Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
Strongbow (11 page)
Long afterwards, people claimed I was radiantly beautiful on the day I married Richard de Clare. I don’t remember what I looked like. I remember that the sun shone, and there were crowds of people. Even the defeated citizens of Waterford lined the lanes, hoping for a glimpse of the two of us. It would have been like a fair, had there not been the smell of smoke and death still hanging over the town.
There were no stones in my plaits on my wedding day. Indeed, my hair wasn’t braided at all, but had been washed in water scented with French oil, and combed until it fell down my back in deep waves. My gown was of pale linen, set in a hundred pleats, and my shoes were of kidskin, soft and fine and sewn with gilded thread.
The bishop of Waterford, a stout man with a tonsure, married us. I don’t remember the words he said. My mind kept playing tricks on me, thinking of other things. I recalled the day of Urla’s wedding, and Conor and me eating stolen food and making ourselves sick. Thinking about it, I chuckled.
Richard heard me. He was standing beside me in his armour, polished for the occasion, and he was looking very serious.
‘Why are you laughing?’ he asked me in a whisper.
My Father, and the bishop, and so many noble warriors were all
around us. I couldn’t tell Richard about the stolen food, not then. So I merely said, ‘Because I’m happy.’ And to my surprise, it was true.
He gave me another smile then. ‘And so am I,’ he said wonderingly. ‘I’ll have a wife who laughs!’
We knelt before the bishop and Richard promised on his sword and his name and his honour to defend the Faith and to observe the obligations of marriage. I had no sword to swear on, but the bishop held the Psalter for me and I swore on God’s words to be a good wife to my husband.
Then we prayed. Irish and Norman and Norseman together, Christians together, we knelt in God’s house and prayed.
When we went out under the sky again, I was a married woman.
No sooner did I leave the cathedral than an attendant came running to me to bind up my hair. Married women shouldn’t wear their hair loose.
But I hated having my hair bound. I pushed her away. ‘I’m the wife of Strongbow now,’ I said, ‘and if I don’t want my hair fastened, then I’ll wear it down my back for as long as I like.’
The woman stared at me with wide eyes. But my new husband smiled. ‘You have spirit,’ he said.
I think he wasn’t used to smiling. But every time he did, it came easier, so I tried to think of things that I could do to make him smile. When he wasn’t scowling and looking serious he seemed almost young.
We held our wedding feast in what had been the hall of the executed Norse chieftain. This time I didn’t have to steal the food. All the best morsels were put on my trencher of bread. While people all around us were eating and drinking, I told Richard about Urla’s wedding and what had happened to Conor and me.
He threw back his head and burst into a great laugh that rang through the room. Hervey de Montmorency put down the chunk of roast meat he was eating and said in surprise, ‘I never heard you laugh
like that in your life, Richard!’
The man I had married replied, ‘I never had such a woman beside me before, Uncle.’
I met Father’s eyes across the table. He nodded his approval. ‘Well done,’ his lips told me silently.
And so my life changed. One day I was a child, the next, a married woman. In the polished metal mirror Father had given me as part of my dowry, I looked the same. I was the same person inside, too. But people looked at me differently.
I was Strongbow’s wife.
When I went out into the streets of Waterford, people got out of my way. Wherever I went, a silence fell. Eyes followed me.
Already, the name of Strongbow was a weapon in Ireland. Stories of the fall of Waterford had been carried throughout the land, as fast as fire through dry grass.
There was one last meeting of the leaders of the invasion force, and Father, in Waterford. Women would not attend such a meeting, of course. But I did. When I told Richard that I meant to be present, he merely nodded.
‘That’s what Irish women do?’ he asked.
‘It’s what I do,’ I assured him.
I sat on the bench beside him, although not too close, for as usual when he appeared in public he was wearing his coat of mail. He had his iron helmet with him, too, but he never put that on unless he was going into battle. When I asked him why he said, ‘It frightens people.’
So his helmet sat between us on the bench, like an eyeless iron skull. It didn’t frighten me.
I listened with interest to the plans being made to attack Dublin.
‘The High King claims the loyalty of Dublin and will try to protect it,’ Father warned us, ‘but I know a way through the mountains where no one keeps watch. We can march past Glendalough and be under the walls of Dublin before Rory O’Connor can do anything to stop us.’
After Richard and I retired for the night, he said, ‘Your father is a clever man, Aoife. I hope I’ll be as good a King of Leinster one day.’
‘You? King of Leinster? What makes you think you could ever be King of Leinster?’ I asked in astonishment.
It was his turn to be astonished. ‘Don’t you know? Under feudal law, by marrying you I become your father’s heir.’
