‘My father may have suggested this, but I have agreed to no such arrangement,’ I said bluntly. I had to tread carefully, as I needed to retain Strongbow’s sympathy while not diminishing the force of my words.
Undeterred Montmorency continued, ‘I’m sure it’s a surprise, m’lady, but you will become accustomed to it in time. Your father has already agreed to it,’ He was almost smiling now.
Not fully recovered from Montmorency’s indiscretion and the turn in the conversation, Strongbow nonetheless, and probably unconsciously, distanced himself from him. He would take no part in adding to my discomfort at learning of my betrothal in such a manner. However, this concern was quickly overwhelmed by his shock upon learning of the illegitimacy of that promise, as I now made clear.
Avoiding Strongbow’s gaze, I purposefully spoke directly to Montmorency; it was better to deliver these unpalatable truths to him. ‘My hand in marriage is not my father’s to give. You clearly need to acquaint yourself with our ways, Sir Hervey. That choice is mine, and mine alone.’
A shuffle of disbelief rippled through the hall. I held my gaze on Montmorency, trying to gauge Strongbow’s reaction reflected in Montmorency’s confusion. His rattled eyes darted around me, his jaw agape. I remember his broken yellow teeth. Muted, he mouthed nothings. The hush of his companions amplified their bewilderment.
In the Norman tradition, women were tools of diplomacy, married to further a family’s interests through alliances. Male relatives decided their futures. A woman’s wishes played no part whatsoever, and these men standing in the Great Tower with me today were obviously wholly unaccustomed to anything different. No one spoke, fearful; words had consequences now.
Collecting himself, Strongbow, otherwise expressionless, regarded me now with a searching gaze that never wavered. He eventually spoke into the silence.
‘Archdeacon, what is your knowledge of these matters?’
‘Yes, m’lord. I was meaning to bring some trivial matters to your attention.’
‘Trivial?’ Strongbow said.
Ignoring this, the archdeacon continued. ‘M’lord. There are some archaic pagan customs still surviving in Ireland which the church has not entirely suppressed, as yet. However, they have no legitimacy in the eyes of God and may be safely ignored.’
Strongbow said nothing. The archdeacon’s hand drifted to the crucifix hanging from his neck. His fingers found the splayed figure of his god and stroked. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He looked uncomfortable under the searing gaze of Strongbow as he proceeded to tell how the church in Ireland struggled to eradicate the deep sinews of Brehon law and the ancient pulse: that slow pagan heartbeat buried in the soil and blood of its land and ‘uncivilised’ people; how the foundations of these beliefs differed fundamentally from Christianity in their emphasis of the Goddess as opposed to the God: female over male. Primitive superstitions of how she controlled the rain, sunshine and the harvest; the health and fertility of man, woman and beast; indeed, the soil itself. Nothing was inseparable in this belief system, and the Goddess, the female, the woman, was at its core.
‘Absurd heresies,’ he said. ‘They claim that this ancient code of lawful behaviour, Brehon law, emerged from the mist of times preceding the Celts and probably the Druids themselves. In this they are correct,’ he continued, warming to his task. ‘It is nothing more than a collection of confused primitive beliefs from heathen times before the arrival of God’s teachings on earth. God be praised,’ he intoned, opening his arms to give thanks to the heavens. ‘For these pagans, not having the God-given gift of letters, it was an unreliable oral tradition, passed down fitfully through the centuries by word of mouth until it was eventually put to paper by the lawgivers sect, the Brehons—descendants of the Druids who had carried the lineage of the law through the ages in the great tomb, the Senchus Mór—a diabolical incantation of the devil’s work I myself have been witness to.’ He shuddered at the memory.
He went on to explain how the ‘tentacles’ of these laws had grown over thousands of years, expanding through the experience of daily life into ‘a myriad of absurd laws to establish rights, obligations and punishments through a system of fines. Wholly ludicrous, it upended the Christian truth of the law deriving solely from the king by divine right. It was a common, poorly managed system of law, developed from the people by the people for the people. Every man and woman, from king or queen to servant or slave, was subject to the law. Perfectly ridiculous,’ he concluded, appealing to his audience, laughing at the absurdity of it all.
Strongbow sat down. His hand coursing the skin on his clean-shaven chin, he said, ‘If I understand you correctly, Archdeacon, and correct me if I’m wrong here, with this system of law—Brehon law—a king does not make the law. In a sense, the law is independent of the king, and he, like all his subjects, must obey the law. Correct?’
‘Exactly!’ exclaimed the archdeacon. ‘I can’t tell you how absurd it is.’
‘No, I think you can,’ Strongbow said. ‘Please go on.’ He sat back and listened, captivated as he learnt of our law.
I was impressed by the archdeacon’s depth of knowledge, which was far greater than mine. While he could recount large tracts of the Senchus Mór at will, I could remember little of what my tutors had earnestly tried to teach. And despite the archdeacon’s animated disdain, that knowledge was certainly fascinating to Strongbow, who sat forward, inching his frame over the table as if imbibing as sustenance what he was hearing.
As the afternoon drew into early evening, he listened intently. He learned that the objective of the law was fairness, justice and peace. Rejecting savage reprisals or revenge, the death penalty was all but prohibited. It sought harmony above retribution in the people it governed with detailed laws covering every aspect of daily life. Humane at its core, it contained overriding provisions to protect the innate rights of the less fortunate.
