‘He is clever,’ Aoife said.
‘Unlike most stallions,’ he added with a smile. ‘He is fast too.’ For many minutes neither spoke, but simply enjoyed the attentions of Sleipnir.
‘You Normans are strange,’ she said suddenly. ‘Why are you in Ireland?’ she asked without taking her eyes or hand from the stallion.
FitzStephen might have lied, told her grandly that he was in Ireland to fulfil his oath to put her father on his throne, or that he was there for money and land. But he did not. ‘I am here for glory,’ he said.
‘Glory?’ she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I am bastard born to a Welsh princess and a simple spearman,’ he said. ‘Back home they call me a murderer and a thief. In England and Wales I am nothing, but here in Ireland …’ He shook his head.
‘You could be a king,’ Aoife finished his sentence with a smile, the end of her tongue appearing for just an instant to lick her front teeth.
‘I was going to say a success.’
‘And I tell you again,’ she told him, ‘a king.’ She held his gaze and it was all FitzStephen could do not to take her in his arms and embrace her. She was not beautiful, not in the conventional sense, but she was striking; she piqued his interest and played on his mind rather than merely arousing his desires. Not that she was undesirable, he thought, but her intelligent eyes impressed just as much as her svelte body, her words and demeanour as much as her exquisiteness.
‘Poor Eanna,’ Aoife continued without taking her eyes off FitzStephen, ‘he won’t be able to rule after Father now that he has been … hurt. And my other brother Conchobair is being held by the High King. What will happen to my Uí Ceinnselaig after my father is gone?’ She smiled innocently with a shake of her head. ‘They will need somebody brave to hold my tribe together.’
‘I thought your father had promised Laighin to Strongbow?’ FitzStephen said suddenly. ‘And you too.’ He hated that he said it, did not know why, and expected anger in return.
Aoife just laughed sweetly. ‘Perhaps I will become queen, like Meahbh of Connacht? Rule the Uí Ceinnselaig and all the men of Ireland by myself.’
‘You wouldn’t want a man to fight your battles?’ he asked. ‘To keep you warm at night?’ Embarrassment burned his ears as he heard the words issue from his mouth.
Aoife swirled her red hair as she laughed.
‘I can fight as well as any man.’
She held his gaze for a brief second with a grin dancing at either side of her lips.
‘I’ll wager you can,’ he replied.
‘But even a queen needs someone to take care of her horses.’ She smiled and said goodbye to Sleipnir with a rub to his flank. ‘Goodbye, Sir Robert FitzStephen. Do not forget me when you obtain your glory.’ With a final swirl of red hair she walked away from the Norman knight.
Aoife was the most alluring woman he had ever met, he thought, but a dangerous one. He felt that he knew the truth about her, that she wanted to use him to win a kingdom. But he also realised that it would not stop him jumping gladly into her clutches whenever the moment presented itself. He was utterly beguiled with a woman whom he had spoken to only twice.
Across the bailey, Miles Menevensis watched the encounter between the princess and the Norman warlord.
‘There is a man who is falling in love,’ he said seriously to Amalric Scurlock and nodded in FitzStephen’s direction.
‘Poor, stupid bastard,’ laughed Scurlock.
Chapter Eleven
August 1169
All Laighin suffered; Cualann burned, the Uí Muiredaig lands lay spiked below a field arrows while the Uí Conchobair Failge were pummelled beneath the hooves of the Norman war horses. All submitted to the power of Diarmait Mac Murchada and the lances of Robert FitzStephen. The rebellious Uí Faoláin, the haughty Uí Tuathail, proud old Mathgamain Ua Dimmussaig, and every minor tuath in between, all yielded. Even the powerful Uí Mael Sechlainn of Mide bowed to the alliance, gave hostages, and promised to send tribute in recognition of the growing power of Diarmait Mac Murchada and his Norman mercenaries. All that stood between Diarmait and the undisputed rule of Laighin was the Osraighe and their king who had tortured and maimed his son. By the time Diarmait’s army came back down from the flatlands of the north, they were laden with cattle, jewellery, and numerous other pieces of precious plunder that would enrich Fearna and the Norman mercenaries’ coffers. Yet many were haunted by what they had seen in the petty-kingdoms of northern Laighin.
