Lord of the Sea Castle

Book 0: The Invader Series

by Edward Ruadh Butler

Genres: Historical Fiction; Action & Adventure

Synopsis

It is 1170 - a tumultuous time for the people of Wales, England and Ireland, and Raymond de Carew is in love, but the woman he desires is an earl's daughter and so far above his station that he has no hope of ever winning her. However, Raymond's lord has a mission for him: one that, if it succeeds, will put an Irish king back on his throne and prove Raymond worthy-for in Norman society, a man can rise as high as his skill with a sword can take him. With only a hundred men at his side, Raymond must cross the ocean to Ireland ahead of his mercenary lord's invasion. There he will face the full might of the Viking city of Waterford, where either his deeds will become legend or he'll be trampled into dust.

Release date: June 1, 2017

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 400

Sample

Glossary

WALES

Abergavenny – castle controlled by the Braose family

Aberteifi – castle in modern Cardigan

Afon Wysg – River Usk

Brecon – castle in Powys

Castle Arnallt – Welsh castle in Upper Gwent

Ceredigion – Welsh kingdom on the west coast

Deheubarth – Welsh kingdom of South Wales

Gwent Uwchcoed – Upper Gwent

Afon Gwy – River Wye

Gwynedd – northern Welsh kingdom

Haverford – Haverfordwest

Melrfjord – Milford Haven

Nedd – modern Neath

Oystermouth – castle in southern Wales

Striguil – castle in modern Chepstow

Suðbury –Sedbury in Gloucestershire

Sweynsey – modern Swansea

Tyndyrn – Tintern Abbey

Usk – castle in modern Monmouthshire

Wentwood – forested hills in Monmouthshire

IRELAND

Banabh – Bannow Bay

Bearú – River Barrow

Uí Ceinnselaig – a tribal kingdom in modern County Wexford ruled by the Meic Murchada family

Cluainmín – Clonmines

Fearna – the modern town of Ferns

Dubhlinn – modern Dublin

Dun Conán – Duncannon

Dun Domhnall – Dun Donnell, modern Baginbun Point in County Wexford

Kerlingfjorðr – Carlingford

Laighin – the modern province of Leinster excepting Counties Meath, Westmeath, Longford, and Louth

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, a land including the Hook Peninsula in modern County Wexford

Siúire – River Suir

Strangrfjorðr – Strangford

Tuadhmumhain – petty-kingdom roughly equating to modern County Clare, ruled by the Uí Briain family

Uí Ceinnselaig – an Irish tribe led by Diarmait Mac Murchada

Veðrarfjord – Waterford; an Ostman city built on a “Windy Inlet” on the River Suir

Waesfjord – Wexford; an Ostman city built on mud flats with a name which means “Wide Inlet”

CHARACTERS

Alice of Abergavenny – a runaway

Basilia de Quincy – illegitimate daughter of Richard de Clare

Déisi – a tribe from modern County Waterford

Diarmait Mac Murchada – Dermot MacMurrough, King of Laighin

Donnchadh Ua Riagháin – Donnacha O’Ryan, King of the Uí Drona

Fionntán Ua Donnchaidh – Fintan O’Dunphy, an Irish warrior

Henry FitzEmpress – King of England

Harry the Young King – the heir to England

Hervey de Montmorency – uncle to Richard de Clare

Hubert Walter – a priest and court official

Máel Sechlainn Ua Fhaolain – Melaughlin O’Phelan, King of the Déisi

Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain – Malachy O’Regan, an adviser 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

Roger de Quincy – son-in-law to Richard de Clare, married to Basilia

Seisyll ap Dyfnwal – a Welsh chieftain

Sigtrygg Mac Giolla Mhuire – Sihtric MacGillamurray, a warrior from Veðrarfjord

Uí Drona – a tribe from the barony of Idrone in modern County Carlow

William de Braose– Lord of Abergavenny and son of Lord Bramber

William Marshal – a knight

Raymond’s conrois

Gilbert Borard, Walter de Bloet, Asclettin FitzEustace, Amaury de Lyvet, Thurstin Hore, Denis d’Auton, Christian de Moleyns, Bertram d’Alton, Dafydd FitzHywel and William de Vale.

Prologue

Gwent, Wales - 1170

‘Diarmait Mac Donnchadh Mac Murchada, King of Laighin, to Sir Richard de Clare, Lord of Striguil, greetings,’ the letter began.