I was staring at him. ‘Don’t you know?’ I echoed. ‘Under Irish law – and you’re in Ireland now – no man can acquire a kingdom through a woman, be it mother or wife.’
I thought his eyes would leap from his head. ‘What are you saying? I don’t believe you!’
‘You can believe me,’ I said smugly. ‘Father gave me a fine education and I know the law.’
‘He can’t promise me his kingship?’
‘Of course not. Irish kings are elected. The king who replaces him when he dies will be chosen from one of the royal line, either his most promising son or a kinsman of equal ability. Donal Mac Murrough Kavanaugh would probably be the first choice, because he’s very popular with the Leinstermen. If not Donal, perhaps my uncle Murrough, who was named as King of Leinster in my father’s place when –’
‘Dermot lied to me!’ cried Richard in a fury.
Now I saw his eyes flash with lightning. Now I saw the Strongbow who could freeze his enemies’ blood with a glance!
The discovery that Dermot Mac Murrough had tricked me was a shock. He was a cheerfully cunning man, that I knew, but I hadn’t expected he would deceive an ally he needed as he needed me.
‘I suppose he had no choice,’ Aoife told me. ‘He would have offered you anything, I heard him say so.’
I didn’t like to see my new wife taking her father’s part. ‘He promised me land he had lost, a daughter he didn’t own, and a kingdom that wasn’t his to give!’ I was deeply shocked.
Aoife nodded. ‘But you’ll win that land back for him, the daughter has given herself to you, and every king must fight for and take his own kingdom, Richard. That’s always the way. Surely your Henry has done the same?’
‘How can one young head be so old in wisdom?’
‘Father taught me that knowledge is power,’ Aoife replied.
Ah, I thought. I should have learned that lesson myself, before I began this reckless adventure. I should have made a point of studying the Irish law. But I couldn’t read. I would have had to rely on others to teach me, and where would I have found such a teacher?
And how would I have paid him?
Everything came back to my poverty. Aoife was right. I was in Ireland now, and a king must fight for and take his own kingdom. If I
wanted to end my poverty I would have to do it myself, in spite of the treachery of other men.
I couldn’t even punish Dermot for his lie without hurting my wife, for I saw that she loved him. And I needed him to help me. He knew this land, I did not.
I didn’t yet have a stronghold of my own to be the home of my new wife, and I didn’t like to send her back to Dermot’s stronghold. Nor did I dare leave her in Waterford.
‘What am I going to do with you while we attack Dublin?’ I wondered aloud.
Aoife grinned. ‘I can go with you.’
‘Women don’t go to war,’ I told her.
And then – as I was later to discover – she lied to me just as cheerfully as her father had done.
‘They do in Ireland,’ she said.
She was young and strong and determined, and there was really no reason to deny her. So I agreed, and named a company of guards to stay with her and protect her at all times. A leather tent was set aside for her use and we prepared to march on Dublin.
True to his word, for once, Dermot knew of an unguarded pass through the mountains south of that town. Word of our undertaking had already reached the High King, Rory O’Connor. O’Connor gathered an army of warriors from Brefni, Meath, and Connacht, and hurried toward Dublin. But we were there ahead of him.
Dermot sent word to the Archbishop of Dublin, Laurence O’Toole, who was his wife’s brother, and urged him to persuade the Dubliners to surrender.
‘When that happens, my uncle Laurence can give our marriage his blessing!’ Aoife said happily.
She was still young enough to see things in the best possible light. But I knew the capture of Dublin would be no simple matter. Still, if it could be done without too much bloodshed I would be thankful. The
people of Waterford already hated us. I didn’t want to give the people of Dublin reason to hate us also.
Speed was important. We must have Dublin’s surrender before the High King’s forces arrived in large enough numbers to overcome us.
Dermot Mac Murrough, as always, was cunning. ‘I’ve asked the Archbishop to tell the Dubliners that while we have arrived, the High King has not. Let the townspeople think the High King is not coming to their rescue. They may well be willing to give up the town to us then.’
Some of my men were unhappy with this plan. ‘If they just hand over the town to us, we can hardly loot it,’ they complained to me.
‘The whole purpose of this exercise is not to loot Dublin!’ I exploded. My men were never easy to control, and now I felt them threatening to get away from me altogether. Seeing the wealth of Ireland, they had become greedy. Some of them enjoyed burning and smashing and destroying for its own sake. I worried about the damage they could do in this land, and the additional enemies they could make for me.
I spoke of this to Aoife. She was young, but she seemed to be interested in tactics, unlike any other woman I had ever known. She understood exactly what Dermot was trying to do and defended his idea. ‘Listen to my father, Richard,’ she said. ‘He knows these people. Remember, you don’t.’
