was too rough.
“You mean the weather will grow worse?” Fulke glanced anxiously at the scudding fleece of dirty clouds and then at the glass wall of sea menacing their bows.
“Only God can say. Their sea is as contrary as the Irish themselves.” Malicious amusement filled Archdeacon Gerald’s sloe-berry eyes. “Why, lad, are you afraid?”
Fulke clutched his little cross. “I have faith in God,” he said stoutly.
“Very proper too, and you will need it. King Henry is sending a spoiled child to do a man’s task. I have no doubt that blood will flow in direct proportion to the amount of wine consumed.”
Fulke said nothing. In all likelihood, Gerald was right—if the inebriated state of John and his immediate companions when they boarded ship at Milford was any indicator.
“Nor,” continued Gerald, wagging his forefinger like an Old Testament prophet, “do I think that those barrels of silver we loaded will ever reach the troops he’s supposed to buy. Mark my words; we’re in for a stormy passage.” The Archdeacon staggered across the deck to look out over the side.
From his precarious position on the cross spar, the lookout bellowed warning of land. Fulke joined the Archdeacon and squinted through spray-stung eyes. As they crested a wave, he saw the hazy outline of gray-green hummocks that did not move.
“The Wicklow Mountains,” said Gerald. “We’ll be in Waterford before nightfall.”
***
A trifle battered, but unharmed beyond the odd torn sail and leaky caulking, Prince John’s fleet sailed into Waterford to be greeted by a handful of Norman—Irish settler barons who had put down conquering roots a generation before. Groggy, reeling from the effects of seasickness and wine, John and his entourage were escorted to the stronghold of Waterford, known as Reginald’s Tower after the Norse leader who had originally built it.
Lord Theobald had been violently ill throughout the crossing and only a tremendous effort of will kept him upright as a groom led forward a bay gelding. He grasped the reins and swayed.
“Boost me up,” he commanded Fulke, the last word ending on a retch.
Fulke hastened to fit Theobald’s foot in the stirrup and push as the baron hauled himself across his mount’s saddle. A muffled oath escaped between Theobald’s clenched teeth and he gave a dry heave into the horse’s mane. Jean grasped the reins as the gelding sidled. His own warm complexion was sallow and his feet unsteady, but he was in far better case than their master.
“Sire?” Jean gave a concerned look at his lord.
“Just keep the beast quiet,” Theobald gulped.
“Yes, sire.” Jean exchanged a wry glance with Fulke and clicked his tongue, urging the horse to a gentle walk. Theobald gave a suffering moan. Fulke paced at Theobald’s stirrup and carried his banner. The moist sea breeze rippled through the embroidered silks and caused a pleasant snapping sound. Ahead of them the Angevin leopards blazed gold on their blood-red background. John’s dark head bobbed in and out of view, crowned by a golden circlet and surrounded by a protective forest of spears and banners. Fulke ignored him. There were more interesting sights to see.
The Irish of the town looked little different to the ordinary folk of England and Wales. They wore the same simple tunics in muted shades of brown, tawny, and green. Here and there, an occasional blue garment or a richer dye marked out someone of wealth. The older men cultivated long hair and wore full, heavy beards that put Fulke in mind of a hermit he had once encountered living wild in the forest beyond Alberbury. The sound of Gaelic filled his ears with its strange, musical harshness. He had a smattering of the Welsh tongue, garnered from Alain’s nurse Ceridwen. Irish had a difference cadence, less lilting but haunting in its own way.
He noticed that neither the native Gaels nor the Norman settlers were smiling. People bowed in deference to the spectacle of royalty,
“You mean the weather will grow worse?” Fulke glanced anxiously at the scudding fleece of dirty clouds and then at the glass wall of sea menacing their bows.
“Only God can say. Their sea is as contrary as the Irish themselves.” Malicious amusement filled Archdeacon Gerald’s sloe-berry eyes. “Why, lad, are you afraid?”
Fulke clutched his little cross. “I have faith in God,” he said stoutly.
“Very proper too, and you will need it. King Henry is sending a spoiled child to do a man’s task. I have no doubt that blood will flow in direct proportion to the amount of wine consumed.”
Fulke said nothing. In all likelihood, Gerald was right—if the inebriated state of John and his immediate companions when they boarded ship at Milford was any indicator.
“Nor,” continued Gerald, wagging his forefinger like an Old Testament prophet, “do I think that those barrels of silver we loaded will ever reach the troops he’s supposed to buy. Mark my words; we’re in for a stormy passage.” The Archdeacon staggered across the deck to look out over the side.
From his precarious position on the cross spar, the lookout bellowed warning of land. Fulke joined the Archdeacon and squinted through spray-stung eyes. As they crested a wave, he saw the hazy outline of gray-green hummocks that did not move.
“The Wicklow Mountains,” said Gerald. “We’ll be in Waterford before nightfall.”
***
A trifle battered, but unharmed beyond the odd torn sail and leaky caulking, Prince John’s fleet sailed into Waterford to be greeted by a handful of Norman—Irish settler barons who had put down conquering roots a generation before. Groggy, reeling from the effects of seasickness and wine, John and his entourage were escorted to the stronghold of Waterford, known as Reginald’s Tower after the Norse leader who had originally built it.
Lord Theobald had been violently ill throughout the crossing and only a tremendous effort of will kept him upright as a groom led forward a bay gelding. He grasped the reins and swayed.
“Boost me up,” he commanded Fulke, the last word ending on a retch.
Fulke hastened to fit Theobald’s foot in the stirrup and push as the baron hauled himself across his mount’s saddle. A muffled oath escaped between Theobald’s clenched teeth and he gave a dry heave into the horse’s mane. Jean grasped the reins as the gelding sidled. His own warm complexion was sallow and his feet unsteady, but he was in far better case than their master.
“Sire?” Jean gave a concerned look at his lord.
“Just keep the beast quiet,” Theobald gulped.
“Yes, sire.” Jean exchanged a wry glance with Fulke and clicked his tongue, urging the horse to a gentle walk. Theobald gave a suffering moan. Fulke paced at Theobald’s stirrup and carried his banner. The moist sea breeze rippled through the embroidered silks and caused a pleasant snapping sound. Ahead of them the Angevin leopards blazed gold on their blood-red background. John’s dark head bobbed in and out of view, crowned by a golden circlet and surrounded by a protective forest of spears and banners. Fulke ignored him. There were more interesting sights to see.
The Irish of the town looked little different to the ordinary folk of England and Wales. They wore the same simple tunics in muted shades of brown, tawny, and green. Here and there, an occasional blue garment or a richer dye marked out someone of wealth. The older men cultivated long hair and wore full, heavy beards that put Fulke in mind of a hermit he had once encountered living wild in the forest beyond Alberbury. The sound of Gaelic filled his ears with its strange, musical harshness. He had a smattering of the Welsh tongue, garnered from Alain’s nurse Ceridwen. Irish had a difference cadence, less lilting but haunting in its own way.
He noticed that neither the native Gaels nor the Norman settlers were smiling. People bowed in deference to the spectacle of royalty,
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