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  SWORDLAND

  Edward Ruadh Butler

  Beneath the hail of arrows, a nation will fall …

  A tale of war, death, lust, and scheming, set in the starkly beautiful landscapes of medieval Ireland and Wales.

  Robert FitzStephen is a warrior down on his luck. Arrogant, cold, but a brilliant soldier, FitzStephen commands a castle – but although his mother was a princess his father was a lowly steward. When a Welsh rebellion brings humiliating defeat, his highborn comrades scorn him, betraying him to the enemy. FitzStephen is disgraced, seemingly doomed to a life of obscurity and shame.

  GLOSSARY

  WALES

  Aberteifi – the fortress commanded by Robert FitzStephen in the modern town of Cardigan in western Wales

  Brecon – a town in central Wales

  Ceredigion – Cardiganshire; it was a province in west Wales claimed by the Princes of Deheubarth and Gwynedd as well as the Norman Earl of Hertford

  Deheubarth – kingdom in southern Wales

  Glamorgan – kingdom in southern Wales

  Gwarthaf – cantred west of modern Carmarthen in south Wales

  Gwent – kingdom in south-eastern Wales

  Gwynedd – kingdom in northern Wales

  Melrfjord – Milford Haven

  Pebidiog – barony around city of St Davids

  Penteulu – a Welsh warlord

  Powys – kingdom in eastern Wales

  Rhos – cantred around Haverford in south-west Wales

  Saesneg – the Welsh word for English

  Rhys ap Gruffydd – king of Deheubarth, anglicised to Rhys, son of Griffith. His sons, Maredudd (Meredith) and Tewdwr (Tudor)

  Striguil – fortress held by Strongbow which the English called Chepstow, or the ‘market place’

  IRELAND

  Banabh – a village on Bannow Bay

  Bearú – River Barrow

  Bhanna – River Bann

  Brehon – a Gaelic judge or lawyer

  Breifne – petty-kingdom covering the area of modern Counties Cavan and Leitrim in Connacht

  Brian Bóruma – famous King of Tuadhmumhain and Mhumhain, and High King of Ireland, who died in 1014; his name is anglicised as Brian Boru

  Carn tSóir – Carnsore Point

  An Carraig – modern Ferrycarrig, two miles north of Wexford

  Ceatharlach – modern Carlow Town

  Cluainmín – a small Norse settlement between Veðrarfjord and Waesfjord close to modern Wellingtonbridge

  Tir Eóghain – translated as Owen’s Land, it was ruled by the Mac Lochlainn family and their kinsmen the Uí Néill

  Corcach – Cork; an Ostman city in Ireland built on the ‘swamp’ after which it takes its name

  Deasmumhain – Desmond; petty-kingdom in southern Munster ruled by Mac Cartaigh clan

  Diarmait Mac Murchada – King of Laighin, anglicised as Dermot MacMurrough; his children, sons Conchobair and Eanna (Conor and Enna) and daughters Aoife (Eva), Orlaith (Orla), and Sabh (Sive)

  Diarmait Ua Mael Sechlainn – King of Mide, anglicised as Dermot O'Melaghlin

  Domhnall Caomhánach – Diarmait Mac Murchada’s eldest son, anglicised as Donal Kavanagh

  Domhnall Ua Briain – King of Tuadhmumhain, anglicised as Donal O’Brien

  Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig – King of the Osraighe, anglicised as Donncha MacGillapatrick, but the family is now called Fitzpatrick

  Dubhlinn – modern Dublin. It was a Viking city on the south bank of the River Liffey built around a ‘black pool’ from which it takes its name

  Dubh-Tir – woodland area once known as Duffrey in modern County Wexford

  Eirik Mac Amlaibh – chief man of Waesfjord

  Fearna – Ferns in northern County Wexford

  Feoire – River Nore

  Fionntán Ua Donnchaidh – Irish warrior, anglicised as Fintan O’Dunphy

  Gabhrán – Gowran; a settlement in County Kilkenny

  Laighin – Leinster; the kingdom ruled by Diarmait Mac Murchada which includes Counties Wexford, Wicklow, Offaly, Carlow, Wicklow, Laois, Kildare and south Dublin

  Hlymrik – Limerick; city populated by the Danes but ruled, nominally, by the Uí Briain

