Rhuddlan
Chapter 27
April, 1177
Hawarden Castle, Gwynedd
Hugh discovered he liked war after all.
It had been different in Normandy, he supposed; he’d been senior in rank but a novice in practice and all of the planning and implementation of plans had been the work of men like de Fougères, flamboyant characters who were reluctant to yield even a fraction of the playing field to less forceful personalities. And then, of course, there had been that humiliating, bloodless surrender at Dol which would have been enough to turn any knight off war for the rest of his life. But this conflict with the Welsh was different.
Prince Dafydd had agreed with Hugh that keeping Gruffudd ap Madog out of Gwynedd was in his own best interest. He sent one hundred soldiers and archers to Hawarden and begged the earl via messenger to keep him informed.
Roger Haworth wasn’t pleased with the additional strain on the castle’s resources. “More mouths to feed,” he’d grumbled.
“You complain as if you were the steward,” Hugh had cheerfully replied. He was in high spirits, not having been completely confident of Dafydd’s positive response to his request for aid. He hadn’t known whom the prince would look upon as more of a threat: Gwynedd’s traditional Welsh enemy, the rulers of Powys or its traditional Norman enemy, the earls of Chester. “Anyway,” he’d added, “a foray or two into northern Powys to prove our might and we can send them home again.”
It couldn’t happen too soon for Haworth. In his opinion, it was bad enough to be in a foreign land and beset by a foreign army but to be forced to fight side by side with the foreigners themselves was the height of insanity. Would it take very much indeed to persuade men of Gwynedd to unite with men of Powys to defeat the earl of Chester? On the other hand, it was hard to deny that this conflict with Powys and the alliance with Dafydd seemed to have completed Hugh’s recovery from the devastating years at Falaise. Haworth had to admit that Wales in general had had a positive effect on the earl’s well-being and so he tried to keep complaints about his new Welsh allies to a minimum.
For a week after the arrival of the Gwynedd warriors, Gruffudd ap Madog remained out of sight. On the sixth day, Haworth ventured the disappointed belief that perhaps he’d taken his men and gone back to Powys but Hugh didn’t think the chief would give up so easily, particularly after he’d been winning all along. More likely he was sizing up this new threat.
It was Hugh’s plan to anticipate Gruffudd’s reaction and use his resources to effectively stifle it.
Having spent his early years on the Welsh march and brought up on tales of his formidable ancestors and their protracted battles with their neighbors to the west, and now with information from his new partners, Hugh understood the Welsh method of warfare better than most men. Sudden, swift strikes were necessary when the manpower of the attackers was less than that of the defenders. Fighting on foot or with the shortbow was more efficient and required less space than swinging a sword from atop a horse. Making use of the environment—the forests and hills—was an advantage over invaders who didn’t know the lay of the land as well.
Hugh believed that an intelligent man familiar with the basic tenets of Welsh warfare ought to be able to reasonably predict Welsh reactions to certain situations. An even more intelligent man, like himself, ought to be able to manipulate circumstance to create these situations and thus gain the edge in the competition.
First he had to lull Gruffudd into imagining that the increase in manpower meant little actual might. He sent his laborers out again to cut timber under the protection of a small guard of new men. The guard’s instructions were to fight only defensively if attacked and not to pursue the warriors from Powys but to retreat to the fortress.
On the seventh day Gruffudd struck. Shouting loudly and wildly to disorient their victims, the Powys men raced in on their horses, ran down one or two hapless workmen, slashed their way to the other end of the group and disappeared before Dafydd’s men were even able to string a bow.
Hugh was pleased to give Gruffudd this one small victory. A few days later, he gave him one more. This time, however, his men, under the guidance of Roger Haworth, chased after their enemy until they pretended to lose them in the tangle of the countryside.
Hugh wanted to put to rest the problem of Gruffudd ap Madog before spring arrived in full force and caused the yet dormant foliage to erupt into leafy hiding places. He had to pretend to be mindless and inept in order to gain the advantage. Although Hugh had explained his tactics to him, Haworth grumbled anyway. He didn’t like intentional stupidity.
