Finally, the day came, and the empty boats sailed for St Davids. We would bring the horses overland through Chepstow and meet them on the quay there. We said our farewells. It was a bittersweet moment with Alice, my friend. She assured me she would be accompanying Strongbow next year, but for now, I would miss her. I seemed to be forever weeping in her arms.
We filed through the gates of the gate towers. I had taught my mare to trust me with no saddle. Strongbow had given her to me for the return to Ireland. She was a beautiful chestnut-coloured animal with a lovely temperament. I had named her Millie, from my own language, for her gentleness and strength.
Initially she was uncomfortable with the feel of my thighs on her back and my legs around her belly, but she gradually settled, becoming more confident that I would not be unseated—that I knew what I was doing. There was a bond that sometimes developed between a human and a horse, an understanding of mutual respect and care in which the animal would slowly come to know its rider and understand that it would not be set to any task beyond it. Each would know the other’s mind, almost rendering the reins or legs unnecessary. In return for this care, the horse would do all it could to protect its rider. Even when startled, it would move in a way to keep them seated.
And so it happened. In the confines of the gate towers, in the last week of April, Millie spooked sharply, shifting suddenly to the left, but she moved quicker to catch my following weight and keep me on her back. A streak of white as the underbelly of a swallow brushed my hair. Another, a flurry, forcing us back. Millie retreated into the courtyard. The chattering exuberance, the excited joy . . . the summer was approaching, and they had returned. My swallows, swooping, circling in a wide arc and breaking back through the gates into the courtyard.
It was a joy to see them. I would miss them this year on the castle walls, but today I was leaving for Ireland and the horses shied from the gates; they would not let us pass. We sat watching, waiting for this strange display to end.
Fáinleog! My short sword. My hand searched my hip for her scabbard. I jumped from my mare and ran to my chamber, reached under my bed. In the confusion and hurry, I had forgotten her.
When I returned to the courtyard, breathless, the others remained where I had left them, standing and watching the curious behaviour of the swallows, their horses unwilling to chance the gates. I jumped onto Millie’s back and, with Fáinleog on my hip, squeezed her gently through to the line of waiting horses, under the towers and out the gates. The swallows did not interfere.
Thank you, my friends. And now to war, to bring Eanna home.
Chapter FourteenRETURNING HOME
Wexford
May 1169
The brisk southwesterly wind blew steadily over the port gunnels bellying the sails, pitching the ships slightly. The rolling swell was gentle, not enough to cause the bow to rise a wash of spray over the deck. If it stayed like this, we would soon pass along the south coast of Ireland and make landfall on Bannow Island not long after dawn. We had departed in the early evening on the last day of April.
As it happened, the wind stayed steady as the swell rose slightly in the night, the echo of a storm at sea in some distant southern place. Regardless, there was no mood for sleep in our ships. The men were tense. An army was most vulnerable when landing. If they were not already aware of our plans, our enemies would soon see for themselves, when the dawn would betray our presence.
We had planned to rendezvous with de Prendergast’s two ships, sailing from Milford, off the coast of St Davids. With no sighting by late evening, we had no choice but to set the sails and hope they would soon appear in our wake. We needed to land in force if we were to meet any resistance, but equally, we needed the cover of darkness to mask our passage along the southern Irish coastline.
All ship lights were doused, and FitzStephen called for complete quiet as we passed along the dark bulk of the land to our north—the strong wind would easily carry the sounds of heavily manned ships to the land. The only sounds now were the whinnying of the horses, a sound that would quickly betray our presence and purpose to any ears that caught the wind. But there was no avoiding that or the rhythmic scrape of well-sharpened blades on whetstones, more for solace than for any better edge it would give their weapons. Some had no spit to wet their stones, their mouths dry with the apprehension of what the dawn would bring.
When it broke, our three ships sailing in tight formation would arouse immediate suspicion. If our enemies were waiting, they would follow us and be ready to attack. They would plan to let us make shore, then come as we tried to disembark.
In the growing pale light of dawn in the east, we strained for a hint of sail; de Prendergast’s ships did not appear.