He blinked many times as he re-read the opening line of flowing script. ‘Lord of Striguil?’ he hissed through clenched teeth as he turned his eyes on the foreigner in outlandish garb who lounged by the hearth in the middle of the great hall. ‘I am Earl of Pembroke and he would do well to remember that.’

The stranger did not blink as the lord of the castle admonished his king. ‘I apologise on Diarmait’s behalf, Earl Richard.’ He bowed his head in equal reverence and contrition.

Over by the door an old bloodhound stretched his muscular legs, rustling week-old rushes on the floor, before clambering to his feet and plodding towards his master, where he bumped his nose on Richard de Clare’s leg. The earl leant down and rubbed the dog’s ear, and smiled as the animal stared up into his weary face. ‘It is but a small affront, I suppose,’ he told the stranger.

It had been a cold winter in southern Wales and there seemed to be no escape from the frosty weather, even in the great hall of Striguil Castle. The tired tapestries on the walls sagged and sank as a gusting breeze tumbled up the Gwy Valley to find holes in the aged plasterwork and mortar, scattering the cloying smell of damp around the room. Candles flickered and swayed, as did the glowing fires in the brazier which warmed the shadowed face of the foreigner. Two of the earl’s liege men huddled at his side before the flames.

‘My friend,’ Richard’s study of the letter continued, ‘the swallows have come and gone, yet you are tarrying still. Neither winds from the east nor the west have brought us your much-desired and long-expected presence. Let your present activity make up for this delay and prove by your deeds that you have not forgotten your engagements, but only deferred their performance.’

The earl grimaced. He had not forgotten his promise to Diarmait Mac Murchada, but he had his reasons for delaying. Henry FitzEmpress, the King of England, was not a man to second-guess and Richard knew that if he made even the slightest move that earned Henry’s displeasure, it could cost him his few remaining estates or even, depending on the King’s famously unpredictable mood, his liberty. Henry had already taken Richard’s holdings in Normandy and Buckinghamshire, but worse to Richard was the withholding of his father’s title of Earl of Pembroke – all because he had backed the wrong horse during Henry’s war for the throne against Stephen de Blois.

Richard looked down at the letter again, allowing his finger to trace the intricately winding and strange Irish lettering scratched on the thick vellum: ‘The whole of Laighin has been recovered,’ he read aloud, ‘and if you come in time with a strong force the other four parts of the kingdom will be easily united to this, the fifth. You will add to the flavour of your coming if it be speedy; it will turn out famous if it is not delayed, the sooner the better and all the more welcome. The wound in our regards which has been partly caused by neglect will be healed by your presence; firm friendship is secured by good offices and grows by benefits to greater strength.’

Richard read the paragraph again and felt his heart leap. It seemed that Diarmait had now set his sights higher than simply recapturing the provincial throne from which he had been exiled four years before. He now wished to be High King of all Ireland and that meant that he would still require Richard’s help. The earl turned his eyes heavenwards and thanked the Saviour for finally answering his prayers. There had been many occasions since Henry FitzEmpress’ ascension that he had appealed to God for help. Denied royal patronage as well as the income from his forfeited estates for sixteen long years, Richard had quickly found himself deeply in debt. His remaining lands could not provide enough to pay both warriors and the king’s taxes, and so, under pressure of his obligations to the distant monarch, he had limited his expenditure on his army. Many milites had left his service. It had not been long before Welsh raiders had sensed the weakness and targeted his borders, rustling sheep, cattle and goods whenever they could. Churches and monasteries which looked to him for protection had been attacked; villages and manors had been mercilessly pillaged; whole families had been carried off to be sold in the Danish slave markets in Ireland and beyond. All appealed to their lord for help and protection, but he could give none.

He wished his mother could be at his side to see him during his moment of triumph. Lady Pembroke had spent every waking moment working towards Richard’s return to favour. She had forced her son to entertain many influential courtiers, those with the ear of King Henry, at great expense at feasts in Striguil where only the best foods were served, and the best garments and entertainment permitted. But nothing  not the expensive presents, the grand gestures, offers of friendship, bribery, coercion or extortion  had worked to raise Richard de Clare in King Henry’s affections. His mother had died the unhappy parent of a poor and pitiable man.