His honor was vindicated with Hugh’s next trick, a variation of the Bastard’s rout during the Rebellion of the convoy which had been heading for Dol. The day of the operation was fine; the sun rose early in a clear sky, enabling the short train of three wagons, six oxen, three drovers, seventy armed Welshmen on foot and twelve knights to leave the bailey at Hawarden at the crack of dawn. Haworth was in the lead, his eyes suspiciously raking either side of the old Roman road in an apparent search for trouble. He headed northwest, travelling slowly to accommodate the plodding oxen; anyone watching might have supposed him to be taking the convoy, perhaps loaded with gifts, to Prince Dafydd.
It felt a bit eerie—waiting to be attacked. Haworth was distinctly uncomfortable but his naturally dour demeanor was a perfect mask. He had no fear of Gruffudd and his Welsh warriors except that they would not rise to the bait. The further the futile convoy plodded, the more his hope diminished only to be replaced with anxiety of a different kind—how would the earl take it if his plan didn’t come to pass? Haworth worried that he might relapse. With every hoofbeat, he willed Gruffudd to attack.
When it actually came, then, it startled him so much he jumped in his saddle. Of course no one noticed; everyone was too busy twisting around to see what was happening.
Gruffudd’s men had swept down upon the rearguard of the line, where there were only two knights to get in their way. The path was narrow and bounded by prickly undergrowth and the knights found it difficult to maneuver their horses around to face their attackers, their first instinct upon hearing the wild shouts and whoops that suddenly filled the air.
The Welsh were riding double and they came from the rear. By the time the Normans and their allies could even consider reacting, the Welshmen on the rumps of the horses had already slid to the ground. They were archers, armed with the shortbow which was suited to the cramped and narrow space. They strung their weapons and moved up the flanks of the column, providing some cover for their horsemen.
Gruffudd had hoped to capture at least one of the wagons but he quickly decided such a feat would be impossible. The guard was too large for his band to sweep away in one strike and the wagons too cumbersome to turn on the narrow road and lead off. The success of his attack depended on surprise and speed and he couldn’t afford to spend much time on the road and risk an organized retaliation, no matter the lure of riches.
He called out to several of his men and with swords flailing they forced their way through a dozen Gwynedd warriors to the last wagon. Dafydd’s men fought heartily but were no match for men on horseback. They pressed close to the wagons, further tantalizing Gruffudd, who imagined they must be protecting some great hoard of valuables. The real challenge came from the knights guarding the rear of the line. One saw Gruffudd and kicked his horse in the Welshman’s direction, sword held out straight, its tip aimed at Gruffudd’s chest.
The Welsh chief yelled at the knight, taunting him with words the Norman couldn’t understand. He crouched low beneath his own mount’s neck and held his sword near his knee. The horses were in danger of colliding with one another. The Norman was unnerved by the sight of the barehead Welshman, screaming at him, bearing down on him at full speed and his tactic switched from offense to defense. He pulled back on his mount’s reins but the impact never came. At the last moment, Gruffudd swerved to the left, the Norman jabbed ineffectually at the air where the other’s body should have been, the Welshman pl
unged his own sword into the unprotected chest of the knight’s horse and ripped it out viciously and then, as the animal shrieked and sank to its knees, he freed his foot from the stirrup and kicked the Norman’s head with all his might and momentum.
The Powys archers had been instructed to keep up a continual hail of arrows to disorient Dafydd’s men and hold the knights at bay, as well as to protect their own warriors. For the moment, the plan was working. But Gruffudd, despite the sudden surge of exhiliration which shot through him after his encounter with the Norman, was clearheaded enough to realize that men with bows could not long hold back men in armor, on horseback.