‘I swear on St Nicholas’ white beard,’ blunt-nosed warrior Ranulph FitzRalph chattered to FitzStephen as they rode south, ‘a mist-wreathed army of wraiths attacked me and old Hugh de Caunteton as we camped in a rath we took from the Uí Drona. These are strange lands, Sir Robert,’ he said gravely. Behind him, other men corroborated FitzRalph’s strange story of a shadow army near a monastery called Ceatharlach. Worst was Miles Menevensis, who refused to speak of what had occurred when he had led a mixed force of Normans and Irish into the mountains against the savage Uí Morda clan of Laoighis. He had lost few men during the campaign and the chieftain had submitted, but Miles refused to elaborate on the story, implying horrors untold in the forested northern reaches of Diarmait’s kingdom.
Behind the Norman army a vast swathe of land lay in ruin. Cries still rose towards the heavens, questioning God’s plan and cursing his failure to protect his poor children. For the King who would rather have been feared than loved, it had been a successful campaign. But Diarmait was not content. The Osraighe and Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig still existed and his was a revenge that would not be sated until the one of them was destroyed. It was the type of hatred that could rip an army apart; a deep loathing that valued no opinion which threatened his retribution. FitzStephen had been only too happy to use the anger to his benefit, to secure the north so that they would be free to attack the Osraighe. But Diarmait’s Irish troops had become impatient to get their vengeance on the Osraighe for their violation of the King’s son. To that end they were moving westwards through the mountains towards a pass that would take them straight into the heart of Osraighe territory.
‘This is tough going,’ Fionntán Ua Donnchaidh told FitzStephen as the cold, windy, wet weather swept over the army in the boggy lands in the mountains.
FitzStephen snorted a laugh as the rainwater spat off the end of his nose. ‘Just a bit of drizzle,’ he said. They were headed towards the pass of Gabhrán. This ran between the peaks of Slieve Margy and the Freagh Hill in the extreme north-east of the petty kingdom. Beyond the gap were the lands called Mag Mail where Fionntán’s clan were settled. It was a six-mile opening between the two peaks, but the forest had deliberately been allowed to flourish to provide a natural boundary between the enemy kingdoms of the Osraighe and that of the Uí Ceinnselaig.
‘It is a land without bog,’ Fionntán told FitzStephen of his homeland. ‘Fire burns without smoke in the kingdom of the Osraighe …’ As the taciturn Irishman uncharacteristically babbled about the loveliness of his homeland, FitzStephen nodded along barely listening. ‘… of course, the name means the People of the Deer,’ Fionntán said causing FitzStephen’s ears to prick up. He had missed the hunt during his time in Ireland and much desired the amusement of the pursuit to take his mind off more serious matters.
‘It is an appropriate name,’ he told the Irishman, ‘for I intent to bring down the mighty stag of the Osraighe using one solid thrust into the heart of their territory.’
‘My people will have spies and pickets watching all the passes,’ the Irishman told him.
‘Then we must push through the gap before word filters down that we are approaching,’ FitzStephen replied. He had enough problems without being stopped in the mountains by a force of the Osraighe. The loudest grumbles came from the most reluctant of his allies – the thousand-strong company of Ostmen from Waesfjord. Diarmait, as their sovereign king, had insisted that they should send a thousand warriors to support his assault on the Osraighe and, with Eir
ik’s support, the townsfolk had grudgingly agreed. With them came a number of women and other camp followers who had attached themselves to the army and who further slowed their passage through the mountains. There would always be bad feeling between the Ostmen and Diarmait’s army; too many friends, comrades, and relatives had been lost on both sides in the fight for the fortress-town. However, the Ostmen knew what it meant to be an enemy of the Normans and most would do almost anything to avoid fighting them again. Not until they became stronger or the Normans were weakened by defeat. In any case most whispered that the four hundred Normans were too few and that as soon as winter came they would sail away to England with their plunder, leaving Waesfjord to recover her independence again. But not one was willing to lift their hand against them while Maurice FitzGerald lay in wait at the new castle at Carraig.
