Chapter 21
March, 1177
Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd
Longsword made a quick recovery.
He was barely conscious when they left the abbey and Delamere had had to hold him in his arms the entire, torturously slow way back to Rhuddlan, but once put to bed he made rapid progress. When Teleri hadn’t bothered to greet her husband’s return, Gladys had immediately stepped in and insisted on being the one to nurse the man through his convalescence. It was Delamere’s opinion that she did so only because she had a vested interest in keeping Longsword alive but he had to admit she was gentle and solicitous and obviously successful, for by the end of three days Longsword was sitting up and eating solid foods and by the end of the week he was complaining that if he wasn’t permitted down in the hall with his men for supper that night, he would climb out the window and join them.
Delamere grinned at his querulous tone. “Don’t you find it ironic that you were the only man wearing a hauberk that day and the only one to be almost mortally wounded?”
“No, just bad luck,” Longsword retorted. It always seemed to give Delamere pleasure to joke about his mail. If it was hot or raining, Delamere wouldn’t wear his because the hauberk was heavy and uncomfortable but Longsword would no sooner go out without it than his sword.
He didn’t remember anything after being shot. He had some vague memories of a soft voice and calm touch which he couldn’t quite reconcile with Gladys’ capable hands and incomprehensible tongue, but didn’t pursue. He had a more important matter on his mind: revenge.
The six men who had chased after the Welsh had returned that same night to Rhuddlan, having seen not a trace of their enemy. But even though the warriors had been mostly hidden during the attack, Longsword was certain Rhirid ap Maelgwn had been their leader. It was the image of the Welshman’s cool, appraising eye frozen in Longsword’s mind that convinced him of it.
After two weeks, Longsword was still complaining of pain but he rode his horse, swung his sword and hurled his javelin anyway. The lips of the wound hadn’t fused but he kept the area covered and drank the chamomile tea Gladys boiled for him and didn’t think anymore about it.
One day he said to Delamere, “I’m ready now.”
“Ready for what?”
“Rhirid!” he said impatiently. “I want Rhirid!”
“We’ve had men out every day, Will, and not one of them has seen a Welshman since the attack.”
“We’ll go to Llanlleyn,” he declared. “A big settlement of stinking Welsh—it shouldn’t be too difficult to find.”
Delamere was cautious. “I don’t know, Will; you’re not completely healed. Riding around the ward isn’t the same as running down a settlement.”
“Of course it isn’t,” Longsword agreed grimly. “Overrunning Llanlleyn will be much more pleasurable.”
The day was unusually warm for March but even Delamere was wearing his hauberk.
A sense of increasing excitement gripped him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought about Olwen and the little ones, so wrapped up had he been in Longsword’s near fatal wound and the necessity to get him back to full strength. And now the quick pace through the forest, the dull, steady clomps of the horses and the jangling of hardware—tack and weapons—all served to revive memories of previous journeys and campaigns, memories which had nothing at all to do with his current familial obligations. It was suddenly as if Olwen, his children and the manor had ceased to exist; he belonged solely to Longsword and could think of nothing he’d rather be doing than avenging his lord’s wounded honor.
The Normans had a rough idea where Llanlleyn lay. When Longsword had assumed responsiblility for Rhuddlan, he’d been given a quick review of his neighbors. The land was a bit more of a mystery but at least the season favored them—another month and a profusion of greenery would have obscured their passage.
On the second morning, their journey was made easier when they were spotted.
Delamere, riding ahead with several companions, suddenly saw the not-too-distant figure of a man on horseback galloping away from them. Whether the man was a simple traveler or some sort of guard Delamere didn’t know but it was obvious he was rushing to warn Llanlleyn of the Normans’ close presence.
Delamere sent word back to Longsword and took off after the Welshman. He didn’t want to overtake the man; he only wanted to follow him. He was more wary of traps and ambushes now than he’d been before the day Longsword was shot.
