Chapter Five

Raymond could see a silver strip of river and stowed ships’ rigging over the timber wall of Cluainmín. The last time he had visited the town had been by the river in Strongbow’s ship, Waverider, and he thought back over that stay. Having no idea what reception he would receive in the small market town had made him nervous. The foliage-blanketed banks of the river had not helped his feeling of apprehension; the idea that his crew were being watched had put every man on their guard. Thankfully, they had received a friendly welcome from the King of Cluainmín, Trygve, and had left the Ostman longfort laden with bartered goods and animals, and an accord to keep the peace between their peoples.

The approach to the town from the landward side was far more pleasant for Raymond. From horseback he could see over the heads of the long column of Jarl Gufraid’s refugees and across the fields for miles in every direction and the sun was shining above him. His scouts had already returned with King Trygve’s permission to continue across his territory.

‘You are sure that Trygve will not harm my folk?’ Gufraid asked again. It had been three days since Raymond had first crossed paths with the jarl in the lands to the north. It had been three days of trekking across country, three days of worry that the Uí Drona would swoop down upon them and finish the job they had started at the fort. With every step bringing them closer to Cluainmín, Raymond could feel his body relax, but he could tell that his new ally was just as anxious as when they had escaped. Gufraid was still in enemy terrain.

‘Trygve says that he will protect your people,’ replied Raymond. ‘And I believe him to be an honourable man.’

Gufraid, like all the Ostmen, was walking and Raymond swung his leg over the side of the saddle and dropped down beside him. Dreigiau didn’t break stride as Raymond looped his reins over his head to use as a lead-rope.

‘I have heard stories about Trygve in Veðrarfjord. They say he was a thief and a murderer.’

Raymond shrugged. ‘I don’t know about that. Nor do I know what Trygve will demand in return for helping you.’ Raymond lifted his chin in the direction of the town walls. ‘But we will find out soon. We are almost there.’

Gufraid nodded his head and sighed. ‘What other choice do we have?’

‘None,’ Raymond said.

The jarl shook his head sadly before shouting something in his own language and plunging into the shuffling column of people that made their way down the small path. In all there were a hundred and fifty Ostmen in their party. Of those, Gufraid reckoned that forty were fighting men while the rest were women, old folk and children. What few possessions Gufraid’s exiles had rescued from their homes were either strapped to their backs or huddled in their arms. Everything else had been left on the road.

It was only after they had got the Ostmen across the river and moving southwards that Raymond had discovered that their new allies had almost no provisions. Hundreds of Uí Drona warriors had followed them to the riverbank, but the threat of the Welsh archers had prevented their crossing. Instead the Gaels had been content to shadow their movement, staring across at them through the trees from the far bank of the Bearú. Raymond had known that he could not outrun the Gaels, but had hoped that difficulty in crossing the river – as well as the impending fall of night – would disperse the enemy. It had not and Raymond had been forced to find a refuge for the night. The abbot of St Fiachra’s Monastery had not been pleased to see Raymond’s return. He had been even less happy to see his church occupied by over a hundred dirty and tired refugees, but his repertoire of curses was only unleashed when Raymond had ordered four of his remaining cows butchered to feed Gufraid’s folk that night. The Uí Drona had tested their lines throughout the night, but had not pressed home any attack. By daybreak, when Raymond’s column had continued south, there was no sign of the enemy. Despite being lumbered with both the old and the young, they had made good progress and had caught up with Caradog and his cattle train the next evening. The Welshmen had made camp on the eastern bank of the river in the burnt out remains of another monastery and Raymond had ordered his group across to join them. The monastery was the same one that Sir Hervey had visited just a few days before and it still showed signs of that attack. There were new graves on the hillside and blackened stakes where once buildings had stood. What few monks remained had fled into the countryside when they had spotted Caradog’s men on the northern horizon, although the townsfolk had remained and had even produced some small foodstuffs to keep on the right side of the Welshmen.

That morning the company had again split. Caradog had taken the cattle and most of the archers southwards along the bank of the river in the direction of Dun Domhnall while Raymond had selected another path which veered east. Eventually, he guessed, it would lead to Cluainmín.

Now, with the town gates in sight, the Norman captain could feel the sun’s heat on his back. He adjudged it to be late in the afternoon. With any luck Caradog and his consignment of cattle would be nearing the security of Dun Domhnall. He allowed himself a moment to savour the satisfaction and relief of a completed task. His bridgehead was ready for the arrival of Strongbow, and better, he had almost tripled the amount of cattle that he had gathered previously. He had also successfully held his ground when faced by an overwhelming enemy army, and had delivered a serious wound that had led to the removal of Veðrarfjord’s king from power. And with Gufraid by his side he had secured the very best intelligence about how to break into the Ostman city. Raymond imagined the greeting that would accompany Strongbow’s arrival at Dun Domhnall. He pictured the earl planting a hug across his shoulders and then raising his arm in salute to show that Raymond de Carew held his greatest favour. Perhaps a knighthood would follow? Sir Raymond sounded very nice. In his mind’s eye Raymond could see Basilia, Strongbow’s daughter, amongst the crowd, watching his glory unfold. She would see his victory and she would remember their last conversation, that he would make her father a king in Ireland. She would remember that he would do it in order to earn her love.

Dreigiau seemed to sense something and bumped his cheek against Raymond’s shoulder.

‘Good lad,’ Raymond told the courser, rubbing his chin.

On either side of the path were fields. The grass had already been cut earlier in the day and slaves were busy raking the dried-out hay into wind-rows and piles to keep it dry through the night. Up on the hills he could see large haystacks already taking form while in a couple of fields he could see that wealthier farmers had constructed roofed buildings to keep the precious fodder dry. Many of the slaves stopped their work to stare at the trundling column that made its way towards the town. Raymond visualised himself as lord of a manor with fields and workers such as these to do his bidding. He pictured himself barking for them to return to their work. He was so wrapped up in his little daydream that he didn’t realise that Gufraid had rejoined him.

‘Cluainmín is no Veðrarfjord. That is for sure,’ Gufraid grumbled, flapping a hand in the direction of the town. ‘That wall isn’t tall enough by half. It’s more like a farmstead than a town.’

‘I would imagine that Ragnall said something similar of Dun Domhnall before he lost his army and his kingship upon our walls.’ Raymond replied. Not that the jarl was wrong – the timber wall was low, lacking an earthen glacis, and it only defended two sides of the town. The other sides were protected solely by two arms of the river. He had briefly walked around Cluainmín and knew that there were twenty or thirty thatched households inside with gardens, cattle yards and workshops. It was, even in Welsh terms, a small settlement. But Raymond knew Cluainmín’s great secret, one that Trygve would kill to protect: the huge silver mine hidden on the far bank of the river.

Gufraid removed his helmet and began wiping beads of sweat from the bald dome of his head. ‘I don’t think Ragnall will make the mistake of underestimating you again.’

‘And nor will you?’ Raymond chanced.

The jarl merely shrugged before refocusing his gaze on the path ahead. ‘What’s happening? The column is slowing down.’

Raymond nodded his head towards the gates of the town. ‘Trygve has sent out his warriors to meet us. We should go and talk to them.’ He handed Dreigiau’s reins to a nearby boy and walked briskly towards the front of the line of people. Gufraid followed, speaking briefly to several of his warriors as he walked up the length of the column. Without the need of an order, his people had slowed to a halt. As they got closer, Raymond could see a small bunch of nobleman and priests standing around the vast frame of King Trygve of Cluainmín. Men had called Raymond fat since he was a boy, and not without cause. But where Raymond kept his propensity towards plumpness under control by rigorous exercise, Trygve had constructed a litter so that even the bother of walking had been taken away. As a result Trygve was immense, by far the heaviest man that Raymond had ever seen. He lounged on his litter in the sunshine, his long hair and beard heavy with silver trinkets. His bare arms and torso were dark with tattoos, now warped by his ever-more engorged body. Trygve raised his arms in welcome, beaming a great smile in Raymond’s direction and saying something in his own tongue.

‘He wants to know if you have brought any more Frankish wine for him,’ Gufraid translated. ‘He says that he had all six casks drunk inside a week.’

Raymond smiled. ‘Tell him that my lord, Strongbow of Striguil, will soon make land and will have wine for all those who are his friends. Tell him that he will have so much that he will be able to bathe in wine if he should wish to.’ A loud bark of laughter accompanied Gufraid’s interpretation.

‘Trygve says that it tastes so good that he would still drink it even if it was used for bath water by each of his warriors.’

Laughing, Raymond held his arm out to shake Trygve’s arm. ‘I must introduce Jarl Gufraid,’ he said, pointing at his companion. ‘It is his folk that require your protection and permission to live on your land.’ He paused to allow Gufraid to translate his words and to make his own introductions. It took several minutes, but Raymond did not interrupt or understand their conversation.

‘Trygve agrees to let us remain here,’ Gufraid finally reported. ‘However, he wishes to know what we shall eat.’

‘You shall have ten cattle to get your people through the first few days. Then you’ll have to fish in the river and barter with the townsfolk.’

Trygve seemed pleased with the response and waved a pudgy hand towards the south. Raymond turned in that direction, following the course of the river. There was a large marsh stretching for at least half a mile, but it was in that way that Trygve seemed to be pointing. Whatever he had said had caused a disagreement between the two Ostmen.

‘Támh leacht?’ Gufraid asked angrily.

‘Támh leacht,’ Trygve repeated with just as much force, indicating to the south again.

Raymond did not understand, but stepped between the two men with his palms raised. ‘What is wrong?’ he asked Gufraid.

‘He will not allow my people inside the town walls. He says that we can make do with the land over there.’ He waved a hand towards the marsh.

‘He thinks you can live in a swamp?’

‘Beyond that,’ Gufraid complained. ‘There is a bit of land where they bury those who die of plague.’

Raymond’s eyebrows curled into a frown and he turned towards Trygve. ‘Taw-Law?’ he attempted and raised his shoulders. Trygve spoke briefly before folding his arms across his wide chest.

‘Trygve says that there is a river for water and a natural weir for fishing, but I thought the point of being here was to be safe within the walls of the town,’ said Gufraid.

‘With any luck you will not be guests here at Cluainmín for very long,’ Raymond replied. ‘And the more distance between you and the town will mean the less chance of disputes breaking out. You can harvest the reeds from the swamp to use for shelters and hunt in the forest for food -’

Gufraid held up his hand and spoke briefly to Trygve. ‘They haven’t had plague in the town for six summers.’ He closed his eyes and nodded his head. ‘We will make do with Trygve’s generosity.’

Raymond smiled and patted Gufraid on his shoulder. ‘Your people are hungry and homeless, but they are alive. It will get better from now on.’

The jarl opened his eyes and Raymond was surprised to see a hint of tears there. Gufraid steadied himself and then spoke briefly to Trygve. The King of Cluainmín laughed heartily and then whistled for his slaves. The six men ran forward and then, with huge effort, hoisted the king and his litter in the air. Trygve shouted again as they turned and lumbered towards the gates of the town.

‘Trygve says that my folk are now under his protection,’ Gufraid translated, ‘just as his people are safeguarded by Raymond Wine-Giver. He says that we have a month.’ Both men turned their eyes towards the wooden gates as they closed behind Trygve’s party. Ten warriors then appeared on the walls of the town, staring down at Raymond and Gufraid. They were now armed with spears and shields.

