Rhuddlan (88 page)

The messenger repeated the story and then
looked at his audience expectantly, imagining fitz Maurice would
give the order to turn around. Instead, he saw shock, disbelief and
even outrage on the knights’ faces. It was clear they didn’t
believe it. Indeed, they wanted to know what was wrong with Lene
for allowing himself to be bullied by Lady Teleri.

The messenger was taken
aback. He insisted he was speaking the truth. After all, Roger of
Haworth
had
been
seen travelling to Rhuddlan.

“But you didn’t actually see him arrive,”
fitz Maurice said. “And the lady’s feelings on this matter were
clear two nights ago when the earl showed up. She’s Welsh; of
course she wants to protect Llanlleyn. And since when has she any
love for Rhuddlan? She’s never cared about it or Lord William.”

“If she
is
telling the truth,” another man
added, “then who killed our comrade? The earl himself?”

There were a few humorless chuckles. Fitz
Maurice looked at the messenger. “Well, as long as you’re here, you
can stay and fight. It’ll be dark soon and there isn’t much we can
do in the rain, anyway, but tomorrow will be a different
story.”

“But, Sir Warin, Sir Guy’s instructions were
explicit!” the man protested.

“Sir Guy has no authority over me!” fitz
Maurice snapped. “Don’t worry: you’re blameless. You’ve done your
job. Tomorrow, we’ll do ours and a few days later we’ll be back at
Rhuddlan, trying to placate the earl. I only hope he understands
that his imprisonment is Lady Teleri’s doing and will not hold it
against us.”

“Perhaps I may be permitted to return to
Rhuddlan and tell Sir Guy and Lady Teleri of your decision…”

“I’ve already told you your new orders,” fitz
Maurice said impatiently. He glanced around at his companions and
shook his head slowly. “My God, how could that woman have expected
us to believe such an outlandish, exaggerated—”

A sudden burst of shouting from the soldiers
ahead interrupted the rest of his words. He immediately took up his
reins and spurred his horse forward, scattering the men-at-arms who
were still trudging past and followed closely by the other three
knights and the messenger. When he reached the head of the line he
saw one of his men lying prone on the ground, an arrow jutting out
of his chest, the man’s horse thrashing wildly, half-sitting on
crumpled back legs and trying to stand on its front two, stuck with
three arrows, and everyone else pointing in different directions,
swords pulled, horses wheeling.

“What the hell happened?” he demanded.

“An ambush, Sir Warin!” someone shouted back.
“A quick strike as we turned the bend! We’ve gone after them—”

Fitz Maurice looked at the body in the road
and knew that might have been him, if he hadn’t stopped to listen
to the messenger. He swiveled in the saddle, found the man and
glared at him. He pointed to the dead knight. “Do you see that?
That is the evidence of your own eyes! There is your proof that
Llanlleyn has broken the peace—your second proof! Now there are two
to avenge!”

Longsword and Delamere cautiously approached
the far northern end of Haworth’s encampment on foot, leading their
horses. It was now full dark but their destination was near the
western bank of the river and the flat, stony ground so glistened
with raindrops that it was not difficult to negotiate. Further
away, they saw Haworth’s makeshift camp of rough lean-tos and
sputtering fires under the relative shelter of the forest trees and
heard the sound of men speaking companionably and even laughing.
Obviously, Hawarden wasn’t concerned with whatever might happen the
next morning.

Longsword hoped that attitude would soon
change. He could see his target directly before him and, as he
nudged Delamere and pointed out in a whisper, no guard.

The noise of the rain, steady but not hard,
obscured the crunch of their boots on the rocks and stones when
they continued forward, hunched slightly as if that might render
them invisible. The fruits of Haworth’s labors were heaped up
together in a high pile: all the ladders his men had fashioned from
saplings and branches and next to them, the tower, perhaps the
height of three men, lying on its back.

Longsword grinned. “Ready?”

Delamere nodded.

They started with the ladders, carrying them
one by one down to the edge of the river and throwing them as far
out as they could, hoping to reach the swifter currents towards the
middle. Longsword would rather have burned them in a spectacular
bonfire that could have been seen by Rhuddlan but the wood was too
wet and the rain prohibitive.

