Rhuddlan (2 page)

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Delamere said,
yawning. “I don’t think he was paying much attention to the
proceedings. After the first half dozen or so barons, his eyes
seemed to glaze over.”

“That proves my point! He has no idea what an
honor my father has just bestowed on him! He’s a vain,
empty-headed, self-important fool and God help us all when it comes
his turn to rule!”

“Yes, it’s hard to believe
that young Henry is the king’s flesh and blood,” Delamere agreed.
“He’s as lazy as the king is industrious.
You’re
more your father’s son than
young Henry.”

“But born of the wrong mother…”

Delamere rolled his shoulders and twisted his
neck from side to side. He was tired. He’d spent the better part of
the previous night drinking and joking with friends and would have
preferred to be snoring away in some quiet corner in the palace
instead of standing on windy ground, weighted down by his heavy
hauberk, and waiting for the call for the mock battle to begin. And
listening to William, who could drink the night through without any
visible effect the next morning, go on and on about his
half-brother. He yawned again and swore. “Damn! I wish they’d get
this thing started so I can do my bit and leave.”

“By the way,” William said, turning towards
his friend with a little smile, “where did you disappear to last
night?”

“I don’t remember
exactly
where
,”
Delamere answered. “But it was very warm and soft…and
pleasant.”

“You have a lucky talent for attracting
women.”

“It’s not a talent, Will, but a skill. If you
would simply try not looking so displeased all the time and acting
in a more friendly fashion, you’d find yourself rewarded
handsomely.”

His friend made an impatient gesture. “I
haven’t the time to go through all that.”

“Who says you need much time?” Delamere
laughed.

King Henry and his retainers rode up a
hillock which overlooked the field, a signal that the tournament
was to begin shortly. There had been two minor matches in the days
before and one that had been a kind of practice contest involving
the squires of the knights, but this final tournament was to be
grand and just about every knight who had come to the coronation
was entered. The king had divided the field into two groups: men
from the west country against the men from the east. The groups
were to line up on opposite ends of the field and at a blast of the
trumpet charge each other as if engaging in genuine battle, with
true weapons, although actual killing was discouraged. Instead,
apart from the glory of one side defeating the other, the
tournament was an opportunity for knights to make a bit of money.
They were permitted to take prisoners, who would then buy their
freedom with ransoms of coin, horses, armor and weapons. A wealthy
knight was obviously a prime target for capture, and it behooved
him to have a handsome bodyguard.

Squires brought up their horses and William
checked the bridle and saddle on his roan before giving it an idle
pat on the neck. The horse had been a gift from his father when
he’d been knighted several years earlier. Henry had been as pleased
as a child when he’d presented it as he’d taken great pains to find
a mount which could comfortably accommodate his son. William’s
nickname was ‘Longsword’ because he was taller than average.

At twenty, he was the eldest of all Henry
II’s children, the product of an illicit liaison between the young
duke of Normandy and the sister of one of his knights. He had been
acknowledged by his father from his birth and schooled and trained
in the household of one of Henry’s advisors. The son bore little
physical resemblance to the father. Besides a difference in height,
his build was lanky rather than stocky. He had darker, browner hair
and a narrower face. While Henry’s expressions were easily read,
William’s were masked. He already had a reputation as an excellent
soldier but was simultaneously considered ruthless and unforgiving,
unlike his more politic father.

While the squire held his stirrup, he mounted
the big horse and was handed up his helmet and shield. With a
resigned sigh, Richard Delamere followed suit. He’d already decided
to hang well in the rear of the fray and to swing his sword only if
absolutely necessary. On any other day he would have been as eager
as the next man to fight and possibly win some money, but today his
head ached. Money, even glory, didn’t seem attractive at the
moment.

William Longsword wasn’t interested in
financial reward either, but glory was another matter. At
tournaments, he always went straight after the most important or
most proficient knight on the field, to test himself and to be
recognized.

He nudged his mount close to Delamere’s. “A
pity my beloved half-brother isn’t fighting today…”

“He’d be on our side anyway, Will. It
wouldn’t look right if you made a prisoner of one of ours, don’t
you think?”

