Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
Strongbow (3 page)
We burst out of the trees and a Welsh warrior stepped right in front of me.
At first his face was only a pale blur. Then I saw he was a boy not much older than myself. He didn’t even have a beard yet, though the Welsh wear beards because they’re savages.
He looked as frightened as I was. His eyes were huge and round and very dark blue. I remember those eyes still. I’ll never forget them.
He had a spear in his hand, and I had a sword. We stood facing each other while the men fought around us. I wonder if he wanted to run off into the trees, the way I did.
Then I heard my father scream my name. ‘Richard!’ he cried. ‘Kill him!’
I didn’t dare think any more. I held tight to the hilt of my sword
and ran it through the Welsh boy.
He didn’t try to spear me. He didn’t do anything but look at me with those great blue eyes. And then he fell.
He was just a lad like me.
My mouth tasted sour. I wanted to be sick. I ran away into the trees then, and no one tried to stop me.
My father found me later. ‘Today you’re a man,’ he said.
My sister Urla liked to pretend she knew more than anybody else. She was older than me, and she spied on people and told tales. I didn’t always believe the stories Urla told. I thought she made some of them up to make herself seem important.
One day she came to me with a gleam in her eyes like a stoat stealing eggs. She was still angry about the pony, I think. ‘I know something you don’t know,’ she chanted.
I tossed my head. ‘Why should I care?’ I turned my back on her.
‘Because it’s about Father!’ Urla hissed.
I paused. ‘What about Father?’
‘He did something very wicked once.’
‘You’re lying. I’ll tell my mother.’
‘I swear on the Holy Family that it’s the truth.’ Urla said solemnly. I had to listen, then. She would never have sworn such an oath for a lie.
‘It began a long time ago,’ she went on. ‘A very long time ago …’
‘Tell it!’ I said. I was losing patience with Urla. She liked to drag out a story too much and I was always in a hurry.
Urla sat down on a bench and folded her hands. I sat beside her. ‘When Father was sixteen years old,’ she said. ‘Turlough O’Connor was King of Connacht – and also claimed the high kingship of Ireland.
‘Father’s father was King of Leinster, but he died. His enemies
killed him and buried a dog in his grave with him, as an insult. Then Father was supposed to become King of Leinster, but Turlough O’Connor wanted one of his own sons to rule Leinster instead. There was a war about it.’
‘I should think so! And Father won. He’s King of Leinster now and has been for a long time.’
‘He is,’ Urla agreed, ‘but it took many years and many battles. One of the men who fought on the side of O’Connor, against Father, was Tiernan O’Rourke, the King of Brefni. O’Rourke killed most of the cattle in Leinster and burned the houses. He even burned Father’s home here at Ferns. O’Connor and O’Rourke wanted to make Father feel so small and helpless that he’d never even try to be king.’
No wonder Father looked so sad sometimes, and sat staring into space with his chin on his fist. ‘How did he ever win over them?’ I wanted to know.
Urla’s eyes danced. I never knew anyone who enjoyed telling awful things as much as Urla did. ‘About three years later, when O’Connor and O’Rourke were fighting in some other part of Ireland, Father took revenge.
‘Father’s aunt had been Abbess of Kildare, but O’Connor had made one of his own kinswomen abbess instead. So when his enemies were busy elsewhere, Father raised an army and broke into the abbey. He looted it, and he hurt the abbess very badly. That was his wicked deed.’
‘He’d never!’ I cried.
‘Ah but he did. I swear it. Then he made a woman of his own clan abbess. People were afraid of him after that. O’Connor and O’Rourke left him alone to be King of Leinster. But they never stopped trying to make trouble for him. Particularly O’Rourke, who hated him.
‘Then Father struck a terrible blow against O’Rourke. A few years before you were born, Aoife, Father stole O’Rourke’s wife.’
Now I was sure she was lying. ‘How could you say such things
about Father?’ I shouted at Urla. ‘You’re an awful person and I’m glad Father gave me the pony instead of you, because I know he can’t love you at all!’ I whirled away from her and ran before she could hit me.
