The light danced in the trees above, throwing patterns around us. In time, we lay watching the songbirds racing across the sunlight, oblivious to our presence. Motionless, our breathing quietened, our nakedness absorbing the midday heat.
Chapter FiveTHE THREAT WITHIN
Chepstow Castle, Wales
Spring 1167
From Myler first offering me his heavy fleeced cloak on particularly cold mornings we had taken to sharing it, quietly revelling in the luxurious body-heat warmth, but always out of sight. Unspoken, disguised by our talk, our bodies grew ever closer. I found myself delighted to wake when the morning dawned bitter cold and with a strong wind: all the more reason to bury myself in his arms, which were now no longer shy in the embrace.
Even though Myler was not much older than me, he was more than a head taller. His shoulder-length dark hair, left untied, stirred in the wind as we continued our stroll around the wall walk. His normally happy, good-natured disposition clouded when he spoke of Strongbow’s troubles with the king. ‘You see, we are also a Marcher family, the Geraldines,’ he told me. ‘We are part of Strongbow’s following, and with him out of favour with the king, we are all disadvantaged,’ he complained. ‘I have a life to live. I want to prove myself worthy in the eyes of my uncles, earn their respect and my own fortune.’
‘So why don’t you just take up my father’s invitation and come to Ireland to help us?’ I couldn’t understand why they didn’t grasp the opportunity for land and wealth.
‘We want to, all my uncles, but we can’t without whipping up the king’s displeasure. He knows we are Strongbow’s men. He won’t stand for it!’ I could see his frustration plainly. ‘You see, I have little family wealth or estates coming my way. I don’t want to end like all those knights errant, roaming the kingdom trying to prove myself and hoping for fortune to look favourably on me.’
I knew this was a miserable and uncertain existence and the fate of many sons of the Norman nobility. Lacking inheritance but carrying noble names, many such knights ended destitute, maimed in the jousting tournaments or perishing as hired swords in near or far lands. Those who survived lived a pitiful existence. Fugitives from fortune, often attaching themselves to a willing lord’s court, they scratched an existence from his charity. ‘Look at Sir Hervey, that detestable snake. His tongue is poison. If he wasn’t, by chance, Strongbow’s uncle, he’d be long gone from here by now.
‘The king will never favour me, even though—believe it or not—I am his cousin.’ Myler explained how he shared a grandfather with the king, King Henry I. ‘But that doesn’t mean much. If you think our king resembles a feral dog in his appetites, our grandfather was worse. So, there are a lot of us around and not enough land and spoils to share.’ The result being, he explained, that many ambitious young lords of military bearing, like himself, had to find their own fortunes. To do that they needed their lords, like Strongbow, to prosper and give them the opportunity to acquire land and wealth.
These young men were restless to put their skills to use to win the renown that came with martial prowess. Myler’s broader family, the Geraldines, were replete with such men of varying ages. Raymond Le Gros, Robert FitzStephen and Maurice FitzGerald—Myler’s cousin and uncles—were keen to build on their wealth and needed the release of Strongbow from the king’s yoke. Gerald de Barry, the archdeacon of Brecon, another Geraldine cousin of Myler’s, had ambitions to take the archbishop’s seat in Canterbury, the highest church office in the land. To achieve this, he needed the wider family to prosper to garner support when the time came. He, like many more of the Geraldines’ wider family who populated Strongbow’s army, were eager to sail for Ireland, where they saw their fortunes rising. They were not an ancient dynasty that had the opportunity to establish a deep-seated wealth. They took their name from one of the husbands of the formidable Princess Nesta of Wales, whom they revered as the maternal founder of the family. ‘Like you, Aoife, we too have our goddess of sorts,’ he whispered.
The wind rose as the sky darkened from the west while the hooded crows wheeled recklessly in the strong gusts. Seeing me shivering, Myler took the cloak and, throwing it around his shoulders, wrapped me in a warm embrace, closing the cloak around us both with my back to his chest as he often did. Facing over the castellated wall, I relaxed in the warmth of his body beneath the heavy cloak. I could feel his chest rising and ebbing and the gentle sweep of his breath in my hair as he spoke.
‘She died before I was born, but Maurice says you remind him of her, his mother. It’s uncanny,’ he said. ‘I think it’s why he’s a bit afraid of you. They all are.’ He laughed and tightened his embrace against the sharpening wind. He spoke more softly now. ‘She too was very beautiful . . . and provoked great passions in many men.’ He was silent now. I could sense my breathing deepening with his own. We had grown close over the past months, spending much time together. I now sought out his company and knew my feelings had deepened.
Suddenly a swallow, unhappy we were so close to her nest, flashed a warning swoop, almost touching my face before speeding away skyward. We both laughed and, woken from our reverie, he continued his story of Nesta, his grandmother.
