Across the sea of bobbing, hooded heads, Diarmait signalled for Máelmáedoc to join him in a large anteroom adjacent to the nave. He pushed between the Augustinians and through the door. Inside Diarmait’s daughter, Aoife, stood up from her book and looked at her father, and then his secretary who followed him.
‘Who leads these foreigners?’ Diarmait Mac Murchada asked as he shut the door. Máelmáedoc still panted from his efforts in racing north and did not bother to acknowledge Aoife’s presence. He did not see that her sharp eyes took in every detail that went between the two men.
‘They answer to Robert FitzStephen,’ said Máelmáedoc. ‘His man, Richard de la Roche, is coming back to Fearna as we speak.’
‘Oh yes, FitzStephen, of course.’ Diarmait sounded disappointed. Somehow he had thought that his herald might be telling him of the coming of Strongbow rather than the mercenary knight from Ceredigion. ‘Well,’ he told his daughter who listened intensely at his side, ‘it is still an army. The time for pretence is over.’ Diarmait stood and cast off the monk’s cloak which disguised him. Beneath was a saffron robe of mustard yellow which marked him out as a nobleman of Ireland. He turned to his daughter and winked before putting his hands on Máelmáedoc’s shoulders and smiling at him. ‘Thank you. This is good news indeed.’
Máelmáedoc smiled back. ‘There is more, Lord. A man is with Roche by the name of Sir Hervey de Montmorency. He is Strongbow’s uncle and comes bearing his greetings.’
‘Strongbow’s uncle?’ he said. ‘That is interesting indeed, but one to decipher after we take back our throne. Get Domhnall,’ his king said with a huge smile. ‘And raise the kern, Máelmáedoc. We are going to war.’
Energy flashed across the Diarmait Mac Murchada’s eyes as he perceived that which he had long desired was close at hand; the madness of war was returning to his homeland.
Sir Robert FitzStephen was bored. He slumped on his elbows watching the reedy bay, his blue and white livery resplendent against the earth and timber palisade which surrounded his army’s camp. Nine days had passed since he had landed at Banabh and no word had come from King Diarmait or Richard de la Roche. His defences had so far been tested by little other than seagull droppings and it seemed that the clandestine Norman landing had indeed remained secret from the powerful Ostman cities of Veðrarfjord and Waesfjord. Yet until the King of Laighin arrived he knew that he would continue to feel tetchy and uncomfortable.
He had taken to exploring the island – anything to get over the endless boredom of guard duty – and had discovered an old, tumbledown fort. He had considered moving his army behind its ancient walls. However, he had come across some standing stones with peculiar notches etched on each side and had abandoned the idea, sure that an ancient evil was present in the eerie and windy place, torn ragged by the sea salt spray. Instead his army had remained in their small and hastily constructed enclosure above the cliffs. He wished something supernatural would spring to life – at least it would end the boredom which plagued the Norman camp.
From his place behind the timber wall, FitzStephen watched a large group of birds, oystercatchers and curlews, as they fought in the shallows.
‘They will never find anything for their dinner if they keep making a racket like that,’ Fionntán Ua Donnchaidh said from beside him. The Gael nodded towards the birds. ‘They always fight amongst themselves when they find a good spot for feeding.’
FitzStephen smiled. ‘It’s not the birds I was keeping an eye on,’ he told his ally. ‘Look who’s eyeing the birds up for his dinner.’ He pointed a forefinger to where he had spotted a small fox in the long grass, gazing at the battling birds. The sly predator had taken advantage of the disorder to get close to his prey. Part of FitzStephen urged the devious beast to make a run for his target in the shallow sandy pools, but the fox was content to creep closer and closer to the warring waders, never taking his dark eyes off them. Suddenly, when he was just a few feet from the birds he attacked, bursting like a red blur from the shallows at the nearest oystercatcher. FitzStephen laughed as he watched the disappointed carnivore as he was left with a mouthful of oystercatcher tail feathers as a squawking mass of birds leapt into the air above him and flew northwards.
‘Keep trying, my friend,’ he told the animal.
‘They always do,’ Fionntán grumped and went to find something more interesting to occupy him.
