Meiler FitzHenry, his nephew, was one of the few out of his bed and was eating porridge from a carved wooden bowl which he had bought in the small Norse town. When Meiler saw his uncle he jumped to his feet, knocking over a stool in the open-walled kitchen tent.
‘Good morning, Uncle,’ Meiler cried, his voice nervous and slightly too high-pitched for such a squat and capable youngster.
‘Meiler,’ FitzStephen said, turning Sleipnir to greet him, ‘you are up very early.’ His nephew babbled something about horses needing to be fed but FitzStephen wasn’t really listening. Meiler’s father, Sir Henry FitzRoy, had been, like Robert, an illegitimate son of the famed Helen of Wales, Princess Nest of Deheubarth, though Meiler’s grandfather had been no less than King Henry I of England. Meiler was therefore one of King Henry’s closest relatives, but he had never even met the King of England. Like FitzStephen he was considered a troublemaker and a law onto himself. Nonetheless, Meiler had served Henry FitzEmpress in France before returning in squalor to Wales, where he found that in his absence his lands had been overrun by the rampaging Welsh of Deheubarth. Castles that had once been deep inside Norman territory now lay in Welsh hands and lands long tilled by Norman farmers were now used as pastures for the roving Cymri. When Meiler had appealed for his cousin King Henry’s help his entreaties had been met with silence. His story was the same one told by the Barri brothers, Walter de Ridlesford, and the Caunteton family, the Barretts, the Codds, and the Russells. Their failure in Wales had made them all desperate to succeed in Ireland.
‘Could you do something for me, Meiler?’ FitzStephen asked him.
‘Of course,’ his nephew said immediately, eyes twinkling at the possibility of responsibility.
‘Take charge of loading the ships. I am going for a gallop.’
Meiler nodded with a smile and repeated FitzStephen’s orders. ‘Load the ships, going for a gallop. Got it,’ he said, obviously delighted at the small responsibility placed on his wide shoulders. ‘What will I tell everyone? When will you return?’
FitzStephen shook his head and beamed. ‘When my horse is tired? When I see the ocean? Who knows!’ With that he kicked Sleipnir into a trot through the village and whooped.
It was good to be free.
It was after midday when FitzStephen was challenged at the edge of the small town of Melrfjord by two Flemings in the colours of Richard de la Roche. Like their commander, whose family came from a town in the southern coast in Rhos, their French was spoken with the clipped Germanic tones of their flooded homeland. The two men guarded the small gap in a hastily thrown up palisade designed to protect the hundred or so tents. Flags and emblems of the more senior knights crowned several positions on the wooden stockade, whilst behind it the tents were plain and grey against the blue sky.
Most of the men who would follow FitzStephen were considered brigands, trouble-makers, and failures by those outside Wales; dangerous men who disrupted the peace installed by good King Henry. Most had become wandering vagabonds, willing to sell their skills in war to any lord who would feed, house, or promise them plunder. But FitzStephen knew better. These men were exactly what he wanted – warriors who would do anything to follow the sons of Nest and their offer of more land than they ever believed possible.
While the small, tented town was almost empty, apart from the Flemish guards at the gate, the beach was awash with people and materials which were being loaded onto the ships. FitzStephen quickly passed through, pausing only to leave Sleipnir with a smith to re-shoe, and went down to the waterside. Except for the horses and the men, everything was being put on the ships so that the army could move on the early tide.
‘Sir Robert,’ Meiler FitzHenry shouted at him from beside a donkey which dragged a cart with forty suits of scale armour towards the Saint Maurice. The chainmail rang as it travelled along the rough path. ‘Where the hell did you get to?’ he asked. He was confident now, having been put in command of greater men and older cousins by his uncle. ‘Everyone was worried.’
FitzStephen doubted that very much but greeted Meiler cordially. ‘I threw a shoe on my way to the headland. Is everything going well here?’
‘As it could be,’ Meiler confirmed. For a man-at-arms he was a stickler for minutiae, and he had carefully organised the supplies and materials for the trip showing no small amount of enjoyment and fulfilment in the task. ‘Not there!’ Meiler suddenly shouted at a serf who was trying to store twice-baked bread on deck of the Arthwyr, ‘put in the hold, you idiot! One splash from a wave and we lose the whole lot.’