The Welshman made no effort to hide himself. Perhaps he believed the Normans already knew exactly where Llanlleyn was situated. In any event, he couldn’t afford to waste time by trying to keep out of their sight. His sole purpose in flying at breakneck speed was to get to the fortress and warn the chief before the foreigners attacked.
Then the man rounded a curve and disappeared from Delamere’s view. His companions spurred on ahead of him, enjoying the chase, but when he followed them around the hillside he had to suddenly pull back hard on the reins to keep from crashing into them.
They had stopped because they had seen, about a mile in the distance, the fortress of Maelgwn ap Madog. It sat on a short hill; a sprawling collection of low, unimpressive structures surrounded by an earth and timber wall. One of the knights made a contemptuous noise in his throat. He’d been expecting something a little more worthy of his trouble.
They could see the Welshman below them, riding hard towards the fortress. The knight asked Delamere if he should continue the chase.
“No.” Delamere shook his head. “It’s Lord William’s revenge. Let him lead the charge.”
They dismounted to wait for the others to catch up. Delamere’s two companions amused themselves by practicing with their swords while he kept an eye on the walls of the fortress. The gate had been open—he was certain of it—but now that the Welshman had ridden through it was closed. He saw no other sign of activity.
After a while, they heard the gathering sound of hoofbeats behind them. The Normans had been riding at a steady but not very quick pace to save their horses for the attack. They halted and milled around the narrow road, really nothing more than a rough path, looking across at the fortress. Delamere turned to grin at Longsword, who had pulled up next to him. “Take a look at your quarry,” he said. “Are you sure you want to bother?”
Longsword stared at Llanlleyn and didn’t smile. “Yes.”
“Their most formidable defense appears to be the gate.”
“We’ll ride it down.”
He was confident this would be easily accomplished. Formidable was hardly the word he would have used himself. Llanlleyn wasn’t a particularly rich or strategic commote and in all likelihood no one had ever bothered with it—past invaders of the region had probably simply absorbed it along with larger, more important conquests while permitting its chiefs to remain. Longsword was certain the gate and the walls were only there as a matter of form and not function.
He split his knights into three groups. The larger was to attack the front of the fort; the two smaller ones would ride around it on either side. But to the Normans’ surprise, as they swept down upon Llanlleyn, there was no reaction at all from inside. No warriors appeared along the wall; no arrows flew at them. They reached the fortress unscathed. Longsword was momentarily disconcerted; he and Delamere exchanged a puzzled glance. The gate was apparently their only adversary, but even this proved to be easily overcome. One man stood on his saddle and, after a cautious peek, hoisted himself over the wooden gate. He lifted the bar which had effectively locked the gate and stood back as his compatriots rushed inside.
Llanlleyn was deserted. No one—not even a stray dog—was there.
Longsword was furious. He’d wanted revenge and was being denied it. He galloped his horse around the clusters of small buildings, looking for anything that might move and not finding it.
Delamere watched his friend slash his sword through the air in frustration. Other knights rode into and out of the houses, ducking their heads to
pass under the doorways. There was no one anywhere.
He stuck his sword back into his belt and urged his horse forward. When he reached the rear of the fortress, he met the men from the two groups which had circled around it.
He returned to Longsword. “They must have gone out the back,” he told him. “There’s a gate there, too. It was wide open.”
Longsword cursed and spat on the ground. “You should have intercepted the Welshman.”
“Oh, it’s my fault you have no one to kill, is it?”
“If he hadn’t been able to warn them, they’d still be here!”
Delamere dropped the argument, mostly because he’d already thought the same thing himself. But he was damned if he were going to apologize. “What do you want to do?”
“Burn it.”
Suddenly they heard shouts behind them. They turned to see Alan d’Arques and half a dozen others rush towards the front gate.
“Looks like you’ll have your fight after all,” Delamere said to Longsword as he pulled on the reins and maneuvered his stallion around. “I think the Welsh are attacking us.”
They soon discovered this statement was not precise. The Welsh had not mounted a conventional attack; instead, they had crept up to the fortress while the Normans were occupied, shut the gate without being noticed and set it and the timbered portions of the wall on fire. The blaze was quite substantial before Alan d’Arques and his companions had caught sight of it and shouted the warning. And now, as they all stood and stared at the burning wall, flaming arrows whizzed over their heads. Some landed harmlessly on the ground but others found their marks: thatched rooves.
