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But the bishops hesitated. We could hear murmuring voices behind the gates. So I turned and waved my signal to Rob. Men with torches passed along the ranks of archers, lighting the pitched tips of the fire arrows. In moments, five hundred bowmen stood with strained bows, arrows pointed skywards, ready to unleash the inferno on the thatch-roofed buildings within the walls.

‘You have as long as it takes for the flames to singe the fingers of the bowmen to agree, Bishop,’ I said.

He stood transfixed, staring at the archers. I could see the shock on his face. I leant forward on my horse. ‘Bishop! I suggest you talk to the Norsemen. Quickly!’

He scrambled to the gate. The Norsemen had heard the exchange. They knew their town would be quickly ablaze and they would be hard pressed to withstand a determined attack. There was a quick mumbled conversation before the bishop scurried back. They accepted our terms.

‘Open the gates!’ I shouted, relieved. Wexford was ours.

The view from the walls over our camp was impressive. Behind us, over the town, the estuary of the Slaney River opened out into the shallow bay. With the tide out, the maze of sandbars was just visible as the evening light fled west. Myler was very glad we had not had to storm these walls. They were well built, with a wide walkway that served as a more than adequate fighting platform. There were piles of heavy stones and timbers placed at regular intervals, prepared by the Norsemen to crash onto the heads of any who attempted to scale the ladders. Bundles of spears and sheeves of arrows were strewn around. The Norsemen were big men by nature, well skilled in the use of their double-headed war axes. It would not have been easy.

The chaotic normality that was a town like Wexford quickly reasserted itself after the initial caution of the Norse. Their weariness faded as they realised my father was true to his word and no harm would come to the inhabitants if they accepted his authority. In return for generous provisions for our camp, no injury would befall any man, and no woman or child would be molested.

FitzStephen removed any doubts in this regard by placing several of his own men in stocks by the gates for their unwelcome pursuit of a young woman; there they would spend the night cooling their loins with their breeches around their ankles.

The women of the town were thus assured their virtue would not be abused. The whores, as common as beggars in every town and port, were equally happy their virtue was being thoroughly abused. They charged well for their services.

The common people of our races held no particular animosity towards one another. They fought at the behest of their lords, as they must, but once declared as allies, they moved freely amongst each other: Flemings, French, Irish, Welsh, Normans, Norse and English.

The raucous singing, drunkenness and brawling that follow a battle is only surpassed by that when the battle has been avoided. They would do as men always did then, deep into the night, knowing full well they would be marching at first light.

It had been agreed that we would not delay and would march for Osraige at dawn. There was no time to lose as a party of Mac Giolla Patrick’s men had been seen in the camp. In the confusion after the surrender of the town, they had initially gone unnoticed, their purpose unclear, Myler told us. My father paled on hearing this, like me he knew these hours were perilous for Eanna. Mac Giolla Patrick and his masters, O’Connor and O’Rourke, would be quick to murder or mutilate Eanna now. Our hope lay in getting to Mac Giolla Patrick first, to persuade him otherwise by whatever means. But my father knew he could not march a drunken army through the night to fight at dawn.

The Normans readily agreed to march on Osraige as my father had also proven true to his word to them. Myler’s uncles, FitzStephen and Maurice FitzGerald, who would follow with Strongbow, were given the lucrative lordship of Wexford as he had promised. However, there was considerable surprise and disquiet amongst the Norman leaders when he also announced that Montmorency was to be given two cantreds of land stretching along the coast from Wexford to the other Norse town of Waterford. No one understood why he had favoured him in this way; he certainly had not earned it through valour. De Prendergast was particularly unhappy at this, as he had brought a considerable part of the Norman force in the two ships from Milford.

However, there would be ample spoils to distribute to the Normans as we regained our kingdom. De Prendergast was somewhat placated when I told Myler to inform him that the lands my father had given to Montmorency were sparsely populated with no towns. There was little wealth there and no people to work the land. My father had not been as generous to Montmorency as it might seem.

Thinking of Eanna as I stood with Myler on the turret overlooking the chaos in the camp, I could take no joy in our success. In the fading light, drunken men, brawled or embraced, I couldn’t tell. Barrels of ale rolled through whores serving their clients in the half-light. Taking their coin and, when they could, not fulfilling their side of the bargain; most of the men were none the wiser. Beggars and thieves skulking in the dark, watched the drunks rummage in their purses, stealthily removing them when the men slumped on a bench or stumbled to the ground, senseless.

A small, drunken man emerged from the half-light and stumbled towards the causeway, arms outstretched. He walked slowly, arms grasping at nothing, until he lost his footing and fell to the ground. Rising, he continued for a moment before falling again. He began to crawl through the semidarkness. His face was soiled and bloody. The shifting light from the torches caught the face, then snatched it away . . . His lips were moving, mouthing unheard words, as he crawled slowly, tortuously, to stop just beneath me. The wind stilled, the light full, the head bowed. Lifting, the blood mixed with dirt and the puss seeping from what had been the eyes. The light hard and clear now on the face . That face, forever seared into my mind’s eye. Not a man, a drunken man, but a boy… Eanna.

‘Aoife,’ he cried. I heard him now. ‘Aoife,’ again and again. Myler ran from the turret, but I stood watching, weeping. I would weep for him now, for he would never hear me weep for him again. I would spare him that. I ran to him.

My father howled when I brought Eanna to him, a guttural primeval howl from the depths of his soul. I grasped Eanna to my chest to cover his ears from the frightening sound and the unceasing profanities he spat venomously as he smashed everything within his grasp. He drew his sword and slashed wildly at the furniture and tableware. Those in the room fled to the walls, and several servants ran from the room. Amidst his madness, he swore to find the men who did this. He would castrate them, feed them their balls, pierce their eyeballs with hot irons before ripping the flesh from their faces with his own teeth.

‘On this, I swear. On everything sacred and true, on this I swear,’ He screamed.

No, you won’t, Father, I thought. Not if I get to them first.

THE END

A Note to the Reader

Dear Reader,

Thank you so much for picking up a copy of Aoife of Leinster, I hope you found it entertaining and informative. Readers like you are everything to authors, and I would really appreciate it if you would take the time to leave an honest review on Amazon and Goodreads.

Reader reviews matter a lot. Other readers will appreciate hearing your opinion on the book before they commit to it—and of course, your feedback is very useful to me as I embark on the next books in the series.

Warmest Regards,

Sean

The Descendants of Nesta ferch Rhys, Princess of Wales