The Earl Strongbow, page 1
THE EARL
STRONGBOW
Ruadh Butler
Published by Accent Press Ltd 2018
www.accentpress.co.uk
Copyright © Ruadh Butler 2018
The right of Ruadh Butler to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of Accent Press Ltd.
ISBN 9781910939291
eISBN 9781910939307
On the walls of Waterford, a king will be made…
Contents
Glossary
Notes
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Glossary
WALES
Abergavenny – castle controlled by Braose family
Aberteifi – castle in modern Cardigan
Afon Wysg – River Usk
Deheubarth – Welsh kingdom of South Wales
Haverford – Haverfordwest
Melrfjord – Milford Haven
Netherwent – Lower Gwent, roughly from Monmouth south to the Severn along the River Usk
Striguil – castle in modern Chepstow
Tyndyrn – Tintern Abbey
Usk – castle in modern Monmouthshire
IRELAND
Áth Skipir – Auskurra, near modern Dunmore East
Banabh – Bannow Bay
Baile an Gharráin – Ballygarran, close to Waterford Airport
Bearú – River Barrow
Brénainn’s Hill – Brandon Hill in modern County Kilkenny
Uí Ceinnselaig – a tribal kingdom in modern County Wexford ruled by the Meic Murchada family
Cill Odhran – Killotteran in County Waterford
Cluainmín – Clonmines
Dubháth – the ‘Black Ford’; Duagh in County Waterford
Dubhlinn – a city in eastern Ireland (modern Dublin)
Dubhán’s Headland – Hook Head
Dun Conán – Duncannon
Dun Domhnall – Dun Donnell, modern Baginbun Head in County Wexford
Fearna – the modern town of Ferns
Fiodh-Ard Liag – ‘High Wood of the Slate’; Faithlegg in County Waterford
Uí Geintaigh – Ogenty, a barony in eastern County Kilkenny controlled by the Uí Ceallaigh
Laighin – the modern province of Leinster excepting Counties Meath, Westmeath, Longford, and Louth
Meannán – Minaun; a hill at Faithlegg in County Waterford
Mhumhain – Kingdom of Munster
Osraighe – a tribal kingdom ruled by the Meic Giolla Phadraig family in modern Kilkenny and the southern part of Laois
Sláine – River Slaney
Siol Bhroin – Shelburne, an area of land including the Hook Peninsula
Siúire – River Suir
St Abban’s Monastery – Celtic monastery at modern New Ross
St Fiachra’s Monastery – Ullard Church just north of Graiguenamanagh
Tuadhmumhain – petty-kingdom roughly equating to modern County Clare and North Tipperary, ruled by the Uí Briain family
Veðrarfjord – Waterford; an Ostman city on the River Suir
Waesfjord – Wexford; an Ostman city built on mud flats
PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS
Alice of Abergavenny – illegitimate daughter of the late Lord of Abergavenny
Basilia de Quincy – illegitimate daughter of Richard de Clare
Déisi – a tribe from modern County Waterford
Diarmait Mac Murchada – Dermot MacMurrough, King of Laighin
Diarmait Ua Ceallaigh – Dermot O’Kelly, King of the Uí Geintaigh
Donnchadh Ua Riagháin – Donnacha O’Ryan, King of the Uí Drona
Fionntán Ua Donnchaidh – Fintan O’Dunphy, a Gaelic warrior
Henry FitzEmpress – King of England
Henry the Young King – the heir to the throne of England
Sir Hervey de Montmorency – uncle to Richard de Clare
Hubert Walter – a priest and court official
Jean de Clahull – knight from Strongbow’s Hertfordshire lands at Weston
Máel Sechlainn Ua Fhaolain – Melaughlin O’Phelan, King of the Déisi
Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain – Malachy O’Regan, the secretary to Diarmait Mac Murchada of Laighin
Ragnall Mac Giolla Mhuire – Reginald MacGillamurray, King of Veðrarfjord
Raymond de Carew – a warrior in the retinue of Striguil
Richard de Clare – Lord of Striguil, formerly Earl of Pembroke
Roger de Quincy – son-in-law to Richard de Clare, married to his illegitimate daughter
Sigtrygg Mac Giolla Mhuire – Sihtric MacGillamurray, usurper King of Veðrarfjord
Uí Drona – a tribe from Idrone in modern County Carlow
RAYMOND’S MILITES
Gilbert Borard, Thurstin Hore, Christian de Moleyns, Asclettin FitzEustace, Denis d’Auton, Walter de Bloet, Dafydd FitzHywell, William de Vale; Griffin de Carew, Gerald ‘Bach’ FitzMaurice, William FitzMaurice, Hostilo d’Angle, Gervais d’Alton, Robert de Barri.