Longsword shrugged. The heavy chain mail
jingled dully. “I was thinking more of fatally injuring him.”

Delamere grinned. “Careful, Will, that’s a
treasonous statement now! The king might punish it by putting you
in the Young King’s household.” He squinted into the distance.
“Who’s that he’s talking to? Bolsover?”

“Bolsover actually likes him.”

“Bolsover is simply expedient,” Delamere
corrected.

They watched as Robert Bolsover bowed to the
Young King, who rode off to join his father’s party. The stage for
the tournament was a large, fairly level meadow a few miles from
Westminster Palace, bounded on one side by the Thames and
disappearing into forest some distance in the south. There was a
rise to the east and it was here that the king and his entourage,
including the queen and her ladies, had settled to enjoy the mock
battle. Knights comprising the two competing sides had already
begun to leave their tents and ride out onto the field.

Suddenly Longsword whistled sharply. “Look,
Richard—who’s that? Opposite us?”

“I believe it’s the earl of Chester,” his
friend said, staring at the colors which bedecked a distinctive
coal-black destrier. “But what’s he doing? He never enters
tournaments.”

“Then he’ll be an easy opponent,” said
Longsword. “Is that not the finest animal you’ve ever seen? And
huge!”

Delamere understood right away what he meant.
“He’ll be surrounded by retainers, Will,” he warned.

Longsword clamped his helmet down firmly and
took up his reins. “I need a challenge. My arm is getting
weak.”

“More than likely he’s just in there for
appearance! Perhaps there’s a lady he’s seeking to impress. The
king wouldn’t like to see one of his most important men injured
just because you want his horse!”

“If he doesn’t fight me, I won’t harm him!”
Longsword said impatiently.

Delamere tried once more to dissuade his
friend. It wasn’t that he thought William had no chance; rather, he
knew if Longsword was determined to go after the earl, then he
would be compelled to back him up. Visions of hovering on the
outskirt of the field until he could gracefully withdraw from the
battle were fast disappearing.

“Will, he’s far out of reach! Be
sensible—he’s on the other side of the field; we’ll never get
through!”

But he was shouting words at Longsword’s
back. The lanky knight had already kicked his horse into a gallop
and gone to join his fellow combatants. With an inward groan,
Richard Delamere followed him.

It wasn’t William Longsword who ended up with
the earl of Chester’s horse.

As the wealthiest man on the field, Hugh was
assured the dubious distinction of being the prime target of the
knights from the eastern lands, not all of whom deigned to step
aside when they recognized the king’s bastard at their shoulders.
And the earl’s impressive bodyguard had all but encircled him,
rendering him immune to attack. But somehow, at some point during
the wholehearted skirmish between attackers and defenders, and
obscured by the shouts of excitement and the confusion kicked up by
flailing arms and horses’ hooves, Sir Robert Bolsover managed to
slip quietly into the protective ring and, after a minor struggle,
tip the sharp point of his sword into the exposed neck of Hugh fitz
Ranulf. The gesture brought to an immediate end that particular
contest. The other warriors rode off to find different prospects.
Longsword, who had been fighting like a madman and had even
succeeded in knocking two of the earl’s men to the ground where
they were nearly trampled to death by their horses, was an
ungracious loser. He glared angrily at Bolsover as the latter
flashed an arrogant smile of triumph back at him and was only
prevented from attacking him by a hasty admonishment from Richard
Delamere. He dug his heels into his mount’s flanks and stormed off
in a spray of turf, followed less flamboyantly by Delamere, who
considered that he had done more than his share of fighting and was
returning to his tent.

Bolsover and the four knights who had fought
with him led the captured earl and his men to their own tent.
Squires pulled helmets and hauberks from sweaty heads and tired
bodies. They ran to fetch wine and damp, cool cloths so that
prisoners and jailers alike could refresh themselves. When such
comforts had been provided and the small talk had petered out, the
negotiations for release were begun. The earl, who chose to direct
all his remarks to Robert Bolsover, readily agreed to all
terms.

