Insurrection (39 page)

In the streets beyond, the fighting had centred near Llanfaes’s market square. Madog ap Llywelyn and the last of the rebels had barricaded themselves along a street that led off the square, using abandoned wagons and furniture ripped from houses. A few score townsmen were with them, wielding kitchen knives and hunting bows, but many more had given up the struggle, fleeing in terror before the knights and infantry who were overrunning the town and racing to their homes to protect their families.

Under Madog’s shouted orders they had so far withstood two charges Edward had sent into their ranks, their spears bristling out along the barrier to turn the knights’ attacks. Some of the townsmen had cheered seeing the knights falling back, frustrated by the wall of spears. The rebels and Madog, who wore the Crown of Arthur over a coif of mail, remained grim and soon the last of the cheering died away as the king lined up his crossbowmen in front of the barricades.

For decades the men of Gascony had been adept in the use of this weapon, outlawed in some parts of Christendom, condemned by popes and considered by most to be the tool of mercenaries. Flames fanned from nearby rooftops gusting clouds of smoke across the space between the crossbowmen and the Welsh blockade. The people of Gwynedd had little to fear from English archers, who like themselves used the short bow. It was only the men of south Wales who were adept at the powerful, lethal longbow. Arrows shot from a short bow could blind and disorient the enemy, but unless they struck exposed flesh they rarely killed a man, clattering harmlessly off mail or sticking in the padding of gambesons. Longbows and crossbows were a different matter: one well-shot arrow or bolt could pierce a knight’s mail chausses, his leg, the saddle and the horse beneath. To a Welsh warrior, clad in little more than a stiffened leather tunic, they augured instant, brutal death.

With swift, practised moves, each crossbowman dug his foot into the stirrup attached to the bow and pulled back, fixing the cord over the trigger. Taking a quarrel from a basket attached to his belt, each fitted it in the slot, raised the bow, aimed and loosed. The bolts shot through the barricade, punching through gaps in wagon wheels and benches. Men fell, the missiles piercing shoulders, throats, faces, stomachs. Madog, who had crouched behind a stack of grain sacks, yelled orders over the chaos, the bolts coming so rapidly they darkened the air.

The rebels threw themselves down, some using the bodies of dying and wounded comrades as shields. The townsfolk, maddened by the vicious onslaught, began to flee. Many fell, quarrels plunging into their backs. In the confusion and panic, King Edward ordered his knights to charge. As the last bolt was shot, the cavalry plunged towards the barricade. Madog and the rebels, many wounded, the rest hunched down for cover, had no chance to turn their spears on the enemy. As knights urged their horses over or around the barrier, the fight for Anglesey resumed at close quarters. It was brief and bloody. Madog went down roaring as John de Warenne cut the spear from out of his hand.

34

As Robert pulled off his helm the freezing air was like a slap on his sweat-drenched cheeks. He tasted salt and steel. Leaning back against the mud wall of a house, he tugged the stopper from his wine skin with his teeth. He spat out the cork, and drank until it was empty. There were bodies in the street all around him and bloodstains daubed the walls of houses with garish sprays. The scalp of one man, lying close by, was splintered, pink-grey matter oozing from the wide gash between his matted hair. Perhaps a horse had trodden on him, or perhaps it was an axe wound. Robert didn’t think he had been responsible, but it was hard to tell. Memories of the moments spent in this killing ground were already hazy and unfamiliar.

Other knights and squires were nearby, gulping down drink and recovering their breath, the mercy order having come moments ago. Some were already revelling in the victory, but their laughter sounded high and forced. Others were silent, their eyes averted from the bloody scene spread out before them. Robert had seen several men stagger away, rip off their helms and vomit. Pushing himself from the wall he moved to where he had left Hunter, tethered to an abandoned cart on the back of which he’d placed his sword.