FitzStephen realised he was not needed on the organisational front and, leaving Meiler shouting at the serf, pulled off his surcoat and shirt to begin helping the men loading the ships. White, wrinkly scars and war wounds appeared as he tensed the muscles on his chest and arms. He was assisting two brothers from Devon called Scurlock to load sheaves of arrows and bolts into the Dragon’s hold when Philip de Barri found him later that evening.
‘… and so Earl Strongbow married Roger de Quincy to his only daughter because he claimed that he was a warrior of repute,’ the elder Scurlock, Amalric, told FitzStephen, ‘but William Ferrand was ridden with guilt and contracted leprosy from praying for forgiveness all day in a monastery where they treated the diseased …’
‘Sir Maurice wants you to come up to his tent,’ Philip interrupted Scurlock. ‘Bishop David is saying Mass before tonight’s feast.’
FitzStephen groaned internally. David’s sermons were notoriously long with much shouting and banging of tabletops, but he knew it would be bad form and a scurrilous start to the campaign to not give thanks to the Lord with his brothers. He bade goodbye to the Scurlocks, throwing his surcoat, shirt, and sword belt over his bare shoulder and walked back up the sun-blanched beach. He sent the enthusiastic young Philip ahead of him, back up to the Norman camp to herald his approach. As he walked up towards Maurice’s tent he threw on his shirt and rearranged his surcoat and belt, dusting off the dirt picked up from his afternoon’s work. He steeled himself in preparation for David’s Mass, wishing that he had thought to have got himself some food before coming up to the tent. As he was thinking this he spotted them: three men-at-arms wearing the King’s livery of two contemptuous golden Angevin lions on a crimson field. The warriors were eating from bread trenchers in the dining tent where he had discovered Meiler early that morning. Some impulse made him turn back and take a different route to Maurice’s tent. Immediately confused and alarmed at the presence of royal agents in their camp and, he felt a cold sweat begin at his back. He quietly circumnavigated another shelter and ducked into Maurice’s tent where an animated argument was going on.
‘You cannot be serious, Sir John!’ It was not often that Maurice raised his voice, but FitzStephen could see from his elder brother’s face that he had already been shouting at the knight before the top table for some time. ‘We have spent money of our own in good faith that we had King Henry’s licence to go to Ireland.’ In his hand Maurice held a copy of Henry’s proclamation complete with a wax seal and ribbon which dangled for all to see.
‘My Lord Constable …’ Sir John began before stopping to acknowledge FitzStephen’s entry. The tent went silent as he entered and looked at their unwanted visitor. He knew Sir John de Stafford by his yellow and red decorated livery which was famous throughout England. He was a tall, thin, grey-haired man with a short, neat beard who had made his name fighting against the Scots. Now, with age taking its toll and a gammy knee from a battle long ago, he had, ironically, become one of the King’s favourite couriers. The implication of using such an important knight as his messenger on this occasion was not lost on FitzStephen: King Henry meant business.
‘Sir Robert,’ Stafford greeted his host with the smallest of nods and winced from the old war wound in his leg. ‘I was just telling your brothers of my mission. I come on behalf of King Henry.’
FitzStephen felt his lip curl. Obviously there was no Mass as Philip de Barri had suggested, but FitzS
tephen suspected that Maurice, sensibly, had not wanted to worry the other warriors at the harbour with the news of the arrival of the King’s messenger.
‘The Justiciar, Richard de Luci, sends me to you with his greetings,’ Stafford continued. ‘You, Sir Robert, are summoned with horses and arms to attend upon the King in Aquitaine. You must present yourself to the King in Poitiers before Midsummer with any troops under your command.’ Sir John bowed his head. ‘I believe that you will garrison Chinon Castle through the winter.’
‘Chinon?’ one man shouted angrily. ‘How can the King go back on his licence?’ Soon all those in the tent were shouting at Sir John.