‘Yes, Trygve has been most welcoming,’ Raymond said. ‘He didn’t even ask for anything in return for his help.’

Gufraid eyed the warriors above. ‘We should get out of here.’

Raymond nodded his head as both men returned to the column. Gufraid quickly shouted his orders to the hundred and fifty souls. Within a few minutes they were moving south along a path wide enough for only two people abreast. The countryside was soft and green, but before long they had left even the most outlying fields and farmsteads behind and the land became more wooded. Raymond and Dreigiau walked alongside the five Welsh archers at the front of the column. None spoke much French, but Raymond got the feeling that they were happy to be herding the Ostmen rather than cattle as were their kinfolk. Nevertheless, dusk was falling and Raymond was keen to have Gufraid’s people settled, rather than spread out across the landscape. They finally completed their half-mile walk and arrived at their camp as the night began to fall. Raymond was standing on the hillside under a large oak, looking down at the marsh and the river beyond it when Gufraid found him.

‘At least it is warm,’ the Ostman said. ‘We can sleep out in the open tonight, and then start on building shelters, gathering water and fishing tomorrow.’

Raymond nodded his head. ‘I’ll leave at first light. I’ll send back men with the cattle as I promised as well as any materials that I can spare; saws, buckets and barrels, that sort of thing.’

‘Thank you.’

‘A small piece of advice – keep away from the eastern bank of the river. Don’t ask why, but I assure you that Trygve will have posted warriors over there. If you want to keep your people safe, tell them to keep to this side.’

Gufraid cocked an eyebrow but asked no more. There was still an air of tension about the Ostman jarl, Raymond thought. He wanted to put it down to the turbulence of the last few days, but something told him that there was more to it. Gufraid seemed on the verge of speaking, to ask something of him, but the words did not seem to come. He shifted his weight from foot to foot as Raymond let the silence between them stretch.

‘When your Lord Strongbow comes, what will his plans be for Veðrarfjord?’ he finally asked.

‘He will capture the city and rule it.’ Raymond shrugged his shoulders. ‘Diarmait Mac Murchada promised him land and a wife and the throne of Laighin after him. Veðrarfjord will probably become his capital.’

Gufraid sucked on his teeth. ‘And the folk who live there now?’

‘They will be allowed to go about their lives as they have before,’ he turned to look at the jarl, ‘if they bow to Strongbow’s laws and live in peace with him. What plans do you think Sigtrygg has for the city, for her people?’

The jarl shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t think that he is the sort of man to make plans. Sigtrygg wants the world to see his greatness, nothing more.’

Raymond chuckled. ‘I never thought that I would see similarities between Strongbow and Sigtrygg.’

The Ostman inhaled deeply through his nose. ‘And you are sure that if your Earl Strongbow is successful he will allow Ragnall and me, my people, to settle in Veðrarfjord? Can you promise that we will be granted rights as freemen under your lord?’

‘He will need people he can trust. He will need people to trade, so yes, I can promise that.’

Gufraid turned away and looked back towards the disorderly camp that was beginning to take shape on the hillside. Small fires dotted the field, ten or so strips of smoke drifting north on the small wind, as his folk prepared whatever food they had saved.

His long grey beard rubbed against his chest as he shook his head. ‘Then the best I can do is to ensure that as few of the people left in Veðrarfjord perish. The best way to do that is to make sure that Sigtrygg loses this war as quickly as possible.’

‘What do you have in mind?’

Gufraid lifted his helmet and placed it back on his bald head. ‘That we cross into Veðrarfjord territory tomorrow at nightfall and bring the war to Sigtrygg’s allies.’

The first sign that all was not well was the fiery corona that glowered around the edge of the southern hills. The Veðrarfjord sentries were either asleep or had thought it to be the effect of the rising sun, rather than a hall burning. It was only an hour later, when the dawn had truly broken, and the thick black cloud of smoke was clear on the red southern sky, that they had finally found the nerve to rouse Sigtrygg from his sleep.

His new wife, Máel Sechlainn Ua Fhaolain’s sister, Sadhbh, had squealed in fright as Amlaith had bundled his way into Sigtrygg’s quarters in Ragnall’s Hall and announced that there was trouble to the south.

‘Shut up,’ Sigtrygg had growled at his wife as he had leapt from under the wool blankets and swiped a cloak from a nearby table. He threw it over his shoulder and demanded more news from River-Wolf’s ship-master.

‘A few miles away, a fire,’ he had shrugged.

‘Is it the foreigners? Is it Strongbow?’

Amlaith shook his head. ‘I don’t know. We need to find out. You could send the Déisi?’

Sigtrygg splashed water on his face and then shook his head violently, as much to get his mind free of the dullness of sleep as to remove the excess moisture. He found it difficult to believe that an army under Strongbow could have landed anywhere in his territory without him hearing about it or a warning being sent. He had loyal men watching every landing site on the coast and his brother-in-law’s people, the Déisi, guarded all the western approaches to the city.

‘I will go myself,’ Sigtrygg told Amlaith. ‘Tell Máel Sechlainn that he will send fifty of his men with me.’

‘It could be a ruse to get you out in the open.’

Sigtrygg ran his hand over his braided beard. ‘It almost certainly is a ruse. But I can’t allow it to happen without a response. Get the Déisi ready to move out.’

Amlaith stole a last glance at Sigtrygg’s pretty young wife and then backed out of the room.

‘It’s the Grey Foreigners, isn’t it?’ Sadhbh stated. ‘The Liathgall have come for us.’

Sigtrygg pulled on his trews and a shirt before running a comb through his ginger hair. ‘More likely it is a rebel sect of your brother’s folk. They smell an easy target like a dog smells a badger den. We’ll make them pay,’ he told her as he tipped his mail shirt over his head. It tumbled over his shoulders as he bounced up and down. He secured the armour with a stout leather belt. ‘Make sure you have some food ready for my return,’ Sigtrygg said as he made for the door.

His hall was cold, the embers of the fire still smoking in the hearth. It was also empty other than two young boys who sat at a table eating porridge. Sigtrygg paused only to secure his weapons to his belt and to find his shield and an axe behind the dais.

‘Where is Orm?’ Sigtrygg demanded of the boys. ‘He is supposed to be watching you two.’ Both bowed their heads towards their bowls. Ragnall Óg and Óttar were his half-brothers and, like their father, were prisoners. Neither was old enough to hold a spear or axe and so Sigtrygg had appointed a guardian for the boys to allow them some freedom. Their father was afforded no such allowance. Ragnall was confined to the upper rooms of the Rögnvald’s Tower, secure from those in the city who might try to free him and unite the factions behind the former king in order to depose Sigtrygg.

‘I asked you a question,’ Sigtrygg snarled as he dropped his axe onto the table and grabbed a hold of Óttar’s shirt. The boy squealed and began to cry, spitting a mouthful of porridge all over the table in front of him. Sigtrygg released his grip and stepped back from the mess and the tears. Behind him the door opened and Jarl Orm stepped into the hall.

‘You were told not to leave these prisoners alone,’ Sigtrygg accused.

If Orm was shocked by the outburst he didn’t show it. He was a young man whose father and two elder brothers had died in battle with the Normans at Dun Domhnall. Although the youngest of all the Veðrarfjord jarls, his family had been amongst the richest, holding a large estate at Áth Skipir on the south coast as well as an impressive fishing fleet. He was wealthy and he was confident.

‘Your man Amlaith said there is trouble to the south,’ Jarl Orm replied. ‘I knew that Ragnall Óg and Óttar would be good boys and would not run off if I went to see for myself. I don’t think anyone would dare steal them from your hall, Sigtrygg.’ Orm’s eyes flicked to Sigtrygg’s cache of weapons at his side. ‘Boys, come here,’ he said quietly but firmly.

Sigtrygg’s hand returned to Óttar’s shoulder, holding the boy in his seat. ‘I gave these boys into your keeping to show you how much I value an alliance between our families. Was I wrong to trust you with them?’ Sigtrygg stared at Orm. There was far more to their arrangement and both men knew it. Sigtrygg did not trust Orm or any of his people, but the price of their co-operation had been this deal and there were benefits for Sigtrygg too. Keeping the two boys hostage meant that Orm was himself forced to live within the city walls, and had to split his warriors between his own manors far to the south and those who remained at his side in Veðrarfjord. Possession of Ragnall’s sons had weakened Orm.

‘Your brothers are perfectly safe with me,’ the younger man confirmed. ‘What I need to find out now is if my estates are safe.’ Jarl Orm’s eyes dropped to meet those of Sigtrygg’s brothers. ‘Boys, come here,’ he repeated. Neither moved as Sigtrygg’s large hand remained planted on the younger boy’s shoulder. The elder, Ragnall Óg, began to weep. Orm’s gaze returned to meet Sigtrygg’s small, angry eyes. ‘If I cannot protect my own folk then I am no jarl, and nor should I be if the old and the young,’ he looked deliberately at the two boys, ‘are threatened by an enemy and I am not there to protect them.’

Sigtrygg seemed to consider the jarl’s words and suddenly released his hold on Óttar. Both boys fled to Orm’s side.

‘You are right, of course,’ Sigtrygg said. ‘We will go south together and see if we cannot intercept these raiders.’

Orm nodded. ‘And the boys?’

‘They must stay in the city where they are safest. I will have Sadhbh watch them.’

Jarl Orm nodded his head. ‘I already have my warriors ready to march south.’

‘Good,’ Sigtrygg stated as he hefted his axe. Both Ragnall Óg and Óttar cowered behind Orm as he stomped past them and towards the door. He paused before stepping out of the hall and into the street. ‘Your father would be very disappointed in how you have turned out,’ he said, turning his eyes on Orm.

It was still early but Veðrarfjord was already awake. He could hear the sound of animals and humans and the river as he crossed the king’s compound towards the rest of the city. Above the thatched roofs he could see St Olav’s Church and it was in that direction that he walked. Without need of command, a troop of his warriors descended upon him, protecting him from all sides. As they passed the church they could hear the monks’ morning prayers being sung inside. They passed shops and homes where men called out for news about the plume of smoke pumping skyward from beyond the southern horizon. Sigtrygg ignored them all.

It only took a few minutes walking to take Sigtrygg to the southern point of Veðrarfjord. The climb up the earthen glacis was punishing in his armour, but once he had started Sigtrygg refused to pause to catch his breath. He hauled his body up a ladder and onto the palisade on the wall. A final effort took him onto the barbican above the western gates. Swiping sweat from his brow, Sigtrygg stared over the countryside. A small plateau of land arose a few hundred paces from the walls. The area was crowded with poorer houses, those belonging to people who could not afford the grandeur of living within the city, but wished for its protection and the economic opportunities that the longfort offered. Sigtrygg stared down at the hovels. Some were little more than huts, but others were far more significant and were built right up against the foot of the main defences of Veðrarfjord.

‘River rats,’ Sigtrygg growled as he turned his eyes to the blue morning sky. A great funnel of black smoke was still visible. Sigtrygg judged the source to be no more than a few miles away. He could feel his anger rising that anyone would have the audacity to come so close to Veðrarfjord and do such damage. Sigtrygg promised that there would be repercussions for that insult to his kingship and power.

A shout from below let Sigtrygg know that Máel Sechlainn Ua Fhaolain and his small body of Déisi warriors were ready. He could see his brother-in-law’s saffron-coloured clothes and long hair and began descending from the barbican to meet him.

