From the day I ceased to be Earl of Pembroke, my wife had been unhappy. Nothing pleased her. If it rained she wanted sunshine. If the sun shone she longed for rain. She did not teach my children to love me. ‘Your father is a failure,’ she told them. Often.
She had to be my wife, but I could not make her love me. Only Basilia loved me. If it hadn’t been for my sister, I would never have gone home. I would have lived the life of a wandering knight, travelling with only his squire and his horse for company, fighting in the service of anyone who would pay him.
Basilia was the only person I could talk to. ‘Mine is not a happy family,’ I admitted to her. ‘My castle is full of long faces.’
‘If my face is long,’ she replied, ‘it’s because I worry about you. You fight too much, you risk your life all the time.’
‘Fighting is my life, Basilia. How else can I hope to restore the fortune of the de Clares?’
‘Marry me to a wealthy husband,’ my sister suggested. ‘Then I’ll ask him to give you money and help you get back in favour with the king.’
I had to smile. She was so innocent. ‘Men marry to strengthen their position, Basilia. Marrying my sister would not strengthen any man’s position. Besides, you’re not old enough to marry.’
I couldn’t bear to think of losing her. She was the only light in my life.
Sometimes, riding away from the castle, I would turn and look back. The walls were grey and grim, the battlements looked like dragons’ teeth against the sky. Rooks wheeled in the air like birds of ill omen. Enemies were everywhere. Friends were thin on the ground.
A cold lump of loneliness and sadness lay in my belly. There must be something better than this somewhere, I thought to myself. Somewhere. There must be.
As Earl of Strigul I still had a few men-at-arms, and with this small force I hired myself out to whoever would pay me. I helped my neighbours fight back the Welsh. My armour grew more dented; my body was covered with scars. My hair turned grey. Lines cobwebbed my face. I could feel myself growing old, and I knew I had never been young.
A warrior’s life is hard and contains no music, no flowers. But it was all I knew. I was a middle-aged man with no happiness to look forward to. Only endless battles. I’m sorry to say that in my sadness, I wasted what little money I made.
One dark autumn day I returned to my castle to find the servants very upset. ‘Your lady wife is dying,’ they told me.
I ran to her chamber. There she lay on the bed, her face very pale. I knelt beside her.
‘I didn’t know you were ill,’ I told her, ‘or I would have come home sooner.’
She looked at me with eyes that did not seem to see me. ‘I didn’t send word to you,’ she said in a whisper, ‘because what could you do?’
What could I do, indeed? I was a big, strong man, but I was useless as far as my wife was concerned.
I sat beside her bed with bowed head, and held her hand as she died. The cold lump in my belly grew heavier and heavier. Basilia was crying. My children were crying. But I must never cry. I was a knight, and a Norman. I must be strong and stern.
I left my wife’s deathbed and went to stare out the narrow arrowslit at the tiny bit of land it revealed beyond the walls of the grey, grim castle.
Somewhere, there must be happy people, not like us, I thought.
With my wife dead, the care of my children fell upon my sister and the servants. I saw Basilia becoming thin and tired. It was wrong for her to devote her whole life to us. She was young, she should have a husband one day soon, and children of her own. But who would marry the sister of a knight who was out of favour with the king? I must find someone for her!
I had a scribe write a letter to Henry for me, pledging my loyalty to him and asking that he restore the earldom of Pembroke to me. He didn’t answer.
The captain of my guard, a man called Raymond le Gros, saw Basilia in the courtyard one day and asked me about her. ‘Has she a suitor? Has she a dowry? She’s very pretty.’
Raymond was plump and strong, with curling hair and a big nose. A pleasant companion, a good leader of men, an outstanding fighter. But he had no title. I wanted a titled husband for my sister, a man who could protect her.
I didn’t want to make Raymond angry, however, so I said, ‘We can discuss this later. Now is not a good time to be bargaining for Basilia. She’s still a little too young.’
