“For God’s sake, Will!” Delamere’s irritated
voice burst through his mind. “What’s wrong with you? You haven’t
heard a word I’ve said! Perhaps that little escapade wasn’t as easy
as it seemed. Should I have Gwalaes come to look at the wound?”
“No! No, Richard, I’m fine! Really! I was
just thinking…about Rhirid,” he ended lamely. Much as he desired
the opportunity to speak to the woman, he didn’t want her to
continue to consider him an invalid. “My throat’s dry. Let’s go
in.”
When they headed off for the keep, Alan
d’Arques jogged up to them. “My lord,” he said to Longsword,
“Gwalaes begs a word.”
“Of course,” Longsword answered
immediately.
Alan turned and gestured Eleanor forward.
“We don’t have time for this!” Delamere
groused.
Eleanor curtsied to Longsword. “I hope you
are well, my lord,” she said politely.
“Very well,” he said. “Perhaps you just
saw…?”
“Yes. It must be a great relief to you to be
able to sit your horse again. It’s been a long time.” She raised
hopeful eyes to his face as she straightened up. “My lord, did you
heard anything of Rhirid ap Maelgwn when we were away?”
He hated to tell her no, especially when he
saw the light die in her eyes. “But I expect he’s waiting for us,”
he added in an encouraging voice. “He can’t challenge these walls
with the small force he’s got. We’ve got to go out to meet
him.”
“Gwalaes, I told you not to worry—” Delamere
stepped in, only to be instantly trampled upon.
“How can you tell me not to worry, Sir
Richard? It’s my three year old daughter I’m talking about, not a
piece of wood. Not a rock!”
Delamere bristled and started forward. “I
think I’ve put up with your disrespectful attitude long enough!” he
snapped.
Both Longsword and Alan d’Arques suddenly
found themselves face to face when each one quickly inserted
himself between the arguing pair. Longsword, with his advantage of
height, stared down challengingly at Alan until the younger man
wordlessly conceded and moved aside.
“My lord,” Eleanor said to him calmly, “I
have a solution to offer you. Mother Abbess and I spoke several
times on the subject of Rhirid. She told me she’s sent letters to
Prince Dafydd and to the bishop at St. Asaph’s protesting the
violence committed by Llanlleyn and asking for justice. She told me
she is quite content to await their judgments. No one at St. Mary’s
wants the abbey to be caught in an on-going feud between two
fractious parties.”
Delamere’s face contorted angrily and his
mouth opened to speak but Eleanor ignored him and hurried on: “My
lord, the only question which remains is what is to be done about
my daughter, Bronwen. I discussed this also with Mother Abbess.
We’re both in agreement that I will give myself up to Rhirid ap
Maelgwn in exchange for Bronwen’s safe return to the abbey.”
A dismayed “No!” burst out from Longsword
before he had the chance to vocalize a measured response.
Fortunately, no one noticed because Delamere was shouting too
loudly about women making bad decisions for men, women making
decisions that were better left to men and women simply making
decisions. He stood just behind Longsword’s shoulder but threatened
to push forward at any moment. Longsword felt the force of his
friend’s outrage like a strong wind. His eyes were locked with
those of the healer, who gave no attention to Delamere’s tirade but
waited for his decision.
Finally he held up his hand. “Richard,” he
said quietly and Delamere subsided. “If I may speak…”
“What is there to say to such stupidity?”
Delamere sputtered.
“It is
not
stupidity but a very peaceful
solution to a potentially violent dilemma,” Longsword said equably.
Hope began pulsating again in Eleanor’s eyes but Delamere snorted
derisively. “However, I don’t like it. There’s no reason for you to
pay,” he said to her, “for being a charitable person.”
“But, my lord, I don’t care! My
daughter—”
“I’ve already sworn to you that we’ll get
your daughter back and I meant it. I’m sorry indeed that you and
the abbey have gotten caught up in the middle of this feud, as you
called it, but I have no doubt it will soon be ended to everyone’s
satisfaction.”
Eleanor was shaking her head. “No…”
Delamere made an angry noise and stepped
around Longsword. “I’ve had enough of this! Alan, take her off!
Lord William is in no fit condition to rationalize his decisions,
particularly to a Welsh chit!”
