Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
Strongbow (5 page)
With Urla married and gone, and her father-in-law settled at Ferns under Dermot’s protection, I thought life would go on much as before. I even began to dream of the day I would be getting married myself, for I was growing older and men’s eyes were beginning to follow me.
‘You’re so tall, Aoife!’ my little sister Dervla said admiringly. ‘I wish I looked like you. I wish I had hair like yours, like a fire blazing.’
Aoife Rua. Red Aoife. I was tall, and good to look at, and I knew it. I would get a better husband than Urla had. I was looking forward to my future.
Then things started to go wrong. Terribly wrong.
First came the news that the High King, Mac Loughlin, was dead. Not only dead, but murdered by his enemies, who claimed he was not fit for the high kingship.
He was soon replaced by a prince of Connacht called Rory O’Connor – whose right-hand man was Tiernan O’Rourke!
I was in the great hall at Ferns the day the news came. When I heard the messenger’s words, I felt a cold chill run across my shoulders as if a winter wind was blowing through an open doorway.
But it was summer.
Father listened to everything the messenger had to say, and asked a number of questions. Then he just sat on his high seat facing the
doorway, with his chin on his fist. He stared into space and spoke to no one.
Everyone seemed afraid to approach him, but I went to him. ‘What will happen now?’ I asked him.
He turned his head very slowly until his eyes met mine. They were as dark as two cinders.
‘It’s in the hands of God,’ he said.
His voice sounded hollow, as if he spoke from the bottom of a well.
‘But God must love you,’ I assured him. ‘You’ve done so many good works. You founded monasteries, you took care of your people, and…’
Father raised his hand to stop my rushing words. ‘No man can be certain of God’s favour,’ he said, ‘who has done such things as I’ve done.’
It was the only time he ever spoke to me of the wicked deeds of his past.
The summer sun was very hot. The days grew steamy and hazy. A dull mist was caught in the tops of the grasses, and people yawned over their work. No one could recall such a hot summer in Leinster before.
My legs had grown so long that my feet dragged the ground when I sat on the golden Norse pony. So Father gave me a new horse, a shining bay with a white star on its forehead. I was riding my new horse through the woods north of Ferns one afternoon, trying to stay cool in the dappled shade, when a stray breeze brought me the smell of smoke.
I stopped my horse. I sniffed the air. Perhaps I was dreaming?
Then I smelled it again.
I turned my horse around and trotted back through the woods the way I had come. As I drew closer to Ferns I looked up and saw a black stain of smoke in the sky above the trees.
I kicked my horse in the ribs and raced for home.
When I burst out of the woods, I could see the flames.
A stray spark had lodged in the thatched roof of one of the many wattle-and-daub houses that crowded around the walls of our stronghold. Ferns was not only the seat of the King of Leinster, but a large village with a market square and many homes and workshops and storehouses. Except for our palace, the monastery and the church, all the buildings were of timber. The summer heat had made them very dry.
The fire raced through them, gobbling.
Everywhere I looked, thatch was ablaze. Sparks shot into the sky. A hot wind blew towards me, carrying them, and some touched my face like fingers of fire.
I galloped through the open gates of our stronghold and slid from my horse. People were running in every direction, trying to gather their families or drag their possessions from burning buildings or throw buckets of water, uselessly, on the fire.
The fire was too big and too angry. It only hissed at the touch of water, and grew stronger.
‘Father!’ I screamed. ‘Father!’
I couldn’t see him. I began running like the others, darting this way and that, sobbing with fear, calling his name. The fire roared as if it was alive. My insides cramped with terror.
‘
Father
!’
Then I saw him coming towards me. His face was black with soot, his clothes were half burned off him. When he saw me, he ran forward and grabbed me in his arms.
‘Thank God!’ he cried. ‘Now get out of here, Aoife. Run. Out the gates. Wait for me outside, and stay away from the fire, do you hear me?’
‘But –’
For the only time in my life, my father hit me. He hit me on the side of the head with the flat of his hand, making my ears ring. ‘Run!’ he ordered.
I ran.
From a safe distance, I watched the people fight the fire. The battle was lost before it began. By the end of the day, Ferns had been destroyed a second time in Father’s lifetime. Little was left but glowing coals and ashes, and the scorched stone walls of our palace and the monastery and church.
The people of Ferns had lost everything but their lives. By some miracle – perhaps because the fire took place in broad daylight – no one had been trapped and burned to death. But clothes and beds and tables were gone, and cattle and fowl had been roasted in their pens before anyone could get them out.
I shall never forget the way it smelled. The next morning I walked with Father through the ruins. He kept kicking bits of charred wood out of our way.
‘We’ll build again,’ he said. ‘Ferns will rise on these ruins, finer than before. You’ll see, Aoife. You’ll see.’
But his eyes were very sad. I wondered if he thought God was punishing him at last, for his wickedness.
Perhaps. But if that was so, there was much worse punishment yet to come.
I had made a friend of Robert FitzHarding, it seemed. Perhaps he felt sorry for me, an impoverished widower. From time to time he put a bit of business my way. He had me provide an armed guard for travelling merchants in the west, and helped me get a good price for horses and supplies for myself. I was grateful to him.
One day he sent a messenger to my castle, asking me to call upon him in Bristol. It sounded important. I hastily gathered a band of men-at-arms and had my squire polish my dented armour. Then we set out for the port city.
As we rode through its narrow streets towards the quays, I caught glimpses of a strange ship docked below. By the shape of it I knew it for a Norse longship, yet an Irish banner was flying from its masthead.
When I met Robert FitzHarding, he explained.
