‘In that case, m’lord, I will be your wife.’ I curtseyed, turned and walked the long length of the hall, feeling the searing gaze of the men on my back, nearly driving the chill from my body.
And as the heavy door closed behind me, I heard Le Gros break the leaden silence with his characteristic good wit: ‘It’s at moments like these that I yearn for the tranquillity of battle.’
Chapter FourLOVE AND DUTY
Chepstow Castle, Wales
Spring 1167
The sharp white light of the rising sun skimmed through the patches of mist lingering in the hollows surrounding Chepstow Castle. It was cold for late spring, and the frost hadn’t yet left the land, delaying its wake from the winter slumber. But the sharpness was gone from the chill, with teasing hints of warmth quickly snatched away to remind us that the Goddess wasn’t quite ready to let her children of the summer tumble from the earth.
The castle was wakening. From the ramparts I could see the men beyond the sowing fields hunting the cover at the edge of the forest with the hounds, making the most of the dawn chill, which held a prey’s scent to the ground. The concentrated silence of their frenetic, haphazard search was shattered when a howl rose and the pack formed as one, then quickly flowed away, the men scrambling before disappearing into the forest.
The farrier’s voice boomed in the courtyard below as he harangued the boys who were bringing the last of the horses in from the paddocks just outside the walls. The breath of horse and man mixed in the heat of the forge as he worked, bare chested, the sweat of the younger nervous animals thick on his back as he murmured his calming charm to them, tending their hooves. He gently chided a younger animal to use its three legs to carry its weight rather than his back as he pared its fourth hoof secured between his knees.
‘I’m not your fourth leg, Ness,’ he said, shifting his weight. Ness was a common name for much-loved mares, named after the great Welsh princess Nesta, I suspected. The care for the horses had surprised me, but I was to learn of their importance to these people.
The Normans had created an empire from the saddle. When battles were still fought on foot, they had perfected warfare on horseback. The horses—destriers—were bred to carry the weight of a knight in full armour; they were trained to be brave and to kick and bite in the fight. The knights themselves trained incessantly, fighting from the saddle—at the gallop and in close quarters—riding formations, charges and feigned retreats. This was how William the Conqueror had vanquished this land one hundred years ago at a decisive battle at Hastings, so Myler told me. With a force of six thousand men, he had landed from Normandy and defeated a far superior force of forty thousand Anglo-Saxons to take the English crown. Like the Irish, the Anglo-Saxons used the horse mainly for transport. They had dismounted and arranged themselves in the formation used in battles of the day—and still used in Ireland today—the shield wall: men on foot in lines and rows, their shields locked together. The battles would be fought at close quarters, in the breath, smell, sweat and blood of one’s enemy, in long pushing, pulsing crushes.
But the Normans hadn’t obliged that day. They attacked the shield wall on horseback. Using the skills and tactics I witnessed them practicing every day, they had prevailed and taken the crown. Donal and I watched them train, knowing Irish armies would be no match in an open field. Although Donal had charge of our cavalry in Ireland, he knew he had much to learn from these men and was training daily with FitzStephen and Le Gros.
On this morning, in the sand-covered practice area to the side of the forge, Myler was showing Donal the techniques used with a favoured weapon of the Normans, the longsword. A weighty two-handed sword, half the length of a tall man, it was double edged and had a heavy pommel below the grip. Mostly decorative, the pommel could also be used to bludgeon an opponent with a heavy blow. I watched as he demonstrated an array of guard positions, inviting Donal to strike and each time absorbing the attack on the thick part of the blade near the grip. He then countered with a variety of cuts using a rotating motion of the sword to deliver blows of sufficient power that would easily cut through anything but the best plate armour. Taller than Donal, Myler moved with a practiced grace that made light of the heavy blade as it flashed and whirled around him.
