They Served the Devil's Brood: The 12Th C. Norman-Welsh Invasion of Ireland

By Warwick Howard Grace

In 1135, during the civil conflict between the usurper King Stephen and Empress Matilda (the daughter of Henry I), two cousins, Raymond and William (unavoidably, one of the many Williams in the story), are born and raised at Carew, in southwest Wales. Their growth through infancy to maturity becomes an important part of the theme of They Served the Devils Brood.

It is a critical time in England and Wales as the barons are torn between loyalty to either faction, as well as having to deal with an increase in Welsh opposition to their presence. Calls are also being made for their knights and vassals to join the crusade against the infidels, who have taken control of the Holy Land.

Henry Plantagenet, the son of Matilda, enters the fray as a youth but has to be content to wait till Stephen, bereft of a viable heir, agrees to name Henry as his successor.

The Welsh Church is also facing increased demands from the centralized hierarchy of Rome.

As Henry II takes over the reins of government, his influence on all involved becomes apparent. He is kept busyand with him, all his servantstravelling his domains in France and England.

An exiled minor Irish king appeals to Henry to help him recover his rightful place and territory. He is given permission to gather such help as he can from the Norman-Welsh barons. Richard de Clare (Strongbow)rather down on his luck at the timeresponds.

It takes some time, but with Raymonds help, plus that of Raymonds relations, the FitzGeralds, they invade the southeast corner of Ireland. Raymond proves to be a capable warrior and brilliant commander but has to struggle with his own troubles as he seeks the hand of the higher-born sister of Richard, Basilia de Clare.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jan 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503500655

Warwick Howard Grace

Warwick Grace was born in 1932 at Wellington, New South Wales, a small country town gradually dwarfed by three other nearby towns—Orange, Dubbo, and Mudgee. He nearly died from peritonitis in 1949 when about to sit for his final school exams. He and his parents thanked God and the local doctor, Dr. Glasson, who used penicillin for the first time in the hospital there, enabling his recovery. Two years later, he entered a four-year training as a high school art teacher, commencing teaching in Sydney. The same year, he and Pam (Murphy) were married. Work led them to Newcastle for three years and then back to Sydney, where he worked part-time as well with Stanmore Missionary Press, in editing, layout, and illustration. By now they had two children, John and Susanne. In 1961 they moved to Wollongong, after resigning from the education department, to assist Warwick’s parents in their Hardware Company, Graces of Fairymeadow. Two brothers had joined Wycliffe Bible Translators in Papua New Guinea. He managed the firm for twenty years, during which time Christine, the last of their three children, was born, and a university degree was completed. In 1982, the business was sold. Warwick took his father, Noel, to England, Wales, and Ireland to further their research into the story that Noel had commenced some years earlier. On their return, Warwick was invited to join a friend in his Staircase Joinery, where he was designing and estimating. In 1991, the Joinery almost closed, but he and Pam were both able to go with other church friends to the USA and UK in 1992 and again to the USA in 1994. He joined another friend in his local funeral company, where he regularly assisted and, as a hospital ward chaplain, began to conduct services. Hobbies have included the completion of the historical novel and work on other studies, singing with their church choir, as well as a barbershop quartet and a local community men’s choir, the Arcadians Lamplighters. In 2006, he was asked to commence tutoring a free art class in the local Baptist church, where he had been an elder since 1977—an enjoyable return to his original vocation.

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 by Warwick Howard Grace.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014922455

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5035-0067-9

                Softcover         978-1-5035-0066-2

                eBook              978-1-5035-0065-5

Original Cover Design adapted by Katie Jenkins ([e-mail])

from Artwork by Warwick Grace.

Maps and some illustrations by Warwick Grace, 2012-2013.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Scripture quotations are based on the DRV (Douay-Rheims Version) translated (1582-1610) from the Latin Vulgate. The Vulgate was a Latin translation of the Bible, largely the work of St Jerome, who was commissioned by Pope Damasus I in 382 to make a revision of the Vetus Latina (old Latin translations). He referred to Hebrew and Greek but wrote it in Latin. Bishop Challoner revised it (with added notes) from 1749. Where chapter and verse references differ from the KJV (King James [Authorised] Version) or NIV (New International Version), both references are shown.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 01/22/2015

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CONTENTS

PREFACE To First Edition

Introduction To First Edition

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHARTS of Principals In The Story

SOUTH-WEST WALES

FOREWORD—The CASTLE of CAREW

BOOK 1 INFANCY COUSINS of CAREW

CHAPTER 1 1135—Castellan of Carew

CHAPTER 2 Confusion at Carew

CHAPTER 3 Counsel at Carew

CHAPTER 4 1136—Conflict at Kidwelly

CHAPTER 5 Kidnapping Near Carew

CHAPTER 6 1136—Robert of Gloucester

CHAPTER 7 1136—Catastrophe at Cardigan

SOUTH-EAST ENGLAND

CHAPTER 8 1139—Besieging Bedford

BOOK 2 YOUTH BRISTOL to BELLAY

CHAPTER 1 1147—Beachhead For Bristol

CHAPTER 2 Betrayal at Bristol

CHAPTER 3 Crusades and Sieges

CHAPTER 4 Mischief at Margam

CHAPTER 5 Meeting at Manorbier

CHAPTER 6 Hostages at Haverford

CHAPTER 7 1149-1152—Montreuil-Bellay and Paris

CHAPTER 8 1158—Bach at Cardiff

BOOK 2   POSTSCRIPT

INTERMISSION—HISTORICAL NOTE

BOOK 3 MATURITY INVADERS for IRELAND

CHAPTER 1 1166—Dermot to Bristol

CHAPTER 2 Raymond at Bristol

CHAPTER 3 Dermot to Poitiers

CHAPTER 4 Watchman on the Wye

CHAPTER 5 Basilia’s Escapade

CHAPTER 6 Strongbow Meets Dermot

CHAPTER 7 1167—Invasion Vanguard … Dermot’s Flemings

CHAPTER 8 1168—Invasion Setbacks

CHAPTER 9 1169—Invasion Flood … The Geraldines

BOOK 4 RESPONSIBILITY BAGINBUN and BASILIA

CHAPTER 1 1170—Baginbun and Waterford

CHAPTER 2 1170—The Walls of Waterford

CHAPTER 3 Dermot at Dublin

CHAPTER 4 1171—Rory at Liffey

CHAPTER 5 Henry in Ireland

CHAPTER 6 Storms and Sedition

CHAPTER 7 Raymond’s Recompense

CHAPTER 8 Deeds and Destiny

PANEGYRIC

FAMILY LINES in the Story

PRESENT SITES of the Invasion Area

Two Early Grace Family CRESTS

Some INTERNET SITES

BIBLIOGRAPHY

AUTHOR’S ENDNOTES

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

To the memory of

image001.jpg

HENRY NOEL GRACE

(Passport photo, 1969)

His vision was to have the story told.

