FitzStephen smiled widely. ‘It’s funny you should say that, Diarmait,’ he said, ‘for I know a place where we can find all those things.’ Mac Murchada turned to look at him. His face was full of confusion. ‘Dubh-Tir,’ the Norman told him. ‘I will turn it into a bastion that cannot be breached by any horde that Ruaidhrí can muster.’ Diarmait did not look convinced but the Norman continued. ‘I have dispatched Richard de la Roche to dig pits, fell trees, and other dark arts which your enemies will not foresee. The Dark Country is already almost impenetrable but we will use that to our advantage! Winter is already approaching and Ruaidhrí will starve before our mighty wall of trees while we watch him from the comfort of a donjon made from mountains. I once told you, Diarmait,’ FitzStephen said, ‘that to win Laighin we will have to fight Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair. I would fight him in a battle site of our choosing rather than chase him back to Connacht for him to choose the place. Dubh-Tir is a trap which he will enter willingly and we shall close it around him.’
‘Was that not your plan when you killed the warlord Einion back in Wales,’ Diarmait asked, ‘to force one all-out battle with all your enemies at once? Was that not what turned you into the pitiful prisoner that I found in Llandovery?’
At one time FitzStephen might have lost his temper at the King’s slur. Even amongst his loyal bannermen he would not have let the insult stand. But Robert FitzStephen was a changed man; more thankful and thoughtful if no less ambitious.
‘What I did in Wales was the right course of action, then as now we must draw them out,’ he said. ‘All I can do is trust that God is on my side and that my allies are as brave and honourable as I had hoped, and they had promised they would be. I am a different man than the one you freed from prison, Diarmait. I have learned from my disappointments and this time I will not fail.’
Diarmait laughed. ‘Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain believes that you are a gambler, Robert. He says that you will risk everything on a last roll of the dice …’
‘I –’ FitzStephen began to object but the King interrupted.
‘… and what of that bastard Prendergast, what do we do about him?’ Behind Diarmait his derb-fine murmured their agreement.
‘We let him go. His archers would have come in handy, but we will still win. And there will be more glory left for those of us who remain.’ FitzStephen lied easily; he had been devastated by Prendergast’s betrayal but, he knew that all that stood between his army and annihilation was his self-assurance. If he lost anyone else as he had Prendergast there would be no hope, but for the moment he held onto the small sliver of optimism that he could withstand the onslaught using the great wood of Dubh-Tir to his advantage. He was a hunter, after all, and that forest was a hunter’s terrain.
‘We shall see.’
Diarmait dismissed FitzStephen with a wave of his hand and watched him as he left his house.
‘The Norman does not tell you things that make you feel better?’ his brehon, Ua Deoradáin, asked Diarmait.
The King shook his head. ‘He has been betrayed again and that is an affront I cannot let stand.’
‘It is a weak man who would,’ the brehon replied. ‘The Fleming has to pay.’
Diarmait ground his teeth loudly. ‘Damn FitzStephen,’ he said. He was just a mercenary, a pirate, and Diarmait was the King. ‘Domhnall, get in here!’ he shouted.
His eldest son entered the house at a gallop, keen as ever to please his father. He searched the house for possible threats before greeting his father.
‘I have a task for you in Waesfjord, my son,’ Diarmait told him.
The Ostman town looked just as intimidating to Maurice de Prendergast as it had when he had attacked the walls alongside Robert FitzStephen. That was despite approaching it as a friend rather than a foe on this occasion. His tired troops trudged down the boggy hillside towards Waesfjord where he was impressed to see that St Peter’s Gate, broken down by Meiler FitzHenry’s trebuchet during the Norman attack, had been rebuilt and strengthened in stone by Maurice FitzGerald. The Geraldine red saltaire flew over the new taller earthworks and Prendergast quickly suppressed a sudden surge of pride as he thought of the great victory that he had been a part of alongside Diarmait and FitzStephen.
‘They aren’t my people,’ Prendergast mumbled and chanced one final look over his shoulder to check the skyline for any sign of a rider racing towards the town to stop him and his men taking ship back to Wales. Thankfully there was no indication of a pursuit across the snow-sprinkled hills. He allowed himself to relax. The worst was surely over and he could not imagine that the placid Ostmen would deny him entry to their town when they knew he was bound for Wales.