Raymond raised one eyebrow and his eyes went cold. Suddenly he did not look so pleasant. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘You want someone better than me for her.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You thought it,’ he replied. ‘But I have prospects. I mean to make my fortune with my sword as other men do. I’ll ask you for your sister again, you can count on it. I never let anything I want get away from me.’
His words sounded like a threat. I was not at all certain I liked the idea of marrying Basilia to Raymond. But what other prospects did she have?
It was just something more for me to worry about.
I approached King Henry’s longtime friend, Robert FitzHarding, to ask him to speak to the king on my behalf. As one of the rewards for his loyalty, Henry had made FitzHarding the portreeve of the town of Bristol, which was a very important office. If anyone could persuade Henry to restore my title and estates to me, I thought FitzHarding was that man.
I told him my story as simply as I could. ‘So you see I’ve lost everything,’ I concluded, ‘though I really had nothing against Henry Plantagenet. I was merely supporting the son of a friend of my father’s. You have profited through your friendship with Henry. Surely I should not be punished for my own loyalties. Isn’t loyalty to our friends a virtue?’
FitzHarding said nothing.
I grew desperate.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘I have children. I must have something to leave them!’
The Portreeve of Bristol sat across the table from me, studying my face. I could tell that he was measuring me in his mind. Was I a man worthy of being restored to the king’s favour? That was the question he was asking himself.
I met his eyes squarely, letting him see Strongbow, who was a strong man and respected warrior, a man worth befriending.
At last FitzHarding nodded, and favoured me with a smile like sunlight on snow. ‘I’ll do what I can for you. But tell me this. You’re famed for your skill with bow and arrow, I believe?’
‘I am,’ I said proudly.
His eyebrows drew together. ‘Are you aware that the Church banned the use of archery in wars against Christians thirty years ago?’
‘We heard something to that effect, but no one paid much attention to it in the Welsh Marches. Or anywhere else, as far as I know. The bow is too good a weapon to set aside.’
FitzHarding’s smile had vanished. ‘King Henry’s advisor, Thomas à Becket, has been made Archbishop of Canterbury and has spoken out strongly against ignoring canon law. You would be well advised to set aside your bow.’
To set aside my bow would mean to cease being Strongbow. How could I? Was that the price Henry would ask of me, in return for restoring me to his favour?
Sadly, I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry,’ I told FitzHarding, ‘but I’m a warrior who was trained in a hard school, and one I can’t forget. I cannot change.’ Bowing my head to him in respect, and with regret, I rose and left the room.
‘You’re a man of integrity, at least,’ I heard him say as I went out the door.
Had I made a mistake? I never knew when I was making mistakes, it was only afterwards that I would discover how wrong I had been. And I always seemed to be doing the wrong thing. Though he had been dead for years, I could still imagine my father’s eyes on me, and feel his disappointment in me.
But he had been Strongbow. And so was I. I had that much at least, after all I had lost, and I would not give it up.
Chapter 7
AOIFE
Fire!
With Urla married and gone, and her father-in-law settled at Ferns under Dermot�
�s protection, I thought life would go on much as before. I even began to dream of the day I would be getting married myself, for I was growing older and men’s eyes were beginning to follow me.
‘You’re so tall, Aoife!’ my little sister Dervla said admiringly. ‘I wish I looked like you. I wish I had hair like yours, like a fire blazing.’
Aoife Rua. Red Aoife. I was tall, and good to look at, and I knew it. I would get a better husband than Urla had. I was looking forward to my future.
Then things started to go wrong. Terribly wrong.
First came the news that the High King, Mac Loughlin, was dead. Not only dead, but murdered by his enemies, who claimed he was not fit for the high kingship.
He was soon replaced by a prince of Connacht called Rory O’Connor – whose right-hand man was Tiernan O’Rourke!
I was in the great hall at Ferns the day the news came. When I heard the messenger’s words, I felt a cold chill run across my shoulders as if a winter wind was blowing through an open doorway.
