Swordland

by Edward Ruadh Butler

  ‘Not yet,’ FitzStephen said holding Mac Murchada’s stare. ‘First we must consolidate our gains, heal our wounds,’ he said, ‘and reward our men.’

  Hervey de Montmorency sidled over towards the three men but addressed only the King, ‘Lord, as the deputy of Earl Richard, I will accept vassalage and fealty for Waesfjord in his name. This will be in part payment for his future support in returning your crown,’ Hervey dropped to one knee in front of Diarmait expecting him to place his hand on his head and grant his claim.

  FitzStephen jumped to his feet and shouted at the Frenchman. ‘You greedy old bastard,’ he said. ‘Waesfjord is mine.’ His hand dropped to his waist but he had no weapon at his side.

  Like a scrawny old cat, Hervey was on his feet in a second, a long dagger in his right hand ready to kill. ‘The King knows that my nephew’s support is worth a hundred times that of your little band of ruffians! This great act of generosity will convince Earl Richard to come to Ireland. If Waesfjord is not given to me, Strongbow will not come.’

  FitzStephen was furious at Montmorency’s insistence and nervous that Diarmait might give in to the nobleman’s demand for the town. He chanced a glance at the Irishman who seemed to be considering the request. Hervey saw Diarmait’s hesitancy too and he dropped the dagger’s guard just an inch with a dirty-toothed grin.

  FitzStephen laughed. ‘How would that starving rat of a man hold Waesfjord?’ he asked Diarmait. ‘He doesn’t even have any troops. He cannot even afford armour. I know of no man who would follow his ragged banner.’

  Hervey gasped that he would hire Irish troops to garrison the fortress. Diarmait barely even contemplated Hervey’s reasoning. He looked down at the Frenchman.

  ‘Waesfjord was the price for Robert’s help, Sir Hervey, and I mean to be true to him,’ he held up his hands as the old man began to argue. ‘But do not worry. You too will receive extensive lands in Earl Richard’s name.’ Hervey’s noble upbringing forced him to bow to the King’s grace while FitzStephen just stared balefully at the Frenchman who had tried to appropriate his prize. He would never trust this deceitful man. And the feeling of hatred was obviously mutual.

  ‘You will have two full cantreds of land, Sir Hervey,’ Mac Murchada continued. ‘We travelled through the country of the Uí Bairrche on our way to Waesfjord while Siol Bhroin is across the bay from Banabh towards Veðrarfjord. Those lands are yours as my gift.’ He said it with a smile.

  Sir Hervey, a poor man with a great name, wiped his hands through his greasy grey and fading long hair. Two hundred thousand acres was an unbelievable amount of land and Hervey was tempted.

  ‘Lord King, Earl Richard will be appeased by your generous gift of this land,’ he said finally and with a final scathing look at FitzStephen, left the tent.

  ‘Robert FitzStephen,’ Diarmait announced. ‘You and your brothers will take Waesfjord and rule it in my name as long as you have the strength to hold it. All the country to the south and west is yours also, Siol Maoluir and Forthairt to Carn tSóir Point. Will you accept this charge from the King of Laighin?’

  ‘I will, King Diarmait,’ FitzStephen said as he went on his knee and bowed his head.

  Diarmait laughed and turned back to his food. ‘Good.’

  That was it. With a few words Diarmait had fulfilled his pledge and Sir Robert FitzStephen – the failure, the prisoner, the bastard son of a lowborn Norman spearman and his royal Welsh lover – was now the ruler of one of the three most important commercial citadels in Ireland. He ruled his own realm! He had achieved the greatness of which many men dreamed and few ever succeeded in capturing. But there was work to be done to hold his new demense. And there was still a king to put on his throne.

  Chapter Ten

  The sails of Maurice FitzGerald’s ships were spotted off the coast just two weeks after Waesfjord had opened its gates to Diarmait Mac Murchada and Robert FitzStephen. Two Norman vessels were cheered as they made their way up the last mile of the bay guarded by the sandy headland. But this was nothing to the joy felt by the two half-brothers as they greeted each other amongst the mud and reeds on the beach of the town. A throng of Norman and Flemish warriors swarmed around august old Maurice as he embraced his younger brother, Robert, Lord of Waesfjord.

