‘I think you have beaten me, Sir Myler,’ I spoke softly, enjoying the moment. When he didn’t react but held my gaze, I went on. ‘Sir Myler, I submit.’
‘M’lady?’ He seemed to somewhat recover but still made no effort to remove himself.
‘Is this the way you Normans always finish a fight?’ I asked, goading him a little.
‘M’lady?’
‘It seems the swelling has set in rather quickly where I kicked you,’ I said, our eyes still locked. That seemed to snap him out of it, and he quickly jumped up to the applause of the crowd, who were cheering loudly. He helped me up and, after adjusting our clothing, we bowed and curtseyed to the onlookers.
As we made our way from the centre of the arena—Myler with a certain hesitancy in his step—I quietly whispered, ‘It was most impressive, actually.’ He looked puzzled and turned to face me.
‘Impressive. What?’
‘Well, it was hardly your swordplay.’ I smiled. Grasping my meaning, he threw his head back, laughing, and lifted me by the waist onto a grain cart by the entrance. He turned to the crowds, who were thoroughly enjoying this. ‘To the honourable men and women and gallant warriors of Chepstow and Leinster, I give you your new champion, Aoife of Leinster.’ And the crowd roared and some of the men hoisted me playfully and marched me around the arena to thunderous applause and laughter.
As the spring drew to a close, the frantic pace of the castle settled into the slower routines of summer labour, the rising heat tempering exertions by mid-morning. Strongbow had taken to inviting me to dine or walk with him when he was in the castle, which was not often. He dined in the Great Tower, where the servants set a table close to the large open hearth, taking advantage of the expansive view of the River Wye. The broad tidal river swept past the vast north-facing windows of the castle, turning sharply east and then south on its slow, relentless journey into the vast estuary of Severn at Bristol, less than an hour’s ride away. He jokingly told me that his nickname, Strongbow, derived from this—striguil, which in Welsh meant ‘river bend’—rather than the story that his father had been rather adept with the Welsh war bow. Quite the contrary, like him his father couldn’t hit the ground with an arrow. The glassy water reflected the listless sails of the boats moving sluggishly under oar below the castle.
Ferns would also be settling into its season’s rhythm; the sowing, tending, and harvesting would not wait, the new masters imposing themselves and the townsfolk submitting to creeping acceptance. Eanna imprisoned, in fetters? Every day that passed lessened the threat of the return of the MacMurroughs. Every such day diminished Eanna’s value as a hostage and magnified his threat as the remaining male MacMurrough heir on the island, the blade inching closer with each dawn.
On evenings when the summer sun swept along the river, Strongbow would invite me to join him on a small castellated private terrace close to the kitchens and storerooms. The river ran directly below this part of the castle, under a sheer wall where, when the tide was right, the provisioning barques of the traders would tie up. A large ratcheted heavy oak winch reached out from the kitchens over the river and was used to haul barrels of wine, dry goods and household wares. The heavier barrels dangled and, wind-buffeted, occasionally bounced dangerously against the wall; but the staff worked quickly and, with Strongbow watching, seemed to manage well enough.
I preferred walking or watching the views and activity from the terrace to dining in the hall with him. Initially the conversations were quite strained, so the river and boats provided a distraction and eased the tension. Pleasantries were a labour to him; he was not naturally at ease with a woman less than half his age. He was unmarried, which was not unusual for lords in constrained circumstances. I was sure he had mistresses and probably children as old as me. It was quite normal, indeed expected, for Norman lords to take mistresses. Not much different from Ireland, really, where men could take two wives, although under our Brehon law, the first could divorce the man and take a sizeable portion of his wealth with her, if she so wished. That tended to keep everyone reasonable, and it seemed to suit some women, who had tired of their husband’s attentions.
And women also had their own appetites, although we have always been far more discriminating than men. Recognising this, our ways allowed women to take lovers with or without the approval of their families, and this indulgence was protected in our laws. Indeed, I was no angel myself in these matters and fully expected Strongbow to behave as men do.
