Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
Strongbow (4 page)
Our father didn’t give his children out to fosterage. He could have done so, most Irish kings did. Having their children raised in other powerful families was supposed to form bonds of friendship. Father himself had been fostered by an O’Kelly chieftain in Ossory and he remained close to his foster parents all his life. But he didn’t do the same with his own children. I think he loved us too much to be parted from us, even if it was the custom. The sons and daughters of his wives all grew up at Ferns, and so we saw everything that happened.
Father made sure that each of us was fitted for the life to come. Urla, as the oldest daughter, would be married first, and so she had the finest wardrobe. I would be married too, one day. Donal was trained to be a fine warrior, like Father. Enna, because he was sickly, didn’t have to learn to fight, but was encouraged to be a great scholar. The youngest son, Conor, was given his own herd of cattle so he would have a fine rank as cattle-lord.
I remember Urla’s wedding day. How she fussed and preened! She was like a chicken who has got its feathers wet and must put every one into order again.
‘Everything has to be perfect,’ she kept saying. ‘I am, after all, marrying Donal O’Brien, son of Turlough, King of Thomond, whose grandfather’s grandfather was Brian Boru!’
Brian Boru, greatest High King of Ireland. We had all heard the name, and the tales told of the man. For once I was almost jealous of Urla, marrying into such a family.
Then I thought of Father, who would make just as good a High King if he had the chance.
Perhaps he will now, I said to myself. Now that we have a link with the powerful O’Briens, the rulers of Munster, Father is stronger than ever. Maybe that’s why he makes so many trips to Munster, to Thomond.
Laurence O’Toole himself married Urlacam and Donal. The great hall at Ferns blazed with hundreds of beeswax candles. Nobles came from everywhere to attend the wedding. The feasting and music would go on for days, and our servants were kept busy preparing all sorts of wonderful food.
I stood outside the kitchens and sniffed the air. Roast boar, roast venison, crisp brown fat ducks … I wondered when we children would be fed. Surely the noble guests would eat first, and get all the best parts. My stomach growled in protest.
Then my brother Conor tugged at my arm. Turning around, I saw he was holding a bulging sack. ‘What’s that, Conor?’
He grinned. ‘A little something for us. I took it when no one was looking.’
He opened the neck of the sack and I peered inside. It was crammed full of meat and cheese and dark brown bread, and fruits like jewels, and even a pot of honey-custard made with cream and eggs.
I clapped my hands over my mouth to keep from shrieking with delight.
The two of us slipped off into the woods to enjoy our private feast. I knew of an old oak tree with a hollow at the base, where we could hide what we weren’t able to eat. We sat crosslegged on the ground beneath the oak and stuffed ourselves until the grease ran down our chins.
‘We must save something for Enna,’ I reminded Conor. Poor Enna was sick again, lying in his chamber away from all the celebrations. After a little discussion we decided to save him half a roast duck, some of the fruit, and part of the pot of custard.
While we were gobbling our food we heard voices calling us. ‘Conor? Aoife! Where are you?’
We didn’t answer. We just ate faster, in case they were looking for us to punish us and take the food back.
But no one came to find us. We stayed in our hiding place until we couldn’t swallow another bite. Then, slowly, we got up and made our way back toward Father’s palace.
On the way, Conor groaned and put a hand to his belly. ‘I don’t feel very well,’ he said.
I knew what he meant. I didn’t feel very well, either.
Donal Mac Murrough Kavanaugh saw us coming and ran forward to meet us. ‘Where have you been? Father wanted you. He had all of his children except you two sitting at the wedding table with Urla and her new husband!’
Conor and I looked at one another. We could have been sitting with the bride and groom, sharing all the choicest foods!
Our mother came up behind Donal and took one look at us. Our faces, and the stains on our clothes, told the story.
‘You greedy children, you should be punished,’ she said.
But just then Conor bent over and was sick. Very sick. A moment later, the same thing happened to me.
Donal laughed. He had a laugh very like Father’s. ‘Oh, I don’t think you need to punish them, Sive,’ he said. ‘They’ll suffer enough. They’ve done it to themselves.’
And so we had. We didn’t get to any part of the wedding celebration, because we spent the next two days lying on our beds, sicker than Enna. We could hear music playing and people laughing and talking, but we didn’t feel like joining them. And for several days,
neither of us could stand the smell of roast meat.
