Rhuddlan



  RHUDDLAN

  By Nancy Gebel

  Copyright 2011 Nancy Gebel

  Cover Photograph of Eilean Donan Castle Copyright 2011 Anne-Marie Gebel

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  May, 1170

  Westminster Palace, near London

  The wine was surprisingly good. Hugh thought it must have come straight from the ship.

  The flavorful taste of the wine was surprising because the king was not one to pay much attention to anything he wore, ate or drank with the result that his household tended to be just as careless, and a visitor to the court could well find himself choking down a cup of muddy, stale liquid which had been offered to him under the guise of wine. The king never seemed to notice—even when he was drinking it himself.

  Perhaps it was due to the solemn occasion of the day that the tables in the great hall had been shrouded in fine linens and spread with a mouth-watering feast of roasted pig and venison, stuffed plover and pheasant, cheeses, imported figs and oranges, and above all, that pleasing wine. Servants hurried back and forth with platters and pitchers, making the rushlights in the sconces on the walls flicker wildly from the movement, attending to the lively, jovial crush of important guests. The king and his eldest son, who just that day had been crowned as his successor, sat at the raised dais with their counselors and other notable persons.

  It was probably a combination of the large crowd inside the hall and the excellent condition of the wine which assured that much more of it was drunk than usual, that overheated many of the guests and caused the celebration to spill outside, down into the ward. And in the air of that fine spring evening, the loud and boastful conversations of the inebriated, mostly young men gathered in chatty clusters turned to tales of their exploits in war. One boast was challenged, and honor had to be defended. Swords were drawn. Half-drunk and half-serious, two opponents faced each other in a ring formed by their cohorts.

  Watching from the top of the stair, idly swirling wine in his cup, Hugh had a clear view of the fighting men. One was a red-faced, red-haired giant of a man whom he had heard on previous occasions, bragging about this or that in a booming voice intended to impress. The other knight Hugh didn’t know. He was shorter than his adversary by a full head and grossly outweighed. In fact, his slight build, almost girlish-looking as he crouched in a defensive posture with his sword clutched firmly in both hands, going up against this Goliath would have made a comical sight if the red-haired knight hadn’t been glaring in such deadly earnest.

  But the lithe knight soon proved himself more than equal to the fight. At first he kept moving, stepping lightly aside as the big man slashed his sword downwards and whirling away from his sideswipes. If he offered his own sword it was only to block a thrust or divert a stroke. After only a short time at this dance, the big knight began to tire. He was hot and had eaten and drunk too much at the feast. He was forced to turn round and round to find his opponent and jab out at him, and he was breathing hard. His friends shouted out encouragement and this seemed to rally him, but Hugh could tell the man wouldn’t last much longer. Not long ago he’d been laughing and joking; he probably couldn’t even remember what had prompted this battle and his heart wasn’t in it anymore.

  The other knight saw what Hugh saw. His fair head sparkled under the torchlights and Hugh caught the satisfied expression on his face. He’d only been waiting for the precise moment to strike. As the big man lunged gracelessly towards him, he jumped easily out of his path and raised his own sword in a threatening manner.

  Just then Hugh felt himself jostled roughly aside and when he turned to protest, he saw it was the king who had pushed his way onto the stair, followed by an entourage of curious soldiers, and that the king was furious.

  “Bolsover!” he thundered down into the ward.

  The blond knight checked his would-be blow and dropped the point of his sword immediately. He looked up at the king with a bland face. “Your Grace?”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing! Who’s that other man?”

  Bolsover’s opponent panted out his name, not daring to meet the king’s eyes.

  “We were merely showing each other our technique, Your Grace,” Bolsover said in an easy tone. “We apologize if we’ve disturbed you.”

  The king stared narrowly at him. “This is a celebratory feast, not a tournament, Robert!” he snapped. “There are ladies within who have no interest in seeing the color of your blood tonight. Do you understand me? Save your exhibitions for another time!”