‘The ship you saw belongs to the King of Leinster, in Ireland, who has just been here seeking my aid,’ FitzHarding said.
‘Why would an Irish king come to you? Is he in trouble?’
‘Grave trouble. Dermot Mac Murrough has some powerful enemies, and they’ve done to him the worst thing anyone can do to a king.’
I was interested in hearing of any man who had worse trouble than I did. ‘Tell me,’ I said.
‘Some years ago, Dermot stole the wife of another Irish king, a
man called O’Rourke. There is a great hatred between Mac Murrough and O’Rourke, but for a time Mac Murrough was safe from O’Rourke because the High King of Ireland himself was a friend of Mac Murrough’s. But then the old High King died and a new one took his place. He is Rory O’Connor of Connacht, and he’s a great friend of O’Rourke’s.
‘O’Rourke applied to the new High King to punish Dermot Mac Murrough. Together they attacked the King of Leinster. He fought bravely against them, but his own people began to desert him. They said God was angry with him. At last he had only his own clansmen fighting on his side, and he was overcome by O’Connor and O’Rourke.’
‘It’s a bad thing to make an enemy of a king,’ I said from my own experience.
FitzHarding nodded. ‘The High King of Ireland stripped the kingship of the province of Leinster from Dermot Mac Murrough. He was left with his life, but little else.
‘That’s why he has come across the sea to England. He hopes to hire warriors here who will go to Ireland and fight for him, help him regain his kingship. Would you be interested, de Clare?’
I considered. Would I fight in Ireland, where I had never been, for a man I didn’t know?
It couldn’t be much worse than fighting the Welsh here. But I wasn’t a young man any more, and I had responsibilities. My face must have told FitzHarding I was going to refuse.
FitzHarding held up his hand. ‘Before you answer, let me tell you one thing more,’ he said. ‘Dermot Mac Murrough is about to leave Bristol and go in search of our king. He intends to ask Henry personally for an army.
‘If King Henry gives the deposed King of Leinster such an army, would you be willing to be part of it?’
I had to stop and think. If our king decided to help this Dermot Mac
Murrough, and I took part in that army, I would be doing Henry a service. I could get back in his good graces that way.
But I must be careful. I must know just which way the wind was blowing.
‘Why should King Henry be willing to help Dermot Mac Murrough?’ I wanted to know.
‘Because when Mac Murrough still had power in Leinster, he once sent some Norse ships to attack the Welsh on their coast while Henry was fighting them from the front. It was the sort of favour one king may do another, and it has put our king in his debt.’
I understood about being in debt to someone. ‘And what about you, Robert?’ I asked my friend. ‘Why do you want to help Dermot Mac Murrough?’
FitzHarding smiled. ‘I thought you knew. I’m married to a kinswoman of his, and it was I who arranged for Dermot to send those ships to Henry’s aid in the first place.’
Aha. I wasn’t good at politics, but I saw that Robert FitzHarding was very good indeed.
Speaking slowly, weighing each word before I spoke, I said, ‘If King Henry agrees to give Dermot Mac Murrough an army, I am willing to be part of that army. Provided, of course, that our king gives me his permission to do so. His formal permission.’
FitzHarding and I locked eyes. He understood what I meant. If I had the king’s formal official permission, it would look as if I was in Henry’s favour again. It would improve my own position very much. People would begin to think I might regain the earldom of Pembroke.
And so I might, if I was successful in this venture.
But one thing still bothered me. ‘If Dermot Mac Murrough has had everything taken from him, how can he pay to hire a new army?’
‘He has gold left,’ FitzHarding assured me. ‘He’s no fool, he held onto his personal possessions and fortune. Besides, he’s willing to give some of his kingdom, and other considerations, to any man who
will help him regain his title.’
Some of his kingdom?
Land?
I drew in my breath sharply. Land was property. Land was power.
‘I’m very interested indeed,’ I told my friend. ‘Keep me informed.’
‘I shall,’ he promised.
Robert FitzHarding was always as good as his word – which may have been why he had powerful friends. I had not been back at my castle for long before the first messenger arrived.
‘Dermot Mac Murrough has followed King Henry to France,’ I was told.
My spirits sank. If Henry had gone to France, that meant he would be very involved in other matters. He had taken a wife, a French woman called Eleanor, and hoped someday to rule both kingdoms. If Dermot appeared at his elbow, chattering about Ireland, Henry might be annoyed. Ireland would not seem very important to him compared to his own dreams. He might well refuse to have anything to do with Dermot Mac Murrough. He could forget the debt he owed – or more likely, he would simply refuse to honour it. Mac Murrough would have to go back to Ireland with his tail between his legs, a king who had lost his kingdom. And I would remain in England, an earl who had lost his earldom.
It was a bleak prospect. But I really did not expect anything better. My life had never gone well, it seemed to me.
‘Why do you spend so much time at the gates of the castle?’ Basilia asked me.
‘I’m waiting for a messenger,’ I told her.
I had a long wait before the next messenger arrived from FitzHarding. When I saw his horse coming up the road, I almost ran to meet it before I recalled who I was. I must be calm and stern and dignified. So I stood where I was and waited for him to come up to me, and for my herald to announce him.
Then I took the messenger into the hall and waited still longer
while the servants gave him food and drink.
When at last he had wiped the grease from his mouth onto his sleeve, I leaned towards him.
‘You have word of Dermot Mac Murrough?’
‘I have indeed,’ the man assured me. ‘He found King Henry in France after a long search, and, after a longer wait, he was finally allowed to see him. The Irishman gave his submission to our king, and pledged his loyalty. In return, he asked for an army.’
‘Did Henry give it to him?’ I asked eagerly.