The cheering gradually abated. ‘We leave for Laighin on the morning tide.’ Sir Robert FitzStephen, son of a Welsh princess and a lowborn Norman knight, was adamant. Sir Robert FitzStephen was going to war and to find his fortune.
Chapter Seven
Wales
May 1169
It was still dark as the Normans began loading the last pieces of equipment onto the three ships which would make the daunting crossing to Ireland. It promised to be a beautiful day for the voyage but the men worked in almost silence. Water sloshed on the shore and the workers whispered reverently just above the sound of water fizzing through dark shingle. Many of those who would travel westwards had never even been to sea despite growing up on the Welsh coast and they feared the great ocean which bounded their little land. Above them, Fionntán Ua Donnchaidh stood on the Dragon, leaning on the steering oar and sneering sarcastically as he watched the Norman army struggle up the pine gangplanks with supplies. The tired men threw angry looks at the old mariner, but he just watched them and offered no assistance as they dragged the animals into the boats and hobbled them in the belly of the vessels. Nor did he help secure the sea chests or ox-hides covering the provisions. Fionntán’s mind was on the weather and the tide.
‘Get up off your lazy arse and help us,’ Amalric Scurlock finally snapped and shouted in Fionntán’s direction but the Irishman just spat over the side of the Dragon in answer, scaring two gulls who circled in the hope of stealing some morsel of food.
Fionntán tossed the birds a scrap of bread and then returned to his smirking vigil, much to Scurlock’s irritation. The Irishman was still unsure of the Normans. He was a man of the Osraighe, the tribe who lived to the west of Diarmait’s, but when his pretty young wife had been stolen by the nephew of King Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig he had joined the Meic Murchada in the hope of gaining vengeance over the man who had cuckolded him. He had never expected that his retribution would bring him so far from his homeland to act as a guide for this rowdy bunch of warriors.
Fionntán wondered what effect such a small number of men could have against the vast multitude that stood against Diarmait. Sure, the Normans had horses and armour – but all Gaelic noblemen were horsemen, and the Ostmen had armoured shirts and weaponry just the same as that of FitzStephen’s men. What would these mercenaries bring to the table that the Ostmen had not, Fionntán wondered? It was not that he was not impressed with the Normans, on the contrary he had never seen a better prepared force, but there were just not enough of them to make even the smallest dent in the horde available to Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair.
He had watched the Normans’ training over the last few days. To his mind this had largely amounted to the milites and esquires battering each other with sticks and carrying each other into a maul of piggy-back fights. And what, he wondered, could the men-at-arms possibly learn from attacking stationary wooden targets from horseback with their lances? Fionntán did not deny that the mercenaries were tough, but he could not imagine how the horsemen and the archers would work in the middle of a battle when faced by ten thousand screaming warriors from Connacht. They would surely be overrun.
‘Fionntán,’ FitzStephen greeted him cordially from the landward side of the ship. ‘We are ready to get the men on board. Then we can depart.’
The Irishman at the steering oar sniffed. ‘If you say so.’
‘You don’t?’
Fionntán grimaced. ‘Do you Normans dress like that so it makes it easy to see you in the dark?’ He nodded his head at Meiler FitzHenry who, wrapped in his red and yellow surcoat, tripped as he led an unloaded mule away from the ships. Fionntán rasped a laugh. ‘Or maybe they blind you to your surroundings. Bloody stupid for a warrior to dress like you lot do, if you ask me.’
‘Nobody did,’ FitzStephen replied tersely, causing Fionntán to snigger as if the Norman had made a joke.
‘Those horses will not survive the journey,’ the Gael told FitzStephen matter-of-factly. ‘I’ve seen it before. They get sick, can’t vomit, and that is that.’
The Norman captain grimaced, but nodded his head. ‘I’m aware of the problem – it’s the same when they get grass sickness. My brother, Maurice, knows of an old remedy made from valerian, ginger, and skullcap, which should keep them docile while we cross …’
‘There are fine horses in Ireland,’ Fionntán told him. ‘You should leave these ones here. I’ll steal you a few. You’ll hardly need them anyway.’