  Bolsover inclined his head without another word and the red-headed knight bowed hastily. The king turned, scattering his bodyguard and the onlookers who had crowded onto the stair behind him, and strode back into the hall.

  Hugh made his way down to the ward. Bolsover was in the midst of a small group of soldiers, leisurely cleaning the dust from his sword by wiping it across the top of his leather boot, but the soldiers fell away when they recognized Hugh.

  The young man glanced up. “My lord earl of Chester, isn’t it?” he asked. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

  “I saw the whole thing,” Hugh said. “I admire your footwork.”

  Bolsover laughed. “Then you’re the first one who ever has,” he said, returning the sword to his belt. “The knights who trained me despaired of ever making me into a competent soldier. Too much dancing and not enough slashing, they’d say.” He shrugged. “Anyway, it was only a bit of fun. The day was too somber, wasn’t it?”

  “Coronations are meant to be solemn occasions, I think,” Hugh answered with a little smile. He added curiously, “You weren’t planning to kill the man?”

  “No! And the king knew it! He just didn’t want anyone stealing the thunder from his precious son.” But he spoke good-naturedly. His eyes held Hugh’s, mischievous and daring. “Henry’s a good man to serve,” he said.

  “Which Henry?” Hugh inquired. “The old one or the young one?”

  Bolsover laughed again. “That’s right! I have two masters now, haven’t I? Well, I’m sure the old Henry will set the young one up in his own household somewhere in the depths of Normandy, and somehow I’ll contrive not to be sent with him.” He spotted a squire hovering nearby and called him over. “Alan! Fetch the earl a cup of wine, and bring me water.”

  There was something appealing about Sir Robert Bolsover, Hugh thought. He possessed a rare self-assurance for someone so young, for he couldn’t have been much past twenty, but the impish glint in his eye also meant he didn’t take himself too seriously. His figure was slender but not soft, and in all his movements he carried himself straight and resolutely. He was clean-shaven and wore his dark blond hair fashionably short and neat. But it was his face that Hugh’s gaze kept returning to, almost against his will it seemed; Bolsover’s intelligent blue-grey eyes and wry mouth. He had never before met a man who appeared to be thumbing his nose at the world.

  Hugh himself wasn’t old—twenty-six—but he was one of the wealthiest men in Henry II’s empire, with estates stretching across the breadth of England from his earldom in Cheshire on the Welsh marches to Lincolnshire in the east, as well as property in Normandy, and hence, one of the most powerful. Such responsibilities had served to dampen whatever youthful enthusiasm he might have once had, while simultaneously imbuing him with an air of permanent impatience; the mild arrogance born of wealth and power. He was used to being around important men, as his father had died (some said he’d been poisoned) when he was young and he had spent the remaining years to his majority as a royal ward, and had learned to have scant regard for the mundane aspects of life. He was not ostentatious or loud, but neither was he content to melt into the background. It was merely that he understood his due and insisted upon receiving it.

  So when he was co
nfronted with the mocking smile of a man who obviously didn’t share his demeanor, he felt himself attracted in the way that opposites attract. He wasn’t certain of the reason. Perhaps, he thought, he wished he might be even just a little carefree as Robert Bolsover seemed to be carefree. To not be so constantly aware of his position. To have a joke at the king’s son’s expense…Or perhaps he simply found Bolsover’s charismatic personality a pleasing contrast to his own.

  The squire, whom Bolsover introduced as Alan d’Arques, a young kinsman of his from Normandy, returned with the wine and a skin of water. As he drank, Hugh watched his companion raise the spout of the skin to his lips and thirstily gulp down its contents. With a satisfied belch, Bolsover wiped away the water that had trickled down the sides of his mouth with the back of his hand and tossed the empty skin back to his squire.