“We should have demanded more,” groused one
of the victorious men when Hugh didn’t blink an eye at the ransom
he was being forced to pay.

Bolsover laughed. “Divide my share between
the four of you. I want nothing but the earl’s horse and his
sword.”

“That horse alone is worth half the
ransom!”

“The earl’s horse was not part of the
bargain!” Roger of Haworth protested angrily. He had been standing
apart from the negotiators, but now he took a few unconscious steps
toward the table.

The arguing men ignored him. “As usual, it
was I who did half the work,” Bolsover drawled. “And I was the one
to whom my lord earl surrendered.”

The exhilarating exercise he’d just had and
the wine had gone to other knight’s head. He stood up so suddenly
that his stool fell back with a thud onto the trampled grass which
comprised the tent’s floor, his face red. “Are you saying the rest
of us may as well not have been there?”

Bolsover lifted his shoulders. “I’m saying
that I want nothing but the horse and my lord earl’s sword.”

“There was no mention of the horse in the
negotiations!” Haworth sputtered loudly. “That’s an earl’s
steed—not meant for any mere knight such as you!”

Hugh had not taken his eyes from Robert
Bolsover. The younger man sprawled calmly and without concern at
the table. At Haworth’s second outburst he had glanced up, but
still said nothing to him. Instead, he turned his head towards
Hugh. The blue-grey eyes sparkled and his mouth held just the
semblance of a mischievous smile. All at once Hugh
understood—Bolsover was playing a game, throwing his dice to see if
he could up the ante, gambling to lose something he’d never had,
anyway. Hugh was strangely excited. He was the one used to
dictating terms and now this young rogue with his charming smile
was changing the rules. Instead of being annoyed, the earl was
flattered that Bolsover had chosen to play this game with him.

He cleared his throat. “No, Roger; you’re
mistaken. Sir Robert laid claim to Avranches when he took me
prisoner. And if I am to give him up, I’m happy to give him to the
knight who was best able to bring me down.”

Haworth glared. “He’ll take money—”

“Avranches—an interesting name for a horse,”
Bolsover interrupted smoothly.

“I named him for my hereditary lands in
Normandy. I am the viscount of Avranches,” Hugh said. “As you can
tell, then, I put great value on the animal.”

“Rest assured, so will I,” Bolsover said,
with a slight incline of his head. “Honored as I am by the man who
once rode him.”

“You didn’t have to give him up!” a wrathful
Roger of Haworth exclaimed to his master when they’d returned to
Hugh’s private quarters. “That smug bastard! He would have taken
money instead—he’s greedy enough!”

“Lower your voice, Roger; we’re not on the
tournament field any longer! Anyway, it’s just a horse. I’ve got
plenty others, haven’t I?” He stretched one leg out so that Haworth
could unlace his boot and laughed. “Probably even a few named
Avranches.”

Haworth knelt at Hugh’s feet and gripped the
heel of the boot. He looked up with a frown. “You’re not at all
displeased to have lost so much, are you?”

“A horse, a sword and money, Roger. All
easily replaced.”

“What about the humiliation?”

Hugh pulled his leg back and stuck out the
other one. “Of losing? There’s no humiliation in losing a fair
battle.”

“If it
was
fair,” Haworth
muttered.

“What do you mean?” Hugh said sharply.

Haworth sat back on his heels. He gave Hugh a
measured look. “I mean, it was very easy for Bolsover to get to
you. We had them; we were holding them, but suddenly he was past
us.”

“Are you saying you
think
I
made it
easy for him?”

“Did you?”

Hugh grinned. “What if I did? Come on, Roger!
When was the last time I entered a tournament? Five years ago? Six?
I’m the earl of Chester, for God’s sake; I have nothing to gain by
throwing myself into the midst of a frenzy of swords and risking my
life! Why did you think I wanted to enter this one?”

Haworth stood up quickly, a dark red flush
spreading across his face. “To meet that worm Bolsover? You wanted
to lose to him? To be taken to his tent and forced to negotiate
your release? And what about us? You humiliated us by giving
yourself up!”