I opened my eyes. A sword reached over my shoulder, its sharp point touching Sir Hervey’s throat. He stared open mouthed at the blade, still gripping the iron he held above his head, his rancid breath catching me. I could see his yellowed broken teeth. He yearned to deliver the blow. The sword slowly but forcibly increased in pressure, drawing a trickle of blood at its tip. Wincing, he slowly lowered the iron and dropped it to the floor, it’s metallic fall reverberating around the cellar.
He casually settled his clothing. ‘Well, well, Sir Myler. What brings you here?’ he said, backing away from the blade and sauntering to the table, collecting his cloak. ‘Dwain, I think we’ve offered enough assistance to Alice this evening. Let us take our leave,’ he said to his man and moved towards the door.
‘Strongbow will hear of this,’ Myler shouted, following Montmorency with his sword. ‘You have no place in our cause. We shall be glad to see you gone, you bastard.’
Montmorency stopped. He turned slowly on Myler. ‘Careful now, boy,’ he said. Smiling derisively, he continued: ‘Should Strongbow hear any false rumours about me,’ he said with a sweeping gesture around the cellar, ‘then’—pointing at Myler now, he continued with venom—‘he will certainly hear of your dalliances with our little princess. I have witnesses! Did you enjoy your embrace in the forest on the hunt?’ He looked at me contemptuously. ‘I don’t think he would be at all pleased. Do you, my dear Myler?’ The shock of his knowing was clear on Myler’s face, as was the fear. Sir Hervey grinned mockingly at his despair. ‘You’re out of your depth, boy,’ he spat.
‘Alice and I may have had a minor contretemps this evening—as is not unusual amongst people who hold each other in great affection.’ He sneered and, turning to Alice, said, ‘Wouldn’t you agree, my dear Alice?’
‘Bastard,’ she snarled.
‘Now, now, dear,’ he said mockingly. ‘Let’s have no more of that. And do please spare Dwain any more anxiety and ease your knife from his throat. Balancing on his tiptoes was never his forte.’
He went on more menacingly now. ‘So let me be perfectly clear, if Strongbow hears anything of this incident, I will immediately inform him about your behaviour in his forrest.’ We were stunned into silence. I said nothing, not trusting my words.
Pleased with the impact of his threats, he approached Myler, casually brushing his sword aside. ‘You Geraldines have infected this camp. And I, for one, am deeply concerned that your ambitions and loyalty are more to your own family than to Strongbow, who, I might remind you, is my nephew.’
It was no doubt that the Geraldines made up a substantial part of the leadership of the campaign: Robert FitzStephen, Raymond Le Gross, Maurice FitzGerald, Myler, and even the archdeacon, Gerald de Barry. But their loyalty or motives had never been questioned. They needed the wealth and land that my father offered. However, Myler was now jeopardising their position, as blood ties ran deep in Norman families, and any rift with Strongbow would quickly spill into the broader family. I was keenly aware that without the support of the Geraldines, Strongbow would be greatly weakened, and it would, in all probability, bring an end to the planned campaign in Ireland. This would be disastrous for us all, not least for Eanna, who would not survive O’Rourke’s cruelty should he learn of our failure to recruit Norman swords to our cause. Sir Hervey caught the look of concern that Myler and I exchanged.
‘Excellent, I can see we all understand each other,’ he sneered. ‘So let this be the end of the matter. Shall we? Good evening,’ he said, but before leaving he turned to Alice. ‘It was almost a pleasure, my dear. But who knows what the future holds?’ he finished chillingly before he turned and left.
The swallows tolerated my presence as I strolled the walls, enjoying their warning chatter when I passed too close to their nests. Swarming from the walls, they sped between the men moving steadily with rhythmic movements, as if in a dance, cutting the hay for the winter fodder. My little escorts were fattening themselves for the coming winter, when they would leave us. The fishermen said they buried themselves in the mud flats, then emerged in the spring to return to their nesting grounds. Wherever they went, I would miss them and count the days till their return.
The autumn was no time to launch our campaign to return to Ireland in force. Restless autumnal winds and seas would keep sensible folk on land; abundant stores of summer food would dwindle quickly as the winter months dragged through the cold and rain. It was no time for armies.
Our departure had been delayed by the king of England, King Henry II. Relations remained strained, and although the king had given permission for his subjects to aid my father, he had made his opposition to Strongbow’s involvement clear. To placate the king, he spent his time at court attending to the king’s wishes. As a test of his loyalty, Strongbow had been tasked by the king to escort his daughter to Germany, where she was to marry the king of Saxony. With Strongbow away for several months, the plans for the invasion had been postponed, and the routine of the castle shifted to preparing the harvest and planning for the winter.
The early summer dawns rose quickly over the golden fields which swept from the castle; ripe, leaden crops swayed easily in the gentle winds. It would be a good harvest, and that meant an easy winter for man and beast. The rich fertility sprang from the ground and, from that growth, into the fattening animals and into the very blood of the men and women who flooded the fields and barns: mowing, loading, sorting and storing nature’s bounty. The glistening bodies of the young men and women laboured in the joyous cauldron of summer heat as the Goddess smiled; there would be a good crop of babies next year too.
Time slowed in the warm, balmy evenings as everyone gathered in the courtyard to be fed from the kitchens. Exhausted but content, strained muscles recovered, helped by the ales we served, rushing from table to table in an effort to satisfy the good-humoured demands of the thirsty masses.