He caught a glimpse of me watching from the ramparts, and I noticed his movements becoming more exaggerated and overly flamboyant—he was showing off now. Without acknowledging my presence, he removed his leather tunic and untied the bind on his long shoulder-length hair. With his shirt unlaced and his hair dancing, he flowed through the swordplay; it had the intended effect. He was certainly a handsome young man, and I suspected his beauty was only surpassed by his confidence. Donal was putting up a good fight, but he wasn’t used to the weight of the sword.
We had learned to fight up close with a stabbing spear or short sword. The battleaxe, which had been brought to Ireland by the Norsemen, was the preference of some. It was used where more brute force was required, but it was too heavy for me. We had also taken on the practice of naming our swords from the Norse. It was a long tradition among them to imbue the power of their gods into the steel of their blades with names that put fear into the hearts of their enemies, such as Skullsplitter, Warflame or Manslayer. And when my father had given me my own short sword, he had told me to name it carefully: ‘Name it from your dreams, for a sword can mark your destiny, girl. Take your time and don’t worry, the name will come to you, and you will know.’
The sword was magnificent. As long as my arm, it was deceptively strong for its lightness. Swirling flight-like patterns flowed along and through the blade, repeating and ever changing in a binding unity, the result of a long forging process in which the layers of iron were pressed and twisted before being hammered and polished into form. My father had spent a considerable sum with the best Norse sword forger in Dublin to produce it, and he had not been disappointed
Nearly a full season passed without the name coming to me, until one sweltering day, as I lay alone, drifting on my thoughts, in the long swirling yellow-green grass of the meadow, with the blade pressed to my chest. I was young and dreamt of the things that fill a young girl’s head as she wakens to life’s possibilities. I wanted to be beautiful, happy, admired, graceful, swift, loyal, joyous . . . and as my mind wandered, the swallows flashed above me, skimming the waves of rolling grass, screaming and careering with effortless ease, diving recklessly one moment, speeding skyward the next.
‘Fáinleog!’ That was it: Swallow. I would name my sword after the bird that sang of everything I wished for. I jumped up and ran to find my father.
‘I like it,’ he said. ‘They are deadly to their prey; they never see them coming.’ And I suppose there was that truth too.
I had learned the sword skills from Donal. He taught me to use the round wooden shield to deflect a blow before getting close to the body of an opponent, using sharp stabbing lunges while moving swiftly to unbalance my foe. And that day in Chepstow, after Donal had taken another wrap to the side of the head from the flat of Myler’s sword, I shouted down, ‘Get closer, Donal. Don’t let him room to swing at you!’ The practice arena was full of sparring couplets and groups under the instruction of the arming sergeants. It was difficult for Donal to make himself heard above the noisy clacking of wooden training swords and metallic rings as the iron swords met.
‘It’s not so easy,’ he shouted as they paused their bout and looked up at me. Myler bowed, as if just seeing me there on the ramparts. ‘He’s quite good,’ Donal said, ‘in case you haven’t noticed.’ He held up his half sword, which was a good deal shorter than Myler’s longsword. ‘And this isn’t long enough.’
‘Well, if you take a step forward it’ll be plenty long,’ I responded, and Myler grinned at Donal’s discomfort. Some of the men going through their paces sniggered. They enjoyed seeing the great Irish warrior belittled by his sister.
‘Well, if it’s that simple, why don’t you just get down here and show us all how it’s done properly, why don’t you?’ He was a bit testy now and fully expected me to back down. He was by far a better swordsman than I, and he knew Myler would easily best me.
‘I will so,’ I responded and strutted down to the cheers of the men, who, happy for the break, gathered to watch the entertainment. I had no idea of what to do as I marched into the arena, but I wasn’t going to be humiliated by not trying after the goading from Donal. However, Myler was overconfident, and I’d see how I could use that.
‘Thank you,’ I said, to the man who handed me his wooden practice sword. I purposefully handled it awkwardly and asked if they had one with a softer grip, as it was quite coarse on my skin. ‘I could get a splinter,’ I complained loudly to the grins and laughter of the men gathered to watch.
Donal started to look a bit worried; he knew I was well capable of handling a sword. ‘Now you behave yourself, Aoife,’ he said under his breath as he took my cloak. ‘He’s a good lad; there’s no badness in him, and he’s on our side . . . remember that!’