FitzStephen could not believe his ears. Everything that he had hoped for was evaporating before his eyes. A decree from the King of England may as well have been issued from the mouth of God himself. ‘In short,’ he raised his voice to calm the room, ‘the King has decided to retract his licence?’ The anger threatened to rise in FitzStephen. ‘What of Maurice, Sir John?’
‘The King gave no orders as regarding the Constable of Pembroke,’ the knight said evenly, ‘though I do not doubt that he means him to remain in Wales at his proper station.’ He raised an eyebrow in Maurice’s direction. ‘Henry’s orders were directed only to you, Sir Robert.’
Wind billowed the door of the tent, sending a shiver through the small group of men who were trying to come to terms with this revelation. FitzStephen barely noticed Miles and Walter de Ridlesford threaten and barter with Sir John who, hands in the air, denied that there was any way out of the situation. Bishop David took up the tête-à-tête with Sir John, but FitzStephen was barely listening.
‘If you think we are about to give up on our most Holy Crusade to return Ireland to the See of Rome then you are sadly mistaken,’ David boomed, his outstretched arm pointing beyond the flapping tent door which faced east. ‘We have made a solemn covenant with Our Lord …’
FitzStephen interrupted his brother halfway through his religious tirade by laying a hand across his arm. ‘And what if we ignore King Henry’s decree?’ he asked. The gathering immediately fell silent. Most understood the gravity of his declaration. ‘What if I do not care what that lying Angevin bastard commands?’ he asked again.
John de Stafford laughed briefly, searching each face for a similar reaction. He realised quickly that the warriors of the March were deadly serious. He held up the document bearing the King of England’s seal for all to see. ‘King Henry’s word is law in this land.’
‘No,’ FitzStephen replied, dragging his sword from his scabbard and stabbing it into the grass before Sir John, ‘this is the March and here the sword rules.’ The English knight took a small step back from the quivering weapon.
‘Sir Robert,’ he said, ‘please be serious. No-one ignores a command from Henry of England! Don’t mistake this king for one like Stephen de Blois.’ He held out a finger and pointed at FitzStephen’s chest. ‘This king will never forgive you if you go through with your plan and he will stalk you like a beast wherever you attempt to flee. Henry does not forget and he does not stop to offer mercy.’
FitzStephen shrugged, his eyes meeting Maurice’s across the room. His brother nodded encouragingly. ‘So Henry will declare me an outlaw,’ he replied. ‘I wouldn’t be the first and certainly I won’t be the last. And I, at least, will be beyond his grasp in Ireland.’
‘But what if you do not succeed, Robert?’ Bishop David asked. ‘It will not be our necks on the line but yours, brother.’
‘We will just have to make sure we do not fail. And you can truthfully say that I left against your will.’
Stafford was appalled at the knight’s words. ‘This is madness,’ he said quietly. ‘Don’t you see what Henry is doing?’ he said. ‘He remembers the stories of Robert Guiscard and Bohemond; mere knights who became kings. He remembers the stories of his own grandfather, Fulk; a mere count in France, but a great monarch in Jerusalem. His councillors tell him that he should fear a rival Norman kingdom on his doorstep. He fears that would destabilise his empire. Henry will not allow you to threaten his power.’
FitzStephen looked on unmoved. ‘I seek no crown.’
‘And why do you think he stamps royal authority on every nobleman?’ Stafford continued unabated. ‘He and his cronies write laws that suffocate and strangle any dissenting voice and make all subservient to his word.’
FitzStephen wondered what decree had caught in Sir John de Stafford’s throat. He wondered which law had made him acquiesce to the King’s power, but he did not stop Stafford’s speech.
‘He does it because he is fearful of his subjects,’ Sir John continued. ‘He is scared of you, Sir Robert, because you may succeed in your venture and become a threat to his empire.’
