‘Who said anything about a crown?’ Hervey coughed.
FitzStephen smiled and shrugged as if it was no concern to him. ‘Most men wanting passage to Ireland would have to pay for it,’ FitzStephen said, happy that Hervey visibly blanched at the mention of money. He began stuttering that he had no money, but that his nephew would make him pay for his ungentle conduct towards an old man. As the threats began to tumble from Hervey’s mouth and become more unseemly, FitzStephen silenced him with a wave of the hand.
‘Make yourself comfortable, Sir Hervey,’ he said, ‘it is a full day’s travel to Ireland, but you will be treated well.’ FitzStephen smiled as he turned his back on the old man, something he would rather not have done. For some reason Sir Hervey reminded him of his former lieutenant, Roger de Quincy, not in looks of course, but some air of desperation and ambition was similar to the man who had betrayed him during the fall of Aberteifi five years before.
Water sloshed noisily at the bows and the Arthwyr’s oars splashed heavily into the Cleddau. Ahead of them both the Dragon and the Saint Maurice were pulling their sails up as they passed into the western sea. FitzStephen took his place at the oar alongside his younger brother, William the Welshman, and looked back over the river towards the northern bank where he spotted a pair of frolicking otters as he heaved the pine oar.
Some of his men were already being sick over the side. Meiler FitzHenry was one. He vomited down Walter de Ridlesford’s shield, which hung along the ship’s rail with all the others. Meiler threw an accusatory look at his uncle, groaned, and was sick again. FitzStephen had not the heart to tell his kinsman that the river was likely to be calm in comparison to the sea. Behind FitzStephen and William was Philip de Barri who, having grown up on the coast, loved boats and shouted abuse at those who were sick over the side. Meiler attempted to fight back with words, but it only encouraged more vomit to rise from his stomach and he contented himself with flapping a rude sign in Philip’s direction with his fingers. Philip laughed at the gesture, chatting incessantly about times spent on the open sea between his father’s castle at Manorbier and the Gower peninsular. Meiler turned green at the tales of their exploits and heaved again.
It was a hard slog at the oars but the Arthwyr slowly pulled out between the headlands that guarded the entrance to the Cleddau. A strong current rocked the ship making Meiler groan. Wind from the south-east buffeted the boat and seemed to sweep them northerly towards the headland but no one panicked. FitzStephen gave swift orders to stow the oars and plug the oarlocks for the sea journey. He signalled to two of his milites to raise the rectangular linen and wool sails by the halyards and then he strode across the deck adjusting the rigging to maximise its effect. The boat lurched over onto the starboard side as he let the port braces out and pulled those on the starboard side tight.
‘Keep her in sight of the Dragon,’ he called to the sailing master as he loosened the sheets on the other side of the ship allowing the wind to fill the paunch of the sail, pulling the Arthwyr away from the headland and into the ocean. FitzStephen allowed a smile to break across his face as water sprayed and the ship rolled in the heavy sea. In the distance he could see the bright sails of the Dragon and Saint Maurice blown taut by the wind. He crossed his chest and mumbled a short prayer to St Christopher and St Nicholas. He heard Montmorency snort contemptuously, but when he opened his eyes to challenge the old man, he appeared to be fast asleep amongst the ox-hide-covered sea chests.
The Arthwyr’s sailing master was easy on the steering tiller but the horses noticed the shift in speed of the ship and began neighing loudly and stamping their feet. Some of the men went down into the belly of the boat to comfort the small, tough coursers as the ship turned north and west, aiming between two small islands which lay just a mile off the Welsh coast.
‘That’s Skokholm,’ the shipmaster, whose name was Archambaud, said with a nod towards the more southerly island, ‘and that’s Skomer,’ he said of its twin.
‘It looks like they are covered in snow,’ a bleary-eyed Meiler said as he wiped his chin on his sleeve and stared over the side.
‘It’s birds,’ FitzStephen told him, and soon they could hear the squawking of thousands of seabirds perched on the cliffs as the Arthwyr glided by. Here and there FitzStephen saw little dark alcoves where puffins and pufflings had their holes.