The quiet moans of the unenthusiastic Ostmen was one thing but the bad feeling which came from the Flemings bordered on perilous. Maurice de Prendergast had returned to Waesfjord still bearing a grudge against FitzStephen and had insisted that his two hundred and forty-strong contingent would march together rather than intermingle with the Normans, Irish, Norse, and Welsh in the same battle formation employed on the march to Waesfjord from Banabh. They, perhaps more than anyone else, were on constant vigilance, fearing attack by the Osraighe at every hillock and thicket of tangled tree. The stress on the Flemings’ faces was immense.
‘Bloody moaners,’ Walter de Ridlesford, now in command of the Ostmen, said. ‘I value the Flemings as much as I value spit.’ He coughed disgustingly and spat on the ground in the direction of Prendergast’s men who were marching past FitzStephen’s column towards Miles’ vanguard. ‘The Flemings give me phlegm, I will tell you that for nothing,’ FitzStephen joked back to his cousin. ‘No offence meant, Richard,’ he said quickly to Roche who waved his remark away. FitzStephen might have been angry or fearful at the mood of his army but the dark spirit which had taken their dazed king was of just as a serious nature. Over the last few weeks a void had formed between Diarmait and every man outside his immediate family. The army had left Waesfjord and spent a week at Fearna before moving towards the land of the Uí Drona through the great tangled forest of Dubh-Tir; the Dark Country of mountains, bog, and tangled trees on the Osraighe’s eastern border. In that time FitzStephen had begun to notice Diarmait distance himself from his allies. He could only guess that it was the King’s reunion with the disfigured Eanna that had done the damage. As the young man had bumbled around his father’s home, struggling to adapt to his new disabilities, Mac Murchada had become quiet and reserved. FitzStephen had expected a gush of fiery vitriol at his son’s sad plight but no outburst had come, only a quiet daze as Diarmait had watched his former tánaiste lurch around the stone house unable to call for help or keep his food down. Richard de la Roche and Miles Menevensis reckoned that the Irishman was simply consumed by desire for revenge and guilt, and that this left little room for him to think about anything else. FitzStephen was concerned that Diarmait had perhaps caught him staring at Aoife during their all-too-brief meetings in the Uí Ceinnselaig’s capital but he could not share those private concerns with his compatriots. Too often his mind imagined Aoife’s lithe figure. He remembered their flirtatious talk in his tent at Carraig, prayed that she felt the same as he, and dreamed that they would somehow end up as lovers. FitzStephen had even thought about writing a song in her honour, as a nobleman in the English court might have done, and he had cursed himself for his softness.
In spite of the problems within the six-nation army, he and the Norman troops were in good spirits. They sniggered at the grumbles of the other men, teasing them that they moaned like women. Even in the rain and cold they laughed, each trying to outdo the other with bombastic mirth. In the filthy bogs they pushed on ahead and taunted the strugglers, throwing mud at them and saying that even the worst of days in the mountains reminded them of the most pleasant day on the Welsh frontier. They were hard men and they were bad men, but they were also robust soldiers and FitzStephen would not have changed the Norman heart of his army for any troops in the world. In truth, their experiences in Wales had prepared them perfectly for war in Ireland and they revelled in the downcast misery of the other warriors. FitzStephen knew that his horsemen and archers would be largely ineffective in this tough mountain terrain, where open ground was sparse and the jumble of vegetation gave ample cover from the deadly accuracy of his bowmen. It was a landscape for light infantry like that which the Osraighe could field. If they were attacked up here in the cold wastes they could not afford to become separated, of that he was certain. The army had to stay together until they got into the flat lowlands beyond the Meic Giolla Phádraig capital at Gabhrán; then they could unfurl their banners and stretch their horses’ legs. Until then they had to be on their guard and scout every knoll from where a surprise attack could be launched. They had to keep their spirits up and they had to carry on into enemy territory. In the lowlands there would be nowhere for the Osraighe to hide and the enemy would have to stand and fight.
Blood sullied the stream that searched its way through the Pass of Gabhrán, out of the mountains and into the land of the Osraighe beyond, but the Norman warhorses did not mind. They drank their fill and nibbled at grass as they nervously watched the strange scene which took place on the opposite river bank. Two hundred men of the Osraighe on their knees stared up into the haggard face of Diarmait Mac Murchada. Behind each of them was a man of the Uí Ceinnselaig and at their throats was a blade.
