Rhuddlan

Chapter 44

  June, 1177

  Hawarden Castle, Gwynedd

  Olwen found herself back at Llanlleyn. Nothing had changed. It seemed like years since she’d been gone but little William was still unsteady on his feet and Henry still spent more time asleep than awake. Goewyn appeared, smiling happily, glad she had returned to Llanlleyn instead of going to Rhuddlan. She hugged Olwen tightly. “Welcome home!” she said…

  Home. She had once had a home all to herself; a pretty little manor in the midst of several cultivated fields. She’d had servants and a cow and a number of sheep. She’d had her children and plenty of work to do. But she’d been terribly lonely.

  Llanlleyn was her home. She felt comfortable living communally; if her children had been left behind at the manor when she’d been abducted, who would have looked after them? At Llanlleyn there were many mothers, even a few who were nursing. Lady Teleri had been right to insist she needn’t worry, that Goewyn would have found someone to care for the boys.

  She sat alone in the women’s house. Goewyn had gone out to supervise the cooking for the feast; a celebration as much for Olwen’s return as for Rhirid’s and his men’s safe return, she had said. Rhirid was happier than Goewyn could remember him and it was due to Olwen. “I told you once he was in love with you,” Goewyn said before leaving the women’s house. “What will you say when he asks you to marry him?”

  She was gone before Olwen could answer. The shadows in the building lengthened as the day waned and she sat there alone, musing over the events of the last few days. As she had thought, the earl hadn’t wanted to let her go with Lady Teleri. She was to be used instead to bait a trap for Lord Rhirid. The earl wished to entice Lord Rhirid into battle because of the insult he’d received when she hadn’t been delivered to Hawarden as promised.

  Everything happened so quickly. The earl told Lady Teleri he had arranged an escort to take her to the Perfeddwlad but she, as she’d sworn, refused to leave unless Olwen could leave as well. The earl was angry; it didn’t please him to have his plans disrupted. He had the two women brought to his wife’s rooms and locked in with her, declaring that none of them would ever leave Hawarden.

  Olwen was afraid, remembering the horror stories the countess had told her when they’d last been together. Teleri was livid. She boldly vowed to escape from the fortress or die trying. Olwen reluctantly agreed to accompany her. The plan, however, came from the countess. She lay in her bed, very still; blood-stained sheets, courtesy of Lady Teleri who was bleeding, covering the lower part of her body. Lady Teleri called frantically for help, crying out word ‘baby’ over and over. The guard and the servant who’d been taking them food, burst in and recoiled at the sight of the apparently unconscious countess. In the confusion of people in and out of the chambers, Olwen and Lady Teleri managed to slip through the door.

  They kept their heads down and strolled nonchalantly down the stone steps to the hall, outside and across the ward, through the open gate and down the steep stair to the inner bailey and there mingling with the women who habitually left the fortress at that time to bring their husbands and sons in the fields a noon meal. They passed through the gate without recognition, Olwen’s heart throbbing nervously every step of the way.

  And then they were free! Teleri told her they were going to head towards the Perfeddwlad and although she was anxious to return to Llanlleyn, she acquiesced without a fight.

  They began walking. It was hot and sunny and, for some reason, very quiet. Neither one of them spoke, saving all their energy for the journey. After a short time, she thought she heard a faint, steady noise coming from behind them but she refused to turn around, certain that such an action would actually bring the noise to life. Trying to ignore it didn’t make it go away, she soon found out. The noise grew until it was identifiable as galloping, pounding hoofbeats. She and Lady Teleri whirled around at the same moment—and there, rapidly bearing down on them, was Roger of Haworth.

  She tried to run but it was no use; Haworth had a horse. He cut in front of them and forced them to stop. He seemed to glare at her with the same cold expression he’d worn when he’d snatched Bronwen from her. And then he drew his sword and raised it high. She squeezed her eyes shut…thought about her children…murmured a little prayer…waited to be killed…

  A short, whistling sound and a thud. Lady Teleri gasped and she opened her eyes. Haworth tottered in his saddle, one hand grasping the shaft of an arrow. His eyes glazed over and then he fell to the ground.

  She heard her name, ‘Olwen!’ and turned around. Lord Rhirid was coming towards her, slinging a bow around to his back as he walked. He was grinning; he was so happy to see her. He had saved her life, she thought as she watched him approach. She smiled back at him, but for some reason, she knew she didn’t feel as happy as he obviously did.

  “Olwen!” he said again but now he was walking through the women’s house to where she sat. The shadows were longer; the sun was sinking and it was taking him a long time to cross the relatively short space between the door and the bench upon which she sat. Why didn’t her heart leap up to meet him? she thought. She was glad he was coming but that tickle in the pit of her stomach was missing. And yet, she didn’t run from him. She was comfortable in the darkening embrace of the women’s house, of Llanlleyn…

  Finally he was near. He stepped from the murkiness into a space lit by a torch in a sconce on the wall. He wasn’t grinning anymore, she noticed, looking first at his mouth. She raised her eyes. It wasn’t Lord Rhirid’s face staring back at her—it was Richard’s.

  “Olwen!”

  Everything slipped away in an instant. She opened her eyes to find Lady Teleri bending over her.

  “It must have been a good dream,” Lady Teleri remarked. “I called your name several times before you finally awoke.”

  Her neck ached. Her sewing, part of another gown for Teleri, lay on the floor near her feet. She must have fallen asleep on the bench, sitting up and in the middle of the day. It was understandable because most of her nights at Hawarden had so far been sleepless: it was difficult to lie in bed and pass into a comfortable oblivion when she worried about her sons and was, six days on, beginning to wonder if this exile would ever end.

  “I dreamt about Llanlleyn,” she said.

  Teleri sat down next to her. Olwen didn’t like the sober look on her face. “I hope it wasn’t too fond a remembrance.”

  “What do you mean? What did the earl have to say?”

  “Well, I tried to put it to him prettily; I suggested that after nearly a week, we must be overstaying our welcome, but he waved my concern away. So I tried to put it tactfully; I hinted that I was anxious to see my uncle and he said, of course, of course. Then he became very serious. He said he hadn’t wanted to alarm me but Sir Roger, who had been in the field for the last five days or so, had returned with news of having sighted enemy activity. I asked him what that meant and he said Gruffudd ap Madog was in the area and to send two young women off with even a small protective force would be to tempt the anger of Prince Dafydd.”

  “He said two women, Lady Teleri?”

  “Yes. See? I told you he meant to include you. Anyway, he doesn’t want to risk harm coming to us as Powys and Gwynedd are enemies. He wants to contain the problem himself and then we may go. It will be several days yet, Olwen. That’s why I hope you aren’t too homesick for Llanlleyn.”

  Olwen stared at the hem of her skirt for a moment and then reached down to pick up the cloth she’d dropped. “It’s not Llanlleyn I miss but my children,” she said quietly. “Lady Teleri…do you trust the earl?”

  Teleri looked astonished. “Trust the earl?” she repeated. She laughed. “What a question! Of course I trust him. Of all the Normans I’ve met, I trust him the most.”

  “Even though he betrayed the king during the Great War?”

  Teleri shrugged. “Men do things like that…” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why are you asking me this?” When she didn’t answer right a
way, she said sternly, “Speak to me, Olwen! Why don’t you like the earl? What are you thinking?”

  Olwen bit her lip and picked at the stitches along a hem until Teleri snatched the material out of her hands. She looked up guiltily. “I’m sorry, Lady Teleri. I suppose I’ve been influenced by Richard…and the countess. She had nothing good to say about her husband…”

  “Such as?” Teleri prompted.

  There was a slight edge to her voice. Olwen was well aware of the esteem in which her mistress held the earl and she was obviously feeling protective of him. She debated the purpose of giving Teleri any further information, but the other woman was watching her intently, ready to claim victory when Olwen was unable to produce specific evidence. She took a deep breath.

  “Such as…he keeps her prisoner, under lock and key. She can’t leave her rooms. Her servants and her guards aren’t permitted to speak to her. She said when she first arrived and asked for her daughter, he refused her request and starved her until she stopped screaming for Bronwen. He sent Bronwen elsewhere to live. He even gave her a Norman name—Mathilde. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever see her own daughter again, Lady Teleri!”

  Teleri looked unconcerned. “The way the earl put it to me, he sent Bronwen to his mother to learn the Norman customs. That seems reasonable.”