A daughter of a Welsh king, she had married twice and taken many lovers. Her many children included one with King Henry I, Myler’s grandfather. Her children, Myler’s uncles, had become established in positions of importance in the Welsh reaches of the Normans, including in the church. They were driven by an ambition to further their prospects in any ventures that would offer the opportunity to build their dynasty—the dynasty of the Geraldines.
As we descended the narrow stone steps from the wall walk, I couldn’t help thinking how these men always managed to diminish the women in their stories. It seemed to me that his entire family was descended from one common source, the matriarch Nesta, whom they all held in great reverence. Why, then, do they call themselves Geraldines, not Nestines? That would indeed be truer, yet it would give too much credit to a woman. I wondered if they would write me out of their history when the time came. Nonetheless, I wouldn’t trouble Myler with these thoughts.
We moved wordlessly to the small turret built to provide shelter for the guards where the wall turned. It also provided shelter from prying eyes; we embraced immediately, our lips, breath and bodies merging with a desperate urgency that sharpened my desire. We would quickly emerge from these snatched moments to resume our innocent stroll for watchful eyes. And it was as well we did on this morning, for as we emerged, one of Sir Hervey’s men, Dwain, could be seen skulking in the shadows of the courtyard. He slipped away from view behind a stone pillar.
‘That bastard is watching us, Aoife,’ Myler said under his breath, acting naturally. ‘On his master’s orders, no doubt,’ he said with a bitter twist.
Sir Hervey, bereft of his own talents, was a man who distinguished himself by denigrating others. Having attached himself to Strongbow’s court his sole purpose was to ingratiate himself with him. As his nephew, Strongbow felt obligated to accommodate him, but he was not popular in the camp. His sly ways became known, and he was regarded with suspicion. He spread a foul miasma in his wake.
‘He’s a coward,’ Myler spat with a bitter venom. ‘He’s more guile than guts. He can’t be trusted. He spills poison into Strongbow’s ears. Be very weary of him, Aoife. We must be careful.’
I could see the worry in his handsome face.
We moved along the wall walk, and Myler spoke loudly now, more for the benefit of the prying eyes and listening ears than mine. ‘As I was saying, m’lady, the Welsh longbow, in the hands of a practiced border man, can easily reach two hundred paces.’ Pointing to the body of men under instruction in the buts below, he went on: ‘That’s Ewan Smith, with his son Robert beside him. Ewan is in charge of the archers. If there’s a fight on, Strongbow takes Ewan with him.’ Ewan was the centenar; he commanded the companies of Welsh bowmen who, Myler explained, were the backbone of Norman armies. Hunters and farmers by trade, they were trained from a young age to perfect their skills in archery. They were unequalled in their mastery of the bow; these skills had been recognised, perfected and put to devastating use by the Normans in battle. Welsh longbow archers could shoot volleys of bodkin-headed arrows with pinpoint accuracy that could penetrate all but the best armour.
‘Watch this,’ Myler said, as on his Ewan’s command, Robert and a few dozen archers hauled the bowstrings and paused, holding the strained bowstaves still.
‘Loose,’ came the command, and a rush of arrows sped skyward, the fletching sparkling momentarily, caught by a hint of sunlight. The hooded crows scattered, startled by the noise and flashes as the arrows thumped with astonishing accuracy into the targets at two hundred paces. Each man had several arrows stuck into the ground in front of them, so after releasing, they quickly strung another arrow and let it fly with remarkable speed. The right side of each man’s body seemed disfigured with the overdeveloped muscle that delivered the enormous strength required to continuously, and seemingly effortlessly, draw the bow. It barely took any time for these few archers to pour hundreds of arrows onto the targets. Myler explained that for added effect, the archers would stick the arrowheads into dung and filth before battle; that way, if the arrow didn’t kill the man, the wound would most likely fester and putrefy from the foulness on the arrowhead.
‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘Our hunting bows in Ireland couldn’t shoot half that far.’ I shook my head. ‘They are only used at short distance. They’ve no accuracy at any kind of range.’
‘I know,’ Myler said. ‘They are our secret weapon with the uninitiated. With enough of them, you can destroy half an army before you take your sword from its scabbard.’
Seeming pleased with the result, the young archer, Robert Smith, noticed Myler and Aoife on the wall and waved. ‘Morning, Myler. Nice to see you up so early,’ he said, smiling cheekily at Myler. ‘My lady.’ He bowed to me with great diffidence.