  Lorcain Ua Tuathail – Archbishop of Dubhlinn, anglicised as Lorcan O’Toole

  Máelmáedoc Ua Riagain – Diarmait Mac Murchada’s secretary, anglicised as Malachy (or Maurice) O’Regan

  Mide – Meath; a major kingdom ruled by a southern branch of the Uí Néill. It was claimed by both the Meic Murchada and the Uí Ruairc

  Mhumhain – Munster, which was at different times ruled by the Uí Briain and the Meic Cartaigh

  Muirchertach Mac Murchada – brother of Dermot, anglicised as Murtagh MacMurrough

  Oirmumhain – Ormond; translated as east Munster which roughly equates to modern County Tipperary. A petty-kingdom ruled by the Uí Cinnéide

  Oisin Ua Bruaideodha – Bishop of the Osraighe, anglicised as Oisin O’Brody

  Osraighe – Ossory; a people to the west of Laighin ruled by the Meic Giolla Phádraig. Their lands roughly equated to modern Counties Kilkenny and Laois

  Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair – High King of Ireland and King of Connacht, anglicised as Rory O’Connor

  Seosamh Ua hAodha – Bishop of Fearna, anglicised as Joseph O’Hugh

  Sláine – River Slaney

  Siúire – River Suir

  Taoiseach – a Gaelic warlord

  Teamhair na Ri – translated as ‘Hill of the Kings’. Present day Tara in County Meath

  Thing (Þing) – a council

  Tigernán Ua Ruairc – King of Breifne, anglicised as Tiernan O’Rourke

  Toirdelbach Mac Diarmait – petty king in Laighin, anglicised as Turlough McDermott

  Tuadhmumhain – Thomond; petty-kingdom in northern Munster ruled by the Uí Briain

  Tuaim dá Ghuabainn – the ‘burial mound of the two shoulders’ – modern Tuam in County Galway where Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair had his chief fortress

  Uí Ceinnselaig – tribe in modern County Wexford, the closest approximation is ‘the Kinsella’

  Veðrarfjord – Waterford; an Ostman city built up the Suir River from a windy sea inlet for which the town is named

  Waesfjord – Wexford; it was an Ostman town built on mud flats with a name which means ‘Wide Inlet’

  NOTES

  The ‘Fitz’ prefix is the Norman derivation of the Latin ‘filius’ or ‘son of’ e.g. FitzStephen is ‘son of Stephen’. ‘Mac’ in Irish signifies ‘son of’, as does ‘ab’ or ‘ap’ in Welsh.

  A miles (one of a number of milites) is a Norman horseman armoured similarly to a knight but not considered of the same rank.

  The Ostmen (East Men) were made up of Fionngall (Fair Foreigners), the descendants of the original Norse invaders who populated the cities of Dublin, Waterford, Limerick, Cork and Wexford, and the Dubhgall (Dark Foreigners), who were Danes and arrived a hundred years later following their conquests in northern England. They became the ruling class in most of these settlements.

  Irish families were divided into clans (tuath) and septs (finte), thus Diarmait Mac Murchada was the King of the Uí Ceinnselaig (tuath) as well as the Meic Murchada (finte)

  Contents

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part Two

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Part One

  The Outpost
/>   Chapter One

  Ceredigion, Wales

  April 1164

  The cobbled stones of the priory were cold beneath Einion’s knees, but on he prayed, murmuring verses to St Padarn as he crouched before the mass of candles. They provided him with little heat or comfort as their flames fluttered, casting a hellish flickering shadow battle on the stone wall of the church.

  ‘Holy Padarn, hear me and bring my prayers to Our Lord so that he might grant me forgiveness for what I must do,’ Einion ab Anarawd whispered. He wrung his hands together and then spread them out before his chest, casting his eyes towards the high roof in entreaty. The smoke from candle and torch mingled with the sickly sweet aroma of the honey mead brewed behind the brothers’ cells. It caught the light from the small windows, casting wispy spear-shafts of light across the building above the Welsh warlord.

  Einion sighed after a few silent seconds of staring heavenwards. He bowed his head and sat back on his heels to think. Had he been expecting a miracle? That was exactly what he had been anticipating, he admitted. This priory was where one of the holiest sons of the Church, St Padarn, had performed his greatest deed. Here was where the great Penteulu Arthwyr, or Arthur the Warlord as the English called him, had been humbled. It was a place where wonders were commonplace and the connection between man and God routine. And yet Einion felt nothing; no marvellous presence of divinity and no absolution.

