good guide to the island which had been selected for the Norman bridgehead. The Irishman had spoken little since he had arrived except to declare that, following a thorough inspection, he believed the Norman-made ships capable of making the dangerous voyage across the sea. According to a grimly gleeful Fionntán Ua Donnchaidh, the coast around Waesfjord was treacherous and even cursed by dangerous and cruel spirits and it would take a man of his own substantial skill to safely navigate the Normans to Ireland.
‘So don’t think about giving me any orders or I will lead your whole army onto rocks,’ he had told FitzStephen and the Norman believed him. Every part of Ua Donnchaidh’s face seemed craggy and sunburn from sea spray and reflected sun while his eyes were constantly screwed up from a lifetime staring at the same sparkling seas. The effect was a continuous toothy smile-grimace across his face which made him look like he was laughing at everyone. The wiry little man might well have been, FitzStephen considered. Fionntán had also told him that he had fought against Robert’s father, Stephen, when Gruffydd ap Tewdwr of Deheubarth had returned to Wales from exile, and that was when he had learned some of the French and Welsh tongues. His reason for helping his old enemy now was unknown to FitzStephen and Fionntán’s mocking face gave away nothing.
Yossi’s money had been well spent in the few weeks since FitzStephen and Maurice had returned from Gloucester. Six ships had been ordered from the Norse shipwrights who plied their trade at Melrfjord. FitzStephen looked down across the quayside at his fleet: the Arthwyr, the Dragon, and the Saint Maurice were seaworthy while the Nest and the Saint David were yet to be launched. Those two beached ships lacked only masts and would be used to bring Maurice de Prendergast and his Flemings to Ireland the day after the main landing by Robert and his Normans. The shell of an as yet unnamed ship was beginning to take form and would eventually be used to take Maurice FitzGerald and his reinforcements across the sea a month after the first landings. In addition to finishing the last ship, the workers were cutting down a vast swathe of forest for timber that would be shaped and cut so that FitzStephen’s brother could bring the basis for a castle across the sea. The timber would be sequenced and bundled for a quick and easy assembly in Ireland. Everything they needed to survive was to be brought with them. Nothing had been left to chance.
‘You fight a battle,’ he remembered his father’s lesson as a child, ‘and then you build a castle. Then you ride for a day, fight again, and build another castle.’ It was the Norman way of war and he knew that advice was as true today as it was back then.
The Arthwyr bumped thickly on the waves against the beach and FitzStephen rocked with her. Beside the bulbous ship was the Saint Maurice. She was to be captained by Richard de la Roche alongside Walter de Ridlesford and Renaud de Caunteton. Beyond that was the Dragon under the command of Robert’s nephew, Miles Menevensis, and the Gael, Fionntan. Each ship would carry about a hundred and twenty men, plus supplies and horses.
Sunlight burst suddenly over the land of Dyfed, warming FitzStephen’s face, and he closed his eyes, releasing a smile. Through his eyelids he fancied that he could see the blurry red outline of the peninsular on the far headland. It was but a black silhouette in front of the bright sun. FitzStephen could not have hoped for a more beautiful last day in Wales. Quickly he considered his future which lay over the distant horizon in the land of Ireland. What would he find there? Cleanly shaven and clothed in chainmail and surcoat, FitzStephen once again looked like a Norman knight ready for battle. But something was different in his soul. It seemed like all his life had been preparing him for this moment; the few instants of learning at his distant father’s side in Aberteifi, as a page watching the great Earl Robert de Caen, as an esquire to the brave, if foolhardy, Sir Henry FitzRoy, and as the Constable of Ceredigion with Wulfhere Little-Fingers beside him. He realised that for all his life he had been working for another man’s glory, but now he felt that he was fighting for himself, for his family’s prestige, and for a merchant town called Waesfjord. He could almost see the prize in his mind’s eye; a settlement with many ships in the river port and traders milling around the marketplace. Well-ordered fields ran away from the town walls and the land was heaving with crops and animals. And above them all was a castle of stone, dominating the river, estuary, and land. FitzStephen opened his eyes and sniffed a small laugh. He was getting ahead of himself and decided that his thoughts of Ireland could wait until the following day when the tide was at its highes
t. He should enjoy his last day in the beautiful land which he had called his home.
The warming sun had not yet cleared the misty vapour which lay over the fields and birdsong and frog-croaking lulled his mind as he thought of all the old stories about his homeland. He wondered if men would sing and talk of his part in the Norman story in Wales in years to come. Perhaps he would be remembered as a story to scare children. He was shocked to find that he actually quite liked the idea. He thought about the mottle of lordships in western Wales known as Little England, a country which he would never see again. Beyond Pembroke was a tight ring of Norman fortresses defending southern Dyfed from the independent rule of Prince Rhys. One of FitzStephen’s sons, Geoffrey, was now stationed in those castles. As page to William FitzGerald’s wife in Carew Castle, Geoffrey would be afforded a comfortable lifestyle before becoming an esquire and learning to be a miles. It was a good life for a mere bastard, he thought. He was himself an illegitimate son and knew from experience how difficult life could be when people preferred to think of you as an affront to God and His Church. FitzStephen sniffed away the long-forgotten subject and turned his back on the sun. It was all bandit country to the north of Carew, where Welsh and Norman mixed and fought and died. And amongst those warring lands was his home, Aberteifi. FitzStephen had not realised how much he loved the country of Wales and its petty politics, warring barons, and belligerent chieftains. How much he would miss its rolling countryside and high hills! It did not matter to him that most of the people of this country hated him and all his kind; this was his country, conquered by his father, and he was leaving it forever for an unknown future in Ireland.
There and then he decided to take a journey out to the headland at the mouth of the river to look across the sea to Ireland. Turning on his heel, he jumped down onto the shingle and sandy beach from the Arthwyr and trotted back towards the small town. Seashells snapped and shattered beneath his leather sabatons as he crossed the strand to his new courser. The small, stout horse had been his first purchase in Gloucester, and he had named him Sleipnir after Odin’s eight-legged beast because, like his mythical namesake, the courser was incredibly fleet of foot. Climbing into the saddle he looked one last time at the estuary before turning Sleipnir northwards through the settlement. At his side was a new sword with its grip made from white shark skin which, its creator had told him, would give him an advantage if he fought in the rain.
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