Then, one day, Diarmait Mac Murchada had come into his life and suddenly Richard felt he had stumbled upon a path to lead him back from ignominy. Word had arrived that Sir Hervey de Montmorency, his father’s half-brother, was bringing an Irish king to Striguil with plans for a great adventure, one that promised vast wealth to anyone who helped him to regain his lost throne in the land of Laighin. He believed that even his late mother would have been proud of his efforts to organise all pomp and ceremony for the arrival of his royal visitor. No extravagance had been considered too much and he had borrowed a vast sum of silver from a Jew, Aaron of Lincoln, so that Striguil Castle could be adorned in splendour. New crimson and gold banners showing the arms of his noble family flowed from the walls of the great hall and everywhere were reminders of their ancient power and prestige. Two days of feasting had been planned and even the great Bishop of Worcester had promised to cross the Severn and attend the conference. Richard had brought in musicians from London to entertain the numerous influential nobles that he had invited at short notice. He wanted everyone who mattered to see the moment of his glory. He wanted to show them all that even kings attended the court of Richard de Clare. He wanted to see their jealousy with his own eyes. Everything had seemed to be taking a turn for the good.

Then Diarmait and Sir Hervey had arrived in his hall.

Both men could have been mistaken for beggars, such was the dreadful condition of their clothes. They had few warriors of note, no servants, and even the bearded harpers in the king’s entourage addressed him as an equal. Richard had baulked in embarrassment and confusion at the sight of the pair, angry that his dream had been destroyed as quickly as it had formed in his imagination. Neither Sir Hervey nor King Diarmait looked like they could afford a sword, never mind help Richard to raise an army. There would be no glory or riches  or so he had thought.

As he sat reading Diarmait’s letter, the earl recalled the mocking laughter of the gathered nobles echoing around the heavy stone walls of Striguil. He tried in vain to stop his ears and cheeks turning red. It was said that the whole March of Wales derided him and repeated stories that Richard de Clare entertained vagrants at his castle. Nobles scoffed and even mere villeins on the streets ridiculed him as he passed by.

Richard dragged a clammy hand through his thinning, dusty hair as he remembered his most recent humiliations.

While his servants had pulled the gaudy banners from the walls of the great hall and hounded the hired minstrels from the castle bounds without payment, Diarmait and Sir Hervey had cornered Richard and described their ambitious plans and his part in them. By then Richard had become angry and, despite his desire for the wealth and land which Diarmait offered, he had driven a hard bargain for even considering giving his help to their scheme. His disappointment had shaken free an obsession in Richard’s soul – one that he would accomplish even if it claimed his life. He would recover his reputation.

Every proposal suggested by Diarmait and Sir Hervey had been met with hard bargaining until, in the end, the foreigner had offered something which Richard had not believed possible: a crown.

He had almost choked on his mug of wine when the exiled king had made the offer. Diarmait would marry his daughter to Richard and through her he would have claim to the throne of his reclaimed kingdom of Laighin after her father’s death. That very night he had made solemn promises in the presence of sacred relics and churchmen that he would help Diarmait in his great cause, and since that day he had carefully plotted and contrived to make his dream come about; money had been borrowed, ships built, weapons forged and warriors engaged with the promise of knights’ fees across the sea.

While he had organised his forces to invade, Diarmait Mac Murchada had lost patience with his slow progress and had journeyed further into Wales where he had found himself a small band of disreputable Normans to act as his bodyguard while he went ahead to Ireland. Those who he had employed were considered thugs and troublemakers by most civilised men, and Richard was no different. He had doubted that Robert FitzStephen and his mercenaries would be any benefit to Diarmait, unless the Irishman’s aim was to raid, rape, pillage and steal from his enemies and allies alike. However, FitzStephen had led the small warband to re-conquer Diarmait’s kingdom of Laighin, defeating the vast army of the High King of Ireland in the process. He had been rewarded with rule over the merchant town of Waesfjord and over two hundred thousand acres of land. FitzStephen, an illegitimate half-breed, now had a greater estate than Richard, a male-line descendant of the Dukes of Normandy and an earl of the realm! Distraught when he had heard of FitzStephen’s success, Richard had convinced himself that he had let the best chance to rescue his reputation pass him by. But then Diarmait’s letter had arrived in Striguil. The King of Laighin still desired his help and offered an even greater prize than before.

Diarmait had referred to FitzStephen’s success in his letter and Richard carefully recited those lines: ‘Our friend Sir Robert, son of Stephen, has led our forces t oa great victory over our enemies at the forest of Dubh-Tir.’ Richard frowned heavily, causing more worry lines to appear upon an already worried brow as he re-read the words. Hervey de Montmorency had been right, he decided. FitzStephen was trying to subvert him in Diarmait’s regard. Could he also be aiming to assume his throne, he wondered?

