The Reckoning - 3 (80 page)

ff>

504
to Gervaise, his eyes locked upon Clifford's checkered blue-and-golcj banner as they began their march into the Welsh interior.
The hills were not high, not yet, but the horizon was shadowed by the formidable peaks of Snowdon; Gervaise had told him that the Welsh called the mountains Eryri, and torn tried to say it under his breath, but had trouble trilling his fs. He was very glad that they'd not have to brave those redoubtable heights, for he found these lowlands daunting enough. He had never seen a country so heavily wooded. He'd heard that King Edward had cut wide swathes through the Welsh forests, but these towering trees had never known an axe. Winter had not yet stripped them bare, and torn felt as if he were trapped in a tunnel, for the trail was walled in on each side by high hedges, brambles, and camouflaging clouds of brown, brittle leaves.
It took little imagination to envision a Welsh archer lurking behind every tree trunk, and torn looked enviously at his lord's chain-mail armor. He knew it did not render its wearer invulnerable; it could not ward off broken bones, nor save a man if the metal links broke under pressure. And he was not without protection himself. His gambeson, a thickly padded leather tunic, was surprisingly effective at absorbing a blow's impact, and not all that easy to pierceso he'd been told. But he'd still have traded it in the blink of an eye for Sir Roger's hauberk and great helm.
torn knew very little about the Welsh, and what he did know was bad; he'd been told that they were despoilers of churches, that they had neither honor nor courage. torn secretly hoped that they were as craven as Gervaise claimed, that they hid in the hills, leaving their houses and goods and livestock for the soldiers to share. For as excited as he was about this chance to make his fortune, torn did not really want to kill anyone. He'd been given a mace, for
Sir Roger spared no expense in outfitting his men, but he could not truly imagine himself splitting a man's head open, gouging out an eye, maiming or murdering. Gervaise assured him that it would be different in battle, that men's blood heated up so that killing became easy, but torn could not help wondering how Gervaise knew that for certes; he was a battlefield virgin, too.
They'd advanced several miles inland, had almost reached the Roman road when it happened. They had no warning whatsoever, were suddenly under attack.
Shrill yells erupted all around them, and a spear went hurtling through the trees, buried itself in an English chest. The man fell to his knees, almost close enough for torn to touch. Other spears were finding targets now, the knights and crossbowmen we# shouting and cursing, fumbling for swords and crossbows, Welsh arrows were fanning the air, aimed with lethal accuracy, and the men around torn began to die.

505
The Welsh had picked an ideal spot for ambush, for there were boulders and thick cover on both sides of the narrow trail, and the English found themselves caught in a deadly cross-fire. Luke de Tany saw at once that they could not defend themselves against an unseen enemy, and he hastily ordered them back to the beach. The Welsh followed, forest phantoms who continued to fire upon them, picking off stragglers one by one. Several times they turned on their tormentors, daring them to come out into the open, but they raged in vain. Mocking laughter floated from the woods, and then another hail of arrows.
De Tany sought to maintain some order, shouting commands, trying to stop his men from panicking. torn was breathless and bruised, for he'd taken a jolting fall. Fortunately, Gervaise had pulled him roughly to his feet, for those who could not keep pace were easy prey for the pursuing Welsh. torn had never been so scared, had never been so glad to see anything as he was that beckoning blue sheen of the Menai Straits. But it was then that a group of Welsh horsemen came galloping up the coast road.
torn stood rooted, gaping at these new arrivals. "Jesu, it's him!" Gervaise was pointing at the red-and-gold banner. "It's their Prince!" torn had no time to react to that, for Luke de Tany and the other knights were trying hastily to close ranks, to stave off this new threat. But Llewelyn gave them no chance. Spurring their horses forward, the Welsh careened into the English, and a wild melee broke out there upon the beach.
What followed was utter horror for torn. All around him were plunging horses and grappling, struggling men. Swords clashed, blood spurted, and the trampled sand was soon splattered with crimson. As a Welsh horseman bore down upon him, torn swung his mace in a haphazard arc. His blow never connected, and the stallion then swerved into him, sent him sprawling. For several terrifying seconds, there was nothing in his world but flailing hooves. By some miracle, though, the horse did not step on him. Rolling clear, he got shakily to his feet, just m time to be knocked flat by a Welsh lord upon a huge roan stallion, so intent upon crossing swords with the nearest English knight that he hadn't even a glance to spare for torn. Once again the boy scrambled to his feet, half-dazed by the fall. And then Gervaise was jerking at his arni/
shouting at him to run, and he stumbled after the others, joined toe desperate dash for the bridge.
It was a retreat that almost at once became a rout. It was chaos then, as n\en sought only to save themselves, reeling and gasping as they Plashed into the shallows. Llewelyn led his men in close pursuit, cut °" some of the knights and men-at-arms, and another bloody clash