‘M’lord, most astonishing of all, you will accuse me of jesting when I tell you that the penalty for unlawfully killing a man is a fine!’ He paused. ‘A fine! Yes, it is true. There is a detailed set of fines extending from slander, injury and theft to murder itself. Most incredible of all, there is a sizeable fine for what they term as the serious offence of insulting a woman!’ At this, as if remembering my presence, he bowed in apology, claiming he was merely recounting the laws themselves for the benefit of those present.
We had all taken seats by the time the archdeacon explained how judgement was in the hands of the Brehons, the lawgivers. They studied and practised at the feet of their seniors for decades before presiding. Their wealth and lands were held independently and subject to no lord or king. They were regarded with a mystic reverence in the land and, as far as he was concerned, were a living embodiment of Satan despoiling God’s earth.
‘Archdeacon. How could this system of law, unique from anything I know in many lands, have existed, wholly different from ours?’ Strongbow enquired.
‘The island, m’lord, has not been blessed with the civilising influence of those who came to our shores over the centuries—particularly the Romans, who brought the gift of Christ to our land. God be praised.’
Strongbow raised an eyebrow and smiled. ‘You’re referring to the hordes of raiders who have repeatedly swept across the continent onto these shores over the centuries, I presume?’ he asked, not expecting an answer. ‘The very ones who visited quite a bit of devastation on this land before the civilising benefits became obvious, and I include us Normans in that, gentlemen.’ He laughed. ‘But before us, there were the Angles, Saxons, Norse and of course the Romans. Amazingly, none of them ever made it to Ireland.’
‘The Norse did, my lord,’ the archdeacon interjected. ‘But still, compared to Britain, the island has remained relatively unscarred—unblessed, I mean—its laws for thousands of years virtually unchanged.’
‘Remarkable, truly remarkable!’ Strongbow said, rising, animated now. ‘A system whereby a king cannot arbitrarily make laws and impose them on his subjects, strip them of their wealth, deny them of their inheritance…it seems to me we have found a paradise, gentlemen!’ He laughed, throwing a knowing look to his men, who joined him. I would later understand the meaning in his words.
‘However, m’lord, we need pay no heed to these pagan ways,’ said Montmorency, not fully grasping the implications of what they had all just heard. But I could sense a depth of understanding dawning upon Strongbow, a man of more refined sensibilities.
Thus, I spoke clearly into the silence. ‘In doing so, Sir Hervey, your race will never have any legitimacy in Ireland.’ I knew Strongbow and the others fully understood the importance of that fact. They would forever be seen as a transitory presence with no legitimate right woven into the permanent fabric of our ways. They could claim no lineage on which to build a permanent dynasty and would forever be regarded as bagmen and freebooters. And this was not the Norman way.
The Normans had an established reputation for successful conquest. From their humble origins in Norway to Normandy in France, from where they had seized one of the most valuable crowns in Europe in the lands of our neighbours, the Britons. Through southern Italy to the eastern Mediterranean, their power would extend and take root. Their goal was permanency, and this was achieved by settling and adopting local ways and legitimising their presence.
Strongbow, having fully grasped the importance of what I had said, seemed resigned but certain as he approached me, taking my hand again. ‘M’lady, again I must apologise. I seem to be doing a lot of that today,’ he said with a gentle smile. ‘I was remiss in not acquainting myself with your fine traditions and culture.’ Looking directly at me, his penetrating gaze lingered as if conversing with my thoughts.
Then, resolute, he purposefully released my hand as if releasing me of any obligation, acknowledging my free will. He turned to his men and announced quietly, ‘There will be no marriage without the freely given consent of the princess.’
The shock seemed to rock the others in unison. Startled looks were exchanged, despairing heads shook, a rising murmur of dissent eventually broke into voiced objections: ‘The very success of the venture is predicated on the marriage!’ ‘It is a necessity!’ ‘It has to happen!’ ‘This is madness!’ On and on they went, their cackles lost in the high-beamed roof of the Great Tower.
Having heard enough, Strongbow eventually silenced them with a sharp glance.
The men, now helpless spectators of an exchange between a man and a woman. An exchange that would determine their futures and those of their families for generations to come. An exchange entangled in matters of state, kingdoms and wealth, which by their very nature were somewhat malleable. But most chillingly, this exchange was subject to matters of the heart, of human attraction; matters of little certainty, tempered by no reason, ever incomprehensible.
Their fears were etched on their faces. The woman, whose next words would determine their fates, was barely free from the blushes of childhood. A young woman who probably harboured the childish notions of romance, uncorrupted as yet by the mosaic of experience that life would inevitably bring.
Little did they realise that, far beyond them, it was the very fate of Ireland that would be decided.
‘M’lord, thank you for your understanding.’ I paused. I could hear the frantic whispering and shuffling feet on the worn flagstones, then a deafening silence. My pounding heart seemed to muffle everything. I was trying to find the words.
‘I understand duty, m’lord.’ I hesitated and looked directly at him now. ‘But I must also have respect. Respect for my wishes, my ways and my advice. I will not be passive, I will not be idle and I must be involved.’ I looked away momentarily from the intensity of his gaze. ‘If you can respect these wishes, I will consent to be your wife upon your arrival in Ireland.’
A collective sigh, a release of tension, a taking of breath—a sense of airiness released into the hall. The archdeacon steadied himself before taking a seat.
‘M’lady. You have my word of honour,’ Strongbow said, placing a kiss on my hand. ‘I would be honoured, truly honoured, if you would be my wife.’ He paused and looked to his stunned men. ‘And we will land in Bannow Bay.’