Gradually our conversations became more relaxed. He was quite witty, in a dry sort of way, and he asked a lot of questions and listened attentively as I described the land, laws and people of Ireland. He paid particular attention to my father’s enemies and the events leading to our escape to Bristol. I described the night of the attack on Ferns and how we barely got through the gate and how my father had abandoned Eanna and fled.
‘I’m not sure I would have acted much differently,’ he replied, shocking me as we stood on the terrace one evening. Seeing my reaction and realising what he had said, he went on: ‘I’m sorry, Aoife. I didn’t mean it that way.’ He paused and seemed to search my face for his next words.
‘Aoife. Your father holds the weight of the inheritance of your bloodline on his shoulders. God knows, I understand that burden.’ Seeing how shaken I was by what he had said, he took my hand and continued, almost pleadingly. ‘Aoife, please listen. Any lord or king holds his place in the shadow of his ancestors. These unbroken lines stretch deep into the past, and it is a heavy duty for us to ensure that it carries cleanly into the future.’ He was very earnest now. ‘That is seldom achieved with clean hands or a clean conscience.’ He paused again, and I could see he felt that burden’s weight in his own life. ‘That is a luxury that is not in the destiny of people with bloodlines like yours and mine.’
‘But he left him in the gate and fled!’ I almost wept now; the thought made me shudder.
‘I know . . . but listen to me. Please. I wasn’t there, but if he had turned back, he would have blocked your escape and the enemy bowmen would have concentrated their arrows on you. I don’t think any of you would have made it through that gate.’
I was stunned into silence.
He continued. ‘Whatever his motives, he did the right thing. Most of you escaped. The bloodline survives. And I doubt that this sits easily on your father’s conscience. It is possibly why he behaves as badly as he does.’
Turning to face the river, glittering with flashes of low evening sun across the dark waters, he placed his hands on the smooth granite topstone and stared at the meadow, which reached down to the far bank.
‘Having said that, and forgive me if I offend you, but I’m not sure your father has the character that is required to make a great king.’ He paused, waiting to see my reaction. Seeing none, he continued, ‘Difficult decisions can be explained and understood. I believe you must encourage men to follow you with the better virtues, rather than coercing them.’ He paused again, judging his next words before he spoke.
‘However, I do understand your father and his position. In fact, I have agreed to support him, as it is not so very much different from my own.’ He waited, as if expecting me to say something.
When I said nothing, he went on to tell me of his own family and how events had brought him to his strained relationship with the English king, Henry II. Henry had come to the throne in 1154 after a long civil war in which Strongbow sided with the losing side—King Stephen. Stephen had, not long previously, come to the rescue of Strongbow’s family, and as a consequence, Strongbow, unlike his own father, had wholeheartedly thrown his support behind him in the war against King Henry.
‘But you behaved honourably,’ I objected. ‘You stood by your loyalties . . . unlike my father, who will betray anyone and anything to preserve his crown.’
Turning to look at me, he spoke, his voice now strained: ‘And so he should—as my own father did! He died during the war, but before that he changed allegiances many times depending on which side held the upper hand and was most likely to win at that particular moment in time. He was fickle in his loyalties.’ He was angry now, but his frustration was with himself and what he considered his own naivety at the time. ‘I was young and idealistic, and when he died, I became the earl and committed fully to Stephen. He lost,’ he spat, ‘and now I have been stripped of great swaths of land and King Henry won’t even recognise me as the earl.’ His hands gripped the wall. He looked miserable now, staring at his feet.
‘I was stupid.’ He shrugged, shaking his head. ‘My father told me that loyalty ebbs and flows, that there are no absolutes in it, that we must sense the wind and bend with it. But me, I thought I knew better, and look at where that has got me, my family, my followers, my inheritance . . . everything.’