  “Tell me one thing,” Hugh said. “You say you were only having a bit of fun. But that big knight with whom you were fighting looked very serious. Didn’t you think it was a dangerous undertaking to incite someone like him to challenge you? Didn’t you think you might actually be killed?”

  Bolsover leaned towards Hugh and grinned broadly. “Not for one moment.”

  The celebration of the coronation of the king’s son, young Henry, or the Young King as he would now be known, lasted a week. Although he found himself hoping for the opportunity of another private meeting with Robert Bolsover, Hugh only met him again while he was in the company of fellow knights or in attendance on the king. To his delight, Bolsover was unfailingly charming to him in his passing comments. Hugh observed the esteem in which the young knight’s companions held him, and how even King Henry seemed to be amused by his antics. Bolsover was always noticeable, whether he was competing in the contests the king had devised to honor his son or heartily laughing at some bawdy joke someone had told him at the dinner table. Hugh’s eyes were constantly seeking him out.

  There was one person among the vast audience which had come to witness the coronation who was aware of this sudden infatuation and that was Sir Roger of Haworth, a member of the earl’s personal bodyguard. Haworth was an intimidating figure, possessing a physique and temperament which were eminently suitable for his job. He wasn’t much above average height, but his body was so solidly muscular that he seemed larger than most of his peers, and neither his mouth nor his eyes ever smiled. His origins were obscure, but Hugh had taken a liking to him several years before and had removed him from the ranks of the common men-at-arms and placed him in his own bodyguard. Although it wasn’t normal practice to make knights of men who were not of noble birth, Hugh had flouted convention, giving Haworth a warhorse and bestowing the honor on him. No one was going to argue with the earl of Chester when he declared all his personal attendants were to be knights.

  Haworth was a faithful servant. He was always at Hugh’s back and waited only for the opportunity to draw his sword on his master’s behalf. Hugh’s appreciation for the man had grown as time had passed, and he often confided in Haworth. Because of his status, the earl wasn’t a popular man and his quiet demeanor made him even less accessible. Roger of Haworth was probably the only intimate he had, and Hugh had never expressed an interest in finding another.

  Until now. Haworth saw the way the earl’s eyes followed Sir Robert Bolsover and how instead of displaying his usual polite disinterest at the tournament, the earl’s face lit with animation whenever Bolsover took the field. Haworth didn’t say anything; he retreated further into the background but was ready to come forward when Hugh beckoned him. Hugh’s attitude towards him hadn’t changed at all. Nonetheless, Haworth was jealous.

  “Would you just look at that pompous ass!” William fitz Henry muttered to his friend, Sir Richard Delamere, as the two stood nearby a colorful blue and white tent crested with rippling pennants and prepared to join the day’s tournament. Delamere shifted his helmet from one hand to the other and patted his back to satisfy himself that his dagger was stuck securely in his belt. He didn’t bother to look up because he knew to whom William referred. It was an old and occasionally tiresome story. “You don’t know how much it galled me to go on my knees and do homage to him,” William continued darkly. “I knew without looking that he was laughing at me!”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Delamere said, yawning. “I don’t think he was paying much attention to the proceedings. After the first half dozen or so barons, his eyes seemed to glaze over.”

  “That proves my point! He has no idea what an honor my father has just bestowed on him! He’s a vain, empty-headed, self-important fool and God help us all when it comes his turn to rule!”

  “Yes, it’s hard to believe that young Henry is the king’s flesh and blood,” Delamere agreed. “He’s as lazy as the king is industrious. You’re more your father’s son than young Henry.”

  “But born of the wrong mother…”

  Delamere rolled his shoulders and twisted his neck from side to side. He was tired. He’d spent the better part of the previous night drinking and joking with friends and would have preferred to be snoring away in some quiet corner in the palace instead of standing on windy ground, weighted down by his heavy hauberk, and waiting for the call for the mock battle to begin. And listening to William, who could drink the night through without any visible effect the next morning, go on and on about his half-brother. He yawned again and swore. “Damn! I wish they’d get this thing started so I can do my bit and leave.”