I ran straight into the arms of my half-brother, Donal Mac Murrough Kavanaugh. ‘Here, what’s this about?’ he wanted to know.
Sobbing with anger, I told him. He listened to me with a grave expression on his face. ‘Urla told you the truth,’ he said at last. ‘Father did indeed steal O’Rourke’s wife. At least, he took her away from Brefni. I was here when he brought her to Ferns.’
‘You were?’
‘I was indeed. He rode through the gates with her slung across his horse, and his men-at-arms following them, laughing and winking at one another. As she came into the courtyard the woman pretended to scream, so people would believe she had been taken against her will. But she didn’t scream very loudly and no one believed her. She and Father were too friendly. He gave her one of the best chambers and kept her here for a year or two, in great comfort.’
‘What did his wives say about it?’ I wanted to know.
‘They didn’t like it very much, nor did they like the woman, who was called Dervorgilla. But Father never offered to marry her, so they put up with her. Most of the Leinster folk approved of what Father had done. O’Rourke had insulted him, so he had returned the insult in full measure. And he never even paid O’Rourke an honour price for his stolen wife, which Father should have done under the law. It was a mighty insult to the King of Brefni and we thought he deserved it.
‘Of course, it made O’Rourke hate Father more than ever. But Father was never afraid of him. When Turlough O’Connor died, an Ulster king called Mac Loughlin won the high kingship and Father made friends with him. So now he has as an ally the most powerful king in Ireland, and he’s safe from O’Rourke.’
‘What happened to Dervorgilla?’ I wanted to know, relieved to
hear that Father was safe.
Donal laughed. ‘Oh, after a time she and Father fell out and she went away. I think she went into a convent somewhere.’
Poor Dervorgilla, I thought. And then I forgot about her, which was a mistake.
Because Dervorgilla was not forgotten in Ireland.
By stealing her, Father had made O’Rourke hate him more than ever. Hate him enough to destroy him utterly, to become a deadly foe who would never rest until he saw my father in his grave. O’Rourke had become a man who would stop at nothing to hurt my father. And his family.
I did not know, then, that we were all living under the shadow of Dervorgilla.
That night in the hall I studied my father’s face closely. He had made people fear him by acting brutally. That was not the man I knew. When he pretended to be a bear and growl at me, that was only play. Could there be a real bear hidden in my father somewhere? I wondered.
I stood in the shadows beyond the central hearth and watched his face in the leaping firelight. He was a very large man, I realised, and very strong. His cheekbones were like boulders, his nose was hooked and his jaw was heavy. How strange it was to know that other people were afraid of him! And yet, watching him, I could imagine that he might frighten people who didn’t know him.
Then he saw me watching him, and winked at me.
After that, whenever Father rode away I knew he was going to do brave deeds and wonderful things in defense of Leinster. He had won the kingship against strong enemies, and was willing to fight anyone to keep it. He had even rebuilt Ferns after the wicked Tiernan O’Rourke destroyed it, and now our home was fine and grand, surely better than it had been before.
He could do anything, my father.
How I envied Donal Mac Murrough Kavanaugh, who was old
enough to fight at his side!
It didn’t seem too fair to me that girls weren’t allowed to do all the things boys could do.
‘Why aren’t girls allowed to go to war?’ I asked my mother.
She threw up her hands. ‘Who on earth puts such ideas into your head, Aoife?’
‘No one does. I just want to know why I can’t be a warrior like Father or Donal.’
My mother sighed. ‘Because women don’t fight.’
This was not exactly true. ‘But you fight with Urla’s mother,’ I reminded her.
She sighed again. ‘That’s different. We merely argue. I’m Dermot’s second wife and it would be wrong of me to fight with his senior wife. Especially since the senior wife has to give permission for a second wife to marry her husband. Mor gave that permission, so I try hard to be friends with her.’
‘I try to be friends with Urla,’ I said, ‘but sometimes we fight. So why can’t women fight in real battles?’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, Aoife. War is dreadful, it’s not a game played by children in a courtyard. Men suffer and die for nothing, because almost as soon as one battle is over another begins.
‘Only during the reign of Brian Boru as High King was there a time of peace in Ireland, but that ended with his death. Now the battles go on as before.’
