He had succeeded. FitzStephen had beaten the Irish horde of eighteen thousand with just four hundred Normans, a thousand unmotivated Ostmen, and five hundred unarmoured warriors from Fearna. Surely now his name would be remembered in song. No-one would ever forget his great deeds just as they remembered those of William the Conqueror, Robert Guiscard, and Bohemond of Antioch. They would sing about the great deeds of Sir Robert FitzStephen, he thought, the bastard frontiersman who became a knight, the knight who became a prisoner, the prisoner who became a warlord, and the warlord who had won a kingdom.
Chapter Fourteen
Waesfjord
April 1170
He warmed his hands over the fire in the longhouse and wrapped his cloak around him tightly. Rain slanted across the grey bay which he could see through the longhouse door and over the roofs of the nearby houses. It had been a warm start to the year, but the last week had been simply dreadful and Sir Robert FitzStephen shivered as the wind made the hearth glow red. Thankfully the longhouse’s previous resident had been rich enough to build a luxurious bathhouse and it had become a welcome haven from the worsening weather outdoors for the Norman. FitzStephen wrapped his heavy catskin cloak even tighter against the cold and wished he could be back in the steam.
The efforts of the last few months had taken its toll on the army. It had been four months since the withdrawal of High King Ruaidhrí from Dubh-Tir and his forces were finally starting approach full strength again. Several warriors had arrived in Waesfjord in merchantmen from Bristol, and those injured during the fighting had recuperated and recovered in the care of a wise woman employed by Fionntán Ua Donnchaidh.
Five days after his scouts had confirmed that Ruaidhrí had retreated across the River tSionainn, FitzStephen and Diarmait had abandoned their position in the mountains for Fearna. It had been sacked and partially destroyed by the High King’s allies, but the stone walls still stood and a few days’ hard work had made it defensible again. The Normans had then journeyed south to Waesfjord, leaving Diarmait and the Uí Ceinnselaig to bring their plundered capital back to life.
Back in the Ostman longfort, FitzStephen had found the marketplace full of trade, the harbour full of wintering ships, and his brother’s coffers packed with coin. The first four months of 1170 had brought a flurry of commerce to Waesfjord. Maurice FitzGerald had used his extensive influence to encourage traders from as far as Flanders and Aquitaine to bring their wares across the sea in greater numbers than ever before. It was as if the battles in the north had never occurred. Even the rebellious Ostmen remaining in the town had been dazzled by the wealth that had flooded in at the expense of Veðrarfjord and Dubhlinn, and the townsfolk had grudgingly tipped their caps to their new Norman overlords’ mercantile acumen. They might never forgive or forget but they had at least agreed on a reluctant peace for the time being.
Elsewhere in Ireland the fighting continued, or so it was said. Tigernán Ua Ruairc had sent men against Domhnall Ua Briain and Tuadhmumhain, Hasculv Mac Torcaill had led his longship fleet to attack the coast of Mide and Ulaidh, and every chieftain between fought their neighbour for dominance, wealth, and slaves. All, that was, except Ruaidhrí and Diarmait who were at peace. They had made a settlement after the standoff in Dubh-Tir, just as FitzStephen had predicted. The High King of Ireland could ill afford to sit in the snow and wait for the well-supplied Normans to starve, but conversely, he could not allow Diarmait to insolently flaunt his victory. So they had come to an agreement that suited them both – Diarmait would rule Laighin and offer homage and tribute to the High King, and Ruaidhrí would go home. Their rivalry could wait and simmer until both thought themselves strong. Conchobair, Diarmait’s son, would remain a hostage in Connacht to make sure that his father kept his word. Eventually he would marry Ruaidhrí’s young daughter Roisin. But for the time being Conchobair Mac Murchada would be nothing more than a pawn in the power struggle between the two kings. Diarmait was disturbed at that part of the agreement – after Eanna’s mutilation it was understandable – but his aspirations had won out in the end and their treaty had been sealed by solemn promises under the eyes of bishops and churchmen from both sides.