  “By the way,” William said, turning towards his friend with a little smile, “where did you disappear to last night?”

  “I don’t remember exactly where,” Delamere answered. “But it was very warm and soft…and pleasant.”

  “You have a lucky talent for attracting women.”

  “It’s not a talent, Will, but a skill. If you would simply try not looking so displeased all the time and acting in a more friendly fashion, you’d find yourself rewarded handsomely.”

  His friend made an impatient gesture. “I haven’t the time to go through all that.”

  “Who says you need much time?” Delamere laughed.

  King Henry and his retainers rode up a hillock which overlooked the field, a signal that the tournament was to begin shortly. There had been two minor matches in the days before and one that had been a kind of practice contest involving the squires of the knights, but this final tournament was to be grand and just about every knight who had come to the coronation was entered. The king had divided the field into two groups: men from the west country against the men from the east. The groups were to line up on opposite ends of the field and at a blast of the trumpet charge each other as if engaging in genuine battle, with true weapons, although actual killing was discouraged. Instead, apart from the glory of one side defeating the other, the tournament was an opportunity for knights to make a bit of money. They were permitted to take prisoners, who would then buy their freedom with ransoms of coin, horses, armor and weapons. A wealthy knight was obviously a prime target for capture, and it behooved him to have a handsome bodyguard.

  Squires brought up their horses and William checked the bridle and saddle on his roan before giving it an idle pat on the neck. The horse had been a gift from his father when he’d been knighted several years earlier. Henry had been as pleased as a child when he’d presented it as he’d taken great pains to find a mount which could comfortably accommodate his son. William’s nickname was ‘Longsword’ because he was taller than average.

  At twenty, he was the eldest of all Henry II’s children, the product of an illicit liaison between the young duke of Normandy and the sister of one of his knights. He had been acknowledged by his father from his birth and schooled and trained in the household of one of Henry’s advisors. The son bore little physical resemblance to the father. Besides a difference in height, his build was lanky rather than stocky. He had darker, browner hair and a narrower face. While Henry’s expressions were easily read, William’s were masked. He already had a reputation as an excellent soldier
but was simultaneously considered ruthless and unforgiving, unlike his more politic father.

  While the squire held his stirrup, he mounted the big horse and was handed up his helmet and shield. With a resigned sigh, Richard Delamere followed suit. He’d already decided to hang well in the rear of the fray and to swing his sword only if absolutely necessary. On any other day he would have been as eager as the next man to fight and possibly win some money, but today his head ached. Money, even glory, didn’t seem attractive at the moment.

  William Longsword wasn’t interested in financial reward either, but glory was another matter. At tournaments, he always went straight after the most important or most proficient knight on the field, to test himself and to be recognized.

  He nudged his mount close to Delamere’s. “A pity my beloved half-brother isn’t fighting today…”

  “He’d be on our side anyway, Will. It wouldn’t look right if you made a prisoner of one of ours, don’t you think?”

  Longsword shrugged. The heavy chain mail jingled dully. “I was thinking more of fatally injuring him.”

  Delamere grinned. “Careful, Will, that’s a treasonous statement now! The king might punish it by putting you in the Young King’s household.” He squinted into the distance. “Who’s that he’s talking to? Bolsover?”

  “Bolsover actually likes him.”

  “Bolsover is simply expedient,” Delamere corrected.

  They watched as Robert Bolsover bowed to the Young King, who rode off to join his father’s party. The stage for the tournament was a large, fairly level meadow a few miles from Westminster Palace, bounded on one side by the Thames and disappearing into forest some distance in the south. There was a rise to the east and it was here that the king and his entourage, including the queen and her ladies, had settled to enjoy the mock battle. Knights comprising the two competing sides had already begun to leave their tents and ride out onto the field.

  Suddenly Longsword whistled sharply. “Look, Richard—who’s that? Opposite us?”