‘If Father were High Hing, he would make people keep the peace,’ I said. ‘I know he would.’
Mother stared at me. ‘Your father? Bring peace? That’s your oddest idea yet.’
‘Why? Isn’t he a good king?’
‘Dermot is a good king – for Leinster,’ Mother had to agree. ‘Since he began his reign there have been rich harvests every season, and the cattle are fat in the fields. If anyone tries to take what belongs to us
your father drives them away. His strong sword arm, and his reputation, keep us safe here. Scholars even come long distances to study in the great library he built here in Ferns, and he endowed a new monastery here for the Augustinians.
‘Indeed, your father is a good king for Leinster. But for many reasons, Aoife, I can’t imagine him being High King of Ireland. He has too many enemies.
‘If anything ever happens to your father’s friend Mac Loughlin the High King, Dermot’s enemies will come down on him again like wolves onto a lamb.’
‘He can fight them off,’ I said confidently. ‘I know he can.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ said my mother. ‘But someday he must surely grow tired. His entire life has been a battle, and no man can go on forever.’
My father could, I thought.
I continued to play at war in the courtyard with the boys. I continued to push stones into the plaits of my hair and swing my head to keep my enemies at bay.
I was Dermot Mac Murrough’s daughter. Aoife Rua, they called me. Red Eva.
Because I’d killed a man in battle, my father saw me differently.
‘Your childhood is over,’ he told me. ‘You’re still thin and gawky, but from now on you’ll live a man’s life. You’ll be given better weapons, and armour for a grown man, and I expect you to do honour to both.’
‘Will the armour fit me?’ I wondered, looking at my bony body.
‘Not at first. You’ll grow into it.’
He didn’t care if the armour rubbed and chafed, and I knew it would do no good to complain. I would just have to grow.
Getting used to wearing armour took a long time. It was terribly heavy, and stiff. You had to learn a whole new way of moving. Each morning when I dressed, with the help of a squire, I put on a woollen tunic padded with old rags. Over this I wore a shirt of chain mail, tiny links of iron joined together. It looked like knitted fabric from a distance, but it wasn’t. It rubbed my skin even through the padded tunic. A coif, or hood, of chain mail went over my head to protect my ears and the back of my neck. When the sun shone on this coif the metal grew hot and blistered my cheeks.
The coat of mail reached almost to my knees, with an opening at the front and another at the back so I could mount a horse. Armour made me so heavy my squire had to push me up into the saddle, and
the horse laid his ears back at the noise the metal made. As I had killed a man I was given a new helmet as a reward, one fitted with a face guard. This was even hotter than the helmet I had before. It didn’t make me feel more safe, only less comfortable.
Some Norman knights had solid plates of armour strapped to their chests and backs to protect them, but my father didn’t approve of this fashion.
‘It makes a man as helpless as a shell makes a turtle,’ he said. He thought the ability to move was more important than being shielded from blows.
My squire, a youth called Roland, admired my armour. But he didn’t have to wear it, he only had to keep it oiled and ready for me. Sometimes I saw him looking at me as if he thought he could do better justice to armour than I could.
I didn’t trust him. I didn’t trust anyone, as my father had taught me.
‘Always guard your back,’ Father said. ‘Everyone is after you. No man is safe. Be watchful.’
He wasn’t watchful enough, however.
I was at the castle when a messenger on a sweating horse galloped into the courtyard. The man’s eyes were wild. ‘Gilbert de Clare is dead!’ he cried as if he couldn’t believe it. ‘Strongbow is dead!’
One of the servants dropped a bucketful of water. I heard it clattering on the cobblestones. I felt as if the cold water had been thrown on me.
We learned in bits and pieces of how he died, as his men came straggling back to the castle. He had been in a skirmish, a small battle on the border, and some whispered he had been killed by one of his own men.
‘He was hated,’ I was told by Father’s own squire. ‘The great lords are often hated by their people. You’ll learn that for yourself.’
‘I will?’
‘You’re the lord here now. It will be up to you to hold the de Clare
castle and defend your share of the Welsh Marches.’