He went on. ‘Don’t you see? A lot of people are suffering, and my bloodline could end because of my silly notions of honour.’ His voice was lower now. These were his innermost thoughts—thoughts I doubted he shared with many—and I could see his grief. I moved beside him by the wall and placed my hand on his. He turned to hold my gaze, and I saw he was close to tears.
‘But you,’ I said, purposefully setting him apart from my father, ‘you think of others first. Not only of yourself. Your men choose to follow you. Their families are cared for and happy.’ I thought for a moment that he might not know how his people spoke so warmly and respectfully of him. ‘This place, your home, is a happy, prosperous place. These people will not hear a word against you! Don’t you know this?’ I nearly pleaded with him, exasperated.
‘Yes,’ he said, nodding his head. ‘Yes, I know . . . and that makes it all the harder to bear.’ He shuddered. ‘They place great trust in me, all their faith in me, Aoife.’ He sighed and then, seeming to collect himself, straightened and continued: ‘So I must do everything to repay that trust and secure their future. I owe that to them. Even if that means I must bend a little every now and then.’ He was smiling now as he once again turned to look at me.
I sensed he had spoken more than he intended. After a moment, he went to pour each of us a glass of rich burgundy wine, which I had grown to enjoy sharing with him when we met in the evenings. The wine was decanted from the oak barrels that were stored in the cellar down the flagstone steps leading from the kitchens. The crystal decanter was set on an embroidered-linen-covered trestle table near the back wall of the terrace. The cloth flapped gently in the warm evening breeze.
‘Enough of me, Aoife. What about you? What is it you wish for in all this?’
By now, after our many evening strolls and conversations, I had become very comfortable in his company. He was a good man, and I had grown to like and trust him. His wasn’t a blind, naked self-serving ambition. Although not immune to the lure of higher status and wealth—who is?—he was not solely driven by them. They were more a consequence of his burning need to preserve the heritage of his ancestry and to pass it on to future generations. This, and the responsibility he felt for the care and wellbeing of the wider families and followers of the de Clares, was what drove him. I thought this most admirable, but frankly, at the beginning, I had hardly understood the most of it. I felt embarrassed at my own trivial, girlish musings and was initially reluctant to expose my innermost thoughts. But as the weeks passed, he put me at my ease and teased them from me.
‘I want Eanna back,’ I said, deciding he could hear my truth. ‘I want him back, and I want to keep Conor safe from it all.’ I told him I wanted us all to live happily in our home in Ferns in Leinster and not to be bothered by the waves of strife that constantly swept back and forth across our land. I wanted us to be left alone, and we would not bother anyone in our neighbouring kingdoms. Why were they constantly fighting, year on year? Over and over the cycle repeated, bordering farmlands raided for cattle, slaves, and plunder, reprisals made. Armies would gather, alliances were formed and broken just as fast, battles were fought, and all the while killing, rape, hostage taking, slavery, maiming and grief continued.
Listening, his hand resting soothingly on my bare forearm as we sat, side by side, in the cushion-lined chairs, he eventually spoke: ‘Aoife. I understand. I know what you long for, and it is also my wish. I also want for all our families to live like this. But peace in a land is only safe with strong borders that neighbours know to respect. And that respect is won by the sword.’ He had listened and learned much about Ireland in the past months. He understood that none of the many kings who claimed sovereignty in some part of the island had grown sufficiently strong enough to impose his will on the others. The result was constant squabbling and conflict as one or another sought to take advantage of some momentary turn of events to further their interests. The lack of a dominant power and the collective, mutual weakness was a recipe for turmoil, and as far as he could judge, the chaos was set to continue indefinitely, with all the suffering that brought.
‘They are fools. They break their strength on the rocks of their neighbours, not lifting their heads to see the powerful force which will engulf them and sweep them all away.’ He laughed, shaking his head at their stupidity.
‘You?’ I asked, a bit taken aback.
‘No.’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Not me.’ He paused now. ‘If anything, I can help, Aoife. But I am not the one they need to fear most.’
‘Who, then? What are you talking about?’