He called for his warriors to follow him and they reached the last wagon unscathed. The man leading the team took one look at Gruffudd’s fierce scowl and flowing dark hair and abandoned his duties with a shriek. Gruffudd reached down with his sword and slit the neck of the ox nearest him. The animal started to bellow, lost its voice and fell like a stone to the ground. Another warrior killed its partner. Blood spurted up in a dramatic arc and soaked him.
Meanwhile, Gruffudd had reached down and flung back the heavy cloth covering the bed of the wagon, wanting to see if the treasure were something he might be able to carry with him. But the grin died on his face as he looked down and saw a cart laden with straw. He frowned. Straw.
Suddenly he raised his head and bellowed for his warriors to turn back. It was a trap of some kind; there was no treasure. He had watched with great interest the arrival of Dafydd’s men at Hawarden and he knew there were many more than were represented in the convoy. There were more Normans also, as well as their leader, the earl; Gruffudd had supposed the excess manpower had simply been left behind as superfluous to the escort of three wagons but now he imagined all the prince’s and all the earl’s men were lying in wait, ready to ambush the Powys men, somewhere up the road.
Under cover provided by the archers, Gruffudd and his men pulled back. Some of his warriors had already disappeared into the forest; the others swung themselves up onto their companions’ mounts as they passed by. Gruffudd shouted for the men to fan out in different directions. It took the Normans some time to work their way through the confusion at the wagons but they didn’t even pause to glance at the damage. As soon as they were free of the wreckage, they put spurs to their stallions and chased after the Welsh.
Haworth had been one of the first to reach the wagons and consequently the first to go after Gruffudd’s men. He had his quarry in sight, too; two men on one horse. They couldn’t hope to outrun his larger, stronger beast. As he had done a thousand times in practice, he stood up in his stirrups, raised his slender javelin over his head, pulled his arm back and flung the missile forward with deadly accuracy. It hit the rear Welshman square in the back; the man’s arms went flying outwards and he tumbled to the ground, dead. His companion looked back over his shoulder, saw what had happened and held his horse in with the reins wrapped around one wrist. He turned to face Haworth with his sword. The Norman didn’t attempt to halt his own mount. Instead, the animal went crashing into the Welsh horse, tottering it and throwing the Welshman off-balance. Haworth pressed his advantage and pushed the tip of his long sword into the chest of the foundering warrior.
Gruffudd and his men might not have been fleeing en masse but they were each heading in a southerly direction, towards the border of northern Powys. That was a mistake. The chief was correct in thinking the convoy had been a lure into a trap but the ambush wasn’t waiting up ahead of him, it was behind him. When the men from Powys turned and fled south, Hugh, his knights and the remainder of Prince Dafydd’s warriors were there to meet them with deadly arrows and finely honed sword edges.
Gruffudd’s threat, at least for the moment, had fizzled. Finally beaten, he and his army slipped back into Powys. Roger Haworth was all for chasing after them, now that the manpower was available, and Hugh had to remind him that it wasn’t so long ago he was bemoaning the intrusion of the soldiers from Gwynedd. Haworth grudgingly but fairly acknowledged their exceptional abilities and admitted they’d been an integral part of the victory. He’d been particularly impressed by their rough-looking longbows which, when in the proper hands, had sent arrows flying further than he’d ever seen. “It’s why we ought to press our advantage right now!” he said, still fired up from the fracas.
But Hugh was more cautious. Although Dafydd had agreed Gwynedd must be protected from Powys, the earl wasn’t certain if the prince’s good will extended to a Norman invasion of Powys using Gwynedd warriors. Besides, he didn’t want to go on the offensive until his back was secure and Hawarden was not yet complete.
“But you told me we want as much of Powys as we can get!” Haworth protested. “You said Wales has plenty of land for the taking!”
“And we’ll take it, Roger! But we can’t risk it just now…”
Hugh was able to act immediately on one of his problems. In the fortnight following the ambush, Hawarden saw quick improvement. Without Gruffudd’s continual harassment, Hugh was able to clear away the land directly surrounding the castle bailey. He increased the distance between the curtain wall and the start of the woods and had constructed a second palisade with the resultant lumber. He was confident the walls were now far out of arrow range and should any agent of Gruffudd ap Madog dare to lurk around Hawarden, he would be immediately spotted.
