The Earl Strongbow

Book 0: The Invader Series

by Edward Ruadh Butler

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Exiled from court, distrusted and indebted, Richard de Clare is a man whose past is greater than his prospects and whose once-great name overshadows his deeds. Having backed the loser in the civil war, he faces penury and disgrace due to the disfavour of the distant and over-mighty king. He has, however, one last gambit to play, one final attempt to claim a wealth and glory that would eclipse even the greatest exploits of his mighty fathers. And, nothing less than the hand of an Irish princess and a throne will suffice if Richard is to surpass the great feats of his family.

Release date: October 4, 2018

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 374

Sample

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.

Prologue

Ger Castle, NormandySummer 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 circumstances 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.

‘Bec?’ he asked.

‘Be assured, we shall talk later,’ the bishop replied as the earl and his retinue followed the chancellor from the solar. It left the bishop and his own staff alone with the King. The bishop stood at the foot of Henry’s bed, staring down, his arms folded and one hand rubbing his thin lips. For several seconds no one said a word.

‘I thought that they would never leave! Good God, can someone please open a window? It stinks of royal shit in here.’ The voice came from a slim priest who emerged from the bevy of servants on the far side of the King’s bed. The priest placed a hand on the King’s brow before leaning forward to sniff his hair. Grimacing as he withdrew, he patted the King on the shoulder reassuringly.

‘Keep him drinking water and try to get him to eat some red meat,’ the auburn-haired priest ordered, his finger jabbing the Italian doctor in the chest. He did not wait for a response but instead turned to address the Bishop of Lisieux. ‘I believe that the king is over the worst of the sickness now, Lord Bishop. He will shake this fever in no time.’

‘I hope you are right, but I don’t recall ever hearing that you had studied medicine, Hubert.’

‘Perhaps a prayer from Your Grace will help him?’

Despite Hubert Walter’s usual sarcasm, the bishop closed his eyes and mumbled some words to St Peter for the saint’s intercession. ‘Cast your munificent nets around our glorious and earthly master, and raise him up from the darkness that threatens to drown him,’ he urged.

As the bishop extolled his heavenly guardian, the King moaned a curse and a fart squeaked from his backside.

‘I thought you would be happy if Henry ended his days here in Mortain, Lord Bishop,’ Hubert chuckled. ‘He loaned you all that capital to build your cathedral, after all. If he dies you won’t have to pay it back for many years, I would’ve thought – if at all.’

‘And I thought that you would send word, Hubert, rather than journey here yourself. Was it simply in order to insult me? Did I not pay you to deliver me swift news! The King could still relapse and I must be ready to act. Where have you been?’

Hubert Walter began counting off on his fingers. ‘At Rouen having a conversation with a man in Becket’s inner circle who was on his way to take seisin of the archbishop’s estates in England; speaking with Sir William de Saint-Jean on Chancery business; to a Danish trader for news from Ireland and Wales, to a Fleming who had been in Aquitaine; and to Walter, the Canon of Rouen, on behalf of Richard FitzNeal and the Treasury.’

‘Is there anyone against whom you are not scheming?’ Hubert bobbed his head from side to side.

‘Those with whom I am currently scheming? In any event, my sources tell me that Pope Alexander will be happy with the archbishop’s restoration, and should the chance come he would support Becket as Regent of England.’

‘Then God help all those who attempted to negotiate with Becket on the King’s behalf.’

Hubert laughed. ‘I have friends in Ireland, Your Grace. I can make some arrangements for your escape. Becket would not pursue you there. A small fee might be -’

From the bed by Hubert’s back, the King’s voice hissed. ‘Exactly what friends do you have in Ireland, priest?’ he asked as he hauled himself up to a sitting position. His bearded face was masked in sweat and his arms quaked slightly under him as he fixed his gaze on Hubert.

‘Lord King,’ the priest exclaimed and went to his knee. ‘I thought you were asleep.’

Henry scowled and demanded wine from a servant. ‘The only men I know in Ireland are rebel knights and pauper chieftains,’ he stated before drinking deeply. ‘I would not like to hear that a member of my court had been conversing with them without my knowledge or express permission. Did I not make it clear that I wished to have nothing to do with them?’ He took another draught of wine. ‘So who exactly are your friends in Ireland?’

‘Perhaps I misspoke, Your Grace. Associates might be a better name for them.’