Aoife had pointedly ignored FitzStephen during the short period he had spent at Fearna. She was unwilling to forgive or forget the slight to her pride, but nor would FitzStephen ask her to relent. The decision had been made and he would have to live with it. FitzStephen had hoped that work improving Waesfjord would allow him to forget Diarmait’s daughter, but Maurice had been very busy in his absence and few things required his attention.
He had wanted to improve the defences to the landward approaches to the city, but Maurice had beaten him to it. Then he had planned the rebuilding of two churches to replace those burned by the Ostmen, but that had been largely beyond his capability and finances. He had finally found a task in organising drainage of the fields around the town, but after a month of digging that chore had been completed and FitzStephen had found himself again without occupation. To pass the time he had hunted wolves and big, rough local deer and this had proved a marvellous, demanding distraction. But even the hunt had lost its pleasure after a few weeks.
Nevertheless, his enforced indolence had provided him with an opportunity to think over the successful venture which he had led. He considered his half-brother William FitzGerald’s risk at offering Carew Castle to Yossi of Gloucester, the long sea journey, and Fionntán Ua Donnchaidh who had stayed with him after Dubh-Tir. He proudly remembered the fights at Dun Cormaic and Waesfjord, and considered the lessons taken from the bloody campaign across northern Laighin. It had been a momentous few months since he had been sprung from Llandovery’s cells by Diarmait Mac Murchada. Never again would the Normans be so weak, that he promised. As soon as the weather became more favourable he would send Meiler and Miles back to Wales to recruit more warriors. He had faced an entire nation in arms intent on his destruction, but by his steadfastness and courage he had forced his enemies to falter and lose faith. The moment of crisis had passed and news of the glory won by the small warband would already have travelled beyond Ireland’s shores thanks to Maurice’s merchants.
Out of the door he watched as a number of local craftsmen worked on the skeleton of a new longship on the banks of the bay under the watchful eye of Nigel le Brun. With Norman leadership Waesfjord would grow and it would need a bigger fleet to support the number of tradesmen that would spread throughout the isles of Britain and even to Frisia, Flanders, and France across the sea. And all the profits would find its way back to Waesfjord and into the pockets of FitzStephen and his brothers. Pembroke would prosper too, and with it the sons of Nest would found a cross-sea empire built on trade and conquest in Ireland.
He smiled as Maurice FitzGerald joined him in the longhouse which had belonged to the late leader of Waesfjord’s assembly. Eirik’s collusion with the Normans had ended abruptly and painfully while FitzStephen and the army were fighting the High King. In the culture of the Ostmen an honourable man was expected to take revenge on his enemies, not conspire on bended knee with those who had defeated him. As such Eirik had become a disgrace amongst his people, and his wife, distraught at his shame, had divorced him and proclaimed her decision, which was her legal right, in front of all the people of Waesfjord. The act had precipitated Eirik’s loss of control of the Waesfjord Thing and Maurice, disgusted with his henchman, had acted to end the political standoff. First, Eirik had disappeared to the Ferry Carraig while Maurice had rooted out the worst dissenters. Through intimidation and coercion, burnings and beatings, he had forced the members of the Thing to again follow his orders. But Eirik had never reappeared in Waesfjord, and nor would he as he was buried in an unmarked grave beneath the herb garden in FitzStephen’s new castle.
Maurice greeted his brother with a curt nod. He spied a piece of bracken, used for insulation on the roof, which had become loose and he stuffed it back into place. ‘Did you hear the news?’ he asked.
His half-brother nodded.
‘I heard. Prendergast finally got passage back to Wales in Veðrarfjord,’ he said. ‘It probably cost him an arm and a leg, but better that than to have Diarmait or Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig catch up with him and actually take an arm and leg,’ FitzStephen replied with a small giggle.
‘He is here,’ Maurice whispered.
‘Prendergast?’
Maurice made a scornful face, ‘No, Diarmait.’
‘In Waesfjord?’ he asked. He scattered a number of woodchips, strewn on the floor for heat retention, as he stood to his feet. ‘Why is he here?’
‘I will tell you myself,’ said Diarmait Mac Murchada loudly as he stomped into the longhouse and crossed the room to embrace FitzStephen. ‘How are you, Sir Robert?’ There was no hint of the anger and distance that had grown between the two men in the last days spent in Dubh-Tir. No sign of the resentment caused by his turning down Aoife’s hand in marriage.
