Rhuddlan (39 page)

When it actually came, then, it startled him
so much he jumped in his saddle. Of course no one noticed; everyone
was too busy twisting around to see what was happening.

Gruffudd’s men had swept down upon the
rearguard of the line, where there were only two knights to get in
their way. The path was narrow and bounded by prickly undergrowth
and the knights found it difficult to maneuver their horses around
to face their attackers, their first instinct upon hearing the wild
shouts and whoops that suddenly filled the air.

The Welsh were riding double and they came
from the rear. By the time the Normans and their allies could even
consider reacting, the Welshmen on the rumps of the horses had
already slid to the ground. They were archers, armed with the
shortbow which was suited to the cramped and narrow space. They
strung their weapons and moved up the flanks of the column,
providing some cover for their horsemen.

Gruffudd had hoped to capture at least one of
the wagons but he quickly decided such a feat would be impossible.
The guard was too large for his band to sweep away in one strike
and the wagons too cumbersome to turn on the narrow road and lead
off. The success of his attack depended on surprise and speed and
he couldn’t afford to spend much time on the road and risk an
organized retaliation, no matter the lure of riches.

He called out to several of his men and with
swords flailing they forced their way through a dozen Gwynedd
warriors to the last wagon. Dafydd’s men fought heartily but were
no match for men on horseback. They pressed close to the wagons,
further tantalizing Gruffudd, who imagined they must be protecting
some great hoard of valuables. The real challenge came from the
knights guarding the rear of the line. One saw Gruffudd and kicked
his horse in the Welshman’s direction, sword held out straight, its
tip aimed at Gruffudd’s chest.

The Welsh chief yelled at the knight,
taunting him with words the Norman couldn’t understand. He crouched
low beneath his own mount’s neck and held his sword near his knee.
The horses were in danger of colliding with one another. The Norman
was unnerved by the sight of the barehead Welshman, screaming at
him, bearing down on him at full speed and his tactic switched from
offense to defense. He pulled back on his mount’s reins but the
impact never came. At the last moment, Gruffudd swerved to the
left, the Norman jabbed ineffectually at the air where the other’s
body should have been, the Welshman plunged his own sword into the
unprotected chest of the knight’s horse and ripped it out viciously
and then, as the animal shrieked and sank to its knees, he freed
his foot from the stirrup and kicked the Norman’s head with all his
might and momentum.

The Powys archers had been instructed to keep
up a continual hail of arrows to disorient Dafydd’s men and hold
the knights at bay, as well as to protect their own warriors. For
the moment, the plan was working. But Gruffudd, despite the sudden
surge of exhiliration which shot through him after his encounter
with the Norman, was clearheaded enough to realize that men with
bows could not long hold back men in armor, on horseback.

He called for his warriors to follow him and
they reached the last wagon unscathed. The man leading the team
took one look at Gruffudd’s fierce scowl and flowing dark hair and
abandoned his duties with a shriek. Gruffudd reached down with his
sword and slit the neck of the ox nearest him. The animal started
to bellow, lost its voice and fell like a stone to the ground.
Another warrior killed its partner. Blood spurted up in a dramatic
arc and soaked him.

Meanwhile, Gruffudd had reached down and
flung back the heavy cloth covering the bed of the wagon, wanting
to see if the treasure were something he might be able to carry
with him. But the grin died on his face as he looked down and saw a
cart laden with straw. He frowned. Straw.

Suddenly he raised his head and bellowed for
his warriors to turn back. It was a trap of some kind; there was no
treasure. He had watched with great interest the arrival of
Dafydd’s men at Hawarden and he knew there were many more than were
represented in the convoy. There were more Normans also, as well as
their leader, the earl; Gruffudd had supposed the excess manpower
had simply been left behind as superfluous to the escort of three
wagons but now he imagined all the prince’s and all the earl’s men
were lying in wait, ready to ambush the Powys men, somewhere up the
road.

Under cover provided by the archers, Gruffudd
and his men pulled back. Some of his warriors had already
disappeared into the forest; the others swung themselves up onto
their companions’ mounts as they passed by. Gruffudd shouted for
the men to fan out in different directions. It took the Normans
some time to work their way through the confusion at the wagons but
they didn’t even pause to glance at the damage. As soon as they
were free of the wreckage, they put spurs to their stallions and
chased after the Welsh.