‘Smart bastard,’ Myler said quietly, but grinning, he shouted down. ‘Well, if that’s what an early rise does for your aim, I hope all our battles are fought in the afternoon.’ Myler laughed and led Aoife along the ramparts. ‘He’s a good friend of mine, Rob. He’s the best archer I know, and he’s very good with the men too. I’d be happy to have him with me any day in a fight. He’s learned well from his father and has his own troop now.’ He went on to tell me how he himself had been fostered into the care of Strongbow’s father in the castle, where he had been reared alongside Rob and the other children of the household and staff. They roamed the castle and grounds in a pack, causing no end of mischief.
Rob’s family had long been with the de Clares, one of the greatest baronial houses of the Normans. The name derived from the dynasty’s administrative centre at the town of Clare in Suffolk in East Anglia. These lands had been granted to the family by William the Conqueror after the Battle of Hastings for the service of Strongbow’s ancestor, Richard FitzGilbert, Lord of Clare. Since those times, Rob’s family played an important part of the household. In battle, his father had commanded the archers of Strongbow, as would be expected of Rob one day. His mother, Alice, organised the provisioning of the castle and oversaw the extensive kitchens which provided food for Strongbow’s table and fed the multitudes who staffed the castle.
I had come to know Alice from my time around the kitchens, where I liked to lend a hand. Alice organised the butchering, storerooms and cooking. Forever busy, she rushed good-humouredly from task to task. While stern with the lads and girls whom she chased to their work, she had a maternal air about her and was well respected by all. She had taken it upon herself to care for my own mother, who had withdrawn into herself since our traumatic escape from Ferns.
My mother had taken the fate of Eanna very badly; closed in her room she wept from dawn till dawn and would speak to no one, despite my constant pleading. I was at my wits’ end and feared for her. Alice, a kindly woman, nursed my mother. It was for her alone that my mother would sip meagerly at a broth Alice would prepare, her sole source of nourishment, sustaining her very life.
Alice had great sympathy for my mother’s grief and worry at the loss of Eanna; some griefs can be understood only by those who have borne them. I shuddered at that appalling sight, seared into my memory, of when I had last seen Eanna under the sword of O’Rourke on the headland as we escaped from Bannow Bay, his distress exaggerated by tricks of the mind that tormented me from when I first awoke and rattled me mockingly as each day wore on. I could not imagine the horrors my mother endured.
‘I’ve lost children myself, Aoife. Several,’ Alice said one evening as we sat, her work done in the deep storeroom at the bottom of the dark stone corridor that led down from the kitchens. Tucked into the cooler depths of the castle, the food was preserved, and the wine kept longer there. It was her retreat, and I had become accustomed to spending many evenings there with her. ‘Rob is my only remaining child. His father and I are very proud of him. But all children are precious to a mother, Aoife. Most women never get over the loss of a child. They learn the silent grind of daily grief. God forbid that happens to your brother. I fear your own mother will never recover. She grieves heavily his loss already.’
‘She blames my father. I think she hates him,’ I said. ‘I don’t think she ever really cared for him.’ The gods knew my father was a vile man now. The burden of the throne did not sit well with him. He had been brutalised, his humanity trampled in the mud and blood of enemies and victims—betrayed friends and kinsmen alike. However, I remembered a time of a father’s tender embrace, warm laughter, a considerate man. My childhood memories were of joy and freedom in the bustling town market of Ferns, the centre of my father’s kingdom of Leinster. The seat of MacMurrough power, our royal residence was lavish, and we roamed the meadows, forests and rivers of its hinterland, looking forward to the homecoming of my father from his exploits throughout his and other kingdoms in Ireland. Now there was no hint or echo of affection between my parents. It was hard to believe it had ever been there.
‘Aoife, girl. Love is not something I see a lot in the marriages of lords and ladies. I sometimes pity them, as at least I could choose my man.’
‘As I can choose mine,’ I said. ‘It’s our way in Ireland.’
‘Hmm, so I have heard.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s more than the ladies here can do. They are traded like cattle to suit the families’ interests.’ She paused now, turning her eyes on me. ‘Aoife, be that the case—that you can choose your own husband—there are an awful lot of people far more interested in your marriage than there was in mine.’ I could feel her penetrating gaze now. I avoided her eyes. I knew what she was hinting at—Myler. I felt she had been building up to some kind of a telling off over the last while. First, it was a gentle teasing about him, which then went on to a more nuanced comment or two about the two of us being noticed and commented on by the kitchen girls. I had ignored her well-intentioned ramblings—what business was it of hers? In Ireland, a woman had as much freedom as a man in these matters. Myler was more my age; He was also very handsome and had an earthly, uninhibited attractiveness about him.
As the silence deepened and I said nothing, like the clouds presage the storm, I could feel’s Alice’s disapproval brewing. After a while, she continued gently.
‘Aoife, be more careful.’