THEY SERVED

THE ‘DEVIL’S BROOD’

A Narrative of 12th Century

Wales and Ireland

‘Y raai sydd wedi gwasanaethur Diavol’;

‘Ils ont servi la couvee du Diable’;

‘Zeill siad daor-macne an diabail.’

Rumours of the Plantagenêts:

‘From the Devil they came

and to the Devil they will go …’

—St Bernard

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PREFACE

TO FIRST EDITION

My father’s full name was Henry Noel Grace. Because his father was also Henry, he was known as Noel. Born 21 May 1900, at Port Macquarie, he died 7 May 1988 with pancreatic cancer, two weeks before his 88th birthday.

By the time he was 13, the needs of a larger family, with four more siblings including a baby sister, meant that he had to leave school to work. He was first a mail delivery boy at Bowraville, NSW, and then telephone-exchange operator at Newcastle. Next, he joined the BHP for apprentice bricklaying, as a result of which he built his parents’ home at Merewether, NSW, in the 1920s.

With the deepening of the Depression, he headed west to Dubbo, NSW, for trade work, then to Wellington nearby. Here he married Vera Lillian Hooker (in 1930) and reared his family. Between the years 1929 and 1953, he opened two grocery shops in this small central western town.

Finally he and Vera, with youngest son, Maurice, moved to Wollongong. His two older sons, Warwick and Ced, had already left home to seek other occupations on the east coast. In 1954 he established a hardware business, which prospered in the Fairymeadow community. He handed it over to his sons in the 1970s. They had all helped in its running for various periods, till its sale in 1982. Through these years, Noel also contributed in community and church work.

My brothers would recall something of his early interest in the twelfth century invasion of Ireland by Norman-Welsh barons, knights, and Flemish mercenaries. From 1960 until 1986, he spent many spare hours researching the background, without the benefit (or distraction) of the Internet.

Noel felt that the drama deserved more than mere documentary treatment. He and Vera made two journeys to the UK and Ireland by the mid ’70s. Vera began to weaken, so I joined Dad on his third tour of south England, Wales, and Ireland (1982), visiting sites, taking notes and photographs, and shaping the story. We finished a draft in 1986. From 1988, I arranged its typing on the computer. During three years, it went through three more editing sessions, with checks on research. After 1986, the editing had to be completely revised without his input. With the onset of pancreatic cancer, he rapidly deteriorated.

I made many subsequent changes. Further research meant some modifications or additions to events and characterisations, where they might enhance continuity in narrative or throw light upon some historical background. Paragraphs and footnotes were relocated or deleted to avoid confusion.

It may seem strange to have antipodeans dare to write a story set in twelfth century Wales and Ireland. What was it that so caught Noel’s attention about the drama under Strongbow (Richard de Clare), enacted in a small stage west of the historically grander theatre of Europe? Years ago a Catholic priest had intoned to him: ‘All Graces come from Ireland.’ Noel was aware of successful emigrants of Irish descent—Sydney retailer Grace Bros and US industrial giant W. R. Grace Inc. were from the numerically dominant Irish Catholic persuasion. Yet his own great-grandfather, James Bannister Grace, left Wiltshire, UK, for Australia in 1854, as an adherent of the Church of England. His interest in this matter merged with his research into the violation of Ireland, when he discovered that two legendary ancestors of the Grace name in Ireland were members of the invading force from Wales. Possibly all branches of the name found their roots in that era, or shortly after, as did many other surnames. Stemming from Norman, Welsh, English, or Flemish branches, many became firmly grafted to the already diverse stock in the soil of Erin. Much fruit from that well-grafted tree has been transplanted around the globe. Trying to trace the fruit to the root is always fascinating—though often frustrating.

The original concept was Noel’s. The plot is based on records available in works such as volumes 1 and 2 of Ireland under the Normans (1169-1216) ¹ and others in the bibliography.

I am responsible for the final offering.

Warwick H. Grace, B. A. (UNE)

Wollongong, NSW, 1992

INTRODUCTION

TO FIRST EDITION

The onus for overruling local Irish law and tenancy with Norman state dominion and Roman priestly oversight in the twelfth century is becoming better understood now by fair-minded folk in that delightful country. The dramatic changes flowed from Norman-Welsh and Flemish ambition, instigated by a minor indigenous Irish ruler. He was not the first to ally with outsiders in order to defend, restore, or enlarge his own domain. But although the incursion was engineered and executed by intruders from the east, sanctioned by a Papal Bull and authorised by an Angevin-cum-Norman King, it is disappointing to learn that the Anglo-Saxons (the English) still bear most of the blame for the initial invasion. This view remains despite the fact that just over a hundred years previously, they had suffered the like consequence of defeat, becoming subject to raiders from over the French sea.

Earlier still, Danes, Saxons, and others, hungry for both booty and land, had invaded the coasts of England, her previous inhabitants being forced to give ground. So it may seem to some that the climactic event of 1066 was nothing more than just recompense, perpetrated upon descendants of those who had previously over-run the land. However, by the time of William the Conqueror, the earlier settlers seemed to have become peace-loving, much like most we met on our 1982 tour. This concession does not, of course, justify the later history of English injustice.

We are not English-born—indeed we were reared half a world away—but we are grieved to see the common people of their land sharing the blame for conditions for which, as far as we can discern, they are not responsible. The ordinary people of Ireland, England, and Wales, with whom we discussed these matters, mostly agreed that the ‘privileged’ in their respective homelands also claim descent from the conquerors. Their ancestors participated in the two invasions—but were often absorbed into local races. They became part of their adopted culture, adding their own characteristics.

The narrative relates the friendship of several Norman-Welsh young people brought together through birth and other circumstances, particularly two cousins, linked not only by their kinship, but also by a controversy associated with their infancy. They grew up through childhood to become members in their formative years of a group, which they called with affection ‘The Crew of Carew’. Their existence can be authenticated from historical records, as can many of the incidents occurring within the narrative.

The fortunes of the two lads gradually diverged. Both became knights, subject to the lordship of their sovereign, who at the time was the Plantagenêt Henry II.

Henry was a complex personality, who appeared willing to acknowledge his descent from an ancestry dubbed the ‘Devil’s Brood’.

One cousin is caught up in the fortunes of an exiled Irish King (the minor ruler referred to above) and the rejuvenated course of a previously declining earl, Richard de Clare or ‘Strongbow’, under whom he proves a successful commander. Many who survived, including the other cousin, became landholders of consequence in Eire.