The castle was fast replacing Chester as a personal favorite. Chester he had inherited; Hawarden he had built—not to mention the important victory he’d conceived and brought off on its behalf. “I should have insisted on taking charge at Dol,” he told Haworth. “I believe we might have won against the Bastard if I had.”
At the mention of William fitz Henry, Haworth spat onto the ground which, because they were standing in a newly erected guard tower in the inner bailey wall, was a considerable distance below them.
Hugh was greatly enjoying himself. He had liked tricking Gruffudd and looked forward to doing it again. Miles de Gournay had once told him that the Welsh in Gwynedd had called his great-grandfather, Earl Hugh, ‘the Wolf’ because he had been a relentless scourge upon their land. It had been this earl and his cousin who had conquered much of Gwynedd and raised the castle at Rhuddlan. Not only did Hugh finally feel a kinship with a member of his family but he thought he might one day win a similarly respected sobriquet.
“Funny how we should both end up in Wales,” Hugh mused, still thinking about Longsword. “At least I’ve come as a voluntary exile. He fought for the king and what was his reward? Custodian of Rhuddlan. It’s got to be dull as an overused sword. No Gruffudds to fight. And I remember him as a hotheaded man…”
“That’s probably why the king sent him to Rhuddlan,” Haworth said. “The rumor at Falaise was that he was angry with the king for taking the Young King back into his bosom.”
“And with good reason! I’d wager the Bastard must be feeling very disaffected right now, Roger. We ought to remember that—on the chance there might be another rebellion one day. William the Bastard’s had several years to simmer; he might prove a valuable ally.”
Haworth wasn’t so convinced but didn’t have a chance to reply. A sudden movement below them had caught Hugh’s eye. “Who can this be?” he asked abruptly. Haworth followed the direction of his gaze. A solitary figure on horseback was approaching the castle at a steady but unhurried clip. Whoever it was bore no colors or other outward sign of identification.
Apparently Haworth found something familiar in the rider’s posture and manner of travel. “It’s that messenger the dowager countess sent you a few months ago,” he said.
“Are you certain?” Hugh demanded, surprised. He caught himself; there was no reason for surprise, was there, when it seemed his mother was an expert at undermining his happiness; obviously she had a sixth sense for knowing its moments of occurrence. “It would be too much to hope that he’s bringing news of her death, I suppose,” he added.
“I think he would be traveling with more urgency, my lord. No,
she’s probably just wondering why you haven’t chosen a wife yet from her list.”
“It’s amazing, isn’t it, Roger? How eagerly she awaits the arrival of a grandchild when she never had any use for her own son.” He glanced down unfavorably upon the messenger. “At least I have the excuse of having to wage war…”
“But Gruffudd’s gone, my lord,” Haworth said. “Everyone’s talking about it still. The man’s bound to hear there’s no longer any sudden threat from Powys.”
As he watched the messenger trot inexorably closer to his front gate, an idea formed in Hugh’s mind. “Well, then, we’ll have to think of something else.”
“I could kill him,” Haworth said seriously.
Hugh laughed. “Weren’t you the one who told me she’ll just keep sending others? No, I meant we’ll leave for a while. We’ll pay a visit to our partner in war, Prince Dafydd. We’ll bring him a few gifts—foreigners always like that—and thank him for the loan of his men.”
Haworth caught on immediately. “And ask him if we can use them to invade Powys?”
“Roger, while I’ve always admired your way with a sword, I have to admit that your most attractive quality is your singleminded devotion to my causes,” Hugh said, still smiling.
But to Haworth, it was no joking matter. “Always, my lord,” he answered fervently.
Some nights, she had a dream.