FitzStephen looked up at the Irishman as he leisurely hung from the steering board. ‘I’d rather leave every shirt of armour and all our shields behind than those animals,’ he told him and laughed at Fionntán’s disbelief. ‘We Normans value those animals, and our castles, like the Ostmen value their dragon-ships …’
‘You both need to find a good woman,’ Fionntán joked.
FitzStephen sniffed a laugh. ‘The sea was the Danes’ highway,’ he continued, ‘but we have discovered how to spread our war inland …’
‘I suppose that makes you twice as dangerous?’ the Irishman joked, but FitzStephen did not answer. Instead the Gael watched the shambolic Normans on the beach as they tried to steady their drunken horses and to walk them into the bellies of the ships, where they had fashioned pens for the animals. It was chaos and as inauspicious a start to a campaign as any he had ever been involved in. Fionntán considered that success had never been more unlikely.
‘You are putting a great deal of trust in your horses, Norman,’ he told FitzStephen, ‘but perhaps you are hoping that your men’s gaudy dresses will blind our enemy before battle.’
Robert simply grimaced. ‘Just get us to Ireland safely and quickly.’
Fionntán laughed at FitzStephen’s anger and spat a long stream of spittle over the side. He knew that these Normans, despite their captain’s bravado, were just mercenaries and were as such likely to leave Ireland if the pickings became slim. They were just too few and did not understand the momentous task which opposed them. He shook his head and sighed in resignation that this would prove another false dawn in his quest for vengeance.
‘We’ll have little over an hour before the tide gets too low to leave,’ the Irishman told FitzStephen.
‘… and I’ll have the army in the ships in half that time,’ the Norman interrupted and marched away up the beach to assist one of the men whose cob refused to go up the gangplank and into the ship.
In the end it took an hour for the rest of the army to be loaded onto the boats by which time the sun was fully in the sky and Fionntán was again complaining about missing the turning tide. Muddled amongst the men in the ships were goats, chickens, and lambs to sustain the army at their bridgehead on the southern Irish coast. The coursers, hobbled in the belly of the ships, were already getting agitated and snorting loudly. To make matters worse Bishop David, encouraged by his young cousin, Father Gerald de Barri, insisted on giving a lengthy sermon in Latin to the troops. Recently returned from his studies in Paris, the priest nodded along as David extolled God and the Lord Jesus to send heavenly power to their swords and give them victory over their enemies. Most of the men could not understand the ecclesiastical tongue and the rest could not even hear his voice above the noise of the gulls, wind, and lapping water.
All the warriors laughed when Walter de Ridlesford farted loudly and whispered that it was ‘heaven scent’. Father Gerald ignored the blasphemy and continued to beseech the now bright heavens, asking the powers to send the army a divine strength on their crusade to bring order to the Celtic Church and a return to the rule set down by Rome. Both Bishop David and Father Gerald were advocates of a strong Welsh archbishopric and so the See of Canterbury was derided for a few minutes before he returned to mentioning the many evils of the Church across the sea: lay investiture, simony, and clerical marriage. For some, his mention of an assured place in heaven was ample payment for the dangerous journey across the sea for many of the warriors. The bishop finally signed off his prayer with an appeal to St Christopher for
safe passage. Fionntán crossed himself sarcastically, saying his Irish ‘amen’ rather too loudly for Bishop David’s taste, and the churchman scowled at the foreigner. The Irishman ignored him, turning towards the sea and throwing a silver coin into the water as an offering to the old gods, nymphs, and spirits who really held sway with the oceans. David pretended not to notice the pagan gift.
‘Father, I seek your blessing,’ Miles Menevensis said loudly as he leapt from the bishop’s side and knelt before his father. The old bishop looked flustered and embarrassed at Miles’ public outburst and rather than lay his hands on his son he simply cast a quick cross in front of his bowed head before turning on his heels and stomping angrily up the beach without another word. It was left to Maurice FitzGerald to lift his forlorn nephew to his feet and embrace him. Miles was long used to being rebuffed by his father in public and private, but he had felt that there may have been a change in his father’s feelings towards him at the beginning of this dangerous undertaking. However, he collected himself quickly and shuffled towards the Dragon to join Fionntán who, for his part, didn’t say a word of spite to the Norman. Miles hoisted the gangplank into the ship behind him and ordered forward twenty serfs who heaved the long ship into the surf using their shoulders and ropes as well as long, thick poles which wedged it free. After just a few seconds, the ship skidded off the shingle and was afloat in a few feet of water. Horses whinnied aboard and Fionntán shouted orders as the ship drifted slowly out into the river. Oars extended on either side of the Dragon but they were hardly needed as the ship glided on the current towards the distant sea. A gruff shout from Richard de la Roche sent the English serfs wading towards the Saint Maurice where they proceeded to force the second ship into the depths of the river. Roche’s commands could still be heard over the noise of man and beast, creaking wood, straining rope, and the splash of water.