‘I am well, Lord,’ FitzStephen said haltingly. ‘What brings you to Waesfjord?’
‘For a favour, Sir Robert,’ said Diarmait. He dominated the room by his sheer size. ‘It involves a stiff fight against massive odds so naturally I thought of you.’ The King laughed heartily as FitzStephen called for servants to prepare so food for his guest. ‘I want you to go into the west to help my son-in-law Domhnall Ua Briain to secure Tuadhmumhain,’ Diarmait explained. ‘You will have heard that Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair is bringing his army down from Connacht.’
‘I had heard Tigernán Ua Ruairc was fighting but not Ruaidhrí,’ the Norman replied. ‘Will this not make your treaty with the High King void?’
Diarmait laughed and shook his head. ‘There will be much plunder, especially from Hlymrik, and it will open up another front against our enemy,’ he said, ignoring FitzStephen’s misgivings.
Maurice saw his brother’s hesitation. ‘You think that helping the Uí Briain will assist you to hold Laighin?’ he asked.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Diarmait said quickly. ‘The best thing to do right now is to keep Ruaidhrí interested in Mhumhain and away from us. So will you do it?’
FitzStephen was bored in Waesfjord, superfluous even, thanks to Maurice’s hard work. ‘We will leave within the month,’ he told his liege lord. ‘A hundred archers and thirty warriors will accompany me.’ There was a fight in the west, plunder to be had, and pillaging to be done. Of course Robert FitzStephen would go.
The three men talked late into the night, ate and drank well and it was much later that Diarmait walked back to the church of St Patrick where he was staying during his stay in Waesfjord. The stone walls of the church would keep out the cold winds better than the wood and wattle walls of the Ostman longhouses, he thought. He did not like the alien-looking buildings anyway, they reminded him that he was not amongst his own people. It was dark and Diarmait’s head was hazy from the wine which he had drunk in the company of FitzStephen and Maurice. But there were enough burning torches to light his and his bodyguard’s way as he journeyed through the streets towards the church. The tall building stood out dark against the night sky and Diarmait waved to a novice monk who guarded the entrance to the church compound.
The church stood on top of a small bluff. Unlike most churches in Ireland it did not have a tall tower beside it as these clerics did not need a place to flee and hide their treasures from the Ostmen. Below lay all the outbuildings required to run and feed the small monastery while in the centre of the compound was a huge carved stone cross, circle around the cross point, resplendent with Celtic designs and Nordic runes.
‘Lord King,’ a voice like murder came from beyond the intricately carved cross. Diarmait Mac Murchada jumped in fright at its power.
‘Sir Hervey,’ he said, and waved away his bodyguard. ‘I thought you were going to stay hidden. Robert FitzStephen cannot know that you are here in Waesfjord.’
Sir Hervey de Montmorency, looking as decrepit and downtrodden as ever, appeared from the shadows behind the Celtic cross, grinning balefully over decayed teeth.
‘He has no idea that I am here.’ Hervey walked across the cut mud and reeds thrown on the courtyard but they made no noise beneath his feet.
‘Robert doesn’t like you,’ the King said, taking the French nobleman by the arm and leading him towards the main cell which the priest had vacated to make way for his royal visitor. Diarmait chanced a look over his shoulder to see if anyone was around to identify Hervey. He could make out no-one in the gloom.
‘FitzStephen would kill me if he got the chance,’ said Montmorency as he bared his horror of a smile again.
‘And you wouldn’t do the same to him?’
The French nobleman dragged his fingers through his thin and greasy long hair. ‘Just give me another opportunity and a crossbow. So you sent him to help Ua Briain?’
‘How did you …’ Diarmait began before stopping. ‘You have been roaming through the town,’ he accused Hervey, who had indeed been eavesdropping on his conversation with FitzStephen.
Diarmait shook his head, realising that he should not have been surprised by his ally’s underhandedness. ‘I did as you asked. He will be in the west when Strongbow lands. Robert will not make trouble for your nephew.’
‘Good, good, and so to our main business. You know why I am here. Does the offer still stand?’ Montmorency asked Diarmait as they passed into the dark building.