Diarmait looked at the men through tired eyes and with slumped shoulders. ‘You have committed treason against your king,’ he said quietly, almost to himself. ‘You have sinned against God and defied his anointed. There can be only one sentence for that great crime.’
FitzStephen, Fionntán, and Miles sat a little way off under a tree where the Osraighe had made their last stand. The trio were surrounded by arrows which sprouted from bodies and turf alike. The battle had been short and severe, but for their Gaelic allies, the violence was not yet over.
It had been two days since the warriors of the Osraighe had begun their attacks on Diarmait and FitzStephen’s column as they passed through the mountains. Across high woodland, wet fen, and festering bog, FitzStephen’s army had fought against an enemy who attacked at every opportunity, be it day or night. They came through the rain and the cold, through the trees and the low cloud. They came as a screaming mass of men who slashed and stabbed and melted back into the hills, daring small groups to pursue them. Like the flies which ate at their horses’ skin, the Osraighe nibbled at Diarmait’s army, ambushing, waylaying, and infuriating them to the point of collapse, and many had died in ill-advised attempts to catch the attackers as they fled. Every mile had taken half a day to complete and it had seemed that the landscape and the natives were working in tandem to defeat them. But it was only when the invaders had reached the valley mouth – their route into the territory of the Osraighe – that they understood that their predicament was only just beginning. Five thousand of the enemy’s best warriors, protected behind a double wall of twisted hazel and oak branches and filled with mud and stones, blocked the path and dared the invaders to attack.
They had dared and they had won.
‘Is it usual for the Irish to defend their lands like the Meic Giolla Phádraig did?’ FitzStephen asked of Fionntán. ‘Find a valley and build a wall across it?’
Fionntán’s eyes were locked on the two hundred men across the river. ‘Yes, mostly we defend a river crossing, attack from a forest, or defend a tight valley – use the terrain to our advantage. It didn’t work this time.’ Fionntán grimaced suddenly and his eyes tightened as he focused on one man amongst the enemy masses. ‘I knew his father,’ he exclaimed and signalled towards a young man at one end of the line of doomed warriors. ‘His name is Tadhg and his father took my woman from me many years ago. Maybe she was his mother …’
‘The one that made you leave your people?’ FitzStephen as
ked of the Irishman.
Fionntán nodded. ‘He took my cattle and slaves, and killed two of my people. I only escaped with my life because I had a coracle close by and was able to paddle into the deep water of the river. A week later I became a crewman with a trader out of Veðrarfjord.’ He paused as he searched the area close to where Tadhg knelt. ‘I don’t see the father …’ he said before Diarmait raised his voice, interrupting Fionntán who stood watching his enemy’s son.
‘Can you tell us what Diarmait is saying?’ Miles asked of the Irishman.
Fionntán acquiesced and began translating for the benefit of the two foreigners: ‘God would have me forgive you,’ he began, clearing his voice, ‘but I cannot forgive and your families and farms will burn.’ Diarmait’s voice gathered impetus. ‘Your children will be slaves.’
The King of Laighin stopped suddenly as his gaze drifted over the same section of kneeling men that Fionntán had noticed. Diarmait suddenly laughed hysterically and barked a victorious acclamation towards the sky: ‘God has been merciful to his good servant Diarmait,’ he shouted as he stomped towards a figure with his hands bound and head down. The King slammed his fist into the boy’s face and kicked him hard in the stomach. ‘Isn’t that right – Mac Giolla Phádraig?’ he accused the man who lay on the ground, blood at his mouth and terrified. It was Tadhg, the King of the Osraighe’s cousin, and the man who Fionntán had identified. Diarmait screamed and attacked, grabbing a dagger from the nearest of his soldier’s belt and dragging it across Tadhg’s neck. Blood was everywhere but the King kept sawing until the man’s head fell back across his shoulders. And he did not stop there, hacking at the spine with the knife and his fingers, tearing away the last shreds of flesh until the head came away from the torso.
Maurice de Prendergast joined FitzStephen, Miles, and Fionntán who observed the frenzy from afar. ‘God Almighty and his holy saints, he is mad,’ the Fleming said and crossed his chest.
Swordland Page 35