Strongbow

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Some Norman knights had solid plates of armour strapped to their chests and backs to protect them, but my father didn’t approve of this fashion.

  ‘It makes a man as helpless as a shell makes a turtle,’ he said. He thought the ability to move was more important than being shielded from blows.

  My squire, a youth called Roland, admired my armour. But he didn’t have to wear it, he only had to keep it oiled and ready for me. Sometimes I saw him looking at me as if he thought he could do better justice to armour than I could.

  I didn’t trust him. I didn’t trust anyone, as my father had taught me.

  ‘Always guard your back,’ Father said. ‘Everyone is after you. No man is safe. Be watchful.’

  He wasn’t watchful enough, however.

  I was at the castle when a messenger on a sweating horse galloped into the courtyard. The man’s eyes were wild. ‘Gilbert de Clare is dead!’ he cried as if he couldn’t believe it. ‘Strongbow is dead!’

  One of the servants dropped a bucketful of water. I heard it clattering on the cobblestones. I felt as if the cold water had been thrown on me.

  We learned in bits and pieces of how he died, as his men came straggling back to the castle. He had been in a skirmish, a small battle on the border, and some whispered he had been killed by one of his own men.

  ‘He was hated,’ I was told by Father’s own squire. ‘The great lords are often hated by their people. You’ll learn that for yourself.’

  ‘I will?’

  ‘You’re the lord here now. It will be up to you to hold the de Clare castle and defend your share of the Welsh Marches.’

  No sooner had he said this than people started bowing to me, knuckling their forelocks as I passed by. At first it made me want to laugh. I felt like I was pretending to be someone I was not. But I couldn’t laugh. I was supposed to be mourning my father.

  Did I mourn him? I don’t remember. I must have done. I should have done. He was my father, the great de Clare.

  But all too soon I learned just what sort of man he had been. I was shocked to discover that he died owing a great amount of money to a great number of people. Men seemed to come from the farthest corners of the kingdom with their hands out. ‘De Clare promised me this,’ they’d say. ‘De Clare owed me that. You must pay.’

  I couldn’t even ride out with a falcon on my wrist to go hunting without having a creditor approach me. They had no shame, they were not noble. They ran after me, yelling. They threw themselves in front of my horse.

  Father would have trampled such men beneath the hooves of his horse, but I couldn’t. I stopped and talked to them. I made promises I didn’t know how to keep, but I was always courteous.

  They thought, because I had fine features like a woman’s, that I was soft. I wasn’t soft. I was simply my mother’s son, and she had taught me good manners before she died.

  That’s all I have left of her now. That, and my sister, Basilia.

  With my parents dead, I became the guardian of my infant sister. I wanted to give her a good life. She would be a Norman noblewoman, she should have fine gowns to wear and jewels, and there should be lute-players in her chamber, making music for her all the day.

  I longed for music, myself. For the life of the wealthy. For a garden with flowers. But all that took money. Property. Power.

  The struggle for power was growing in England, between old King Stephen and young Henry Plantagenet. Because Stephen had been my father’s friend, I took his side.

  I sold my sword in Stephen’s service and helped to fight his battles wherever I was needed. Thus I took up the career which had been my father’s, the only career possible for a Norman knight. I became a professional warrior.

  It was a hard life. Battle after battle, and long treks in the saddle. It made me a hard man. There was little time in my life then for music and flowers.

  Whenever I could, I returned to my castle to see Basilia. I needed to know that she was safe and happy. As soon as I got home I’d rush up to the small high room at the top of the tower, the safest room in the castle. It was my sister’s nursery. Her nurse would tiptoe out and leave us together.

  Even when she was a baby, Basilia always had a smile for me. She wrapped her tiny fingers around one of my big ones the way she wrapped herself around my heart. No matter how bad my day had been, when I saw Basilia I felt better. All the hardness inside me melted away.

