Rhuddlan (64 page)

But he and his knights would need great speed
to get behind Rhirid and on the treacherously rain-saturated grass
and bumpy and stony ground, speed was an impossibility. To
sacrifice their horses would gain them nothing and probably cost
them their lives. His sole consolation was the knowledge that the
Welsh were as much at the mercy of the weather and terrain as he
was.

He splashed across the shallow stream,
followed immediately by a dozen of his better mounted soldiers. And
there, behind the tufts of overgrown vegetation that invariably
springs up alongside water, the Welsh were waiting.

There was only a handful of them, but they
were archers and they greeted the Normans with a hail of arrows
shot at close range. They aimed for the horses; the larger targets
and half of the knights’ effectiveness. Longsword, bounding past
them first, escaped unscathed, but he heard the screams of one or
two beasts and the shouts of fallen men. There was no time to
stop.

It was a trick, the best that Rhirid could
salvage of the situation. Once he had seen the Normans charge out
of the forest, he’d sent some of his men back the way they’d come
to give the illusion of flight, but the rest he’d deployed in
groups behind whatever shelter they could find. Another man might
have given Rhirid a grudging respect for having so completely
fooled him, but not Longsword. He didn’t respect trickery, no
matter how clever, only skill and bravery in an open contest.

“Will!”

He barely heard Delamere’s shout through the
confusing haze of noises in his head, the shrieking horses, the
pounding of his own mount’s hooves, his rapid, steady breathing and
the wind echoing inside his coif, but he knew his friend wanted him
to slow down and wait to be joined by more of his men. But his
blood was up and he did not want to lose his momentum. And just
before him, not a hundred yards away, he had seen Welsh who were
stopped and facing him. Waiting for him.

Longsword didn’t quite remember what Rhirid
ap Maelgwn looked like, but he knew instinctively that it was the
Welsh chief who stood at the front of the group. Without answering
Delamere, he lowered his sword and spurred his horse onward.

Rhirid watched Longsword rush towards him.
One of his companions raised a bow, fitted with an arrow, but
Rhirid snapped at him to aim elsewhere. The Norman bastard was his
quarry alone.

He pressed his knees into the flanks of his
horse. He didn’t relish the idea of fighting from horseback but if
he was to die, he didn’t want to be remembered as having waited for
death to come to him. In his right hand he held the reins, in his
left he gripped his sword. It was his bloodcurdling roar as he
moved to meet Longsword that caught Richard Delamere’s
attention.

Longsword was standing in his stirrups,
leaning forward and holding his weapon out as if it were a spear.
Rhirid’s sword was up and out. At the last moment, Rhirid jerked on
the reins and forced his horse to swerve to the right. Longsword’s
sword met air and as the wild-eyed warhorse thundered past him,
Rhirid cut viciously down at his opponent’s back with the butt of
his own sword. Longsword felt the wind go out of his lungs and
forced himself to relax until he could breathe again. He hadn’t
realized the Welsh chief was left-handed; he wouldn’t give Rhirid a
second opening like that.

Now the two men were each in dangerous
territory, having exchanged positions. Rhirid was between the
Normans and Longsword; Longsword was between the Welsh and Rhirid.
Delamere had rushed forward upon hearing Rhirid’s war cry. The
Welsh shouted out to their chief; Rhirid looked over his shoulder
and saw Delamere bearing down on him. He barely had time to react.
Delamere pulled up just short of the Welshman, sword flailing
wildly. Rhirid blocked the swipes, but his horse was intimidated by
the Norman’s snorting, prancing stallion and backed nervously away.
Delamere pressed his advantage, urging his mount closer and closer,
propelling the Welsh horse backwards. Rhirid pulled hard on the
reins but his horse wasn’t bred, as were the Norman mounts, for
steadfastness under the duress of warfare. The animal was too
terrified to heed any of Rhirid’s exhortations.

It was Longsword who saved him. He had
recovered from Rhirid’s blow and had pulled his horse around. His
back was to the Welsh but he paid them no attention. Rhirid ap
Maelgwn was the only enemy he wanted.

He shouted to Delamere to leave the chief and
reluctantly Delamere obeyed. Rhirid patted his horse’s neck
reassuringly. Then, without warning, he kicked the animal hard and
it jumped forward, straight at Longsword.