No sooner had he said this than people started bowing to me, knuckling their forelocks as I passed by. At first it made me want to laugh. I felt like I was pretending to be someone I was not. But I couldn’t laugh. I was supposed to be mourning my father.
Did I mourn him? I don’t remember. I must have done. I should have done. He was my father, the great de Clare.
But all too soon I learned just what sort of man he had been. I was shocked to discover that he died owing a great amount of money to a great number of people. Men seemed to come from the farthest corners of the kingdom with their hands out. ‘De Clare promised me this,’ they’d say. ‘De Clare owed me that. You must pay.’
I couldn’t even ride out with a falcon on my wrist to go hunting without having a creditor approach me. They had no shame, they were not noble. They ran after me, yelling. They threw themselves in front of my horse.
Father would have trampled such men beneath the hooves of his horse, but I couldn’t. I stopped and talked to them. I made promises I didn’t know how to keep, but I was always courteous.
They thought, because I had fine features like a woman’s, that I was soft. I wasn’t soft. I was simply my mother’s son, and she had taught me good manners before she died.
That’s all I have left of her now. That, and my sister, Basilia.
With my parents dead, I became the guardian of my infant sister. I wanted to give her a good life. She would be a Norman noblewoman, she should have fine gowns to wear and jewels, and there should be lute-players in her chamber, making music for her all the day.
I longed for music, myself. For the life of the wealthy. For a garden with flowers. But all that took money. Property. Power.
The struggle for power was growing in England, between old King Stephen and young Henry Plantagenet. Because Stephen had been my father’s friend, I took his side.
I sold my sword in Stephen’s service and helped to fight his battles wherever I was needed. Thus I took up the career which had been my father’s, the only career possible for a Norman knight. I became a professional warrior.
It was a hard life. Battle after battle, and long treks in the saddle. It made me a hard man. There was little time in my life then for music and flowers.
Whenever I could, I returned to my castle to see Basilia. I needed to know that she was safe and happy. As soon as I got home I’d rush up to the small high room at the top of the tower, the safest room in the castle. It was my sister’s nursery. Her nurse would tiptoe out and leave us together.
Even when she was a baby, Basilia always had a smile for me. She wrapped her tiny fingers around one of my big ones the way she wrapped herself around my heart. No matter how bad my day had been, when I saw Basilia I felt better. All the hardness inside me melted away.
I took her in my arms and pressed my cheek against her silky hair. ‘My sister,’ I whispered to her. The pale strands of her hair felt like silk threads to my rough hands. ‘My sister. Blood of my blood. We have other kinfolk, Basilia, but they live elsewhere and I rarely see them. Only you and I are our mother’s children. You would have loved her. You are so much like her.’
It was true. Basilia was small and frail and gentle like our mother. When I was with her, I could be gentle too. ‘I don’t have to pretend to be fierce and warlike when I’m with you,’ I told her. ‘That would frighten you. But I have to be very different outside this chamber. I must defend our name and property, so the world has to believe I’m a hard man like my father.’
Once, and only once, I made the mistake of forgetting to take off my armour before I went to see Basilia. She shrieked aloud at the sight of me in my helmet. After that I was always very careful to remove my battle gear first, so I could go to her with my face washed and no
blood on my hands.
As time passed, there was often blood on my hands. Beyond Basilia’s chamber the world was full of war.
People began calling me by my father’s nickname: Strongbow.
Basilia was learning to talk. She called me ‘Wichad’.
‘I have another name now,’ I told her. ‘I am Father’s heir, Earl of Pembroke and also Earl of Strigul. I have power and position, Basilia. I’m somebody important, can you imagine? Men follow my banner now, and I have a reputation as a warrior. I don’t enjoy fighting very much, but no one knows that. Except you. They call me Strongbow now,’ I told her. ‘That’s my name now.’
Basilia laughed and clapped her little hands.
‘Stwongbow!’ she said.
It sounded better when she said it. I found I liked the name. I was proud to be Basilia’s ‘Stwongbow’.
