Rhuddlan (37 page)

She was bordering on the verge of hysteria.
The men all looked at each other, puzzled. “What are you talking
about, Gwalaes?” Delamere asked in a sharp voice to gain her
attention.

Her expression was wild.
“She said you murdered everyone in Llanlleyn, including women and
children! And then you burned it to the ground! Can’t you see?
He
will
murder
Bronwen for revenge!”

“It isn’t true, Gwalaes!” Delamere said.
“Calm down—”

“I’ve had enough of being calm!” she suddenly
shouted at him. “I want my daughter back!”

In the excitement, Longsword had somehow
struggled to an upright position in his bed without realizing it.
He felt no pain, only a surprising concern for the woman who had
saved his life. “Come closer to me!” he commanded Eleanor in the
sudden, shocked silence which followed her outburst. “So I don’t
have to shout.”

She hung back sullenly for a few heartbeats
and then went to his bedside. Her face was a picture of
distrust.

“Who is this ‘she’ you’re talking about?” he
asked. “Petite? Red-brown hair? Pouting disposition?”

Eleanor nodded. “I don’t know her name or who
she is. She came to see you this morning.”

“And was probably disappointed you were here
and she couldn’t carry out her plan to put a pillow over my face,”
he said. “That was my wife, Lady Teleri.”

“She told me your wound burst open when you
attacked Llanlleyn, killed its inhabitants, including women and
children, and burned it to the ground,” she said accusingly.

“That’s not true,” he said, and told her what
had really happened. “Now will you be calm?” he added in a kind
voice when he was through. Delamere raised his eyebrows in
surprise. Longsword was always matter-of-fact and blunt with
whomever he spoke. “We’ll get your daughter back.”

She stared at him, trying to gauge his
sincerity. For some reason—perhaps it was because she so
desperately wanted Bronwen and was willing to clutch at any straw
offered—she trusted him.

But he thought she hesitated. “I swear it to
you,” he said and held out his hand.

Chapter 26

March, 1177

Llanlleyn, Gwynedd

Rhirid didn’t like the way the little girl
stared at him. Calmly, displaying none of her former fear, almost
benignly. It was, he thought angrily, as though she knew he had
lost…and was feeling sorry for him.

His whole plan had hinged
upon a rapid retaliation by the Normans. Speed was necessary to
keep the mood of his men aggressive so that when the Normans
emerged from behind their stone walls, they would be no match for
the Llanlleyn warriors. He hadn’t been certain of the effect of
stealing the child; that was partly the reason he’d burned down the
entire abbey complex. And there had been that nun who’d suffered a
fatal attack—an unplanned bonus. If nothing else,
that
ought to have
propelled the Normans from their impenetrable towers.

But it was a week afterward and the Normans
had yet to venture out. The impetus was dwindling. The child was
precocious but not insufferable and everybody loved her. Even his
own warriors were beginning to wonder why they had taken her
because it was soon obvious no one at Llanlleyn would ever be able
to harm her.

His father had been outraged. With the girl
watching, Rhirid stood immobile as Maelgwn berated him for the
troubles that had lately come upon Llanlleyn. He was perversely
fascinated by the amount of anger his father was displaying,
thinking that it would be better expended on William Longsword.

And then one sentence penetrated his
thoughts:

“This is down to you, Rhirid!” his father
shouted at him.

He could remain silent no
longer. “Me?
Me?
How do you figure that? They were Normans who imposed on the
hospitality of a humble man and murdered him!”

“Perhaps if you hadn’t been
so belligerent when you met William fitz Henry, he would have paid
the
galanas
and
that would have been the end of the affair! Instead, look at the
terror you’ve wrought: our winter homes are burned and our people
go in fear of the Norman might!” He glared at his son. “You should
never have attacked him!”

“We didn’t know it was him!
It’s too bad that wound didn’t fester.
That
would have been the end of the
affair.”

“And King Henry would have attacked us from
the east and Prince Dafydd from the west! And then what would you
have done?”

“Are you saying William Longsword can do
whatever he pleases in Llanlleyn and we can do nothing to stop
him?” Rhirid asked incredulously. “I refuse to be a slave to the
Normans!”