Urla and her new husband left for Thomond, the most powerful kingdom in Munster. They wouldn’t live in Brian Boru’s great palace of Kincora, because that had been destroyed by Turlough O’Connor when he was High King. The O’Connors and the O’Briens continued to war on one another. But Urla would live in a fine new O’Brien stronghold and add children to the O’Brien clan, and Father was very pleased.
‘It’s a strong new link for us,’ he told me, smiling.
Two other important events took place soon after. Donal Mac Murrough Kavanaugh married also, and Laurence O’Toole, Mor’s brother, became Archbishop of Dublin.
Father celebrated by founding the monastery of All Hallows on land of his at Baldoyle, and giving other lands for the monastery of St Benedict.
Surely, I thought to myself, he has now made up for whatever sin he committed at Kildare? Now God must forgive him.
But I was wrong. Our days of peace and celebrating were almost over.
In Thomond, Murtough O’Brien, Urla’s new brother-in-law, revolted against his own father and seized the kingship. The deposed king sought shelter in Leinster, the homeland of his son Donal’s new wife. So it was that old Turlough O’Brien came to Ferns. Father took him in and treated him as an honoured guest.
He even gave O’Brien the chamber that once, according to rumour, had belonged to Dervorgilla.
My wife gave me a son, whom I named Gilbert, for my father. Then we had a daughter called Isabella, for her mother. Children should have brought light and happiness to my castle. But they didn’t.
‘What good is having sons who won’t inherit great titles?’ my wife complained when Gilbert was born. After Isabella came, she moaned, ‘We’ll never be able to give her a good dowry, you’re so poor. We’ll be disgraced.’
From the day I ceased to be Earl of Pembroke, my wife had been unhappy. Nothing pleased her. If it rained she wanted sunshine. If the sun shone she longed for rain. She did not teach my children to love me. ‘Your father is a failure,’ she told them. Often.
She had to be my wife, but I could not make her love me. Only Basilia loved me. If it hadn’t been for my sister, I would never have gone home. I would have lived the life of a wandering knight, travelling with only his squire and his horse for company, fighting in the service of anyone who would pay him.
Basilia was the only person I could talk to. ‘Mine is not a happy family,’ I admitted to her. ‘My castle is full of long faces.’
‘If my face is long,’ she replied, ‘it’s because I worry about you. You fight too much, you risk your life all the time.’
‘Fighting is my life, Basilia. How else can I hope to restore the
fortune of the de Clares?’
‘Marry me to a wealthy husband,’ my sister suggested. ‘Then I’ll ask him to give you money and help you get back in favour with the king.’
I had to smile. She was so innocent. ‘Men marry to strengthen their position, Basilia. Marrying my sister would not strengthen any man’s position. Besides, you’re not old enough to marry.’
I couldn’t bear to think of losing her. She was the only light in my life.
Sometimes, riding away from the castle, I would turn and look back. The walls were grey and grim, the battlements looked like dragons’ teeth against the sky. Rooks wheeled in the air like birds of ill omen. Enemies were everywhere. Friends were thin on the ground.
A cold lump of loneliness and sadness lay in my belly. There must be something better than this somewhere, I thought to myself. Somewhere. There must be.
As Earl of Strigul I still had a few men-at-arms, and with this small force I hired myself out to whoever would pay me. I helped my neighbours fight back the Welsh. My armour grew more dented; my body was covered with scars. My hair turned grey. Lines cobwebbed my face. I could feel myself growing old, and I knew I had never been young.
A warrior’s life is hard and contains no music, no flowers. But it was all I knew. I was a middle-aged man with no happiness to look forward to. Only endless battles. I’m sorry to say that in my sadness, I wasted what little money I made.
One dark autumn day I returned to my castle to find the servants very upset. ‘Your lady wife is dying,’ they told me.
I ran to her chamber. There she lay on the bed, her face very pale. I knelt beside her.
‘I didn’t know you were ill,’ I told her, ‘or I would have come home sooner.’
She looked at me with eyes that did not seem to see me. ‘I didn’t send word to you,’ she said in a whisper, ‘because what could you do?’
What could I do, indeed? I was a big, strong man, but I was useless as far as my wife was concerned.