The king’s blue eyes bored into Hubert and he did not speak, instead allowing the silence hang between them.

Hubert turned towards the bishop for assistance, but none was forthcoming. ‘The news that they send to me is interesting. Perhaps you would like to hear of it, Your Grace? My associates tell me that Sir Richard de Clare has landed an army on the south coast. Sir Richard himself remains in Wales, but his man, Raymond de Carew, has scored a notable victory over the Ostmen, the Danes, near the city of Veðrarfjord.’

‘What?’ the king roared. ‘That damned cur Strongbow has sent that Raymond to Ireland? I remember Raymond’s insolence in Westminster all too well! And he makes war without my consent? How dare he? I’ll turn his guts into bowstrings, I’ll turn his bones into axe handles, his thick, fat skull into … into …’ Henry struggled to summon the words to match his fury and instead he cast his wine goblet onto the floor. ‘I gave him no permission! You, priest, get a rider to Strongbow’s castle at Striguil. I place a ban on him leaving my kingdom. He is expressly forbidden from going to Ireland!’

The King did not wait for Hubert to obey but signalled to the Italian physician to help him to his feet. His naked legs shook as he leaned on the doctor’s shoulders. ‘That twice-damned rebel can bloody well swing if he thinks I will let him take what is mine.’ Steadying himself on a nearby couch, the King began peeling off his sweaty, linen chemise, launching it at one of his attendants. He stood naked in the middle of the room and demanded more wine.

‘What of Raymond, Your Grace?’

‘He can damn well climb into his ship and sail back to Wales.’ The king threw a clean shirt over his shoulders. ‘Get these shutters open and let some damned sunshine in. A man needs fresh air to recover and I have enemies to engage.’ He turned to the Bishop of Lisieux and pointed a large finger at him. ‘Don’t just stand there like a page in a whorehouse – get a servant in here with some water for a bath. I smell like a Welsh latrine. There is work to be done. Go, go, go!’

Both Hubert and the bishop stumbled from the solar, stopping at the top of the stair as the door closed behind them. Inside, Henry continued to shout orders at the bishop’s followers. Their hurried footsteps echoed on timber floorboards.

‘I thought he had me there. Why are you smiling?’ Hubert asked of the bishop.

‘Because there will be no regency and no break-up of the kingdom. There will be no power-grab or civil war.’

Hubert nodded. ‘Henry is back on his feet.’

‘And his empire is saved.’

‘So all he needed to recover was a bit of anger?’ Hubert remarked and nodded his head in appreciation of the king’s resilience.

‘No,’ the bishop retorted as he made for the stairs. ‘The king needed an opponent. God help Strongbow if Henry gets his hands on him now.’

Chapter One

He had vomited in the darkness and he retched again as the dull morning sun pierced the gaps in the stone walls. His lips were dry and the sharp smell tingled at his nostrils. His brain squealed like it was being stretched inside his skull. Panting helped lessen the pain and dizziness, but hooves still clattered around his head. When he had finally fallen asleep he could not recall. Groaning, he hoisted himself to a sitting position on his makeshift bed, arms quivering with the effort.

His eyes refused to focus. Everything was confused. The surge of panic was sudden and severe. He searched his memory for answers. Was he in the great stone keep of Striguil? Perhaps he was in a cell at Tyndyrn Abbey, or in a farmhouse somewhere in deepest Gwent Uwch Coed? It would not have been the first time he had woken up in such as place, but this sickness did not feel like a hangover. His palms clawed at his hairline as he urged his mind to concentrate. His head continued to ring, but his vision, as well as his memory, slowly settled. Propped against the wall near his bed was his sword.

‘Ireland,’ he said. ‘The earl sent you to Ireland. You are at Dun Domhnall.’

The journey of several weeks before came back to him. Raymond de Carew had always loved sailing and his memory of the crossing from Wales – the sparkling bright waves below the full-bellied sail, the gulp of the sea on her clinkered hull – helped to ease his alarm. His next recollection was of Waverider, the Earl Strongbow’s ship, aflame upon the beach below Dun Domhnall’s high cliffs, of enemy warriors emerging from the sea, their war axes raised above their heads, and of colourful, circular shields and smoke, so much smoke. His pulse pounded in his head as he remembered the battle; flashes of sunlight on wicked steel, the crunch of axe upon palisade wall; grunting effort and fear; of slick dark grass, carcasses, and distant cattle calls. It made his headache all the worse.