“I am merely saying that you’re not using
your head! That you’re putting personal grievances before the
welfare of your people!”

“You’re the one not thinking!” Rhirid
exploded. “Why is it so hard for you to understand that there will
only be peace when either we or the Normans are completely gone?
When one of us slays the other?”

“This is still my commote,
Rhirid, or have you forgotten?
I
make the decisions.” Maelgwn looked coldly upon
his son. “And I’ve decided it’s in the best interests of Llanlleyn
if you leave for a time. Until I can restore peace with William
fitz Henry.”

For a moment all Rhirid could do was stare,
with a shocked expression, at his father. “No…” he said
involuntarily.

“Yes. You can take your
hotheaded friends with you. You have shamed me, Rhirid. I am chief
of Llanlleyn, not you. Indeed, it would be a good penance if you
went to the Perfeddwlad and spoke with Prince Dafydd. Beg his
forgiveness for the trouble you caused at the abbey of St. Mary—and
the death of the nun. Ask him what
galanas
ought to be paid.”

Rhirid looked sharply at his father but
Maelgwn wasn’t joking. “Never! Beg forgiveness from the man who’s
practically sleeping with William Longsword?”

Maelgwn fell silent. He pulled thoughtfully
at his beard and Rhirid was suddenly apprehensive. His father was
much more dangerous when he was silent than when he raged.

“Your behavior is ill-advised for the heir to
this commote, Rhirid,” Maelgwn said finally.

“What do you mean?”

“You have two cousins, Rhirid, either of whom
is more suited at this moment to be chief of Llanlleyn than
you.”

“You would be dead for that to happen,”
Rhirid answered insolently. “And then I would fight and kill the
both of them and become chief anyway.”

Maelgwn shrugged without concern. “You could
try. Of course, you’d need men to back up your claim.”

“I have men now!”

“You have no land, Rhirid; you don’t support
those men—I do.” He relented and looked at his son with some
sympathy. “You claim I’ve not been strong against the Normans but
the reality is I’ve not been strong enough with you. I’ve let you
get away with too much these last few months, to the detriment of
Llanlleyn.”

Rhirid didn’t answer. He had no doubt that
Maelgwn would do as he threatened and name one of his cousins his
successor. He could refuse to go to the Perfeddwlad and gamble on
the chance that his father would live many years yet and much could
change during that time, including his restoration to favor. And
perhaps men who shared his intense hatred of the Normans would stay
with him despite his lack of wealth—Dylan ab Owain would, if only
to get away from his wife. Or, if it came to personal combat
between him and his cousins, he had supreme faith in his
ability…

But, in truth, Rhirid didn’t want to fall
from his father’s favor. He didn’t want Maelgwn to disown him. He
suspected the chief knew this and had played a devious hand. He
could do nothing other than concede defeat.

“Very well,” he said at length. “I’ll visit
Prince Dafydd, if that’s what you want. But I’m telling you,” he
added because he couldn’t resist having the last word at least,
“it’s not going to make the slightest bit of difference.” He
glanced at the little girl. “What would you like me to do with
her?”

Maelgwn considered a solemn Bronwen. “Taking
a child hostage—especially a female child—isn’t usually a wise
decision,” he said pensively. “However, since the deed’s already
done, I think she might prove useful when I negotiate with Lord
William.”

Longsword angrily waved off the young man
who’d unconciously moved a step forward to help him. He took a deep
breath and held it, gritted his teeth and reached up for the saddle
pommel with his left hand, ignoring the burst of pain which spread
immediately down his arm, up his neck and across his shoulder, and
with as much effort as he could muster tried to pull himself onto
the patiently still horse. But his breath exhaled noisily in a loud
grunt and he fell back to the ground. He extricated his foot from
the stirrup and swore. Twice he’d attempted to mount the animal and
each time had failed. His entire left side was throbbing from the
abuse and he was breathing heavily. He nodded to the groom holding
the reins and decided to try again tomorrow.