506
F
507
took place within yards of the bridge. Breaking free, the surviving English knights forced their horses right onto the end of the bridge, trampling a few of their own men, those not quick enough to jump out of the way. The Welsh pursued them to the water's edge, then turned back to deal with those still trapped upon the beach. Those fortunate enough to have gotten onto the bridge shoved and pushed as they sprinted for the far shore. But they were not out of arrow range, and at Llewelyn's signal, Welsh bowmen sent arrows winging across the water at eye-blurring speed, finding such easy targets that several of the knights soon had multiple arrow shafts caught in the links of their chain mail, much like bristling porcupine quills.
"Llewelyn!" Davydd reined in his roan beside his brother, sending up a wild spray of sand. Welsh warfare, so dependent upon hit-andrun tactics, was not suited to the cumbersome English armor. Like Llewelyn himself, Davydd shunned the heavy great helm for an oldfashioned kettle-style helmet with nose guard, for the Welsh preferred to take greater risks rather than to squint blindly at the enemy through slitted eye sights. Davydd's face was streaked with sweat and a smear of blood that did not appear to be his; his eyes were blazing with excitement, greener than any cat's. "I've an idea," he panted. "Let's see if we cannot set fire to the bridge!"
That same thought had occurred to Llewelyn, and he'd just put some of his bowmen to the task; several men were searching for wood that would be quick to kindle, as others hastily improvised makeshift fire arrows, knotting them with cloth that could be ignited. Turning in the saddle now to see if they would have time before the English reached the safety of the island, Llewelyn caught his breath, transfixed by what had just occurred out in the straits. "There is no need," he said, "not now. Look!"
Davydd swung his mount around to see. "Jesus God," he murmured softly, almost reverently, for the bridge was breaking up.
The calamity began with a terrified horse. Balking suddenly, it reared up, unseating its rider and creating panic, for the bridge then pitched and rolled alarmingly, sending men to their knees, grabbing for handholds. Other horses started to snort and fight the bit, lashing out in fear. The bridge had not been built to withstand such strain; it w*s meant to accommodate an orderly, measured passage, not this wu / frenzied mob, and it was dangerously overloaded. Moreover, it w now high tide, and the powerful ocean currents were at war with anchors, surging against the sides of the barges, already riding too in the water, in danger of swamping. »
Now, as the horses kicked and plunged, the wooden platform n gave way. Planks split asunder, collapsing a large section of the and men were thrown about as the bridge seemed to fall out from under them.
The sinking boats rapidly took on water, dragging the others down, too, and within moments, the icy straits were filled with floundering men and horses.
Those who'd not yet reached the gap clutched at the chains, the heaving platform, one another, trying desperately to stay on the tossing, crippled bridge.
It was then that the Welsh sealed the bridge's doom, for now that the fighting was done, they could turn all their attention to it. Racing to the grappling hooks, they began struggling to dig them up. One by one they were pried loose, and when the last grapnel was pulled from the earth, the bridge snapped sideways as if shot from a bow, whiplashed with such violence that some of the anchors were dragged up and the remaining soldiers were flung into the water.
THE water was freezing. Sputtering and choking, torn fought his way back to the surface, kicking to keep afloat. Unlike most of the men, he knew how to swim, but the water was so cold that his body was rapidly going numb, and he was encumbered by his clothing; he knew instinctively that he'd never be able to make the shore. Gervaise had been beside him when the bridge capsized, but now he was nowhere in sight. All around torn, though, men were thrashing about

in the water, screaming for help. The knights drowned first, their own armor dragging them down like anchors. torn saw one flailing about just a few feet away, trying frantically to remove his great helm. As the boy looked on in horror, the man sank below the surface, did not come back up. A few of the knights had somehow managed to stay astride their mounts, and they would be among the small number of survivors, for their horses were swimming for the island. The others were on their own.
There were no longer as many men in the water with torn; one by
°ne, they were going under. Just then a riderless horse came within reach, and torn mustered the last of his strength for a wild lunge. He swallowed so much salt water that he began to gag, and his groping hand fell just short of the saddle pommel. The horse veered away, and e sobbed. But then he saw a silvered streamer whipping through the
Water. He grabbed for it, his fingers entangling in the horse's long, wailing tail. He sobbed again, held tight to that wet, blessed life-line as e stallion struck out for shore.
the screaming did not continue for long; the water was too cold. fall eeiie hUSh slowly settled over the straits, for the Welsh, too, had en si'ent by now, awed by the utter magnitude of their victory.