‘Well, you started it!’ I snapped at him and strode into the centre to face Myler, dragging the sword after me for effect.
‘There’s really no need, m’lady,’ Myler said quietly. His chest was exposed in the mid-morning heat. I could see the sweat glistening on his forehead and neck. His knee-length leather boots and tight breeches sat under the flowing white linen shirt. His dark eyes reflected a soft kindness which seemed to seep through into his gentle smile.
‘Yes, there is!’ I insisted. Turning to the crowd now gathered, I said, ‘When do we start, Sergeant? Is there a horn or something?’
Grinning and shaking his head, the sergeant gestured as if to suggest he would have nothing to do with it but we could assume the bout had begun.
‘Great, so we’ve started,’ I said, and Myler shrugged his shoulders and stared at me. ‘Would you mind just showing me a few of those stances you take at the start?’ I went on, lifting the light wooden sword.
‘Certainly, m’lady. I’d be delighted.’ He seemed to relax now, far more comfortable to be in teaching mode with me. ‘There are three common stances, which suit most purposes.’ Turning side-on, he lifted the long blade to rest over his right shoulder. ‘In this stance, I might appear somewhat relaxed, when in fact I can quickly deliver a variety of cuts . . . so if you might just stand back.’ When I obliged, he quickly delivered a dazzling array of sword strokes to the general murmur of approval of the onlookers.
‘The second is more aggressive, used more to intimidate.’ He stepped back, holding the blade directly above his head, the pommel facing me. ‘For that reason, it’s known as the offensive.’
I could sense a weary boredom creeping into the crowd as a few wandered away, disappointed in the show. Although I could see Donal starting to look a bit agitated, pacing around. I thought he might be trying to get Myler’s attention.
‘Fascinating,’ I encouraged Myler, sensing something was coming. ‘And the third?’
‘Well, that’s a more nuanced stance, used to throw your opponent off guard by seeming to drop your own. It’s called the ‘inviting stance.’ He spread his arms by his sides in an inviting manner, standing with feet planted squarely but apart. And there it was.
Already close, I quickly stepped my left foot forward and swung my good leg, using my weight to deliver a forceful kick to his exposed manhood. And it was one of my better ones. It had always amazed me how nature had chosen to leave such an important and delicate part of the male body hanging around in such a vulnerable place, particularly with little girls like me in the vicinity. Myler was probably thinking something along those lines as he collapsed to his knees and clutched the offended area. If anything, I thought, it proved that the Goddess was definitely in charge and had a sense of humour.
Anyway, the thump of the kick landing home seemed to reverberate around the courtyard. There was a shocked momentary silence followed by a collective groan from all the men. Donal had his head in his hands. But always being one to finish a job, I delivered a swift wrap with my practice sword to the back of Myler’s head. The crowd seemed to recover themselves and broke into uproarious laughter as Myler, still kneeling, clutched the back of his head. But then, seeing me still within kicking distance, he decided it better to protect his manhood and hastily dropped his hands again. The crowd was in convulsions, and I have to say it was funny to see and I couldn’t help but join in. And that was probably my mistake.
With a determined look, he sprung to his feet and rushed me. I managed to get a swinging glancing blow to the side of his head, but his weight and speed easily bowled me to the ground. Tumbling around he managed to use his weight to pin me down before holding my wrists above my head to stop my wild sword sweeps. I kicked at him furiously as the onlookers roared. He grappled, using his weight and hips to eventually still me, leaving me with my legs wrapped around his waist in a most unladylike manner. Well, unladylike for the centre of the practice arena with half the garrison looking on.
Stilled now, under his weight, his breathing heavy, matching mine, his lips brushed my nose as we settled. I could have kissed his eyes—and almost did. Instinctively, I wetted my dry lips with my tongue. His eyes left mine and moved to my lips, and his tongue moistened his own. Almost touching, I felt the draft of his warm breath.