  “Very well, Lady Teleri. There’s more. It concerns me. Despite what he implied, I’m fairly certain the earl won’t let me go with you when you leave.”

  Teleri jumped up from the bench in exasperation. “How many times do we have to go through this?”

  “Lady Teleri, it’s true! Please listen! Lord Rhirid told me that when he left the earl, he was given horses and weapons to specifically use to fight Lord William. In return, I was to be abducted from my home and sent to him. But Lord Rhirid promised me he wouldn’t keep his bargain…and I think that’s why the earl sent his men to take me away by force.”

  “You?” Teleri stared down at her. “For what purpose?”

  Olwen shook her head helplessly. “I have no idea. But I think I know why. One of Lord William’s knights brought a little girl to me and asked if I could keep her for a few days. He said she was the daughter of the healer who had saved Lord William’s life and that the healer herself would come to fetch her. But she never came. That horrible man came instead, the same one who came to Llanlleyn. The little girl was Bronwen.”

  Teleri was silent, her face expressionless. Olwen watched her with some trepidation, suddenly afraid that if Teleri didn’t believe her story and instead ran to tell the earl about it, the earl’s vengeance might be terrible indeed and not only against her but against the countess as well.

  Finally Teleri seemed to resolve something in her mind. When her glance returned to Olwen, her chin was up and her eyes were cold. Olwen’s heart sank, knowing that look all too well. “I won’t leave without you,” Teleri said. When the other woman, shocked, didn’t answer quickly enough, she added forcefully, “I swear it!”

  “I—I don’t doubt you, Lady Teleri,” Olwen stammered, still surprised. “But I wouldn’t ask you to do that for me.”

  “No,” Teleri shook her head dismissively. Her voice was stiff. “No. I want to pay the debt I owe you, Olwen. You were kind to me at Llanlleyn when no one else was kind. I have not forgotten.”

  Later that night, as she lay in bed with no hope of sleeping because of the anger eating away at her gut, Teleri picked over the conversation she’d had with the earl on her first day at Hawarden, searching vainly for anything personal, any syllable proving he might have been speaking the truth to her. All his polite, concerned words resonated earnestly in her head…but she realized now that they’d been lies and that Olwen’s fears were quite justified; after all, she knew exactly how the earl had discovered he had a daughter and where he—or Haworth—could find her…She felt a shiver of apprehension at the thought of what Hugh intended for Olwen. It was a point in Longsword’s favor that she always knew where she stood with him on any given day, because he shouted when he was angry with her and ignored her when her existence didn’t bother him. A silent, calculating man such as the earl was much harder to estimate…Teleri might have felt more than a grudging sympathy for her former servant if she wasn’t so damned jealous of her.

  Because it was Olwen again. Olwen again who was the center of attention while she—who by birth, at least, should have been more important—was a mere pawn. Olwen, beloved of Sir Richard while her own husband despised her; Olwen, who had captured the heart of Rhirid while she had languished in isolation, her grand schemes fizzling into nothing; Olwen, who had been the real target of the earl’s invasion of Llanlleyn while she had just been collected because she couldn’t have very well been left in the rain, a situation which might have inspired the prince’s wrath…

  Lying in bed, Teleri had never felt so insignificant in all her life…

  Roger of Haworth was saddling his own horse in the far end of the stables, away from the grooms similarly preparing mounts for the contingent of men off to meet the latest challenge from the south. He felt the need to be alone; he didn’t want to speak to anyone or listen to idle talk. He had spent the last five days moving methodically and deliberately keeping his mind on the task at hand and nothing else. He hadn’t dared think about the past or the future.

  He threw a coarse blanket across the animal’s back and smoothed it out. He bent down to pick up the heavy, high-backed saddle and was vaguely aware of a change in the current of noise from the other end of the stables. He ignored it, concentrating on lifting and then fitting the saddle over the blanket. As he set it into place, he heard footsteps crackling on the straw which littered the walkway before the stalls. This, too, he ignored. He pulled the cinch snug and buckled it. He reached for the bridle—

  “Roger.”

  He stopped. He was suddenly so nervous that he couldn’t hear for the loud rush of blood in his ears. He turned around slowly.

  “Ready to leave?”

  “Almost, my lord,” he said.

  Hugh approached him until he was close enough for Haworth to see the strands of grey in his beard; color which hadn’t been there before they’d come to Hawarden. It was a shock—it struck him for the first time that Hugh was getting old.

  “Before you go, Roger, there’s something I’d like to ask you,” Hugh said in a low, pleasant voice.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Did you go to Rhuddlan?”

  Haworth hesitated only a heartbeat. “No, my lord.”

  He saw Hugh’s eyes widen instantly but the earl quickly recovered his composure. “I heard the rumor,” he said, “I questioned one of your companions and I still didn’t believe it. So I thought I would ask you and you’ve confirmed what I heard. That leaves only one other question, Roger: Why not?”

  He picked the bridle off its hook in the wall and stared down at it threaded between his fingers. “I was going to go. I thought I’d first take a look to the south. You’d always denied me permission…”

  His answer was met with a weighty silence. Finally, he looked up to find Hugh staring at him in obvious confusion. “I’m at a loss for words,” the earl said. “You’re not yourself, Roger. You’ve never refused my orders before. Is something wrong?”

  Haworth’s resolve faltered. He had told himself that when confronted, he would let Hugh know the true reason he hadn’t gone to Rhuddlan. He would tell Hugh he knew about his relationship with de Vire. If the earl had confronted him in a rage, yelling and red-faced, it would have been an easy task, but the soft voice and the hint of concern unnerved him. He even wondered if he was blowing the whole incident out of proportion. Perhaps there was an innocent explanation for de Vire’s rumpled head to appear in Hugh’s window in the dead of night…But the unbidden image was as shocking as the real one had been and suddenly Haworth heard himself speak before he was consciously aware of doing it. In a harsh voice, he demanded: “Is it the same between you and de Vire as it was between you and Bolsover??
??

  Except for the minute lifting of an eyebrow, Hugh’s expression never changed. “Yes, Roger…” he said quietly.

  Haworth had thought he’d be furious if he heard a positive answer and was surprised that all he felt was a terrible sadness. His throat was so choked that he couldn’t say anything. Hugh watched him, unblinking, somber.

  “I suppose,” the earl continued when he didn’t respond, “it’s better to have it all out in the open. As you know, the countess is indeed pregnant. While you were away I sent her out of Hawarden, to Avranches…and Sir Ralph moved into my chambers.”

  He sucked in his breath. “What about me?”

  “I’ll do whatever you want, Roger. You’re my best man. I’ll place you wherever you want to go. Or enfoeff you, if that’s what you prefer; you can be your own man, then.”

  Haworth looked at him helplessly. “But I don’t want to go anywhere else.”

  “I think it’s for the best, Roger,” Hugh said carefully. “For you and for me. It will hurt you to remain here and I’ll be miserable because of it. As I wish you happiness, don’t you wish me likewise?”

  “He cannot make you happy!”

  “Roger—”

  “Did Bolsover make you happy? No! You admitted as much to me after his death! You said all you wanted to do was please him and he would never be pleased! Do you imagine de Vire will be any different? That kind is all the same!”

  “Roger, I don’t want to discuss Sir Ralph or Sir Robert now. If you’re upset, perhaps you ought to stay here. We can talk further—”

  Haworth snorted and resumed saddling his horse with short, angry motions. “If you don’t want to discuss de Vire, there’s no point in talking further! Now, please pardon me, my lord, I’ve got a job to do.”

  He noted with satisfaction that Hugh looked stunned. He supposed Hugh had expected him to continue to argue or plead. Well, he wasn’t about to waste energy in a futile endeavor when it could be better expended on Gruffudd ap Madog. Besides, his quarrel wasn’t with Hugh, it was with de Vire. Having been with the earl for so many years, he was well-acquainted with the man’s weakness for simpering blonde peacocks. De Vire was exploiting Hugh’s generous nature, as Robert Bolsover had done before him. Haworth was struck by the similarities between the two young men. He couldn’t help but imagine it would all end the same way.