  I took her in my arms and pressed my cheek against her silky hair. ‘My sister,’ I whispered to her. The pale strands of her hair felt like silk threads to my rough hands. ‘My sister. Blood of my blood. We have other kinfolk, Basilia, but they live elsewhere and I rarely see them. Only you and I are our mother’s children. You would have loved her. You are so much like her.’

  It was true. Basilia was small and frail and gentle like our mother. When I was with her, I could be gentle too. ‘I don’t have to pretend to be fierce and warlike when I’m with you,’ I told her. ‘That would frighten you. But I have to be very different outside this chamber. I must defend our name and property, so the world has to believe I’m a hard man like my father.’

  Once, and only once, I made the mistake of forgetting to take off my armour before I went to see Basilia. She shrieked aloud at the sight of me in my helmet. After that I was always very careful to remove my battle gear first, so I could go to her with my face washed and no blood on my hands.

  As time passed, there was often blood on my hands. Beyond Basilia’s chamber the world was full of war.

  People began calling me by my father’s nickname: Strongbow.

  Basilia was learning to talk. She called me ‘Wichad’.

  ‘I have another name now,’ I told her. ‘I am Father’s heir, Earl of Pembroke and also Earl of Strigul. I have power and position, Basilia. I’m somebody important, can you imagine? Men follow my banner now, and I have a reputation as a warrior. I don’t enjoy fighting very much, but no one knows that. Except you. They call me Strongbow now,’ I told her. ‘That’s my name now.’

  Basilia laughed and clapped her little hands.

  ‘Stwongbow!’ she said.

  It sounded better when she said it. I found I liked the name. I was proud to be Basilia’s ‘Stwongbow’.

  As my sister was growing up, Stephen, King of England, was growing old and weak. He wanted his son Eustace to be king after him. I supported Eustace because I didn’t want Henry Plantagenet, who was usually away in France, to rule England. But then Eustace died. His death broke his father’s heart. Within a year King Stephen was dead, and Henry Plantagenet returned in triumph to become King Henry II of England.

  Henry didn’t forget the names of those who had not wanted him to be king. The name of the Earl of Pembroke was on that list. My name.

  Kings have ways of getting even.

  I was a nobleman with titles and land and a castle, but in truth I was very poor. My father’s debts took years to pay off. Even when that was done, I could not seem to make money. The land should have supported us well, I had tenants who were good farmers.

  But as I told Basilia, ‘When I demand that my tenants pay me my share of their crops, they say they can’t. They tell me they have sick wives or sick children or their crop failed.’

  ‘Is it true?’ Basilia asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said miserably. ‘I can’t make myself call a man a liar to his face. And I can’t throw him off the land if his family is sick. Father would have, but I can’t. So there’s no money for new clothes for you this year, little sister.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Basilia said loyally.

  But I knew she did. Girls like pretty things. And I needed things myself, fresh horses, new armour, food and pay for the men who followed my banner.

  ‘Basilia,’ I said to my sister one day, ‘I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to have to marry a woman whose family will give her a good dowry. With dowry money I can pay my bills.’

  ‘Who will you marry?’

  ‘I’ve heard o
f a woman called Isabella who belongs to a family that is always eager to add more noble titles to its line. I think her father would be pleased to wed her to the Earl of Pembroke. I’ll ask him for her.’

  I never doubted I would get her. Men married off their daughters for many reasons, and the daughters could not object. Women belonged to their men. That was our law.

  Basilia belonged to me. Someday, when she was older, I could marry her to a wealthy man and improve my lot that way.

  Isabella’s father agreed to the marriage and gave her a large dowry, which made things easier for me, for a while.

  Isabella was not pretty, nor was she sweet. She was only rich.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t like your wife very much,’ Basilia once admitted to me. ‘She doesn’t like me.’

  ‘Nonsense. Everyone likes a pretty little girl.’

  ‘Not Isabella. She thinks you spend too much time with me,’ my sister said. She was very wise for her years.

  So I tried to spend more time with my wife, but in truth, I had very little time to spare. I was involved in various struggles, some against the wild Welsh and some against my own countrymen, just as my father had been.