Hefting his shield higher on his arm with a wince at the painful spasm in his muscles, Robert stowed his wine skin in the saddlebag and took up his broadsword. The weapon was sticky with blood, the smell of it like old pennies held too long in the hand. His jaw tight, he wedged his helm on top of the saddlebag. He had lost track of his brother and his men in the assault. He felt disorientated, the smoke that filled the sky obscuring any sense of the day. It could have been minutes since he entered the town, or hours. Infantry were trudging through the street ahead, despatching the dying and ordering survivors from houses as the thatched roofs continued to burn. More knights were arriving, the air filling with the clatter of hooves. Among them were the colours of Pembroke, the red birds on blue and white stripes catching in Robert’s vision. Turning away as the company approached, he took up Hunter’s reins and set off down an adjacent alley, deciding to retrace his steps in search of his brother.

He had not gone far when the alley behind him filled with hoof-beats. Robert turned to see a knight riding towards him. He had time to see a rush of blue and white stripes, time to see a sword swinging in the fist and time to realise the knight wasn’t slowing. The blood still pumping hot in him from battle, he reacted quickly. Cuffing Hunter’s hind and sending the horse galloping down the alley, Robert slammed himself against the wall of a building, out of the path of the warhorse and the swing of the sword. Knight and charger went thundering on past, before coming to a skidding stop some distance down the muddy passage. The knight turned the horse with a wrench of reins. Snatching at his helm, which had fallen from the saddlebag when Hunter bolted, Robert saw the knight snap up his visor. Behind the metal guard, Aymer de Valence’s eyes, glittering with hate, were wild. The man was blood-drunk. His surcoat was awash with gore, as was the trapper of his horse. As he kicked at the sides of his destrier and came at Robert again, his intention was clear.

Robert threw himself at the door of a ramshackle dwelling opposite. He barrelled through it just as Aymer came charging towards him, the ring of iron-shod hooves harsh in the alley. The door banged open, splintering with the force, as Robert went crashing into the dark beyond. Staggering to a stop, he found himself in a musty kitchen, dominated by a trestle and boards littered with the remains of a meal. Cracks of light slanted through shuttered windows to either side of the splintered door. A few stools were scattered about the room and there was a dull glow coming from a hearth, but no sign of any occupants. Outside, Robert heard a horse’s heavy snort and the jangle of spurs striking the ground. Dropping his helm, he pulled his shield into place, gripping the straps with his left hand, while in the right he brandished his bloodstained sword.

Aymer’s frame appeared in the doorway, blocking the light. He had his blade ready in his hand and he too bore the dragon shield against his left side. The knight stepped into the room, his hate-filled eyes fixed on Robert, who stood waiting, his chest rising and falling beneath his surcoat.

‘Another churl hiding in a hovel, waiting to be cut down.’ Aymer’s voice was acerbic, his French full of malice. ‘By the time they find your corpse, I’ll be long gone.’

Robert licked his lips uneasily. ‘A fine notion,’ he said, hefting his sword, ‘being that it works both ways.’

Aymer gave a bark of laughter. ‘I am not Guy. I will not be beaten down so easily.’ His eyes alighted on the shield on Robert’s arm, the dragon shining dully in the glow from the hearth. ‘You think you’re worthy because Humphrey chose you?’ he spat suddenly. ‘You’re a convenience. Someone with power and lands who can help him advance his position. In truth you’re a foreigner to my brothers. An outsider.’

‘That eats at you, doesn’t it? The fact they chose me so soon and yet you had to wait three years before being invited to join the order. Yes,’ said Robert, enjoying the look on Aymer’s face, ‘your so-called
brothers
told me that.’ He took a step towards the knight, loathing firing his blood-lust. ‘Foreigner I may be, but they trusted me far quicker than they trusted you. Humphrey had your measure, Valence, the moment he met you.’

All at once Aymer was rushing at him, his sword carving the air. The knight came in hard, forcing Robert to block swiftly. The clash of sword on shield was deafening in the cramped chamber. Robert felt the shock of it shoot through his arm, but he reacted at once, knocking away Aymer’s blade fiercely with his shield. The knight stumbled back with the strength behind Robert’s thrust, his leg catching one of the stools, which skittered away behind him. It distracted him, only for a second, but enough for Robert to lunge and slam his shield into Aymer’s face. Aymer’s helm took the brunt of it, but he was rocked back so hard he lost his balance. As he crashed to the floor the impact jolted the sword from his hand. Aymer scrabbled to his feet as Robert came in again. He ducked under a mighty swing of Robert’s sword and was forced to wheel away before he could retrieve his fallen weapon. He raised his shield to deflect a second blow, aimed at his head. Robert’s sword smashed into the painted wood, scoring a deep line across the dragon. Aymer hissed through his teeth at the power of the strike, then shoved furiously with his shield, forcing Robert’s blade away. As the weapon went wide, Aymer barrelled into him.

