‘They will come on our starboard side,’ Archambaud warned, ‘and try to take out our steering oar so we are unable to manoeuvre.’
‘We wouldn’t want to lose that in waters like these,’ said FitzStephen as he had another thought developing in his mind. What if this vessel returned to Waesfjord, or wherever she was from, and reported that they had seen a Norman ship bearing warhorses and archers? Would the Ostman town be ready for their attack? Or worse, would they discover the Norman landing place and lead an army to assault their camp? He knew he had to either chase the Danes off now, or lure them south and somehow make sure that every man on the longship never found their way back to their longfort.
‘Here they come,’ shouted Archambaud looking over his right shoulder from the steering oar.
‘Get ready,’ FitzStephen growled in the archers’ direction before turning to the sailing master. ‘Now! Take us to starboard,’ he shouted and began hauling at the rigging.
‘God help us,’ shouted Archambaud as he pulled the tiller into his belly, sending the Arthwyr northwards into the path of their pursuers. Cries of panic sprang from the Ostmen vessel as the captain screamed for evasive manoeuvres to avoid hitting the Norman ship. The surprise move had sent many of the enemy warriors sprawling on the deck, and FitzStephen did not give them a chance to get back in order.
‘Up onto the afterdeck,’ he shouted at the bowmen. ‘Go, go, go!’ he yelled as the archers stumbled up the small steps one at a time. FitzStephen arched his head over the side and watched the damage that the arrows were causing as they strafed across the Danes on deck. The snap of bowstrings was like a minstrel’s most beautiful song to his ears and he watched as warrior after warrior dropped with the goose-feathered shafts protruding from their faces and chests. More struck the side of the ship and stood tall as the longship rode high on the waves. Indecision took hold on the longship as their captain tried to decide whether to push home his attack or to slink off like a defeated wolf with his tail between his legs. Every second that went by more men died on the red-sailed ship as more arrows flew across the grey sea to pulverise them. Finally, with Danish blood visible on the deck, the captain pulled away to a safe distance to the north.
‘Port,’ FitzStephen shouted, ‘take us south-west!’
The steersman pushed the oar away from him and the Arthwyr swept away, her sail billowing to take the full pull of the wind again. For many seconds FitzStephen could not speak as he hauled at the sails, setting the sheets to catch the maximum amount of wind and drag the Arthwyr south. Behind him, the men who had made ready for battle at sea applauded the archers. Meiler FitzHenry smiled and cheered their success and was sick again.
And it was just then that the squall from the north hit the Arthwyr.
It was quick and it was violent, wind whipped the vast sail and rain ripped across the deck. No-one aboard the ship was asleep now as the Arthwyr rolled from side to side, the rigging straining under the wind. FitzStephen’s face burned as the freezing rain slammed against him but he loosen the sheets and braces so that the sail would not be ripped free. His commands went unheard and his knuckles froze and banged on the sides of the ship as he and several other Normans bailed for their very lives. Seawater poured into the Arthwyr.
‘Robert!’ William the Welshman’s voice somehow pierced the weather. FitzStephen ran, jumped, and fell before making it to the front of the ship where his brother hung over the side.
‘What? What do you see?’ He shouted through the rain at William though he was only a metre away.
‘I saw a disturbance in the water directly ahead.’
Staring out over the rough sea through the rain FitzStephen struggled to see what his brother had spotted. ‘What is it, a whirlpool?’
‘There,’ was all William could shout, nodding dead ahead of the boat and clinging onto the rail for dear life. Behind them Archambaud screamed orders at men, ropes thwacked against wood, and sails billowed and ripped under strain from the sudden squall. Cold wind and water hit FitzStephen’s face and he bashed his chin painfully off the wooden sheer-strake. Straining and shielding his eyes with a hand he could see nothing. He was just about to turn around and scold his brother when he espied a white swirl of water where a wave crashed skywards. Rocks, he thought, just above the surface and partially hidden by water. He turned on his heel and cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted towards Archambaud at the helm.
‘Rocks, swing away, now!’
