Rhuddlan

Chapter 26

  March, 1177

  Llanlleyn, Gwynedd

  Rhirid didn’t like the way the little girl stared at him. Calmly, displaying none of her former fear, almost benignly. It was, he thought angrily, as though she knew he had lost…and was feeling sorry for him.

  His whole plan had hinged upon a rapid retaliation by the Normans. Speed was necessary to keep the mood of his men aggressive so that when the Normans emerged from behind their stone walls, they would be no match for the Llanlleyn warriors. He hadn’t been certain of the effect of stealing the child; that was partly the reason he’d burned down the entire abbey complex. And there had been that nun who’d suffered a fatal attack—an unplanned bonus. If nothing else, that ought to have propelled the Normans from their impenetrable towers.

  But it was a week afterward and the Normans had yet to venture out. The impetus was dwindling. The child was precocious but not insufferable and everybody loved her. Even his own warriors were beginning to wonder why they had taken her because it was soon obvious no one at Llanlleyn would ever be able to harm her.

  His father had been outraged. With the girl watching, Rhirid stood immobile as Maelgwn berated him for the troubles that had lately come upon Llanlleyn. He was perversely fascinated by the amount of anger his father was displaying, thinking that it would be better expended on William Longsword.

  And then one sentence penetrated his thoughts:

  “This is down to you, Rhirid!” his father shouted at him.

  He could remain silent no longer. “Me? Me? How do you figure that? They were Normans who imposed on the hospitality of a humble man and murdered him!”

  “Perhaps if you hadn’t been so belligerent when you met William fitz Henry, he would have paid the galanas and that would have been the end of the affair! Instead, look at the terror you’ve wrought: our winter homes are burned and our people go in fear of the Norman might!” He glared at his son. “You should never have attacked him!”

  “We didn’t know it was him! It’s too bad that wound didn’t fester. That would have been the end of the affair.”

  “And King Henry would have attacked us from the east and Prince Dafydd from the west! And then what would you have done?”

  “Are you saying William Longsword can do whatever he pleases in Llanlleyn and we can do nothing to stop him?” Rhirid asked incredulously. “I refuse to be a slave to the Normans!”

  “I am merely saying that you’re not using your head! That you’re putting personal grievances before the welfare of your people!”

  “You’re the one not thinking!” Rhirid exploded. “Why is it so hard for you to understand that there will only be peace when either we or the Normans are completely gone? When one of us slays the other?”

  “This is still my commote, Rhirid, or have you forgotten?I make the decisions.” Maelgwn looked coldly upon his son. “And I’ve decided it’s in the best interests of Llanlleyn if you leave for a time. Until I can restore peace with William fitz Henry.”

  For a moment all Rhirid could do was stare, with a shocked expression, at his father. “No…” he said involuntarily.

  “Yes. You can take your hotheaded friends with you. You have shamed me, Rhirid. I am chief of Llanlleyn, not you. Indeed, it would be a good penance if you went to the Perfeddwlad and spoke with Prince Dafydd. Beg his forgiveness for the trouble you caused at the abbey of St. Mary—and the death of the nun. Ask him what galanas ought to be paid.”

  Rhirid looked sharply at his father but Maelgwn wasn’t joking. “Never! Beg forgiveness from the man who’s practically sleeping with William Longsword?”

  Maelgwn fell silent. He pulled thoughtfully at his beard and Rhirid was suddenly apprehensive. His father was much more dangerous when he was silent than when he raged.

  “Your behavior is ill-advised for the heir to this commote, Rhirid,” Maelgwn said finally.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have two cousins, Rhirid, either of whom is more suited at this moment to be chief of Llanlleyn than you.”

  “You would be dead for that to happen,” Rhirid answered insolently. “And then I would fight and kill the both of them and become chief anyway.”

  Maelgwn shrugged without concern. “You could try. Of course, you’d need men to back up your claim.”

  “I have men now!”

  “You have no land, Rhirid; you don’t support those men—I do.” He relented and looked at his son with some sympathy. “You claim I’ve not been strong against the Normans but the reality is I’ve not been strong enough with you. I’ve let you get away with too much these last few months, to the detriment of Llanlleyn.”

  Rhirid didn’t answer. He had no doubt that Maelgwn would do as he threatened and name one of his cousins his successor. He could refuse to go to the Perfeddwlad and gamble on the chance that his father would live many years yet and much could change during that time, including his restoration to favor. And perhaps men who shared his intense hatred of the Normans would stay with him despite his lack of wealth—Dylan ab Owain would, if only to get away from his wife. Or, if it came to personal combat between him and his cousins, he had supreme faith in his ability…

  But, in truth, Rhirid didn’t want to fall from his father’s favor. He didn’t want Maelgwn to disown him. He suspected the chief knew this and had played a devious hand. He could do nothing other than concede defeat.

  “Very well,” he said at length. “I’ll visit Prince Dafydd, if that’s what you want. But I’m telling you,” he added because he couldn’t resist having the last word at least, “it’s not going to make the slightest bit of difference.” He glanced at the little girl. “What would you like me to do with her?”