The Flemings had forded the Sláine to the north of Carraig, a difficult crossing where one archer had died, but Prendergast was sure that if he had tried to cross the river at the ferry below FitzStephen’s fort, he would have been stopped by the distrustful Normans under Sir Maurice FitzGerald.
The last time Prendergast had seen the fortress-town, he had been going north to Fearna with Robert FitzStephen intending to raid all across northern Laighin. Prendergast had been angry then, angry with Diarmait for paying him with the lands of the Uí Bhairrche rather than money, and angry with FitzStephen for not allowing him to pillage the town and surrounding cantreds. For a fleeting second the Fleming considered unleashing his men on the town when they opened the gates, carrying all they could back to Wales with them. It would make up for the meagre pickings from among the Uí Failge and the Osraighe. But as quickly as the thought came he dismissed it; best not to antagonise the dangerous clan of brothers led by FitzGerald and FitzStephen more than he already had.
‘How good does Haverford seem after this god-forsaken place?’ his younger brother Philip laughed.
‘I can’t wait to put my feet up,’ Prendergast grinned. Winter was almost upon them; the European fighting season was already over, and the Flemings could regroup in Rhos, ready to hire their services to some rich lord in the New Year. Better that, Prendergast thought, than here on this ungodly island where there was no season laid aside for war. The constant state of alert had been punishing even on the Flemish leader who was no wet-behind-the-ears campaigner.
‘Bloody hell,’ Philip said beside him, ‘they haven’t got around to rebuilding the churches yet?’ The burned remnants of the Celtic churches still littered the area in front of St Peter’s Gate. Broken and burned timbers, scorched stone and ruined lintel still poked out of ground. Several of the Flemings, including the Prendergast brothers, crossed themselves as they came to a halt outside the town gates.
‘Who are you and what do you buggering want?’ shouted an angry voice from above.
‘Is it not bloody obvious who we are?’ Philip whispered under his breath as he puffed out his surcoat and the indicated to the armaments carried by his troops. It should have been enough for anyone to recognize who the large group of men were.
‘Well?’ asked Maurice FitzGerald’s man, Robert de St Michel, as his head appeared over the newly carved tips of the wooden stockade. He was fully armoured, ready for trouble, and obviously angry.
Prendergast quickly scanned the length of the walls for danger before adopting a friendly tone: ‘Robert! How are you my good friend? It is I, Maurice de Prendergast, and I have come to talk to Eirik of Waesfjord,’ he finished with a broad smile. Behind him the men stirred. They had been unprepared for a shut gate at the only port friendly to them in Ireland; their only way home.
‘Eirik isn’t here anymore,’ St Michel shouted down brusquely and without greeting the Fleming formally, ‘he is up at the Ferry Carraig,’ he said, using the name that the Normans had adopted for FitzStephen’s new castle.
‘With Maurice FitzGerald?’ asked Prendergast. So the Normans had taken their puppet-king to their fortress on the Sláine? He wondered what it meant.
‘Who else? I suggest you go up there to … talk,’ Robert de St Michel said bluntly, following it up with a broad smile. It was something Prenderga
st doubted that St Michel did all that often.
‘It is late,’ Prendergast said, ‘and we need shelter in the town tonight. We can go up to the Ferry Carraig tomorrow?’
Robert de St Michel was a short, squat man with a broken nose and crossed eyes which seemed constantly fixed on the nasal guard of his conical helmet. Those same eyes narrowed suspiciously on the Fleming as he agreed to his demands. Prendergast may as well have asked him to move the heavens as open the gates. More men joined St Michel on the wall. They were all fully armed like their leader.
‘I’m afraid not,’ he said, ‘we got word from Sir Maurice this afternoon to deny access to Waesfjord to anyone coming from the north unless they were accompanied by FitzGerald himself,’ he stressed. But St Michel wasn’t finished. ‘He says he will be here by tomorrow morning,’ he told him.
‘Oh, shit,’ Philip whispered behind Prendergast who in turn told his brother to be quiet. He wondered if Robert de St Michel had given the information as a warning or a threat. Either way, FitzGerald had been alerted to his presence in the south by Diarmait and St Michel was not going to open the gates of Waesfjord to his warband.
