Rhuddlan (75 page)

“My lord!”

Longsword jumped at the unexpected
interruption. Cynan was running across the darkened field towards
him.

“My lord!” he repeated, breathless; “Sir
Warin asks if you can come right away!”

“Is it Sir Richard?”

The boy nodded violently.

Longsword swore and took off in the direction
of the tents. He’d only been gone a moment! Mindful of Delamere’s
terse warning, he’d stuck close by his friend all evening,
particularly during the supper to which the two Welsh chiefs had
been invited. Delamere had been quiet during the meal and unable to
keep his eyes from Rhirid. Longsword had been relieved when it was
over and Rhirid had returned to his own side. Now what had
happened?

It was worse than he’d anticipated. Up ahead
he could see a circle of men and blazing torches and emanating from
some unseen force within it, he heard the clash of swords. He
cursed again and broke into a run.

He slowed down just enough to push his way
through the on-lookers and size up the situation of the combatants.
As yet, Rhirid and Delamere both appeared to be unscratched; thank
God at least for that small favor, he thought. Without further
hesitation, he strode up to Delamere and demanded his sword.

“Get out of the way, Will; this doesn’t
concern you!” Delamere said tersely, looking past him at
Rhirid.

Longsword’s voice was cold and low. “Don’t
presume upon our friendship out here, Richard. If you don’t give me
your sword, I’ll have you taken back to Rhuddlan and locked
up.”

Delamere’s eyes swiveled to his in surprise.
After a slight pause, he handed the weapon over and then, before
Longsword could say another word, spun angrily on his heel and
strode off.

Longsword turned to Rhirid and the Welsh
contingent with him. The chief’s bruised face looked eerie in the
shadows, as if half of it were missing. Only the white of his eye
stood out in the darkness. There was nothing to say, as neither one
spoke the other’s language; one of the warriors spat out a few
words but Rhirid immediately put a hand up to silence him, and then
he, too, turned and left the circle, albeit less angrily, and his
men followed.

“What happened?” Longsword snapped, but no
one answered. He glared at the sheepish faces around him. “Fine.
Did anyone at least see where he went?”

Someone answered, “To the horses, my
lord.”

He thrust Delamere’s sword into the man’s
hand. “Don’t return this to Sir Richard until the morning, do you
understand?” To another, he ordered, “Bring me a torch.”

It didn’t take long to find Delamere. He
waited at the edge of the grassy plain where the horses had been
hobbled for the night. It was apparent from his angry stance—arms
folded across his chest and legs planted aggressively—that he’d
decided to have his fight after all; if not with Rhirid then with
Longsword, who approached him cautiously.

Delamere struck out first. “Why did you stop
the fight?” he demanded.

“Because one of you was going to get killed,”
Longsword said reasonably. “And no matter who it was, the result
would be disastrous for this enterprise, which happens to be the
reason we’re all here in the first place.”

“He challenged
me
, Will!”

“It doesn’t matter who chal—”

“He told me Olwen’s going back with him! He
said she prefers to be with her own people!”

“He was just saying that—”

“How could he say it if he knows it isn’t
true?”

Delamere’s voice was loud and, to Longsword’s
ears, frightened. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to require an answer
because he turned away sharply, staring over the neat rows of
horses tied up for the night, focusing on something Longsword
couldn’t see.

Finally, Delamere exhaled noisily and rubbed
his hands over his face. In a calmer voice he said, “I know I swore
to keep away from him but I just couldn’t…”

Longsword put a hand on his shoulder.
“Richard, it’s not Rhirid’s decision to make. It’s Olwen’s. She’s
the only one who can tell you what she’ll do.”

Delamere glanced at him, the torchlight
flickering across his face but the cynical expression all too
apparent. “I suppose I was trying to help her…”

“I don’t understand…”

“So she wouldn’t need to choose. If he’s
dead, then she’d have to come back with me.” He cleared his throat.
“I didn’t want to take the chance that she’d decide for him.”

“But what if…”

“If he’d defeated me?” He grinned. Longsword
could tell because the light glinted off his teeth. “I guess in
that case, too, there’d be no choice to make.”