“Cover the rear gate!” Longsword ordered when he realized what the Welsh were planning. “Fitz Maurice! De Vire! Get to the back! Quickly!”
They were lucky. It was clearly the Welsh intention to trap them inside the burning fortress but a handful of Normans had remained at the rear gate and spoiled the plan. The knights sat idly on their horses exchanging glares with twenty of Maelgwn’s men. The Welsh, although on horseback like the Normans, were not disposed to attack and the knights believed themselves too few in number to go on the offensive. Delamere, who had raced to the back as well, did not have such prudence. “Go! Go!” he shouted at them. Fitz Maurice and de Vire were right behind him.
The Welsh were waiting for them as they burst through the open gate, the hooves of their horses throwing up clumps of earth and grass. Half a dozen archers stood to the left; at the first appearance of the Normans, they released a hail of arrows. One bounced harmlessly off Delamere’s helmet. He swung around sharply. The sword he’d thought he wouldn’t need was back in his hand. He raised it high and charged at the archers, screaming at the top of his lungs. The Welsh frantically attempted to fit another arrow but they were too late. They were close to the fortress and Delamere was almost on them. Four of them turned and ran but the other two had swords in their belts as well as arrows. They pulled them out but were no match for a screaming Norman bearing down upon them on his snorting, wild-eyed beast. There was more of an immediate threat in the animal’s strong legs than in Delamere’s sword. Another Welshman turned and ran. The last remaining warrior slashed futilely at the horse before the heavy animal knocked him into oblivion.
De Vire, fitz Maurice and the others had engaged the Welsh on horseback. Although a century of dealing with the Normans had taught the Welsh that they must be prepared to fight while mounted, it was not their preferred tactic. They outnumbered the Normans almost three to one but after a few half-hearted swings and jabs, they fled the field.
“Go round to the front!” Delamere shouted. By this time more knights had joined them, since the fire made the main entrance impassable. En masse, they flew around the perimeter of the small fortress but their adversaries were nowhere to be seen.
“They’ve gone into the hills, Sir Richard!” Ralph de Vire said excitedly. “Should we follow them?”
Delamere shook his head. “Those hills are a better fortress to them than Rhuddlan is to us. You wouldn’t get any further than a hundred paces.”
Longsword trotted up to him. “Any casualties?”
“None on our side. One trampled man on theirs but I think they took him away. They weren’t here to fight us, Will; they only wanted to deny you the pleasure of burning Llanlleyn to the ground.”
“I know it. They succeeded.” He glanced at the growing flames. “He’s quite clever, isn’t he?”
“Rhirid?”
“Yes.” Longsword stared at the fire consuming Llanlleyn and cursed. “He knew exactly what I wanted to do!”
Something in his friend’s manner struck Delamere as odd. Although Longsword was obviously angry, his voice wasn’t as loud or strong as it inevitably was on such occasions. And it was odd, too, that he hadn’t pushed by all of them to be the first out the back gate. “Are you all right, Will?” he asked.
“What do you mean? Yes, of course. I’m just a little tired.” He frowned at Delamere. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Delamere’s voice was dismayed. “Your neck is bleeding again.”
This time, fever set in. For several days Longsword writhed and moaned in his bed, unaware of anyone or anything. It was all Gladys could do to slip a bit of broth down his throat at the odd moment.
Delamere entered his friend’s chamber and was horrified. The windows had been shuttered and the atmosphere was dark and putrid. Scant light was given off by fire in the brazier which Gladys had pulled close to the bed and which made the room stifling. Bowls and cups littered the floor. Longsword lay on the bed, the linens, soiled with his own waste and sweat, pushed down and twisted around his legs. Gladys herself was in no fine state. Her hair was loose and uncombed, her gown unbelted and she walked about barefoot. Dark circles under her eyes attested to a lack of sleep.