‘Oh God, please make them stop that racket,’ Meiler groaned, his chin resting on the rail of the ship and his hands pressed against his ears. ‘Or if somebody could please just kill me, that would also suffice,’ he said as he pulled the cloak over his head.
Archambaud laughed at Meiler before turning to FitzStephen. ‘You could tighten up the starboard braces there, Sir Robert,’ he told his commander and watched intently as he performed the task with the practiced hand of a sailor. ‘You’ve spent some time around boats?’
FitzStephen nodded. ‘A long time ago, but it’s all coming back to me,’ he said with a grin. A look from Archambaud encouraged more information from FitzStephen. ‘I sailed with the fleet to Mona from London when King Henry invaded Gwynedd…’
Archambaud grinned. ‘I remember the campaign. My brother and I marched with the young Earl of Chester’s men. We didn’t see much action, but I recall men talking about a young esquire who made his name during the fight at the Vale of Ewloe …’
‘A stupid esquire,’ FitzStephen said as he tested the strength of a backstay above his head. However, a small smile broke across his face. He remembered the fight in the beautiful woods of Ewloe, confused and vicious, as a snarling army of Welshmen fell upon King Henry’s small flanking force. Little had made sense to FitzStephen who, having stumbled upon the fight by pure accident had waded in with no thought for his own safety. Somehow he had lived and somehow the Welsh had retreated when faced with but a handful of Norman horsemen. Somehow from the horror, King Henry had emerged unscathed and had rewarded his saviour, then an esquire, with a knighthood.
‘A stupid esquire,’ he repeated, ‘but he learned a lot on the sea journey.’
Before long the crew of the Arthwyr had nothing but water and clouds in front of them and FitzStephen walked back and forth through the ship, chattering to the men who huddled together for warmth. Their captain was not cold and he climbed the ladder up into the platform onto the afterdeck so that he could see more. Looking back at St Bride’s Bay he fancied that he could see Roche Castle, painted white and tiny in the distant bay above the sand and the sparse trees.
This is it , he thought. If everything went to plan this would be the last time he would see Wales. He sniffed forcefully and slowly. To the north along the coast he saw the dark shadow of St David’s Cathedral and the misty cliffs of Ramsey Island. He sighed wistfully, but he knew that he had no future in the land of Wales. Within two hours Dyfed had disappeared behind the ship and beyond the waves. Ireland had not quite appeared in front of the Arthwyr as she rode the grey sea behind the other two ships which intermittently appeared over her bows.
The journey was largely uneventful except for a mild panic amongst the men when they spotted a great fish, six times as big as a man, beneath them. It was swimming towards the boat seemingly ready to pounce and drag them down into the depths with its great mouth wide open. Men jumped up and grabbed at spears to attack the predator if it came to close, but it did not strike, rather passing below them, its mouth still wide open. The men quieted down as it passed and FitzStephen noticed their sailing master grinning from ear to ear at the disquiet and he ventured over to talk to him while the jumpy Normans kept a careful vigil just in case the monster from the deep returned.
‘Why are you laughing?’ he asked Archambaud with a grin.
‘Basking shark,’ the pilot said with a smile and pointed his thumb at the sea to the north. ‘It has absolutely no interest in the Arthwyr. I don’t know what it was after for his dinner, but I am certain it is not us.’
The wind picked up into the early afternoon and FitzStephen stood in the bows of the
ship as the white spray came off the grey sea and splashed his face. It awoke his seafaring spirit and he whooped at the horizon as the Arthwyr rode high on the long waves. Because of his position at the front of the ship, he was one of the first in the boat to see a black blur on the horizon to the north-west.
‘It’s a mountain in the middle of Diarmait’s country, Laighin,’ Archambaud said when FitzStephen approached and questioned him about the peak. ‘It’s somewhere inland though I’ve never set foot on it. You aim for that and you come to Waesfjord,’ he said.