But it was summer.
Father listened to everything the messenger had to say, and asked a number of questions. Then he just sat on his high seat facing the doorway, with his chin on his fist. He stared into space and spoke to no one.
Everyone seemed afraid to approach him, but I went to him. ‘What will happen now?’ I asked him.
He turned his head very slowly until his eyes met mine. They were as dark as two cinders.
‘It’s in the hands of God,’ he said.
His voice sounded hollow, as if he spoke from the bottom of a well.
‘But God must love you,’ I assured him. ‘You’ve done so many good works. You founded monasteries, you took care of your people, and…’
Father raised his hand to stop my rushing words. ‘No man can be certain of God’s favour,’ he said, ‘who has done such things as I’ve done.’
It was the only time he ever spoke to me of the wicked deeds of his past.
The summer sun was very hot. The days grew steamy and hazy. A dull mist was caught in the tops of the grasses, and people yawned over their work. No one could recall such a hot summer in Leinster before.
My legs had grown so long that my feet dragged the ground when I sat on the golden Norse pony. So Father gave me a new horse, a shining bay with a white star on its forehead. I was riding my new horse through the woods north of Ferns one afternoon, trying to stay cool in the dappled shade, when a stray breeze brought me the smell of smoke.
I stopped my horse. I sniffed the air. Perhaps I was dreaming?
Then I smelled it again.
I turned my horse around and trotted back through the woods the way I had come. As I drew closer to Ferns I looked up and saw a black stain of smoke in the sky above the trees.
I kicked my horse in the ribs and raced for home.
When I burst out of the woods, I could see the flames.
A stray spark had lodged in the thatched roof of one of the many wattle-and-daub houses that crowded around the walls of our stronghold. Ferns was not only the seat of the King of Leinster, but a large village with a market square and many homes and workshops and storehouses. Except for our palace, the monastery and the church, all the buildings were of timber. The summer heat had made them very dry.
The fire raced through them, gobbling.
Everywhere I looked, thatch was ablaze. Sparks shot into the sky. A hot wind blew towards me, carrying them, and some touched my face like fingers of fire.
I galloped through the open gates of our stronghold and slid from my horse. People were running in every direction, trying to gather their families or drag their possessions from burning buildings or throw buckets of water, uselessly, on the fire.
The fire was too big and too angry. It only hissed at the touch of water, and grew stronger.
‘Father!’ I screamed. ‘Father!’
I couldn’t see him. I began running like the others, darting this way and that, sobbing with fear, calling his name. The fire roared as if it was alive. My insides cramped with terror.
‘Father!’
Then I saw him coming towards me. His face was black with soot, his clothes were half burned off him. When he saw me, he ran forward and grabbed me in his arms.
‘Thank God!’ he cried. ‘Now get out of here, Aoife. Run. Out the gates. Wait for me outside, and stay away from the fire, do you hear me?’
‘But –’
For the only time in my life, my father hit me. He hit me on the side of the head with the flat of his hand, making my ears ring. ‘Run!’ he ordered.
I ran.
From a safe distance, I watched the people fight the fire. The battle was lost before it began. By the end of the day, Ferns had been destroyed a second time in Father’s lifetime. Little was left but glowing coals and ashes, and the scorched stone walls of our palace and the monastery and church.
The people of Ferns had lost everything but their lives. By some miracle – perhaps because the fire took place in broad daylight – no one had been trapped and burned to death. But clothes and beds and tables were gone, and cattle and fowl had been roasted in their pens before anyone could get them out.
I shall never forget the way it smelled. The next morning I walked with Father through the ruins. He kept kicking bits of charred wood out of our way.
‘We’ll build again,’ he said. ‘Ferns will rise on these ruins, finer than before. You’ll see, Aoife. You’ll see.’
But his eyes were very sad. I wondered if he thought God was punishing him at last, for his wickedness.
Perhaps. But if that was so, there was much worse punishment yet to come.
