‘He will frigging bleed or freeze to death if he stays where his is,’ Donnchadh complained to his half-brother Cian. ‘Not much of a frigging message if he dies and gets washed down river to frigging Banabh.’ Donnchadh, head crowned with a savage pair of stag’s antlers, spat a long stream of spit which cartwheeled in Eanna’s direction before splattering into the River Bearú.
‘Fearna is that way, stupid,’ Cian shouted at the Meic Murchada tánaiste, and waved in the direction of the mountains which rose to the east. Two of his men splashed into the river at Cian’s command and pulled the young man to his feet, dragging him up towards the small monastery which stood half a mile up river. The monks had seen the gruesome scene on the far bank, but they had done nothing except hide behind their stone walls. Cian’s men quickly hauled a terrified Eanna up the bank and dumped him at the monastery gates, not bothering to wait and see if they came out to claim him or not; they were in enemy territory and death would fetch them if they lingered there too long.
Eanna Mac Murchada groaned and slobbered as the two Osraighe warriors scarpered back to the ford. He swung his fists in the direction of their footsteps, but it only caused him to fall to the wet grass. Already the wounds to his eyes were beginning to scab over, but he remained in a great deal of pain. Beneath it all was the realisation that all his dreams of leading his people after his father’s death were gone. No warrior would accept a king who had been disabled by even one of his injuries, never mind three. His life was over. Despite the pain, Eanna thought back to his youth when Amlaibh Ua Cinnéide had joined his father’s household. Blinded by his Ua Briain rivals, the King of Oirmumhain had been expelled by his own people. Only Diarmait had shown him compassion and had fed and clothed him in his distress. Would anyone care for Eanna now that he had been mutilated? That word spun around his spinning head. He was in so much pain that he did not even feel the hands of the Augustinian monks slip under his armpits and drag him into the monastery compound.
‘Amlaibh,’ he cried, but it came out inaudibly, causing a monk to soothe him with calming words.
‘Take him to the hospital,’ a stern voice broke into Eanna’s dark and pain-fuelled world. ‘Wait,’ the man said abruptly and with fear in his voice. ‘My Lord Jesus, it is King Diarmait’s son. The Meic Giolla Phádraig have maimed Diarmait’s tánaiste!’
Eanna, aware of the conversation around him for the first time, gurgled blood around his mouth as he tried to speak. It stung like vinegar and he tried to spit but ended up choking. He was ruined and the blood loss was beginning to make him feel cold, but he managed to finally shout a command at the monk’s which he knew would be understand, and he knew would be followed.
‘Fearna,’ he tried to shout before he passed out.
Thuds of wooden shovels on wet earth, the scrape of metal tools on timber, and the grunt physical effort filled the air around the place called Carraig. Hundreds of men worked and hewed and heaved lumber and stone, and steam from their backs wrapped itself around the high rocky mound where the castle was beginning to take shape. Almost five hundred Gaels and Ostmen from the surrounding countryside had been rounded up by the Normans and had been put to work digging ditches, carrying earth, and shaping wood. Everywhere there was activity and noise. Golden wooden chips littered the muddy ground and the distinctive smell of carved timber and sap wafted around the high outcropping.
The bailey was already finished, thanks to Maurice FitzGerald’s preparations in Wales. Pre-cut, shaped, and numbered, FitzStephen’s brother had brought over much of the timber needed for the outer wall. Following its completion, twenty archers and the conrois of cavalry had taken up residence inside the crude fortress while the donjon took shape atop the rock. His other warriors still maintained their uneasy hold over Waesfjord which stood a mile and a half to the south-west along the course of the River Sláine.
‘Get your arses moving,’ FitzStephen shouted at three Ostmen who had stopped to chat halfway up the high rocky hill. The three idlers looked at him and signalled that they did not understand, flapping hands around their ears. FitzStephen grinned as he approached before slamming a fist into the closest man’s stomach and repeating his command. They jumped at the sudden violence and began hauling their burden of two massive tree trunks towards the peak. FitzStephen watched the trio move slowly uphill. If there were more reluctant people than the Ostmen of Waesfjord, FitzStephen could not think of them. They seemed not to realise that they were a conquered people. The castle would go somewhat to shifting that misconception, he considered.