Notes
The ‘Fitz’ prefix is the Norman derivation of the Latin ‘Filius’ meaning ‘son of’.
A miles (one of a number of milites) is a Norman horseman armoured similarly to a knight but not considered to be of the same noble rank.
The Ostmen (East Men) were made up of Fionngall (Fair Foreigners), presumed to be the descendants of the original Norse invaders who populated the cities of Dublin, Waterford, and Wexford (amongst others), and the Dubhgall (Dark Foreigners), who were Danes and arrived a century later following their conquests in northern England. The Danish Uí Ímair (the descendants of Ivarr) quickly became the ruling class in most of these settlements and founded the cities of Limerick and Cork.
Irish families were divided into clans (tuath) and septs (finte), thus Diarmait Mac Murchada was the King of the Uí Chennselaig (tuath – the descendants of Cennsalach) as well as the Meic Murchada (finte – the sons of Murchad)
Prologue
Ger Castle, Normandy
Summer 1170
The king was dying.
All his doctors were in agreement. He would not survive the fever. For two weeks the sickness had raged through his lungs and ravaged his guts. Henry FitzEmpress was fading. The king was dying.
Royal messengers had already been despatched to his son and heir, Prince Harry, crowned king alongside his father two months before. Prepare, they were instructed to tell the fifteen-year old. Prepare to become lord and master of an empire. Prepare to become the greatest king in all Christendom.
Secret letters telling the same tale also found their way south to the king’s wife, Eleanor, at Poitiers, and east to Paris where the exiled Archbishop of Canterbury plotted his return to England.
‘Where is Master Ralph?’ King Henry raved, and slugged from a wine goblet, spilling most down his chest and onto his bed. ‘Master Ralph will return me to health.’ The king’s light ginger hair clung to his damp, yellowed face and he swiped it away with his shivering hand.
‘You Grace, your physician was among those poor souls who perished during your crossing to England in the spring. Do you recall?’ The Bishop of Lisieux used the same voice that he employed to calm his hunting dogs. ‘Be assured, we have engaged new doctors to oversee your recovery.’ His eyes flicked up. One of the new physicians, an Italian, visibly wilted and refused to meet his eyes.
Henry suddenly shot forward from his sick bed and grabbed the bishop by his robes, hauling him close enough so that the bishop could smell the puke and wine upon his breath. The king’s eyes danced in his pink face.
‘Becket has done this to me,’ Henry whispered, ‘just as he summoned up that storm to try and drown me during my passage across the Channel. You must protect me from his magic.’ A moan of sadness hissed from the king’s throat and he meekly punched the bishop in the shoulder as he clung to his robes. ‘I extended my hand in friendship to him, tried to make peace as you instructed, and he has conspired to murder me.’ The king’s head slumped onto the bishop’s chest, the grip on his chasuble lessening. ‘It’s too damn hot,’ Henry whimpered as his hands fell away and he flopped back onto his back in bed. ‘Why is it always so damn hot in Normandy? I cannot believe I am going to die in this shithole.’ The king began rolling around the bed, his arms clutching his legs to his chest.