‘There is trouble,’ he told Máel Sechlainn. ‘Get your men headed south and find out who has attacked us. I’ll follow with more troops.’

Máel Sechlainn nodded his head. ‘I am getting sick of being cooped up in this filthy city of yours anyway,’ he joked. ‘I will never understand how you Dubhgall live like this. It is almost like being a farm beast.’

The King of the Déisi did not give Sigtrygg the chance to reply to his insult, instead raising his spear and crying out for his men to follow him. They jogged under the barbican and out into the country beyond. It took longer for Orm to assemble his warband and by the time he did so the Déisi had already disappeared from view down the river valley. Sigtrygg’s group followed as quickly as they were able. Unlike the Gaels, they were weighed down by armour and shields and were already sweating under thick woollen gambesons when they came across the first people fleeing away from the raiders. Young men came first, carrying what they could, and behind them were their families. A long line of refugees from Dubháth stretched out down the river valley. Sigtrygg did not allow them to stop but told them to continue to the safety of the city.

‘They came in the night,’ an older man told his king. ‘The manor house was on fire before we even knew we were under attack. They threw a dead sheep into the well. We couldn’t stop them,’ the man told Sigtrygg. ‘There is nothing left.’

Sigtrygg cursed and sent the man on his way. The manor at Dubháth was an estate from which the King of Veðrarfjord could derive food and wealth. Weeks before, Sigtrygg had ordered most of the fighting men from Dubháth to bring whatever had been harvested and join him in the city. He was glad for that foresight for it had saved most of the provisions, even if it had robbed the freemen of the manor of any hope of defending what was left.

Their progress was slowed by having to circumnavigate a wide, soggy bog. They climbed up onto a ridge from where they were able to approach without the same threat of ambush as they would have in the woods in the valley floor. From above, Sigtrygg could also see the Déisi milling around in the ruins of the village.

‘They came from the west,’ Máel Sechlainn told Sigtrygg, his hand flapped in the direction of a wooded hillside. ‘The wind was from the south and they attacked before first light.’

The roof of the manor house had already collapsed and the thatch had burned brightly enough to cause the wooden walls to alight. One building had suffered only minor damage. Sigtrygg could see the torch that had been flung onto the roof had been suffocated by the dirty thatch.

‘They had no wall and no chance,’ Orm stated as he joined Máel Sechlainn and Sigtrygg.

‘We found dead men for a hundred paces into the wood,’ Máel Sechlainn told them. ‘They did not chase them far.’

Sigtrygg sniffed the air. ‘Is that pig meat that I smell?’

Orm nodded. ‘They speared the pigs and threw the carcasses into the hall. That’s why it burns so hot. The rest of the animals scattered.’

‘These were not cattle thieves,’ Máel Sechlainn stated.

Orm was kneeling beside one of the two bodies in the village. ‘That was caused by an axe,’ he said, pointing at the horrific, gaping wound on the man’s chest.

Sigtrygg hissed, ‘Gufraid.’

A shout interrupted the three men’s conference. Máel Sechlainn was on his feet and running in the direction of the lookout, leaping nimbly over an upturned cart. Sigtrygg watched him disappear beyond another smouldering wreck of a house and followed with Orm close behind. He did not need Máel Sechlainn’s man to tell him why the warning had come. Beyond another hillock Sigtrygg could see more smoke rising towards the sky.

‘Baile an Gharráin?’ Orm suggested.

‘Get the men ready to move out.’ Sigtrygg stated. ‘They are only a few miles away.’

Máel Sechlainn’s hand fell on his arm. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Whoever it is, they are trying to draw us away from the city.’

‘It’s Gufraid,’ Sigtrygg insisted.

‘Whoever it is, his next stop will be Áth Skipir,’ Jarl Orm said. ‘We need to catch up and destroy them before they get there.’

‘They will already be gone before we get there,’ Máel Sechlainn told them. ‘They’re trying to draw us away from Veðrarfjord.’

Jarl Orm was a head shorter than the King of the Déisi but he was not daunted. ‘I will protect my home,’ he stated bluntly, and whistled loudly.

Máel Sechlainn didn’t drop his gaze until he heard the jangle of mail and thump of many feet come from the direction of the village. It was Orm’s men come to answer their master’s call. Máel Sechlainn took an involuntary step back from the young jarl.

‘We will protect my home,’ Orm repeated, ‘and then we will return to Veðrarfjord to protect yours, Sigtrygg.’ He did not await permission or an answer but jogged away, followed by his fifty warriors.

‘You still think it is Gufraid?’ asked Máel Sechlainn.

‘I know it is him,’ Sigtrygg spat.

‘What reason would he have to draw us away from Veðrarfjord?’

‘The prisoners,’ Sigtrygg exclaimed. ‘He thinks that he can walk straight into my city, free my prisoners. I’ll be damned to hell for all eternity before I allow that to happen. Do you hear me?’ he exclaimed at the sky. ‘To hell!’

Máel Sechlainn shook his head. ‘We can’t allow your father to get free. The whole city could rise against us.’

Sigtrygg hissed. ‘Gufraid might already be marching on Veðrarfjord. There is a valley to the east that would bring them out near the Siúire. That’s where they’ll go.’

‘Then that’s where we will go. Orm can chase him northwards while we make plans for our own ambush.’

Sigtrygg smiled. ‘We’ll cut them down them at Gunnarr’s Place.’

Raymond hauled himself out of the stream and onto the bank. He took care to avoid the nettles and grabbed hold of a fistful of grass, using it to help him free his lower half from the clawing grip of the brown water. He was soaked to the skin and panting and had to crawl up the last few steps to where the land levelled out. After a few seconds’ searching in the longer grass he found the place his weapons had landed and fixed them back to his belt. Raymond shook his shoulders and poked a finger into his right ear to clear the discomforting water that sloshed around inside his head. The stream had proved a much greater challenge than he had thought it would and in several sections he had almost lost his footing as he had crossed.

Wiping the remaining river water from his face, Raymond fixed his eyes on the tree line and ran forward, crouching as low as he could while inspecting the landscape to his left and right for possible threats. His sword bounced on his left thigh while the darts bunched at his spine hopped and clattered with the provisions in the bag around his neck. He held them all down as best he could with his left to prevent any more noise than was unavoidable. The wood was heavy with foliage and caused Raymond to slow down and pick his path. The spear in his hand proved useful as a tool to rip the heaviest bramble and ferns aside, but his eyes remained on the woods ahead. He had not gone far when Ieuan caught up with him. The tall Welshman was just as wet as Raymond and was still covered in black soot from the burning embers of their last target. Ieuan did not speak as he followed his captain further into the thicket with an arrow nocked upon his bow. They were going uphill again and soon came to a small clearing where they came to a halt. They had come over the crest and looked down onto a plain filled with forests.

‘Smell,’ Raymond whispered to his companion, pointing to his nose and underlining his words with two loud sniffs.

Ieuan copied his actions. ‘Môr. The sea.’

Raymond nodded and pointed his spear back in the direction of the river. ‘Get the rest to come up. I think that it’s all clear.’ The bearded archer melted back into the trees without words. Raymond stabbed his weapon into the turf and wringed more river water from his sleeves. A shiver of cold wrapped itself around his chest and he stepped out into the bright sunshine. He immediately felt warmth upon his face and closed his eyes to enjoy the brief rest. He had not slept since the day before and tiredness was starting to get the better of him. He yawned widely and fished out some of the twice-baked bread. He tore a mouthful away with effort and returned the remainder to his bag. To the north he could see the Black Mountains, tiny on the distant horizon, but a comforting marker for Raymond to gauge his whereabouts. The late morning sunshine was strong and he had to raise his hand to cover his eyes. A sparkle of sunlight on open water caught his attention, no more than a mile ahead. The estuary was the divider between Ostman territory and the peninsula of Siol Bhroin where Raymond and his advance force had built Dun Domhnall. He looked at the mountains to the north and adjudged that where he stood was little more than six miles from the Norman fort. It was less to the walls of Veðrarfjord in the opposite direction.

The beach where Trygve’s crew had landed his small band of raiders was on the sea estuary ahead. Raymond prayed that the crew would return as they said they would or the twenty Ostmen and fifteen Welsh archers would be trapped on the wrong side of the water. Gufraid had dismissed his concerns, just as he had every worry that Raymond had brought up since their landing at dusk the day before. The Ostman had guided them through the unfamiliar territory in the darkness with uncanny ease and without even the threat of discovery. Their attack on the two manors had been without problems too, causing maximum terror and damage to property. The only ones to perish were the folk who did not flee but put up a fight. He was sure that the survivors would not stop running until they came to Veðrarfjord’s walls. They would add to the mouths feeding upon Sigtrygg’s stores of food. There, they would spread stories of Norman power and guile amongst the people. And a frightened people were a people half beaten. In all, the raid had been a complete success. Yet Raymond still felt anxious.

Gufraid was the reason for his unease. It had started soon after his people had made camp on Trygve’s land, though Raymond had not then been fully aware of it then. He had dismissed his every instinct that Gufraid was hiding something from him. He blamed his own terror at the thought of crossing into enemy territory, the lasting effects of his head injury, anything other than question Gufraid. The jarl’s optimism had been infectious, as was the energy with which he took to the plan. It had been Gufraid who had convinced one of Trygve’s captains to transport them to the beach, Gufraid who had convinced Raymond to launch the assault so quickly after the exertions of their cattle raid in the Black Mountains. Only after they had made land in Ostman territory had Gufraid’s recklessness become all too apparent. Even then it felt more like enthusiasm, a desire to push on no matter what. His leadership had got their small band off the dunes and through four miles of tough terrain in the darkness of the night before. It had got them past wary shepherds and past the sentinels on the walls of outlying Ostman farms. He had seemed fearless to the point of madness. What had caused the change in behaviour, Raymond did not know, but if anything it had become more apparent since they had torched the second manor a few hours before.

‘On, on,’ had been Gufraid’s maxim whenever anyone in their warband had called for respite from his punishing pace.

Raymond had even caught the cagey and fretful glances between Gufraid’s own men at their jarl’s decisions. That, above everything else, told him that this was not Gufraid’s usual manner. His ally’s abandonment of caution caused Raymond to change too. He had taken on all the scouting missions, hoping to make up for Gufraid’s risks by edging ahead of their warband. If Gufraid had noticed his efforts he had made no comment on them. The jarl’s only concession was to abandon his plan to attack a manor belonging to an Ostman called Gunnarr as it was too close to the city. He had another target in mind. One which he claimed would be less of a risk.

Several minutes had passed since Ieuan had left him, and Raymond looked despairingly back through the trees for the rest of his company.

‘Now you decide to take a break?’ Raymond murmured and shook his head at the alarming behaviour of his ally. With one final look at the sparkling estuary he stomped back into the trees, snatching up his spear as he went. His and Ieuan’s path was easy to find and he followed it back towards the stream, practicing what he would say to reprimand Gufraid as soon as he found him again. He was already going downhill and picking up speed when he caught sight of daylight beyond the edge of the woods. So when the Welsh archer appeared from his side it almost made him cry out in fright.

‘What -’ he began before the panicked look in the Welshman’s eyes caused him to quieten and lower down onto his knees. The bowman put a single finger to his lips and then waved for Raymond to follow him. They shuffled forward to the treeline. There, Ieuan lay in the shadows, staring downhill towards the stream. On either side of the Welshman were his archers. Ieuan did not turn to register Raymond’s presence but continued to stare out into the open landscape beyond. Raymond lay down beside him and followed the direction of Ieuan’s gaze.