I repeated her words to my men. ‘We must trust Dermot’s judgement in this,’ I told them. I set my face in the mask of Strongbow to show them I wouldn’t be moved, and at last they agreed.
We set up camp outside the walls. For men looking down upon us from the timbered walls of Dublin, we must have been an impressive sight. I had left a small company of warriors to hold Waterford, but the rest of my men were with us, including Raymond le Gros and his company. Dermot’s followers were with us also. We had come through the mountains and past the sacred vale called Glendalough
without losing a man, and our weapons were cleaned and shining in the autumn sun.
Soon enough, the gates of Dublin opened and the Archbishop came out to arrange a truce.
Aoife was delighted to see her uncle. She stood on the edge of the crowd of men while we talked about terms, and I saw Archbishop O’Toole nod to her when she caught his eye.
An agreement was made between Dermot and the Archbishop. Dublin was now Dermot’s. There would be no looting, but in return for this the people of Dublin were to give Dermot Mac Murrough thirty hostages. If at any time in the future Dublin was no longer loyal to Dermot, those thirty hostages would die.
So the taking of Dublin had been a simple matter after all. Things were, I was learning, done differently in Ireland.
Dermot told me, ‘We must make certain that the High King learns of this at once. When he knows Dublin is mine, and the terms, I don’t think he will attack us. He won’t want to lose a lot of valuable warriors for a lost cause.’
The message was sent to Rory O’Connor. As Dermot had expected, the High King and his armies turned around and went home.
In private, I said to my wife, ‘Your father’s cleverness wasn’t the only reason why the High King withdrew, I think. Rory O’Connor is no stupid man, I’d say. He’s not eager to face the warriors I brought with me. We have armour and weapons and ways of fighting he can’t match, and he must know this.’
Aoife tossed her head. ‘Our Irish warriors are as good as any of yours,’ she said.
‘Perhaps. But we have knights on horseback, and skilled archers, and our men fight in one unit, following one order. The Irish fight man by man, each according to his own desire. They cannot overcome one hundred men all following the same order.’
‘Of course they can,’ said Aoife.
But I could see that she was thinking about what I said. The next morning she was up with the larks, watching us drill our men in ways the Irish had never done.
I saw her nodding to herself. Aoife had a good mind. Perhaps the Irish were not as foolish as I thought, educating women!
The capture of Dublin was like drinking too much wine. Dermot Mac Murrough was drunk with success. He said to me, ‘With your army at my back I could become High King of Ireland myself, and end the rule of the Connacht man!’
Yet even as we were celebrating our victory, things began to go wrong. I had told Aoife we fought to one order, but that was not strictly true. There are always men who disobey orders.
Two of my men – one of them my trusted Raymond le Gros! – would not accept the command to do no looting in Dublin. Secretly, they gathered two companies of followers and led them to opposite sides of the town without my knowledge. Then they broke down the walls and poured in upon the people, looting and slaughtering as they went.
I was furious! I ordered the leaders brought before me. But the damage was done. Now the Dubliners hated the Normans. They might remain loyal to Dermot as long as he held their hostages, but they couldn’t be trusted not to put a knife in the back of any Norman they saw. Myself included.
‘From now on, no Norman will walk through Dublin alone,’ I ordered. ‘Always go in pairs.’
To Raymond I said, ‘I’ll deal with you later.’ At that moment I wanted to cut off his head, but he was my sister’s husband. And I had promised Basilia I would take care of him.
I must content myself with stripping him of his loot.
In truth, this was a harsh penalty. Dublin was a very wealthy trading centre and Raymond had seized enough gold and furs and leathers to sink a small ship. He complained bitterly when I took it
away from him. But we both knew he could soon get more. Ireland was rich beyond our wildest dreams.
Anyone of princely blood wore gold ornaments, and most of the Irish claimed princely blood. Even those who couldn’t, wore silver and copper. The lowest servant had an iron ring or two, or the odd bit of amber on a thong, and good amber too, fine trading goods.
No one went hungry. The forests teemed with game. There was timber as far as the eye could see. Grassy meadowlands held more cattle than there were stars in the sky.
Ireland was a treasure house.
Compared to this island, Henry’s England was as poor as I was myself. Many of its forests had long since been destroyed. The timber had gone to build houses and ships, or had been burned for charcoal. There was never enough food for the poor, and most people were poor. English weather was not as mild as Irish weather, and in a bad winter countless peasants died of cold and hunger.
Life in the land I had left was hard and short, brutal and cold.
But in Ireland, gold actually sparkled in the streams. I had seen it for myself, winking at me through the clear water.
As far as I was concerned, Ireland
was
gold. Ireland was the new fortune of the de Clares.