The sails were set as we left the quay at Glascarrig on a southeasterly course. Amlaib pointed the bow for the mouth of the Severn, and not a sheet was touched until we rounded St Govan’s Head in Wales as dawn broke the following day. The steady south-westerly wind and a mild swell made for a comfortable crossing.
The favourable weather put the crew in good spirits. We sat sheltered under the raised deck in the stern of the boat and ate the bread and cheese I had stolen from the barren kitchens of the monastery. There would be no hot broth to warm us on Amlaib’s boat.
Wisely, he would allow no flame over the gunnel. His cargoes were more often than not flammable, and he had given up trying to discourage his crew from bringing ale in their water casks. Ale, flame, sheep’s wool and a rocking boat did not mix well.
We were content with our lot beneath the stern deck, listening to the song and banter of the sailors as the dusk rose from the east across the cloudless sky. A star-speckled blackness followed, gradually layering to a graded turquoise as the moonlight danced on the waves breaking on the curved bow and parted in our wake.
With little work, the men sat comfortably amongst the bundles of hides packed into the belly of the barque—a cargo from Wexford Amlaib would deliver to a merchant in Bristol. There he would collect another cargo for the return journey. His services were much in demand, and he plied the sea route between the islands constantly. The merchants favoured the rates his deep bellied barque could offer, particularly for Wexford-bound goods. There, the wide and shallow bay was notoriously fickle, with the ever-shifting sandbars bedevilling the outer estuary, grounding many unwary helmsmen.
The town of Wexford sat on the southern shore of the Slaney, a fast-flowing river that rushed from an inner estuary through a narrow channel and scoured the deep channel where the early Norse raiders chose to anchor their boats.
They had built their first longphort here. It was a timber semi-defensible structure where they would overwinter, having spent the spring and summer months raiding the monasteries and settlements of the Gaels. In time, this temporary refuge had become permanent and developed over the centuries into the walled town of Wexford.
Just beyond the town, the bay quickly widened into a shallow broad estuary, and the fast-moving waters slowed rapidly. Buffeted by wind and tide, they deposited their burdens of sand and silt, seemingly at random, around the estuary. However, there was a pattern to be discerned, and it was the exclusive preserve of seasoned and local shipmasters like Amlaib to know on a day where the sandbars lay and where the safe channel was to be found. Such knowledge was worth the value of a cargo to merchants, the knowledge gap between riches and ruin.
The wind remained steady as we rounded the headland at the mouth of the Severn in Wales. The sailors adjusted the sheets to gather the wind as Amlaib first set the course more easterly across the bay and then northerly into the narrowing mouth of the Severn, the longest river in Britain. We passed the bustling quays of Bristol to the east, and soon after, Amlaib called for reduced sail as he eased the tiller to guide us westward into the mouth of the Wye River.
Chepstow was not two miles upstream, and I knew we would soon see the busy quays before the castle itself would come into view around a westward bend in the river, standing high on the cliffs towering over the town.
‘It might look like it’s very high now,’ Amlaib said as we rounded the bend. It was a majestic sight. Built to impress, it towered over the river and surrounding landscape. The sails were dropped, and the oars readied. ‘Give it a few hours and the tide rises so much that I could nearly drop you over the walls.’ He laughed. We had arrived at low tide, and I remembered the extraordinary change in the river level between the tides.
‘I reckon it’s the height of forty men, at least,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen the likes of it.’ Manoeuvring the boat and seeing none of the deepwater quays free, he told us he couldn’t wait for higher water, as he had to make Bristol by noon to deliver his cargo.
A boat was summoned from the shore, and as we took our leave, my eye was caught by a figure in a dark cloak, arms buried in the long sleeves against the brisk morning chill. He stood on the small terrace, where Strongbow and I had spent many pleasant evenings two years previously.
His sour gaze caught my eye, held it.
Expressionless.
Montmorency.
My joy and tears at seeing Alice, my friend, were short lived. Releasing me from her embrace, I could see the dread in her handsome face, lines of worry etched into her brow. My mother had not taken our departure to Ireland well, she told me. Alone, with all her children gone from her, she had withdrawn further into herself. Alice had watched as her body faded with her spirit, consuming itself before her eyes.
‘She’s withering quickly now, Aoife. I fear her strength can’t last. She has clung to life in the hope you’d return.’ Alice’s eyes glistened. ‘Brace yourself, Aoife,’ she said, as she took my hand and led me to my mother’s chambers in the east tower.
‘She hasn’t taken food this past week. I wet her lips to stop her thirst, but she hasn’t spoken in days except to call your names.’ She stopped before the low conical door frame.
‘She has not long, Aoife. A slow death is cruel to the body. Now, there is no greater joy for her than to see you before she dies. Remember her as she was before.’ I nodded as she eased the door open.
The rank air hung stagnant in the gloom of the room. Flickering light was thrown from the fire burning behind the shuttered windows.
I did not recognise the skeletal figure lying prone on the bed, shivering continuously, racked with shuddering convulsions that arched her body, shoulder to heel, from the bed; a grimace of pain momentarily gripped the sunken, collapsed face. A wafer-thin layer of translucent skin clung to her skull, her teeth were bared.
Revolted, I turned to Alice, confused. Who was this? It couldn’t be. Grasping my arm, she nodded and gently guided me to the bed and whispered into my mother’s ear.
‘Mór, listen to me, Mór. It’s Aoife, Aoife is here. She’s come to you.’ The figure on the bed stiffened, a stab of pain from deep within. Settling slowly as if preparing for the next, the rasping breath rattled and faded.
Motioning me forward, Alice could see my shock; she pleaded now, ‘Speak to her, Aoife; she must hear your voice. Now, Aoife, or I fear she will go.’
I could not.
‘Aoife, you must speak to her.’ Louder now, Alice grasped my hand from my face.
‘Now!’ Alice demanded.
‘Mother,’ I whispered. ‘Mother, it’s me, Aoife.’ Moving closer, I lifted her hand, feeling the chill on her skin and the bones underneath. I was startled when the hand tightly gripped mine.
The laboured breathing stopped abruptly. The sunken eyes flashed open over a rush of colour that swept into her face, lifting the deathly pallor. A brightness took her eyes, and a smile shaped her lips. I could see my mother now.
Overcome, I kissed her lips, my tears running into her eyes, which seemed to glisten all the more. My tears in her eyes—I would cry for her now, for ever more.
Her breathing deepened. The shivering stopped. Her body calling on its final reserves of strength to allow a mother a farewell to her child. She smiled.
‘Aoife, mo ghra sa, my love.’
I strained to hear her.
‘Máthair, mo ghra. Máthair.’ I could not be strong. My grief welling from within, I wept. She smiled, gripping my hand now, my heart forever.
‘Conor is returned with me. Shall I fetch him?’ I asked, sensing there was not long.
She nodded. ‘And your father?’ she asked.
‘He’s still in Ferns, mother. Where he can stay.’ I stopped, not wanting to distress her now.
Her head fell to the side, searching for my gaze. ‘Aoife, tell me. Tell me everything, please.’