  He returned at twilight the following day with such astonishing information that any uneasy or ill feeling between him and the earl vanished immediately upon its telling. Crossing the border into northern Powys, Haworth and his men had been ambushed by the Welsh, who had inflicted light damage on the heavily protected knights before scattering in all directions. The event was noteworthy, Haworth told Hugh, because he had seen Rhirid ap Maelgwn alongside Gruffudd’s men.

  Ralph de Vire walked to Hugh’s chair with an almost lazy step and handed him a cup of wine. He turned to Haworth. “Are you certain? Did anyone else see him?”

  Haworth ignored him, keeping his eyes on Hugh. “My lord, a number of my men can confirm this. It was definitely Rhirid.”

  Hugh swallowed the wine thoughtfully. He knew that when Haworth had gone into Llanlleyn and seized Olwen and Teleri, he’d made an enemy out of a former ally but he’d discounted the threat of retaliation. Surely Rhirid wasn’t stupid enough to be swayed by a foolish pride into attacking Hawarden’s superior force. He hadn’t considered the possibility that Rhirid might seek out an alliance with Gruffudd, but as he digested Haworth’s report, his sudden apprehension faded. After all, he reasoned, hadn’t he already defeated Gruffudd and recently gotten the best of Rhirid? No, he didn’t believe he had anything to fear from this united Welsh front.

  “My lord, if I may suggest…”

  Hugh nodded. “Yes, what is it, Ralph?”

  “You should march down into Powys to meet this threat, my lord. A showy spectacle; all your army. Burn whatever buildings you find and slaughter the livestock. Let these two petty chiefs take note that you mean business and will retaliate harshly for any slight against your soldiers, including what just happened to Sir Roger’s men.”

  “My lord, that’s a foolhardy plan!” Haworth immediately protested. “You’d be exposing your entire army to the unorganized, unseen quick strikes the Welsh favor. The king tried this tactic in ’65 and it was one of his few failures! And what happens if Gruffudd and Rhirid don’t attack at all? How long are you planning to sleep, eat and travel rough?”

  “You can’t compare ’65 to our trouble!” de Vire said. “The king was more at the mercy of the weather than the Welsh and his line of supply was too long—”

  “His intention was the same as ours—to subdue the Welsh—and he failed!” Haworth, provoked into addressing de Vire, snapped.

  Whatever merit his captain’s argument may have had was lost on Hugh, who was annoyed that Haworth kept harping on Henry’s failure, which for some reason served merely to remind him of Henry’s great success at Dol.

  De Vire appealed to Hugh with an exasperated expression. “My lord—”

  “My lord,” Haworth interrupted, striding forward to stand in front of Hugh, just a step before de Vire, “a smarter plan is to imitate the Welsh and send out small raiding parties to harass Powys until Gruffudd tires of the game and is provoked, along with Rhirid, into a face-to-face confrontation!”

  “My lord, that could take forever!” de Vire exclaimed. “It’s nearly the end of August. Winter is practically around the corner!”

  Haworth made a noise of derision but was prevented from retorting when Hugh stood up suddenly and thrust his cup into de Vire’s hands. “It seems to me that Sir Ralph might be right in this matter, Roger. I can see no reason not to show our full power to the Welsh. And I don’t want to waste time playing games. Remember, we’ve got the Bastard’s wife and his captain’s whore here and I’d like to get rid of this Welsh threat before taking on Rhuddlan.” In a more conciliatory tone, he added, “Perhaps it’s just as well you didn’t go to Rhuddlan, Roger. I’ve no doubt our exceptional army can defeat both the Bastard and the Welsh; it might, however, be awkward to have to do it at the same time.”

  He’d never seen Haworth look so stunned and he felt a little guilty. His captain stood motionless and when it was obvious he wasn’t going to respond, Hugh suggested kindly that he might prefer to remain behind with a small guard to watch Hawarden. Haworth’s flat rejection of this idea was immediate and forceful.

  “Well, then,” Hugh said, “we’ll leave in the morning.”

  He had almost immediate cause to regret not insisting Haworth keep charge of the fortress instead of leading the army south. With every passing league Haworth’s frown deepened and when they paused for a meal at noon the second day without having seen one Welshman, he approached Hugh to complain again about the foolhardiness of their venture. And once again it was de Vire who answered for Hugh, scoffing at Haworth’s fears and telling him to return to Hawarden if he was so nervous about engaging the Welsh.

  Purely to allay de Vire’s worry about possible retaliation by Haworth, Hugh had recounted to him the conversation with Haworth in the stables. He had thought only to reassure de Vire; to let him know that Haworth now understood that de Vire had taken his place. He’d wanted to prove to Ralph that his interest in him was serious and that was why he’d gone through the distasteful but necessary step of letting Haworth know their own relationship was over. But he could never have imagined de Vire’s response to this news. It was as if an entirely new personality had been unleashed. Apparently secure in the earl’s acknowledged favor, de Vire had become arrogant and outspoken, particularly concerning Haworth. That was natural enough—to be jealous of a lover’s former bedmate—but Hugh wished de Vire wouldn’t lord it up over Haworth, who hadn’t done anything to earn such disrespect. He’d been meaning to speak to de Vire privately about his attitude but whenever they were alone together he had other things on his mind. He couldn’t very well reprove the young man in front of Haworth, wh
ich seemed to be the only time he remembered he had to do it.

  So now he hadn’t only the Welsh to worry over; there were Haworth and de Vire carping at each other constantly and vying for his attention. Hugh didn’t want to think about his personal life at the moment, even though it kept poking up in his face. There really was only one solution for this problem and he would have to convince Haworth to take up his offer of enfoeffment…or he’d have to dismiss him from his service…

  “My lord, my scouts have returned.” Haworth’s bearded face swam suddenly before his eyes. Hugh started. He must have dozed off from the affects of the warm sun and hearty meal. He pushed himself upright and suppressed a yawn. He glanced around as inconspicuously as possible but de Vire, who had been sitting with him as they’d eaten, was no longer there. “They’ve spotted a small group of Welsh a few leagues from here. Warriors. Resting, perhaps, as we’ve been doing.”

  Hugh cleared his throat. “Were your men seen?”

  “No, my lord. They counted only twenty-odd Welsh.”

  “But who!” Ralph de Vire appeared at Haworth’s side. He addressed Hugh. “My lord, they said one of the Welsh was Gruffudd and another was Rhirid.”

  Hugh’s head swiveled toward Haworth. “Roger?”

  “That’s indeed what they said, my lord, and I’m sure it’s true. But something’s not right—only twenty-odd men? And no guard posted? And conveniently waiting not very far from here?”

  “What of it?” de Vire demanded. “They didn’t expect us to come after them, that’s why there aren’t any guards! They expected we’d keep behind our walls and retaliate only if they came onto the earl’s property! My lord, if I may make a suggestion?” He went on before Hugh could respond. “Let’s split our army into two parts. The larger part, mostly bowmen and the footmen, will advance forward to surround the campsite in all directions. The smaller part will charge headlong into the camp and when the Welsh scatter in response, there will be Norman swords and arrows ready to meet them in any direction. My lord, it will be glory for you!”

  “My lord, this strategy is too impetuous!” Haworth protested. “It’s just too much good fortune that the Welsh are simply waiting for us. I think it’s a trap!”

  “And I tell you they’re merely a raiding party!” de Vire argued. “My lord, you’ve got Rhirid and Gruffudd there, protected by only a handful of warriors. We must not waste this opportunity to kill them!”

  The biting enmity between Haworth and de Vire and their constant appeals to his favor were giving Hugh a throbbing headache—but also a growing appreciation of de Vire. His unbridled eagerness for immediate, violent action made Haworth’s careful suspicion seem old and unattractive. He was exciting, fresh and bold, and entirely irresistible, especially when he turned his intense eyes on Hugh…

  “We’ve already discussed being unable to waste time, Roger,” Hugh answered finally. “We’ll go with Ralph’s plan.”

  Haworth stared at him, plainly shocked at this second betrayal in as many days, and Hugh tried not to shrink under the honest scrutiny. He was suddenly angry; why did Haworth believe he had a permanent claim on him? Why did he insist on perpetuating a relationship which had petered out long ago? Was it so wrong of Hugh to desire someone else?

  But Haworth was not only shocked, he was angry, too. He stepped very close to Hugh. “It’s a trap, pure and simple, my lord,” he said in a tight, low voice. “I won’t expose my men to it—”

  “Your men, Roger?” Hugh demanded.

  “I’m their commander.”