FitzStephen began to laugh. ‘Henry of England – scared of me? Sir John, I thank you for bringing me this message and you may inform our faint-hearted monarch that I received his words.’ FitzStephen inhaled sharply, ‘But also tell him this – I was his loyal subject until he abandoned me to imprisonment. I consider my allegiance to him over only because he forgot his fidelity to me, and because of that I feel no compunction in ignoring his decree and going to Ireland against his wishes. Like our family’s protector, St Maurice, I will not bend to the cruel commands of an over-powerful monarch. Tell him that, Sir John.’ David and Maurice smiled at FitzStephen’s invocation of the story about the Roman soldier who refused to worship the Emperor Maximian as a living God and was martyred for the Christian faith.
‘I assume then that the offer of fifty marks from the treasury would also meet with your refusal?’ Sir John de Stafford asked. Walter de Ridlesford whistled at the sum but FitzStephen simply shook his head.
‘Some things cannot be bought for any amount.’
Stafford sighed and bowed his head. ‘I will pray that you never fall into King Henry’s clutches, Sir Robert, or he will tear you to pieces like a terrier with a rat in his teeth. You will understand that I am charged to stop you at any cost?’ FitzStephen nodded in response and Stafford continued: ‘So I will go to Gower and get William de Braose’s help. It could take me three days to return with his warriors,’ Sir John said with a smile.
‘Thank you, Sir John,’ FitzStephen bowed to his peer, realising that Gower was only a day’s riding to the east and that Stafford was allowing him the chance to get to sea.
‘I can’t say that I am not a little jealous,’ Stafford said after bowing to the bishop and the Constable of Pembroke. ‘Good luck, Sir Robert, and to you all.’ He pushed his way out of the tent to begin his journey back towards the Gower peninsular to the east.
Inside the tent was quiet as they waited for the King’s agent to get out of earshot. Then suddenly every man in the room began talking loudly.
‘FitzStephen, you are mad, just like your father,’ said one agitated voice. ‘King Henry will eat us for breakfast!’
‘No, he’s right! To hell with the Angevins,’ another called.
It was FitzStephen’s voice which boomed for silence. ‘We now have a new enemy,’ he told them. ‘He is the King of England.’ Several in the room visibly wilted at his words. ‘Any man who follows my banner to Ireland will probably never be able to return to England, Wales, or any land controlled by Henry FitzEmpress.’ He gave every man present a moment to think on their probable exile and the forfeiture of their estates, meagre though they were. ‘The King is a man who does not forgive,’ FitzStephen continued, ‘and time will not temper his thirst for revenge over those who resisted him. I am willing to take that chance because the glory and prize in Ireland is so great. But I cannot speak for every man so if you feel that you cannot stand against the King, I will understand.’ Some men groaned angry growls at the thought of giving in to Henry’s threats while others shared secret, silent looks to friends of a like mind that they should get out of the dangerous position in which they found themselves. ‘And those men may remain here and continue the fight against Prince Rhys with my brother, Sir Willi
am,’ he continued. ‘But tell me, how successful has that fight been of late? How many men has Henry sent to help his loyal knights in Wales? How long can we continue the fight before we are driven back across the Severn?’ Many growled their agreement and hatred of the Welsh leaders who had pushed them back into the last recesses of the southern coast. FitzStephen gritted his teeth. ‘It won’t be easy, but in Ireland we will have a king who will stand beside us in battle, not behind plotting how to get his grubby hands on the prize for which we have fought,’ he said. ‘And we will have land; two hundred thousand acres and the city of Waesfjord!’ He let the vast quantity of land sink in. ‘And there will be the prospect of more to any man brave enough to take it.’ The Norman leaders nodded their heads in assent. ‘So I am asking you to follow me to Ireland despite the hostility of a jealous king,’ FitzStephen said, ‘and claim your fortune and the gratitude of an appreciative monarch. Hardy men of Wales, let us leave this land behind and forge a new frontier in Ireland!’
The commanders cheered FitzStephen and his vision for the future. They may have been considered troublemakers and bandits in the kingdom of England but they were also the true heirs of the Northmen and their equal in boldness and daring. They all revelled in the desire for land and conquest. It was the same drive which had taken their ancestors from Scandinavia to France, France into England, and England into the Welsh lands beyond. And now it would lead them to the very edge of the known world; to Ireland.
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