Descendants are found in the United Kingdom and Ireland—as well as throughout the inhabited world.

Noel Grace and Warwick Grace

Wollongong, NSW, 1986

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to express gratitude to some folk in the UK and Ireland, who gave hospitality and encouragement to Noel, Vera, and me. The late Horrie and Gladys Edwards, of Crayford, were kind and attentive, particularly during my mother’s illness on one tour. The total time shared with our family would have run into several weeks, gladly given. Attendants at some of the historical sites, especially castles, both private and state-supervised, were helpful beyond the call of duty. They are genuinely proud of their heritage, despite sadness or cruelty remembered within the peaceful walls they now guard. Our experience of hotel, guest houses, bed and breakfast accommodation was generally commendable. From our third trip, I want to mention some B&B hosts/hostesses: In Wales, Doug and Anne Powell, of Caerphilly, were attentive, while George and Barbara Davies, Tenby Rd, St Clears, put us up for three nights and showed us some historic sites in the area. Roy and Ireen Daveridge of Church Park, Caerphilly, helped us by supplying accommodation. Ireen was Horrie Edwards’s sister.

In Ireland, special thanks go to the O’Mahony family on their farm at Wellington Bridge. They made us feel at home and donated a book by Billy Colfer, The Promontory of Hook.

My wife, Pam, has been patient and encouraging through countless hours of editing. We both journeyed to Ireland from England in 1992, retracing some of the historic sites, notably Kilkenny and Tullaroan, where many Graces reside or are interred. Our accommodation in England was with John and June Clark, good friends of Fordham, Cambridgeshire, and Arnold and Margaret (since deceased) Rodmell, of Nottingham, parents of our niece-in-law Mary Grace. In Ireland as well as England, most of our other nights were in youth hostels.

Early typing, aimed to assist editing, was carried out by Kerrie, wife of gospel singer Steve Grace, one of Noel’s grandsons. Ruby Arthur, then with Summer Institute of Linguistics, put some onto disk. The burden of the typing was then borne by Pat Adams (deceased), with then husband Peter’s computer support. They were parents to Derek, husband of our daughter Christine. Pat typed for many hours, with little more than my gratitude—plus occasional dinners out at the former Southern Crepes of Wollongong.

Help with translation of French has been given by church friend and gifted musician Miss Janet Morris and the late Geoffrey Leach, a delightful neighbour who, with his late wife, Anthea, loved to reminisce of their years in Wales. Family members have had opportunity to read and edit from USB memory sticks, while church friends Barry Horsley and Peter McCall, both skilled teachers, have helped by editing two self-published copies of the text.

Ligare Publishers, Riverwood, NSW, printed the first self-published edition. Katie Jenkins helped develop my cover design.

Helpful correspondents are mentioned for appreciation at the conclusion of the bibliography.

My thanks go to all of these friends—but particularly to my wife, Pam, who, with all her patient support, will be surely as happy as I am to see the ‘monkey off my back’!

Warwick Grace

Wollongong, NSW, September 2013

Second Edition. Dennis Francis of Xlibris Australia (Penguin-Random House Group) was diligent in arranging the opportunity to self-publish through Xlibris prior to October 2014, and this edition is the product of that contact. The first issue was professionally printed but not commercially published.

Several minor editing tasks have been undertaken.

Kevin Loo, professor of journalism and editing at Wollongong University, has been a valuable guide, involving his class in an exercise related to this and other work.

Warwick Grace

Wollongong, NSW, October 2014

CHARTS

OF PRINCIPALS IN THE STORY

image002.jpgimage003.jpgimage004.jpgimage005.jpg

SOUTH-WEST WALES

image006.jpgimage007.jpg

Sketch map of Carew Castle site

FOREWORD—

THE CASTLE OF CAREW

Carew in Deheubarth, South Wales, was part of a region known later as ‘Little England beyond Wales’.² In the first Norman invasion of Pembrokeshire, Gerald FitzWalter de Windesor became Constable³ of Pembroke, where Prince Rhys ap Tewdwr had ruled. Rhys’s young daughter, Princess Nesta, was taken hostage by King William II and became the ward of his successor, King Henry I. While in his power, he seduced her. Their illegitimate son was known as Henry FitzHenry.

In recognition of services rendered, Henry gave Nesta (Nest) in marriage to Lord Gerald,⁴ about 1095. Nesta⁵ brought the manor of Carew as part of her dowry, and Gerald cleared the existing timber fort to build his own castle on Norman lines.

The castle stands on a limestone bluff overlooking the Carew inlet, part of the tidal estuary that makes up Milford Haven. The Carew (or Carrw) River is an arm of the Daugleddau and the stream near the castle was later dammed as a millpond, resulting in the castle’s field being bounded on three sides by water.

Sited several miles from the town of Pembroke, along the road to Tenby, it appears that the location was seen as strategically useful from early times. Modern excavations in the outer ward have revealed defensive walls of an Iron Age fort.

It would have been about the year 1100 when Lord Gerald erected his stone keep, the original core of the later much enlarged Carew⁶ Castle, which may exist in the structure now called the ‘Old Tower’.

Gerald would have surrounded his keep with a timber palisade as the outer defence. Inside the bailey or courtyard, there would have been a timber kitchen with other outbuildings for storage and general activities. The original outer walls and ancillary buildings of timber have of course long since disappeared. Most of the extant stone fortifications were added over following centuries.

CAREW CASTLE

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Possible style and extent of Carew Castle in the twelfth century

W. Grace 2012

Although Lord Gerald was Constable of nearby Pembroke, in 1138, King Stephen, who usurped the throne after Henry I’s sudden death, chose instead to confer the Earldom of Pembroke upon another powerful baron rather than Gerald. His choice was Gilbert de Clare, the first ‘Strongbow’ of history.

When Gilbert died, his son and heir, Richard FitzGilbert de Clare—also known as ‘Strongbow’—would normally have inherited this earldom. However, enmity over succession to the throne, following its seizure by Stephen, affected relations between the new King and other claimants to the throne.

Matilda (Maude), daughter of Henry I, opposed her cousin Stephen. She was the legitimate claimant to the throne, as this had been Henry’s will in the matter. The majority of barons, however, chose manfully to support Stephen’s fait accompli.

Maude’s son, Henry Plantagenêt (later Henry II), supported Maude’s claim to what was now his uncle’s throne but, several years later, became the main contender.

The title to Pembroke itself seems to have been ‘held in the king’s hand’ by King Stephen. Rather than receiving Pembroke from his father, Gilbert, Earl Richard de Clare became Earl of Striguil instead, near Chepstow on the River Wye.