‘Holy Trinity save us,’ he mumbled.

For on the far side of the stream a large body of Gaels had appeared on the horizon above a hedge of yellow broom. Worse, despite all his efforts to keep the company moving forward, Gufraid had not yet got his twenty warriors across the stream. Instead they sat in the shallows, hidden for the moment from the Gaels by the high clay river bank at their backs. The enemy was less than a hundred paces away at the brow of the hill.

‘What now?’ Ieuan whispered in his abrupt French.

Raymond did not know. Gufraid’s men could not move and nor could they see the enemy on the ridge above them. Clearly, they knew the enemy were close. Raymond and the Welshmen could not emerge from their hiding place lest they make the Gaels aware of their presence and draw them to the waterside. Twenty cold, wet and sleep-deprived Ostmen would not last long against the fifty or so in the Gaelic warband and nor would their evacuation be easy if the enemy tracked them to the coast.

‘We wait,’ he told Ieuan in a low voice.

But will Gufraid stay hidden, Raymond wondered. He thought back over the hours since they had hit the beach, the Ostman’s increasing impetuousness in command.

‘Stay where you are,’ Raymond mumbled in the direction of the huddled Ostmen, urging Gufraid to understand his predicament and to remain calm.

Movement up on the hillside caught Raymond’s eye and he refocused on the people on the ridge above. The vast frame of Sigtrygg Mac Giolla Mhuire could not be mistaken for anyone else, even from two hundred paces away. He was by far the largest man that Raymond had ever seen and he was immediately transported back to their fight between the double fortifications of Dun Domhnall. His temples began to thud. The only reason he had survived their duel was due to the timely intervention of the Welsh archers and his esquire’s bravery. He should’ve died under the giant Ostman’s frenzied attack. With effort, he slowed his breathing and stared across the valley at Sigtrygg. His enemy had one hand to his ginger brow and was surveying the woods in which Raymond and his men were secreted.

‘Don’t move,’ Raymond hissed to the Welshmen. Ieuan translated it into his native tongue with – he was sure – the added emphasis of multiple curse words.

Sigtrygg’s inspection of the woodland seemed to last for ever, so long that Raymond was certain that he would soon send his men across the stream. If that happened Gufraid was doomed.

‘Please don’t move,’ Raymond mumbled again. This time his words were aimed at the Ostmen in the stream. ‘Stay still, you damned fool. Do not break cover.’

His temples thumped and he had to close his eyes in an effort to ease the pain that had suddenly arisen behind his eyes. Even with his eyes closer the sunshine glare on the yellow broom seared into his brain. He only opened them as Ieuan’s hand dropped onto his sleeve in warning. The distance to the ridge was too far for Raymond to hear the words that Sigtrygg shouted to his warriors, but it was clear that they were readying to move out. The Gaels clambered to their feet and hoisted their weaponry onto their shoulders. Raymond’s fists gripped tufts of grass and wildflowers. There was nothing he could do. If Sigtrygg ordered his men towards the stream, he would have to leave him to die. A fighting retreat to the beach would be almost impossible in the woods where the archers’ range and effectiveness would be reduced to little more than twenty paces; to a beach, he remembered, upon which he did not trust that a ship would be waiting. He could merely watch, though the throb in his temples made it almost impossible to keep his eyes fixed on the horizon.

A rasp of air shot from the top of his lungs has he saw the Gaels finally turn and disappear behind the broom hedge. They were going back towards Veðrarfjord! A murmur of relief started amongst the archers until Ieuan threatened them to silence again. Up on the ridge opposite, Sigtrygg still stood, watching the part of the woods where they were hidden. In the trees above, Raymond could hear birds taking to flight and he wondered if that was what had caused Sigtrygg to remain. If he did suspect anything, he did not remain long, but left the ridge to follow his allies.

Raymond finally felt his fingers unwind from the grass and his breathing return to normal. After a few minutes he licked his lips and rose to his feet. He held out a palm to indicate that the Welshmen should stay where they were. Raymond then emerged from the dark of the woods and ran down into the valley. He almost fell on a number of occasions because his eyes were fixed on the broom hedge above rather than the uneven ground beneath his feet. No one reappeared on the horizon.

The twenty Ostmen were in a sorry state. They had been up to their chests in water for quite some time when Raymond came across them. Most were shaking from the cold as they huddled in the darkness of the overhanging river bank. Twenty sets of eyes looked up in relief as Raymond appeared on the eastern bank and put a finger to his lips before beckoning for them to cross. He was sure that the racket made by their dripping clothes and awkward, frigid bodies was sure to draw the Gaels back, but it seemed that one saint from the Holy pantheon was with them that day and the enemy did not return. Most of the Ostmen were so cold that they needed help to climb the bank and Raymond was sweating by the time he hoisted the last man out of the water and sent them uphill into the woods. Ieuan had the good sense to keep the Ostmen moving and Raymond found them sitting in the sunshine in the clearing on the far side of the hill. The Welshman mimed that he had sent his archers ahead to scout the land ahead for any further dangers.

‘No forget,’ he said forcefully, pointing to his own chest, as he vanished back into the woods to watch the land behind in case of the enemy’s return.

Raymond dropped down beside Gufraid who was still shivering and clutched his arms to his wide chest. Steam rose from his bald head as the sun shone on it. Raymond considered that a good sign.

‘I thought we were caught.’ The jarl’s teeth chattered. ‘I couldn’t even move to see if they were still up on the ridge.’ Gufraid buried his head in his elbow to quieten the cough which erupted from his chest. When he reappeared he was sniffing uncontrollably. ‘I couldn’t have endured the cold for much longer.’

‘We got away, that’s what matters. It has been a successful raid,’ Raymond told him. ‘When we return with Strongbow we will be -’

‘“Return with Strongbow?”’ Gufraid looked up. ‘What do you mean? We still have one more manor to attack.’

Raymond smiled encouragingly and flapped a hand at the sodden company of axemen. ‘We have done well. There is no point in risking our lives needlessly. Every Ostman in the region will know that there is trouble afoot. The whole lot of them will be falling back on the city for protection. It is time to go home.’

‘No! We cannot leave yet,’ Gufraid insisted. Raymond saw the flare of energy, the hot-headedness of the last few days return to the jarl’s face. ‘We have one more target!’

‘I don’t understand. Why would we -’

‘We need to attack Fiodh-Ard Liag now,’ Gufraid said and reached out to grab Raymond by his arm. ‘We must go on. On! If Sigtrygg suspects it was me who -’ His eyes darted from side to side as he sought the words to make Raymond bow to his will. They did not come to him and Gufraid sank back to the ground, his hand releasing its hold on Raymond’s forearm. ‘If Sigtrygg thinks I had anything to do with this raid he will kill my boys,’ he finally admitted.

Raymond watched as his ally visible slumped, his head bowing, his spine curved. The energy that he had expended to get the small band of raiders to the hillside had finally caught up with Gufraid. Raymond said nothing for several seconds, but looked over each shoulder to make sure that none of their company had heard Gufraid’s admission or seen his reaction to it. Most still had their heads down, rubbing their arms and trunks or wringing water from their long hair and clothes. He turned back to his ally.

‘You should’ve told me that he held your children prisoner,’ he whispered.

‘I didn’t know if you would care.’

‘I care because it might affect our agreement. I held up my side. I got your people to safety. Now I find out that you might turn on us at any moment.’

‘I would never -’

‘I’m not a father …’ Raymond began before spluttering to a halt. An image of Alice of Abergavenny had stormed into his mind’s eye and he struggled to force it away. ‘I am not a father, but I can imagine that there’s nothing that a parent wouldn’t do to make sure their children are safe from harm. If Sigtrygg put a knife to your sons’ throats and told you to turn on us, you would without a second thought.’

Gufraid did not stir, but Raymond could feel that his warriors were starting to become aware of their conversation. Raymond was suddenly very aware that with the Welsh archers out scouting the land ahead he was alone with the Ostmen on the hillside.

‘What is the name of this manor?’

‘Fiodh-Ard Liag,’ Gufraid repeated. ‘It is no more than a mile north of here, and defended by perhaps twenty men.’

Raymond sighed. The image of Alice refused to leave his mind. He had barely had time to consider what her pregnancy would mean since she had told him of it. But Gufraid’s unhappy circumstances caused him to think back to the day when they had searched the woods of Siol Bhroin for alder bark and foxgloves, and her confession that she was carrying a child. All the shameful thoughts that he had considered came back to him: that he might not be the father, that it might be Prince Harry; that she had betrayed him before and might do so again; that a bastard was a disgrace that might ruin what few hopes he had of marrying Basilia, of leading Strongbow’s army to victory. That day in the woods Alice had accused him of lacking ruthlessness, of an inability to make the hard choices that would make him a success in Ireland. She had all but dared him to deny paternity of her unborn child. Alice knew him too well, he realised, and when it came to it, he was not cold-blooded enough to condemn her and the infant to a life of ignominy and deprivation. He wondered if he was ruthless enough to make the tough choice now.

He looked at Gufraid’s sad figure. The jarl was a brave man, a leader of warriors, but he stared up at Raymond from his knees. He was shivering and pathetic. It had only been minutes before that Raymond had been anticipating that he would have to abandon Gufraid and his men to their deaths at the hands of Sigtrygg and his Gaelic warband. Despite Alice’s accusations, he knew that he did have the capacity to make hard choices, but did that make them the right ones? His raid of Ostman territory had been a great success and what he should do was to make all haste to get back to safety in Dun Domhnall.

Raymond turned his eyes to the sky.

‘Damn it,’ he muttered and held out his hand to help Gufraid back to his feet.

Alice of Abergavenny held up the finished surcoat and sighed contentedly. She had mixed in crushed foxglove and nettles to the mix and it had given the yellow marigold, cow parsley and St John’s Wort dye a shine which had carried across to the finished garment just as she had hoped. It was imbued with warmth and in the late afternoon sunshine the surcoat sparkled like gold. She had to squint to keep looking at it. The splits in the lower half opened and closed in the small wind off the ocean. She spotted a small frayed end of thread and she carefully folded the heavy cloth across her left arm so that she could fix it. She had not had enough fabric to make the surcoat into one of the full-length pieces that the noblemen at King Henry’s court in Westminster had been wearing, but it would suit Raymond’s frame, she decided, reaching to the knee. Unlike those she had seen in England, she had designed four splits in the lower half of Raymond’s surcoat to aid movement and had reinforced them with leather hems. What little bit of fabric she had saved had been made into a small pennant bearing the new arms for Raymond’s lance.

She had enjoyed designing the three black lions for the front of the surcoat and had spent a great deal of time in consideration of which manner to depict them. She had finally decided against a single rampant lion and had instead made three black lions that would stride across Raymond’s chest with one paw ready to attack. Her design spoke of valour and courage as well as stability and wariness. They were, she decided, the best traits of a warlord – daring yes, but the good sense to do so from a place of balance, power and security. She had added what remained of the foxglove and nettle concoction to the black dye made from oak apples, iris root and alder bark and it had added a certain lustre to the mixture that she had not expected. Alice had required a steady hand to cut the three lions from the linen, but she felt that her small mistakes would not be noticed by anyone other than herself. She unfolded the garment a second time to enjoy its beauty. She allowed herself a moment of pride at the product of her artistry.