Haworth had been one of the first to reach
the wagons and consequently the first to go after Gruffudd’s men.
He had his quarry in sight, too; two men on one horse. They
couldn’t hope to outrun his larger, stronger beast. As he had done
a thousand times in practice, he stood up in his stirrups, raised
his slender javelin over his head, pulled his arm back and flung
the missile forward with deadly accuracy. It hit the rear Welshman
square in the back; the man’s arms went flying outwards and he
tumbled to the ground, dead. His companion looked back over his
shoulder, saw what had happened and held his horse in with the
reins wrapped around one wrist. He turned to face Haworth with his
sword. The Norman didn’t attempt to halt his own mount. Instead,
the animal went crashing into the Welsh horse, tottering it and
throwing the Welshman off-balance. Haworth pressed his advantage
and pushed the tip of his long sword into the chest of the
foundering warrior.

Gruffudd and his men might not have been
fleeing en masse but they were each heading in a southerly
direction, towards the border of northern Powys. That was a
mistake. The chief was correct in thinking the convoy had been a
lure into a trap but the ambush wasn’t waiting up ahead of him, it
was behind him. When the men from Powys turned and fled south,
Hugh, his knights and the remainder of Prince Dafydd’s warriors
were there to meet them with deadly arrows and finely honed sword
edges.

Gruffudd’s threat, at least for the moment,
had fizzled. Finally beaten, he and his army slipped back into
Powys. Roger Haworth was all for chasing after them, now that the
manpower was available, and Hugh had to remind him that it wasn’t
so long ago he was bemoaning the intrusion of the soldiers from
Gwynedd. Haworth grudgingly but fairly acknowledged their
exceptional abilities and admitted they’d been an integral part of
the victory. He’d been particularly impressed by their
rough-looking longbows which, when in the proper hands, had sent
arrows flying further than he’d ever seen. “It’s why we ought to
press our advantage right now!” he said, still fired up from the
fracas.

But Hugh was more cautious. Although Dafydd
had agreed Gwynedd must be protected from Powys, the earl wasn’t
certain if the prince’s good will extended to a Norman invasion of
Powys using Gwynedd warriors. Besides, he didn’t want to go on the
offensive until his back was secure and Hawarden was not yet
complete.

“But you told me we want as much of Powys as
we can get!” Haworth protested. “You said Wales has plenty of land
for the taking!”

“And we’ll take it, Roger! But we can’t risk
it just now…”

Hugh was able to act immediately on one of
his problems. In the fortnight following the ambush, Hawarden saw
quick improvement. Without Gruffudd’s continual harassment, Hugh
was able to clear away the land directly surrounding the castle
bailey. He increased the distance between the curtain wall and the
start of the woods and had constructed a second palisade with the
resultant lumber. He was confident the walls were now far out of
arrow range and should any agent of Gruffudd ap Madog dare to lurk
around Hawarden, he would be immediately spotted.

The castle was fast replacing Chester as a
personal favorite. Chester he had inherited; Hawarden he had
built—not to mention the important victory he’d conceived and
brought off on its behalf. “I should have insisted on taking charge
at Dol,” he told Haworth. “I believe we might have won against the
Bastard if I had.”

At the mention of William fitz Henry, Haworth
spat onto the ground which, because they were standing in a newly
erected guard tower in the inner bailey wall, was a considerable
distance below them.

Hugh was greatly enjoying himself. He had
liked tricking Gruffudd and looked forward to doing it again. Miles
de Gournay had once told him that the Welsh in Gwynedd had called
his great-grandfather, Earl Hugh, ‘the Wolf’ because he had been a
relentless scourge upon their land. It had been this earl and his
cousin who had conquered much of Gwynedd and raised the castle at
Rhuddlan. Not only did Hugh finally feel a kinship with a member of
his family but he thought he might one day win a similarly
respected sobriquet.