Occasionally there would be calls for singers, and as the evening wore on into the quiet, dusky twilight, I would be asked to sing of Ireland. A respectful hush would descend on the merry crowd. I had been taught the many songs of our land at my mother’s knee; I was of known good voice. The haunting, melodic sounds, intertwined with a druidic mysticism of our music, resonated in the castle courtyard in the still of the summer dusk. The flickering shadows seemed to dance to the slow, melancholic rhythms in the light of the torches and glowing fires. A trancelike hush gripped the stillness. Captivated, more enchanted than understanding, the people would plead for more and gathered silently to hear my stories of our land, loves and gods.
And it seems that this did not escape the archdeacon, who was none too pleased. For on one such evening, as I sang of the fertility granted by the earth mother, Danu, to our land, I could see Rob nudging Myler, nodding at the hurried arrival of the archdeacon in the courtyard. We were, as usual, sharing a bench, enjoying the close of the evening. Through Myler, Rob and I had also become good friends. Having finished my song, I pushed through the applause of the rowdy crowd to re-join them just as the archdeacon reached them.
‘This should be good.’ Rob sniggered into his cup. Myler elbowed him to keep quiet.
‘Good evening, cousin. Will you sit and join us in a cup of ale?’ Myler smiled, feigning surprise at his appearance.
‘I won’t, Myler,’ he said, remaining standing with a thick manuscript wedged under his arm. He seemed flustered but eventually, plucking up his courage, he turned to me and continued rather formally.
‘M’lady, I had heard of the goings-on here, and I am sad to say that the worst reports have just been confirmed.’ He appeared exasperated. ‘I must say, I think it most inappropriate of you to sing of false gods in the presence of good Christian souls. I must ask you to desist forthwith.’ Agitated, some pages slipped from the manuscript.
‘Yes, indeed, I must insist,’ he continued, scrambling to retrieve the scattered pages. Rob couldn’t contain himself and laughed as the flurry of pages scattered across the courtyard.
Myler’s look warned Rob to stop larking as I helped the archdeacon gather his pages. That done, I half innocently asked the archdeacon, ‘Which false gods might these be, Archbishop—sorry, Archdeacon?’ Myler shook his head, pleading with me not to rile his cousin.
‘There is only one God, our Lord God on high, who graces the heavens and rules the earth,’ he rushed. ‘Your pagan gods and their rituals must be washed from the memory of the people; they have no place. You imperil their very souls with such blasphemies.’
‘Archdeacon, your god has been welcomed into our land in Ireland. But we have many gods. One more is no harm to us . . . hopefully,’ I replied. ‘I think you well know that many of these pagan gods, as you refer to them, have been given a cloak of respectability by your church—a Christian cloak, so to speak.’ I spoke quietly, for I liked Myler’s cousin; he was a sincere man. ‘And so be it, if that works for you, Archdeacon, but our gods remain with us nonetheless, and always will.’
‘My lady,’ he complained, half breathless. ‘You cannot encourage unbelievers to ignore the word of the Gospels; it’s just not right.’
‘It would appear to me, Archdeacon, that you are the unbeliever—or at least more of an unbeliever than I. I am willing to believe in all the gods . . . including yours if you so wish. Whereas you believe in just one. Does that not make you more of an unbeliever than I?’ I teased and, taking his arm, gestured for him to join us, adding, ‘So at least let us agree to differ agreeably.’
‘I still think it most inappropriate,’ he huffed, taking a seat and accepting the cup Rob offered. He was not an overbearing man.
‘Archdeacon. Our gods are of the earth, rivers, sea and sky, men and women alike. With no disrespect, your god is of man and for men, and will pass when man’s footsteps no longer dust the soil.’ I continued, ‘Like us, the gods should all learn to live with each other. We should demand that of them. After all, a god with no followers ceases to exist if he only exists in their minds. Is that not why some seek so many converts?’ The archdeacon huffed his disapproval as Myler and Rob laughed and raised their cups to harmony amongst men and gods alike.
‘No chance of that with the women,’ Rob grinned. I managed to cuff his ear stoutly before he could duck.
And so we waited, my father’s frustration growing by the day. His thirst for revenge dominated his every waking moment, obscuring whatever sense he had left; he threatened to return alone. Angrily, he cursed Donal and I when we spoke of the danger to Eanna. He had not been pleased that I had caused Strongbow to abandon the plan he and Sir Hervey had made for landing in Ireland. He called Donal a coward and spent more time in the company of Sir Hervey. We knew nothing of their schemes, but I feared their outcome.
Chapter SixRASH DECISIONS
Chepstow Castle, Wales
Summer 1167
‘Icannot wait any longer,’ Diarmuit ranted. ‘I have word that my enemies are busy with rebellion in the North. Now is the time.’ He slammed his tankard on the table. ‘And your ale is vile as well. I need to get out of here!’ He rose and paced the length of the room before slumping back into his chair.
‘Well, might I suggest you don’t drink so much of it, Lord King,’ Sir Hervey said, lifting the jug to replenish Diarmuit’s tankard.
Eyeing him suspiciously, Diarmuit leaned forward with clenched fists. ‘I will go alone, land from a small boat. I can reach Ferns unnoticed and gather some supporters to my side. That’s what I’ll do,’ he said, and drank deeply, spilling more of the dark brown liquid down the front of his stained tunic.