She had left the fort several hours before, bound for the little secluded cove on the eastern side of the peninsula. Its steep sides and heavy brush kept the men of Dun Domhnall away and allowed Alice a degree of privacy. She had told William de Vale and Fulk to remain behind but she was absolutely sure that they would have disobeyed and were hidden somewhere above, keeping watch over her as Raymond had commanded. Not that their vigilance was particularly required. Since they had left on their cattle raid the milites had for the most part left her to her own devices. The sullenness that had been directed towards Raymond had transformed into outrage at his departure. The milites’ resentment was then directed at Alice, William and Fulk, and in those initial few hours of his absence she had been worried that their fury might lead to violence against their little group. However, sobriety soon returned and by that evening the two factions had descended into an uneasy truce. The milites even began working on the wall as Raymond had suggested and that had kept them busy for several days. Alice, William and Fulk had stayed out on the eastern cape, as far away as they could be from the milites. Sir Hervey had not helped with the work, stating loudly that the labour was unnecessary since his nephew, the earl, would soon arrive and they would join his great army in their attack on Veðrarfjord. Thankfully, Sir Hervey seemed content to remain alone in his hut away from everyone.

The return of the Welshmen at the head of the hundred and thirty-strong cattle train had come as something of a relief too. With them had come the milites’ coursers and Raymond’s cavalrymen had spent almost a day brushing their coats and cleaning their tack, complaining about the Welshmen’s lack of care for the animals while they were in the north. The milites had not given the coursers any time to recover of course, but had insisted upon taking them out the next morning. Walter de Bloet had organised the Norman horsemen into teams and they had driven the cattle out of the fort and into the countryside to get fresh fodder and access to the river for water. The Welsh bowmen had made no argument and nor had Alice. With the absence of the milites she had the freedom of Dun Domhnall returned to her. Raymond’s absence had been worrying but Caradog had insisted that it would not be long before he returned to the fort. On that first night back, Caradog had told all the story of their raid in the lands of the north, of the Ostmen and the Black Mountains.

Caradog had also shown the pages and the esquires how to milk the cows. As the sons of fighting men they had little knowledge of farming, and the Welshmen had laughed at their early attempts at the task. They had soon got competent enough for Caradog to declare it the boys’ primary responsibility. Each morning before dawn they rose to collect the milk before the milites drove the cattle out of the fortifications. Caradog had even made some passably flavoursome cheese from the milk, forcing the little pages to drink the excess whey in order to build up their muscles, and laughing at their attempts to guzzle as much of the liquid without feeling sick.

It had been Fulk who had let slip to Alice that Raymond had briefly returned to Dun Domhnall three days earlier. He had arrived with the dawn and had gone back northwards before Alice or the majority of the garrison had awoken. He had stayed only long enough to collect ten cows and a handful of Welsh archers, and then he had left again. Where was his destination, or his reasons, he had not disclosed to Fulk. Nor had he left a message stating how long he would be gone.

Alice was still annoyed at that. If she was to be any help to his cause she had to know what Raymond was doing. She again tried to dismiss her concerns, for it was likely that he was simply enjoying Trygve’s company in Cluainmín. Perhaps he was trading the ten cattle for wine or beer? She knew that Sir Hervey and the milites had drunk the fort dry in Raymond’s absence and being able to treat the earl – particularly when Sir Hervey could not – might be an easy way to maintain Strongbow’s favour. Since Father Nicholas’ departure, it had become rather difficult to remember which day it was, but Alice was certain that the Feast of St Bartholomew would take place in the next few days. It would be the perfect opportunity to show off Raymond’s success in Ireland, Alice decided. If only Strongbow got his act together and crossed the sea. If her time-keeping was correct, only a week remained in the month of August, and soon the summer fighting season would be at an end. Perhaps she did not understand fully the campaigns of warriors, but she did wonder how Raymond’s lord could hope to accomplish his conquest before the autumn season began. Every passing day decreased the likelihood of Strongbow’s crossing to Ireland and increased the prospect of another attack on Dun Domhnall by the recovered Ostmen of Veðrarfjord. The enemy would be more wary of the archers, she was sure, and Raymond’s ploy with the cattle could not be played a second time.

She hoisted the new surcoat and stared at it again. A frown spread across Alice’s face as she wondered if Raymond would need the garment any time soon. Its primary use was to mark out a man in battle. In his world a man could rise rapidly thanks to his skill and strength with a sword, but he could not do that if he merely sat out on a headland awaiting his master’s arrival.

A rustle of dry branches and leaves, a scattering of stones, coming from above, was enough to rouse Alice from her thoughts. She looked up to see William de Vale hanging by a hand from a wizened tree perched on the steep bank.

‘You need to come and see this,’ William said excitedly, all pretence of remaining unseen forgotten. He did not await her answer but began scrambling his way back to the top of the cove. She caught a glimpse of Fulk at the top waving his hands for William to hurry.

‘Raymond?’ she whispered and climbed to her feet, dusting off the little bits of detritus that had become attached to her skirts. Alice looped the precious surcoat around her neck and walked across to the little hidden pathway which she had cut. It was steep and required her to stoop low at several points to make sure the surcoat did not snag on the roof of brambles which enclosed the path on all sides. It took several minutes’ effort to get to the top and by the time she did Alice was sweating. Although the sun was in the western sky, she could see the outline of Fulk and William already at the little track running north-south down the middle of the headland. Their bouncing shadows stretched back towards her on the cattle-trodden grassland. She searched the skyline but could not see any sign of Raymond’s party.

Alice hoisted her skirts and began to follow the page and esquire. It took her several minutes to make it to the track, and neither Fulk nor William had waited for her to arrive. The day was still hot and she took a few moments to gather her breath, fanning her face with the corner of the new surcoat. That was when she saw them in the distance. A fleet of ships had entered the estuary and were bound for Dun Domhnall.

Alice began running.

Gufraid called the hill Meannán.

He said that a hero of the Gaels was buried at its core, that the hero’s father, a great champion himself, had built it thousands of years before using his superhuman strength, gouging the earth with his bare hands. Into that void had flowed the river. Raymond could almost believe that part, for the hill did resemble one of the ancient burial mounds he had seen in Wales, rising unnaturally from the river plain to a pinnacle of five hundred feet. What he could not believe was Gufraid’s other story. He said that the hero buried within the hill kept watch over Ireland and would rise again to bring the fight to any invader of her sovereign soil.

Raymond stamped a foot on the ground. ‘Hey! We are already here. Better get your weapons ready if you are to catch us.’

‘Maybe it is the father who is buried here,’ Gufraid said glumly. ‘The Gaels have so many stories. It is difficult to keep track of them all.’

Whether or not they were about to be confronted by a corpse-warrior from his resting place beneath, Raymond did commend the hero for picking a brilliant spot for his lonely lookout. He could see for miles in every direction from the rocky outcropping at the top of Meannán. The Black Mountains were a blur in the distance while to the south he could see all the way to the sea. The small islands close to Dun Domhnall were even in view over the hazy landscape below.

‘And Trygve’s crew? Where are they?’

Gufraid climbed to his feet and pointed northwards to where the three arms of the brown river met. ‘There is a creek to the south of that big island.’

‘Where will they meet us?’

‘At a marsh north of Fiodh-Ard Liag. They will make land at the eastern edge at high tide.’

Raymond shook his head as he stared downhill at the reeds and mud. The tide was turning, but the marsh looked nigh impassable as it baked in the low afternoon sunshine. Their raiding party would have to make their way through woods first, down a steep incline, and then they would face the possible hazard of the grey, mucky beach. ‘There are many things that could go wrong.’

‘You know that I must try,’ Gufraid countered.

‘It is your sons’ lives that you are risking should we fail.’

‘And it is your decision not to wait for darkness to attack them.’

Raymond sighed. He had always been told to avoid a night attack at all costs. His father had told him when he was little more than an infant at Carew Castle. Sir William de Bloet, to whom he had been apprenticed as an esquire, had told him. Even Strongbow had warned against them. ‘It was a miracle that we got across Ostman territory unscathed last night. I won’t risk an operation in the darkness being a success a second time.’

Gufraid scowled and turned to face the west. He did not blink as the sun shone straight into his eyes. He stared down at the manor on the plain below.

‘Who is the lord of Fiodh-Ard Liag?’ asked Raymond as he joined his ally.

‘Háimar,’ he replied. ‘A jumped-up little fart of a man. I hear he calls himself Jarl Háimar now.’

‘How many men can he raise from his estate?’

‘Twenty or so, at a push.’

With his fifteen archers, Raymond did not consider that much of a challenge. ‘He will see us coming from a mile off,’ he warned. Háimar’s manor house was built with its back to the river and the plain around it was covered in low lying fields with few hiding places. A high ridge of land running down from Meannán guarded the manor’s eastern extreme and would, Raymond did not doubt, hide several lookouts that would alert the manor of any impending attack. He could see masts and ship’s rigging in a small creek to the south of Fiodh-Ard Liag. Háimar’s folk would be able to escape before Raymond could bring his archer’s within range of his walls.

‘I can see why Sigtrygg would think your sons would be safe here.’

Gufraid bowed his head. ‘It is hopeless then.’

Raymond put his hand on the Ostman’s shoulder. ‘For you family’s sake, I hope not.’ He concentrated on the small manor. ‘I still don’t fully understand why Sigtrygg would send your sons to Háimar.’

‘To secure their alliance? Important hostages mean added importance for their keeper. I suspect Háimar desires to rise above his station.’

Raymond’s eyes narrowed. ‘Ambition eats money. You say that Háimar isn’t wealthy?’

‘He is a farmer and his folk are Fionngall,’ Gufraid stated as if that were enough.

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning they have limited trading rights in the city in comparison to we Dubhgall, the Danish folk. The Fionngall are Norse.’

‘I didn’t think there were any divisions amongst the Ostmen.’

Gufraid sniffed. ‘We conquered the Fionngall long ago, and they have adopted our ways, accepted our laws. So we let them live in Veðrarfjord. Some, like Háimar, still have farms. Raising crops is just about all they are good for. They certainly shouldn’t be calling themselves jarls.’

Raymond nodded. ‘Farmers who wish to be jarls need money and lots of it. What is the quickest way for your people to get rich?’

‘To get rich?’ Gufraid looked to the sky. ‘Raiding, I suppose. No, the slave trade.’

‘Slaves,’ Raymond murmured, ruminating over the word.

‘Do you think Háimar might be bribed?’ asked Gufraid after several moments of silence.

Raymond shook his head slowly. ‘I have a better idea than that. First, we must cut down a tree – a really big one.’

The six men were sweating as they shuffled in a line down the pathway. The rough bark of the pine trunk had begun to rub as it bumped up and down on their shoulders. They gritted their teeth and kept moving forward.

‘Keep your heads down,’ Raymond whispered. He was glad that he was at the very back of the shambling group. Being shorter than the Welshmen meant that the tree trunk had not been pressing down on his neck since they had come off the hillside. One of the smaller branches had not been cut cleanly away and it had gnawed painfully at his flesh during the descent from the pinnacle of Meannán. His hands, although seemingly bound over the top of the pine tree, were not really secure and he could remove his fetters at any time. At his spine were five arrows which rubbed uncomfortably against the nape of his neck and top of his backside.