“God Almighty, girl!” he exclaimed. “What’s going on?”
“No one will come in anymore,” she said dully. “They’re afraid.”
“Of what?”
“God’s revenge. They say the fever is God’s revenge for Lord William’s attack on Llanlleyn.”
Delamere crossed the room and threw back the shutters covering the windows. Cool air and light came through.
“Sir Richard, no!” Gladys said, suddenly agitated. “The air will kill him! He must be made to sweat!”
“It stinks to high heaven in here! If you can’t get anyone to come in and clean, you’ll have to do it yourself!” He leaned over Longsword who was, for the moment, lying still but breathing shallowly, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The wound at the base of his neck was swollen and dark red. A noxious whitish pus oozed from it.
“I’ve tried to keep a bandage over it, Sir Richard, but he keeps pulling it off,” Gladys said, coming up behind him. “I’ve really been trying—” She suddenly burst into tears.
Delamere ignored her. He touched Longsword’s brow and felt it scorch his hand. He straightened up. There was only one thing to do.
“Listen, girl,” he said quietly, turning to Gladys, “I’m going out to fetch someone who can cure him and I’ll be back at nightfall. In the meantime, I want that bed stripped and changed, I want him bathed and made comfortable, I want the rubbish cleared out of this room and I want you to make yourself presentable. Understand? I don’t give a damn about you or your baby, only that man. If you haven’t done as I’ve told you by the time I return, I’ll personally take you down to the ward and flog you to death. Do you understand?”
She was too frightened to do anything more than nod.
Rhirid stood in a corner of the makeshift council room, listening with growing anger as his father’s advisers cautioned against further incitement of Norman wrath. Was it old age or just years of complacent living that made men of the warrior caste so soft and tentative? And what had they done to infuriate the Normans, anyway?
“Perhaps we ought to send a delegation to Rhuddlan—” someone started to suggest, but Rhirid rudely int
errupted.
“What for?” he demanded. “To apologize for being in their way? To give them all our cattle and hope they leave us alone?”
“Rhirid, that was no idle attack on our fort,” Maelgwn said. “You do know that, don’t you?”
He didn’t like the way his father was eyeing him. “What do you mean?” he hedged.
“We’ve recently learned that you and some of your friends almost killed Lord William.”
“That was pure luck,” Rhirid said, not a little smugly. “We thought to avenge the murder of the shepherd since the galanas was obviously not forthcoming. We had no idea who it was we shot. By rights that wound should have festered.”
“But it didn’t and now he’s looking for revenge.”
“He’s already destroyed Llanlleyn. What else can he do? They have no subtlety, these Normans; you can hear them coming a mile off. We can easily keep a step ahead of them.”
“For how long?” Maelgwn demanded. “Until we’re sitting in the lap of the earl of Chester? Rhirid, stop reacting and start thinking. We can’t hope to win against the Normans; we don’t have the manpower. We have to put an end to this war or Llanlleyn will cease to exist.”
“No!” Rhirid exploded. “We can win against them! It’s solely a matter of—”
“Rhirid,” Maelgwn said impatiently, “why don’t you go outside?”
He wanted to say more, to shame them into action, but the faces of the old men were staring at him with annoyance and he knew they were too preoccupied with their own plans for conciliation to take him seriously. He whirled around angrily and plowed into a servant bearing cups of sweet mead on a platter. The tray was upset and the cups went crashing to the ground but Rhirid stormed through the doorway and outside without a backwards glance.
A voice stopped him. “What are we going to do?”
He glared into the afternoon sun, shielding his eyes with a hand. Half a dozen men stood before him—young men like himself; his father’s warriors. They waited expectantly.
“Give in,” he blurted out before he thought the better of it. He was furious with the council meeting but also embarrassed that his father planned no retributive action. It was behavior, he believed, unworthy of a chief. “Placate the Normans.”
The men were surprised. They’d spent the days since the attack on Llanlleyn sharpening swords and flexing their muscles. They’d been looking forward to an all-out assault on Rhuddlan.