‘We are now the master of our homeland, the lands of the Uí Ceinnselaig tribe,’ Richard stumbled over the peculiar words, ‘and by our force of arms, we have been made king. But with your power beside ours we will conquer a greater kingdom still. I await your reply and your long awaited presence.’

Richard carefully allowed the piece of parchment to fold. The heavy blood-red wax seal and white linen ribbon clattered on the wooden table top as the letter folded back into shape with a sharp hiss. For many minutes he said nothing. Instead he considered carefully the contents of the correspondence.

‘Tell me, Master Ua Riagain, what do you make of this Robert FitzStephen character?’ Richard de Clare finally asked the newcomer.

Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain gazed into the fire. It had been he who had borne the letter across the Irish Sea from his master’s fortress at Fearna. He had been accompanied on his journey by Richard’s uncle, Sir Hervey de Montmorency, and, from Máelmáedoc’s side, the old Frenchman sneered at the mention of FitzStephen.

‘He is a gambler and as ambitious a man as any I have met before,’ said the bearded Máelmáedoc. ‘FitzStephen will back his skill against any enemy, no matter their number. Eventually every gambler loses, and it is my view that he will ultimately fail when it will cost my king most.’ Like many of the Irish ruling classes, Máelmáedoc could speak both Latin and French, Richard’s native tongue, fluently and it was in that language in which they conversed. ‘What Diarmait needs is an older, experienced warrior to rule his kingdom with a steady hand after he has gone. That is if the warrior’s assistance is prompt,’ continued Diarmait’s emissary.

Richard raised a sandy eyebrow at Máelmáedoc’s impertinence, but before he could retort his son-in-law Sir Roger de Quincy interceded:

‘King Diarmait should not trust FitzStephen. He is a bandit proven capable of any underhand scheme. We should go to King Diarmait’s side as soon as possible before that Welsh cur robs us of what we were promised. I could even go ahead with a small force of a thousand warriors?’ Roger looked from face to face searching for support in this view, but received none. Everyone in the room knew that there was a dark history between Sir Roger and Robert FitzStephen, and even Máelmáedoc had heard the lurid stories about how Roger had betrayed FitzStephen to his enemies six years before. Richard de Clare, however, preferred to ignore such gossip about his daughter Basilia’s husband.

‘King Henry declared FitzStephen a rebel,’ Roger exclaimed when no support for his opinion was offered.

‘You raise a valid point, Roger,’ the earl said and leant back on his chair, enjoying the heat from the distant fire upon his face. ‘FitzStephen failed to get express permission from Henry to go to Ireland and if he ever falls into the king’s hands he will suffer the consequences of that decision.’ Obviously FitzStephen, a man who had been sprung from a Welsh prison months before his deeds in Ireland, had nothing to lose, Richard thought. ‘I will have to get definite sanction from Henry in person before I do anything,’ the earl stated, much, it was obvious, to the dislike of the three other men. ‘The risk to my last estate … to Striguil … is too great and Henry FitzEmpress is not a man who can be so easily disregarded.’

‘The king has been wintering in Poitou, nephew,’ Hervey de Montmorency informed. ‘It is dangerous to journey across the sea so late in the year. But if we could make for Ireland immediately …’

‘Before Robert FitzStephen becomes the power behind King Diarmait’s throne?’ the earl mused. If anything Sir Hervey seemed even more desperate than he for the great endeavour to go ahead. His uncle had been the first to see the potential in King Diarmait’s plea for warriors, and thus could be assured of collecting a grand share of the spoils. But he was totally reliant on his nephew’s participation. Not for the first time the earl caught Sir Hervey throw a hungry, wolfish look in his direction.

‘I must visit King Henry. But you, Uncle, will return to Ireland with Master Ua Riagain and my answer for Diarmait. Tell him that I will come to his aid in the summer.’

Hervey stroked his hands over the long thin greasy locks which fell from his balding head and studied Richard’s face. He seemed to be searching for an untruth in his nephew’s words.

‘What of Raymond le Gros?’

‘Raymond?’ Richard raised his eyebrows. ‘I had completely forgotten about him. It is easily done,’ he joked. The earl had indeed overlooked the man who commanded his household warriors, the man who Sir Hervey had scathingly called Raymond the Fat.

‘He is a traitor to our cause, nephew. I have it on good authority that it was Raymond who directed King Diarmait to search out Robert FitzStephen last summer.’ Hervey spat the words through his grizzled mouth. His eyes flicked towards Máelmáedoc.

