Rhuddlan (71 page)

The biting enmity between Haworth and de Vire
and their constant appeals to his favor were giving Hugh a
throbbing headache—but also a growing appreciation of de Vire. His
unbridled eagerness for immediate, violent action made Haworth’s
careful suspicion seem old and unattractive. He was exciting, fresh
and bold, and entirely irresistible, especially when he turned his
intense eyes on Hugh…

“We’ve already discussed being unable to
waste time, Roger,” Hugh answered finally. “We’ll go with Ralph’s
plan.”

Haworth stared at him, plainly shocked at
this second betrayal in as many days, and Hugh tried not to shrink
under the honest scrutiny. He was suddenly angry; why did Haworth
believe he had a permanent claim on him? Why did he insist on
perpetuating a relationship which had petered out long ago? Was it
so wrong of Hugh to desire someone else?

But Haworth was not only shocked, he was
angry, too. He stepped very close to Hugh. “It’s a trap, pure and
simple, my lord,” he said in a tight, low voice. “I won’t expose my
men to it—”

“
Your
men, Roger?” Hugh
demanded.

“I’m their commander.”

“A situation easily remedied!”

Haworth glanced at de Vire, who was not
within earshot of this intense but hushed exchange, and curled his
lip. “If you think to put that young fool in command, think again!
The men won’t follow him!”

“They’ll follow
me
!” Hugh glared at
Haworth for a moment while he sorted out his thoughts. He didn’t
relish the idea of Haworth riding off in a huff with battle
imminent, not only because such an action would demoralize the men
but because it would create ill-feeling against Ralph de Vire. His
expression relaxed and he softened his tone. “Roger, I don’t want
to argue with you,” he said reasonably. “You said not long ago you
don’t want to leave me; if that’s so, then take this
order…please…”

He waited tensely but Haworth had always
backed down when push came to shove and this moment was no
different. After a short interval, Haworth bowed his head.

Like two creeping vines, the main bulk of the
Norman army spread quietly around either side of the Welsh camp
until it was virtually surrounded. The terrain was rough and hilly,
and covered with sufficient vegetation to keep the men hidden.
Haworth was to have led one branch himself but he had stayed
behind, giving instruction instead. Hugh pretended not to notice,
unwilling to force the issue. De Vire, proud and barely able to
keep still, had taken the other branch and now he was out of
sight.

The earl stood at the head of a phalanx of
knights, their helmets pulled low, their horses stamping the ground
and their lances upright. He waited for a runner to bring back word
that everyone was in place…

And then it was time. At the last moment,
Haworth had doubled the guard around Hugh with the result that it
was difficult for him to move quickly without crashing into the
knights before him, all of whom seemed to be moving at an almost
casual pace. They couldn’t afford to lose their impetus; Hugh waved
his men onward even as he fell further back. He suspected that this
was Haworth’s intention.

The men ahead of him began shouting and
whooping and he guessed they had reached the Welsh camp. The sudden
commotion acted as a spur to his guards and they hurried forward,
their formation breaking down. They had been led to believe this
battle would be a rout and now they were eager to join in. Hugh saw
an opening and immediately urged his mount through it. He had no
desire to remain in the safety of the rear; he wanted some glory to
recount to Ralph de Vire.

The camp was in a small clearing at the
bottom of a short hill and as he reached the crest, Hugh paused to
extract his sword from his belt. He glanced briefly below at the
scene below and the thought crossed his mind that the Welsh had
flouted a basic rule of campaigning by making camp in such a low
lying, vulnerable spot. The twenty-odd warriors whom his scouts had
reported were stirring from their casual seating on the ground and
his soldiers were almost upon them. He gripped his sword and
prepared to join them.

Suddenly, there was chaos. Archers had sprung
up out of the undergrowth just before the clearing and were
shooting into the fast-approaching ranks of the Norman cavalry.
Although a few arrows struck riders, most were aimed at the
horses.

Because the Normans were so close, the Welsh
had time for only one, well-orchestrated surprise salvo and to
Hugh’s dismay, they pulled it off with great success. He counted
six downed horses, whose dead or flailing bodies immediately proved
a hindrance to the forward progress of the knights following the
first line. As the men struggled to get past this obstacle, the
archers fell back and the warriors who’d acted as lures stepped up
to take their place. They waited patiently, believing themselves to
be in control of the situation.

