‘Alice, I’m glad you are well,’ he said. ‘Is the princess in her chamber? I’d like to speak with her immediately.’
There was no hiding place. My chamber, while large, was uncomplicated. The windows overlooked the busy courtyard, but even if they hadn’t, Myler would not survive an escape from the second floor unscathed.
Closing my robe, I motioned for him to be silent. I moved quietly to the door making sure it was barred.
‘I trust you had a successful campaign in the north,’ Alice said, raising her voice to ensure I was aware that Strongbow stood outside my chamber door.
There was a moment’s hesitation, in which I could sense his impatience with Alice. ‘It was Alice. Now please open the door and inform the princess I’ll speak to her now,’ he said.
Myler rose and made for the window. Brushing against the table, he knocked a pewter water pitcher to the floor. It crashed noisily on the flagstone.
‘Alice,’ I called loudly. ‘Alice, are you there? Could you bring me another jug of hot water for my bath? It’s getting a bit cold. Alice?’ I waited, hoping Alice would quickly grasp my ruse.
‘Certainly, m’lady,’ she responded after an unnerving delay. ‘I was conversing with Strongbow, who has just returned. I was just about to explain to him that you were in your bath and could not entertain him right now.’ She was in her stride now. ‘Can I suggest you join him in the Great Tower momentarily?’
Thank you, Alice, I thought. ‘I’d be delighted. Please tell him I’ll be there presently.’
With that, I heard the sound of him retreating down the corridor. The ashen look on Myler’s face did not lessen for a week.
As the news spread of the visit of the king’s messenger, there was considerable excitement in the castle that Strongbow’s fortunes had been revived. There was great hope that the king’s favour would be fully restored and Strongbow’s titles reinstated. Until now, the king had refused to recognise him as the Earl of Pembroke, a punishment that had brought great anguish and shame. With the king’s favour restored, it was expected that permission to undertake the campaign in Ireland would also be granted.
Strongbow looked in high spirits as I walked the length of the Great Tower, keeping my winter cloak clasped against the chill of the room. The fire in the large open hearth on the north wall had not yet taken, and the dry oak logs cracked noisily as they settled into the rising flames. Although early afternoon, the pallid greyish winter light from the high windows could not lift the gloom of the cavernous room. The heat and pleasant waft of burning firewood would eventually banish Autumn’s musky dampness from the hall, which had lain idle in Strongbow’s absence. Servants rushed about, shielding tapers to light the candles.
I was not happy to see Montmorency there. I had hoped to speak to him alone or at the least with Myler’s uncles present to lend their support. Ever graciously, Strongbow rose and placed a kiss on my hand, bowing.
‘It’s lovely to see you, m’lady. I’m so glad you have managed to return safely.’
Offering him a courtesy, I returned the compliment and expressed my delight in the success of his campaign in Northumbria in the king’s service.
‘Thank you. We fulfilled our duty admirably, and I am now very hopeful that the king’s messenger bears good news.” He smiled and, turning to a tray a servant brought, offered me a glass of his fine burgundy, remarking, ‘I believe we both developed a liking for this one during our most enjoyable evenings on the river terrace these two years past.’
Tasting the wine, it reminded me of the man’s warmth and sincerity. I remembered I had grown quite fond of him and had enjoyed our conversations on those warm balmy summer evenings, sitting on the small private castellated terrace, which captured the last of the evening sun before it dipped below the westerly rise.
‘However, I believe you had a fraught time in Ireland,’ he said, more serious now. ‘I was dismayed to hear your father discarded our plan and sailed for Ireland.’ He looked at me searchingly, but before I could speak, Montmorency intervened.
‘Indeed, m’lord. As I said, it was most unwise. I did everything in my power to dissuade him from this reckless course, but . . .’ he hesitated. He took on a pained expression, as if continuing with great reluctance:
‘M’lord, you will be well aware I am loath to offer criticism of my comrades, but there were those imprudent voices in our camp who planted this rash idea with him.’ He shook his head, a sad disappointment in one who has been let down.
I was seething at the duplicity of the man.
‘I fear the Geraldines have again shown very poor judgement in these matters,’ he continued. ‘As we have discussed, m’lord, we must be ever more cautious in future in whose advice we seek.’