“They burned our fortress and we’re going to thank them for it?” one man, Dylan ab Owain, boomed in astonishment.
“Something like that,” Rhirid said bitterly.
Dylan ab Owain was a large man with black, shoulder-length hair and thick mustaches which he had grown long so that it framed his mouth and gave him an impressively rough look. He was one of Rhirid’s closest companions, although Rhirid was never certain whether it was mere friendship or a fear of his wife that prompted Dylan to spend so much time with him instead of with her.
“I say we attack Rhuddlan!” he declared. The others with him agreed.
“We don’t stand a chance against those stone walls,” Rhirid said. “It would be suicide to attack Rhuddlan Castle.”
“Then you’re just like your father!” Dylan said angrily. “We need someone who’ll lead us against the foreigners, not sit and wait for them to overrun Gwynedd.”
“And I’m your man,” Rhirid told him. He’d had an idea; he was excited about it but kept himself calm. “Rhuddlan is out of the question. It doesn’t suit our style of warfare. Strike hard and pull back; that’s what we do best. It worked nearly perfectly when we met the foreigners on the road last month, didn’t it?”
“What are you proposing instead?” someone else demanded.
“The Normans didn’t heal William fitz Henry, right? At least, not the Norman warriors. Where did they take him after we shot him?”
“To the abbey. But, Rhirid, we can’t attack a holy place!” Dylan protested.
“It isn’t our holy place. It’s Norman just like that fortress.” He shrugged. “We don’t have to inflict much harm, only enough to draw the Normans away from Rhuddlan. I’m thinking we find the person responsible for healing William fitz Henry and take our revenge.” He looked at the still doubtful circle of faces before him and jerked his head backwards. “Or we can lay our weapons down at their feet like those old men in there want us to do.”
The mid-afternoon sun illuminated the quiet abbey enclave below Delamere and his companions. They’d ridden hard; Delamere felt an excruciating urgency to get to St. Mary’s and back to Rhuddlan because he feared Longsword wouldn’t survive the night. Now he paused to collect his thoughts. He decided to abandon social niceties and not stop to greet the abbess but to detour directly to the storehouse where he remembered leaving the Welsh chit almost three weeks earlier.
“Sir Richard,” one of the men said in a low voice. “There’s something to our right.”
Delamere tensed and listened. The last thing he needed was to run into Rhirid ap Maelgwn’s warriors. He heard rustling in the undergrowth and relaxed. “After two years in Wales, can’t you tell the difference between a squirrel and a Welshman?”
The men laughed and Delamere picked up his reins and pressed his knees into his mount’s flanks. Suddenly a bolt of scraggly grey came hurtling out of the bushes and into their midst, spooking his horse. The frightened animal whinnied in alarm and reared up. The intruder was a dog. It didn’t run from the group before it but started snarling with hackles raised and teeth bared. With difficulty Delamere brought his horse under control. A knight lifted his arm and aimed his javelin at the angry cur. “No!” Delamere shouted at him.
He’d seen a small girl standing a few yards away behind the dog, dressed in a plain blue gown, looking utterly composed and even a little amused. She noticed he was watching her and gave him a wave.
“Hello, Sir Richard!”
It was Gwalaes’ child; what was her name? He’d only met her that one time he’d gone to look for Gwalaes before he had taken Longsword back to Rhuddlan. She was too young to be wandering in the forest, he thought. Perhaps she was lost.
With calm assurance she walked up to the barking, snarling dog, put her baby arms around its neck and scolded it into silence. The mangy thing licked her face and she actually laughed.
“Bronwen, is it?” he asked. “What are you doing so far from home?”
“I’m not far from home. It’s right there,” she said, pointing towards the abbey. She eyed him shrewdly. “But you’re far from your home.”
He nodded. “We’ve come to see your mother.” A sudden thought struck him. He remembered how awed she’d been by the horses. “How would you like to ride with us back to the abbey?”
Her serious expression melted instantly. “On one of them?” she breathed in excitement.