Taken unawares by the knight’s brute strength, Robert found himself propelled into the trestle and boards, which screeched across the flagstones. He toppled back, until he was half on the table top, Aymer pinning him down under the shield, teeth bared. He lifted his sword with a grunt of effort, bringing it round into Aymer’s side as the breath was squeezed out of him. The blow wasn’t hard and the knight’s mail absorbed it, but he was thrown off balance, giving Robert the opening he needed to push him away and recover his stance. He rushed Aymer, not allowing the knight to go for his sword. Aymer crouched and grabbed Robert’s helm, on the floor where he’d dropped it. Swinging it up, the knight smacked it into his groin. With a sharp exhalation of breath, Robert collapsed. On his knees, he saw Aymer scrabble past, heard a clang and a scrape as the knight abandoned the helm and picked up the fallen blade. Through the sickening pain, he heard the clink of his spurs on the stone floor. The expectation of Aymer’s blade slicing its steel through his scalp jolted enough fear through him to make him stagger to his feet and turn to defend himself.

With a blade in his hand, Aymer was fast and furious. Robert had never seen him fight on foot before. The knight’s muscular frame and broad shoulders lent great power to his strokes. He seemed to have little fear, for he showed no hesitation in coming in again and again, hacking like a woodcutter with his sword, punching like a wrestler with his shield. The ache in Robert’s groin had almost receded, but he felt himself tiring quickly. He mistimed a blow, allowing Aymer to stamp in sideways and punch the pommel of his sword into his face. Robert felt a snap as his nose broke and his throat flooded with blood. Blinded and choking, he staggered away. Through watery eyes he saw Aymer grinning. Frustration made him want to throw himself forward, but he stumbled back around the table giving himself time to recover as he spat blood through his teeth.

‘
Coward!
’ Aymer seethed, his grin contorting. ‘You don’t deserve that shield, you
cur
.’

As Robert focused on the knight’s twisted face he felt a surge of fury. He pitched forward, propelling the table into Aymer and knocking him flying. The knight landed on a stool, which broke beneath his back, sending him crashing to the floor among the shards. His sword fell from his fingers and his helm clanged back against the stone floor, the strap snapping with the impact. Before the knight could move, Robert charged round the table and dropped down on top of him, straddling his stomach. Tossing his sword aside, he pulled the knight’s helm from his head. Aymer, momentarily winded by the fall, started to struggle, but Robert punched him in the face, his mailed fist mashing Aymer’s lips and snapping two of his teeth. He punched in again, and again, tearing the skin around Aymer’s eye, breaking his nose, then his jaw.

As Robert, drenched in sweat and panting, pulled his fist back for a fifth strike, he heard hoof-beats and shouts outside. He faltered, recognising his name in the voices. It was his men. At the sound of his brother’s voice, Robert lowered his bloodied fist. ‘In here!’ he shouted hoarsely, pushing himself off Aymer. As he bent to pick up his sword, his head pounding, Robert paused, staring down at Aymer, who was groaning faintly through bloody teeth. The blade hovered in his grip, wavering over the knight’s form. ‘Next time, I will kill you.’

Leaving Aymer senseless on the kitchen floor, Robert staggered out into the smoke-tinged daylight.

On the snow-dappled hillside above Llanfaes, the English had set up camp. Fires still burned unchecked in the ruins below, the flames garish in the early evening. The last survivors were being led in by knights. It was a miserable group they had been herded into, children weeping, men and women pale and shocked, some wounded.

Robert stood alone, his muscles aching, his broken nose throbbing. The older knights were jovial, pleased with the quick work they had made of the town and the rebels. The younger men were subdued, many left silent by their first taste of blood, a taste they had been so eager for. Aymer, his face swollen beyond recognition and missing two teeth, was among their number. Earlier, Robert had heard the knight telling Humphrey he had been set upon by three rebels. Robert doubted Aymer would ever tell a soul the truth.