FitzStephen watched from the beach where he stood beside his half-brothers, Maurice and William. ‘So do you think they will remember this date, the second day of May 1169, as the beginning of something important,’ he asked, ‘something that changed the world?’
William FitzGerald, the eldest of the Geraldines, looked puzzled. ‘It is only the last day of April, Robert.’
‘I thought it was the first of May,’ Maurice said quietly turning to look at his brothers. They all were silent for a few seconds before bursting into laughter, the nervous tension broken.
‘I suspect history will remember our endeavour, if not the correct date,’ laughed William, ‘and who knows? In a thousand years the world may still be talking about the actions which we take today. Don’t forget that we are going to one of the most learned civilisations in Europe, one which Charlemagne himself respected. Our efforts will, no doubt, be captured in words and illuminated in colour and travel beyond the borders of these little islands to all the great courts of Europe.’ William grinned and waved a hand southwards. ‘Maybe they won’t get the date right but the effect will be felt everywhere …’
Maurice and FitzStephen looked at each other and smiled as their pompous older brother continued without noticing that they were no longer listening to his long-winded lecture. William was a learned man but rather prone to the dramatic. He had been placed in a monastery after he, his younger siblings, and his mother were kidnapped by Owain of Powys. There he had been taught the classics and educated as a churchman before being released to his father in Pembroke. William had always held his literary knowledge in high regard, and liked to show off at every opportunity.
‘Remember the three hundred Spartans at Thermopylae long ago,’ William continued. ‘Our army are but a few more in number than they, and face no lesser odds. The name of Leonidas lives on even to this day.’ He stopped to consider his own words, nodding seriously as if someone other than he himself had uttered some astute wisdom.
FitzStephen, who had never heard of Leonidas, breathed out through puffed cheeks, eyebrows raised. ‘Easy, William, I only got into this for the money.’ He joked, but of course there was much more to it than that; family prestige and a warrior’s pride primary amongst them.
‘Time to go and make history,’ Maurice said raising a sarcastic eyebrow at his elder brother, who scowled, realising that he was, as usual, the butt of a joke.
FitzStephen nodded and embraced his older brothers. ‘One month,’ he told Maurice, referring to the reinforcements the older man was to bring across the sea. ‘By then I will have Waesfjord or be dead before its walls.’
His half-brother nodded. ‘I will pray to St Maurice for the former. God be with you, Robert.’ He shook his hand.
‘Goodbye,’ he said, climbing into the ship. William called forward the serfs who began using poles to lever the ship into the river. Some entered up to their waists on both sides and shoved and hauled at the boat which gradually began to float away in the deepening Cleddau River.
‘Wait, please!’ a voice shouted from high up the beach. A beggar was running down the shingle bank towards the ship which was quickly drifting further into the river. ‘Sir Robert, wait!’ the vagrant yelled again. Normally FitzStephen gave alms on a Sunday and special saints’ days, but he had no time for generosity now. The ship was leaving.
‘Try the monks in Pembroke,’ FitzStephen shouted at the beggar. The man looked like he was sixty, if he was a day, but was surprising in his speed, running towards FitzStephen at a gallop, unencumbered by armour, with his tattered cloak pummelling out behind him. His head bobbed up and down on his shoulders like a cat as he ran and for the first time FitzStephen noticed that he had a sword held out from his body by his long, thin arm. Who was this desperate old man, he wondered?