The whole landscape of Ireland was suffocating and small to FitzStephen. Except for the island and the coastline, which had been almost totally cleared by years of harsh winds off the sea, the whole countryside seemed to be cloaked in thick and impenetrable greenery. He had taken the Arthwyr upriver into the interior and had been shocked when he discovered that the vast expanse of trees got even more stifling as he went inland. There seemed to be no break in the vegetation as far as the eye could see, except for some bare hills about ten miles to the east. No roads penetrated the forest and heavy undergrowth made any journey on the mainland tricky to say the least. It was, the warrior considered, either the best place for the Normans to hide out or the worst place to be ambushed.
The men, even though they were used to garrison duty in Wales, were having as bad a time as their commander at breaking the monotony. The army was now six hundred and fifty strong, and the leaders were having problems keeping all those men occupied inside the temporary fort. Only a few trusted men were allowed onto the mainland to scout the area, and this had been resented by the Welsh and Flemish when Normans had been invariably chosen for the duty. Already FitzStephen had been forced to discipline two men, a Norman archer and a Flemish infantryman, after a fight over the score in a game of football. The small encroachment still simmered under the surface in the camp, and he knew that it was only a matter of time until the frayed nerves of both peoples exploded into yet more violence. The tense atmosphere had been compounded by the rebelliousness of Maurice de Prendergast’s mercenary horsemen who refused to stay on the island and constantly tried to break out and have a look around the countryside. To these men of war, a ‘look around’ could only end in theft and killing. Prendergast was, like Richard de la Roche, another Flemish mercenary, promised plunder and payment by FitzStephen on Diarmait’s behalf. He had arrived at Banabh the day after the rest of the army in two ships with just over two hundred men. The Fleming was a thin, pious, and serious man who cared about just two things: the good standing of his soul and the provision of wealth for his troops. He was also a brilliant and instinctive warlord, who constantly derided himself for taking pride in his skill at his violent vocation. Three mornings before, FitzStephen had discovered Prendergast and his horsemen missing from the camp. After talking to the Irish boatman from the village he quickly ascertained that the Flemings had gone several miles upriver.
‘Creach,’ the boatman had said in his native tongue, meaning cattle-raiding and pointed north up the bay towards a small Norse settlement called Cluainmín.
FitzStephen and fifteen horsemen had raced after them catching up just a few miles short of Ostman territory. It turned out that the Flemings had heard that lead ore had been discovered and that the Norse were minting their own silver behind their small walls. It was a target too good for the raiders to ignore. He still feared that their being in Ireland would be discovered and that one morning they would wake up to find a fleet of longships descending on them or an army of Ostmen approaching from the mainland. FitzStephen and his troopers had shepherded the angry Flemings back to Banabh where the bad feeling between Prendergast’s mercenaries and Robert’s Norman and Welsh troops grew day by day. FitzStephen knew that if Diarmait did not come south soon he would find the discipline of the camp begin to deteriorate. His warriors needed action and they desired plunder. He also knew that their presence would not go unnoticed by the Ostmen forever and it was just as he was thinking this that he heard a shout from behind which forced him to spin on his heel.
‘Sir Robert!’ the voice screamed frenetically.
As he stared over the te
nts and the wall of the camp, over the low sand-strewn dunes of Banabh, FitzStephen gulped down a gasp of alarm. An army was approaching the camp. He leapt down from the allure and began running. Skidding around a tent, FitzStephen narrowly avoided a man who poked his head out to see what all the noise was about. A trumpet sounded to the east where the army was coming over the brow of the hill and walked down towards the fishing village. Maurice de Prendergast came from his left and fell in beside him.
‘Who do you think it is?’ the Fleming asked, his French still flavoured by his forbearers’ Germanic roots.
FitzStephen vaulted over a shield which lay propped against a stool, cleaning abandoned with the threatening approach of the army. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘The scouts I sent would have warned of the approach of the Ostmen.’ He clambered up onto the eastern palisade, knocking men out of the way so he could get a look at the approaching force. ‘How many are there?’ he asked to no-one in particular.
‘Five hundred,’ Philip de Barri answered instantly from his side. ‘They are mostly infantry. No standards,’ he said as Fionntán silently appeared and stood beside FitzStephen.
‘It is Diarmait,’ the Irishman said dismissively, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his leather armour.