A smear of sweat had been left on the bishop’s rich vestments. The bishop raised his hand to wipe Henry’s perspiration from his clothes, but stopped himself from doing so in the company of so many great men. As he glanced around the room though he realised that not one person cared how he comported himself. All eyes were on Henry. Each man was considering how the king’s impending death would affect his empire and their place in it. The bishop understood their panic. Like them, he wondered if Henry’s death would present him with an opportunity to extend his influence, or with the circumstan ces that would diminish his power. The bishop had no doubt that Henry’s passing would bring great peril upon them all. The Count of Eu had already departed Ger with his small retinue. He had told the bishop that Henry’s death would precipitate an attack on his territory from Champagne or Flanders and that he had to prepare for that eventuality. The count would pay dearly should the king recover and learn that his liege man had left court without permission. This king did not forget. This king did not forgive.
The rest of the gathered barons, administrators, and clerics lingered, biding their time, safe in the knowledge that their households were ready to start out as soon as the king died. They would seek to be close to power once the king was gone, the bishop knew. But where would they seek it? The heir was a boy and could not be expected to preside over the kingdom for many years. A regency council would be established, but who would head it? Queen Eleanor? Could a woman – even one who had reigned over Aquitaine and Poitou – possess the ability to rule Henry’s empire? The bishop doubted it. He considered a dozen candidates for the role of regent, but as quickly as they occurred to him he thought of reasons to discount them. The bishop began to wonder if anyone had the authority and vigour necessary to hold the kingdom together without Henry.
A sudden shiver ran down the bishop’s back. There was one man of great ability who had experience of running the kingdom. The bishop crossed his chest and looked heavenward. What if the new king turned to his former mentor in his father’s absence? How would the barons react if Thomas Becket, their errant Archbishop of Canterbury, returned from exile as regent for the new king?
‘Get word to Thomas, tell him that I truly do forgive him,’ Henry whimpered in his direction, giving voice to the bishop’s worst fears. ‘At Fréteval he told me that he still believes me a liar. Tell him that I wish him to return to Canterbury and be as a father to my son – as he was before our troubles began. The boy will need sound advice after I am gone.’ Tears poured down the king’s face as he spoke. ‘He may even conduct another coronation, if that is what he wants so badly.’ Henry blubbed and panted, and forced his body further down into the bedclothes. ‘I have enemies everywhere! I need my true friends at my side now. Get Thomas here, Bishop, before it is too late!’
As the king rolled over onto his stomach to weep into his pillow, the Bishop of Lisieux swapped an alarmed look with the Earl Warenne, the king’s bastard brother. Warenne slowly shook his head and gestured for the bishop to remain in the room.
‘I will see to it, Your Grace,’ the earl stated, but made no move to fulfil Henry’s wishes.
At the foot of the king’s bed the Lord Chancellor and the Dean of Salisbury shared a whispered and hurried conversation. Whether it was caused by the earl’s inaction or by King Henry’s words the bishop did not know, but he did know that they, above all others, had more to lose should Becket be permitted to return to England. He crossed the room to stand by the Earl Warenne’s right hand.
‘Have you ever seen those two weasels look more worried?’ the bishop joked.
‘I don’t think any of us have,’ the earl retorted, ‘or more tired. Three weeks on the road with Henry is like a lifetime on crusade. A week ago I would have thanked the Holy Trinity for my brother to be bed-bound for I felt that I could not possibly drag my corpse one more mile. But now, with Becket poised to return, I pray only for Henry to recover and for us to be back on the damned road.’
‘But His Grace was in good health before Fréteval?’
Warenne nodded. ‘In good health, and in a bad mood as usual.’ He lifted his chin in Henry’s direction. ‘This business with King Louis, the Pope, and Becket has thoroughly distressed him. That idiot son of his is no better of course.’ The king was shivering in his bed, seemingly asleep. ‘It is Henry’s own damned fault. I told him that he had been pushing himself too hard since we landed at Barfleur.’