‘Best keep a bit to the south then,’ FitzStephen said. ‘We wouldn’t want to alert them to our presence or our intentions. Nor do we want to run into a bunch of Norsemen,’ he said with a raised eyebrow. ‘They would see us as an easy target,’ he added, flapping a hand at Meiler who continued to hang over the side though he was now panting and had an absurd grin across his face as if the worst was over. Apparently his body had not forgiven him for going to sea and he retched again, groaning as each wave of nausea struck him.
‘Have you ever been to Waesfjord?’ FitzStephen asked the sailing master.
‘Aye, years ago I was part of a crew out of Chester,’ he confirmed as he joined FitzStephen, leaving Philip de Barri at the steering oar. ‘We went up the Irish coast between Dubhlinn and Corcach selling Gascon wine. Then we brought back Norse shoes, weapons, and pots to Chester, traded that for dyed-wool and from there went back to France for more wine. A good little earner,’ he recalled with affection.
‘What’s the town like? Is the bay easy to traverse?’
Archambaud paused and held onto the side as a sudden swell of sea rocked the ship. ‘If you are asking whether you think I can take the longfort of Waesfjord by ship, Sir Robert, I would say that it is impossible.’
FitzStephen grimaced, proving to the sailing master that his commander had indeed hoped to take the town through an amphibious assault.
‘The bay is wide and mudflats surround it,’ Archambaud told him. ‘They would see us coming from miles away and launch a fleet that we could have no hope of fighting at sea.’
The Norman captain left it at that and sat down with his back to the platform and closed his eyes to think. The sun was still high in the sky and his mind flickered slowly between the thoughts of the past and his daydreams of a trader’s town with a castle to call his own. He quickly dropped off to sleep and dreamt of glory.
Archambaud shook FitzStephen awake by the shoulder. His eyes flicked open immediately, but his mind struggled to catch up with his actions and he grabbed the steersman by the arm fiercely and gripped it tight. His first thought was that night was falling, yet he knew instinctively that he had slept for only a few hours and it could not yet be midday. He looked past Archambaud and saw a heavy cloud coming from the north. A violent squall was approaching, dimming the bright sunshine of the day. The ship’s sailing master said just one word to bring FitzStephen to full awareness: ‘Ireland.’
The Norman got to his feet, his damp cloak fluttering away from him in the stiff wind, and he grabbed onto the pilot’s shoulder and the port side sheer-strake for balance. The grey ocean rolled and spat flecks of white in the air. Beyond the bows was only a vast expanse of water, and a red sail less than a mile distant off the steerboard side.
‘Trouble,’ his sailing master said. Most of the men on the boat still slept, wrapped in their cloaks and unaware of the danger, but Sir Hervey de Montmorency seemed to sense the tense atmosphere and appeared beside the two men.
‘The Dragon, the Saint Maurice, where are they?’ asked FitzStephen, his mouth dry from sleep.
‘We lost them,’ the seaman told him. ‘The sea became rougher and they must have gone south much earlier. I am sorry, Sir Robert. I should have taken the steering oar back from your nephew sooner.’ He bowed his head and FitzStephen did not admonish him.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, slapping a hand onto Archambaud’s arm, ‘There was always a chance that this could happen.’ He reached into a sea chest and pulled out a piece of red cloth which he handed to an esquire and pointed to the top of the mast. Seconds later Robert’s star pennant was removed and a banner with a black raven unveiled. It was the symbol of the Dubhgall – the dark foreigners; the Danes, the Ostmen of Ireland.
‘I can’t do anything about the weather but I can take us south,’ FitzStephen said, eying the angry clouds to the north. ‘How long will it be before that squall hits us?’
‘No more than two hours, though it could still miss us entirely,’ Archambaud said as he swung the Arthwyr south away from Waesfjord. FitzStephen turned his attention from the weather and their pursuers towards a third threat which had appeared from the west – the remorseless and dreaded Carn tSóir Point. Fionntán had told him of the dangerous waters which they were now entering and had said that they, and the lands on the coast, had been cursed by an enchantress. It was a graveyard for ships, a tangle of outlying rocks, cross tides, moving sandbanks, shoals, and even thick and mystifying fog and their present heading took them straight into them. FitzStephen stole a glance of the red sail coming out of the north and bit his lip. The Ostmen were not deviating from their interception course. Either they had not been taken in by his ruse or, more worryingly, they did not care and would attack their own kindred without conscience.
