Dylan was behind him. “They don’t know which
way to turn,” he laughed. “It’s a rout!”
“Where’s Roger of Haworth?” Rhirid shouted
above the din of the battle.
“I saw him a moment ago—talking to the earl.
They’ve both gone now.” Dylan wiped his sweating face with an arm
and suddenly his expression changed. “Rhirid! Take care!”
The chief swung around. A Norman man-at-arms
approached to challenge him. Rhirid felt such an exhilirating rush
that all at once he jiggled his forearm and wrist from the bindings
and tossed his round, iron-bound shield to the side. What did he
need it for, anyway? Today he was invincible.
He was lighter without the shield. His every
nerve was singing. With a grin, Rhirid faced his new opponent,
hearing nothing at all but the deafening, excited pulse in his
ears. The Norman came to him, sword drawn. Rhirid swung but the
other man blocked him. He grasped his sword with both his hands and
began his attack in earnest, never giving the Norman the
opportunity to do anything else but defend himself. Again and
again, he repeated the same sequence of moves: slash to the right,
cut down over the soldier’s right shoulder, feint to the left, jab
upwards, draw back, feint to the right, slash to the right…until
his opponent imagined he was able to predict his next move and then
Rhirid abruptly changed the pattern. The Norman’s sword flew in the
wrong direction, whistling harmlessly through the air instead of
crashing into metal, and Rhirid took advantage of the opening to
swing his weapon with all his strength into the man’s exposed side,
biting through his leather armor. Off balance, the Norman staggered
and dropped his sword. He fell to his knees. Rhirid raised his
sword a last time and struck off the man’s head.
Today he was invincible. He spat onto the
ground and looked around. The ambush was winding down; all
Chester’s men who were able were beginning to retreat. William
Longsword’s footmen were giving chase. He and his warriors were to
follow after, sweeping up any enemy laggers, but that could wait
for the moment. Instead, he took a deep breath and bellowed out
Roger of Haworth’s name.
Haworth finally located Ralph de Vire up in
the higher ground, in a deadly contest with a Rhuddlan knight among
the trees. Somehow, they’d both ended up fighting on foot while
their horses waited not far away. Haworth was careful to keep
himself out of the way and neither combatant appeared to have
noticed his sudden intrusion onto their battle ground.
He watched them with a professional eye and
was grudgingly impressed with de Vire’s performance. The young man
was displaying an aptitude for swordplay Haworth hadn’t seen him
demonstrate on the practice grounds at Hawarden; obviously, he
thought sourly, when dueling with Hugh, de Vire was prudent enough
never to win. Now he was giving the fight everything he had…
It was an even match and might have gone on
forever, if de Vire, stepping backwards to avoid a cut, hadn’t
tripped over an exposed root and fallen hard onto his backside,
clutching his lower left leg and losing his weapon. Haworth saw his
opponent’s mouth twist into a smirk; the man descended deliberately
upon de Vire with his sword clutched in both hands. De Vire seemed
helpless to defend himself. His sword lay several feet away. As the
knight from Rhuddlan raised his weapon over de Vire’s prone body,
Haworth felt conflicting emotions of relief and jealousy—but there
was no need; at the last moment, de Vire rolled onto his side and
scrambling to his feet, jabbed the sharp point of a dagger into the
man’s throat. It happened so quickly that the knight from Rhuddlan
wasn’t even aware that he was mortally wounded until he tried to
take a breath and found he couldn’t. Haworth heard his blood
gurgle. He watched the man collapse onto the ground and saw de Vire
give the body a vicious kick in the ribs.
He dismounted and walked slowly towards de
Vire. “Nice work.”
The young man whirled around. “Sir
Roger!”
“A former companion of yours?” Haworth
inquired, nodding towards the dead man. “It was a good trick; you
had me fooled. I thought I’d have to bring your corpse back to the
earl.” He paused and smiled a little. “Well, I’ll probably have to
do that, anyway. As I said, nice work. I’m always looking for a
fresh arm. Why don’t you try your skill against me?”
De Vire’s face was curiously pale for someone
who’d just undergone such furious exercise but he spoke firmly
enough. “I think our energy would be better spent on our
adversaries, don’t you?”