Carew Castle was administered at this time by its Castellan, Sir William FitzGerald,⁷ on behalf of his father, Gerald FitzWalter de Windesor.

It was near the end of November, and Sir William was to conduct proceedings at what was called a ‘court baron’, an assembly held several times each year for the purpose of resolving minor matters affecting tenants of the manor.

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Present day Carew Castle—Millpond in background.

(Photo: W. Grace, 1982.)

BOOK 1

INFANCY

COUSINS of CAREW

CHAPTER 1

1135—CASTELLAN OF CAREW

The atmosphere outside the great hall of Carew Castle was quite chilly. This was not unexpected for a dull November forenoon in south Wales. The sun shone weakly through breaks in the otherwise complete cloud cover. Within the hall, there was warmth radiating from a brazier of glowing charcoal, set on a square stone hearth several feet away from a sturdy counter near one end of the hall. From this desk, the Castellan of Carew, Sir William FitzGerald, had presided during the morning over a court, deciding matters of concern for folk under his jurisdiction. Though a formidable-looking man, already greying, his brown eyes, under a relaxed brow, expressed a patient and tolerant spirit. He was alone in the hall until a serving-man entered to give attention to the brazier. Turning his head, he gazed pensively toward the glowing embers upon which additional fuel was being cast. He appeared to be oblivious to the servant’s actions, even when kindling material amongst the added charcoal broke into flame, supplementing the light shed by flickering torches bracketed around the walls. These had served their purpose for the day. Though the redolence of their burning would remain for a time, their glow would not be restored. The court, convened just after first light, had already concluded its pre-Christmas session. Although still only mid-morning, the supplicants whose affairs had been processed had left, most wanting to return to whatever warmth their hearths could provide.

The attendant picked up his wicker container of charcoal, then moved slowly toward the doorway. An elderly balding man of slight build, he tended to drag his feet in the rushes on the floor. Both legs and back were bowed from years of service in more than one castle in the region.

‘Thank you, Raulf. Go to your quarters now and rest till I need you again. We are expecting family and friends later, but preparations are well advanced.’

Sir William now felt like relaxing at his desk. Chin cupped in his left hand, elbow resting on the countertop, the fingers of his right hand beat a ‘devil’s tattoo’ on its boards. Though a man of action if required, he preferred these times of peaceful, orderly administration. It had been a busy if brief morning, dispensing justice to the best of his ability, following guidelines left by the late and formidable King Henry. Now the Castellan was expecting to enjoy an interim of quiet, before the unexpected might intrude upon activities already scheduled for the rest of the day. Placing both elbows on his desk, the better to balance his head, he began to muse upon the tranquillity that had developed throughout the area of Carew. He administered the castle on behalf of his father, Lord Gerald FitzWalter de Windesor, who was Constable of the castle of Pembroke, a few miles to his west.

He could not fail to contrast his own peaceable lot with that of other noblemen of his acquaintance, whose circumstances, from reports received, were quite troubled. He wondered if there was some truth in the opinion expressed by some that what he enjoyed was not just the result of blessed good fortune blended with able oversight—it was more probably the outcome of his father’s marriage with a remarkable lady of the royal house of south Wales. Having debated this possibility in the past, he admitted to himself that he was now more inclined to accept this second view. As well, a rich contentment had filled his days since he became the husband of Catherine, daughter and heiress of Richard, Lord of Kingsley.

Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted, just as a cosy drowsiness had begun to settle over him. The Lady Catherine herself, tall, erect, fair of complexion, entered to rouse him with a gentle but firm, ‘William, my dear, you must not neglect some important duties still requiring your attention. Your brother might arrive at any time with Bishop Bernard to conduct young Raymond’s baptism, and …’

The Castellan reached for one of his wife’s hands and drew her onto the form beside him. ‘Right as usual, my dear …’

Looking into her grey-green eyes, he thought again how much their colour struck a foil to her rich brown hair coiled, with hardly a silver gleam, around the crown of her head. ‘But the day is yet young and our Chaplain has assured me he has all in readiness for the ceremony in our chapel. ’Twill not take place ’til after we’ve partaken of our midday meal. You remember what my father always says’, he added with a twinkle in his eye, ‘Though my reverend brother David is seldom early for an appointment, he’s never late for a meal.’

At that moment, hearing a blast from a horn, they paused and turned to glance at the doorway. The guard was signalling the arrival of someone at the castle entrance.

‘That must be the Bishop and his party now,’ suggested Catherine.

‘’Twill not be him, Catherine, my dear,’ corrected her husband. ‘I have arranged for the guard to blow a special signal when he announces the Bishop’s arrival. You will see what I mean.’

Presently a stocky middle-aged attendant came to the hall door to state that a man and a woman had arrived at the gate. His husky voice, its accent suggesting his origin in an area north of York, carried a note of frustration, matching the perplexed lines on his brow. As Steward, he obviously felt he had enough duties to oversee, without having to introduce every passing caller to his master.

‘They’s each holding kinder, Sor, but won’t neither give me they’s name nor token of who they’s are or w’ence they’s come. The mahn seeks audience wi’ yersel’ or m’Lady, Sor, an’ ‘sists he bears mos’ vital information w’ich he’ll gi’ to none else.’ The attendant concluded his remarks with an impatient sniff. ‘They’s Welsh folks, Y’r Honour.’

‘Take normal precautions and conduct them here to me, Conan.’

In just a few minutes, the callers, much travel-worn, were ushered toward the castle’s principals to face them across the desk. Both were cloaked with pelts over head and shoulders, with their charges swaddled in water-resistant furs. The man, tall and obviously fit, was probably in his late twenties. His smaller sturdy companion, dark-complexioned like himself, was clearly agitated.

He wore a warm woven jacket under his mantle, with matching leggings, while she had a long skirt of similar materials tucked into fur-lined boots. Though well-worn, their clothes were of good quality.

‘Well …’, began Sir William, addressing the man in Welsh, ‘and what might I do for you?’ anticipating that their needs would amount to nothing beyond food and shelter.

The man replied with easy dignity, in a cultured Welsh voice, ‘If it pleases your Worship, I have no needs to be met for myself or my wife. All we need has been provided by worthy countrymen along our way.’ He turned a wary glance in the direction of the man Conan, then, after some hesitation, said, ‘If it pleases you, Sir, what I have to say is for the ears of yourself or your Lady Catherine alone.’

Both Sir William and his wife were surprised to hear this stranger mention Catherine’s name, so the Castellan nodded to acknowledge his attendant’s enquiring glance. Conan at once withdrew from the hall. Sir William turned to his visitor. ‘Now then, what is your name and what have you to say?’