  ‘I bring a mighty gift, Lord,’ Einion appealed again, speaking towards the twelve trembling candle flames above him on the altar, at the same time indicating towards a beautiful coat, expensive and red, by his side. It was just as the stories instructed, just like the one that Arthwyr was said to have stolen from Holy Padarn.

  ‘A mighty gift,’ Einion repeated. ‘And all I ask for is for one small indulgence.’ He licked his dry lips. ‘My uncle’s life.’ Again his eyes flicked skywards awaiting some signal that his proposal was accepted and his immortal soul safe from damnation. But none was forthcoming.

  ‘Rhys stole my throne,’ he shouted, suddenly angry. ‘I am a warrior! He is nothing but a jumped-up cleric, a stock-taker, not a real leader. He cannot defend our people against these Normans! I can, for I know I can match their evil!’ Flecks of spittle caught in Einion’s heavy black beard. ‘They are an infestation of maggots searching for an open wound, and they smell the blood fresh on Rhys. They are circling these lands ready to invade. The Normans can sense weakness in Rhys, but I can stop them,’ he appealed. ‘Give me the strength to stop them!’

  The beam of sunlight which illuminated the smoke from burning torches wavered above Einion and abruptly shone into his eyes. Perhaps it was just a passing cloud or trick of the light that had caused the quivering beam to settle upon the praying man, but he smiled and nodded his head appreciatively at the flat stone ceiling.

  ‘Alright then,’ he said, a smile upon his face, ‘but you need more, I understand.’ He picked up the red woollen tunic. ‘For that most desperate sin, I will promise the same act of atonement that Holy Padarn asked of Arthwyr.’ He smiled at the candles. ‘I will bury myself in the ground up to my neck for a day and a night.’ Einion looked smugly at the ceiling of the small priory and held his breath in anticipation. Nothing happened for many seconds, but then the rows of candles before him began whipping uncontrollably as a sudden rush of divine wind poured through the priory and Einion knew instinctively that his promise had been accepted by God. For a long time he simply inhaled the deific air, tainted though it was with lime from the brothers’ vellum baths below. He lifted his sapphire ring to his lips and kissed it. His God had granted him absolution to kill. War and fear and glory would come to his country of Deheubarth. The invaders would die, that he promised God, because it was they, not he, who had caused Rhys’ demise.

  But as quickly as the feeling of rapture overtook him, it disappeared – to his rear he heard the faint scrape of steel links on cold, dusty stone and his warrior’s instincts swept aside his reverie. Einion had heard the sound before and had learned to fear it; the crunch of chainmailed feet on cobbled stone. A Norman had entered the priory and that could mean only one thing – his life was in desperate danger.

  Einion didn’t move, but inhaled long through his nose and slipped his dagger silently from his belt. Obviously it had not been God’s grace, but the draught of the priory door opening so that the Norman assassin could slip inside. He momentarily wondered why his four warriors had not alerted him to the presence of his enemy before realising that his friends were almost certainly dead at the hands of the Godless barbarians from the south. Undoubtedly he was now on his own, but to escape Einion first had to deal with the assassin, the immediate threat to his life. He concentrated on identifying where the newcomer was behind him, his eyes rolling in his head as he listened intently. He did not move save to continue the pretence of praying, mumbling a soft verse in his native tongue. Another scratch sounded just a few yards behind him and Einion knew that his would-be murderer had crept into his killing range. He almost laughed out loud at the Norman’s clumsy attempt on his life. With a roar he turned to meet his enemy and stabbed forward with an almighty and much practiced lunge which ripped deep into his enemy’s torso and up into his stomach.

  ‘Ha!’ he laughed as he looked up into the dying man’s face. But it was no Norman. It was one of his own warriors, Walter ap Llywarch. Einion’s mind struggled to catch up with what his eyes saw before him: Walter had his mouth gagged by a thick piece of cloth and bound with rope, and yet blood flowed from beneath the gag and down his coarse dull shirt. His tongue had been removed. On Walter’s feet had been tied the chainmail stockings of a Norman knight while his hands were secured at the small of his back. He may not have been able to speak but Walter’s eyes screamed in pain and begged his warlord to help him. Einion ripped the dagger from his warrior’s belly. Warm blood trickled down the blade and onto his hand.