508
T
509
HAD there been any eye-witnesses to the scene in the solar at Rhuddlan Castle, they'd have been hard pressed to say who was angrier, the Archbishop of
Canterbury or England's King.
"Such treachery was unforgivable, my liege. This shameful use of my peace mission made me an unwitting accomplice to their perfidy might well have put our lives at risk, too. If the Welsh had not believed me"
"Surely you are not suggesting, my lord Archbishop, that it was my doing?"
Peckham was not intimidated. "I would indeed hope not, my liege,"
he said coldly.
"Of course it was not! What sort of fool do you take me for? After finally mending fences with the Church by freeing Amaury de Montfort, do you truly think I'd sacrifice all that papal good will by using you as bait?"
Edward wheeled, stalked over to the window, while he made a futile attempt to get his temper under control. "What a botch, what a bloody botch! All my plans set at naught, and for what? That hellspawn de Tany was to wait for word from me. Nothing was to happen until I was ready to cross the Conwy and move against Llewelyn at Aber . . .
nothing!"
Whirling back to face the Archbishop, he said tautly, "Do you know what this crazed folly of his has cost me? I lost all chance of making a two-pronged assault upon the Welsh, lost my chance to put a quick end to this war. I had to send the fleet back to the Cinque Ports, for the towns were bemoaning the absence of their ships, vowing it would be the ruination of their trade. This means that whaf s left of de Tany's army is stranded on that accursed island!"
It was then that Edmund hastened into the chamber. "Ned, a courier had just arrived from the island!"
Edward was startled into a mildly sacrilegious retort. "However did he get here . . . walk on water?"
"A brave lad, this one. He waited until dark, swam his mount across the strait, then rode by night to elude capture, and somehow got to Rhuddlan without falling over a Welsh cliff or running into a Welsh spear. He's about done-in, though. I sent him into the hall to get a meal and some sleep, told him that you'd question him at length later."
Edward nodded. "See that he is amply rewarded, for that was a deed well done.
Now . . . tell me the worst of it. What of de Tany? Was he amongst the dead?"
"Yes," Edmund said, "he drowned when the bridge broke apart"If he had not, I
might have hanged him. What of the others? Were there many dead?"
"All England will mourn," Edmund said bleakly. "The losses were . . . were beyond belief. How often does a lord die in battle? If his chain mail does not save him, his ransom price will. But fully fifteen knights died on Friday, most of them drowning. Lord Clifford's son and heir. Lord Audley. The two sons of your Chancellor. Peter de la Mere, ghys ap Gruffydd's brother. At least thirty-two squires, mayhap more, and God alone knows how many men-at-arms, as many as a hundred and a half . . ."
Edward shook his head in disbelief. "The fools, the poor stupid fools! Did they never think to send out scouts? They ought to have known that Llewelyn would be watching that bridge like a cat at a mouse hole!"
The Archbishop listened impatiently as Edward launched into another scathing denunciation of the foolhardy de Tany, for he had no further interest in the man, although he did hope, of course, that de Tany had died in God's Grace.
But he had far more important matters to discuss now with the King, for the last faint hope for peace was about to be snuffed out like an unneeded candle.
"I ask you, my liege, to convene your council on the morrow, that we may talk further of peace terms."

"What is there left to say, my lord Archbishop? You said they refused to surrender, did you not?"
"How could they not refuse, my lord, when you offered them nothing, gave them no reason not to fight on?"
"I do not bargain with traitors and rebels!"
"Ned ... we do it all the time," Edmund contradicted him calmly. "There were no mass executions after Evesham. What was the Dictum of Kenilworth if not an offer to bargain? You wanted the de Montfort rebels to lay down their arms, and so you made it worth their while to do so. If it made sense then, why not now?"
Edward glared at his brother, who was quite unfazed. "I agree with my lord
Archbishop, think we ought to be seeking a way to end this war. I know you can win ... eventually. But is it worth the price you'll have to pay? You yourself told me that the Exchequer has estimated that the costs might well run as high as a hundred fifty thousand pounds " the war drags on long enough ... as it seems likely to do. A hundred and fifty thousand pounds, Ned ... that is seven times the cost of the last Welsh war!"
Edward's smile was sour. "Remind me not to confide in you so e«y'in the future, Little Brother." But Edmund merely shrugged, and aited. Edward paced to the window again, then back to the hearth
Yield" K Stopped abruptty' sPun around to confront them. "I will not a those four cantrefs; they are Crown lands now. A fortnight ago I