The rain, which earlier had been light,
suddenly flung itself down in loud, fat drops. It splattered into
the men’s faces and obscured their vision. It adversely affected
the aim of the Welsh archers. The unhorsed knights rushed them,
hacking at both men and greenery with their swords.

Further on, Rhirid charged, shouting at the
top of his lungs, cursing Longsword with Welsh invectives. The
Norman urged his mount to meet him, this time holding his sword
close. He barely heard Rhirid’s roaring because the thrill of
finally being able to exact his revenge caused the blood to pound
loudly in his ears. He saw nothing but the Welsh chief bearing down
on him in deadly earnest. He didn’t look at Rhirid’s face, only the
man’s left arm, which held his weapon, and his chest, which he
planned to run through with his own sword.

This time, the horses did not pass each
other. At the last possible moment, Longsword nudged his horse left
with his knees. The heavy animal crashed into Rhirid’s smaller
mount.

Rhirid knew his horse would fall. With
admirable dexterity, he managed to extricate his feet from his
stirrups and as the beast beneath him tottered and fought for its
balance, he gave himself a mighty heave and flew straight onto a
totally unsuspecting Longsword.

Like his horse, Longsword was bigger and
heavier than his adversary and should have been easily able to
knock Rhirid away, but the Welshman’s unexpected move caught him
off guard and while his mind sifted through possible reactions the
decision was made for him. With determination and with gravity on
his side, Rhirid managed to pull Longsword off his horse. The two
men tumbled onto the slippery grass.

The Norman had lost his weapon. Luckily, he
had landed on top of Rhirid so the Welshman was unable to get his
own sword up for an attack. Longsword spied the sword on the
ground, a yard or two away and scrambled towards it. The rain was a
hindrance; his boots slid on the mud and water coursed off his
helmet and into his eyes. As his fingers closed on the hilt of the
sword, he heard Rhirid coming up from behind. Still prone, he
rolled onto his back and slashed sideways in a wide, crazy arc.
Steel met steel with a harsh clash.

For the moment, Rhirid had the advantage. He
stood over Longsword and played the aggressor, never letting up his
onslaught of blows. He jabbed and swung and cut at Longsword, who
could do nothing from his position on the ground but defend
himself. Having felt all along that he was the injured party in
their feud, Longsword found himself startled that the Welsh chief
was being so relentless and so desperate in his attack.

But Rhirid’s advantage didn’t last long.
Collecting himself, Longsword blocked a blow and then brought his
leg up and jammed his muddy boot square into Rhirid’s chest. The
Welshman went flying backwards and in that instant, Longsword
clambered to his feet. He strode purposefully towards Rhirid, who
was sitting on the ground, gasping for breath.

Rhirid’s chest heaved painfully. The rain was
still steady and loud; the shouts and screams of the men fighting
surrounded him, although he heard everything as if it were
happening very far away.

He looked up and saw Longsword coming at him.
He tried to stand but one of his heels slipped in the mud and he
fell back again. He became dimly aware that he was precariously
close to his panicked horse. His last thought was that he was
surprised the beast didn’t just run away. Instead, it stood
nervously, stepping fitfully and snorting anxiously—until Dylan ab
Owain, seeing Rhirid’s plight, opened his mouth and lungs and
bellowed so loudly that even Longsword was momentarily diverted.
Then the animal reared up in fright and came crashing down, its
left foreleg catching Rhirid on the side of his head.

Rhirid collapsed into a still heap. Longsword
stopped in his tracks as if confused as to what to do next. He
glanced back at Delamere and lifted his hands.

“Will, look out!”

Longsword whirled around. Dylan ab Owain was
bearing down on him, followed closely by the other Welsh on
horseback. He looked to his horse, which waited patiently for him
where he’d been knocked off of it. The pounding of hooves suddenly
drowned out the sound of the pouring rain. The Normans, led by
Richard Delamere, were also charging.

Longsword ran to his horse and hoisted
himself into the saddle with a kick. He took the reins in his left
hand and pulled the animal’s head around just as the Welsh reached
him. He blocked a blow intended for his head and pushed his
adversary’s sword down. He slashed back quickly and caught the man
under his arm, but it was nothing more than a scratch because both
horses had moved slightly apart. The man came at him again, furious
and intent, sword flailing wildly, and again Longsword rebuffed
him. The Welshman tried a third time. This time, Longsword managed
to stab him straight through the chest with the point of his sword.
He pulled his sword free; the man made a choking sound as the blood
began to pour from his mouth and finally he toppled to the
ground.