  ‘What?’ was all Einion could manage as Walter dropped to his knees, tumbling down the steps into the nave. ‘What the devil?’ Einion whispered into the smoky, echoing darkness of the priory. Everything was silent except for his own shuffling feet and Walter’s heavy, agonised breathing below him. The holy site of St Padarn no longer felt welcoming and safe to the Cymric warlord. His breath misted before his eyes in the frigid cold of the stone church. The flickering shadows cast by the candles and the windows gave ample hiding place for the Normans to hide and Einion felt the cold clasp of ice grip his heart.

  ‘Come out and fight me, you devil,’ he screamed, but there was no response to his challenge. He spun around to face the chapel and then back to where Walter lay in the nave. His sword whipped through the air as he turned. ‘Where are you? Are you a coward?’ he cried and backtracked towards the high altar.

  Suddenly his hair was clasped in a vice like grip from behind and a dagger slashed across Einion’s wrist, cutting into flesh and severing tendons. The Welshman’s bloody blade clattered loudly to the floor before Einion, roaring a battle-cry, could even react. He swung his uninjured arm but missed his hooded assailant, who ducked under his poorly aimed blow. Another surge of pain seared across the ligaments of Einion’s left knee, forcing him onto the uneven cobbles as if in prayer. He grabbed at his sword on the floor, but a bare foot slid it away before he got close. In the blink of an eye the knife was at his throat, an odd sensation of warm blood running and cold, sharp steel as it pressed against Einion’s windpipe.

  ‘Hello, cousin.’ A voice whispered French words in Einion's ear. ‘I told you we would meet again, did I not? Did you think I would forget?’

  Einion did not answer but quickly perceived how the Norman, bereft of chainmail and silent as a ghost, had tricked him, entering the priory in Walter’s wake to ambush him at prayer. ‘Prince Rhys will pay good money to have me back,’ he said in Welsh.

  Sir Robert FitzStephen, Constable of Aberteifi Castle, snorted scathingly at his cousin’s proclamation.

  ‘Kill me and it will mean war,’ Einion
told him.

  ‘And what makes you think that is not exactly what I want?’ FitzStephen said calmly. He gripped his prisoner’s hair tighter, his knife scraping small hairs from Einion’s bearded throat. ‘Your men scared off all the monks, so there is no-one to give you the rites,’ he stated without feeling.

  ‘For pity’s sake,’ Einion moaned. ‘We are kin,’ he appealed as he gripped FitzStephen’s forearm with his good hand. But he heard his death in the warlord’s laugh and anger overtook him. ‘Curse you then, you Norman bastard,’ Einion snarled. ‘I curse you and all your Godless kind. Before my body is long cold you too will know defeat and death. I swear it on my immortal soul that you will be brought to your knees …’

  ‘Witchcraft,’ FitzStephen accused and dragged the knife across his throat. ‘May Christ have mercy on your wretched Welsh soul,’ he said and kept sawing as Einion tried to curse and struggle, choking on blood and phlegm and fear. FitzStephen kept cutting until his head came away, the last sinews ripping away so that he could cast Einion’s body down on the floor of the priory where a pool of blood quickly gathered. The head soon followed the rest of Einion’s body as it rolled sickeningly down, step by step, into the nave.

  Walter ap Llywarch lay where he had fallen, hidden in the shadow of the altar. The agony from his stomach wound was almost too great to bear, but his hands were still bound and he could not do anything to improve his condition except pray for death or unconsciousness to take him. Einion’s decapitated head lay just a few paces away and appalled Walter, but he did not want to move lest FitzStephen remember he was there and deal with him in a similar fashion to his Penteulu. His hollow eyes flicked up to the dark, smoky recesses of the chapel where he could hear the Norman asking forgiveness of his sins.

  ‘St Maurice, bless me,’ the voice repeated again and again in the French tongue. ‘St Maurice, speak for me,’ he whimpered. The knight’s voice stopped suddenly and he stepped back out into the light cast by the small windows. In one of FitzStephen’s hands was the huge golden cross from the high altar which he had stolen. The Norman pulled down his hood. Tall, beardless, and with his hair cropped short, FitzStephen threw his grey cloak aside to reveal his brilliant gold and crimson surcoat. He looked like the Archangel Michael in all his glory to the gagged man on the verge of unconsciousness.