It was the perfect position for a motte, FitzStephen thought as he looked upwards. The rocky knoll rose impressively for forty feet, dominating the landscape as far as the eye could see. It stood above the wide river which curled around its base, guarding three sides from attack. From its top the Normans would control the river as well as the best ferry crossing from the north. They could strangle the Ostmen or allow them to live.
FitzStephen was already beginning to sweat from the walk up the face of the motte and could not imagine having to force home an attack up the stiff slope into a cloud of Norman arrows. He waited until the three timewasters had got to the top before turning to look at his new structure taking shape beneath. The axe-wielding Ostmen had done well clearing the trees from the face of the hill and all over the land below small stumps poked out of the soil. Directly below him, Miles Menevensis directed ten Ostmen as they split short thick logs to make a set of steps. Another larger group placed the logs on the hillside. Eventually FitzStephen would send a flying bridge to the bailey but the split-log path would do just as well for now.
As he watched the men another trunk was prepared to be divided. Miles had already found the grain of the wood and forced a flat-headed peg into a gap close to one end. A bearded Ostman bashed the end of the peg with a mallet, ripping the wood along the grain and allowing the Norman to force another peg into the split further towards the closed end. Within a few minutes another trunk would be ready to add to the defences. Beyond the tents of the Norman soldiers, the palisade ran in an oblong for almost a hundred feet and was surrounded on its entire course by a deep ditch which was already filling with water redirected from the Sláine. Swans, ducks, and herons had replaced the black-headed gulls, redshanks, and oystercatchers found on the mud flats around Waesfjord and if anything the river provided a more wholesome air than that back in the longfort. Soon the tents would be swapped for wooden kitchens, houses, and stables for houses and cattle – everything a castle needed to survive.
The Irish and Norse had never seen anything like the fortifications. The nearest thing they had encountered was the walled towns of Waesfjord and Veðrarfjord but they, like the English burghs, were built to protect rather than subdue the population. The castle, carved out of raw earth and hard wood, was profoundly alien, and the natives laughed that a southerly breeze would tear down the small and flimsy construction. But FitzStephen knew that the castle was strong.
As he surveyed the landscape, he noticed a horseman racing towards the newly built fortress from the south, and he had to shield his eyes to get a clear view of the rider. The horseman was still a mile away, but he was travelling at top speed, jabbing his heels into the flanks of his small cob. FitzStephen’s trained eye immediately saw that it was an Irishman who rode towards the castle because of his unconventional seat bereft of proper saddle or stirrup. He quickly scanned the skyline for any sight of an approaching army behind the rider but could not see any sign. It did not mean one was not hidden beyond the trees and panic rose in his chest as he began running down the steep hill towards the bailey. He jarred his right knee as he landed on the top step but it held in its place and FitzStephen proceeded slower down the newly carved timber stair. Had Waesfjord rebelled, he wondered? He tried not to imagine the worst but he could think of no other reason that an Irish horseman would exhaust his horse on such an arduous ride.
FitzStephen landed on the bailey beside a confused Miles, but did not hang aro
und to explain himself. Ahead of him he saw Diarmait Mac Murchada burst out of his tent and begin running towards the gates to discover the reason for the appearance of the Irish horseman. He had a good head start on FitzStephen and the King got to the open gate just as the rider pulled his sweaty beast to a stop and leapt down nimbly. He put his head down and ran, reaching the group of men just as Diarmait Mac Murchada, unseen amongst the mulleted warriors, began keening loudly. It was a sound of sorrow that FitzStephen had heard many times during his life as a raider in Wales and England. It was anger infused with grief and its force scared the tired and sweaty horse into a panic so that it reared up amongst the group of Gaels. Even before he muscled his way through the crowd knew that there would no escape from Diarmait’s need for vengeance. Someone he loved had been killed or worse.