  “A situation easily remedied!”

  Haworth glanced at de Vire, who was not within earshot of this intense but hushed exchange, and curled his lip. “If you think to put that young fool in command, think again! The men won’t follow him!”

  “They’ll follow me!” Hugh glared at Haworth for a moment while he sorted out his thoughts. He didn’t relish the idea of Haworth riding off in a huff with battle imminent, not only because such an action would demoralize the men but because it would create ill-feeling against Ralph de Vire. His expression relaxed and he softened his tone. “Roger, I don’t want to argue with you,” he said reasonably. “You said not long ago you don’t want to leave me; if that’s so, then take this order…please…”

  He waited tensely but Haworth had always backed down when push came to shove and this moment was no different. After a short interval, Haworth bowed his head.

  Like two creeping vines, the main bulk of the Norman army spread quietly around either side of the Welsh camp until it was virtually surrounded. The terrain was rough and hilly, and covered with sufficient vegetation to keep the men hidden. Haworth was to have led one branch himself but he had stayed behind, giving instruction instead. Hugh pretended not to notice, unwilling to force the issue. De Vire, proud and barely able to keep still, had taken the other branch and now he was out of sight.

  The earl stood at the head of a phalanx of knights, their helmets pulled low, their horses stamping the ground and their lances upright. He waited for a runner to bring back word that everyone was in place…

  And then it was time. At the last moment, Haworth had doubled the guard around Hugh with the result that it was difficult for him to move quickly without crashing into the knights before him, all of whom seemed to be moving at an almost casual pace. They couldn’t afford to lose their impetus; Hugh waved his men onward even as he fell further back. He suspected that this was Haworth’s intention.

  The men ahead of him began shouting and whooping and he guessed they had reached the Welsh camp. The sudden commotion acted as a spur to his guards and they hurried forward, their formation breaking down. They had been led to believe this battle would be a rout and now they were eager to join in. Hugh saw an opening and immediately urged his mount through it. He had no desire to remain in the safety of the rear; he wanted some glory to recount to Ralph de Vire.

  The camp was in a small clearing at the bottom of a short hill and as he reached the crest, Hugh paused to extract his sword from his belt. He glanced briefly below at the scene below and the thought crossed his mind that the Welsh had flouted a basic rule of campaigning by making camp in such a low lying, vulnerable spot. The twenty-odd warriors whom his scouts had reported were stirring from their casual seating on the ground and his soldiers were almost upon them. He gripped his sword and prepared to join them.

  Suddenly, there was chaos. Archers had sprung up out of the undergrowth just before the clearing and were shooting into the fast-approaching ranks of the Norman cavalry. Although a few arrows struck riders, most were aimed at the horses.

  Because the Normans were so close, the Welsh had time for only one, well-orchestrated surprise salvo and to Hugh’s dismay, they pulled it off with great success. He counted six downed horses, whose dead or flailing bodies immediately proved a hindrance to the forward progress of the knights following the first line. As the men struggled to get past this obstacle, the archers fell back and the warriors who’d acted as lures stepped up to take their place. They waited patiently, believing themselves to be in control of the situation.

  Hugh immediately spotted the large man with the long mustaches who was Rhirid’s champion and had only to glance at his left to find Rhirid, not nearly as impressive, standing beside him. He tightened his grip on his reins and pressed his knees into his mount, urging the beast forward. Perhaps the Welsh were a bit more clever than he’d supposed them to be but they still could not prevail over his more expensively and better equipped soldiers. And now he was determined to kill Rhirid himself.

  Without warning, a mailed rider loomed in his field of vision, pulling up so abruptly on the reins that his stallion reared up with snorts that carried above the din of the mayhem all around them. Hugh had to quickly pull his own horse back to avoid the heavy hooves which crashed to the ground, and then took advantage of his attacker’s momentary unbalance to press closer to him and slash viciously at the arm holding the reins, although his own precarious footin
g made the blows more glancing than lethal. The attacker was aggressive. He used his horse as a weapon as much as his sword, urging the animal to push into Hugh’s mount in an effort to topple Hugh to the ground, and when that tactic failed, took to butting Hugh’s head with the pommel of his sword. The closeness of his opponent made it impossible for Hugh to swing his sword to any effect and he was forced to back up to relieve the assault on his head. Again, his attacker bolted forward to close the gap between them but before he could inflict any damage, a third horseman hurtled into the fray. Holding his sword straight out before him as if it were a lance, the newcomer plowed unerringly into Hugh’s opponent. The sword was forced by the momentum and strength of his body through the man’s metal hauberk and into his chest. There was a brief moment when nothing seemed to move, and then Roger of Haworth pulled his sword back with a quick, sudden jerk and the dead man dropped to the ground. Oblivious now to the chaos of noise and flailing weapons around them, panting from exertion, Hugh and Haworth stared down at the inert, metal-shrouded body.

  They looked up and at each other at the same time. “Well,” Hugh said calmly, “you were right; it is a trap.”

  “I didn’t expect this, my lord! Did he belong to the Bastard?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “What will we do?”

  Hugh hesitated, frowning. He hated to admit that the Bastard had gotten the better of him but there was no way his men, superior in ability and training as he believed they were, could fight the combined forces of three armies at once. He suddenly saw the battle as standing for something greater than merely the Bastard’s revenge for the kidnapping of his wife—it was to be the conclusion of the fight started at Dol. Whatever differences might have existed between Longsword and Rhirid ap Maelgwn were but trifles when compared with Longsword’s grudge against him.

  “We must get back to Hawarden. The Bastard wants to kill me, Roger, but he needs to do it clean; in battle. He realized he hadn’t a chance coming against me at Hawarden; he could sit outside those walls for a year with no hardship to us.”

  Haworth nodded grimly and took up his reins. “I’ll collect your bodyguard and send you off, my lord.”

  Hugh looked down the incline to where the fighting was kicking up the dust. “Where’s Sir Ralph? His men ought to be here to help. Without them we’re outnumbered. Don’t they hear the ruckus?”

  “He deployed the archers and footmen so far out that they probably don’t hear anything,” Haworth said flatly. “Don’t worry; I’ll retrieve them. The most important thing is that you get safely away, my lord. If you’re lost, we’re all lost.”

  Hugh reached over and gripped Haworth’s shoulder firmly. “You’re in charge, Roger, as ever. Will you do me one favor?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “Find Sir Ralph.” He hesitated. “I know it’s a terrible thing to ask of you but you’re the only one I trust. The only one I can truly depend upon…”

  “I’ll find him,” Haworth promised.

  Hugh smiled, relieved. Dropping his hand, he returned his sword to his belt and took hold of the reins.

  Rhirid had told no one, not even his healer, about his persistent dizziness and periodic headaches. Although nothing had been spoken aloud, he knew that in his men’s opinion he’d already committed one offense by humbling himself to the Norman lord when he’d sought aid against the earl of Chester; to admit to physical weakness now could prove tantamount to being forced to give up lordship of Llanlleyn. He’d become adept at keeping himself as still as possible for as long as possible. He didn’t think anyone had noticed.

  It had been the Norman lord’s idea to enlist the support of Gruffudd ap Madog. Rhirid had been of two minds about this; while he welcomed the additional swords, it had not been so long ago that he and his men had fought against Gruffudd at the behest of the prince and he wasn’t certain that Dafydd would condone an alliance with northern Powys now. Longsword had scoffed at his apprehension and waved away his concern. His almost sneering dismissal of Dafydd’s potential reaction led Rhirid to believe that the Norman had some grievance against the prince.

  Rhirid usually looked forward to a good fight as much as any man but on this day his dizziness made him doubtful of his ability. He didn’t know if his coordination would be affected. As he waited, he prayed he wouldn’t make a fool of himself in front of his warriors. Only one thought could drive away his insecurity: that he would meet Roger of Haworth, the man who had ridden onto his land and stolen Olwen, and kill him.

  After hearing Goewyn’s shocking tale, he had spent a sleepless night turning over and over in his mind what horrible fate might await Olwen at Hawarden. In the morning, despite a throbbing headache and a painfully swollen face, he’d felt calmer. He knew what he had to do to get Olwen back. He’d put it simply and quietly to his men. His tone had been soft but there’d been no missing the steel behind it, and although there were unhappy, even angry, faces looking back at him, no one had dared protest when he’d told them that he was going to seek the assistance of the lord of Rhuddlan.