  And I was on the wrong side.

  I shall never forget the look in my wife’s eyes on the day the messenger came to us from King Henry’s court, to tell me I was no longer Earl of Pembroke. That title, and the lands that went with it, had been stripped from me by the king.

  Isabella looked at me as if I was something scraped off her shoe.

  ‘But I still have a title,’ I tried to assure her. ‘I am also Earl of Strigul. Henry hasn’t taken that from me.’

  ‘A minor title with very little land,’ my wife said with a sniff. ‘You’ve been a fool, Richard. Why didn’t you support Henry? Look at Robert FitzHarding. He shouted his loyalty to Henry from the treetops, and now he’s being showered with gifts and lands. You’re reduced to nothing.’

  ‘I’m not reduced to nothing,’ I argued.

  But she was so angry she wouldn’t talk to me.

  Keeping my face set so no one would know my true feelings, I went to Basilia’s chamber. My sister was eight or nine years old at the time, old enough to know something was wrong. She put her hand in mine. ‘What is it?’ she asked gently.

  To my horror, I felt tears in my eyes.

  Basilia sat beside me on the window seat and held my hand. I could think of nothing to say. I didn’t try to explain politics to her. I wanted to shield my sister from what went on beyond the castle walls.

  But she would not be put off. ‘Please tell me what’s wrong,’ she pleaded.

  ‘I’ve lost the title,’ I said at last.

  She stared at me. ‘You’re not Strongbow any more?’

  She wasn’t thinking of the earldom. That meant nothing to her. She was thinking of the title I had worked so hard to earn for myself.

  Instead of crying, I found myself laughing. How good it felt! I hardly ever laughed in those days. I put my arms around Basilia and hugged her tightly. ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. The title I lost is just one that kings can give.

  ‘But I shall always be Strongbow.’

  Chapter 5

  AOIFE

  Urla’s Wedding

  Our father didn’t give his children out to fosterage. He could have done so, most Irish kings did. Having their children raised in other powerful families was supposed to form bonds of friendship. Father himself had been fostered by an O’Kelly chieftain in Ossory and he remained close to his foster parents all his life. But he didn’t do the same with his own children. I think he loved us too much to be parted from us, even if it was the custom. The sons and daughters of his wives all grew up at Ferns, and so we saw everything that happened.

  Father made sure that each of us was fitted for the life to come. Urla, as the oldest daughter, would be married first, and so she had the finest wardrobe. I would be married too, one day. Donal was trained to be a fine warrior, like Father. Enna, because he was sickly, didn’t have to learn to fight, but was encouraged to be a great scholar. The youngest son, Conor, was given his own herd of cattle so he would have a fine rank as cattle-lord.

  I remember Urla’s wedding day. How she fussed and preened! She was like a chicken who has got its feathers wet and must put every one into order again.

  ‘Everything has to be perfect,’ she kept saying. ‘I am, after all, marrying Donal O’Brien, son of Turlough, King of Thomond, whose grandfather’s grandfather was Brian Boru!’

  Brian Boru, greatest High King of Ireland. We had all heard the name, and the tales told of the man. For once I was almost jealous of Urla, marrying into such a family.

  Then I thought of Father, who would make just as good a High King if he had the chance.

  Perhaps he will now, I said to myself. Now that we have a link with the powerful O’Briens, the rulers of Munster, Father is stronger than ever. Maybe that’s why he makes so many trips to Munster, to Thomond.

  Laurence O’Toole himself married Urlacam and Donal. The great hall at Ferns blazed with hundreds of beeswax candles. Nobles came from everywhere to attend the wedding. The feasting and music would go on for days, and our servants were kept busy preparing all sorts of wonderful food.

  I stood outside the kitchens and sniffed the air. Roast boar, roast venison, crisp brown fat ducks … I wondered when we children would be fed. Surely the noble guests would eat first, and get all the best parts. My stomach growled in protest.

  Then my brother Conor tugged at my arm. Turning around, I saw he was holding a bulging sack. ‘What’s that, Conor?’