  All around were stumbling accounts of the battle for the Ostman town, exaggerated events and boasts about every great deed. Best of all were the stories of the bravery of Philip de Barri during attack upon the southern palisade, and the stupidity of Gilbert de Brienne. He and his five friends had successfully stormed an English ship in the bay when they should have been defending FitzStephen’s flank, but, having tied up all the crew, they had been unable to control the vessel and had been blown far out to sea. The humiliated Normans had been forced to release the English crew and then row the whole way back to land where they had been severely reprimanded by Walter de Ridlesford.

  Robert FitzStephen’s name was on every Norman’s tongue and the newcomers heard varying accounts of his prowess in the fight for Waesfjord. The legend of the man who had defied the King of England and had taken the Viking city was growing.

  ‘He must have killed ten Ostmen in the fight below the barbican,’ Philip de Barri told Maurice’s sons. ‘I wetted my blade too, of course, but Robert …’ He faded off and shook his head in awe of his cousin.

  It was already getting late by the time FitzStephen and Meiler finally left the fire-scarred harbour to join Maurice and the other leaders at a feast to celebrate the coming of the reinforcements. The two men made their way through the slave market towards the stockade behind which the Normans had made their camp. At the rear of the rudimentary wall the new lords of the longfort had thrown up their tents with their backs to the massive escarpment. Their untrusting eyes were firmly fixed on the Ostmen town and the angry townsfolk whom they had conquered. FitzStephen let his small bodyguard go and get some food while he and his nephew made their way towards the noisiest tent where Diarmait hosted Maurice and his milites. Most of the chief men from the army were there and most were already getting bawdy as the alcohol began to flow.

  Miles Menevensis was the worst off as he, completely out of character, drunkenly made fun of the four Ostmen hostages who sat in the corner trying not to draw attention to their presence. The men were part of Diarmait’s conditions for Waesfjord’s surrender, but FitzStephen doubted that the possibility of the four men’s deaths would keep the Ostmen honest to his rule. He, for one, did not leave the stockade without a bodyguard to defend him against a sudden attack by a fuming relative of a dead Norse soldier. He had seen the impotent rage in the eyes of the townsfolk and their desire for vengeance, and knew that at some point it would manifest itself in violence against the Normans.

  ‘So where are you going to put the castle?’ Maurice asked his brother after they had swapped news from both sides of the sea. FitzStephen was most pleased to hear that King Henry was suffering on several fronts, primarily from his growing brood of gloomy sons, his jealous wife, a demanding mistress, an interfering King of France, as well as a pious and plotting Archbishop of Canterbury.

  ‘We have been scouting the area in every direction for a good place for a stronghold,’ FitzStephen replied Maurice’s question. ‘There is a rocky outcropping two miles north-west above the ferry crossing. If we hold that, we hold Waesfjord. From there we can wring their necks should we feel the need. We’ll keep a garrison within the walls too.’ He began tucking into a mutton stew, flavoured with honey.

  ‘More milites will come from England when they hear of Waesfjord’s fall,’ Maurice said quietly. ‘We will need to put them all under oath. Then, when the castle is finished, and Diarmait is back in control of Laighin, we will use them to fortify Dun Cormaic and take control of the crossing there. A couple more castles will make sure the Irish and Norse get along, and then we take Cluainmín.’

  ‘That would put us within reach of Veðrarfjord?’

  ‘You fight a battle, then you build a castle,’ Maurice r
epeated FitzStephen’s father’s mantra. ‘ Then you ride for a day and fight another battle. Stephen wasn’t wrong, Robert, and as long as we have Normans to occupy the castles we will keep going west.’

  FitzStephen shook his head in disbelief. He had not realised the depth and farsightedness that Maurice had put into the expedition. While he had allowed himself to think no farther than the walls of Waesfjord, for Maurice it was only the beginning. He could see an empire where control of all the Ostman cities of the south coast would be secured by Norman castles, loyal only to the Geraldines. From these fortifications, the Normans could sally out on horseback for thirty miles in every direction, secure in the knowledge that they would have a safe place to return at night. Brilliant white donjons atop earthen mounds would be scattered across the south ready to raise hell in FitzStephen and Maurice’s names. Swords and spears would cross in war.