  Maelgwn considered a solemn Bronwen. “Taking a child hostage—especially a female child—isn’t usually a wise decision,” he said pensively. “However, since the deed’s already done, I think she might prove useful when I negotiate with Lord William.”

  Longsword angrily waved off the young man who’d unconciously moved a step forward to help him. He took a deep breath and held it, gritted his teeth and reached up for the saddle pommel with his left hand, ignoring the burst of pain which spread immediately down his arm, up his neck and across his shoulder, and with as much effort as he could muster tried to pull himself onto the patiently still horse. But his breath exhaled noisily in a loud grunt and he fell back to the ground. He extricated his foot from the stirrup and swore. Twice he’d attempted to mount the animal and each time had failed. His entire left side was throbbing from the abuse and he was breathing heavily. He nodded to the groom holding the reins and decided to try again tomorrow.

  The group of men watching him reassured him that a wound as serious as his required a long period of rest but he was more embarrassed by their words than consoled. If it was only pain he was certain he could beat it; it had been the same pain during his initial convalescence and yet he’d been back on his horse a week after being shot. But this time there was something else conspiring against his efforts: a bone-numbing weariness. His muscles had been weakened by the extended stay in bed, lack of proper nourishment and the fever. The tiredness made him feel unnaturally old and vulnerable.

  “Lord William!” Ralph de Vire was hurrying towards him. “The gate says Sir Richard’s approaching.”

  His spirits lifted considerably at the announcement. Delamere and a heavily armed guard had accompanied a group of workmen the week before to the abbey of St. Mary to query the inhabitants and repair the damage caused by Rhirid. Longsword forgot about his throbbing body and went forward to greet them.

  Delamere came through the gate first and slid to the ground with an ease that Longsword, in his current condition, envied. He made a quick bow for formality’s sake and demanded, “What were you doing?”

  “It’s all right—”

  “No, it isn’t!” he exclaimed. “You’re barely a week out of bed—”

  “It’s actually closer to a fortnight, Richard.” Out of
the corner of his eye, Longsword saw her pass through the gate, almost at the end of the stream of workers and soldiers. She was riding double behind Alan d’Arques, who twisted in the saddle to soliticiously hand her down to a waiting groom before himself dismounting. Longsword felt suddenly happier; he’d been half afraid that she would stay at the abbey. She looked even more beautiful than he remembered, even though her face was somber—

  “Will! Are you listening to me?” Delamere jolted him out of his reverie.

  “Of course! Something about Rhirid…”

  “He told the nuns there’d be no peace in Gwynedd until one of you was dead.”

  That commanded Longsword’s full attention. “Well, he’s had his chance. He’ll soon regret his archer didn’t have a steadier hand.”

  “It’s an invitation to war,” Delamere grinned. “Now you can’t be accused of orchestrating this feud. If the king or the prince complains, you can honestly say you’re acting in self-defense.”

  “What about the little girl?”

  “Gwalaes’ daughter? Definitely gone. She took it rather well; or at least, if she cried hysterically she didn’t do it before me.”

  Gwalaes—that was her name. He repeated it to himself several times. She hadn’t left the ward; she was standing with Alan d’Arques. He thought she was watching him as her body was turned in his direction.

  “I’m going to try one more time,” he said to Delamere, all at once feeling more energetic.

  “Don’t be a fool, William!” Delamere protested but Longsword was already walking back to the horse.

  He was aware of the growing throng of onlookers behind his back. He rolled his left shoulder tentatively and decided the pain wasn’t so bad. The worst discomfort was caused by putting his arm above shoulder-height which was necessary when he reached for the pommel. He decided to make the maneuver so quickly that his body wouldn’t know what he was doing until he was seated. He breathed in deeply, stretched his arm up and thrust his left foot into the stirrup simultaneously, grabbed the rear end of the saddle with his good arm and hauled himself up by a sheer force of will. He glanced down, almost surprised to realize that he’d done it. He exhaled and relaxed. And then the floodgate of pain opened and radiated out of his neck down into his arm, across his chest and up into the base of his head.

  His men were cheering and he grinned in embarrassment. Even some of the Welsh clapped politely. He took the reins from the groom in his right hand and urged his mount forward with pressure from his knees. As they trotted around the ward the agony in his shoulder and neck increased to the point where he could scarcely draw a breath but it was worth it because she had seen him do it. And she was still there, watching him parade back to his waiting men.

  He tossed the reins down. He couldn’t move his left arm at all. He held his breath again, swung his right leg over the horse’s neck and jumped to the ground in a competent, though graceless, motion.

  She was standing directly in his line of vision some fifteen feet away. He saw a slight frown on her forehead, obviously prompted by concern for his welfare. It was wonderful how happy he felt just to be in her presence. The joke Richard would make of it if he knew, Longsword thought. He didn’t quite understand it himself but he felt the oddest rush of tenderness for her. It was as if he’d had a pleasant dream about her and the afterglow was carrying over into reality…

  “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?