Chapter 45

June, 1177

Hawarden Castle, Gwynedd

He was dead. Hugh knew it as
certainly as he knew he was soon due for another one of his
mother’s irritated missives. As certainly as he knew Henry’s lucky
talents had been passed on to his son, after all. As certainly as
he knew that Haworth was
not
dead.

He wondered if it was his fault—that the men
with whom he was so besotted died young—or if he simply fell in
love with men whose unfortunate destiny it was to die young. Not
that it made any difference; the result was the same.

…The Bastard had finally gotten the better of
him. He’d won. Although another forty-odd of Hugh’s soldiers had
managed to make it back to Hawarden between the time of his arrival
and the Bastard’s late the next day, there were still far too many
missing. He would ransom all of them, even though he didn’t have
to, because the success of the ambush had been his fault.

These twin disasters would once have devasted
him but he supposed he had grown used to the heavy blows of his
life because although his movements and utterances were mechanical,
still he walked and talked, ate and drank. He was quieter, but
then, he’d always been quiet and perhaps his men noticed nothing
amiss, or put it down to concern for the missing…

It was when he stopped that he felt the
disasters most keenly. A fog would swirl around his head and
paralyze his mind. He was unable to concentrate and had to struggle
to put a thought into words. Even his eyes could not focus
properly, but darted from one object to another. He dared not
sleep; he went into his bedchamber but the idea of lying upon the
bed and closing his eyes horrified him. He didn’t know what sorts
of dreams would haunt him. He sat in a chair all night instead and
gave himself over to fitful spurts of unconsciousness.

“My lord, they’re here…”

He went out with his men and climbed the
wooden stair to the top of the curtain wall and pretended an
interest in the spectacle just visible in the southwest: a
sprawling, crawling line of Norman knights and Welsh warriors,
footmen and archers, two baggage wagons and four oxen…and
prisoners, all beginning to emerge from the forest onto the grassy
field. The distance was, as yet, too great to distinguish between
faces and he soon gave up trying to pick out Ralph de Vire. He was
distracted by the glare of the lowering sun and for a
heart-stopping moment imagined that perhaps he was wrong…perhaps
Ralph wasn’t dead…perhaps Haworth had indeed found him and now they
were both prisoners of the Bastard—it was possible—until he saw the
body he would believe it true. For a moment he was so happy he
spoke to the men with him, discussing the ransoming and what kind
of payment the Bastard would demand.

…But despair washed over him once again, when
the sun had gone down and he found himself at the supper board. He
couldn’t eat or drink and the sight of the servants weaving around
the trestle tables made him so dizzy that he had to force his numb
gaze to the place before him…Of course he was dead…of course…The
evening passed without his notice. He was aware of being escorted
to his suite of rooms by a small bodyguard, which, in a flash of
lucidity, he thought amusing; did they think the Bastard would
creep into Hawarden and snatch him away? He tried to be suitably
gracious when they stripped him and put him to bed—there would be
two men on the door if he needed anything, they said gravely. He
thanked them again and asked for all the lamps to be lit…and when
they left him alone, he got out of bed, threw a robe around his
shoulders and sat down in the chair…What was the point of being in
bed, when he knew he wouldn’t sleep?

The light helped somewhat…the chair helped,
too…But it didn’t really matter; it didn’t make a difference, did
it? Ralph de Vire was still dead.

“Which gown do you think I should wear?”
Teleri asked Olwen, gazing down at the three stretched out across
the bed. “I don’t suppose I’ll be able to take the other two with
me…” She put a finger on her mouth as she considered. Suddenly, she
whirled around. “You could wear one! And then I’d only have to
leave one behind. Olwen? Did you hear me, Olwen?”

Olwen stepped down from the window, her face
creased with lines of worry. “I’m sorry…”

“I said you could wear one of the gowns.”

Olwen looked horrified. “Oh, no, Lady Teleri!
I couldn’t do that—not your clothes! It wouldn’t be right!”

“Just until we get to that rough camp and
then you could change, Olwen. The earl’s seamstresses are so much
more clever than mine; it would be a pity to have to leave two
gowns behind.”