Alan took Eleanor’s arm. He had never seen
Delamere angry and was uneasy. Eleanor seemed to resist but then
gave up. However, the sight of the young knight’s hand on the
healer provoked some kind of primal response in Longsword. Without
thinking, he moved forward and looked as if he would strike Alan’s
hand away.
“Will!” Delamere caught his arm. “Let her
go.”
“I just want to explain—”
“You don’t need to explain to her. Will! Your
men are watching you. How’s your shoulder?”
“Fine,” he answered sullenly.
They went into the keep. Most of the Normans
were already in the hall, getting in the way of servants trying to
set up the tables and benches for the evening meal. As was typical
of men used to spending a large portion of their time out of doors,
conversation was shouted instead of spoken. But it was Delamere,
freshly arrived from the relative peace of the abbey, who
complained. Longsword glanced curiously at his friend as they sat
together, his former annoyance forgotten.
“How is Gladys?” Delamere said abruptly.
“Gladys? I expect she’s fine.”
“You don’t know?”
Longsword tried to shrug, thought the better
of it and replied, “Well, you know there’s nothing interesting
happening just now. Just waiting and waiting. It’s a little
boring.”
“Hmph!” Delamere snorted. “I’d wondered when
you’d tire of sitting in her chamber with her, staring at the
walls.”
Again Longsword gave him a curious look.
Delamere was usually smiling and easy-going but tonight he seemed
grumpy and irritated. Perhaps he was merely travel-worn but they
had often traveled together without either one exhibiting any ill
effect. “Richard, what are your plans?”
“What do you mean?” He rubbed hand over seven
days’ worth of beard on his chin. “Now that you can sit your horse,
I think we ought to work on strengthening your arm again.”
“I thought, perhaps, you might want to go to
the manor for a week or two…see Olwen and the boys.”
Now it was Delamere’s turn to stare at
Longsword. “Why?”
“When were you last there?”
Delamere considered. “Before our run-in with
the Welsh…Before that sudden snowstorm a few months ago.” He
chuckled ruefully. “Seems years ago.”
“Olwen must be wondering if you’re still
alive.”
“This is a change of character for you,
Will,” he said suspiciously. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing! I swear it! It’s just you seem on
edge. When were you last with a woman?”
“The last time I saw Olwen,” Delamere
answered promptly. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“On the contrary—I believe you too well! So,
will you go?”
There was really nothing for Delamere to
decide. The moment Longsword put the idea of Olwen into his head it
proved impossible to get it out. Suddenly it was a matter of the
greatest importance and urgency to visit the manor.
“I suppose so…” he said. But his eyes
narrowed as he looked at his friend. “I still don’t believe you
don’t have an ulterior motive for getting me out of the way.”
“I don’t want to get you out of the way,
Richard!” Longsword protested innocently. “I just want you in a
happier mood and if none of the women here pleases you then you
must go home for a visit, right?” And if Delamere’s absence
provided him with a better opportunity to woo the Welsh woman who
had saved his life, then how could he possibly argue against
it?
Chapter 27
April, 1177
Hawarden Castle, Gwynedd
Hugh discovered he liked war after all.
It had been different in Normandy, he
supposed; he’d been senior in rank but a novice in practice and all
of the planning and implementation of plans had been the work of
men like de Fougères, flamboyant characters who were reluctant to
yield even a fraction of the playing field to less forceful
personalities. And then, of course, there had been that
humiliating, bloodless surrender at Dol which would have been
enough to turn any knight off war for the rest of his life. But
this conflict with the Welsh was different.
Prince Dafydd had agreed with Hugh that
keeping Gruffudd ap Madog out of Gwynedd was in his own best
interest. He sent one hundred soldiers and archers to Hawarden and
begged the earl via messenger to keep him informed.
Roger Haworth wasn’t pleased with the
additional strain on the castle’s resources. “More mouths to feed,”
he’d grumbled.
“You complain as if you were the steward,”
Hugh had cheerfully replied. He was in high spirits, not having
been completely confident of Dafydd’s positive response to his
request for aid. He hadn’t known whom the prince would look upon as
more of a threat: Gwynedd’s traditional Welsh enemy, the rulers of
Powys or its traditional Norman enemy, the earls of Chester.