The dream itself took place at night, which made its already surrealistic imagery even more fantastic. Up in the glowing sky, the moon was low and full, so bright that there was no need for the torches to be lit. But it was a filmy, greyish light which distorted and stretched all objects it reached. The walls ringing the ward seemed to soar one hundred feet into the air, the shadow cast by her billowing cloak rippled majestically for miles and her feet, as she ran excitedly, lightly, never touched the ground.
She was running away from someone who wasn’t chasing her. She had planned an assignation in the stables, she remembered, but then had decided not to keep it. She’d gotten all the way to the main door, she had heard the animals within snorting and stamping and then she’d turned around and run back towards the keep. She was laughing to herself, thinking of the surprise and frustration of the man she had promised to meet. She supposed she was slightly drunk, but whether from wine or moonlight, she didn’t know.
She loosened her hair from its trap of braid and linen so that it flowed behind her like an inky river. She was running, running, running for the stair below the hall, holding up the skirts of her gown with one hand while the other one clutched at the cool air. It was wonderful how free running made her feel, how powerful, and though the length of the ward seemed to go on forever, she still had lungs full of energy.
But finally she reached the steps. As though her feet had wings, she flew up the shadow-obscured stones until she stood at the very top. And then she turned around to see if her would-be lover was following her after all…and instead she saw another man.
She caught her breath. This man was perfect. Although she could quite plainly see his figure, the milky moonlight cast a veil over his features. She saw his head, but not his face; the outline of his body, but not his clothing. Still, she knew this man was perfect. He was kind, courageous and generous.
He was staring at her. She could tell by the tilt of his head. She wasn’t the least ashamed that she was staring back so hungrily. She felt drawn to him, she wanted him…In that moment, she knew she would do anything to have him.
In her dream, the moonlight became misty. Somehow they found themselves in each other’s arms. His were solid, comfortable and fit around her shoulders as perfectly as she’d known they would. His face pressed into her hair and she closed her eyes. He whispered her name over and over: “Olwen, Olwen, Olwen…”
“Olwen! Can’t you hear me calling you? Why are you out here?” he said. “The baby’s crying his head off!”
She turned reluctantly. Richard was assiduously stepping aound the muck in the foreyard. He complained about the cows wandering where they would and making a mess wherever they went but what did he expect? This was a farm, not the ward of some great castle like Rhuddlan. And cows had to be brought in for milking…
“What are you doing?”
She looked at him. Physically, he was exactly the same as on the night she’d first seen him. His beautiful green eyes, dark, curly hair and slender, taut body never failed to send a rush of excitement through every one of her nerves. But as for the rest of it…that had only been a dream, a fantasy. Although he was the same person and she loved him, reality was still taking some getting used to.
“The baby is crying,” he said again. “I think he’s hungry.”
He was so handsome, she thought, but there was danger for her in his beauty. Did other women find him as attractive as she did? The women at Rhuddlan, for example. Were there a few there, young and unencumbered by children and an untidy manor house, who watched him in the moonlight and enticed him to fall in love with them?
She shook herself abruptly. “I’ll come.”
But before she could move, he put his hand out. Unconsciously, she backed away a step so it wouldn’t touch her. The memory of the dream was strong yet and she knew if she felt the familiar weight of his fingers on her arm she would burst into tears and disgrace herself. She had to be strong, hadn’t she? This was, after all, what she had wished for…
He was frowning. His hand hung between them as if he was still giving her the chance to accept it. “What’s the matter?”
Why couldn’t she just tell him? Why not simply ask him why he had to leave so often and stay away so long? But she knew why she couldn’t—she didn’t want to hear his answers. She suspected she knew those, too. Duty, friendship, responsibility…
“Nothing.” She forced herself to smile at him. “I suppose it’s the suddeness.”
His face was full of relief and she was irrationally angered. Couldn’t he hear the lie in her words? His arm reached out and rubbed her shoulder. She clenched her jaw and stood still, neither accepting nor refusing the caress. Couldn’t he see the emotion eating her up inside?