Somehow Archambaud heard his shout over the roar and just in time the helmsman pushed hard on the steering oar and sent the ship southwards again, the wind blowing them dangerously sideways onto the port side. Water began pouring into the ship and, as the men began bailing with their hands or whatever vessel they could find to get the water back to where it was supposed to be, FitzStephen hung from the ropes controlling the sail. Horses screamed in fear and no-one could be spared to quiet them. For a few minutes there seemed no way that the Arthwyr would survive. FitzStephen swung from the starboard side, looking down on his men, and listened as rocks scraped the stern section but somehow they were blown clear. Silence took the ship as the men bailed and toiled and shook with fear, totally enraptured with the awesome power of the ocean. No-one cheered their success at missing the rocks.
‘Keep bloody bailing,’ Archambaud shouted as he battled with the steering oar. The squall kept them at their honest toil for many more minutes. FitzStephen ignored the helmsman’s order and with difficulty clambered up onto the afterdeck. There, he watched a ship of Danish warriors die. They had been following the Normans, no more than a quarter of a mile back on a parallel course, a little to the north and watching, always watching for a mistake. They had spotted the evasive action of the Norman boat, taken it for the panic of landlubbers, and raised a cheer. Their captain had turned their boat southwards and had ordered his warriors to prepare for battle, and this time no arrows could assail them with the wind so treacherous. Bearing down on their terrified prey they had grabbed for ropes, hooks, and weapons. And in their haste and desire for the prize not one of them had spotted the rocks between their bows and the Arthwyr’s inclining stern.
Later, when they were safely ashore, Fionntán would tell FitzStephen that the Tuskar Rock had claimed more souls than all the wars of Brian Bóruma combined. He informed him that the rocks were a well-known obstacle to which most sailors, Irish, English, and Ostmen, gave a wide berth and he supposed that in his efforts to take the Arthwyr, their captain had fatefully forgotten the menace of Tuskar and had paid a fatal price.
As he watched from the wet afterdeck of the Arthwyr, the red-sailed ship crashed into the rocks, her bows rising up just like it had hit another wave, but FitzStephen could see the carnage inflicted to the keel of the craft and everywhere the planks of the ship splintered under the ragged rocks of Tuskar. Even through the slashing rain the screams reached to the Arthwyr which was pulled south by the tide and the strong wind. The Ostmen would not be a threat any more, he knew.
As if to mock the dying men the squall suddenly passed overhead, leaving only a bright shaft of sunshine, a rainbow mirage, and a swirling easterly wind. Eventually the bailers were called to stop by Archambaud and they slumped exhausted on the deck of the Arthwyr in the bright sunrays. To a man they panted hard and shivered because of the cold wind and their soaking clothes. Steam rose from their backs and heads. The Arthwyr kept going south-west for another four hours around a fence of islands called Oileain na Sailte. Archambaud insisted on giving this next death-trap a wide berth, much to the despair of the exhausted men who sought the safety of land. By the time they pulled their bows north they only had two hours of daylight left and FitzStephen stood at the front of the ship, staring north, where he was joined by the pilot.
‘Who has the steering oar?’ he asked much too sharply. FitzStephen was still raw about Archambaud losing the rest of the fleet and worried that they too had encountered difficulties.
‘Your brother and cousin are fight
ing over that honour,’ the sailing master said. FitzStephen turned and saw that Philip de Barri was on his arse holding his stomach and cheek as though he had been punched while William the Welshman was grinning in the slowly fading light with his hand on the tiller.
‘Is it safe?’
‘We have clear sea ahead of us until the bay, Sir Robert.’
FitzStephen didn’t push and looked off to the west where he had spotted a light, seemingly rising out of the sea itself. Was it more Danes? A falling star? He was not sure that he liked the omen of a star, his symbol, falling into the blue sea.
Archambaud interpreted his concerned look quickly. ‘Don’t worry, my Lord. There is a long peninsular that comes out into the sea and at the end of it there is a monastery with a tall tower. The brothers of St Renduane keep a fire burning through the night to warn seafarers of their dangerous land mass. They call it Hook Head.’