He smiled and, swinging his leg over his mount’s rump, jumped to the ground. The dog growled again but Bronwen hushed it impatiently. Delamere knelt on one knee before her so that his face was on a level with hers. “You can ride with Sir Ralph, all right? You see him, the knight on the pretty white and brown horse? Do you think you’ll be frightened?”
“No,” she answered. “But what about Kigva? Who’ll she ride with?”
“Who? Oh—your little dog. Don’t worry about her, Bronwen; she’ll run alongside you.” He stood up and gestured for de Vire to move closer. “The girl is coming with us,” he said in French. “Hold fast to her. Whatever happens at the abbey, don’t release her unless I tell you so, understand?”
The knight looked frantic. “But, Sir Richard, I don’t know anything about children! What if she cries? I don’t even speak Welsh!”
“Just do as I say!” Delamere snapped. “And remember—don’t let her go or I’ll have your head!”
They found Gwalaes inspecting her laundry down by the stream behind the storehouse. Bronwen’s dog barked and rushed towards her. Delamere heard her laugh and scold the animal for coming pre
cariously close to her clean bedsheet. And then she looked in his direction, expecting to see only her daughter chasing after Kigva and instead seeing four Normans in full battle gear on their massive horses—one of whom had an arm around Bronwen’s waist.
Delamere wasted no time. He leaped to the ground before his horse had even stopped. “I need you,” he said flatly.
“What are you doing with my daughter?” she demanded in a low voice that wouldn’t reach Bronwen.
He ignored the question. “Lord William is close to death. The wound didn’t heal and he has fever. You must come with us to Rhuddlan.”
“No! I told you to leave him here for a few days—”
“I don’t think you understand,” Delamere said, so intensely that her attention was momentarily diverted from her daughter and her eyes flicked to his. “If you don’t come, he’ll die.”
Something in his haggard face and burning expression must have touched her because she reluctantly relented. “Very well. Bring him here—”
“That’s impossible!” Delamere cut in viciously. “He can’t be moved! You can. If you don’t agree to come voluntarily, I have no qualms about picking you up and carrying you off—”
She gasped. “How dare you! How dare you threaten me!”
“—but I don’t think you’ll refuse. Because I’ve got your daughter and I’ll take her to Rhuddlan if it’s the only way to get you there.”
For a moment she was stunned into silence. She stared at him, frightened, her heart pounding furiously. He stared back, implacable.
“Mama!” Bronwen called. “Did you see me riding the horse?”
She swallowed and looked over Delamere’s shoulder. One of Bronwen’s hands clung to the saddle pommel and the other one waved at her. “Yes, I saw you,” she said as brightly as she could manage it. “You ride very well!” She was suddenly more angry than afraid. “How can you do this to a little girl?” she hissed at Delamere. “What kind of man are you?”
“A desperate man! I’ll do anything to save Lord William!”
Her mind spun rapidly. “Very well,” she said finally. “I’ll come. But Bronwen must stay here.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“I’ve said I’ll come! There’s no reason—”
“There’s a very good reason—I don’t trust you Welsh. Your daughter is my hostage. My possession of her will ensure your best efforts.”
“I swear I’ll do whatever you want, Sir Richard, but please leave Bronwen here! She’s only a little girl!”
He clicked his tongue impatiently. “I have no time to argue with you, Gwalaes. Fetch what you need and be quick about it. We must get back to Rhuddlan today and every minute we waste discussing your daughter is another minute of sunlight squandered.” He returned to his horse and hoisted himself up. He picked up the reins and looked down at her with a stony face.
She considered him for a moment longer. He was desperate…but he also needed her. And she wasn’t about to permit her daughter to be a pawn in his game. She decided to call his bluff. Heart racing and muttering every prayer she’d ever learned, she turned and began rapidly walking away from the Normans, in the direction she’d last seen the abbess.
A short time afterwards, they were on their way to Rhuddlan—without Bronwen. The entreaties of the nuns and their earnest appeals to his character were too much for Delamere to fight. Besides, the continued waste of time was threatening his sanity.