There was a shrill whistle. Longsword looked
around to see who had done it. Delamere and the others had flown
past him and now they were chasing the Welsh away, back into the
hills. He was alone on the grass. The rain fell heavily onto the
body of the dead Welshman. He looked to the spot where Rhirid had
fallen, but the chief was no longer there.

He rode back to the stream, where the
remainder of his men, the unhorsed knights, the archers and the
men-at-arms, had collected. He counted four of his men lying prone
on the ground, and six of Rhirid’s. Dying horses thrashed and
screamed.

Longsword wished the damned rain would
stop.

Not long after, Delamere returned. “They’ve
disappeared,” he told Longsword, panting heavily from exertion.

Longsword frowned. “What happened to
Rhirid?”

He shrugged. “One of them picked him up and
carried him off.”

“Do you think he’s dead?”

Delamere shook his head. Longsword, who
agreed with him, spat onto the ground.

Chapter 42

May, 1177

Hawarden, Gwynedd

Roger of Haworth climbed onto the parapet,
leaned his arms against the ledge and looked towards the south.
Northern Powys was there, made invisible by distance but as firm
and real as the land upon which Hawarden stood. He couldn’t see
anything except the seemingly endless forest but he stared, anyway,
and wished desperately for Gruffudd ap Madog and a full complement
of battle-hungry warriors to burst into the cleared land below.

The south. That was where
the future lay, if only Hugh were not too stubborn to admit it.
Instead, the earl harped on Rhuddlan and the Bastard—and chided
Haworth for harping on Gruffudd. It was obvious Hugh did not plan
to deal with Gruffudd any time soon; that was why Haworth desired
the Welshman to come north and force the earl’s hand. But after the
shock Gruffudd had received the last time he was in Gwynedd, it
didn’t appear
he
was in much of a hurry to confront his enemy again either,
despite Haworth’s wishes.

Hugh’s current concern was producing a male
heir. It was a subject even more compelling than the Bastard, if
the number of nights Haworth had been shut out of his master’s bed
chamber was anything to go on. He was becoming a familiar face in
the barracks, where he was well-regarded by the other men, but the
enforced abstinence was beginning to chafe on him. Never before in
his life had he been jealous of a woman but it had come to that
now. He was at times surly towards Hugh and at others plaintive.
Perhaps, he’d grumbled one day to Hugh, it simply wasn’t the season
for a woman to become pregnant and the earl should stop trying for
a month or two.

Hugh had had a good laugh at that and even
though it was at his expense, Haworth was perversely pleased that
he wasn’t being dismissed with a curt word or a burst of angry
language. Well, he maintained, it might be true; animals gave birth
at certain seasons, why not a woman? Hugh explained the difference,
but Haworth heard nothing as he found himself mesmerized by Hugh’s
mouth. And a glance at his eyes proved him happy and relaxed.
Haworth was faintly puzzled that a woman could bring his master
such contentment, especially the charmless Eleanor Bolsover, but he
was too resentful to actually question it.

And then there was Ralph de Vire. Haworth
knew the earl liked the young knight because of his resemblance to
Robert Bolsover. Hugh was capable of speaking with him at such
length at supper that occasionally the entire meal would pass by
and he would not have spoken to anyone else, including Haworth. As
a result of this attention, de Vire strutted around Hawarden with
an overly familiar attitude which Haworth detested, although so far
the younger man had wisely kept out of his way.

Haworth was disgruntled. The peace he and the
earl had enjoyed before the arrivals of the countess and de Vire no
longer existed. Eleanor he dismissed as a temporary problem; once
she became pregnant, Hugh would have no further need of her. But de
Vire seemed to be the kind of problem which could only get worse,
and Haworth felt powerless to get rid of him. De Vire wasn’t simply
some anonymous man-at-arms. He saw Hugh every day and he sat at
Hugh’s table every night. Haworth suspected that if he attempted to
transfer de Vire to a different holding, the young knight would
complain to the earl and Hugh would not permit it.