  Swordland; that was what the Danes had called land ready for conquest and for Maurice, FitzStephen realised, the whole of Ireland was there for the taking. He had grown up believing his half-brother to be quiet and modest, but he now saw the ambition of Maurice FitzGerald. He wanted a kingdom to rival that of King Henry himself. Waesfjord was just the beginning and the west was the future.

  FitzStephen breathed out slowly as he considered the magnitude of his brother’s plans. His heart pounded within his chest at the sheer daring and scope of Maurice’s aspirations for their future in Ireland. His own dreams were so small in comparison. ‘But first,’ he replied, ‘we fulfil our promise to Diarmait.’ It was not the King’s face which came to FitzStephen’s mind but that of his daughter, Aoife.

  Maurice grunted an agreement and turned back to his plate. Up and down the table, all the men were eating various mixed dishes of beef, pork, fish, cheese, fruit, nuts, and vegetables. The Ostmen had intermarried with Gaelic women for generations and as such their cooking had become influenced by that of Ireland. However, they also held some secrets from Scandinavia and FitzStephen feasted on a delicious mix of mussels, cod, ling, hake, whiting, plaice, and herring all stewed in French wine. He left the dark meat, which he was sure was made from seal, to the side. The women had put on a good spread but despite that the men from the varying cultures of England, Normandy, Wales, Flanders, and Ireland complained that the feast did not match their own personal tastes. All boasted that their people made the greatest cooks, and thereafter that every other facet of life was better in their homeland. No one complained about the Gascon wine brought from Wales by Maurice until it ran out and the party had to change to drinking a heavy Irish brew. But the chat was festive and when one of Maurice’s pages picked up a lyre and strummed a jovial tune everyone joined in. Later a drunken warrior from Diarmait’s household joined the youngster and, despite the language gap, stationed himself at the page’s shoulder and began singing in his hoarse Irish tongue to the Norman tune. FitzStephen could not understand the words but knew that it was a raunchy piece as it kept on being interrupted by roars of laughter from the Uí Ceinnselaig in the room who joined in at certain moments with a cheer. Soon others were sent to join in with songs of their own people; a Fleming was left disappointed as he was booed into silence just a few seconds into his sad song of his flooded homeland, while a second rendition was demanded of a Norman drinking song about a knight whose only conquests took place in noblewomen’s bedchamber.

  FitzStephen was bone-weary and quiet but thoroughly contented amongst the unrefined group of men who were enclosed in the tent. He laughed as a tall, lithe Irishman and a short, stocky Norman jumped to their feet and started smashing each other in the faces with their fists. God alone knew how they had managed to start the fight, as neither spoke the other’s language, but soon enough they were back on their backsides swearing brotherhood in French and Irish, blood pouring from their swollen noses and blackened eyes.

  The absence of Hervey de Montmorency was comforting for almost everyone in the camp. The Frenchman had returned to Wales to inform Strongbow of the success of the first adventure, or more likely, go back to his master’s side to whisper that FitzStephen meant to supplant him in Diarmait’s favour. Most of the men had become nervous of Sir Hervey’s connections and his nobility, and were aware that he and Robert FitzStephen hated each other. Of FitzStephen’s belief that Hervey had attempted to murder him, they knew nothing.

  If Hervey’s leaving was a pleasure, that which took Maurice de Prendergast away from Waesfjord was a necessity. The Fleming believed that FitzStephen had deceived him during the attack on the walls of Waesfjord and felt that his men had been put at great risk because of his tactics. Richard de la Roche had managed to calm down the Flemish warlord but the relationship had quickly soured again over the payment of Prendergast’s men. The mercenary had wanted bounty and money to pay his army, many of whom desired nothing more than to return to Wales to their wives and families now that they had captured the major sea port. FitzStephen had no money to give them and he had resisted Maurice’s demands to pillage the town and the surrounding cantreds. It had almost come to blows until FitzStephen had bribed two of Prendergast’s lieutenants with large estates in the extreme south-west of his new-won dominion, lands around the cursed Carn tSóir Point. They in turn had convinced Prendergast to accept over ten thousand acres in the same region. The Fleming had been angry at that, desiring payment in money rather than lands, but had accepted due to the pressures of his bannermen. But in the aftermath of their argument, bad feeling had led to several scuffles between the Normans and the Flemings. One of FitzStephen’s archers had ended up dead while the offender was hidden and protected by his kinsmen. The Welsh and Normans, usually the worst of enemies, had begun plotting to get vengeance on the descendants of Flanders and in the end FitzStephen had only prevented further bloodshed by ordering Maurice de Prendergast and his Flemings to visit their new lands in Forthairt.