“I would feel uncomfortable, Lady Teleri.
Besides, I’m taller and thicker than you; I’d never fit.” She
turned back to the window, standing on the cushioned bench beneath
it.

Teleri conceded this final point with a
reluctant nod. She considered wearing two gowns together but the
warm day made that prospect unappealing. She squeezed her eyes
shut, reached her hand down and grabbed the first piece of material
she felt.

The steward had been by after breakfast to
advise them to prepare themselves to be exchanged for some of the
prisoners. To Olwen, this meant staring down into the lower bailey,
where the negotiations were apparently taking place, with
increasing panic. To Teleri, it meant making herself presentable,
although she doubted Olwen’s shaking hands would be of much use in
helping her dress.

She opened her eyes and looked down at the
winning gown. She liked the soft material but wasn’t certain the
color suited her. She discarded it and picked up a different
one.

“I need you, Olwen,” she said. “I don’t know
why you have to watch them. You can’t hear what they’re saying and
they’re all just standing there on their horses.”

“I’m frightened, Lady Teleri. There could be
a problem. Why haven’t they come inside the keep? Perhaps the earl
has changed his mind and he won’t exchange us. I don’t know what
I’ll do if he refuses to let me go!”

“He will! He hasn’t any
choice…The question is, to
whom
will you go?”

Olwen’s voice was firm for the first time
that day. “To my children, Lady Teleri.”

“Mmm. That means Llanlleyn,” Teleri said
casually, but then she changed the subject. Olwen was getting far
too much of the attention in this matter and there wasn’t any
reason for her to contribute to it. “Could you brush my hair out,
please?”

She wished the steward would return for them.
She wanted to be down in the midst of the negotiations; she wanted
to know how many of the earl’s men would be exchanged for her.
Besides, Olwen’s increasing anxiety was irritating. She’d already
bitten back two or three sharp words about blocking the window but
she didn’t know how much longer she could remain close-mouthed.

Her situation was rather like one of the
stories the bards at her uncle’s fortress would sing after a fat
supper. A fable from long ago in which a princess is kidnapped and
rescued by her lover. Of course, Longsword was a far cry from being
her lover and she wasn’t a princess but there was still something
romantic in the events of the last few weeks…Perhaps, she thought
suddenly, there was a purpose in all that had happened and was
about to happen. A higher purpose than mere ransoming and settling
accounts. Perhaps God was trying to tell her she belonged with
William Longsword, after all…

It was a frightening idea at first glance—and
ludicrous; she almost laughed aloud but that would have unnerved
Olwen even further. Still, after what she had seen of men whom
she’d once admired, she was prepared to concede that Longsword had
several good points. One was his honesty: it was often brutal given
their tempestuous relationship, but he had never lied to her or
used her as a means to gain his ends. Another was her complete
freedom to run the domestic side of Rhuddlan. As for his physical
appearance…he was tall and well-built…his wasn’t an exceptionally
handsome face but pleasing enough—or was when he bothered to shave.
He didn’t have bushy eyebrows or a weak chin; his ears didn’t stick
out and his nose wasn’t too generous. She decided she could do much
worse—

Because it was expected but its timing
uncertain, the sharp rap on the door produced a shock like a
lightning bolt. She jumped up and heard Olwen involuntarily yelp.
Two knights stood on the threshold; their escort, at last, to the
lower bailey.

There was a brisk breeze blowing into their
faces and whipping back their clothing, which made it all the more
difficult to keep up with the fast-paced men. Across the ward and
down the many steps of the motte into the inner bailey. There were
people here, watching them pass swiftly by; the artisans and
craftsmen of Hawarden and their families. Teleri would have liked
to have slowed down a bit in order to revel in the attention but
the knights’ stride never slackened. And then, through the open
gate and into the outer bailey, where they halted.

She couldn’t see anything but the backs of a
number of the earl’s men-at-arms standing in front of her and, just
over their shoulders, the torsos of the men on horseback. She
didn’t see the earl but he was there; she knew it because she could
hear, quite distinctly, a voice she hadn’t heard for some time, her
husband’s, and it was addressing her host in a loud, angry
tone.