He had the Welsh girl behind him. She clung to his belt so lightly that sometimes he could forget she was even there. He knew she detested him so much she didn’t want to touch him. But they were riding as quickly as they could with the late afternoon sun shining directly into their eyes and the journey was not smooth. More often than not she had to grab him to keep her balance.
But he didn’t spend much time thinking about her. He was concerned for Longsword and it was with great relief that after what seemed an interminable time, he spied Rhuddlan. He turned his head slightly. “We’re almost there,” he said to her. “Look—you can see the top of the keep.”
Despite her feelings of revulsion, she looked. He felt her shift to the left. All at once the grip on his waist tightened. Obviously, he thought, she’d never seen anything like a Norman stronghold and was overwhelmed by the sight of Rhuddlan Castle.
“It’s entirely self-sufficient,” he added, unable to resist a little boasting. “We provide all our own food, craft our own weapons, brew our own ale and weave our own cloth.”
“Do you trample your own grapes to make your own wine?” she inquired.
He didn’t bother to answer such a flippant question. Perhaps she wasn’t as impressed as he’d imagined.
Before long they reached the gate. Delamere cantered through and pulled his horse to a halt in the middle of the vast ward. A groom came up to help the Welsh girl down and then held the bridle while he dismounted.
By now the sun had gone beneath the horizon although there was still enough illumination to make lighting the torches ringing the ward redundant. The yard was full of people—every one of Longsword’s men and a couple dozen curious Welsh. The girl stood apart, her eyes taking in everyone and everything. De Vire had been entrusted with transporting her basket of medicines and now he walked over to hand it to her with an embarrassed face while his cronies snickered at him. Delamere, who’d been checking on Longsword’s status with Guy Lene, came up and silenced them with a harsh glare. Still without a word, he grabbed Gwalaes by her wrist and pulled her hurriedly towards the keep.
He’d been told that Longsword’s chamber was now neat and the air within tolerably fresh. But Longsword himself was not faring so well. Yesterday he’d been in the throes of delirium, thrashing wildly around in his bed, but now he was lying still; his breathing was raspy and quick and his face had a deathly pallor.
He released Gwalaes’ wrist and pushed open the door. His eyes went immediately to the bed, the horrifying thought suddenly striking him that perhaps his friend had died in the short time between his arrival at the front gate and his arrival at the chamber, but no. Longsword was still alive. Blankets had been pulled up to his chin, but Delamere could see his chest rising and falling.
Gwalaes slid past him. She placed her basket on the floor near the bed and bent over Longsword’s prone form, her head tilted as if she were listening to his breathing. Then she moved the coverlets down to his waist and out of her way. Carefully, she peeled back the linen bandage untidily wrapped around the injured area. She gasped.
“Is it very bad?” Delamere asked worriedly.
“Yes,” she answered shortly. For a moment all she could do was stare down at the wound in total disbelief. Then she heard the sound of a hand slapping hard onto flesh and a cry and she whirled around.
There was someone else in the room. A young woman who’d been hovering in the shadows and was now the object of Delamere’s fury. He was standing over her still as she cringed into the wall, his hand raised as if to strike again.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. Her heart was pounding so violently it hurt.
He turned his face to her, his handsome features twisted by ugly rage. “This is her fault! I left it to her to doctor him and instead she’s all but killed him!”
“This is your fault, Sir Richard!” she said, her voice trembling with anger. “I told you to leave him with me for a week but you insisted on taking him away. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that the wound reopened on your journey back to Rhuddlan.”
He stared at her, his chest heaving. When the second blow did not fall, Gladys uncovered her face and watched, uncomprehending, the interplay between the two.
Delamere turned away from Gladys and came up close to Gwalaes, never taking his eyes from her. She tried to hold his stare but couldn’t. She took an unsteady step backwards and bumped into Longsword’s bed.
“Can you help him?” he asked, his voice low but with no trace of the anger that had pulsed through him only an instant befor
e.
Her own anger also deflated as she looked down again at his master. She sighed. “I’ll do whatever I can, Sir Richard. I swear it.”