  He grinned. ‘A little something for us. I took it when no one was looking.’

  He opened the neck of the sack and I peered inside. It was crammed full of meat and cheese and dark brown bread, and fruits like jewels, and even a pot of honey-custard made with cream and eggs.

  I clapped my hands over my mouth to keep from shrieking with delight.

  The two of us slipped off into the woods to enjoy our private feast. I knew of an old oak tree with a hollow at the base, where we could hide what we weren’t able to eat. We sat crosslegged on the ground beneath the oak and stuffed ourselves until the grease ran down our chins.

  ‘We must save something for Enna,’ I reminded Conor. Poor Enna was sick again, lying in his chamber away from all the celebrations. After a little discussion we decided to save him half a roast duck, some of the fruit, and part of the pot of custard.

  While we were gobbling our food we heard voices calling us. ‘Conor? Aoife! Where are you?’

  We didn’t answer. We just ate faster, in case they were looking for us to punish us and take the food back.

  But no one came to find us. We stayed in our hiding place until we couldn’t swallow another bite. Then, slowly, we got up and made our way back toward Father’s palace.

  On the way, Conor groaned and put a hand to his belly. ‘I don’t feel very well,’ he said.

  I knew what he meant. I didn’t feel very well, either.

  Donal Mac Murrough Kavanaugh saw us coming and ran forward to meet us. ‘Where have you been? Father wanted you. He had all of his children except you two sitting at the wedding table with Urla and her new husband!’

  Conor and I looked at one another. We could have been sitting with the bride and groom, sharing all the choicest foods!

  Our mother came up behind Donal and took one look at us. Our faces, and the stains on our clothes, told the story.

  ‘You greedy children, you should be punished,’ she said.

  But just then Conor bent over and was sick. Very sick. A moment later, the same thing happened to me.

  Donal laughed. He had a laugh very like Father’s. ‘Oh, I don’t think you need to punish them, Sive,’ he said. ‘They’ll suffer enough. They’ve done it to themselves.’

  And so we had. We didn’t get to any part of the wedding celebration, because we spent the next two days lying on our beds, sicker than Enna. We c
ould hear music playing and people laughing and talking, but we didn’t feel like joining them. And for several days, neither of us could stand the smell of roast meat.

  Urla and her new husband left for Thomond, the most powerful kingdom in Munster. They wouldn’t live in Brian Boru’s great palace of Kincora, because that had been destroyed by Turlough O’Connor when he was High King. The O’Connors and the O’Briens continued to war on one another. But Urla would live in a fine new O’Brien stronghold and add children to the O’Brien clan, and Father was very pleased.

  ‘It’s a strong new link for us,’ he told me, smiling.

  Two other important events took place soon after. Donal Mac Murrough Kavanaugh married also, and Laurence O’Toole, Mor’s brother, became Archbishop of Dublin.

  Father celebrated by founding the monastery of All Hallows on land of his at Baldoyle, and giving other lands for the monastery of St Benedict.

  Surely, I thought to myself, he has now made up for whatever sin he committed at Kildare? Now God must forgive him.

  But I was wrong. Our days of peace and celebrating were almost over.

  In Thomond, Murtough O’Brien, Urla’s new brother-in-law, revolted against his own father and seized the kingship. The deposed king sought shelter in Leinster, the homeland of his son Donal’s new wife. So it was that old Turlough O’Brien came to Ferns. Father took him in and treated him as an honoured guest.

  He even gave O’Brien the chamber that once, according to rumour, had belonged to Dervorgilla.

  Chapter 6

  RICHARD

  Death of a Wife

  My wife gave me a son, whom I named Gilbert, for my father. Then we had a daughter called Isabella, for her mother. Children should have brought light and happiness to my castle. But they didn’t.

  ‘What good is having sons who won’t inherit great titles?’ my wife complained when Gilbert was born. After Isabella came, she moaned, ‘We’ll never be able to give her a good dowry, you’re so poor. We’ll be disgraced.’