As my sister was growing up, Stephen, King of England, was growing old and weak. He wanted his son Eustace to be king after him. I supported Eustace because I didn’t want Henry Plantagenet, who was usually away in France, to rule England. But then Eustace died. His death broke his father’s heart. Within a year King Stephen was dead, and Henry Plantagenet returned in triumph to become King Henry II of England.
Henry didn’t forget the names of those who had not wanted him to be king. The name of the Earl of Pembroke was on that list. My name.
Kings have ways of getting even.
I was a nobleman with titles and land and a castle, but in truth I was very poor. My father’s debts took years to pay off. Even when that was done, I could not seem to make money. The land should have supported us well, I had tenants who were good farmers.
But as I told Basilia, ‘When I demand that my tenants pay me my share of their crops, they say they can’t. They tell me they have sick wives or sick children or their crop failed.’
‘Is it true?’ Basilia asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I said miserably. ‘I can’t make myself call a man a liar to his face. And I can’t throw him off the land if his family is sick. Father would have, but I can’t. So there’s no money for new clothes for you this year, little sister.’
‘I don’t mind,’ Basilia said loyally.
But I knew she did. Girls like pretty things. And I needed things myself, fresh horses, new armour, food and pay for the men who followed my banner.
‘Basilia,’ I said to my sister one day, ‘I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to have to marry a woman whose family will give her a good dowry. With dowry money I can pay my bills.’
‘Who will you marry?’
‘I’ve heard of a woman called Isabella who belongs to a family that is always eager to add more noble titles to its line. I think her father would be pleased to wed her to the Earl of Pembroke. I’ll ask him for her.’
I never doubted I would get her. Men married off their daughters for many reasons, and the daughters could not object. Women belonged to their men. That was our law.
Basilia belonged to me. Someday, when she was older, I could marry her to a wealthy man and improve my lot that way.
Isabella’s father agreed to the marriage and gave her a large dowry, which made things easier for me, for a while.
Isabella was not pretty, nor was she sweet. She was only rich.
‘I’m afraid I don’t like your wife very much,’ Basilia once admitted to me. ‘She doesn’t like me.’
‘Nonsense. Everyone likes a pretty little girl.’
‘Not Isabella. She thinks you spend too much time with me,’ my sister said. She was very wise for her years.
So I tried to spend more time with my wife, but in truth, I had very little time to spare. I was involved in various struggles, some against
the wild Welsh and some against my own countrymen, just as my father had been.
And I was on the wrong side.
I shall never forget the look in my wife’s eyes on the day the messenger came to us from King Henry’s court, to tell me I was no longer Earl of Pembroke. That title, and the lands that went with it, had been stripped from me by the king.
Isabella looked at me as if I was something scraped off her shoe.
‘But I still have a title,’ I tried to assure her. ‘I am also Earl of Strigul. Henry hasn’t taken that from me.’
‘A minor title with very little land,’ my wife said with a sniff. ‘You’ve been a fool, Richard. Why didn’t you support Henry? Look at Robert FitzHarding. He shouted his loyalty to Henry from the treetops, and now he’s being showered with gifts and lands. You’re reduced to nothing.’
‘I’m not reduced to nothing,’ I argued.
But she was so angry she wouldn’t talk to me.
Keeping my face set so no one would know my true feelings, I went to Basilia’s chamber. My sister was eight or nine years old at the time, old enough to know something was wrong. She put her hand in mine. ‘What is it?’ she asked gently.
To my horror, I felt tears in my eyes.
Basilia sat beside me on the window seat and held my hand. I could think of nothing to say. I didn’t try to explain politics to her. I wanted to shield my sister from what went on beyond the castle walls.
But she would not be put off. ‘Please tell me what’s wrong,’ she pleaded.
‘I’ve lost the title,’ I said at last.
She stared at me. ‘You’re not Strongbow any more?’
She wasn’t thinking of the earldom. That meant nothing to her. She was thinking of the title I had worked so hard to earn for myself.
Instead of crying, I found myself laughing. How good it felt! I
hardly ever laughed in those days. I put my arms around Basilia and hugged her tightly. ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. The title I lost is just one that kings can give.
‘But I shall always be Strongbow.’