‘Raymond may be a blabbermouth but he certainly has his uses,’ Earl Richard replied with a smile. ‘They are few, as well you know, but those that he has are valuable. Especially if fighting or food is involved.’ The earl giggled at his small levity. ‘In any event, I have no doubt that news of King Diarmait’s offer would have reached FitzStephen’s ears without his nephew’s help, one way or another.’

‘I don’t know why you don’t get rid of Raymond and make me captain of your conrois, Lord Father,’ Roger de Quincy snorted. ‘Raymond is a drunken oaf and if what Sir Hervey says is true, he is not to be trusted.’

‘I expect that he simply did not realise the gravity of his chit-chat,’ the old earl responded, side-stepping Roger’s request as he had done many times before. ‘Raymond doesn’t think sometimes, but he is a demon in battle. And the men love him. He is a simple man.’ And no threat to my position, Richard thought as he talked to his ambitious and graceful son-in-law.

Sir Roger de Quincy, looking extremely irritated, and mumbled that he was a much better candidate for high command than a lowborn man of mixed Welsh and Norman heritage like Raymond.

Richard ignored Roger’s gripe and left his chair on the dais to stand before his Irish visitor. ‘I am decided,’ he told Máelmáedoc. ‘I will visit Poitou and obtain royal permission to assist Diarmait in this great endeavour. Tell your king that I am coming and soon, Master Ua Riagain. Tell him that I will bring an army, the like of which he will never have seen. Diarmait’s throne will be secured,’ he said, ‘and once that is done I will marry his daughter and he will name me his heir.’

Máelmáedoc nodded. ‘That he will, Lord Strongbow.’

Strongbow; it was a name that spoke of the great power of Richard de Clare’s family, and its mention made the earl lift his chin with pride to stare at his family arms which were chiselled in stone on the trusses of the roof beams above him. Where the name was mentioned men perished and great deeds were performed. Alone of his father’s titles it was the one that the king could never take away from Richard de Clare. It was also the one which he had always struggled to live up to. But now he had the opportunity to outshine even his great father, who had first borne the name of Strongbow. His father had fought a hard battle of war and politics to become Earl of Pembroke. Could his son make himself a king in Ireland? If he succeeded the scorn which Richard had endured would be quieted and history would never forget him. His reputation would be saved.

But to do that he would have to travel to France and there convince Henry FitzEmpress, the most powerful, jealous, antagonistic, and autocratic monarch in Christendom, to let him go to Ireland. Strongbow had to persuade the man who despised him most to let him seek his fortune across the sea.

Chapter One

The race was on and the captain from Striguil was in no mood to come in second as he led his conrois up the slick valley beside the Afon Wysg. Down in the lowlands it had been easy for the Norman horsemen to follow the raiders’ progress; dead men, burnt out homesteads, and the sorrowing wail of women and children had led the horsemen northwards towards Gwent Uwchcoed where Seisyll ap Dyfnwal was lord. Their pursuit had led them into disputed territory.

It was almost midday when the captain called a halt. The ten men from Striguil had exited the wooded valley moments before and come into a bright meadow bounded by evergreen trees on all sides. Close by was a small group of hovels, obviously Welsh  for no sane Norman would live this far from Usk Castle without a palisade to protect his home.

‘We are certainly in Seisyll’s lands now, Raymond,’ tall Denis d’Auton told his captain.

Raymond de Carew gave no indication that he had heard the miles. Instead he leant downwards to investigate hoof marks on the ground. His chainmail hood shimmered as it tumbled across his wide shoulders. Like a hound confused by the scent of a wounded hind, Raymond’s blond head bobbed from side to side as he scrutinised the marks. He then sat straight to survey the horizon, a large hand over his eyes to shield them from the hot sun.

His manner caused Denis to tense and like his captain he began to scan the hilly landscape for possible threats. A large number of sheep and cattle had been grazing between the valley mouth and the Welsh houses, but, as Denis watched, they fled eastwards away from the Normans of Striguil who had stopped behind their captain.

‘That’s a large number of animals for such a small farmstead,’ Raymond said, pointing his lance at the grazing animals. ‘So where are the stockmen?’ The beasts were the most valuable commodity on the March and should have been protected by a number of herdsmen. ‘The hoof marks are wider-spaced than before,’ he said as he turned his horse and pointed at the ground where the grass was flattened. ‘They broke into a gallop here and made off towards those buildings. Something is not right.’