‘Are we waiting or what?’ Meiler FitzHenry shouted from the steering oar at the other side of the ship. Already the men on the river side were sliding the oars out through the oarlocks and into the water, dragging the boat deeper into the river. FitzStephen grimaced, more so because he was interested in finding out whom the man was, rather than out of concern. Still the old man ran towards the Arthwyr.
‘Wait, wait,’ was all that he could manage due to his exertions. He was closer now and FitzStephen could see his long, grey, dank hair flopping around at his neck. Above that was a balding dome; his sparse hair was scraped back from his fading hairline with sweat. FitzStephen did not like the look of the man. He looked desperate and feral and did not blink as he hit the waterside. He waded out towards the boat and FitzStephen had to fight down the urge to beat the old man back into the water with an oar but, a moment later, the vagrant had grabbed the sheer-strake and had nimbly hoisted himself out of the small surf, throwing his long legs over the side into the ship.
‘Who the hell are you?’ FitzStephen demanded angrily of the old man who lay on his back, gasping for air, in the middle of the Arthwyr ’s deck. All eyes had turned to look at the man before FitzStephen’s bellow sent them back to their toil at the oar. Meiler took the lead and began issuing orders as his uncle knelt beside the gasping and wet old man. ‘I can’t use a beggar with a stolen sword where we are going and I don’t like the look of you,’ FitzStephen told him. ‘So tell me why I don’t drop you in our wake?’
The man’s throat rasped and fear showed in his rheumy eyes, but he still managed to compose himself. ‘Because I come on Earl Strongbow’s business,’ he said. It was enough.
FitzStephen tried to wrap his head around the statement and climbed back to his feet. He couldn’t believe that a nobleman of Strongbow’s reputation would send a person such as this as his messenger.
‘Your name?’ he enquired.
‘Sir Hervey de Montmorency. The Earl’s uncle,’ he sneered and breathed deeply, showing his rotten teeth to FitzStephen as if his name won any argument. He was not a man who could be thrown over the side without serious repercussions. Nor could they pull back to shore without being left behind by the other two ships. He would have to come with them, though FitzStephen felt certain that trouble would come of the decision. He did not like the lo
ok of Hervey de Montmorency.
‘Fine,’ FitzStephen said, though his disgruntlement was easy to see, and signalled to his men to continue rowing. They pulled the Arthwyr into the river channel behind the already distant Dragon and Saint Maurice.
A Norman soldier, who had previously sailed between Wales and Dubhlinn, had taken Meiler’s place at the tiller and he aimed the ship south and west towards the entrance to the estuary. A seasonal south-easterly wind blew across the ship but they kept their sail stowed, preferring the control of the oars in the confines of the estuary. As his men began to get their rhythm, FitzStephen reached down and pulled Montmorency to his feet by his gnarly hand. The nobleman said nothing, not even a small gesture of appreciation for FitzStephen’s assistance. Sir Hervey reminded him of a hungry old wolf who would do anything to steal a lamb from the farmer. His very presence seemed to unnerve the warriors close to him.
‘Bouchard de Montmorency?’ asked FitzStephen of the newcomer.
‘My brother,’ Hervey said, flashing his ugly and triumphant smile. Hervey’s sibling was famous throughout Europe: the Lord Constable to the kings of France, arguably the most powerful man in the Frankish kingdom after the King. However, FitzStephen considered as he looked Hervey up and down, the English branch of the family seemed to have fallen on hard times in comparison to their kinsmen. Hervey resembled a tramp more than a rich and venerable member of the French nobility.
‘What business has the earl sent you on?’ he asked.
‘My nephew wishes me to observe your little enterprise, Sir Robert,’ Sir Hervey said glibly as he huddled himself into a nook in the bows, his cloak wrapped around him like bat wings as he wrung water from his clothes.
‘My little enterprise?’ FitzStephen repeated with an angry nod. ‘My deal with Diarmait does not concern the Earl Strongbow,’ he replied, a finger pointed at Hervey’s chest. The Frenchman sneered at his outstretched digit but did not interrupt. ‘And nor does any crown,’ FitzStephen continued. Half the lords of England were aware that Strongbow had been offered great lands in return for his help putting Diarmait back on his throne, but less knew that he had also been promised the hand of Diarmait’s daughter and a claim to her father’s kingdom through her.
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