  “I believe it’s the earl of Chester,” his friend said, staring at the colors which bedecked a distinctive coal-black destrier. “But what’s he doing? He never enters tournaments.”

  “Then he’ll be an easy opponent,” said Longsword. “Is that not the finest animal you’ve ever seen? And huge!”

  Delamere understood right away what he meant. “He’ll be surrounded by retainers, Will,” he warned.

  Longsword clamped his helmet down firmly and took up his reins. “I need a challenge. My arm is getting weak.”

  “More than likely he’s just in there for appearance! Perhaps there’s a lady he’s seeking to impress. The king wouldn’t like to see one of his most important men injured just because you want his horse!”

  “If he doesn’t fight me, I won’t harm him!” Longsword said impatiently.

  Delamere tried once more to dissuade his friend. It wasn’t that he thought William had no chance; rather, he knew if Longsword was determined to go after the earl, then he would be compelled to back him up. Visions of hovering on the outskirt of the field until he could gracefully withdraw from the battle were fast disappearing.

  “Will, he’s far out of reach! Be sensible—he’s on the other side of the field; we’ll never get through!”

  But he was shouting words at Longsword’s back. The lanky knight had already kicked his horse into a gallop and gone to join his fellow combatants. With an inward groan, Richard Delamere followed him.

  It wasn’t William Longsword who ended up with the earl of Chester’s horse.

  As the wealthiest man on the field, Hugh was assured the dubious distinction of being the prime target of the knights from the eastern lands, not all of whom deigned to step aside when they recognized the king’s bastard at their shoulders. And the earl’s impressive bodyguard had all but encircled him, rendering him immune to attack. But somehow, at some point during the wholehearted skirmish between attackers and defenders, and obscured by the shouts of excitement and the confusion kicked up by flailing arms and horses’ hooves, Sir Robert Bolsover managed to slip quietly into the protective ring and, after a minor struggle, tip the sharp point of his sword into the exposed neck of Hugh fitz Ranulf. The gesture brought to an immediate end that particular contest. The other warriors rode off to find different prospects. Longsword, who had been fighting like a madman and had even succeeded in knocking two of the earl’s men to the ground where they were nearly trampled to death by their horses, was an ungracious loser. He glared angrily at Bolsover as the latter flashed an arrogant smile of triumph back at him and was only prevented from attacking him by a hasty admonishment from Richard Delamere. He dug his heels into his mount’s flanks and stormed off in a spray of turf, followed less flamboyantly by Delamere, who considered that he had done more than his share of fighting and was returning to his tent.

  Bolsover and the four knights who had fought with him led the captured earl and his men to their own tent. Squires pulled helmets and hauberks from sweaty heads and tired bodies. They ran to fetch wine and damp, cool cloths so that prisoners and jailers alike could refresh themselves. When such comforts had been provided and the small talk had petered out, the negotiations for release were begun. The earl, who chose to direct all his remarks to Robert Bolsover, readily agreed to all terms.

  “We should have demanded more,” groused one of the victorious men when Hugh didn’t blink an eye at the ransom he was being forced to pay.

  Bolsover laughed. “Divide my share between the four of you. I want nothing but the earl’s horse and his sword.”

  “That horse alone is worth half the ransom!”

  “The earl’s horse was not part of the bargain!” Roger of Haworth protested angrily. He had been standing apart from the negotiators, but now he took a few unconscious steps toward the table.

  The arguing men ignored him. “As usual, it was I who did half the work,” Bolsover drawled. “And I was the one to whom my lord earl surrendered.”

  The exhilarating exercise he’d just had and the wine had gone to other knight’s head. He stood up so suddenly that his stool fell back with a thud onto the trampled grass which comprised the tent’s floor, his face red. “Are you saying the rest of us may as well not have been there?”

  Bolsover lifted his shoulders. “I’m saying that I want nothing but the horse and my lord earl’s sword.”