“Anyway,” he’d added, “a foray or two into northern Powys to prove
our might and we can send them home again.”
It couldn’t happen too soon for Haworth. In
his opinion, it was bad enough to be in a foreign land and beset by
a foreign army but to be forced to fight side by side with the
foreigners themselves was the height of insanity. Would it take
very much indeed to persuade men of Gwynedd to unite with men of
Powys to defeat the earl of Chester? On the other hand, it was hard
to deny that this conflict with Powys and the alliance with Dafydd
seemed to have completed Hugh’s recovery from the devastating years
at Falaise. Haworth had to admit that Wales in general had had a
positive effect on the earl’s well-being and so he tried to keep
complaints about his new Welsh allies to a minimum.
For a week after the arrival of the Gwynedd
warriors, Gruffudd ap Madog remained out of sight. On the sixth
day, Haworth ventured the disappointed belief that perhaps he’d
taken his men and gone back to Powys but Hugh didn’t think the
chief would give up so easily, particularly after he’d been winning
all along. More likely he was sizing up this new threat.
It was Hugh’s plan to anticipate Gruffudd’s
reaction and use his resources to effectively stifle it.
Having spent his early years on the Welsh
march and brought up on tales of his formidable ancestors and their
protracted battles with their neighbors to the west, and now with
information from his new partners, Hugh understood the Welsh method
of warfare better than most men. Sudden, swift strikes were
necessary when the manpower of the attackers was less than that of
the defenders. Fighting on foot or with the shortbow was more
efficient and required less space than swinging a sword from atop a
horse. Making use of the environment—the forests and hills—was an
advantage over invaders who didn’t know the lay of the land as
well.
Hugh believed that an intelligent man
familiar with the basic tenets of Welsh warfare ought to be able to
reasonably predict Welsh reactions to certain situations. An even
more intelligent man, like himself, ought to be able to manipulate
circumstance to create these situations and thus gain the edge in
the competition.
First he had to lull Gruffudd into imagining
that the increase in manpower meant little actual might. He sent
his laborers out again to cut timber under the protection of a
small guard of new men. The guard’s instructions were to fight only
defensively if attacked and not to pursue the warriors from Powys
but to retreat to the fortress.
On the seventh day Gruffudd struck. Shouting
loudly and wildly to disorient their victims, the Powys men raced
in on their horses, ran down one or two hapless workmen, slashed
their way to the other end of the group and disappeared before
Dafydd’s men were even able to string a bow.
Hugh was pleased to give Gruffudd this one
small victory. A few days later, he gave him one more. This time,
however, his men, under the guidance of Roger Haworth, chased after
their enemy until they pretended to lose them in the tangle of the
countryside.
Hugh wanted to put to rest the problem of
Gruffudd ap Madog before spring arrived in full force and caused
the yet dormant foliage to erupt into leafy hiding places. He had
to pretend to be mindless and inept in order to gain the advantage.
Although Hugh had explained his tactics to him, Haworth grumbled
anyway. He didn’t like intentional stupidity.
His honor was vindicated with Hugh’s next
trick, a variation of the Bastard’s rout during the Rebellion of
the convoy which had been heading for Dol. The day of the operation
was fine; the sun rose early in a clear sky, enabling the short
train of three wagons, six oxen, three drovers, seventy armed
Welshmen on foot and twelve knights to leave the bailey at Hawarden
at the crack of dawn. Haworth was in the lead, his eyes
suspiciously raking either side of the old Roman road in an
apparent search for trouble. He headed northwest, travelling slowly
to accommodate the plodding oxen; anyone watching might have
supposed him to be taking the convoy, perhaps loaded with gifts, to
Prince Dafydd.
It felt a bit eerie—waiting to be attacked.
Haworth was distinctly uncomfortable but his naturally dour
demeanor was a perfect mask. He had no fear of Gruffudd and his
Welsh warriors except that they would not rise to the bait. The
further the futile convoy plodded, the more his hope diminished
only to be replaced with anxiety of a different kind—how would the
earl take it if his plan didn’t come to pass? Haworth worried that
he might relapse. With every hoofbeat, he willed Gruffudd to
attack.