‘My name is Gruffydd and this is my wife, Gwladys. The child in my wife’s arms, Sir, is not our own.’ Gathering encouragement from the kindly manner of his interrogator, the man continued. ‘He is the son of one whom we have served for a time—the Lady Brenda of Carno.’⁸

At the mention of this name, Lady Catherine, who until now had listened to these proceedings with no more than passing interest, leaned forward with eyebrows raised, her elbows on the counter. She glanced sideways at her husband with unspoken enquiry but quickened concern. After a pause during which he tried to gauge the effect this announcement had produced upon his hearers, Gruffydd continued,

‘Her Ladyship has bidden us to bring her child to you with an earnest prayer that you will accept and provide for him as your own until such time as the child shall desire otherwise.’

Sir William and his wife were somewhat disconcerted by the nature and suddenness of this extraordinary request. This reaction was not unexpected by the man Gruffydd. He went on resolutely, with something of urgency in his voice and manner. ‘We have travelled many miles over mountain paths from the north to bring this request to you, Sire and Madame. Indeed, on one of the steep, damp paths, my wife slipped while carrying the young one, and we fear one of his feet has been injured. But we have been in constant fear of possible pursuit and could not tarry, though the child was crying much. The good folk who sustained us on our journey, and helped comfort him, have done so without knowing or caring to know who we are. None have questioned whence we came or where we were bound …’

It was Catherine who first recovered from the effect of their appeal. She broke into Gruffydd’s narration. ‘We know your Lady Brenda very well, my man. In years gone by, she was a special friend of mine.’ Then, believing that their personal asides would not be understood by the Welsh couple, she confided to her husband, «Mais comment pouvons nous savoir que cette réclamation vient réellement de Brenda?»⁹

While she was still speaking, the man began to fumble in a leather satchel suspended within his jacket. From this he produced a small roll of parchment, which he passed across the desk into the hands of Lady Catherine, with a brief comment, also in French: «Madame Brenda a envoyé ceci, ma Madame».¹⁰ Slightly embarrassed, she smiled apologetically and then broke a seal on the parchment. As she began to unroll the document, a dainty piece of needlework fell onto the counter. Immediately she reached for the delicate fabric, remarking to her husband, ‘I feel sure now that they are from Brenda, William. This is a piece of needlework that I gave her years ago. I know it well—it is my own handiwork.’

The Castellan had spread the parchment before him on the bench, where he and his wife were able to read together a letter written in French. There was no address.

«Mes amis, J’ai confié mon enfant au soin de notre Seigneur et de ses deux domestiques dévoués, mais je n’ose pas faire mention ici de la raison pour laquelle j’ai agi ainsi. Je ne voudrais pas non plus ajouter mon nom de peur que cette lettre ne puisse tomber dans d’autres mains que celles qui lui sont destinées. Vous apprendrez ce dont vous aurez besoin par mes serviteurs. Je vous en conjure, accédez à la requête qu’ils vous feront et cela par égard pour mon enfant, sa vie ainsi que pour celle de mes serviteurs et probablement pour la mienne aussi. J’ai pleine confiance en votre réponse future grâce à l’affection qui a existé entre nous. Je lance également un appel au nom de mes domestiques à qui j’ai confié les risques d’exécuter une telle tâche. De plus, occupez-vous bien d’eux, et je suis persuadé que vous le ferez.

«Par cette lettre, je vous transmets à tous les deux mon amour. Quant à mon fils, il vous porte également mon amour».

There was a postscript to this unsigned request: «Le prénom que j’ai choisi pour mon fils est Madoc».¹¹

There was no signature, for the security of the travellers. Sir William and his wife agreed that they must comply with their friend’s request. In response to Gruffydd, he used the Sassenach pronunciation of the man’s name: ‘Griffith, we appreciate your loyalty to Lady Brenda. We will accept responsibility for the safety and well-being of the child because of our fond relationship with his mother. ’Tis unfortunate, but I see no way of informing her of the success of your pilgrimage, considering the threat that seems to worry her so. However, ’tis certain she has entrusted your way to the good care of our Lord. We will pray that someday she may be able to see her son. On the morrow I will discuss matters relating to yourselves and your own child. For the present we will see that you receive rest and refreshment after your tiring journey.’

He then struck a gong on one end of his bench. Conan appeared at the doorway forthwith, having clearly hovered in proximity, though not within earshot. He knew better than to invade the privacy of the previous few minutes, but knew also that in the affairs of the Welsh, as he perceived them himself, he needed to be vigilant on behalf of his master.

‘Conan, would you see that these folk receive room and refreshments? They have travelled a long way and will be with us for some time.’

In the meantime, Lady Catherine had moved to take the child from Gwladys.

‘My dear, you must be exhausted; this boy is so heavy! And we must attend to the injury to his foot as best we can.’

When Conan ushered the Welsh couple to the doorway leading to the domestic quarters, Catherine followed carrying the infant Madoc, who had begun whimpering as the transfer was made. Gwladys looked around as both she and Gruffydd halted. Quickly unwrapping the infant, Catherine glanced at his feet. She spoke softly to them in French, «C’est son pied; il est casse … »¹²

Another horn blast issued from the castle gateway. Lady Catherine lingered to remark, ‘Perhaps Conan should stay here; that is the same signal as the last one, William—which means that this is not the Bishop’s party either, I suppose?’

‘That is true, my dear. ’Twas not the signal I have been waiting for. I wonder who ’twill be this time?’

His query showed no more than casual interest. But when he glanced at Gruffydd’s face, as the man waited for Lady Catherine to precede him through the exit, the Castellan perceived a growing look of apprehension. The Welshman now seemed to be suffering considerable agitation.

‘What troubles you, man? What do you fear? You are quite safe here now! No one is likely to harm you or yours while you are at Carew.’

The well-built young Welshman, still with his own child in his arms, proudly drew back his head and shoulders as he turned to confront the speaker. He replied quietly but resolutely, ‘I fear no man, Sir, while I have my javelin and knife with me; but I surrendered them to your gatekeeper. Might I make a request of you—if you please, Your Honour.’

‘Yes; what is it, then?’ Sir William’s response was rather more abrupt, as he was beginning to think that the man’s reaction to the signal was somewhat excessive.

‘Would you let me remain with you after I place my son in his mother’s care? Then might I have the use of a short spear from the trophy on the wall behind you, if my own weapon is not convenient? There is a slight possibility, though we have taken every precaution, that Madoc’s father may have discovered our flight. I fear his considerable power. He or his agent may have followed us and caught up with us here.’

When Gruffydd returned to the hall, he found Conan waiting outside the door holding in one hand the weapons he had been instructed to retrieve from the guard’s custody. With his free hand, Conan was making a gesture that signalled silence. From where they stood outside the door, both men could not avoid overhearing a conversation between the Castellan and another stranger just within the room.