Hugh immediately spotted the large man with
the long mustaches who was Rhirid’s champion and had only to glance
at his left to find Rhirid, not nearly as impressive, standing
beside him. He tightened his grip on his reins and pressed his
knees into his mount, urging the beast forward. Perhaps the Welsh
were a bit more clever than he’d supposed them to be but they still
could not prevail over his more expensively and better equipped
soldiers. And now he was determined to kill Rhirid himself.

Without warning, a mailed rider loomed in his
field of vision, pulling up so abruptly on the reins that his
stallion reared up with snorts that carried above the din of the
mayhem all around them. Hugh had to quickly pull his own horse back
to avoid the heavy hooves which crashed to the ground, and then
took advantage of his attacker’s momentary unbalance to press
closer to him and slash viciously at the arm holding the reins,
although his own precarious footing made the blows more glancing
than lethal. The attacker was aggressive. He used his horse as a
weapon as much as his sword, urging the animal to push into Hugh’s
mount in an effort to topple Hugh to the ground, and when that
tactic failed, took to butting Hugh’s head with the pommel of his
sword. The closeness of his opponent made it impossible for Hugh to
swing his sword to any effect and he was forced to back up to
relieve the assault on his head. Again, his attacker bolted forward
to close the gap between them but before he could inflict any
damage, a third horseman hurtled into the fray. Holding his sword
straight out before him as if it were a lance, the newcomer plowed
unerringly into Hugh’s opponent. The sword was forced by the
momentum and strength of his body through the man’s metal hauberk
and into his chest. There was a brief moment when nothing seemed to
move, and then Roger of Haworth pulled his sword back with a quick,
sudden jerk and the dead man dropped to the ground. Oblivious now
to the chaos of noise and flailing weapons around them, panting
from exertion, Hugh and Haworth stared down at the inert,
metal-shrouded body.

They looked up and at each
other at the same time. “Well,” Hugh said calmly, “you were right;
it
is
a
trap.”

“I didn’t expect this, my lord! Did he belong
to the Bastard?”

“Without a doubt.”

“What will we do?”

Hugh hesitated, frowning. He
hated to admit that the Bastard had gotten the better of him but
there was no way his men, superior in ability and training as he
believed they were, could fight the combined forces of three armies
at once. He suddenly saw the battle as standing for something
greater than merely the Bastard’s revenge for the kidnapping of his
wife—it was to be the conclusion of the fight started at Dol.
Whatever differences might have existed between Longsword and
Rhirid ap Maelgwn were but trifles when compared with Longsword’s
grudge against
him
.

“We must get back to Hawarden. The Bastard
wants to kill me, Roger, but he needs to do it clean; in battle. He
realized he hadn’t a chance coming against me at Hawarden; he could
sit outside those walls for a year with no hardship to us.”

Haworth nodded grimly and took up his reins.
“I’ll collect your bodyguard and send you off, my lord.”

Hugh looked down the incline to where the
fighting was kicking up the dust. “Where’s Sir Ralph? His men ought
to be here to help. Without them we’re outnumbered. Don’t they hear
the ruckus?”

“He deployed the archers and footmen so far
out that they probably don’t hear anything,” Haworth said flatly.
“Don’t worry; I’ll retrieve them. The most important thing is that
you get safely away, my lord. If you’re lost, we’re all lost.”

Hugh reached over and gripped Haworth’s
shoulder firmly. “You’re in charge, Roger, as ever. Will you do me
one favor?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Find Sir Ralph.” He hesitated. “I know it’s
a terrible thing to ask of you but you’re the only one I trust. The
only one I can truly depend upon…”

“I’ll find him,” Haworth promised.

Hugh smiled, relieved. Dropping his hand, he
returned his sword to his belt and took hold of the reins.

Rhirid had told no one, not even his healer,
about his persistent dizziness and periodic headaches. Although
nothing had been spoken aloud, he knew that in his men’s opinion
he’d already committed one offense by humbling himself to the
Norman lord when he’d sought aid against the earl of Chester; to
admit to physical weakness now could prove tantamount to being
forced to give up lordship of Llanlleyn. He’d become adept at
keeping himself as still as possible for as long as possible. He
didn’t think anyone had noticed.