“The way I see it, de Vire,
you
are
my
adversary. You’re my primary adversary.” He took his sword out of
his belt. “Come. That was a short fight; you can’t be
winded.”
“This is ridiculous!” the other man
sputtered. “There’s a serious battle occurring just beyond those
trees!”
“More serious than you think,” Haworth said
agreeably. “It’s actually the trap I tried to warn Hugh about.
Don’t worry; I saw him safely away.”
De Vire stared at him. “I don’t want to fight
you, Sir Roger.”
“It’s less work for me if you don’t.”
“The earl will not countenance this!”
“The only way he’ll ever find out is if you
kill me, de Vire. So? You have a chance, de Vire.” Haworth’s voice
became taunting. “Why don’t you take it?”
After a pause, the other man, apparently
resigned, said, “Will you allow me to retrieve my sword?”
Haworth laughed. “Of course! It would be
murder, otherwise…”
He watched de Vire walk to where his sword
lay and bend over to pick it up. He never underestimated his
opponents, but he’d seen enough of de Vire’s style to be reasonably
certain of his own victory. All that remained was what story to
tell Hugh. The dead knight from Rhuddlan was a good touch. He’d
come upon de Vire just as he was cut down by the unknown knight; in
a fit of fury and revenge out of respect for the earl, he had
promptly challenged the knight and defeated him…Haworth glanced
back at the body and debated taking the head with him to give
further credence to his tale…
De Vire straightened up. And then Haworth
heard his name bellowed so loudly, it sounded as if the caller were
directly behind him. Reflexively, he spun around and saw no one. He
turned back to de Vire and saw the man running towards his horse,
which, Haworth realized belatedly, waited only twenty feet from the
sword. It had been de Vire’s plan all along, and Haworth’s suddenly
diverted attention had bought him a little extra time.
With an oath, Haworth ran after him and just
managed to grab his shoulder as he reached up to take hold of his
saddle. He pulled de Vire back with his free hand, swung him around
and punched him in the face with the force of the pommel of his
sword in his other. De Vire sank unconscious to the ground. It was
a small mercy and Haworth wouldn’t have been able to say why he’d
done it. Perhaps for Hugh’s sake. At any rate, it meant that de
Vire never saw or felt the sure, heavy thrust of Haworth’s
swordpoint breaking through his chest.
For Longsword, the waiting was unbearable,
especially when he could quite clearly hear the shouting and
clanging of metal from the not-too-distant battle. His primary
thought was that the Welsh were going to mess it up. Something
would go wrong or something unexpected would happen; it was always
the way. If he was there, he could make adjustments and save the
victory. Instead, he was waiting with his knights among the trees,
between the battle and Hawarden, fretting. It had all seemed
foolproof in the planning; why were there always so many sudden
doubts and second thoughts in the execution?
He was anxious also because the plan had been
his own creation. If it failed, he would look like a fool to the
Welsh. He still found it difficult to believe he was allied with
Rhirid ap Maelgwn and he didn’t want to lose this tenuous semblance
of overlordship he’d gained when the Welshman had come begging to
him.
But mostly he was anxious—so incredibly on
edge—for his plan to succeed because Gwalaes was at Hawarden…To
defeat the earl and ride in triumph back to his fortress and rescue
her was the goal towards which Longsword strived with such urgency
that the enforced waiting was threatening to snap his nerves…
“My lord!” Fitz Maurice was galloping up the
short hill upon which Longsword and his men stood. He gasped for
air as he reined in. “My lord!”
“What is it?” Longsword demanded, his chest
tight. “What’s happened?”
“It worked! They were completely surprised!
The Welsh fell upon them without mercy!”
Some of Longsword’s anxiety lessened but he
kept his features straight. “The earl?”
Fitz Maurice shook his head regretfully. “We
weren’t as fortunate there, my lord. He sensed or he saw the trap
and he never got close enough for us to finish him.”
“Never mind; we’ll get him now.” Longsword’s
voice was determined. He took up his reins. He hadn’t actually
expected Chester to become entangled in the Welsh snare because he
knew the earl didn’t have much battle experience and probably
preferred to let others take charge of his operations; anyway, he
didn’t want the Welsh to have all the glory. If he and his knights
could bring down the earl, that would be a fitting end to the plan.