‘You are shivering, man! Did you bring no warm cloak on such a cold day as this?’ The stranger was without covering on the upper part of his body. He stood with arms crossed, a hand grasping each shoulder. This stance showed to advantage a well-muscled young man in his early twenties. His long fair hair, now damp and in disarray, matched with deep blue eyes to suggest a northerner. A kilt of hardy homespun reached to his knees, from where its muddied hem dripped water onto the rush floor.

Conan silently passed the weapons to their owner. Motioning to Gruffydd that he should remain where he was, he moved into the hall where he stood beside the newcomer. The Castellan directed Conan to ‘bring a rug or something’ that the man could use as a covering and then questioned him further.

‘Now, what is the important news you say you have for me?’

Responding in the language of his interrogator, his accent, with the slightly burred ‘r’, nevertheless stamped him as an Ostman from one of the ports of Ireland. ‘Y’r Honour, I hurried here to bring you word that a troop of armed men is on its way towards y’r castle. I have worked here long enough, to be sure, to know that there are troubles among settlers to the near north and I wanted you to be prepared when the force I saw arrives. I have heard of y’r reputation as a man of peace and did not want you taken unawares.’

Sir William was sufficiently well acquainted with the man’s accent to be able to carry on conversation with him without difficulty.

‘How do you know the troop intends to come here?’ His interest in the report was now quite genuine as he recalled what he had been told by Gruffydd. He added, before the man had time to reply, ‘But first, tell me who you are.’

‘I am known in my home country as Lief the Wright, but in this country, they call me Lief the Ostman. All my working life I have been a builder and repairer of ships, as was my father before me. For some few days I have been doing repair work on a barge that crosses the river from Ferry-hill nearby. I was busy working on the barge when these armed men rode down the hill towards the ferry. I heard one rider, who seemed to be in command of the troop, demand that the ferryman take him across to where he could join the road to Carew Castle. I did not wait to hear more but slid into the water. Then I swam, taking cover as far as possible beside the barge, after which I swam underwater. When I reckoned I was an arrow-shot from the barge, I shed my coat and left it on the riverbank. I then headed towards the south bank of the Daugleddau. When I reached it, I hurried on here.’

CHAPTER 2

CONFUSION AT CAREW

Sir William asked no more questions. He told Lief to join Gruffydd. Conan, who had by now returned with a cloak, provided the Ostman with a weapon as well then saw that he was given refreshment. The Castellan then left the hall to inspect defences within his stronghold, while wrestling with a few questions.

What strange troop would choose to travel at this season? Would the visitors that he was already expecting need to ask directions to his castle? Should he interrogate both Ostman and Welshman further?

At the inner gate he called to a retainer, with a horn slung over his shoulder. ‘Ansell, blow a signal of assembly at the gate. I want the village folk to come in to the ward. Tell the guard to secure the gate when they are all inside.’

He hoped that the Bishop’s retinue would arrive before it was necessary to raise it.

Meanwhile, Gruffydd and Lief, now that the two of them were left together, both stood close to the brazier, with Lief now wearing the warm clothing provided him. Having overheard Lief’s story, Gruffydd assumed that the menace he most anticipated was about to fall upon the Carew community. He questioned his companion about the armed force that would by now, he reasoned, be across the river and on its way toward the castle. Ascertaining that Lief was familiar with the Welsh language, his interrogation proceeded without hindrance.

‘What device was on the banner those men carried?’ He believed the answer might settle at once the question that was uppermost in his mind.

‘I am sorry. I saw no banner.’

‘How many armed men were in the troop?’

‘From where I was working on the barge, I could see about four mounted men in mail, armed with lances. But when I looked back during my swim, there appeared to be more. And there could have been others behind the ferryman’s cottage or among the trees. Some may have been squires or serving men. Oh’, as another thought came to mind, ‘I did see what appeared to be some servant women among the riders.’

Gruffydd was silent as he turned over in his mind a possibility that these women might include Lady Brenda with one or two maids. He imagined that, perhaps, the poor woman had been compelled to ride with the group. Prince Owain of Gwynedd, Madoc’s father, had possibly arrived at Dolwyddelan Castle, home of Lady Brenda, sometime after he and Gwladys had fled the place with the child. The Prince may have suspected the loyalty of his servant and forced the child’s mother to disclose their scheme.

It seemed quite possible that his erstwhile employer was about to arrive. Surely the revenge the Prince had threatened was about to fall upon him! Gruffydd no longer seemed to feel the fatigue that a while before had been quite apparent. Instead, all that was in his thoughts was concern for the safety of the castle, its complement, and his charges. He was ready to take his stand among them as a defender.

With this idea in mind, he almost ran from the hall in search of the Castellan in order to volunteer his services. He met Sir William, hurrying from the direction of the gate tower.

The master of the castle was now equipped with hauberk,¹³ casques, and greaves, having changed from the attire he wore as an arbitrator earlier that morning.

As they drew closer, Sir William called, ‘Come with me, Griffith; there are some things I must know at once if I am to understand the situation that seems to have overtaken us.’

The Castellan now showed none of the concern he had expressed for the weariness of the man a short time before. Instead his entire energy, understandably, was directed toward the defence of his establishment. He turned to retrace his steps, with Gruffydd hurrying beside him.

‘We will go to the sentry walk over the gate, where we may talk freely. None can interrupt us there,’ he breathed out hurriedly, leading the way up the steps.

Releasing the watchman on duty, he continued, ‘Now then, my man, I want your story again, but from the beginning. Tell me everything you think I should know about the reason for your coming to Carew. Leave out no detail, even what you consider unimportant. You can sense the disquiet that has settled upon us from the moment you arrived. Keep nothing from me,’ he demanded sharply.

Gruffydd at once began to respond. Prince Owain had transferred Gwladys and himself from his own service to that of his mistress, Lady Brenda, at Dolwyddelan Castle several months previously. The Prince’s instruction to them was that they serve the Lady, who expected shortly the birth of his child, with the same integrity they had shown to him while in his own service. As bidden, therefore, the Welsh couple had performed their service faithfully. While doing so, they had both acquired a deep, mutual affection for Lady Brenda. In the interim, the Prince married another woman.