To each side were Ostmen, ten in total. Gufraid had said that to send more would raise suspicion, but they looked very few as they slowly made their way towards Fiodh-Ard Liag. At least their allies were armed, he thought. Ahead of him, Welsh voices began arguing and before he could mutter a warning, Gufraid’s man, Grím, stepped forward and slapped one across the back of the head, barking an order in his own tongue. Raymond’s eyes flicked to the group of at least fifteen awaiting their arrival, but Grím’s sudden violence seemed to have helped with the illusion that he was a slaver and they were his merchandise. Thankfully having spent over a week raiding, the Welshmen and Raymond looked dirty and downtrodden enough that they might be mistaken for slaves.

Raymond almost cried out in pain as the step of the men in front suddenly synchronised and their load plummeted onto the top of his shoulder.

‘Keep it smooth,’ he hissed, ‘unless you want to give the game away and actually get sold into slavery?’ The pain was awful, but his first concern was for the bow hidden in a channel cut in the top of the pine trunk. His fingers sought the smooth yew pressed into the gap and he sighed shallowly when he found the weapon still resting snugly in the groove. It was sticky with sap in the channel and he suspected that was the reason the bow had not leapt from its hiding place.

There were fields either side being worked by slaves, making hay or tending to animals. The rest were heavy with oats, barley and rye. Fiodh-Ard Liag was, to Raymond’s mind, only a little smaller in scale to Trygve’s town at Cluainmín and the equal of Strongbow’s chief tenants’ enterprises in Netherwent. It was certainly greater than any upland manor with which Strongbow might have rewarded Raymond at the end of his service had they remained in Striguil. It was safer too, given its proximity to Veðrarfjord. It was far from the poor farm that Gufraid had described.

A hail from the group ahead brought the manacled men to a halt. A short man with long brown hair stepped forward and raised a hand in greeting. Gufraid, being worried that he might be recognised, was hidden somewhere to the north, keeping an eye on proceedings. He would bring the rest of the raiders forward when Raymond and Grím launched their plan. Judging by Gufraid’s description, the short man was Háimar, Jarl of Fiodh-Ard Liag. Raymond could see earrings bouncing around beneath his long hair, and could see tattoos on his forearms. He could not understand the conversation between Grím and Háimar and instead he glanced at the walls of the manor. The defences were only head high and made out of wide timber posts. The manor did not even have a ditch around it. Five warriors stood to either side of the gate, watching everything that went on. Raymond rearranged his grip on the pine trunk so that he could see the little creek just south of the manor. Three ships were tied to the wharf, their rigging stowed high on single masts. They were small, but Raymond fancied that they would be big enough for all his raiders.

To Raymond’s right Grím and Háimar still spoke and he breathed a sigh of relief that his assumption about the jarl’s finances had been correct. Háimar could not give up on a ready chance of making money. The story that they had concocted was that Grím was a trader out of Hlymrik on his way home from Wales when he had discovered plague amongst his crew. Fearing that his cargo would succumb to the illness, he had decided to sell them cheaply before continuing west. Raymond was pleased to see that Grím was clever enough to barter with Háimar rather than to accept the first price and raise any doubts over the veracity of his story. Raymond was so rapt by Grím’s performance that he did not realise that another Ostman had been going along the line of Welsh archers examining them for signs of plague or other defects. The first he realised was when a rough hand grabbed him by the cheeks and forced him to open his mouth. The bearded man growled something as Raymond moved to protest. He then grabbed his bicep before giving a signal to Háimar that the slaves were of good quality. Raymond spat on the ground and rearranged his shoulders. His billowing shirt hid the arrows but had the Ostman laid a hand on his back their ruse would’ve certainly been discovered.

He turned his attention back towards Grím and Háimar. Their haggling seemed to be reaching a head. Jarl Háimar waved a hand at the wall and that was the signal for the gates to the manor to open and several people to emerge carrying skins and pulling two carts. Raymond could see grain and firewood in the first, and could smell fish in barrels in the second. A huge dog was tied to the side of the lead cart and it strained against the rope in the direction of the enticing smell coming up behind. It was a good haul, but not nearly enough for six slaves. Grím obviously thought the same and he began arguing with Háimar. At one stage he even turned and shared a joke with his fellow Ostmen. Each laughed heartily. As a response the gates of the manor opened again and six sheep were herded out, causing the great hound to go mad and almost knock over the cart.

In the disorder, the Ostmen of Fiodh-Ard Liag had forgotten to close the gates of their manor and Raymond ogled the gap in the defences. He made eye-contact with the Gufraid’s man to his left and then turned back to see that Grím and Háimar had finally reached agreement and were shaking hands and smiling at each other.

Raymond sucked in a lungful of air and bellowed, ‘Ieuan!’

Several things happened at once. The people of Fiodh-Ard Liag froze and looked in the direction of the noise and then turned back as Háimar yelled out in pain and collapsed on the pathway. Blood poured from his nose, broken thanks to a blow from Grím’s forehead. Gufraid’s man put a big foot on Háimar’s chest and punched down twice. Háimar’s men’s attempt to form up was upset by the folk fleeing past them towards the gates and before they knew it, Grím and his men were charging directly at them. Screams and shouting resonated on the timber wall of the manor.

Raymond unlooped the restraints from his arms and stepped away from the pine trunk. Two other men copied his actions, like him removing the bunch of arrows from their backs and tossing them into a pile.

‘Ieuan?’ Raymond called and pointed to the bowstave hidden in the timber, but the Welshman was already removing the weapon. He grimaced when he discovered the sap all over his hands, but wasted no time in removing the bowstring from around his middle and attaching it to the lower nock. His arm muscles bulged as he bent the yew and fastened the other end. Ieuan gasped with the effort and gave the weapon a preliminary haul.

‘The men on the gate first,’ Raymond called and pointed towards the wall.

Ieuan did not respond with words but dashed over to the bundle of arrows, scooping them up in one fluid movement. He came to a stop beside the unconscious figure of Háimar. Seconds later, one of the men guarding the gates fell backwards with an arrow in his chest. And then another cried out as he tumbled backwards off the wall and out of sight. At a range of fifty paces, Ieuan could puncture the best mail ever made. The men on the wall were wearing no armour and the power of Ieuan’s bow knocked them right off their feet. A third man appeared in the gateway and attempted to haul one door closed. He went down by Ieuan’s hand, dust flaring around him as he crashed to the ground.

Raymond put four fingers in his mouth and whistled three times as loudly as he could. If Gufraid was not already aware of the attack, he would be now. Raymond knew that even at full pace it would take some time for the other group to get to the walls of Fiodh-Ard Liag. They could not allow Háimar’s men to recover from the initial shock. He ran over and quickly ransacked Háimar’s belt of his dagger and hand-axe, tossing them to two of the Welshmen.

‘Now the warriors,’ he told Ieuan.

The archer turned his deadly aim on the small fight going on before the gates. The Fiodh-Ard Liag men had recovered and were retreating in good order towards the manor wall. Grím’s men were doing their best, but they were outnumbered and even the addition of two Welshmen to the fight could not help. Ieuan’s intervention changed all that. In less than ten seconds, three men were down and he killed another two as Háimar’s men turned and ran for the gates. Grím screeched for his men to follow and they were joined by three more Welshmen who had pilfered weapons from Ieuan’s victims.

A shout of surprise came from Raymond’s left and he ducked just in time to avoid being struck in his undefended head by an arrow coming from the wall of Fiodh-Ard Liag. Three boys with hunting bows had appeared and were shooting wildly at the attackers. Raymond felt Ieuan’s arm wrap around him and bodily force him across to the cover of a hedge just as another flight of arrows skidded across the pathway.

‘Thank you,’ the Norman captain called as his back thumped into the ground. He saw that Háimar was still lying on the path and he quickly ran out into the open to haul him into cover. The jarl stirred and grimaced as Raymond turned him onto his front to prevent him from choking on his own blood. Another two arrows crashed through the hedge above Raymond. He could see that the intercession of the archers inside the manor had also stopped the assault on Fiodh-Ard Liag. One of Grím’s men was down and the rest had run for cover behind the two handcarts. One of the Welshmen reached around to untie the rope holding the dog. The animal was unhurt and immediately dashed out of harm’s way once set free.

Raymond could hear a distinct scraping sound and glanced down the path to see the gates of the manor being closed. He muttered a curse word and looked north over the fields through a small gap in the hedge. He could see people on the hill but the distance was too great and he could not make out if they were Gufraid’s group or slaves working the fields. His attack had stalled and unless he could get it moving again the chances of taking the manor were slim.

At his side, Ieuan suddenly climbed to his feet and shot off an arrow. He knelt down immediately and merely said ‘two’ in the Welsh tongue before crawling further up the hedge. Raymond grabbed Háimar’s shoulders and followed. A few moments later there was a clatter and thump as arrows began punching through the branches where they had been crouching. Ieuan was doing his part. By the time Raymond had lugged Háimar to his new spot, another of the boy-bowmen was downed. Their skill shooting at rabbits was simply no match for Ieuan’s expertise honed across a lifetime of warfare. Not that the last boy was willing to give up. He continued to trade shots with the older Welshman in defence of his home. Ieuan’s shake of his head was as much in admiration of the boy’s tenacity as it was frustration that he could not defeat his opponent.

Raymond wasn’t willing to wait any longer. He could hear panicked orders inside the walls of the town and knew that Háimar’s folk were preparing their defences as best they could to meet their renewed assault. The longer he gave them to organise, the worse it would be. He steeled himself and then ran along the course of the hedge towards the gates. He knew the archer would see him, but no arrow lanced through the early evening sky to strike him. Skidding to a halt behind the first cart, he beckoned towards three Welshmen to follow and then pointed towards the large pine trunk lying abandoned a few paces away. They did not move and he mimed swinging the tree trunk, pointing at the gate to Fiodh-Ard Liag.

‘Battering ram,’ he said, simulating the swinging action again.

The Welshmen swapped nervous glances before warily moving out from behind the cart and following Raymond into the open. There was a puff of dust on the path beside Raymond’s left foot where an arrow collided with the ground. It was followed by a high-pitched yelp from the wall of the manor and a cheer of success from Ieuan. Raymond could see the Welshman running towards him.

‘Got him,’ he cried as he reached his kinsmen. In his hands were his three remaining arrows and his bow.

Raymond stooped and grabbed one of the fetters which had been used to tie him and the Welshmen to the pine trunk. He looped it around the bottom of the tree and waited for the three archers to copy. The trunk was much heavier to hold underarm than it had been on their shoulders, but they managed to lift it and shuffle towards the gates.

The first spear thrown from the wall missed Raymond by a few feet. The next one caught the man behind him on the forearm. It sliced upon a long wound, but the Welshman did not stop, even when more debris began pouring down upon the four men. Ieuan revenged the wounded man by killing the defender with an arrow to his neck, but he wasted the next by shooting before he was properly ready. He had one arrow left and Raymond could see that he was holding off using it.

Raymond had begun chanting a rhythm for the men to follow as they approached the gates. It marked out the tempo of their feet and their arms began to swing the pine trunk in time too. ‘One,-two, one-two,’ he called, stopping only when an empty barrel bounced next to him and banged into his shoulder. ‘One-two, one-two,’ he cried again as the first strike bit home into the gates of Fiodh-Ard Liag. The second blow tore bark and sapwood away. A third opened a hole in the gates.

He spotted a man appear just to his right with a spear raised to throw and Raymond held his breath for there was nothing he could do other than hope that he missed his target. As the man braced to throw his body jerked backwards. Ieuan’s last arrow punched into his chest. The spearman disappeared, only to be replaced by a woman who lobbed an eating knife at Raymond’s crew. It stabbed the Welshman second from the front of the battering ram in the shoulder. He cried out in pain and fell to his knees.