  To his mind, he had no choice. Olwen was more important than an ultimately meaningless feud with Longsword and he believed the Normans at Rhuddlan—or at least one of them—would feel the same. Besides, he had to at least try to neutralize this Norman threat while he faced the other, more powerful one from Hawarden.

  He’d supposed Lord William would receive him at best distrustfully and at worst with a drawn sword; after all, a mere two days earlier they’d tried to kill each other. He’d brought a hostage with him, a measure of his good faith and this seemed to work in his favor. Olwen’s Norman lover had done the translations, all the while glaring at him with such intense hatred that he’d decided he had more to fear from this man than from Lord William. He’d turned away from the frosty scrutiny only to find Longsword staring at his face with undisguised distaste.

  “It’s a pathetic battle indeed when my enemy’s horse inflicts more damage on him than I do,” the Norman had remarked. Then his tone had hardened. “I must move more quickly next time.”

  “—Rhirid!”

  Dylan’s harsh whisper shook him out of his reverie. “What’s wrong?” he said.

  “Nothing! Everything’s right. Look! The first of the earl’s men are approaching. We must stand up as if they’ve surprised us!”

  The ones who were truly surprised were the earl’s knights, when the hidden archers jumped to their feet at Gruffudd’s signal, fitted an arrow and took almost immediate aim. The charging horsemen were too close to halt or shy away and the result was confusion, swirling dust and a lot of noise.

  The second wave of the earl’s attack came quickly on the heels of the first but these men, having seen what had happened to their comrades and realizing this was no chance meeting after all, had a few moments to adjust their forward impetus. They were speeding at such a rate that there was no time to stop; instead they looked for gaps in the collection of men and beasts lying in their path or ducked low and jumped over the obstacles. The archers retreated to a position behind Gruffudd and Rhirid and the other Welsh in the clearing. The Powys chief shouted and waved his sword in the air and suddenly dozens of men sprang up from the verges and jumped down from the trees, and pushed their way towards the clearing, wielding swords and spears to meet the earl’s knights.

  Rhirid reached up with several others and pulled a Norman from his horse. Before the man had a chance to regain his balance, the chief lunged at him, ramming his shield and the full weight of his body into him. The Norman fell to his knees under the force of the collision and then Rhirid brought the butt of his sword crashing down onto his helmet. The Norman collapsed. Rhirid watched the others fall upon him and was pleased with this successful start to his battle. With a start, he realized his dizziness and pain were gone. It was a good portent. Fate was surely smiling on him. The plan had worked, Chester was trapped, he would have his revenge on Haworth and he would return to Olwen.

  Dyla
n was behind him. “They don’t know which way to turn,” he laughed. “It’s a rout!”

  “Where’s Roger of Haworth?” Rhirid shouted above the din of the battle.

  “I saw him a moment ago—talking to the earl. They’ve both gone now.” Dylan wiped his sweating face with an arm and suddenly his expression changed. “Rhirid! Take care!”

  The chief swung around. A Norman man-at-arms approached to challenge him. Rhirid felt such an exhilirating rush that all at once he jiggled his forearm and wrist from the bindings and tossed his round, iron-bound shield to the side. What did he need it for, anyway? Today he was invincible.

  He was lighter without the shield. His every nerve was singing. With a grin, Rhirid faced his new opponent, hearing nothing at all but the deafening, excited pulse in his ears. The Norman came to him, sword drawn. Rhirid swung but the other man blocked him. He grasped his sword with both his hands and began his attack in earnest, never giving the Norman the opportunity to do anything else but defend himself. Again and again, he repeated the same sequence of moves: slash to the right, cut down over the soldier’s right shoulder, feint to the left, jab upwards, draw back, feint to the right, slash to the right…until his opponent imagined he was able to predict his next move and then Rhirid abruptly changed the pattern. The Norman’s sword flew in the wrong direction, whistling harmlessly through the air instead of crashing into metal, and Rhirid took advantage of the opening to swing his weapon with all his strength into the man’s exposed side, biting through his leather armor. Off balance, the Norman staggered and dropped his sword. He fell to his knees. Rhirid raised his sword a last time and struck off the man’s head.

  Today he was invincible. He spat onto the ground and looked around. The ambush was winding down; all Chester’s men who were able were beginning to retreat. William Longsword’s footmen were giving chase. He and his warriors were to follow after, sweeping up any enemy laggers, but that could wait for the moment. Instead, he took a deep breath and bellowed out Roger of Haworth’s name.

  Haworth finally located Ralph de Vire up in the higher ground, in a deadly contest with a Rhuddlan knight among the trees. Somehow, they’d both ended up fighting on foot while their horses waited not far away. Haworth was careful to keep himself out of the way and neither combatant appeared to have noticed his sudden intrusion onto their battle ground.

  He watched them with a professional eye and was grudgingly impressed with de Vire’s performance. The young man was displaying an aptitude for swordplay Haworth hadn’t seen him demonstrate on the practice grounds at Hawarden; obviously, he thought sourly, when dueling with Hugh, de Vire was prudent enough never to win. Now he was giving the fight everything he had…

  It was an even match and might have gone on forever, if de Vire, stepping backwards to avoid a cut, hadn’t tripped over an exposed root and fallen hard onto his backside, clutching his lower left leg and losing his weapon. Haworth saw his opponent’s mouth twist into a smirk; the man descended deliberately upon de Vire with his sword clutched in both hands. De Vire seemed helpless to defend himself. His sword lay several feet away. As the knight from Rhuddlan raised his weapon over de Vire’s prone body, Haworth felt conflicting emotions of relief and jealousy—but there was no need; at the last moment, de Vire rolled onto his side and scrambling to his feet, jabbed the sharp point of a dagger into the man’s throat. It happened so quickly that the knight from Rhuddlan wasn’t even aware that he was mortally wounded until he tried to take a breath and found he couldn’t. Haworth heard his blood gurgle. He watched the man collapse onto the ground and saw de Vire give the body a vicious kick in the ribs.

  He dismounted and walked slowly towards de Vire. “Nice work.”

  The young man whirled around. “Sir Roger!”

  “A former companion of yours?” Haworth inquired, nodding towards the dead man. “It was a good trick; you had me fooled. I thought I’d have to bring your corpse back to the earl.” He paused and smiled a little. “Well, I’ll probably have to do that, anyway. As I said, nice work. I’m always looking for a fresh arm. Why don’t you try your skill against me?”

  De Vire’s face was curiously pale for someone who’d just undergone such furious exercise but he spoke firmly enough. “I think our energy would be better spent on our adversaries, don’t you?”

  “The way I see it, de Vire, you are my adversary. You’re my primary adversary.” He took his sword out of his belt. “Come. That was a short fight; you can’t be winded.”

  “This is ridiculous!” the other man sputtered. “There’s a serious battle occurring just beyond those trees!”

  “More serious than you think,” Haworth said agreeably. “It’s actually the trap I tried to warn Hugh about. Don’t worry; I saw him safely away.”

  De Vire stared at him. “I don’t want to fight you, Sir Roger.”

  “It’s less work for me if you don’t.”

  “The earl will not countenance this!”

  “The only way he’ll ever find out is if you kill me, de Vire. So? You have a chance, de Vire.” Haworth’s voice became taunting. “Why don’t you take it?”

  After a pause, the other man, apparently resigned, said, “Will you allow me to retrieve my sword?”

  Haworth laughed. “Of course! It would be murder, otherwise…”

  He watched de Vire walk to where his sword lay and bend over to pick it up. He never underestimated his opponents, but he’d seen enough of de Vire’s style to be reasonably certain of his own victory. All that remained was what story to tell Hugh. The dead knight from Rhuddlan was a good touch. He’d come upon de Vire just as he was cut down by the unknown knight; in a fit of fury and revenge out of respect for the earl, he had promptly challenged the knight and defeated him…Haworth glanced back at the body and debated taking the head with him to give further credence to his tale…

  De Vire straightened up. And then Haworth heard his name bellowed so loudly, it sounded as if the caller were directly behind him. Reflexively, he spun around and saw no one. He turned back to de Vire and saw the man running towards his horse, which, Haworth realized belatedly, waited only twenty feet from the sword. It had been de Vire’s plan all along, and Haworth’s suddenly diverted attention had bought him a little extra time.