‘It does,’ Diarmait said, ‘but the crown that I want has changed. FitzStephen has given me Laighin. Now I want Teamhair na Ri. I want Ruaidhrí’s throne.’
Hervey de Montmorency shrugged. ‘Strongbow will sit on whatever throne you occupy so the bigger the better.’ He didn’t say that the bigger his nephew’s victory, the larger the riches that would come to him. ‘We should send a letter to England to bring Strongbow here soon. We should formalise the agreement.’
Diarmait nodded and called for Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain to attend him in his quarters. His secretary was with them in a few minutes. He questioned Sir Hervey’s presence with a raised eyebrow but that was all.
‘I bring news from Strongbow,’ Hervey told him.
‘You will take a letter to him in Striguil,’ Diarmait said as Máelmáedoc got ready to write. ‘I trust no one else with this task.’
‘I will not fail,’ his secretary replied.
‘Diarmait, son of Donnchadh Mac Murchada, King of Laighin, to Richard of Clare, Lord of Striguil,’ Mac Murchada began, ‘greetings.’ He stopped talking. His hesitation continued for many seconds, so many that Máelmáedoc and Hervey swapped glances of confusion.
‘My King?’ encouraged Máelmáedoc.
Diarmait Mac Murchada said nothing. Was this the right course of action, he wondered? By committing to bringing more foreigners to his homeland was he inviting disaster as his son Domhnall believed? He could barely control Robert FitzStephen and the small number of Normans that he had already brought to his shores. They were so few but had defeated the united powers of every king in Ireland. Despite his fears, he smiled with pride as he remembered the great victory and he imagined how powerful he would be with ten times the number of Normans at his command. No-one would be able to stand in his way and he would be High King of Ireland. In the seal fat candlelight his eyes flashed.
‘Diarmait?’ asked Sir Hervey, wondering if the Irishman was having second thoughts about bringing Strongbow to his new kingdom. The Frenchman ground his teeth. Had the upstart FitzStephen finally turned the King of Laighin against the earl just as he had always feared?
Mac Murchada cleared his throat. ‘My friend, the swallows have come and gone, yet you are tarrying still,’ he continued, dictating the letter after a short pause. ‘Neither winds from the east nor the west have brought us your much desired and long expected presence. Let your present activity make up for this delay and prove by your deeds that you have not forgotten your engagements but only deferred their performance. Our friend Sir Robert, son of Stephen, has led our forces to victory over the High King and our position in Laighin is now secure. If you
come in time with a strong force the other four parts of the kingdom will be easily united to this the fifth. You will add to the flavour of your coming if it be speedy; it will turn out famous if it is not delayed, and the sooner the coming, the better the welcome. The wound in our regards which has been partly caused by neglect will be healed by your presence; firm friendship is secured by good offices and grows by benefits to greater strength. For I hold to the provisions of our original agreement and upon the speedy embarkation of your armies will marry you to my daughter, the Lady Aoife, and name you my son, tánaiste, and heir. The kingdom of Ireland is now your prize and it is ripe for the taking. I will look long for your sails on the eastern horizon,’ Diarmait signed off his letter. Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain would spice it up and Mac Murchada trusted him to do it with customary skill.
Hervey smiled malevolently. He was about to come into a vast fortune perched on the coat tails of his nephew.
‘I see that you have employed a number of men-at-arms and brought them with you to Ireland,’ Diarmait said to the grimly grinning Montmorency, who had indeed employed ten ragged milites – murderers, brigands, and landless Normans – ready to do his bidding however repugnant. ‘Will they be sitting around your new estates in Siol Bhroin taking your money or do they need some work while you are in Wales?’
‘That depends on two things,’ Hervey said quickly, holding up two bony fingers, ‘how much it pays,’ he retracted one of his talons, ‘and who you need dead. I assume that is what you want?’
Diarmait grinned and pursed his lips. ‘I need your men to have a quiet word,’ he raised an eyebrow, ‘with King Diarmait Ua Mael Sechlainn of Mide about how we are to proceed as good neighbours. He has lands that belong to Donnchadh Ua Ceallaigh and my friend, his cousin, Domhnall Ua Mael Sechlainn of Brega. He should return them or face the consequences.’
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