‘You are sure?’ asked FitzStephen. The Irishman nodded to answer his question and casually bit into an apple. Years spent staring at the horizon from the steering oar had somehow stretched his vision. Fionntán claimed he could see a flea on a horse’s back at two hundred paces, but could not identify the vegetables in a bowl of stew on a table in front of him.
Sure enough, moments later FitzStephen espied the red and white fish livery of Richard de la Roche amongst the grey and white mass which was the Irish army. Many of the Normans would laugh at Roche’s odd surcoat that reminded all of his family’s Flemish origin on the shores of the Great Northern Sea and FitzStephen had joined in the good-natured banter, but now he joined with the other joyful Normans and cheered its sighting for it signalled the arrival of Diarmait and his army at Banabh. The Norman adventure on the isle of Ireland could really begin.
Diarmait Mac Murchada bear-hugged FitzStephen like a brother and waved to the cheering Norman army, beaming in pride as would a father towards his children. Only a small number of men from the Uí Ceinnselaig had crossed to the island with their king, but the Normans still cheered the Gaels’ arrival. Four nationalities now made up the army and stared on as their leaders greeted each other; Robert FitzStephen and King Diarmait, Maurice de Prendergast and Domhnall Caomhánach, Richard de la Roche and Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain. Hervey de Montmorency looked on malevolently at the King of Laighin’s favourable reception of FitzStephen.
Diarmait held up his hands for silence and spoke in French to the gathered mass of four hundred. ‘Welcome to Laighin, my brave warriors! We have many enemies to defeat but we have an army of the greatest warriors of Wales and I do not doubt that we will be victorious.’ He gave them time to nod along and growl their assent. ‘And when we do recover my kingdom and secure her borders, whomsoever should wish for horses, trappings or chargers, gold or silver, I will give it to them!’
They cheered Diarmait and he waved and grinned. Behind the Norman, Flemish, and Irish leaders, a gust of wind suddenly whipped up the bay and the standards of the leaders, which had hung loose from the white tents, thrashed abruptly and violently. FitzStephen signalled to Diarmait to proceed inside the tent where a feast had been speedily prepared as the Irishmen made their way across to the island by boat. The King leaned in towards him as they passed under the flap of the tent and whispered to the Norman commander: ‘For those who return my kingdom, I will enfief them, soil and sod.’
‘You are most welcome, Lord,’ the Norman said as he poured a mug of wine for the King of Laighin.
‘I am also glad to see you, Sir Robert,’ Diarmait stood back and looked at the Norman knight, large hands gripped on his shoulders. ‘And I am glad to find you well-fed and cleaner than the last time I saw you! Although I think you suited your beard,’ he laughed at FitzStephen’s newly shaven face.
Bald Walter de Ridlesford slapped his cousin hard on the back of the head before Robert could answer. ‘He’s ugly whatever his hairstyle, Lord King.’
‘At least I have some hair,’ FitzStephen rubbed his shaven patch on the back of his own head where Walter had caught him. The Laighin derb-fine laughed a few seconds later when Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain translated the jest into their tongue, however, Diarmait’s secretary did not share in their mirth.
‘Get some food in here,’ FitzStephen called through the gap in the tent wall. Several esquires entered with bread trenchers filled with rabbit stew, steaming fish, and various birds hunted amongst the reeds of the bay.
Diarmait laughed at the sight of the boys and turned to FitzStephen. ‘I’ll have to sell you some slaves to do your cooking. It is not right that you force these boys to cook for you!’
FitzStephen shook his head. ‘We Normans don’t keep slaves, or permit the sale of them on our lands,’ he warned before sensing that he may have offended his ally. ‘In any event,’ he stuttered, ‘it does the esquires good to perform lowly tasks.’ He was interrupted while the Cistercian monk, who FitzStephen had convinced to come with his army, said a prayer in thanks for the plentiful food. Though his supplies were dwindling quickly due to the lengthy stay on Banabh Island, FitzStephen felt that he was required to honour King Diarmait’s arrival with a great feast.
The King of Laighin took his position at the centre of the top table and began eating as further high-ranking soldiers filed into FitzStephen’s own tent. Diarmait was flanked by FitzStephen and Domhnall Caomhánach, while Maurice de Prendergast sat beside the younger Irishman, and they manfully struggled to converse in a mixture of Latin, French, English, Welsh, and Irish about the food they were eating.