It had been the Norman lord’s idea to enlist
the support of Gruffudd ap Madog. Rhirid had been of two minds
about this; while he welcomed the additional swords, it had not
been so long ago that he and his men had fought against Gruffudd at
the behest of the prince and he wasn’t certain that Dafydd would
condone an alliance with northern Powys now. Longsword had scoffed
at his apprehension and waved away his concern. His almost sneering
dismissal of Dafydd’s potential reaction led Rhirid to believe that
the Norman had some grievance against the prince.

Rhirid usually looked forward to a good fight
as much as any man but on this day his dizziness made him doubtful
of his ability. He didn’t know if his coordination would be
affected. As he waited, he prayed he wouldn’t make a fool of
himself in front of his warriors. Only one thought could drive away
his insecurity: that he would meet Roger of Haworth, the man who
had ridden onto his land and stolen Olwen, and kill him.

After hearing Goewyn’s shocking tale, he had
spent a sleepless night turning over and over in his mind what
horrible fate might await Olwen at Hawarden. In the morning,
despite a throbbing headache and a painfully swollen face, he’d
felt calmer. He knew what he had to do to get Olwen back. He’d put
it simply and quietly to his men. His tone had been soft but
there’d been no missing the steel behind it, and although there
were unhappy, even angry, faces looking back at him, no one had
dared protest when he’d told them that he was going to seek the
assistance of the lord of Rhuddlan.

To his mind, he had no choice. Olwen was more
important than an ultimately meaningless feud with Longsword and he
believed the Normans at Rhuddlan—or at least one of them—would feel
the same. Besides, he had to at least try to neutralize this Norman
threat while he faced the other, more powerful one from
Hawarden.

He’d supposed Lord William would receive him
at best distrustfully and at worst with a drawn sword; after all, a
mere two days earlier they’d tried to kill each other. He’d brought
a hostage with him, a measure of his good faith and this seemed to
work in his favor. Olwen’s Norman lover had done the translations,
all the while glaring at him with such intense hatred that he’d
decided he had more to fear from this man than from Lord William.
He’d turned away from the frosty scrutiny only to find Longsword
staring at his face with undisguised distaste.

“It’s a pathetic battle indeed when my
enemy’s horse inflicts more damage on him than I do,” the Norman
had remarked. Then his tone had hardened. “I must move more quickly
next time.”

“—Rhirid!”

Dylan’s harsh whisper shook him out of his
reverie. “What’s wrong?” he said.

“Nothing! Everything’s right. Look! The first
of the earl’s men are approaching. We must stand up as if they’ve
surprised us!”

The ones who were truly surprised were the
earl’s knights, when the hidden archers jumped to their feet at
Gruffudd’s signal, fitted an arrow and took almost immediate aim.
The charging horsemen were too close to halt or shy away and the
result was confusion, swirling dust and a lot of noise.

The second wave of the earl’s attack came
quickly on the heels of the first but these men, having seen what
had happened to their comrades and realizing this was no chance
meeting after all, had a few moments to adjust their forward
impetus. They were speeding at such a rate that there was no time
to stop; instead they looked for gaps in the collection of men and
beasts lying in their path or ducked low and jumped over the
obstacles. The archers retreated to a position behind Gruffudd and
Rhirid and the other Welsh in the clearing. The Powys chief shouted
and waved his sword in the air and suddenly dozens of men sprang up
from the verges and jumped down from the trees, and pushed their
way towards the clearing, wielding swords and spears to meet the
earl’s knights.

Rhirid reached up with several others and
pulled a Norman from his horse. Before the man had a chance to
regain his balance, the chief lunged at him, ramming his shield and
the full weight of his body into him. The Norman fell to his knees
under the force of the collision and then Rhirid brought the butt
of his sword crashing down onto his helmet. The Norman collapsed.
Rhirid watched the others fall upon him and was pleased with this
successful start to his battle. With a start, he realized his
dizziness and pain were gone. It was a good portent. Fate was
surely smiling on him. The plan had worked, Chester was trapped, he
would have his revenge on Haworth and he would return to Olwen.