Sir Hervey turned to Archambaud. ‘Can we outrun those heathens?’
The seaman shook his head. ‘No sir. The wind is with us but they will not be carrying as much weight.’ He indicated towards the deck packed with objects, men, and animals. Behind them the Ostmen vessel burst high through another wave, scattering sea spray in wide arcs around its prow.
‘And eventually, when they get close enough, they will steal the wind from our sails,’ FitzStephen added. ‘Keep us going south and west, Archambaud,’ he said and walked over towards his sleeping brother and laid a hand on his shoulder to awaken him. ‘William, get to the front of the ship and keep your eyes open,’ FitzStephen told him. His brother was famous amongst the Pembroke men for his good eyesight, a talent that went along with his expert handling of a bow.
‘What am I looking for?’ William asked as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and smacking his gummy lips together.
FitzStephen shrugged. ‘Anything that could cause us problems,’ he said. ‘Waterspouts, whirlpools, or sea monsters … anything that these cursed waters can throw at us. We must be ready.’ His half-brother looked fearfully at him but trotted up the deck without any further questions.
The chase continued for another hour with the Ostman ship gaining quickly on the ever rougher seas as they headed towards the turbulent landmass that was Carn tSóir Point. FitzStephen could not help but think back to Fionntán’s talk that the area was cursed and he wished that he had the chattering Father Nicholas on board so that he could avert the evil with prayer. As he made his way back down the Arthwyr, he woke each his milites and quietly warned them to the danger approaching from the north. They milled around the deck, readying weapons but leaving their armour stowed in the sea chests. Everywhere horses were panicking and fighting against the leather straps which bound their legs.
FitzStephen climbed up into the afterdeck and watched the ship that chased him. He felt useless. Was his adventure doomed to end before it had even begun? If the Arthwyr never arrived at their arranged base camp, he knew that Miles Menevensis would take control, but devoid of a third of their warriors they would not stand a chance of putting Diarmait back on his throne, or of storming Waesfjord. The Ostman vessel was so close now that he could see the bearded faces of the pirates eying up the fat foreign ship as she ploughed across the sea. They waved their axes, shields, and swords above their heads but were silent over the shout of the sea. FitzStephen promised that he would die before allowing himself to be imprisoned again and to that end he had put on his chainmail. He would rather cast himself into the ocean with a prayer to St Nicholas than live in chains again.
‘They will catch us,’ Sir Hervey said as
he arrived silently at his side. ‘Are your Welshmen ready for hand-to-hand fighting?’ He cast a glance over the seasick troops and animals in the puke-ridden belly of the boat.
FitzStephen scowled at the condescending Frenchman. ‘We won’t have to fight them,’ he replied confidently.
‘This tub cannot outrun them,’ Sir Hervey returned.
The tall captain ignored the insult to his ship and stomped away from Montmorency.
‘You, you, and you,’ he signalled three archers huddling beneath a cloak in the body of the ship. ‘Find two other bowmen each and join me below the afterdeck. Bring your weapons.’ The three men frowned at their commander but climbed out from under their cloaks and followed his orders. FitzStephen had already made his way back up the boat and was staring at the longship which streaked its way effortlessly through the waves. There were only three ship lengths between the Danes and their target now and he could hear the catcalls and mocking laughter. Time to teach them a lesson, he thought.
‘Are your bowstrings dry?’ he asked the nine bowmen who crowded behind him below the wicker afterdeck. All the men nodded their assent.
‘Right then,’ he continued calmly, ‘we are going to let them get close and then we pepper the deck until they pull away,’ he held up a hand to stop a question from one of the men. ‘I know the sea is rough but the distance will be minimal. Shoot fast and aim just above their sheer-strake. Understood?’ The nine archers nodded. ‘You men may be all that stands between us and their axes so make your shots count.’ He chanced another look from beside the steering oar. The Ostman captain had brought his ship up wind of the Arthwyr and, despite the distance between the two she was already stealing wind from the flapping sails of FitzStephen’s ship.
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