The barbican now had fifteen Norman crossbowmen with their weapons spanned and ready to loose bolts upon his men who, though they outnumbered the Normans, had no advantage of cover as they stood in the killing zone below St Peter’s Gate. Prendergast knew that one wrong word or stupid move could flare up into a fight that neither side could be positive of winning. Both sides eyed each other up and patted their weapons, ready for the fight if it came.
The usually grim Prendergast forced a friendly grin onto his face. ‘That’s fine, Robert,’ he said, pretending to yawn. ‘Orders are orders. I think we will await Sir Maurice here after all,’ he said happily, almost lazily. ‘We shall camp at St Michael’s.’ He nodded to the Church to the south-west of the town, the only one left standing after the Ostmen had burned Irishtown.
‘Fine,’ St Michel replied, ‘he will see you at first light.’ He looked positively disappointed that the Flemings were not going to make a fight of it.
The Flemings quickly extricated themselves from crossbow range and began the long walk south towards St Michael the Archangel’s Church. Many grumbled about the Normans who had barred their way though they quietened when Prendergast’s lieutenants, Jean de Chievres and Osbert de Cusac, re-joined the Flemish column from their scouting mission to the north.
‘There is an Irish army behind us,’ Jean shouted as he thundered in beside Prendergast.
His captain almost cursed. ‘Who are they?’
Chievres shook his head. ‘It is Diarmait’s son, Captain Domhnall, with five hundred troops from Fearna.’ He chewed his lip nervously. ‘They have joined up with Maurice FitzGerald at the castle,’ he said.
‘What the blazes are we going to do now?’ Osbert panted as he asked his question. ‘Go back to Fearna?’
‘No. I will not give in to threats from Diarmait Mac Murchada and there is no profit in revenge,’ Prendergast said with determination. ‘At the moment we outnumber Maurice FitzGerald so unless he is stupid, which we know he is not, we are safe from him for the time being. But these Irish worry me greatly …’
‘Could we assault Waesfjord?’ said a young archer called Thomas le Fleming.
Prendergast threw Thomas a dirty look for eavesdropping on his conversation but answered his question anyway.
‘We have not enough warriors to assault,’ he said, thinking out loud and waiting for his lieutenants to bring some ideas to the table.
‘Go south to Banabh,’ de Chievres suggested, ‘and wait for a passing ship?’
‘We could sit out there for months without anyone stopping to offer passage,’ Prendergast dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. ‘That damned Irishman doesn’t know the meaning of forgiveness,’ he said, meaning Diarmait. ‘His friends, if he has any left, would set upon us within days.’
‘So if we can’t cross the sea, and we can’t go back to Diarmait, and we can’t stay here … where is there left to go?’ Osbert de Cusac wondered with slight foreboding in his voice.
‘We find a new employer,’ Prendergast said, looking westwards towards the mountains.
Chapter Thirteen
A horde approached the dark-forested mountains. Like the snow which clung to their shoulders, they came from the north. They came with destruction in their hearts. They came to kill.
Their leaders had marshalled a multitude at Teamhair na Ri, and knew that the trees of Dubh-Tir hid just a small band of brigands ready to be wiped from the face of the earth. There was not a moment of doubt in any of their minds that this great army would rid their land of the threat of the foreigners, and of the hated Diarmait Mac Murchada. They were a host from Connacht, Mide, Breifne, Aírgialla, Tir Eóghain, Ulaidh, and beyond. All of Diarmait’s enemies, Irish and Norse alike, had united to eject the High King’s great foe from Ireland.
A lone figure stood beneath twin fluttering banners at the bounds of the forest and watched the army approach. Like the man’s surcoat, the great flags showed a white star on a blue field and the standards flickered like fire vapour at their tapered points. Snow swirled angrily on the wicked wind as it whipped at Sir Robert FitzStephen’s woollen cloak to reveal his richly coloured surcoat and tough mail armour beneath. FitzStephen considered the long road he had ventured upon to get him to this point: the fight at Ewloe and his investment as a knight; the defeat at Aberteifi and his dismal life in the cells of Llandovery; burning the ships at Waesfjord. Yet the image that remained clearest in his mind was that of Aoife of the Uí Ceinnselaig. He raised his spear in salute to the distant enemy. Come on, he thought, come into the Dark Country. I know its secrets. Here, I am the hunter and you are the prey.