  With an oath, Haworth ran after him and just managed to grab his shoulder as he reached up to take hold of his saddle. He pulled de Vire back with his free hand, swung him around and punched him in the face with the force of the pommel of his sword in his other. De Vire sank unconscious to the ground. It was a small mercy and Haworth wouldn’t have been able to say why he’d done it. Perhaps for Hugh’s sake. At any rate, it meant that de Vire never saw or felt the sure, heavy thrust of Haworth’s swordpoint breaking through his chest.

  For Longsword, the waiting was unbearable, especially when he could quite clearly hear the shouting and clanging of metal from the not-too-distant battle. His primary thought was that the Welsh were going to mess it up. Something would go wrong or something unexpected would happen; it was always the way. If he was there, he could make adjustments and save the victory. Instead, he was waiting with his knights among the trees, between the battle and Hawarden, fretting. It had all seemed foolproof in the planning; why were there always so many sudden doubts and second thoughts in the execution?

  He was anxious also because the plan had been his own creation. If it failed, he would look like a fool to the Welsh. He still found it difficult to believe he was allied with Rhirid ap Maelgwn and he didn’t want to lose this tenuous semblance of overlordship he’d gained when the Welshman had come begging to him.

  But mostly he was anxious—so incredibly on edge—for his plan to succeed because Gwalaes was at Hawarden…To defeat the earl and ride in triumph back to his fortress and rescue her was the goal towards which Longsword strived with such urgency that the enforced waiting was threatening to snap his nerves…

  “My lord!” Fitz Maurice was galloping up the short hill upon which Longsword a
nd his men stood. He gasped for air as he reined in. “My lord!”

  “What is it?” Longsword demanded, his chest tight. “What’s happened?”

  “It worked! They were completely surprised! The Welsh fell upon them without mercy!”

  Some of Longsword’s anxiety lessened but he kept his features straight. “The earl?”

  Fitz Maurice shook his head regretfully. “We weren’t as fortunate there, my lord. He sensed or he saw the trap and he never got close enough for us to finish him.”

  “Never mind; we’ll get him now.” Longsword’s voice was determined. He took up his reins. He hadn’t actually expected Chester to become entangled in the Welsh snare because he knew the earl didn’t have much battle experience and probably preferred to let others take charge of his operations; anyway, he didn’t want the Welsh to have all the glory. If he and his knights could bring down the earl, that would be a fitting end to the plan. He glanced around. “Where’s Richard?”

  “He told me he wanted to keep an eye on the Welsh, my lord,” fitz Maurice said. “I said you would miss him but he ordered me to leave.”

  Longsword swore under his breath. He debated sending fitz Maurice and another man to bring Delamere back but decided there wasn’t enough time and he was certain his friend would have realized this, as well. Ever since Rhirid had ridden into Rhuddlan with the report that the earl had abducted Olwen, Delamere had been nearly impossible to deal with; in fact, Longsword had had to physically restrain him from jumping on his horse and charging straight down to Hawarden that very night. And then there was the steady, malevolent stare with which he watched Rhirid, like a cat just waiting for the right moment to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse. Longsword had done his best to persuade him to keep away from the Welshman, but now they were both out of sight.

  There was nothing he could do; Chester was the concern of the moment. He ordered his knights to take up the positions they’d discussed earlier. He was confident about this part of the plan, mostly because he had direct control over it. It was necessary, however, that the earl flee the ambush in the same direction from which he’d come.

  A sharp whistle suddenly pierced the air and he gripped his sword more tightly and looked around and nodded at his men. It meant the earl was in sight and was the signal for the archers to prepare to fire. Longsword had sent his foot soldiers and several knights to fight with the Welsh but he’d kept his archers back in the event of the need for a second attempt at Chester. Surely the earl wouldn’t think his enemies would use the same trick twice.

  From his station, Longsword couldn’t see the surprise attack by the bowmen but he could hear men shouting and horses screaming and knew it had been a success. Hopefully, not too much of a success—he wanted to take the earl himself—but enough to put a significant dent in the bodyguard.

  The archers had waited in a part of the wood where the travel path was forced to narrow because of heavy undergrowth; Longsword and his knights were several hundred yards away on more open ground. They didn’t have long to wait before the first riders burst out of the wood and into their paths.

  “Go!” Longsword shouted. He dug his spurs into his horse’s ribs and jolted forward. Now there was no plan; his only instructions to his knights had been to chase down and kill anyone from Hawarden who didn’t immediately offer surrender, with the exception of the earl who was his own prey. Fitz Maurice had given him a description of Chester’s clothing, accoutrements and the color, size and rigging of his horse and he scanned the handful of men who’d emerged from the trees with an impatient eye, trusting his mount to watch the ground as they sped along.

  And then he saw him. Both Chester and his horse seemed to have gotten through the trap unscathed. The earl was crouched low over the beast’s neck, his head tucked down. In one hand he held the reins, in the other his sword. There was a man behind him and another one by his side: his guards. Longsword was momentarily angry with Delamere for not being present because he and fitz Maurice could have dealt with the guards, leaving the earl vulnerable, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

  The trio was fast approaching. Longsword pulled slightly on the reins to alter his direction. It had been his intention to jump in front of the earl but it was obvious Chester was not going to stop no matter what appeared in his path. Longsword would have to chase him until one of their horses gave out. He berated himself for not carrying a javelin. Despite the fact the earl was low to his horse and even though they were all moving very fast, Longsword felt he’d have a perfect, clean shot at him when he drew closer.

  He glanced back to fitz Maurice, whose horse was struggling valiantly to keep up its speed, and shouted for him to intercept the guard in the rear. The sound drew the attention of the two front riders who raised their heads to locate its source and saw Longsword racing across the ground to their right, going in the same direction but in an ever narrowing trajectory which would soon end in collision if someone didn’t veer away. Longsword kept going.

  The guard riding with the earl dropped slightly back and then suddenly broke away and made for Longsword who immediately understood his intention and cursed Delamere again. The guard wanted to get in his way—push him off his course and increase the space between him and the earl. Longsword tried feinting, slowing down and angling sharply to his left but he wasn’t near enough to the guard to make this maneuver work; the guard quickly compensated. It would be impossible to dodge the man and Longsword knew the more time he wasted on him, the greater the earl’s chances of escaping.

  He pulled firmly on the reins and brought his horse, breathing heavily, to a fitful walk. He slid the shield from his back onto his left arm and held his sword ready, using only his knees to keep his balance on the animal. Whether Chester’s guard had expected a fight or not, he didn’t know, but the man did not shirk it. Still moving quickly, he came directly towards Longsword with an upraised sword and a determined posture, fanatically loyal, as the other man knew most of Chester’s knights were, to the death.

  When he deemed the gap between himself and the guard narrow enough, Longsword urged his mount into a trot and raised his own sword. The two men met with a harsh clang. Momentum kept them going until they checked their progress and wheeled around. This time Longsword kept his horse standing. They could pass and lunge at each other for hours before one of them got lucky and caused the other one damage but by that time the earl would be back on his own land. Longsword had to be lucky now. The guard approached and slashed downward with his sword. Longsword thrust his shield up to protect his head and shoulder and felt the blow glance off it but his answering swipe met with air as the guard moved beyond his reach.

  Longsword pivoted. His attacker jumped forward and the two horses nearly collided. Longsword swung his weapon horizontally into the guard’s hauberk-protected body but he was too close to his target for the blow to amount to anything more lethal than a bruised rib. The guard began swinging his own sword rapidly, back and forth, with sudden, short swipes aimed at Longsword’s upper body and head. For a moment, all he could do was hold up his shield to stave off the blows. The man, possibly emboldened by Longsword’s apparent inability to return the bombardment, redoubled his efforts, his horse prancing around. Longsword grew frustrated. He hated the idea of anyone getting the better of him but he knew as soon as he fought back, the guard would swing out of reach, and the scenario would be repeated until they were miles away from where they’d started. He tried to think of another way out, cursed Delamere yet again and wondered where the hell fitz Maurice was.

  A blow landed on the side of his head. He was momentarily stunned; his shield must have slipped. The pain hit him an instant later, a jolt of lightning searing down his neck and into his shoulder; scorching the old wound Rhirid’s arrow had made months earlier. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt it but it screamed now with all its former intensity. The sudden shock made him furious. Without thinking he lashed out, thrusting his shield away from his body with a v
iolent push and swinging his right arm around, over the neck of his horse, bringing his sword down on top of his opponent’s head.