‘Get out,’ Raymond called in his direction. ‘Run!’ he added before calling out the tempo again.

The battering ram crashed home. More pale wood skittered free and Raymond could see daylight on the far side. ‘One-two, one-two,’ he shouted, but he could already feel his arms fading. His voice was too, the pace getting slower as he breathed more shallowly.

Another shower of rocks and weapons clattered on the pine trunk. A fist-sized stone caught Raymond in the chest and a piece of turf thumped into his thigh. The man in front of him was not so lucky: a large branch crashed down onto his head. He went to his knees immediately, slumping across the middle of the battering ram. The rhythm of the battering ram stopped as his weight bore down on Raymond’s and his last companion’s arms. Both groaned in pain and attempted to dislodge the man.

‘Get off,’ Raymond appealed as the injured Welshman finally slid to the ground. He breathed heavily and looked quickly to his left and right. A man stood above him, a hand-axe raised above his shoulder ready to launch. Raymond knew that he was the target and could see the anger in the man’s eyes. He was less than ten paces away. If he dropped the battering ram and ran Raymond knew that he might make it. To stay was to die.

‘One-two,’ Raymond called as he yanked the pine trunk backwards and then threw it forwards with all his might. Whether it was his sudden movement, or the reverberations from the strike that caused him to stumble, Raymond could not tell, but the axe remained in the man’s hand. And, in a glorious piece of timing, that was when Gufraid and the second group arrived at the gates.

‘Shoot,’ Gufraid shouted.

The whack of arrowheads striking timber deafened Raymond. He could see the man at the front of the battering ram duck down and raise his shoulder to cover his ears. Anyone who might have thrown stones or weapons had dived for cover.

‘One,’ Raymond yelled as he again got the pine trunk moving. ‘Two,’ he roared as it crunched into the gates. ‘Come on, break!’

Suddenly, Grím’s purple shirt appeared in front of him, and he was followed by another Ostman. The weight bearing down on his forearm lessened. The impact of the battering ram got louder and then, with Grím shouting out the commands, the gate suddenly burst off its hinges. Grím and his companion didn’t wait, but dropped their grip on the battering ram and aimed a few well-placed kicks to open the gates further. He wasn’t a big man, but Grím quickly dealt with the obstruction.

Raymond had never been part of a charging Ostman attack, but he had faced one and he shouted for space as he hauled the pine trunk out of their way just before Gufraid and his men ran past him and into the manor. His shoulder was in agony as he disentangled his arm from the battering ram. He could see that his surviving companion was in a similar condition. Ieuan appeared to be tending to the man who had fallen before the gates and Raymond left him to his business. A couple of the late arrivals were going through the belongings in the cart and Raymond directed the archers to pack the skins and food into one of the small vessels tied to the wharf.

Crossing the path, he found Jarl Háimar sitting up with his back to the hedge. He was being watched by another bowman. He had no idea if the Ostman could speak the French tongue, but the threat of the Welsh archer seemed to encourage the jarl to comply with Raymond’s direction. He forced Háimar back towards his manor.

‘They have barricaded themselves in the great hall,’ Gufraid told him as he drew close, flashing a thumb at the large wooden building ahead. He turned his eyes on Háimar. ‘And they still have my boys.’

Raymond took hold of Háimar’s shirt and shunted him towards Gufraid, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. ‘Go and get your children back. There is no need for further violence. Tell them that we’ll go as soon as they are handed over.’

Gufraid nodded and force-marched Háimar towards his own hall. Raymond could see the sparkle of the evening sun on a blade at his throat. He could not understand Gufraid’s words, but he could hear the emotion in his voice. There was a brief back and forth between Gufraid and someone inside the hall. Soon, the door of the great hall opened and three haggard-looking young men emerged. Gufraid waited until they were almost level with him before releasing Háimar. The small jarl walked back to the hall with as much dignity as he could muster and then stood in the hall doorway, staring out.

Raymond called for the Ostmen to lead the way and then Ieuan and he marched out through the gates alongside the Welsh archers. Everything except the dog had been piled into the small boat, but they had to throw the grain onto the mucky beach to make enough room for all of Gufraid and Raymond’s party.

With his jarl occupied with his three sons, Grím took command of the vessel and proved an able replacement. The small creek was already filled with water and the eight oarsmen were enough to pull the boat into the midst of the River Siúire. They unfurled the sail and, with the sinking sun behind them and a fair wind coming from the south, Grím pointed the bows towards Siol Bhroin.

The ship was called Seagull, Mæw in the Saxon tongue. Her captain, Aylward, was a man of Bristol and of that folk.

‘She’s usually used for coastal work, so she’s in her element in these waters,’ Aylward promised Strongbow. ‘She can get you into any port, Seagull can,’ he said, digging his elbow into Strongbow’s ribs again, ‘if you know what I mean.’

Strongbow really didn’t, but he smiled politely again as Aylward made another attempt at innuendo.

‘Knows what’s what and what goes where, does ol’ Seagull.’ The Saxon’s elbow bumped Strongbow’s ribs again. ‘And remember: if you ever need my ships again, you only have to ask, Lord. You’d not want to be going elsewhere for transport. The FitzHarding men might hear about this little enterprise otherwise. They’d go straight to King Henry with it and you wouldn’t want that, no? Not me, I’m your man in Bristol.’

‘I will keep you in mind,’ Strongbow replied curtly and moved away from the steering oar to the other side of the ship. The rest of the fleet were further out to sea than Seagull and had successfully negotiated the two small islands that guarded the bay. The wind was coming from the south-west and one of Aylward’s men tugged on the sheets to keep the sail at its most effective angle.

‘Because obviously you are going to be needing access to shipping,’ Aylward continued. ‘And I can do it cheap because now we have a relationship.’

Strongbow turned to see that Aylward had followed him and had given control of the vessel to another man. He shooed away a sailor on the port side and took his place, fiddling with the braces, unwinding them from the wooden stay and then tying them up again.

‘I’m just saying: I know those FitzHarding men. I grew up working their boats. Devious bastards,’ he said.

‘Wasn’t FitzHarding also called Robert the Devout? It seems incongruous that a man known as being so good to the church would also be as difficult as you suggest.’

Aylward didn’t miss a beat. ‘But why was he being so pious? That’s what you have to ask yourself, Lord: what crimes are they trying to atone for? I’m telling you, they would cheat you sure as they would look at you! That goes for the son, Maurice, and Old Robert, God rest his soul and all that.’ Aylward quickly crossed his chest before continuing on with another anecdote about the time before he had struck out on his own as a merchant, of the double-dealing FitzHardings and their many misdeeds.

Strongbow turned his body so that he could look at Ireland over the rolling sea. The land looked no different from Wales which they had left early that same morning. It was the same green and browns and yellows, the sea still munched white at its shore. That gave him heart and calmed his nerves somewhat. Strongbow jumped as Aylward suddenly broke off from his story in order to yell across at the new steersman.

‘Bring her south, Algar. Now where was I? Oh yes, so old Robert FitzHarding sells the same stone to the Cistercians twice!’ Aylward laughed heartily before launching into another tale from his past.

Scowling, Strongbow returned to his vigil. The headland was still half a mile away, but he made out a few tiny figures and huts before Seagull plunged back downwards and the fort was lost from sight. In the belly of the ship he could see more warriors staring over the side, attempting to catch a glimpse of the new land. Others comforted the hobbled horses in their little stalls promising them, no doubt, that their long-awaited dinner would soon be served and the dreadful sea journey complete. Unlike the other vessels, Seagull was not so tightly packed, having left room to carry Raymond’s conrois, esquires and horses to their new destination. The sixty men on board were principally made up of the retinues led by Jean de Clahull and Richard de Maroine. Both knights were prepared to stay in Ireland as long as it took to capture Veðrarfjord – as long, that was, as they were not called to attend upon King Henry or their suzerain lord. Both were men of property, holding lands from the Earl of Gloucester. Both wanted more, and Strongbow had promised them it.

Seagull mounted the peak of another wave giving Strongbow another view of Raymond’s fort. He could see the wide green expanse and fancied that he had caught a glance of the wall that Rechin, Sir Hervey’s man, had told him had been constructed. What he could not see were any cattle. The ship tipped and his sightline was blocked by the grey ocean before he could concentrate his gaze on any part of the fortifications. At the apex of the next wave, he tried again. This time he was certain. There were no cattle within the walls of Raymond’s bridgehead.

‘Rechin!’ he shouted, cutting off Aylward mid-story. ‘Rechin,’ he called again. The untidy warrior’s head appeared about halfway up the deck. He gingerly got to his feet, reaching up to use the sail to steady his weight. Several of Aylward’s sailors yelled out in harmony in the English tongue to get him to leave it alone. Rechin had already lurched across to the mast and hung onto that before making a dash to the port side of Seagull through the lines of men and horses.

‘Lord?’

Strongbow did not turn. ‘You came to me at Pill Priory and told me that Raymond had failed in his duty. You said that Sir Hervey had taken command of the bridgehead in Ireland. Is that correct?’

Rechin glanced at the shoreline, still a quarter-mile away. ‘I did, but -’

‘Then why can I see no cattle in the fort? Does my uncle not realise that was the whole reason for sending my best troops ahead to Ireland?’ Strongbow twisted on his heel and stared at Rechin. ‘I like to think that I am a fair and even-tempered man, but this really is pushing me to my limits. Where are the cattle that I was promised?’

Rechin was not used to seeing this side of Strongbow. He had only ever seen the worried old man, locked away in the priory staring at sheaves of paper and counting out coins. He looked to Aylward for assistance, but the merchant sailor had skulked away and had taken back the helm.

‘I don’t … that is, I’m not a farmer. However, I would suggest -’

‘Where are my cattle?’ Strongbow roared. He had not felt a fury like it since his abysmal treatment by King Henry at court in Westminster. His whole campaign, nay, his whole future, relied on his captains collecting enough food to feed their army while they besieged Veðrarfjord. If this had not been done his fleet may as well turn back towards Wales! He had raised an army and brought himself to the brink of financial ruin and all Raymond and Sir Hervey had to do in the same time was to corral a few cattle into the fort.

‘Perhaps Raymond has awoken and taken back command?’ Rechin continued. ‘I’ve been gone for almost a week and I know Sir Hervey wouldn’t let you down, Lord. Yes, it is probably Raymond’s fault. He was the one that lost the cattle in the first place. It must be him.’

Strongbow sighed angrily and dismissed Rechin with a wave of his hand. ‘Useless,’ he moaned, loud enough for Sir Hervey’s man to hear it. He turned back towards the sea. The other eleven vessels in his fleet were still far out to sea, but had cleared the danger of the islands. As ordered they would continue to their new landing place, a beach in Ostman territory selected by Sir Hervey. It was, Rechin had reported, the perfect site for disembarking their horses and the few supplies left over from their camp in Wales. ‘Much better than Dun Domhnall,’ he had added. It was there that Strongbow would journey once he got the answers he needed. Behind him, Aylward shouted something in the English tongue to his crewmen.

‘We’re going about, Lord,’ Aylward warned, switching to French and pulling the steering board to his chest. Seagull dipped her shoulder and turned in a wide circle. Aylward straightened her up as her bows pointed into the wind and then began issuing orders again.