Prendergast held up a chunk of lamb and said, ‘Mutton with honey,’ encouraging Caomhánach to repeat the words before trying, ‘Sheep or lamb, oui?’
Domhnall nodded seriously as if the two men were discussing a particularity of the Bible. ‘Scheeporlamwee,’ he offered with a smile and held up a pigeon breast.
‘Nein, nein,’ Prendergast said with a shake of the head, and pushed Domhnall’s hand back onto his trencher. ‘Sheep in English, but lamb if it is young.’ He made baby sounds to emphasis his point, confusing Domhnall for a few seconds before the Irishman nodded, turning to Diarmait and whispering that he believed the foreigners to be touched in the head. Diarmait laughed bombastically at his son’s levity, rotating towards FitzStephen who sat with Richard de la Roche on his left. Hervey de Montmorency, seated beyond Roche, strained his ears to listen in on the conversation.
‘So, Sir Robert, our first step will be to attack the city of Dubhlinn,’ he stated and began eating again.
FitzStephen let the salt between his fingers drop back into the jar before him as he evaluated Diarmait’s declaration. ‘Lord King,’ he began, ‘we must secure our position, and yours, first. Here, on Banabh, our situation is uncertain and until we take a fortress I will have to divide my forces to defend our backs.’
Diarmait’s lightning blue eyes flared momentarily in anger as FitzStephen questioned his order, and he said nothing for a number of seconds. ‘The greater threat to Fearna is from Dubhlinn,’ he said quietly but with force. ‘The treacherous whelps have always been a menace and until they are conquered I will feel their axes at my neck.’
‘All the more reason to attack from a place of power, Lord King,’ FitzStephen chanced. ‘If we take one of the southern towns we can hold it against any enemy. We can also get men and supplies from Wales easily. Fearna is inland and, even if we can take Dubhlinn, from what I have been told the city’s walls are too long for nine hundred to defend.’
Diarmait ground his teeth together. ‘The Ostmen murdered my father when I was just a boy. They humiliated him, mutilating his body and buried him in the same grave as a dog. I want them dead,’ he his
sed. It was difficult to cool the fire in his blood but he emptied his mug of French wine, forcing himself to enjoy and consider the taste, swirling it around his mouth slowly before he swallowed with a gasp of pleasure. ‘I want them dead,’ he repeated but with less force.
‘And I must secure the lands you promised me or my men will return to Wales …’
Hervey de Montmorency chimed in, ‘My Lord, the Earl, would do as you command, King Diarmait.’
‘Strongbow can do what he wants when he gets his backside across the sea,’ FitzStephen replied. ‘What keeps him anyway?’
Montmorency ignored FitzStephen’s question. ‘If you are not able to bring Dubhlinn to heel, what use are you to King Diarmait? This is worse than when you lost Aberteifi to the Welsh …’
FitzStephen fumed at that, but Mac Murchada held up his hand to quiet his warring allies. ‘This is not helping,’ he said, and turned to the younger man. ‘You are sure that you cannot take Dubhlinn?’
FitzStephen was sure of nothing except that to attack the biggest city on the island would be a disaster. ‘I might be able to seize it,’ he answered, ‘but we would quickly lose it again and my army along with it.’
Diarmait snarled in disappointment. ‘I assume you mean to take Waesfjord then?’
‘It is the obvious target, Lord King,’ he replied. ‘Waesfjord is close to Wales and to my brothers. It lies in your own territory and it is the nearest immediate threat.’ He bobbed his head eastwards.
‘The men of Waesfjord will serve as an example to others then,’ Diarmait said.
FitzStephen nodded as Maurice de Prendergast took up the narrative. ‘Waesfjord is also the further from Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair in Connacht, and news of our enterprise is less likely to reach him if we take that city than if we attack Veðrarfjord or Dubhlinn,’ he said. The King nodded though still seemed dissatisfied as he pulled apart the bread trencher and bit into it. FitzStephen too began eating in silence while Hervey de Montmorency abandoned his chair and began whispering vigorously in Diarmait’s ear out of FitzStephen’s hearing. The Frenchman gave Richard de la Roche an awful lip-curling sneer as the Fleming interrupted his conversation:
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