Taking several deep breaths, Raymond climbed to his feet. The door was only three paces away, but he didn’t make it that far. Instead his body tumbled to the left, scattering the remnants of his last meal onto the dirt floor. The stone wall felt cold under his palms as he fell against it and clawed for purchase, fighting to remain on his feet, but he slid downwards to land on his backside, crushing scattered biscuit and cooked fish beneath him. His right hand massaged his temple, his left his stomach as it churned like an unruly sea. The swelling on his head had greatly subsided, but it remained delicate under his rough fingers.

A bump; that is all I have suffered, when so many have died.

Images of the battle threatened to assault him again, of friends and foes all fallen, and he turned so that he could rest against the cool wall. Instead of stone his cheek met a blanket of intertwined steel links. It was his hauberk, hanging on a peg on the wall, and Raymond’s hand caught its swaying mail skirts. Fourteen years of boyhood spent as a page and an esquire had made him expert in armour maintenance and he could immediately tell that the mail had not been properly cleaned. He could smell the oil that had been worked into its links, could feel where it gathered. His esquire’s work was not up to his usual high standards. Raymond felt coated shards of sand tumble between his fingers.

‘Geoffrey!’

Voices sounded outside the room, commands and faraway laughter, murmured conversations and, somewhere close-by, a woman’s weeping. The noise was compounded by honking geese and bleating goats, metal tools cutting wood, weapon play, and horses. Each irked him.

‘Shut up, shut up, the lot of you,’ Raymond groaned and hugged his arms to the sides of his fair head. His fingers clipped the bruise above his right ear and he winced.

‘Geoffrey,’ he roared again.

It was only as the sound of his own voice faded that the memory of his esquire’s death came back. The boy had thought to save him when Raymond had been outnumbered and alone, his senses in disarray after his head had been dashed against a wooden strut. While Raymond had been hauled to safety, Geoffrey had been made prisoner by his enemy, Jarl Sigtrygg. His brave, rash esquire had been murdered as Raymond had watched on from behind the defences. He remembered the look on Jarl Sigtrygg’s face as he had killed the boy. He had smiled. Raymond recalled Alice of Abergavenny’s screams as she was escorted from the walls of the fort, driven to despair by the sight of her brother’s murder. He would always remember her furious eyes as she was dragged away from the fortifications.

You did nothing, Alice’s eyes had accused him. You broke your promise, Raymond.

He had led a hundred and ten men to victory over a grand alliance of Ostmen and Gaels, perhaps thirty times their number, yet he still felt as though it was he who had been routed.

Raymond let go of the chainmail and reached for a wooden mug, flinching as water sloshed down his raw and sour throat. It had been Father Nicholas who had denied him wine, but he could not remember the priest’s reasons for refusing its comfort. Emptying the mug at the second attempt, he breathed deeply, his eyes closed. When they reopened Raymond’s gaze settled on the door to the squalid little hut.

‘Up.’

The door was a strip of burned hull recovered from the wreck of Waverider. Ferrand had placed it over the entranceway and it had proved enough to keep out the breeze off the sea. Raymond clutched the panel and hoisted it aside. Pain seared through his head as the silver glare of sun flashed off the waves, straight into his face. Dazzled, he retreated back into the shadow. It took him several seconds blinking to ready his eyes to pass through the door and into the sunshine.

William de Vale sprang to his feet. ‘What are you doing out of bed? Father Nicholas said that you were to remain abed for at least another day.’

Raymond had never noticed how irritating he found William’s voice. ‘I’m fine. Are you responsible for the condition of my armour?’

‘No, no – I’ve asked Fulk to be your esquire,’ he said and indicated to the boy at his side. ‘I thought you would -’

‘You treated my mail?’ Raymond demanded of Fulk.

‘Yes, master.’

‘Get in there and get it polished again. It is in a disgraceful condition,’ he ordered, his arm indicating back towards his quarters.

‘I’m sorry, master,’ the youngster mumbled as he fled into the hut.

Small houses, tents, and improvised shelters peppered the headland that had become his army’s camp. Everywhere Raymond could identify the signs of many men living in close quarters: blackened stone hearths where fires had been set, weapon racks, armour, horse tack, and the remnants of food. Most of the t