FitzStephen shoved his way through the group gathering around their distraught king, but stopped short as the rider pulled a leather cap from his head. A head of wavy dark red hair tinted with gold burst from beneath and fell below the shoulders of the rider who FitzStephen had taken for a young man. It was the same figure who had haunted his memory since he had met her in Wales – Aoife, Diarmait’s daughter. Her arms were bare and brown from spending time outside while her body was supple and slender. A familiar sense of desire exploded in his stomach as he looked at the princess. Even dressed in a long cloak and rough woollen trousers, he saw her beauty, her wildness, so different to the noblewomen of England. Aoife’s eyes flicked angrily to FitzStephen as he approached her father as he raged.
The Irish warriors moved out of the tall Norman’s path and that deference did not escape the eyes of the observant girl. She saw how her father’s warriors respected the foreigner and she slowly studied the Norman warrior from his feet to his face. FitzStephen was immediately torn between his desire to greet Aoife and his desperation to know what had happened to cause Diarmait’s anguish. His curiosity won out in the end and he turned away from the red-headed princess towards her distraught father.
‘Diarmait?’ he asked.
The King of Laighin turned on the Norman with madness imprinted on his face. For a second FitzStephen thought his ally would attack him. But then Aoife was at his side and she drew the grey-haired man into an embrace, whispering soothing words into his ear. Diarmait nodded and sobbed, dropping his head to his chest.
‘Eanna!’ he howled as he was led away.
‘We march straight into the Osraighe’s territory, we find Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig, and we cut off his head, his children’s heads, his wives’ heads, and the head of every man who fights for him.’ Diarmait wailed and swept aside a table’s contents in his fury. ‘Don’t you dare countermand this order, Norman,’ Diarmait warned FitzStephen, ‘or I will strike off your troublesome head and send your body back to Rhys.’ He broke down into Irish curse words, kicking a chicken carcass across the tent and into the linen wall where the derb-fine stood like silent sentinels of stone.
Aoife had left to change from her sweaty riding clothes and Diarmait snarled his way around the tent, ordering his captains to prepare for war before again turning on FitzStephen, and daring him to contest his command. His sorrow at the attack on Eanna had been defeated. Now there was nothing but anger. Just the day before, Mac Murchada had been trying to convince the Norman to hurry his attack on the mighty walls of Dubhlinn. Everything had changed since then.
‘We will slaughter every living soul of the Osraighe,’ he screeched.
‘I agree,’ FitzStephen calmly told the King, who baulked at his taoiseach’s accord. ‘We need several days to finish the castle. Then we will go and I will kill your enemies.’
‘You surprise me, Robert,’ Diarmait said through narrowing and suspicious eyes. ‘Why do you always make me feel like you are not telling me everything?’
‘Probably because I am not telling you everything,’ the Norman replied with a small smile. ‘You have been saddened and I didn’t want to trouble you with my thoughts on top of your own grief.’
‘My grief will be sated with the blood of the Osraighe.’
FitzStephen nodded briefly. ‘Yet to put you back in power we have to do two things: defeat the Osraighe to protect the Uí Ceinnselaig,’ he held up a single finger, ‘and beat the army of Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair to win back Laighin.’ He held up a second digit. ‘Attack, as always, is the best form of defence,’ he said dropping his fingers into a fist. ‘So we go north.’
‘North then,’ Diarmait repeated gloomily, and turned his back on the Norman warlord.
Dismissed, FitzStephen turned to leave. He knew that Diarmait’s mind was on his vengeance so it was best not to tell the King that he first meant to force the surrender of the tribes on the Uí Ceinnselaig’s northern border before the Osraighe could be targeted. Fearna would never be safe if the other lords of Laighin were against Diarmait. But he could break the news to Mac Murchada when they neared their target. He felt a huge surge of sympathy for the Irishman. In similar circumstances his reaction would have been the same: guilt, anger, confusion, and sorrow. Turning in the doorway he opened his mouth to speak but could not find the words for his grieving master. A man did not want another warrior to see him at his weakest, FitzStephen thought, and he threw the flap of the tent open and squinted as he made his way into the sunlight. His overriding feeling was of relief that Waesfjord was still his and had not been overrun. FitzStephen yawned widely and made for his tent. His twisted knee was hurting him and he struggled through the bailey on the soft re-laid soil and stone taken from the newly dug ditch. As he pushed through into his tent, FitzStephen pulled off his surcoat and shirt in one swift move.