‘Shortly before her child was expected, Prince Owain visited Lady Brenda. While there, he called me to a secret interview. He told me that his own wedded wife was anticipating the arrival of her first child also. Difficulties would arise for him and for his family in the future if sons were born to both Lady Brenda and his wife, especially if, as expected, Lady Brenda’s child were the first to be born. He had determined to avoid such difficulties before they arose: Lady Brenda’s son, if such a situation occurs, will have to be put to death! He looked me straight in the eye while saying this, and showed no shame. He clearly saw my disbelief when I heard this remark, but he went on, not concerned for my feelings in the least. He told me that a messenger would come to speak with me if, when it was born, his wife’s child happened to be male. The messenger would simply say to me a boy arrived and how many days old he was. Then, if Lady Brenda’s child was also male, born before the other, I must seize the first opportunity to dispose of him. I was completely horrified. Why? Why should I do such a monstrous thing? Why murder an innocent child? I could not possibly do it! He just replied, There are two reasons—one: I intend to avoid a blood-feud among my sons when I die. The other? I vow that I will seek you wherever you happen to be, and will destroy you and all that is yours, as well as the child, if you neglect to carry out my orders—or even if I discover that you have breathed a word of this to anyone else. Make no mistake—I will find you!’

Gruffydd then told how, in an agony of spirit, he made a confidante of his wife. Gwladys had received the information more calmly than he had related it, telling him to have no fear—he must leave everything to her. ‘Then, when I told Gwladys that Prince Owain’s messenger had called to report what I most feared, she recounted to Lady Brenda the details of the Prince’s proposed atrocity. Together the three of us contrived the plan we were able to conclude this morning.’

No longer was there opportunity for Sir William to continue his interrogation of the less-than-cheerful Welshman. Just as Gruffydd’s narration reached this juncture, the Castellan’s attention became drawn to movement on the roadway some distance away. A road bounded the castle’s eastern precincts several hundred yards from its gatehouse. It separated the castle enclosure from the village of Carew, then ran southward from a ford to meet the highway that served the vicinity of Milford Haven in the west and stretched eastward toward St Clears and beyond.

It was impossible for Sir William to discern the identity of the riders, seen at intervals through breaks in the tree cover, as they rode east toward the intersection. Perhaps he would recognise some insignia should the group turn northward at that point. If this did prove to be the Bishop’s party—though such a martial display was most uncharacteristic of that strong-minded, independent individual—its escort would help swell the ranks of men already stationed along the sentry walk of the castle wall. If not . . . ?

But already horsemen were coming into view as he peered across the deer park adjoining the castle perimeter, landward opposite the millpond. To his concern, they comprised not only the Bishop’s normal retinue, but a number of mail-clad knights with men-at-arms.

He then assumed that the armed force had travelled east from the ferry, meeting with the Bishop’s retinue where the east-west highway met the southern road from Lamphey. The clerical escort with, he guessed, hardly a threatening element amongst it would have travelled in a leisurely pace that morning from the newly established Episcopal Palace at Lamphey, about three miles further south. Now the combined company was nearing Carew. The Bishop and entourage he knew and expected. ‘But who are the others?’ he pondered.

A few minutes later, he recognised his brother-in-law, Lord William de Barri, riding a little ahead of some ecclesiastical dignitaries, one of whom was clearly the Bishop Bernard. This gave him some relief—clearly De Barri’s small contingent would hardly be hostile. Lord William, a family member, being married to William’s sister Angharad, and involved in the coming ceremony, was well-known as a man of peace. He must also have left that morning from his Castle of Manorbier, four miles to the south-east.

But were the heavily-armed knights, on either side of his friends, simply guarding them as a friendly gesture or escorting them as prisoners?

The perplexed Castellan then expressed his thoughts to Gruffydd. ‘Prince Owain is not likely to have a troop of Norman knights attending him; these men must be …’

‘True, Sir William’, interposed the Welshman, ‘but what if he has hired a mercenary force from Flanders—or from one of your barons? We in the north are well aware of the disaffection many of them have felt toward King Henry’s rule, and hiring is not an uncommon ploy in some of our northern areas these days! What better way to gain access to a castle than to come in with a peaceful group of travellers, particularly if they are expected? Such a ploy has been used by barons in your own land, and we Welsh have learned quite a few things from you!’

‘I am aware of those possibilities, my man—but the Prince was not to know he would meet up with our party, was he?’

‘That is also true, Sir, but neither was he to know you would have been forewarned by the Ostman. He would have anticipated coming to your gate while it was still open, and himself unexpected. Look, Sir, I would hope with you that my fears of pursuit are groundless. But if he did gain access … He has no love for the Normans!’

The troop continued to canter unhurriedly toward the entrance of his demesne. To the riders the castle complex must have looked impressive, its bristling palisade a dark counterpoint to the newly constructed stone hall.

Sunshine had broken through a rift in the clouds; a light mist rose from the damp ground and the castle ditch, dense enough in patches to shroud the vestments of the unidentified troop. The light did, however, permit the two men over the gate to estimate the time of day from the length of shadow cast by a shaft in the deck beside them. It was approaching noon.

Cooking odours, wafting on a light breeze from the kitchen, forewarned of provisions already being prepared for an influx of visitors to Carew. Arrangements were well advanced. Lady Catherine, having left Gwladys with the two boys, intended that there should be no further interruption to her plans for the day, if it were in her power to circumvent it. She explained her reasoning later. Although she had not visualised a crisis of the magnitude her husband was anticipating, hungry guests would need to be sustained whatever the outcome of his precautions.

Meanwhile, Sir William kept his attention on the approaching cavalcade. It had turned into a lane leading across his park and was continuing at a jogging pace toward the castle entrance. Gruffydd, who had been silent for several minutes, sensing his superior’s need to concentrate, now remarked with what appeared to be a sigh of relief. ‘If it pleases you, Sir, I want to assure you that Prince Owain is not with those people … Nor can I recognise any of his followers.’

‘Perhaps not. That answers one concern. But it hardly helps me to know who those strangers are with our friends. We only know who they are not!’

The presence of Lord William de Barri, with his wife, Angharad, and her young son, as well as other women with the group, was reassuring, for they showed no signs of unease. Then he noted that all accoutred men, including the small escorts of the Bishop and De Barri, were in possession of their combat weapons. Such observations simply created further twinges of indecision, a sensation quite uncharacteristic of him. Now he was beginning to feel that his fears had been without justification. He stepped to the palisade against the platform, arm upraised to bring the approaching band to a halt. Though he suspected that the company would judge him to be acting with too much caution, he hoped his friends among them would excuse his vigilance. They surely recalled occasions when, through tactics such as the one he had suspected, adversaries had taken strongholds far more secure than Carew.

When the troop came to a halt, Bishop Bernard continued forward with Sir William’s brother, Vicar David, intending to join the two leaders. During this manoeuvre, the Bishop remarked loudly, if jovially, to his subordinate, ‘Your knightly brother is certainly playing safe, my Vicar. Look at all those mailed heads! Ha! And as supreme offence, a closed gate …’

‘You need hardly wonder at such caution when you consider the treachery we hear about today, your Grace,’ came the Vicar’s stout rejoinder. The Bishop directed his next less-amused ecclesiastical bellow toward the armed Knight who peered at him from the tower, ‘What kind of welcome is this, William of Carew?’ and then reined in his horse beside William de Barri.