‘I don’t think there is anything to fear,’ Denis replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.

It was an unfortunate statement to make because at that moment, with little more than a whinny and the solid thump of hooves on the heavy ground, fifteen horsemen emerged into view from between the Welsh hovels. Inscribed upon their red and blue surcoats were the three golden wheat sheaves of the Braose family. Their leader marshalled his force forty feet from Raymond’s men.

‘Abergavenny men,’ Gilbert Borard, Raymond’s most trusted lieutenant, whispered loudly in his captain’s ear as he joined him from the back of the conrois. ‘I reckon it must’ve been them who were thieving from Earl Strongbow’s lands, not Seisyll and the Welsh. It might be a good time for us to leave.’ Borard stopped talking when the leader of the Abergavenny men detached from his troop and trotted forward, his red and blue pennant fluttering from his long lance.

‘What in seven hells does he want?’ Borard muttered from behind his heavy black beard to Raymond.

‘I’ve heard this is how they start a fight in England,’ Raymond replied. ‘He’ll ask for our surrender, I will refuse and then he will set the rules. We’ll have a scrap, but we aren’t allowed to kill anybody.’

Borard sniffed a laugh and shook his head to show his disbelief at the unusual conventions of the nobility. In the March of Wales such frivolities were rare. Here, on the frontier, ambush was favoured and murder common. On the edge of the kingdom men scratched out a living from cold earth under constant fear of attack. You killed or feared repercussions. Life made men hard, women suspicious and warriors merciless. It was a place where the King of England’s law did not reach.

Raymond clipped his heels to his courser’s sides and walked his horse forward to meet his fellow Norman.

‘I am Sir William de Braose, Lord of Abergavenny,’ the armoured man dipped his head in greeting as Raymond and Borard approached. Two warriors flanked the young man in the red and blue surcoat. ‘To whom am I speaking?’

Before answering, Raymond hungrily admired the newcomer’s armour which covered everything except his young, red-cheeked face. His chainmail was a hard fish skin of shining steel circlets and not only wrapped his torso but also his forearms and shins. The nobleman even had long chainmail gloves and socks to protect those extremities. By comparison Raymond’s hauberk was thin, with gaps between the links, and only stretched to his elbows. It was dented and had been mended in a hundred places, but it had saved his life numerous times. The skirts on his armour divided at his waist, covering only his thighs but allowing him to ride a horse comfortably, something Raymond doubted that Sir William could claim. But even still, the nobleman’s mail was impressive. Below the hauberk Raymond knew that the knight would have a thick gambeson made of padded leather and stuffed tightly with wool for extra protection and comfort. On top of it all was the surcoat of his family, of the brightest reds, blues, and golds. Of course Sir William had a new-fangled great helm hanging from his expensive Spanish-made saddle.

Raymond’s dented spangenhelm, cone-shaped and complete with bent nasal guard, would not have looked out of place amongst the warriors who had fought at Hastings a hundred years before. Likewise his shabby bucket saddle, which had belonged to his father, and his long leaf-shaped shield which bore no device. Sir William’s lance was standard, but his sword’s handle was inlaid with gold and wrapped in red cord to cushion the reverberations when it came together with another weapon. It matched his rich red leather scabbard and cushioned saddle. William de Braose looked every inch the Christian warrior, but he was out of place on the March of Wales. Apart from the few like Raymond who wore a surcoat bearing Strongbow’s arms, most warriors in Gwent wore dull colours, greys and greens, so that they could mix in with the countryside. Few men of the March could afford the rich gaudiness of the English and French courts.

Even from five paces away Raymond could see the strength and power of Sir William’s charger, which danced from hoof to hoof aggressively. The stallion was huge and was hidden beneath a long red rug bearing his master’s famous family arms. It covered the whole beast, including its face, to the knees. Raymond rode a smaller, more manoeuvrable courser without any garish devices.

‘My name is Raymond de Carew,’ the captain finally answered Sir William de Braose’s question, ‘and I serve the Earl Strongbow of Striguil.’

If he recognised either name, Sir William did not show any interest. ‘I am lord of these lands,’ he stated simply, ‘and you are either lost or trespassing. The second reason gives me the right to kill you and your men.’

Raymond raised his eyebrows at the sudden declaration, and chuckled. ‘I believe you are new to the March, Sir William, so it is my duty to inform you that you are the one who is lost. These lands belong to Seisyll ap Dyfnwal of Castle Arnallt.’

William de Braose sn