The bell rang three o’clock.
‘I think you should meet her, m’lord.’ Raymond spoke quickly.
There was a knock on the door. Raymond jumped.
‘Well,’ Strongbow finished, looking to the door. ‘It seems the matter is out of my hands.’
These Normans could build castles to defy arrows and armies, but wind and drafts seemed to elude them—our chambers in Ferns were far more comfortable. This large dusky hall was cold, its scattered candles flickered in the dampness despite the large fire cracking and spitting in the broad open hearth
The flames seemed to pause and then surge as a door opened in a far wall and a party of four men entered, engrossed in conversation. Seeing me, they fell silent. The handsome young man who had accompanied Le Gros in the courtyard smiled broadly; I did not know the others.
The smaller one was a well-built, sturdy man of military bearing with a quiet but fierce expression. His padded gambeson—the thick overcoat worn under the mail shirt for protection against heavy blows—added to his barrel-like appearance. A functional leather belt carried the weight of his undecorated longsword over saddle-worn leather breeches and knee-high boots. Dressed for effect rather than display, he would seldom be seen otherwise. His name, I was to discover, was Robert FitzStephen.
The dullness of his attire amplified the opulence of his companion’s. Dressed in a long blood-red damask robe, hemmed with ivory embroidery signifying seniority in the church, he carried a sheaf of rolled manuscripts under his left arm. The ornate chain of office that hung about his shoulders carried an overly large wooden crucifix, carved and embossed with gold at the edges. He seemed the antithesis of the military man—the priests of their church dressing for display, not effect. Their God, it seemed, would impoverish a people to cow them into submission with their gold-and-jewel-laced dresses, cathedrals and palaces. Even the very gates of their paradise, they said, were carved from pearl, as if to say, ‘Give us what meagre means you possess in this life, and we promise you riches in the next.’ At least there was a brutal honesty with which the dullness of the sword stole wealth, rather than the deceit of this fine-robed promise, playing on the gullibility of the vulnerable—penury for salvation.
Standing apart from the others was a tall grey-bearded man with prominent eyes and a refined manner. His style of dress differed from what I had seen of the Norman nobility in Chepstow; I was to learn it was acquired in France from where this man, Sir Hervey de Montmorency, had recently arrived. The man’s apparently agreeable manner and open disposition were to quickly dissipate as a salutary reminder of how unsound first impressions can be, particularly those of the practiced courtier.
Le Gros glanced nervously from me to the man seated behind the large oak table, whom I knew, only by sight, to be Strongbow, the Earl of Pembroke. He was a man more than twice my age: not as old as my father, but there was little difference. Tall, he leant over the papers arranged on his desk from his high-backed chair. His reddish hair and freckles were more of my race than I had expected.
Ever mannerly, Le Gros, despite having been coerced into this audience, made a great show of genuine courtesy as I strode the long length of the hall to where they were gathered. They were clearly surprised by my arrival.
‘Delighted you could make the time, m’lady,’ Strongbow said, rising to take my hand. His manner was impeccable. ‘And please do let me apologise for having neglected to pay my respects to date. Our planning for the assistance we will provide your father has completely consumed me.’
‘M’lord,’ I said, offering him a curtsey. ‘I fully understand, and your help is greatly appreciated.’
‘And to what do we owe the pleasure?’ the grey-bearded man cut in, giving a show of courtesy that was not, I thought, matched in his tone, which had a rasp of impatience about it. I was feeling very unsure of myself, and his nearly abrupt manner unnerved me. I hadn’t expected hostility, but then again, I had entered their domain with very little warning.
But our father had chosen not to keep us informed of his negotiations with these Normans. We survived on the scraps of hints and whispered conversations amongst the servants. From these Donal learned that our father had, at the very least, promised my hand to Strongbow when he brought his army to Ireland. While being of marriageable age, I was dismayed at this, not least because in the Irish custom the consent of the bride was required—Brehon law did not tolerate marriage by coercion. In time I was to learn that the secrecy that shrouded the marriage was owing to the Norman law that required the permission of the English king for any such marriage, a permission that would not be forthcoming from Henry II, who remained hostile to Strongbow. So my betrothal was to be a tightly guarded secret, even from me.
Furthermore, I had seen Strongbow for the first time late one evening as I strolled on the battlements. There was a strong wind blowing, and the hooded crows careened through the sky. They had made the recesses in the roof of the Great Tower their own but seemed to abandon the refuge of their nests there in high winds, to screech their cackle at me as I strode the walls.
Gusts carried rain, dampening my whipping hair. Through the wind, the noise of iron-shod hooves clattered over the cobbles, echoing around the courtyard of the lower bailey. The main gates to the castle were like nothing I had ever seen in Ireland. Two enormous towers, built close together and pocked with arrow loops and murder holes, straddled the iron-clad gates and protected the entrance. For added security, two immense iron portcullises could be easily dropped into place by a system of counterweights. Donal, captivated by the system of levers and pullies, had explained to me how they worked.
Retreating into the shadow of the late evening light, I had watched as Strongbow rode with his attendants through the middle bailey gate to the Great Tower in the upper reaches of the castle. Dismounting with the agility of a much younger man, for I knew him to be over forty, he handed his reins to a young groom and thanked him. I heard him enquire after the boy’s mother on some matter of her health. Then he bounded up the wide timber stairs that approached a balustraded platform opening in front of a large ornate doorway. While the castle was built with military intentions, the intricate saltire carvings in the stone lintel and arches surrounding the diamond-shaped patterns embedded in orange mortar spoke of the pride and wealth that had flourished in times past in Strongbow’s family, the de Clares. In the frame of the doorway, the light thrown from the fire within threw his shadow across the courtyard, and for a moment I thought he paused and looked my way. I withdrew deeper into the shadow of the wall. Delaying momentarily, he turned and entered the hall, his shadow vanishing with the light.