He wished he could dispel the many lingering worries which inundated his attention. The enemy were many, his allies few. But all his preparations had been made and everything was poised for a momentous clash between the two armies.
He remembered his eldest brother William’s words on the shore at Melrfjord just a few months before. He had spoken grandly about some Greeks who had stopped the host of Persia with just a handful of warriors. Well, Robert FitzStephen’s challenge was no less great: eighteen thousand warriors under the High King threatened to destroy everything that the Norman knight and his band of four hundred had won. He still had a thousand warriors from Waesfjord and five hundred infantry of the Uí Ceinnselaig, but his real force was that central core of mercenary cavalry and archers. Diarmait Mac Murchada and Richard de la Roche were silently waiting for him upon the small path cut through the trees.
‘So they have come,’ Diarmait said. His dejection was obvious. No man had been able to array such power since the days of Brian Bóruma and his grand offensive against the Ostmen of Hlymrik and Dubhlinn. Yet here was Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair showing that his grip on ultimate power in Ireland was almost complete.
‘Ruaidhrí won’t attack our position today,’ FitzStephen told his master. ‘They will come in the morning.’ He turned around and again stared at the vast multitude of warriors waiting to tear his army apart. A small group was coming over the river accompanied by a number of tonsured priests. ‘They want to parley with us,’ FitzStephen noted.
‘Not scouts?’ Diarmait asked, doubting that Ruaidhrí would want to talk to him unless it was to taunt and ridicule him. Diarmait’s hopes in FitzStephen’s defences were disappearing by the minute as the full power of his enemy unfolded below.
FitzStephen nodded away to the south where a number of men on rugged horses had appeared and were skirting the forest below the cliff face on the southern peak. ‘They’re the scouts.’
‘I will send Domhnall to chase them off,’ Richard de la Roche started to move away.
‘No. Let them alone,’ FitzStephen said. ‘They won’t get far into the trees.’ He watched the men on horseback. He was bemused to see that they used neither stirrup nor saddle and so could not fight from horseback –
a sword swipe would certainly unseat them – and he took confidence from that.
Suddenly there was a flurry of activity amongst the Gaels. A second later the drifting wind brought the sound of bowstrings to FitzStephen’s ears. The scouts fled as the Norman archers stepped out of the trees and chased them off.
‘Bite,’ FitzStephen urged as he turned his head to watch the main army down in the valley. Ruaidhrí’s men had kept the Sláine River between them and the highland forest where the Normans waited amongst the knotted and twisted trees. ‘Come on,’ he murmured, ‘bite.’ FitzStephen imagined what Dubh-Tir must look like to the tired men who had marched so far from their homes in winter to fight their king’s enemy. The forest grew between two high ridges running parallel, two miles apart for as far as the eye could see. Mist clung to the tops of those high hills. It was a place where goblins and evil spirits were said to live, a place where brave men feared to enter, populated by bog and swamp and nightmarish horrors. As if to aid the forboding, a wolf howled in the distance. FitzStephen hoped that the men below had also heard the cry and were reminded of foul stories from their youth. At both sides of the valley mouth, cliffs looked down on the tree tops, as if some great giant had cut out the earth and removed it. The Norman camp sat between two peaks which formed the southern ridge, defended by a huge and impassable swamp to its rear. If all went to ruin, that was where he would make his final stand. Dubh-Tir was a strong position but it was also one which Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair would not hesitate to assault, such was his advantage through sheer strength of numbers. That huge lumbering beast which was the High King’s army would charge the Norman army hidden in the trees and gore it to pieces.
But what Ruaidhrí would find was not a scared, defeated enemy attempting to hide from the inevitable conquest. He would find a hunter, armed to the teeth and ready to fight in the darkness of a wintry Dubh-Tir where he hoped that his ploys would bleed the great beast to death. The highest form of the hunt had eight parts, FitzStephen remembered, and to take down the proud army of the High King he knew that he would have to employ every one. Already the first three parts had been completed and he had set his ‘dogs’ along the predicted course of their prey. Soon the Normans would take part in the real fight amongst the conifers and soggy tangle of vegetation. First, however, FitzStephen had to meet his prey face to face and provoke him into attack. He had to sniff out their weak spot. For that task he would need a lymer and an alaunt.
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