When they’d gone through almost half the
pile, they discovered there was a guard after all. He came up from
the direction of the river, perhaps after heeding the call of
nature, and casually approached them. When he was close enough to
realize they were dumping the ladders and to recognize Longsword,
he gave a great shout. Delamere dropped his new load, ran up to the
man and punched him in the nose so hard that he collapsed,
senseless, onto the rough ground. Someone in the camp, having heard
the shout, called over questioningly, but Longsword shouted back
that it was all right; he’d just seen a rat crawling up from the
river. More laughter. Delamere bent over to make sure the guard was
truly unconscious and then they quickly finished the job.

The last matter was the disposal of the
tower. Longsword took the rope and secured it to the rough
structure by looping it around the unfinished pole ends near the
top. Delamere brought the horses up. The free ends of the ropes
were fixed around the high backs of the saddles and on Longsword’s
signal, he urged the horses towards the river by pulling on their
bridles. For a moment, they both doubted the scheme would succeed;
the tower refused to budge. Delamere tried the horses again and
Longsword threw his weight onto the tower from the other end. The
rain splattered down on their bare heads and Delamere sneezed when
a rivulet ran down the side of his nose. Whether the timing was
coincidental or startled by the sudden, loud noise, the horses
strained forward again and this time the tower moved. Longsword
lost his footing on the wet stones and fell to his knee. With a
curse he gained his feet and put his shoulder against the tower
once more. Once the five of them—men, horses and tower—were
underway, they kept going and when the ground began to slope, the
tower practically moved by itself.

The bank of the river was flatter and needed
more effort. The water was dark and churning in the rain and
Delamere cast a dubious eye on it.

“Is it a good idea to put the horses into the
water?” he called back to Longsword. “It’s hard to see. It’s too
dangerous.”

“We’re not going to get this thing in unless
the horses pull it in,” Longsword answered. “Let’s switch
places.”

The horses themselves seemed to have
reservations about going into the water. It took all Longsword’s
strength to coax them and they had just gotten their forelegs wet
when he heard Delamere’s voice over the rushing river. He paused.
“What are you saying?”

Delamere splashed through the shallow water
to his side. “They’re coming! Sounds like the whole camp! The guard
must have woken…”

Longsword redoubled his efforts with the
horses. “Come on! We have a little time and we’re so close!
Haworth’s not keeping his damned tower if I can prevent it!”

The horses whinnied and strained against the
ropes. Longsword shouted at them encouragingly. Delamere pushed on
the tower with a strength born of urgency. The structure shifted
forward, crunching on the stones. Longsword was up to his waist in
the water. For a brief moment he thought with a sinking heart that
soon he and the horses would not have the stability of solid ground
to enable them to move the tower any further but then he felt
something give and realized the top half had just fallen in. He
left the horses and waded back up onto the bank to join Delamere.
He could hear the cries and jangling of Haworth’s men as they ran
across the span between their camp and the river. No horsemen; not
yet. That gave them a little more time.

With loud grunts of exertion, he and Delamere
pushed and pushed against the tower until it was completely in the
water. “Cut the horses loose!” he shouted to Delamere, who decided
the quickest way to get to them was to scramble across the solid
back of the tower. By now the two animals were frightened, left in
the swirling water alone, and were thrashing their heads and trying
to buck. Delamere dared not jump into the river; he tried to speak
calmly to his own mount with little effect. He heard Longsword tell
him to hurry and felt the tower shift under his weight. He didn’t
know if it would sink but if it didn’t, it would soon gather a
momentum of its own and sweep downstream towards the sea dragging
the horses with it. He pulled his knife from his belt and reached
down for the rope tied to his horse. He sawed through it
frantically but the rope was wet and his knife not as sharp as it
should have been. After what seemed an eternity the rope separated.
The horse immediately tried to scramble away but Delamere clung to
the rope and jumped off the tower. He worked his way hand over hand
to the other end of the rope and then grabbed hold of his saddle
and maneuvered around to the animal’s left flank and hauled himself
into the saddle. He took the reins and looked for Longsword’s
horse.