“Funny how we should both end up in Wales,”
Hugh mused, still thinking about Longsword. “At least I’ve come as
a voluntary exile. He fought for the king and what was his reward?
Custodian of Rhuddlan. It’s got to be dull as an overused sword. No
Gruffudds to fight. And I remember him as a hotheaded man…”

“That’s probably why the king sent him to
Rhuddlan,” Haworth said. “The rumor at Falaise was that he was
angry with the king for taking the Young King back into his
bosom.”

“And with good reason! I’d wager the Bastard
must be feeling very disaffected right now, Roger. We ought to
remember that—on the chance there might be another rebellion one
day. William the Bastard’s had several years to simmer; he might
prove a valuable ally.”

Haworth wasn’t so convinced but didn’t have a
chance to reply. A sudden movement below them had caught Hugh’s
eye. “Who can this be?” he asked abruptly. Haworth followed the
direction of his gaze. A solitary figure on horseback was
approaching the castle at a steady but unhurried clip. Whoever it
was bore no colors or other outward sign of identification.

Apparently Haworth found something familiar
in the rider’s posture and manner of travel. “It’s that messenger
the dowager countess sent you a few months ago,” he said.

“Are you certain?” Hugh demanded, surprised.
He caught himself; there was no reason for surprise, was there,
when it seemed his mother was an expert at undermining his
happiness; obviously she had a sixth sense for knowing its moments
of occurrence. “It would be too much to hope that he’s bringing
news of her death, I suppose,” he added.

“I think he would be traveling with more
urgency, my lord. No, she’s probably just wondering why you haven’t
chosen a wife yet from her list.”

“It’s amazing, isn’t it, Roger? How eagerly
she awaits the arrival of a grandchild when she never had any use
for her own son.” He glanced down unfavorably upon the messenger.
“At least I have the excuse of having to wage war…”

“But Gruffudd’s gone, my lord,” Haworth said.
“Everyone’s talking about it still. The man’s bound to hear there’s
no longer any sudden threat from Powys.”

As he watched the messenger trot inexorably
closer to his front gate, an idea formed in Hugh’s mind. “Well,
then, we’ll have to think of something else.”

“I could kill him,” Haworth said
seriously.

Hugh laughed. “Weren’t you the one who told
me she’ll just keep sending others? No, I meant we’ll leave for a
while. We’ll pay a visit to our partner in war, Prince Dafydd.
We’ll bring him a few gifts—foreigners always like that—and thank
him for the loan of his men.”

Haworth caught on immediately. “And ask him
if we can use them to invade Powys?”

“Roger, while I’ve always admired your way
with a sword, I have to admit that your most attractive quality is
your singleminded devotion to my causes,” Hugh said, still
smiling.

But to Haworth, it was no joking matter.
“Always, my lord,” he answered fervently.

Some nights, she had a dream.

The dream itself took place at night, which
made its already surrealistic imagery even more fantastic. Up in
the glowing sky, the moon was low and full, so bright that there
was no need for the torches to be lit. But it was a filmy, greyish
light which distorted and stretched all objects it reached. The
walls ringing the ward seemed to soar one hundred feet into the
air, the shadow cast by her billowing cloak rippled majestically
for miles and her feet, as she ran excitedly, lightly, never
touched the ground.

She was running away from someone who wasn’t
chasing her. She had planned an assignation in the stables, she
remembered, but then had decided not to keep it. She’d gotten all
the way to the main door, she had heard the animals within snorting
and stamping and then she’d turned around and run back towards the
keep. She was laughing to herself, thinking of the surprise and
frustration of the man she had promised to meet. She supposed she
was slightly drunk, but whether from wine or moonlight, she didn’t
know.

She loosened her hair from its trap of braid
and linen so that it flowed behind her like an inky river. She was
running, running, running for the stair below the hall, holding up
the skirts of her gown with one hand while the other one clutched
at the cool air. It was wonderful how free running made her feel,
how powerful, and though the length of the ward seemed to go on
forever, she still had lungs full of energy.

But finally she reached the steps. As though
her feet had wings, she flew up the shadow-obscured stones until
she stood at the very top. And then she turned around to see if her
would-be lover was following her after all…and instead she saw
another man.