The sail flapped wildly above the ship and Strongbow could see the horses were getting frightened. He was about to say something to Aylward when the merchant beckoned for him to join him on the starboard side.

‘Keep her pointed into the wind,’ he said, then left to assist his crewmen.

Strongbow grabbed the steering board and immediately felt the tug of the water against Seagull’s bows. He had never piloted a ship before, not even his own Waverider, and, despite his fury, he felt the sudden elation and responsibility of being in control. He stole a glimpse and saw the crew struggling with the sail. They had lowered the yard but the close confines made it difficult to stow it properly. Men looped ropes and tied knots as Aylward shouted commands and urged them to hurry. Strongbow looked over the stern of Seagull and was troubled to see just how close she was to the black cliffs of Dun Domhnall. He fought the desire to change the ship’s course and kept her pointed into the wind as best he could. Finally, after many minutes working at it, the stowed sail was hauled back up the mast and out of the way.

‘Beg your pardon, but I had better take us in,’ Aylward announced as he rejoined Strongbow and placed his right hand on the steering board.

Strongbow stepped away and watched as Aylward expertly used the current and the effect of the wind on the hull to guide the ship around the eastern cape and onto the small beach below Raymond’s fort. Protected from the breeze, he looked up to see a number of men on the rocky outcropping. Welshmen, Strongbow realised. His first impulse at the sight of them was animosity and worry that they might begin shooting arrows at the men packed into the ship. They were Raymond’s men and he felt his eyes narrow in suspicion at the sight of them.

‘Don’t let anyone disembark,’ he ordered Aylward. ‘And get a gangplank out. We will have men, horses and supplies to get aboard.’ Strongbow did not wait for a response but marched down the length of the ship. Several crewmen had already leapt onto the sand from the bows and had run lines up the cliffs ahead to secure Seagull ashore. At the bows Strongbow paused, his two hands gripping the sheer-strake, his body tensed to swing over the side.

One more step and I will be in Ireland, he thought. One more move and King Henry will be able to declare me traitor.

Strongbow stared at the sandy beach and wondered if it was too late to pull back from the brink. Scabs covered the knuckles of his lacerated left hand, but in his exertions to keep Seagull pointed into the wind, several had reopened. Ruby red blood poured down his fingers to drip into the ocean which lapped against the beach. He watched the droplets disappear and thought of his father. He recalled the stories and songs about his grandfather and great-grandfather. His sires were conquerors. Strongbow ached to replicate their success, to have his name placed alongside theirs. One day he would have to meet them in the hereafter and he wanted be able to say ‘in life, these were my deeds’ and have them look on in pride. He wanted his father to admit that he was worthy of his name. He had been denied the opportunity for his whole adult life. He would not waste it. Strongbow threw his legs over the side and dropped down into the surf. He immediately plunged into the shadow cast by the cliffs by the setting sun. Strongbow could see a small path cut into the cliffside and he walked in that direction. The climb was gruelling but short, and the wind immediately increased as he reached the top. Ahead, the Norman earthworks, crowned with a timber fortification, looked impressive and as Strongbow collected his breath, a small group of horsemen emerged from the gates and began trotting towards him. They were led by Sir Hervey. He could see the hoops of his green, white and red surcoat out in front, his oily long hair bouncing on his thin shoulders.

‘Nephew!’ Sir Hervey called as he brought his courser to a halt.

Strongbow nodded his head in greeting and waited for Sir Hervey to climb down from the saddle. He could hear his uncle’s knees creak as he lowered himself to the ground. The earl did not recognise the two men with Sir Hervey, but beyond the small group he did spot the distant figure of William de Vale, one of Raymond’s esquires, on foot as he came along the open grassland towards them. There were two more figures with William. One was a woman.

‘Welcome, Nephew,’ Sir Hervey tried again, noticing Strongbow’s stiff manner. ‘Our campaign can truly begin now that you have arrived to lead us. A celebratory drink?’ He waved a hand at his men. One produced a skin and began clambering down from the saddle.

Strongbow frowned. ‘That will not be necessary. Tell me, please, that you have managed to achieve your objective. Tell me you have collected enough cattle to feed my army.’

‘A hundred and thirty head will return to the fort before sundown.’ Sir Hervey looked confused at the earl’s question.

Strongbow’s hands went to his knees and he breathed out. ‘Thank you, Uncle. You have no idea how relieving it is to hear that.’ Strongbow straightened up and looked to the sky. His lips mumbled a prayer to St Peter. ‘Raymond is with them, I presume?’

‘Raymond? Hah!’ Sir Hervey laughed and shook his head. ‘I hope Rechin told you all about his antics in your absence?’

‘He did, Uncle.’ Strongbow replied as a very sweaty William de Vale jogged the last few steps to come to a halt before him and salute. ‘Master William?’

The young man struggled to speak and held a hand up in an appeal for a moment to recover his breath. Strongbow noted his uncle’s reaction to William’s arrival. He sent a sharp look towards his ragged warrior and then nodded in William’s direction. Sir Hervey’s man moved over towards William, placing a hand on his chest, and pushing him away.

‘The earl doesn’t wish to be disturbed by the likes of you,’ Sir Hervey wheezed.

‘But Raymond told me I had to pass on his greetings to the earl,’ William replied. Sir Hervey’s man pushed him again. William knocked his hand aside and squared up to him.

‘Try that again and I’ll break your jaw,’ he warned.

Sir Hervey squawked again. ‘You shouldn’t trouble yourself with his sort, Nephew. He has been around Raymond for much too long and, as you can see, has gone quite wild.’ He turned his eyes on William. ‘You even took Raymond’s coin, didn’t you boy? Meaning that you no longer are in the earl’s service. What possible right could you have to speak to my nephew?’

‘I really don’t have time for this nonsense,’ Strongbow growled and turned towards his former esquire. ‘William, whatever message Raymond wishes or wished you pass on can wait for him to say it to me himself.’ His eyes flicked to the other two figures that had trailed William. Both looked winded from running across the headland in his wake. He recognised the woman, Alice the Bastard of Abergavenny, who had caused so many problems for him earlier in the summer. She was Raymond’s lover and Strongbow felt a pang of arousal as she turned her angry eyes on him. ‘In the meantime perhaps you can tell me where he is, eh?’ he demanded. ‘Where is Raymond?’

It was Alice who answered. ‘He will return soon, Lord. He is abroad on your -’

‘We don’t know where he is,’ Sir Hervey interrupted. ‘He left more than a week ago with the Welshmen and has not returned.’

‘He was raiding,’ exclaimed William. ‘He was trying to -’

‘Raiding, yes,’ Sir Hervey continued. ‘He really has gone native, Nephew. He has been off on his own errands again. I don’t know from where he is getting his orders, but I cannot believe they are the ones given to him by you. You would not condone theft and mayhem. Perhaps he is taking his orders from his tame Welshman, Caradog, or maybe it is from an even less qualified source?’ Sir Hervey turned his eyes on Alice, coughing gently and inclining his head in her direction.

William de Vale caught the look and stepped forward. ‘Raymond is about your business, Lord. He has been since he arrived in Ireland. He built these fortifications -’

‘Which I had to rebuild only this week since they proved entirely defective,’ interjected Sir Hervey.

‘And he defeated the enemy -’

Sir Hervey guffawed. ‘Despite making every stupid, foolhardy decision possible! He almost burned down the entire fort and your army with it, Nephew. I was forced to take command and oversee things, to make sure that this bridgehead – your bridgehead – was secure, well-defended and ready for your arrival. You can ask any of your trusted milites the name of the real captain at Dun Domhnall, Nephew.’ He turned his eyes on Raymond’s friends. ‘You can ask them the name of the victor over the horde of Veðrarfjord. None will say Raymond. I can assure you of that.’

William, Alice and the young man with them erupted. Such was their anger that only a few words and almost none of their arguments could be heard clearly by Strongbow. Sir Hervey added to the din with counter-allegations of his own. Worse, William de Vale attempted to move closer and was wrestled to the ground by Sir Hervey’s man. Dust kicked up around them as they scuffled on the sandy ground.

‘Stop that and be quiet!’ Strongbow roared, bringing the racket to a halt. ‘I don’t have time for this. I only care that we have supplies and we have an army. Now we must combine the two at our new camp. Sir Hervey,’ he snapped. ‘You will take command of the conrois since their former captain has deserted his post.’ William de Vale began to argue but Strongbow raised his hand to silence him. ‘No! Raymond has proven a great disappointment, particularly since it was on his counsel that I continued my plans to collect my army. I trusted him! Yet now I find he is off gallivanting to God knows where?’ The earl shook his head. ‘Those are not the actions of a captain, but of a bandit! And I cannot trust him to lead my troops into battle until he changes his ways.’

Sir Hervey cackled. ‘You are right, Nephew. I will lead your men to glory, in your name -’

‘You will do better than that, Uncle. You will send your man to hurry the milites and the cattle back here and then you will lead the warriors onto the beach, along with every person sworn to my service. They will make ready every horse. They will gather all the weaponry, all the armour, and stow it aboard Seagull. I want to be ready to sail as soon as possible. For before the sun sets we sail for Veðrarfjord territory. Do you understand?’

Sir Hervey smiled. ‘I do, Nephew. We are finally going to war.’

‘We are.’ Strongbow watched as Sir Hervey gave his orders and the man climbed back into the saddle and began riding northwards. ‘Good. Now go and make your other preparations, Uncle. Master William, come here!’ he added, dismissing Sir Hervey.

The young man glanced at Sir Hervey as he approached. The old knight stared back at him as he climbed onto his horse’s back and walked back towards the fortifications.

‘Lord Strongbow?’

‘Is it true what Sir Hervey said? Are you Raymond’s man now?’

‘I am, Lord. And I must tell you that what Sir Hervey said was -’

‘It is too late for that,’ Strongbow snapped. ‘Now the wine is drawn, it must be drunk. Isn’t that one of Raymond’s favourite sayings? Well, he must learn that there are consequences to his actions. And you must too, since you have chosen his service over mine, the man who paid to have trained you from a boy.’

‘My Lord, I thought -’

Strongbow held up a hand. ‘No. All I require of you is to deliver this message to Raymond when he finally decides to return. Tell him that his conduct here in Ireland has proven a very great disappointment to me.’ Strongbow’s eyes flicked towards Alice of Abergavenny. ‘Tell him that unless he gets the cattle train to Veðrarfjord I will dismiss him from my service. Since I have not paid the Welsh bowmen to be here, and I have no more room for them on my ship, they can remain to help him, as can you,’ his eyes flicked to Alice, ‘and your friends. If Raymond proves he can handle being a cattle drover at least I will have a use for him in the future.’ Strongbow shook his head and sighed. ‘I don’t like saying these things, you understand, but Raymond must appreciate my position.’ He looked at Alice again and felt his expression change again. ‘Tell him that I will accept no more excuses.’ With that Strongbow stepped back onto the path carved into the cliff and made his way back to Seagull to await his conrois.

Rechin was waiting for him. ‘Orders, Lord?’

‘Everything is in hand.’

‘I should return to Sir Hervey then,’ he said and, without awaiting Strongbow’s leave, took a few steps up the beach in the direction of Dun Domhnall.

‘Wait. Do you know how to get to Fearna?’

‘Diarmait Mac Murchada’s home?’ Rechin asked. ‘A hard ride maybe half a day to the north. I can find it.’

‘Then I have a task for you.’