This was not the stuff of my dreams. I, like all young girls, had woven the tapestry of my future in sunlit meadows, rich colours of cloth and laughter bathed in the passion and love of a handsome suitor who prospered on his devotion to me and our life together. This dream had withered on the flotsam-stained shoreline of Ireland along with other childish notions. I mourned the loss of my hopes, at the spirit-sapping price I would have to pay to bring Eanna to safety. But it was a lesser burden to bear than the gripping underbelly of pain I felt in Eanna’s pale blue eyes, fearful and lonely. His childish bewilderment at the cruelty, his anguished cries, his silent weeping. I saw it all as though through a fog, which would allow no touch or words of comfort…just to witness the pain, the uncomprehending pain of the child.
So it would be done. I would marry Strongbow. Donal, although sensitive to my disappointments, felt that the offer would give us some sway with the Normans if we played our hand carefully. We could use it to discover their plans and ultimately influence the course of events. It would require great care and a deal more brazenness on my part for it to succeed, but it could work. I wasn’t at all as confident as he was about it, but it was important that they take heed of us now. ‘That’s more the case for you than for me, Aoife,’ he said. ‘If you are to marry Strongbow, you should show him your steel now.’ He laughed. ‘And more so with his leading men. They need to respect you, at the very least.’
So we had planned this encounter with Strongbow. I would be alone, and in that it would carry all the more weight, he tried to assure me.
However, alone in the expanse of the hall of the Great Tower for the first time, I could feel the uncontrolled tremor of a rising sob in my chest. The barely suppressed hostility of the grey-bearded man disturbed me. My throat tightened and would allow no words to form. My tears welled and I lowered my head to hide them from the gaze of the men, so many men, in the hall. I had expected to see Strongbow alone, and now the bustle of the hall petered out to a silence matched by the intensity of their scrutiny of me, the uninvited guest—
an expectant silence.
The hush intensified and seemed to stretch indefinitely as Strongbow, close now, my hand resting in his, watched me intently as I stared at his feet. Feeling the shake extending to my hand, he seemed to grasp my predicament and, stepping closer and whispering for my benefit alone, said, ‘M’lady, forgive me. You are most brave. Leave this to me.’ Then, departing from our private moment, he raised his voice for all to hear:
‘Please forgive me, m’lady. I forget myself. It is most remiss of me.’ Gesturing to the grey-bearded man. ‘Allow me to introduce my uncle, Sir Hervey de Montmorency.’ He went on: ‘Please forgive Sir Hervey his impatience.’ There was a downward twist to his mouth as he threw a barely noticeable glance at him. ‘He is keen to further your father’s cause expeditiously.’
‘Our scholar and font of all knowledge is the Most Reverend Archdeacon of Brecon, Gerald de Barry,’ he continued. ‘And I believe you are acquainted with Sir Raymond Le Gros and his young cousin Sir Myler FitzHenry.’ The young man stepped forward, took my hand and bowed, his lips brushing my skin. The moist warmth of his breath clung to my cold hand, chilled more from a cold sweat than from the damp of the room. His long, thick dark hair was matched with fierce deep eyes, which journeyed from my hand to meet and hold my gaze.
‘And my brave and reliable commander, Robert FitzStephen.’ The military man took my hand, bowing with great gallantry.
‘Gentlemen, delighted.’ I curtseyed, recovering myself, saying a silent prayer that the words would come as Strongbow offered me a chair and ordered some refreshments. I politely declined and, things having settled somewhat, turned to him.
‘And how might our plans be progressing, m’lord?’ I addressed him directly. He paused at this. A faint look of amusement flickered across his face, barely perceptible. Deciding his course, he nodded his head once as if in acquiescence and approached the table, indicating that I should accompany him. Relieved, I presumed he was about to show me something of the preparations that were underway. However, before we could reach the table, Montmorency intervened loudly.
‘If you’ll allow me, m’lord,’ he put in. Then, turning to me, he continued in a dismissive manner. ‘These matters are somewhat complex, m’lady. So we won’t burden you with the troublesome details.’ He smiled derisively to the others and motioned, somewhat flamboyantly, for me to accompany him towards the door, his manner and accent heavily influenced by his life in France.
‘Well, you might just indulge me, Sir Hervey,’ I said, not moving and holding Strongbow’s gaze. I could sense Le Gros becoming decidedly uncomfortable, and to this day, I would swear he moved to put more distance between himself and Montmorency. For his part, Montmorency now made no effort to conceal his frustration with me.
‘I really think, m’lord, we don’t have time for such trivia with this troublesome girl,’ he spat.
Strongbow winced at this, seeming to shudder with revulsion. He turned and slowly approached Montmorency. With an intense gaze, he spoke so quietly that I strained to hear. ‘You will never speak of the princess again in such terms.’ The great beams and of the hall’s high roof boomed his whisper; the flickering candles and crackling fire seemed stilled with the force of his words. Montmorency recoiled from the undisguised venom.
‘Apologies, m’lord,’ he mumbled.
‘I’m sure he meant no offense,’ Le Gross added.
There was a controlled ferocity in Strongbow’s eyes, but he seemed to check himself.
In time, I was to learn that Strongbow had taken Montmorency into his court at the request of the English king. Montmorency had won the king’s trust while doing his bidding in Aquitaine in France, where the king held extensive lands. As such, he was the king’s man and required the respect that came with that position.
‘Forgive my vehemence, Sir Hervey. I mistakenly believed you were being disrespectful to the princess,’ he smiled as he returned to the table, a smile that did not reach his eyes.
‘Not at all, m’Lord. A complete misunderstanding,’ Montmorency waved the incident away.