Chapter 8
RICHARD
A Visitor from Ireland
I had made a friend of Robert FitzHarding, it seemed. Perhaps he felt sorry for me, an impoverished widower. From time to time he put a bit of business my way. He had me provide an armed guard for travelling merchants in the west, and helped me get a good price for horses and supplies for myself. I was grateful to him.
One day he sent a messenger to my castle, asking me to call upon him in Bristol. It sounded important. I hastily gathered a band of men-at-arms and had my squire polish my dented armour. Then we set out for the port city.
As we rode through its narrow streets towards the quays, I caught glimpses of a strange ship docked below. By the shape of it I knew it for a Norse longship, yet an Irish banner was flying from its masthead.
When I met Robert FitzHarding, he explained.
‘The ship you saw belongs to the King of Leinster, in Ireland, who has just been here seeking my aid,’ FitzHarding said.
‘Why would an Irish king come to you? Is he in trouble?’
‘Grave trouble. Dermot Mac Murrough has some powerful enemies, and they’ve done to him the worst thing anyone can do to a king.’
I was interested in hearing of any man who had worse trouble than I did. ‘Tell me,’ I said.
‘Some years ago, Dermot stole the wife of another Irish king, a man called O’Rourke. There is a great hatred between Mac Murrough and O’Rourke, but for a time Mac Murrough was safe from O’Rourke because the High King of Ireland himself was a friend of Mac Murrough’s. But then the old High King died and a new one took his place. He is Rory O’Connor of Connacht, and he’s a great friend of O’Rourke’s.
‘O’Rourke applied to the new High King to punish Dermot Mac Murrough. Together they attacked the King of Leinster. He fought bravely against them, but his own people began to desert him. They said God was angry with him. At last he had only his own clansmen fighting on his side, and he was overcome by O’Connor and O’Rourke.’
‘It’s a bad thing to make an enemy of a king,’ I said from my own experience.
FitzHarding nodded. ‘The High King of Ireland stripped the kingship of the province of Leinster from Dermot Mac Murrough. He was left with his life, but little else.
‘That’s why he has come across the sea to England. He hopes to hire warriors here
who will go to Ireland and fight for him, help him regain his kingship. Would you be interested, de Clare?’
I considered. Would I fight in Ireland, where I had never been, for a man I didn’t know?
It couldn’t be much worse than fighting the Welsh here. But I wasn’t a young man any more, and I had responsibilities. My face must have told FitzHarding I was going to refuse.
FitzHarding held up his hand. ‘Before you answer, let me tell you one thing more,’ he said. ‘Dermot Mac Murrough is about to leave Bristol and go in search of our king. He intends to ask Henry personally for an army.
‘If King Henry gives the deposed King of Leinster such an army, would you be willing to be part of it?’
I had to stop and think. If our king decided to help this Dermot Mac Murrough, and I took part in that army, I would be doing Henry a service. I could get back in his good graces that way.
But I must be careful. I must know just which way the wind was blowing.
‘Why should King Henry be willing to help Dermot Mac Murrough?’ I wanted to know.
‘Because when Mac Murrough still had power in Leinster, he once sent some Norse ships to attack the Welsh on their coast while Henry was fighting them from the front. It was the sort of favour one king may do another, and it has put our king in his debt.’
I understood about being in debt to someone. ‘And what about you, Robert?’ I asked my friend. ‘Why do you want to help Dermot Mac Murrough?’
FitzHarding smiled. ‘I thought you knew. I’m married to a kinswoman of his, and it was I who arranged for Dermot to send those ships to Henry’s aid in the first place.’
Aha. I wasn’t good at politics, but I saw that Robert FitzHarding was very good indeed.
Speaking slowly, weighing each word before I spoke, I said, ‘If King Henry agrees to give Dermot Mac Murrough an army, I am willing to be part of that army. Provided, of course, that our king gives me his permission to do so. His formal permission.’
Strongbow Page 4