“Will’s like that,” he said, almost cheerfully. “When he decides something, it must be done right away.” He laughed a little. “Everything is urgent business to Will.”
Olwen had begun to regard William Longsword with as much loathing as did her former mistress, Lady Teleri. This was the man who continually contrived to deprive her of Richard’s presence. On whom Richard bestowed his duty, friendship and responsibility. Did either man never think of Richard’s family? Of his two sons who were still young enough not to recognize their father when he returned to them after spending months with his lord?
She was furious but averted her face and moved away. “I’d better see to the baby,” she said. He made no effort to stop her. She was furious but she was frightened even more because she loved him and didn’t want him to leave her. She’d seen the situations of too many shrewish wives before; their men turned to tongues which didn’t nag so much and arms which beckoned instead of gesturing angrily and they themselves became greyer and less appealing in contrast. She shuddered to imagine such a fate. What if one day he decided it wasn’t worth his while to return home?
Richard Delamere had been home only two weeks when Alan d’Arques showed up with the news that a delegation of Welsh sent by Maelgwn ap Madog had arrived at Rhuddlan with express instructions to treat for a peaceful solution to the unfortunate violence which had erupted between Llanlleyn and Lord William fitz Henry.
Delamere was astonished. “How did Lord William react?”
“There were plenty of wagers on that!” Alan said cheerfully. “The consensus was that he’d run them off Rhuddlan land but he didn’t. He’s agreed to talk.”
Delamere was even more astonished. Longsword was invariably aggressive when he felt he was the aggrieved party in a dispute. “I’d heard that fatherhood can change the character of a man but I never before believed it!”
“Oh, it’s not because of that!” Alan told him. “Or, at least, so the talk goes. The rumor in the barracks is that it’s down to the healer.”
“Gwalaes? Is there news of her daughter?”
“That was the first question Lord William asked. When he was told she was safe and sound, he replied that he refused to treat unless Bronwen was returned to her mother immediately.”
So the little girl was still alive. Delamere was inwardly relieved. He’d liked the serious, precocious child. Then something Alan had said before struck him. “What do you mean, it’s Gwalaes who’s behind Lord William’s change in behavior?”
To his surprise, d’Arques managed to turn red. “It’s only talk, Sir Richard…”
“People don’t talk unless there’s reason!” Delamere said sharply. “I’ve only been away a fortnight—what’s happened?”
“Nothing’s happened, Sir Richard! Lord William just seems, er, very grateful to her for saving his life. It’s said that’s the reason he restrained his impulse towards violence when the Welsh came. She asked him to.”
“Asked him to?” Delamere repeated incredulously. He frowned. “Well, she must have been frightened for her daughter…”
“No, Sir Richard. After Lord William demanded the child, the delegation told him that, as a measure of the chief’s good faith, she had already been safely returned to the abbey.”
Delamere almost choked and Olwen gave him an appraising look. She was waiting on the two men as they sat at the table eating a quick meal before they set off for Rhuddlan, and listening to their conversation. She understood the gist of the Norman words but not Delamere’s reaction. He sounded almost jealous of this woman who had earned the respect of his lord. It was clear by the expression on his face that he couldn’t believe another person could possibly have influence over his beloved master.
It was true; it was hard for Delamere to accept what he was hearing. However, he said no more about it lest Alan d’Arques begin to suspect Longsword was behaving irrationally—because that was exactly how he saw it. Yes, Gwalaes had saved Longsword’s life but hadn’t the men of Llanlleyn almost taken it away in the first place? And then they’d burned down a Norman abbey and kidnapped an innocent child to use for extortion. To treat with people like these, Delamere considered, was an admission of weakness.
He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that his leave-taking of Olwen and his children was almost perfunctory, which only increased the dismay and impotent anger Olwen was already feeling. She wanted desperately to ask when he would return to them but bit her tongue out of pride. He might take her and the boys for granted but she would never let him know how much it hurt her.