  The clout wasn’t deadly; the earl had outfitted his men with the best equipment available and that included sturdy helmets, but it was enough to halt the man’s barrage. The more successful piece of the attack was the shove with his shield, which had the fortunate effect of knocking the guard off-balance. At the same time, Longsword let out a roar of pain and frustration and the guard’s horse backed nervously away, shaking its rider’s already precarious position. As Longsword watched in disbelief, the man struggled to regain his seat but he was weighted down by his heavy gear and finally, arms flailing, slid from the saddle until he was upside down, his head nearly touching the ground, because one of his boots was entangled in a stirrup and he couldn’t pull it loose.

  The pain in his neck was gone. Longsword hesitated but to dismount and kill the man was an expenditure of time he couldn’t afford. Instead, he shrugged his shield up onto his back, grabbed the reins and kicked his horse into a gallop.

  The earl was nowhere in sight. Longsword cursed his friend for the fourth time and thought angrily that if he failed to take the earl it would be Delamere’s fault. Of course, he’d never make such a judgement aloud because first Delamere would tell him it was down to some foolish error on his own part, and then become extremely offended and ride off in a huff. But where to? He no longer had another home…only Rhuddlan. Just Rhuddlan…That thought cheered Longsword so much that he promptly forgot his displeasure with Delamere’s absence.

  “My lord!” A voice hailed him from behind. Longsword twisted in his saddle and saw fitz Maurice and three other knights coming towards him. He slowed his horse to allow them to catch up.

  “How did it go?” he asked when they were all together.

  “The bowmen knocked three from their horses and another two were taken prisoner after a short fight,” Guy Lene answered.

  “I killed the earl’s guard,” fitz Maurice said.

  “And I left one behind.” Longsword put the numbers together. “Seven knights to guard Chester? I thought he was regarded more highly than that.”

  “Perhaps there are others ahead…”

  Could men have passed him while he’d been engaged with the guard? It was possible…but it was even more likely that they would have come to the aid of their comrade, especially when every one of Longsword’s accoutrements practically screamed his patrimony.

  “Not unless they went by another route,” he said. “No. The earl is up there, alone. He’s had a good headstart but his horse must be tiring. Let’s go.”

  They increased their speed until they were once more galloping. Longsword had the advantage with his larger, sleeker horse and he was soon ahead of the others, which suited him fine. He had determined to kill Chester, and if the man was intent on surrendering instead of fighting when finally confronted, it would be preferable not to have witnesses to his murder.

  He rode almost recklessly, feeling that he’d wasted too much time battling the earl’s guard and that the earl himself must by now be impossibly far away. The transformation of open ground into hillier, leafy terrain set loose the demons of insecurity in his head. He couldn’t stop imagining his worst nightmare: that Chester had slipped the trap. No—even worse: that Chester had slipped the trap and was laughing at him.

  He proceeded more cautiously when he entered the forest. There was a trail and it showed obvious signs of having recently supported a large retinue but it was barely wide enough to accommodate an ox-cart and the number of hiding places along its verges seemed infinite.

  He was so full of fretting over what might have gone wrong that when he finally came upon the earl, he was actually startled to have found him. But there he was, and by some strange miracle, standing near, not mounted on, his horse. He seemed not to have heard Longsword’s approach; instead, he stood with his back to him, patting the horse on its neck. Longsword, who had pulled up, watched in puzzlement for a moment because he had the eerie feeling that the earl was waiting for him. But he chided himself for such a ludicrous thought. More likely, the horse had gone lame.

  He moved forward, making enough noise to cause the other man to turn around to face him. For a moment there was silence. The last time Longsword had seen the earl, they’d traded angry words concerning Gwalaes. That memory came flooding back to him as they stared at each other and his grip tightened on his sword. Here was the man who always seemed to get the best of him. He wondered why the earl didn’t speak—some banal, careless comment to show just how little he thought of Longsword and the arrogant assumption that Longsword would not dare attack an unhorsed man who wasn’t offering him a threat. But the earl said nothing. He watched Longsword as Longsword watched him, his bearded face half-hidden by his helmet and the expression of his eyes shadowed by the trees and the helmet’s descending nasal.

  Longsword was nonplussed. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as simple as he’d thought to murder. He had to decide quickly; his men would soon find them.

  He dismounted carefully, keeping the earl in his sight in case the man suddenly launched himself at him. But the earl didn’t move. Despite every detail of the revenge which had obsessed him in his waking hours, Longsword’s resolve faltered. What would his father think? The king was ruthless when political or military circumstances dictated but as far as his son knew he’d never killed another knight in cold blood…

  Damn! he thought angrily; he’d have to take Chester prisoner. It would be humiliating for the earl but not nearly as satisfying for him. Still, if his father were to discover the murder—and Longsword had no doubt he would—his life wouldn’t be worth living. At least there were rewards for taking a person as wealthy as the earl prisoner: ransom and the gain of forfeited properties.

  He took a few steps forward and then, to his surprise, Chester lifted his sword and struck an aggressive posture. He halted. He’d never seen the earl fight; he hadn’t thought the man knew how. Was this bluster or was he in earnest? What did it matter? If he wanted to fight, Longsword certainly wasn’t about to dissuade him from doing so.

  He raised his own sword and continued forward. Chester came up to meet him. The early afternoon sun filtered through the tops of the trees creating splotches of light on random parts of the ground. Longsword decided it wouldn’t be a factor in the duel. He suddenly felt deliriously happy. The earl had challenged him and no blame could be attached to him upon the man’s death. He was confident he would prevail and he would ride to Hawarden in showy triumph and then…well, the very thought of then was enough to cause him almost unbearable yearning. First, he had a job to do.

  His excitement spawned a burst of energy and he broke into a jog, the best he could manage in his heavy hauberk. He heard his spurs clink on the packed earth and a gathering roar which he realized was coming from him. When he was near enough, he took his sword in both hands and swung it with all his might.

  His opponent was ready. His sword met Longsword’s in a loud, perfect block, and then he flicked his wrists upward and deflected the force of the swing up and out of harm’s way. Longsword was again surprised by the earl’s action but it served only to increase his aggression. Grunting with exertion, he attacked again and again, but each time his swing was blocked and pushed away until finally, he fell back, panting.

  The earl did not pursue him. Obviously, he was content to merely defend himself but his defense was so able, Longsword began to think he’d die of exhaustion before he penetrated it. He needed to try a different tactic.

  He approached Chester again, this time without his former exuberance, and made another swipe, aimed low. The earl met the attack, striking Longsword’s weapon with his own and pushing it down out of harm’s way as he’d been doing earlier, leaving his upper body exposed. Longsword quickly swung around so that his back was pressed against the earl’s stomach. He jabbed his left elbow backwards, hitting the earl in his chest and sending him stumbling back, gasping
for air. While he was still dazed, Longsword approached him again and raised his sword as if he was about to cut off his head. The earl lifted his sword to block the blow; while their weapons were entangled, Longsword stepped closer and brought his knee up between the other man’s legs. The earl yelped involuntarily and doubled over. Longsword raised his leg again and kicked him in the head. Chester groaned once, sank to the ground and was still.

  “My lord, congratulations!”

  Breathing heavily, he turned around. Fitz Maurice and others were there, watching him. He had no idea when they’d arrived. He nodded to them. Fitz Maurice dismounted and Longsword told him to retrieve the earl’s sword. He stepped away to catch his breath.

  Chester was beginning to stir. Longsword glanced at him. “You’re conceding whether you want to or not,” he informed him. “I’ve got your sword.”

  The man groaned again. Fitz Maurice, wishing to be helpful, pulled off his helmet to make him more comfortable. “My lord!” he suddenly called out to Longsword, who had turned away. “Come quickly!”

  Longsword heard the urgency in his voice and came running. He knew something was dreadfully wrong and when he stared down at the man he’d just defeated, he discovered exactly what.

  He didn’t recognize the man lying on the ground. The man was not the earl of Chester.

  Rhirid, Dylan and several others rode into the clearing just as Roger of Haworth was heaving Ralph de Vire’s body across the back of his horse. Rhirid glanced at the dead Norman on the ground and the dead one dangling ignobly from the horse and wondered briefly what had happened. He raised his eyes to Haworth and for a moment, everyone was still, just looking at each other with shuttered expressions and taking measure.