  A gust of wind heralded the entrance of Eirik Mac Amlaibh, followed by an angry looking Walter de Ridlesford, through the flaps of the tent.

  ‘Lord Eirik,’ FitzStephen nodded his head to the Norse leader. He had kept him in his position to give the Norman seizure of power more credibility in the eyes of the townsfolk. When FitzStephen had suggested moving his army into the camp built on the embers of the harbour, Eirik had sought and obtained the permission of the town council and had even gone so far as to organise the townsfolk to chop the timber and build the simple palisade. When he wasn’t on official business, Eirik remained in his longhouse under guard by Ridlesford – a duty the Norman did not enjoy. Despite their leaders’ collaboration, there had still been problems following the Norman takeover. Meiler and Miles had almost incited a full-scale rebellion when they had tried to empty the grave of a recently deceased hauld. FitzStephen’s nephews had heard rumours that the graves of the Ostmen concealed huge riches owned in life and sent with the dead to the afterlife in the old style. The young men had been interrupted during their night-time excavation by an armed band of the dead man’s relatives, and chased back to their fort by the harbour. FitzStephen had quickly quelled the disturbance by leading a troop of Normans to the dead man’s late residence where, buoyed by the sight of twenty armed Norman warriors, he had talked the hauld’s family into accepting a paltry sum of silver as recompense for the disorder.

  Diarmait Mac Murchada sidled over, pointedly ignoring Eirik, and pulled a stool between the two Norman brothers. ‘So have we consolidated our gains? Healed our wounds?’ he asked, recalling his conversation with FitzStephen a few weeks before as they had watched the walls of Waesfjord.

  ‘I think we are ready to move,’ he replied and leant back in his chair. ‘We will stay here for one more week and start to build our castle – the walls of Waesfjord are too long for so few men to hold – and then we will take back Laighin for its rightful king.’

  Diarmait slapped the Norman hard on the shoulder with a roar of laughter. ‘And we can deal out a little revenge at the same time?’

  ‘Of course,’ FitzStephen
replied with a hint of hesitation.

  Mac Murchada ignored his tentativeness and laughed loudly, crashing his mug of beer into FitzStephen’s cup of wine.

  ‘Then drink up, my boy, for it is time to celebrate.’

  As he sank what was left in his cup, FitzStephen prayed that the King of Laighin did not see his uncertainty. He had taken his reward and now it was time to win a kingdom for his lord.

  The young man struggled out of the cold River Bearú. His crossing over the stony ford had taken much longer than it should have and several times he had disappeared below the stiff current before he had struggled to his feet again. The water only reached to his knees but he looked like he might never make it to the far bank. If he had a tongue he might have cried out for help. If he had eyes he certainly would have wept. And he might have ruled a nation before he had been castrated. But without those body parts he had no hope and he howled dumbly as he tried to feel a path out of the river and onto the bank with his hands.

  Blood streamed down the youngster’s face and soaked through his trousers before being lost in the river which marked the boundary between the lands of the Osraighe and the Uí Ceinnselaig. The man had been Eanna, heir of Diarmait Mac Murchada and hostage of the Osraighe, but now he was nothing, less than a beggar; less than a slave. His life was over as much as if it had been snuffed out by his tormentors. But his corpse remained as a living warning from the Osraighe to their enemy.

  ‘Get a frigging move on, you stupid bastard.’ Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig laughed loudly from the far shore. ‘Make sure you get home to Fearna and tell Diarmait who spoiled your good looks, boy.’ His jeers were joined in by five of his derb-fine, who threw stones and sticks at the blinded figure as he fumbled pitifully amongst the reeds. The dagger which had been used to perpetrate the mutilation was still bloody in Donnchadh’s grasp. The King of the Osraighe snorted another laugh at the pitiful youth before wiping the blade clean on the grass beside Eanna’s eyeballs and testicles. Eanna groaned a shout of pain as a stone crashed into the side of his head. He curled into a ball where his muffled cries could still be heard by the men in the shallows.