The water level reached his knee as he sat in
the saddle but the current was swift from the rain and Delamere had
to struggle to keep his mount’s balance on the soft river bed.
Longsword’s horse was several yards away and shrieking from the tug
of the moving tower. Longsword had entered the water and behind
him, appearing as dark, indistinct forms on the top of the slope,
was Chester’s army. Delamere hoped he and Longsword were as
difficult to distinguish as they were. Then he heard the whiz of an
arrow pass close to his head and knew they weren’t.

Carefully, he urged his horse towards
Longsword’s. The tower was moving by itself now; he had to reach
the tethered horse, cut the rope and move both animals out of its
path before it gathered more speed and plowed into them. Another
arrow shot by. Longsword was shouting. Delamere leaned as far over
in his saddle as he could and managed to grab the taut rope with
his left hand. Not daring to let it go, he tugged mightily on it;
the buoyant tower moved obligingly in his direction and put enough
slack in the rope that he could pull it towards himself and reach
down with his right hand to cut through it. Longsword shouted his
horse’s name. He waded through rushing water which now reached to
his chest and seized the animal’s bridle.

“Will, the tower!”

The structure still floated. It was bearing
down on them with all the force of the swollen river behind it and
they were directly in its path. Longsword threw his body over the
saddle and gave a few kicks to right himself. “Move center,
Richard!” he shouted and urged his horse in that direction as well.
The tower sailed past. Longsword whooped with pleasure like a
child.

By now Haworth’s men had lined up along the
riverbank and the archers were shooting steadily despite the rain
and the darkness which hindered their accuracy. The other men
hurled stones; one hit Delamere’s horse on the shoulder.

“We’ll have to cross to the other side!”
Longsword shouted.

“Are you crazy? We’ll never make it!”

“It’s our only chance, Richard!” He jutted
out an arm. “See! That clump of trees! That will be our marker—make
for it!”

Delamere wished he’d gone to Llanlleyn as
he’d planned.

He shortened the reins and
clamped his legs firmly to the ribs of the horse and pulled its
head towards the center of the river. Fighting the current and
keeping control of the horse took every ounce of his strength. For
a long time, they seemed to be making no progress, and then he felt
the animal stumble and he almost went under. He realized they were
swimming. It was an eerie sensation, not at all enjoyable. He
wondered vaguely why he no longer heard the rush of the river and
the splattering rain or even Haworth’s shouting men but he didn’t
mind the sudden peace after so much activity…He was tired, very
tired; it had been a long day, he thought. He hoped the horse had a
bit more strength left in it and he tried to speak reassuringly to
it but for some reason, his voice was mute. Just a bit further, he
thought instead; a little further. At least, on the other side of
the river, he would be closer to Llanlleyn. He ought to have gone
there instead of riding after Longsword. He had missed Olwen so
much this past year; he didn’t know why they had let their
relationship deteriorate but he was willing now to do whatever she
asked of him. He thought he saw her waiting for him on the other
bank but then he smiled wryly and knew he was only wishing to see
her there. Why would she be there? But her face wouldn’t leave him.
Her lovely long, dark hair, so soft…he would pay any price just to
touch it again…the way she had looked at him that first time at
Rhuddlan, her laughing eyes and her mouth curved up slyly, like a
cat’s. He smiled. She was standing at the well, stretching out her
hand to him, offering him a drink of cold water and he stared and
stared at her, wanting only to kiss her, to drink
her
…

“Come on, Richard!” Longsword shouted. The
crossing had been brief and he thought Haworth wouldn’t hesitate to
follow once he realized how easily his opponents had done it. But
Delamere was lagging and he made no response. Then he slumped
forward and Longsword saw the shaft of an arrow sticking out of his
back.

Heart racing, he splashed into the water and
grabbed his friend just as he began to slip out of his saddle. He
dragged Delamere up the stony bank and held him in his arms, his
head close to Delamere’s face. Delamere was breathing in slow,
labored gasps. Every breath burst in Longsword’s ears like a rush
of fierce wind. He felt helpless. His friend lay before him, dying,
and he didn’t know what to do or say. He took off his thick leather
gloves and tentatively touched Delamere’s cheek with one hand. The
flesh was warm and for an instant he thought it would all turn out
well. “Richard,” he whispered, “hold on. I’ll get you help. Just
keep breathing. Please, Richard, keep breathing!”