‘Why have you led this unfamiliar troop to my gate?’ the Castellan countered, hoping perhaps to gain some acknowledgement of his predicament.

The Bishop began to chuckle. A solidly-built figure, worldly-wise and never ill-at-ease in any company, he was normally cheerful, with a wit to match his shrewd, deep-set eyes. The situation was easing in tension as he grasped the comical side of the standoff. Instead of answering Sir William’s enquiry, the corpulent cleric pulled on a rein, causing his horse to turn so that he could conveniently gesture toward one of the armed strangers he had brought with him from the highway. With mock ceremony, revealing mild censure, yet with surprising good humour for one who normally regarded his office with dignity, his powerful voice rang out. ‘Sir William of Carew, this man you see here you may recognise as your brother-in-law, Lord William de Barri. But the one beside him you will not know, I am sure.’ Here the Bishop purposely halted to speak in an undertone to the Vicar, who at once rode to make contact with one of the ladies in the cavalcade.

Then he continued, ‘Sir William, ’tis my privilege to present to you from among this company, none other than William Grassus, Earl of Albemarle and Lord of Holderness, feoffee of the greater portion of Yorkshire and of lands beyond the French sea. Perhaps he will be good enough to grace your unworthy board today—should he be willing to forgive your churlish conduct.’ The Bishop gestured toward the imposing figure, who now raised his weaponless right hand in shoulder-high salute, the accepted sign of an approach made in peace.

Meanwhile the Vicar had made contact with the lady as requested by the Bishop, inviting her to present herself in the front rank of the group. While this was proceeding, Sir William began to look more and more embarrassed. His gloved hands thumped the railing alternately, yet he stood still, as though he had taken root beside the parapet.

Then he heard the Bishop’s mocking voice again. ‘At the same time, my sceptical and undeserving friend—for your hospitality so far hardly warrants this reward—I wish to announce one already known to you, one of your kinsfolk, the Lady Mabel, widow, as you are well aware, of the brother of Lord William Grassus.’ And the Lady raised her veil.

The sight of that face with the mention of her name led to an immediate response, as the Bishop had calculated. It was as though someone had released a spring, freeing Sir William from a trance and impelling him to action. His suspicions, with his cautious manner, had suddenly vanished. Moving with surprising speed, he disappeared from the platform to issue directions with renewed vigour. Within a few minutes, the main gate was wide open. The cavalcade began to move in well-ordered array through the palisade into the castle ward.

The precincts erupted into activity. There were mounts to unharness, water, and feed, more temporary shelters to erect, the dust of travel to remove, and of most significance to the hostess, extra mouths to cater for. To provide for this need, Lady Catherine sent servants for more food from flocks and gardens, while others were despatched to locate extra trestle tables. Indeed, what made this day such a challenge to the hostess was that she had never had to prepare for so many visitors to Carew at such short notice.

As relatives and friends greeted one another in cheerful reunion, the enclave rang with shouts and laughter, mingled with the clatter of hooves and the jingle of harness. New acquaintances were introduced with as much dignity as was possible within the crowded ward. Lady Mabel asked to be excused in order to give attention to the infant son she had brought with her in a bassinette secured to the harness of a palfrey. As soon as the travellers halted within the castle ward, she directed her maid Eleana, on whom care of the babe had fallen during their long journey, to seek a place where her infant son could be cared for. Only then did she seek her cousin Lady Catherine, who now joined Sir William. When the formalities were complete, Catherine led her upstairs toward the nursery where they would find Eleana with the child.

In the nursery, two girls of the castle staff had taken care of Eleana. With Gwladys, they each had babies to watch over. Alice, the maid-in-charge of the nursery, made facilities available to Eleana so that she could attend to the requirements of her infant. Being a fastidious, compassionate young Welsh maiden, Alice took her task seriously. The other women, having completed the routine of washing and drying the infants in their care, laid them on a quilted feather mattress, spread over a low table in the nursery. They then wrapped each in a white lace-edged shawl.

Eleana commented that the wrappings were of a type customarily worn by candidates for infant baptism. A thought had flashed into her mind. ‘Aye’, replied Alice, ‘these three boys will be baptised in the castle chapel this afternoon.’

Gwladys lifted her own son, with baby Madoc, settling down on a bench with a suckling infant on each breast. Eleana decided to put her idea into words. ‘My Lady Mabel’s child has not been baptised. I wonder if you would allow me a baptismal wrap for him—then, if his mother chooses, he may be included in the ceremony with the others?’

An identical wrap was provided. The little fellow was placed beside the infant who still lay upon the mattress.

It was beyond feeding time for both hungry lads, so they began lustily announcing their need. The maids and Eleana shared the task of lifting them to administer what modicum of comfort this would impart before replacing them on the bed.

It was principally through their well-intentioned desire to soothe the little fellows that a disturbing enigma soon arose.

Preparations for hospitality had meanwhile been arranged or delegated adequately enough to allow the two mothers, Catherine and Mabel, to withdraw from the assembly of guests. They made their way toward the nursery to provide their sons with overdue nourishment. There was also the need to be eased of a certain discomfort, which signalled clearly that such a service was required. As they stepped into the nursery, they could see the two small forms, well wrapped to keep them warm. Both were squirming on the mattress, continuing to issue complaints about their hunger pangs, the neglect of their parents, and the failure of their distracted attendants to substitute an alternative to mother’s milk. Lady Catherine hurried to uncover the face of the nearest child. After a fleeting glance to confirm that this was her son, she embraced him, inviting Mabel, beside her, to gaze on the features of her Raymond.

As she was about to raise the other noisy infant, Mabel paused just long enough to peer more closely at the uncovered features of the baby in Catherine’s arms. She gave a startled gasp in a strong local accent. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed with conviction, ‘but, Catherine, that’s m’ baby William … See!’

She confidently began to uncover the face of the young fellow who still lay yelling on the mattress. Then she issued another, more incredulous gasp, as she exclaimed, ‘Oh, Catherine, I canna tell the difference! They are exactly alike!’ And she moved to bring the two faces side by side so that comparison could be made.

‘Now I canna be sure which one is mine,’ she concluded, with a wail of despair in her voice.

Catherine suggested, ‘Does your William have any birthmarks, Mabel? Has he been circumcised?’

‘Nay, neither. I intended to have him circumcised, but have been isolated from a physician.’

There ensued a