‘They could do every sailor a favour and put a light out on Tuskar,’ FitzStephen replied. ‘And our destination, where is the island?’ He could not remember seeing Hook Head on any of Yossi’s maps back in Gloucester.
‘Straight ahead, Lord, Banneew Bay.’ Archambaud put the tips of his forefingers together to make a rectangle with his arms. ‘The Arthwyr is in the wide bay below my wrists,’ he said. ‘On the west bank is the land called Siol Bhroin with Hook Head at the end.’ He nodded towards his left hand. ‘The island lies just off the land of the Uí Bairrche on the eastern shore. We will be there in two hours at the most. The worst is over.’
Sir Robert FitzStephen snorted a laugh. ‘No,’ he said as he turned and looked out over the grey sea. ‘The worst is yet to come.’ He stared northwards. Ireland was looming and a storm of violence would surely follow their safe arrival. The worst was definitely not over.
‘They call it Banabh,’ Richard de la Roche told FitzStephen. Over the small body of water the two men watched the armed milites stream through the village, killing where they had to and intimidating those that might prove useful into compliance. ‘Bloody odd name if you ask me,’ Richard continued and bit into the hunk of bread. One man screamed as he attacked Walter de Ridlesford. One expert sword stroke took the villager’s throat and his life, and whatever possessions he was attempting to protect Walter also seized.
‘Banabh,’ FitzStephen grunted the unfamiliar sounding word, ‘how many are in the village?’
‘Ten, maybe twelve men capable of bearing arms,’ said Roche, ‘except that they have no arms to bear; unless you think they can do some damage with their fishing poles.’
FitzStephen smiled softly. ‘Then maybe you should be more worried than me,’ he joked, nodding at Roche’s odd crest on his surcoat which showed three red salmon.
Richard returned the laugh. Both were still exhausted from the traumatic crossing and the last-minute preparations in Wales, but now that they were here in Ireland they felt impatient to get the expedition started. FitzStephen’s men were already busying themselves getting the defences ready while Walter dealt with the villagers. The plan was to remain on the island until they could join up with Diarmait’s army and until that happened he knew that he would be vulnerable. The island rang to the sound of spades striking earth as they dug out a shallow ditch and raised an earth wall on which they would set up a crude timber palisade to defend their camp. More were stripping branches from the small number of tree trunks they had cut down on the northern end of the island and some had already been chopped into points and dug into the earth at an angle to defend against any attack up the island from the south. After just a few hours of daylight, their camp was almost finished. The men from the Arthwyr had grumbled when they had been ordered to build the wall, tired as they were, from the hard slog on the oars which had taken them into the bay against the creeping tide.
The island was no more than half a mile long but the north-eastern side had a good harbour surrounded by small cliffs which provided good protection for the three ships. FitzStephen had been relieved to see the Dragon and the Saint Maurice already beached and, having greeted his kin, had joined the rest of his army as they slumped exhausted where they sat on deck and slept below the darkened sky. A small inlet carved by the weather allowed the army to easily move all their gear up to the top of the cliff the next morning and from there they had the best possible view of the bay. The island was not the greatest place for a defensive battle, but FitzStephen doubted that it would ever come to that: the cities of Waesfjord, Veðrarfjord, and Cluainmín were all far enough away so as not to be immediately aware of their presence. However, he knew that the longer they remained the more chance that they would be discovered.
‘Do the villagers have much food?’ FitzStephen asked Richard de la Roche as he shifted uncomfortably in his armour. The weather was fine and the sun was shining off the small waves which lapped up the beach as well as his chainmail.
‘Bugger all, but I can round them all up and put them to work on the defences,’ replied the Fleming. ‘It’s about all they are use for.’
FitzStephen shook his head. ‘I need you to leave with your men and find Diarmait,’ he told him. ‘He must know that I have landed. Urge him to speed, Richard. Make sure he knows that we need to press forward before the Ostmen know we are here.’
Roche nodded. ‘Two days to get to Fearna and the same to get back. Assuming that Diarmait doesn’t know we are here already, it could take three more days for them to get their army together.’