‘Hello, Sir Robert,’ Princess Aoife said from the corner of the room.
‘My Lady Aoife,’ FitzStephen swept into a bow despite his shock. He had been well trained as a child by the Countess of Gloucester and his manners kicked in automatically before he even realised he had performed the small courtesy.
Diarmait’s daughter laughed sweetly, either at his bow or at FitzStephen’s obvious surprise at her presence in his tent.
‘You should not be here alone,’ he said, suddenly very aware that he was not wearing his shirt.
‘Why?’ Aoife demanded. Her sudden anger at the question confused the Norman, but as soon as it appeared her irritation disappeared into a smile. ‘Why … when I just want to talk to you?’
FitzStephen wondered why he had said something stupid like that to Aoife. He had dreamed to be within this small tent with this woman, and never once had he asked her if she should be elsewhere. She had found one of FitzStephen’s long white shirts which she’d bound at her middle with a coil of rope and it reached to her knees. Her legs and feet were bare. Somehow she made the ridiculous-looking clothes striking. He regarded her as the most beautiful woman he had ever seen – alive and untouchable like none he had seen before.
‘Thank you for your shirt, Sir Robert,’ she said.
The Norman realised that he was staring and he turned away so that he could throw the tent door open to its widest. It was better not to annoy Diarmait by being caught alone with his daughter. Not after the news the Gael had got just that day.
‘Are you happy to be back home?’ he asked, recalling their conversation in Llandovery.
‘Yes and no,’ she said, screwed up her nose. ‘My herds and slaves are mine again, but I miss the hustle and bustle of Bristol. It was a smelly place, but with so many lovely knights.’
FitzStephen was again taken aback. He had never heard a woman give her opinion so freely and confidently as if she was talking to her equal. Norman women belonged to their father until they were married and then they became the property of their husband. Even a widow was the property of her son. As such they were schooled to be shy and sedate, and expected to be pale, slim, and ready to bear children. But this girl was something new and he was enraptured. He was also intrigued and said, ‘Lovely knights?’
‘Not smelly like our men,’ she laughed. ‘They danc
ed and fought each other and asked me for my favour at tournaments. They had exquisite clothes of many colours.’
‘Knights are two a penny in England and all dress too gaudily,’ FitzStephen said, jealous of those warriors who had caught her fancy and wishing he had his star-spangled surcoat on. He hastily threw his plain shirt over his head, dirty from work, and quickly changed his tack. ‘It must have been dangerous for you to come all the way from Fearna to tell your father about Eanna.’
She screwed up her eyes again and seemed to check his statement for sarcasm. Finding none she again became all-sweetness to FitzStephen. ‘Perhaps it was dangerous, not for a brave knight who climbed the mighty walls of Waesfjord …’
He did not correct her small mistake.
‘… but for a simple woman …’ she tailed off with a sly grin. She laughed again and pushed closely past him. Her hips had rubbed against FitzStephen’s as she left and a final whip of loose red hair struck his face. ‘Would you show me your horses, Sir Robert?’ she asked as she turned and stretched her back, revealing more of her bare legs to the Norman.
‘Of course,’ he stumbled, and indicated towards the temporary structure in the corner of the bailey where a mottle of horses roamed in small separated stables.
‘They are geldings?’ she asked as they made the short walk.
‘Some are,’ FitzStephen confirmed, ‘but most are still whole. It makes them better for fighting,’ he said.
‘Which is yours?’
He pointed out three of the beasts, two coursers and a palfrey. ‘And this is Sleipnir,’ he slapped his favourite horse on the shoulder and invited Aoife to do the same.
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