We had timed our arrival with high tide. With the narrow channel flooded between Bannow Island and the headland where the town of Bannow stood, any attackers would be unable to assault the island until we were fully ashore and arrayed for an assault.
The townsfolk from the small town of Bannow would be alarmed at our approach by now. The wind whisked the smoke from the homes northward, and I could see figures moving along the shore, following our progress. I shuddered at the bitter memory of Eanna kneeling beneath O’Rourke’s sword on that very spot almost three years ago. Was it that long? He would have grown so much, changed from a child to a boy. I hoped his joyous, mischievous ways had remained with him. Not long now, I sent my promise on the wind; not long, Eanna, before we come for you.
As expected, the beach of the island came into view; the narrow channel surged with the flowing tide. Impassable now from the headland, it would remain so until the ebbing tide would, for a brief while, allow a crossing on foot. Now was the time to land; there could be no attack for several hours.
The incessant salty Atlantic wind which scoured the island stunted anything but the coarse grass which offered meagre grazing for the few cattle, which I could see scattered across the exposed shallow rise. The owners of these cattle would doubtless be worried now as they saw us turning our bows for the shore. It was hard to demand payment from an army.
I had pointed FitzStephen to the narrow sandbar that stood westward from the south of the island. There, deep water met the shore, allowing the boats to beach their bows on the sand. We braced against the shudder of the hull scraping over the shingle and crunching to a lurching halt as the loosened sails flapped languidly in the wind.
The men-at-arms, readied for battle, jumped into the shallow wash and surged to the beach to gain sounder ground, the stony surface below the tideline causing many to lose their footing. Although FitzStephen had placed archers on the high decks commanding the strand, I was glad there was no welcoming party—it would not have been an easy landing.
With a clear view across the breadth of the island, and the channel in flood, any threat of an immediate attack was gone. However, ever cautious, the men worked with an urgency to unload the ships. Long wooden gangplanks were placed to guide the horses first from the bellies of the boats and then down from the starboard gunnels and onto the beach. Mounds of provisions steadily appeared: bundles of bowstaves, sheeves of arrows, buckets of arrowheads, kite-shaped shields, lances, swords, breastplates, greaves, maces, flails. Barrels of ale, wine, water, bread, hard cheese, dried meat. Several cages of squawking chickens and alarmed rabbits. The Normans brought them on campaign as a manageable source of fresh meat; they bred quickly and tasted good. We did not have rabbits in Ireland, and I remember seeing a carelessly handled cage falling and breaking on the stones. The rabbits quickly scurried across the sand dunes. Now we had rabbits in Ireland.
Our caution proved unnecessary. As the day wore on and no horsemen appeared on the headland, we became more confident. The pace slackened, and several hours later, as the tide receded and the channel became passable, a rider was dispatched to Ferns to alert my father of our arrival. Avoiding the enemy, he would reach Ferns by nightfall. He was to urge my father to hasten to Bannow in force to join with the Norman army.
With the rider on his way and the tide flowing to close the channel, there was little chance we could be assaulted until the light of the following day. A precautionary defensive position was arranged above the channel, but on the whole, the night was passed comfortably in the tents on the shoreline by the ships.
The following morning brought the welcome sight of the full-bellied sails of de Prendergast’s two ships from Milford rounding the far head, several miles distant. In the favourable wind, which had held, they made straight for the shore and were soon beached alongside the other three ships. I watched ten knights and over two hundred archers and foot soldiers disembark. They were warmly welcomed by FitzStephen, whose small army had just doubled in size. He clearly knew many of these men, and he embraced each of the knights and spoke to the men. They were mostly Flemings, as were a sizeable part of his own followers. Gerald de Barry had jokingly referred to us as the Fleet of the Flemings, there were so many of them. But the archers were mostly Welshmen, and there was a scattering of French and a few English too.
As the evening drew in, an alarm was raised when a body of armed horsemen appeared on the headland. The reddening light of dusk reflected from the steel of their weapons. Their numbers swelled as we watched. They remained motionless, watching, not venturing to the channel. The ebbing tide was receding rapidly, and the channel would soon be passable. FitzStephen bawled at the foot soldiers to form even battle lines, two ranks opposite the channel. The archers were arrayed on the higher ground behind the foot soldiers. I could see Rob calmly checking their positions and lines of fire. At almost four hundred, I knew the death they would unleash from the sky; they planted their arrows in reach in the ground around them.