‘You leave immediately, Richard,’ said FitzStephen as he yawned. ‘Make sure and go far enough northwards to avoid Waesfjord before you cross the big river.’ He did not yet know the names in the foreign tongue, but Roche was aware of the River Sláine which ran from the Ostman town northwards through Diarmait’s territory right to the fort of Fearna which was the Meic Murchada capital.
‘I’ll be back in a week,’ Richard said with a nod and stomped off to collect his warriors.
FitzStephen remained on the waterside. He looked past the Norman ships and over the small inlet to the beach where the small group of fishing boats and houses were gathered. No defences, he thought. No warriors and no fear of attack. The threat from raiders was obviously significantly diminished in this part of Ireland. Diarmait had also assured FitzStephen that the local lords were loyal to his rule, and so he had sent messengers to Colmcille Ua Dubhgain and Cearbhall Ua Lorcain with small gifts to encourage them to leave him and his men alone while scavenging the area for food. Walter de Ridlesford had been the one who had met with the chieftains and FitzStephen was content that they would have understood the none-too-subtle message that the giant, bald warrior would have put across.
Stretching his back, FitzStephen turned to go back up the beach to the camp to help his army dig the defences, but he was caught unawares when he was confronted by Sir Hervey de Montmorency standing just five paces behind him, looking out of the top of his eyes menacingly at his back.
‘Saints alive,’ FitzStephen exclaimed.
Strongbow’s uncle was looking as downtrodden as usual; a hungry wolf, scrawny and desperate, all shoulders and large, suspicious eyes. He did not smile at FitzStephen’s surprise. ‘I will be going with Roche to Fearna to speak to King Diarmait about my nephew’s plans for his arrival,’ he instructed. ‘I will require some of your men to accompany me.’
FitzStephen’s laugh was sarcastic. ‘All my men stay here.’
‘Remember to whom you are talking, FitzStephen. This isn’t the alehouse,’ he said. ‘I am a nobleman and you will remember your manners when you speak to me.’ Sir Hervey had purloined a crossbow from somewhere and he gently fingered the weapon’s trigger as he spoke.
FitzStephen didn’t blink. ‘And you should remember that this isn’t the royal court of France.’
Hervey looked like he might continue the argument but suddenly turned and walked away from him without a word.
FitzStephen sighed in frustration. He should have avoided confrontation with the Frenchman, but there was something
he did not trust about the Earl Strongbow’s uncle.
Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain galloped his horse towards St Mary’s Monastery. Thick white foam spilled from the sides of the animal’s mouth and sweat poured from the man’s brow as they thundered through the valley below the old fort of Fearna.
‘Out of my way,’ he shouted as he bounced on the horse’s bare back. The monks stepped out of his path as his legs flew out from the flanks for balance. He abandoned his mount at the intricately carved doorway of the monastery and sped through the cloisters where a service was taking place. He didn’t care that he disturbed the mumbled prayers and humming praise. He brought news which he believed would please his king so much that he would reward Máelmáedoc with more riches than he had ever known.
‘Where is Diarmait?’ His shouted question boomed around the heavy stone walls of the monastery. Before him thirty hooded monks on their knees tried to ignore Máelmáedoc as they swayed and muttered their supplications towards the huge cross at the other end of the large room.
Finally one monk at the front of the throng slowly stood and pulled his hood back from his head. It was Diarmait.
‘It is not necessary to shout in this place, Máelmáedoc,’ the King said, his hoarse voice carrying over the chanting.
‘A Norman army has landed at Banabh,’ he hurriedly shouted to him, ‘the time to retake your place at the head of the Uí Ceinnselaig has come.’
For a second Diarmait could not speak, and simply stared at his counsellor. He rounded suddenly on the monks of St Mary’s with a glare.
‘Stop your bloody wittering,’ he hissed and began pushing through the field of stooping men. ‘Tell me more,’ he commanded of Máelmáedoc.
‘Over four hundred armoured men in five ships have landed,’ his secretary said excitedly, shaking his head as if he did not know what to say first. ‘They are speaking several different tongues including French and Flemish.’
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