The bishop nodded in agreement. He had only joined the king’s court at Bernay, but had found it almost impossible to keep to the punishing pace set by Henry. It had been a whirlwind journey through Normandy on horseback. Every day had seen Henry’s vast itinerant court visit a different city – Rouen, Évreux, Caen, Falaise and Alençon – and every evening had presented a new set of problems for the king and his entourage to preside over. But Henry would not delegate. He had to hear every detail of every court case, had to stick his nose into every disagreement. Left behind at La Ferté-Bernard after the king’s conference with the Count of Blois, the bishop had been forced to ride through the night in order to be present at the talks with Becket at the field of Fréteval. Thankfully, he was assured that the king had been able to achieve his main goal: the threat of papal interdict over England had passed. All their souls were safe.
‘Yet Henry accomplished what he intended.’
‘At what cost, I wonder?’ Warenne asked and nodded towards the squirming king.
Before the Bishop of Lisieux could answer the Lord Chancellor cleared his throat so that he could address all present.
‘If he was still clear of mind and not overborne by this cruel fever, I am sure His Grace would wish to thank you all for your loyal service and to ask that all your prayers should be directed towards the Virgin, asking her to intercede on the his behalf -’
He paused as the dean stooped to whisper in his ear.
‘I mean to say that all our prayers should be for the Virgin to find him in heaven, given his sad and hopeless condition. During our last conversation, the king made it clear to me that his choice of resting place would be in Our Lady’s loving sight, in the hope that she will conduct him to Heaven and to speak for him when he meets Lord God’s judgement. To honour that wish we must now begin arrangements to conduct His Grace’s body to the Abbey of Fontevraud.’
While several of the barons nodded in appreciation at his words, the bishop raised his eyebrows in surprise that none, bar he, had yet grasped the significance of that location. The chancellor had concocted an excuse to force them, the great men of the empire, both lay and ecclesiastical, into Poitou. Obviously the chancellor had decided where power would reside after the king’s death, and he would shepherd the barons and court administrators towards it. The Lord Chancellor would throw in his lot with Queen Eleanor! This was her grab for the regency. Her husband’s mortal remains would be the bait.
Events were threatening to overtake the bishop. Despite his urgent messages to Eleanor’s court in Limoges, he did not yet know if he would find favour with the queen, and so he could not yet commit to her cause as had the chancellor. The Pope might yet insist upon his throwing of support behind Becket as regent. But he had yet to hear from his master to that end. His spies needed time to reach him. He needed news. All he could do was to slow down proceedings.
‘The king’s supplication to Our Lady of Heaven is admirable, but might not His Grace have meant the Abbey of Our Lady of Bec as his final resting place? It is where his beloved mother lies and is, of course, dedicated to the Virgin. It is also closer to Ger Castle and to His Grace’s eldest son and heir, now in England. Bec is not far for his wife and younger sons to travel from Aquitaine.’
The bishop could feel the ire bubbling from the chancellor and his confederates as the meaning of those words hit home. He did not give them a chance to recover. ‘I am sure that the Lord Chancellor will recall overseeing His Grace’s last will and the distribution of his lands amongst his sons. And of course, as His Grace’s chief servant, he will need to return to England to be at your new king’s side as he oversees the beginning of his reign. I would suggest therefore that upon the King’s passing we should despatch riders to fetch the Seneschal of Normandy to Ger and he can arrange His Grace’s final journey to the abbey at Bec while the Lord Chancellor journeys back to England to his appropriate and correct station.’
The chancellor’s eyes tightened and he looked ready to launch into an impassioned argument, but at that moment two royal guards entered the solar with the fat Constable of Ger Castle.
‘Messengers have arrived for the Lord Chancellor, Lord Warenne and the Dean of Salisbury,’ the man announced, silencing the room.
‘We will continue this conversation later,’ the chancellor stated, casting a venomous look in the Bishop of Lisieux’s direction. He strode from the room with the dean in his wake. Other chancery clerks filed out behind them, their arms laden with rolls of paper. The Earl Warenne waited for them to pass and then turned towards the bishop.