Myler split the knights into two groups of twenty to flank the foot soldiers in the centre. He commanded one flank, and his cousin Miles FitzWilliam the other. Robert FitzStephen sat on his courser behind the foot soldiers, a practiced calm observing a field of battle. I noticed Montmorency yet further back again, surrounded by his own few men. This battle formation was achieved quickly and with minimal fuss. It was one of several I had seen them practice at Chepstow.
The dusk stole the light. A solitary horseman left the headland and approached the channel. I could see FitzStephen, and Myler riding to meet him. They reached the centre of the channel, and through the gathering gloom I was surprised to see Myler reach forward and embrace the rider. They turned, and the three cantered through the ranked army and up the shallow hill to where I stood.
Donal.
As the night closed in and we were alone, Donal told me that upon hearing of our landing, my father had gathered what forces he could overnight, dispatching riders to the kinsmen throughout Leinster. There was understandable reluctance in our allies, as a great many had almost paid with their lives at the debacle at Cill Osnadh. Only the most loyal, or those whom he could coerce, joined him. A meagre force of a few hundred Uí Chennselaig, mostly cavalry, had left Ferns that day at noon to ride to Bannow.
However, as fast as a horse could ride, the word of the arrival of a vast army landing from a fleet of ships had spread quickly, amplified no doubt by the news bearers: the waters of Bannow Bay barely visible between the crowded ships, vast hordes of steel-clad warriors, belching from the bowels of three masted warships, teeming with men and horses, the shallows churning as they surged ashore—a messenger’s status heightened, at least in their own eyes, by the force of their message.
And so on their journey south they had been joined by the men of two of the smaller dynasties of Leinster, the Uí Lorcáin and the Uí Duibginn, promising loyalty and support to my father. These two families, who had not long before deserted my father, their rightful king, saw no shame in rushing to his side now, for the strongest prevailed; such was the way of Irish affairs. A man knew no greater loyalty above that to his own clan. Beyond that, alliances were decided on the family’s best interests; if a side must be chosen, it was the one most likely to win.
And as my father had always acted solely in our family’s interest, he expected nothing more from the other dynastic families of Leinster. He had warmly welcomed them. They now stood at over five hundred men, camped on the headland above the channel. They would remain there for the rest of the night as the channel was once again impassable. They would wait until dawn to join their forces.
For my father was also cautious. He had not met any of these Normans for over two years. In addition, apart from the occasional messenger, there had been no contact since Myler, Rob, Conor and I had slipped away from the willow thicket by the monastery more than a year ago. Nevertheless, the arrival of a Norman force on the south coast of his kingdom was welcome if they had indeed come to support his cause. There was nothing to suggest otherwise, but his years as a king had taught him not to trust anyone. Accustomed to the fickle tides of loyalty in Ireland, he needed assurance that his erstwhile allies remained of one mind and true to him. If not, he would be forced to quickly seek the support of O’Connor and O’Rourke to oppose them. He would be loath to do this, but he knew they would agree, it being in their interests to expel these Normans before they gained a foothold. However, O’Connor’s burning ambition was to occupy the throne of Ireland as high king by subjugating the other kingdoms to which he had no right, including Leinster. My father would pay a heavy price for his help.
However, Donal was pleased when I reassured him of Strongbow’s commitment to us. But he was disappointed with the size of the army we had brought and that Strongbow himself was not present. They had hoped for a much larger force that would weaken the resolve of any opposition we might face; the smaller an army, the more fighting it must do. That said, he understood the prowess in warfare of these Normans. The combined force of over a thousand men would suffice until Strongbow arrived with the rest of his forces..
The following morning, when the channel once again allowed crossing, he rode back to my father with the assurances he required as to the intention of this army. My father was greatly encouraged when he discovered my presence and rode out to meet us as we crossed at the head of the mounted knights, the hooves of the heavy armour-clad animals sucking and popping in the soft sand of the estuary.