‘I agree, Sir Hervey. And again, thank you for your sound judgement in the entire affair; it has been most unfortunate. At least I have you to rely on.’
Montmorency brazenly held my gaze, the hint of a sneer in the twist of his mouth. Daring me to speak, knowing I would not, my silence adding weight to his lies.
Strongbow stood in the well of one of the high narrow windows, his silhouette framed against the light, watching me. Leaving a silence for me to fill. If there was anything to say to counter Montmorency’s account, this was the time. He was giving me the opportunity.
I said nothing.
The silence hung heavily in the gloom.
Eventually, he sighed, my silence confirming Montmorency’s account.
There was a melancholy about him now, as if he too was saddened by a betrayal of trust. I could see his thoughts, poisoned by Montmorency. How could he have misjudged these men—men he had fought beside and relied upon? It was inexplicable to him.
He spoke of how the entire campaign was now highly precarious. My father’s actions had forfeited the element of surprise. Our enemies were alerted to the threat, my father having told them explicitly at Cill Osnadh that more Norman forces would follow. They would be ever watchful and ready to react quickly and in force to any incursion. Surprise was lost and the chances of success of the expedition significantly diminished as a consequence.
‘M’lady. This was your own warning to me when we first met in this room two years ago,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘You were right in your assessment of the situation then . . . and that remains the case today, I am afraid.’
My own words, which had, I thought, avoided disaster back then. Were they now to decide Eanna’s fate? It was the prospect of further Norman armies arriving in Ireland which kept him alive. His life could be used to threaten and bargain should that come to pass. As soon as Mac Giolla Patrick and O’Rourke no longer feared a Norman army would stand behind my father, he would die.
This and my own childish passion for Myler forced me to hold my tongue against Montmorency’s lies. Why was I so foolish to indulge a girlish urge for romance, for passion? Whatever satisfaction I had carried a heavy price now. The distrust in Strongbow’s camp, which I had caused, was adding to his misgivings.
Was I to be the cause of Eanna’s death? I felt panic.
‘I agree, m’lord. We have indeed lost the advantage of surprise,’ I said. ‘However, I was at Cill Osnadh that day. We were vastly outnumbered and did not want to fight. I think you may have heard what happened from Sir Richard FitzGodebert?’ I asked. I didn’t want to recall the stupidity of my father when he had unnecessarily dragged our cavalry into a hopeless fight.
Strongbow nodded. He had indeed spoken to FitzGodebert soon after he returned from Ireland. He had recounted the events of that disastrous day in detail. Most notably, he had described the Irish army. It was the first time a Norman force had encountered the Irish on a field of battle in Ireland. What he saw did not impress him.
He reported how the Irish were poorly disciplined and badly armed. Although fine horsemen, they rode in the Irish style, without saddles or leather bridles. With no body armour, they were vulnerable to every cut and arrow, as were their horses. For the most part, they carried short spears, which they would throw, largely inaccurately. They could use them quite effectively in close order, in a thrusting manner from behind small round shields. Some carried the large twin-bladed axe, a practice they gained from the Norse on the island. They were nimble in the saddle and on foot, but against this, the Norman battledress of chain mail and armour was wholly effective. The Irish would have difficulty disabling a Norman knight with a first thrust; they were then very vulnerable to the superior Norman weaponry of the mace and longsword.
He went on to report that the Irish were poorly trained and seemed to arrange themselves as groups of smaller armies rather than as one whole force. There were no effective archers to speak of. Those they possessed used a common hunting bow, with limited range and accuracy. The arrowheads were broad, effective at close range in bringing down an animal or a man. However, they were useless against armour at any distance, not being narrow and heavy like the armour-piercing bodkin arrowheads the Normans had designed for that purpose.
‘Yes, I have talked in detail with FitzGodebert of what happened and what he saw. It was, indeed, most instructive.’ He went on to tell of his belief, based on FitzGodebert’s report, that a Norman force could prevail against a much larger Irish army. And in that, there was hope. There remained a realistic possibility of success. So all was not yet lost.
He approached me and took my hand.