He glanced around. “Where’s Richard?”
“He told me he wanted to keep an eye on the
Welsh, my lord,” fitz Maurice said. “I said you would miss him but
he ordered me to leave.”
Longsword swore under his breath. He debated
sending fitz Maurice and another man to bring Delamere back but
decided there wasn’t enough time and he was certain his friend
would have realized this, as well. Ever since Rhirid had ridden
into Rhuddlan with the report that the earl had abducted Olwen,
Delamere had been nearly impossible to deal with; in fact,
Longsword had had to physically restrain him from jumping on his
horse and charging straight down to Hawarden that very night. And
then there was the steady, malevolent stare with which he watched
Rhirid, like a cat just waiting for the right moment to pounce on
an unsuspecting mouse. Longsword had done his best to persuade him
to keep away from the Welshman, but now they were both out of
sight.
There was nothing he could do; Chester was
the concern of the moment. He ordered his knights to take up the
positions they’d discussed earlier. He was confident about this
part of the plan, mostly because he had direct control over it. It
was necessary, however, that the earl flee the ambush in the same
direction from which he’d come.
A sharp whistle suddenly pierced the air and
he gripped his sword more tightly and looked around and nodded at
his men. It meant the earl was in sight and was the signal for the
archers to prepare to fire. Longsword had sent his foot soldiers
and several knights to fight with the Welsh but he’d kept his
archers back in the event of the need for a second attempt at
Chester. Surely the earl wouldn’t think his enemies would use the
same trick twice.
From his station, Longsword couldn’t see the
surprise attack by the bowmen but he could hear men shouting and
horses screaming and knew it had been a success. Hopefully, not too
much of a success—he wanted to take the earl himself—but enough to
put a significant dent in the bodyguard.
The archers had waited in a part of the wood
where the travel path was forced to narrow because of heavy
undergrowth; Longsword and his knights were several hundred yards
away on more open ground. They didn’t have long to wait before the
first riders burst out of the wood and into their paths.
“Go!” Longsword shouted. He dug his spurs
into his horse’s ribs and jolted forward. Now there was no plan;
his only instructions to his knights had been to chase down and
kill anyone from Hawarden who didn’t immediately offer surrender,
with the exception of the earl who was his own prey. Fitz Maurice
had given him a description of Chester’s clothing, accoutrements
and the color, size and rigging of his horse and he scanned the
handful of men who’d emerged from the trees with an impatient eye,
trusting his mount to watch the ground as they sped along.
And then he saw him. Both Chester and his
horse seemed to have gotten through the trap unscathed. The earl
was crouched low over the beast’s neck, his head tucked down. In
one hand he held the reins, in the other his sword. There was a man
behind him and another one by his side: his guards. Longsword was
momentarily angry with Delamere for not being present because he
and fitz Maurice could have dealt with the guards, leaving the earl
vulnerable, but there was nothing to be done about it now.
The trio was fast approaching. Longsword
pulled slightly on the reins to alter his direction. It had been
his intention to jump in front of the earl but it was obvious
Chester was not going to stop no matter what appeared in his path.
Longsword would have to chase him until one of their horses gave
out. He berated himself for not carrying a javelin. Despite the
fact the earl was low to his horse and even though they were all
moving very fast, Longsword felt he’d have a perfect, clean shot at
him when he drew closer.
He glanced back to fitz Maurice, whose horse
was struggling valiantly to keep up its speed, and shouted for him
to intercept the guard in the rear. The sound drew the attention of
the two front riders who raised their heads to locate its source
and saw Longsword racing across the ground to their right, going in
the same direction but in an ever narrowing trajectory which would
soon end in collision if someone didn’t veer away. Longsword kept
going.
The guard riding with the earl dropped
slightly back and then suddenly broke away and made for Longsword
who immediately understood his intention and cursed Delamere again.
The guard wanted to get in his way—push him off his course and
increase the space between him and the earl. Longsword tried
feinting, slowing down and angling sharply to his left but he
wasn’t near enough to the guard to make this maneuver work; the
guard quickly compensated. It would be impossible to dodge the man
and Longsword knew the more time he wasted on him, the greater the
earl’s chances of escaping.