I sat beside her bed with bowed head, and held her hand as she died. The cold lump in my belly grew heavier and heavier. Basilia was crying. My children were crying. But I must never cry. I was a knight, and a Norman. I must be strong and stern.
I left my wife’s deathbed and went to stare out the narrow arrowslit at the tiny bit of land it revealed beyond the walls of the grey, grim castle.
Somewhere, there must be happy people, not like us, I thought.
With my wife dead, the care of my children fell upon my sister and the servants. I saw Basilia becoming thin and tired. It was wrong for her to devote her whole life to us. She was young, she should have a husband one day soon, and children of her own. But who would marry the sister of a knight who was out of favour with the king? I must find someone for her!
I had a scribe write a letter to Henry for me, pledging my loyalty to him and asking that he restore the earldom of Pembroke to me. He didn’t answer.
The captain of my guard, a man called Raymond le Gros, saw Basilia in the courtyard one day and asked me about her. ‘Has she a suitor? Has she a dowry? She’s very pretty.’
Raymond was plump and strong, with curling hair and a big nose. A pleasant companion, a good leader of men, an outstanding fighter. But he had no title. I wanted a titled husband for my sister, a man who could protect her.
I didn’t want to make Raymond angry, however, so I said, ‘We can discuss this later. Now is not a good time to be bargaining for Basilia. She’s still a little too young.’
Raymond raised one eyebrow and his eyes went cold. Suddenly he
did not look so pleasant. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘You want someone better than me for her.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You thought it,’ he replied. ‘But I have prospects. I mean to make my fortune with my sword as other men do. I’ll ask you for your sister again, you can count on it. I never let anything I want get away from me.’
His words sounded like a threat. I was not at all certain I liked the idea of marrying Basilia to Raymond. But what other prospects did she have?
It was just something more for me to worry about.
I approached King Henry’s longtime friend, Robert FitzHarding, to ask him to speak to the king on my behalf. As one of the rewards for his loyalty, Henry had made FitzHarding the portreeve of the town of Bristol, which was a very important office. If anyone could persuade Henry to restore my title and estates to me, I thought FitzHarding was that man.
I told him my story as simply as I could. ‘So you see I’ve lost everything,’ I concluded, ‘though I really had nothing against Henry Plantagenet. I was merely supporting the son of a friend of my father’s. You have profited through your friendship with Henry. Surely I should not be punished for my own loyalties. Isn’t loyalty to our friends a virtue?’
FitzHarding said nothing.
I grew desperate.
‘Please,’ I said. ‘I have children. I must have something to leave them!’
The Portreeve of Bristol sat across the table from me, studying my face. I could tell that he was measuring me in his mind. Was I a man worthy of being restored to the king’s favour? That was the question he was asking himself.
I met his eyes squarely, letting him see Strongbow, who was a
strong man and respected warrior, a man worth befriending.
At last FitzHarding nodded, and favoured me with a smile like sunlight on snow. ‘I’ll do what I can for you. But tell me this. You’re famed for your skill with bow and arrow, I believe?’
‘I am,’ I said proudly.
His eyebrows drew together. ‘Are you aware that the Church banned the use of archery in wars against Christians thirty years ago?’
‘We heard something to that effect, but no one paid much attention to it in the Welsh Marches. Or anywhere else, as far as I know. The bow is too good a weapon to set aside.’
FitzHarding’s smile had vanished. ‘King Henry’s advisor, Thomas à Becket, has been made Archbishop of Canterbury and has spoken out strongly against ignoring canon law. You would be well advised to set aside your bow.’
To set aside my bow would mean to cease being Strongbow. How could I? Was that the price Henry would ask of me, in return for restoring me to his favour?
Sadly, I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry,’ I told FitzHarding, ‘but I’m a warrior who was trained in a hard school, and one I can’t forget. I cannot change.’ Bowing my head to him in respect, and with regret, I rose and left the room.
‘You’re a man of integrity, at least,’ I heard him say as I went out the door.
Had I made a mistake? I never knew when I was making mistakes, it was only afterwards that I would discover how wrong I had been. And I always seemed to be doing the wrong thing. Though he had been dead for years, I could still imagine my father’s eyes on me, and feel his disappointment in me.
But he had been Strongbow. And so was I. I had that much at least, after all I had lost, and I would not give it up.