The group of men watching him reassured him
that a wound as serious as his required a long period of rest but
he was more embarrassed by their words than consoled. If it was
only pain he was certain he could beat it; it had been the same
pain during his initial convalescence and yet he’d been back on his
horse a week after being shot. But this time there was something
else conspiring against his efforts: a bone-numbing weariness. His
muscles had been weakened by the extended stay in bed, lack of
proper nourishment and the fever. The tiredness made him feel
unnaturally old and vulnerable.

“Lord William!” Ralph de Vire was hurrying
towards him. “The gate says Sir Richard’s approaching.”

His spirits lifted considerably at the
announcement. Delamere and a heavily armed guard had accompanied a
group of workmen the week before to the abbey of St. Mary to query
the inhabitants and repair the damage caused by Rhirid. Longsword
forgot about his throbbing body and went forward to greet them.

Delamere came through the gate first and slid
to the ground with an ease that Longsword, in his current
condition, envied. He made a quick bow for formality’s sake and
demanded, “What were you doing?”

“It’s all right—”

“No, it isn’t!” he exclaimed. “You’re barely
a week out of bed—”

“It’s actually closer to a fortnight,
Richard.” Out of the corner of his eye, Longsword saw her pass
through the gate, almost at the end of the stream of workers and
soldiers. She was riding double behind Alan d’Arques, who twisted
in the saddle to soliticiously hand her down to a waiting groom
before himself dismounting. Longsword felt suddenly happier; he’d
been half afraid that she would stay at the abbey. She looked even
more beautiful than he remembered, even though her face was
somber—

“Will! Are you listening to me?” Delamere
jolted him out of his reverie.

“Of course! Something about Rhirid…”

“He told the nuns there’d be no peace in
Gwynedd until one of you was dead.”

That commanded Longsword’s
full attention. “Well, he’s had
his
chance. He’ll soon regret his archer didn’t have a
steadier hand.”

“It’s an invitation to war,” Delamere
grinned. “Now you can’t be accused of orchestrating this feud. If
the king or the prince complains, you can honestly say you’re
acting in self-defense.”

“What about the little girl?”

“Gwalaes’ daughter? Definitely gone. She took
it rather well; or at least, if she cried hysterically she didn’t
do it before me.”

Gwalaes—that was her name. He repeated it to
himself several times. She hadn’t left the ward; she was standing
with Alan d’Arques. He thought she was watching him as her body was
turned in his direction.

“I’m going to try one more time,” he said to
Delamere, all at once feeling more energetic.

“Don’t be a fool, William!” Delamere
protested but Longsword was already walking back to the horse.

He was aware of the growing throng of
onlookers behind his back. He rolled his left shoulder tentatively
and decided the pain wasn’t so bad. The worst discomfort was caused
by putting his arm above shoulder-height which was necessary when
he reached for the pommel. He decided to make the maneuver so
quickly that his body wouldn’t know what he was doing until he was
seated. He breathed in deeply, stretched his arm up and thrust his
left foot into the stirrup simultaneously, grabbed the rear end of
the saddle with his good arm and hauled himself up by a sheer force
of will. He glanced down, almost surprised to realize that he’d
done it. He exhaled and relaxed. And then the floodgate of pain
opened and radiated out of his neck down into his arm, across his
chest and up into the base of his head.

His men were cheering and he grinned in
embarrassment. Even some of the Welsh clapped politely. He took the
reins from the groom in his right hand and urged his mount forward
with pressure from his knees. As they trotted around the ward the
agony in his shoulder and neck increased to the point where he
could scarcely draw a breath but it was worth it because she had
seen him do it. And she was still there, watching him parade back
to his waiting men.

He tossed the reins down. He couldn’t move
his left arm at all. He held his breath again, swung his right leg
over the horse’s neck and jumped to the ground in a competent,
though graceless, motion.

She was standing directly in his line of
vision some fifteen feet away. He saw a slight frown on her
forehead, obviously prompted by concern for his welfare. It was
wonderful how happy he felt just to be in her presence. The joke
Richard would make of it if he knew, Longsword thought. He didn’t
quite understand it himself but he felt the oddest rush of
tenderness for her. It was as if he’d had a pleasant dream about
her and the afterglow was carrying over into reality…