  “There was no mention of the horse in the negotiations!” Haworth sputtered loudly. “That’s an earl’s steed—not meant for any mere knight such as you!”

  Hugh had not taken his eyes from Robert Bolsover. The younger man sprawled calmly and without concern at the table. At Haworth’s second outburst he had glanced up, but still said nothing to him. Instead, he turned his head towards Hugh. The blue-grey eyes sparkled and his mouth held just the semblance of a mischievous smile. All at once Hugh understood—Bolsover was playing a game, throwing his dice to see if he could up the ante, gambling to lose something he’d never had, anyway. Hugh was strangely excited. He was the one used to dictating terms and now this young rogue with his charming smile was changing the rules. Instead of being annoyed, the earl was flattered that Bolsover had chosen to play this game with him.

  He cleared his throat. “No, Roger; you’re mistaken. Sir Robert laid claim to Avranches when he took me prisoner. And if I am to give him up, I’m happy to give him to the knight who was best able to bring me down.”

  Haworth glared. “He’ll take money—”

  “Avranches—an interesting name for a horse,” Bolsover interrupted smoothly.

  “I named him for my hereditary lands in Normandy. I am the viscount of Avranches,” Hugh said. “As you can tell, then, I put great value on the animal.”

  “Rest assured, so will I,” Bolsover said, with a slight incline of his head. “Honored as I am by the man who once rode him.”

  “You didn’t have to give him up!” a wrathful Roger of Haworth exclaimed to his master when they’d returned to Hug
h’s private quarters. “That smug bastard! He would have taken money instead—he’s greedy enough!”

  “Lower your voice, Roger; we’re not on the tournament field any longer! Anyway, it’s just a horse. I’ve got plenty others, haven’t I?” He stretched one leg out so that Haworth could unlace his boot and laughed. “Probably even a few named Avranches.”

  Haworth knelt at Hugh’s feet and gripped the heel of the boot. He looked up with a frown. “You’re not at all displeased to have lost so much, are you?”

  “A horse, a sword and money, Roger. All easily replaced.”

  “What about the humiliation?”

  Hugh pulled his leg back and stuck out the other one. “Of losing? There’s no humiliation in losing a fair battle.”

  “If it was fair,” Haworth muttered.

  “What do you mean?” Hugh said sharply.

  Haworth sat back on his heels. He gave Hugh a measured look. “I mean, it was very easy for Bolsover to get to you. We had them; we were holding them, but suddenly he was past us.”

  “Are you saying you think I made it easy for him?”

  “Did you?”

  Hugh grinned. “What if I did? Come on, Roger! When was the last time I entered a tournament? Five years ago? Six? I’m the earl of Chester, for God’s sake; I have nothing to gain by throwing myself into the midst of a frenzy of swords and risking my life! Why did you think I wanted to enter this one?”

  Haworth stood up quickly, a dark red flush spreading across his face. “To meet that worm Bolsover? You wanted to lose to him? To be taken to his tent and forced to negotiate your release? And what about us? You humiliated us by giving yourself up!”

  “You’re my men, Roger!” Hugh said with a burst of anger. “You’re mine to tell what to do and where to go!” Then, when Haworth didn’t reply but stood a few paces apart, his face bowed towards the ground, Hugh relaxed and leaned back in his chair. “You’re jealous,” he said, amused.

  “Not jealous,” Haworth answered stiffly, “Just unhappy with your decision. But you’re right, my lord; I’m your sworn man and must do what you tell me.”

  Hugh got up and crossed the floor, silent as a cat in his stockinged feet. He put a companionable hand on the other man’s shoulder. “There’s no reason for this, Roger,” he said softly, cajolingly. “Bolsover’s attraction lies in his differences from everyone else in this place, but they’re almost certainly differences that would quickly grow tiresome if one were exposed to them too long. Don’t worry! Once we leave Westminster tomorrow, we’ll probably never see him again.”