  Rhirid knew from their previous alliance that Haworth spoke no Welsh. He suddenly felt the press of time; he had to follow after William Longsword in the event that the earl had set a trap of his own. It would be awkward but he’d have to use hand signals to challenge Haworth and he didn’t know if he’d be able to make his adversary understand that the reason behind it had to do with trespass and kidnapping.

  Well, he thought dismissively, what would the reason matter to Haworth when he was dead?

  He took a step forward, pointed to Haworth, pointed to himself and then raised his sword in a threatening manner. Haworth seemed to pause but then he nodded, patted the neck of the horse which carried the body and pulled his own sword from his belt.

  “Rhirid, no!” Dylan hissed. “I’m your champion—I’ll fight him!”

  “I want him myself, Dylan,” Rhirid said, rolling his shoulders while staring at the Norman. “This is personal.”

  Although he’d fought beside Roger of Haworth during his brief tenure as ally to the earl of Chester, Rhirid had never really considered his ability as a opponent. Haworth was probably his own height but broader and heavier. His dark face and unsmiling demeanor gave him the aura of being in deadly earnest, whatever his task. He hefted his sword effortlessly, as if it were merely an extension of his hand. He stood a few feet from the horse, waiting for Rhirid, watching him without expression, motionless.

  The Welshman, however, wasn’t intimidated. He’d thought that the dizziness might return once the battle on the road had died away and the breathless excitement with it, but images flashing through his mind of his fortress invaded and Olwen snatched away kept his heart pounding rapidly and every muscle in his body tingling. Rhirid wanted this fight. Without hesitation, he lifted his sword—

  “Peace!” someone shouted desperately. “Peace!”

  All eyes turned to the newcomer entering the clearing, a man on horseback—a Norman—slightly disheveled in appearance as though he’d also fought in the ambush. He was followed by other Normans.

  “Lord Rhirid, please! One moment!” the man called anxiously. He pulled up on the reins to halt the horse, swung himself out of the saddle and onto the ground and removed his helmet. It was Richard Delamere. “Will you tell me what’s happening?” he asked, breathing heavily.

  “I’ve just challenged this man,” Rhirid said, sounding faintly puzzled. Wasn’t it obvious?

  Delamere’s eyes slid to Haworth and back. “Do you know who he is?”

  “Of course I do, Sir Richard!” Rhirid jabbed the point of his sword in Haworth’s direction. “He’s the dog who invaded my land.”

  “Yes, but he’s also our most valuable prisoner, Lord Rhirid,” Delamere said. “I must ask you to rescind your challenge and turn him over to Lord William.”

  “What?” Rhirid asked incredulously. He snorted. “No!”

  “Lord Rhirid, please listen! The earl has slipped the trap and escaped. If he gets past Lord William, then all of this has been for nothing—unless we have something, or someone, with which to bargain! Chester holds this man Haworth in high regard. He will give anything to get him back!”

  Rhirid frowned, and was promptly rewarded with a stabbing pain behind his eyes. He said angrily, “It’s not my fault that the plan Lord William concocted failed to trap the earl. He had his chance! And now I’ve got my chance to kill this one here. Unlike Lord William, I don’t intend to fail.”

  Delamere came up close to him so that no one else could hear. Although the words he’d already spoken had been polite and respectful, Rhirid could see quite clearly the hatred searing his face. It was a mutual feeling; Rhirid would just as willingly have fought Richard Delamere as Roger of Haworth.

  Delamere clenched his jaw and made an obvious effort to control his temper. In a low, tight voice he said, “I’m here as Lord William’s emissary. It is in this capacity that I beg you to rescind your challenge and give up your prisoner. If it’s a question of payment—”

  “Payment!” Rhirid exploded. His eyes bored into Delamere’s. “This is the man who invaded my land and took Olwen away by force! The insult he did me is beyond compensation!”

  Delamere was outraged. He took another step closer. “Now you know how I feel, Welshman!” he said so quietly it was almost a whisper; a furious, earnest whisper.

  “You should never have left her alone—Norman,” Rhirid snapped, and then his lip curled with pleasure at Delamere’s predicament. “Soon, she’ll be back where she belongs. Llanlleyn.”

  The knight’s face flushed angrily. “Not if the earl makes it back to Hawarden and we’ve nothing to bargain with! This time I’m asking for myself. Don’t fight Haworth. I’ve seen him work. You’ll lose. And that will deprive me of the opportunity to kill you myself!”

  They stood eye to eye. Rhirid considered Delamere’s words, a task suddenly made difficult by the headache which had returned with all its former fury. He managed a cocky grin. “Sir Richard, I feel so good today I’m certain I could take the both of you. But Lord William agreed to help me and in honor of our alliance, I’ll now help him. On one condition: if Lord William has no use for him after all, Roger of Haworth is given back to me.”

  “Fine,” Delamere said tersely and began to turn away.

  “One more thing, Sir Richard,” Rhirid spoke up. Delamere waited with an impatient expression. “Our duel. Please arrange for it as soon as possible. I intend to marry Olwen and I don’t want anyone standing in my way.”

  Olwen burst into the room and shut the door with an unintentional bang. She hurried towards the inner chamber. “Lady Teleri! Lady Teleri, please wake up!”

  “I am awake—who can sleep with all the noise you’re making!” a grumpy voice complained. “Come light the candles.”

  Teleri’s bedchamber was shrouded in murky, early evening shadows. Teleri herself lay in bed as she had been wont to do since the earl’s departure several days earlier, preferring to sleep away the time instead of enduring it with an increasing lack of spirit. The realization that her arrival at Hawarden had been a complete accident and that the earl wasn’t interested in her company had made her melancholy and the routine of boredom in a household in which she played no part had quickly killed the initial appeal of her new surroundings.
r />   She pushed herself up into a sitting position and watched as Olwen flew from one lamp to another. “What on earth is wrong?”

  “The earl has returned.”

  “Oh. Obviously the news bothers you…”

  “Lady Teleri, he’s returned with only eighteen men.”

  Teleri yawned. “What of it? It’s getting dark and he probably didn’t want to spend another night outdoors if he was close to home, so he and some of his knights went ahead of—Well?” she demanded. Olwen was shaking her head violently.

  “I’ve heard terrible rumors, Lady Teleri! There are only eighteen men with the earl because all the others were captured or killed. There was an ambush! And Lord William was there, as well!”

  “Lord William?” Teleri frowned. “But how did he know?”

  “Perhaps Lord Rhirid sought him out.”

  Teleri made a dismissive gesture. “Impossible! Why would he—” she started but broke off abruptly and stared at the other woman with an appraising eye.

  “They’re saying the Welsh and Lord William will be here soon,” Olwen continued, too frantic to notice the scrutiny. “That there will be a siege and that the earl has said many times how easily his castle can withstand a siege of months—perhaps years! Lady Teleri, I can’t stay here for years! My children need me! I must be with my sons!”

  “Calm down, Olwen! You only heard talk; you don’t know anything for certain.” But even talk had a kernel of truth to it. The gossip machine ran as surely at Hawarden as it did at Rhuddlan and it was no secret to them that Rhirid and Gruffudd had joined forces and that the earl had taken his army to confront them. And now, if Longsword was also involved, it seemed the entire western part of Gwynedd was fighting for her and Olwen.

  She drew up her legs and put her arms around her knees. She grinned. “I don’t think there will be a siege.”

  Olwen wiped her eyes. “Why not?”

  “Well, if the earl has come back with only eighteen men, then Lord William and Lord Rhirid have many prisoners. And prisoners must be ransomed…Or exchanged for hostages. Meaning us, Olwen.”

  The idea that she was finally of value cheered her immensely. She scrambled out of the bed and crossed the floor to the window, which overlooked the upper bailey. She could see no increase in the mundane activity there but further below, down the motte, the lower bailey was full of tiny, darting figures: men swarming along the walls like ants on a discarded bone. She raised her gaze to the fields beyond and farther, to the hazy fringes of the forest, to where Rhirid and Longsword would appear.

  As yet, the fields were empty and quiet. Dusk was spreading quickly; probably Longsword wouldn’t arrive until the following day. She wondered idly how he would find her—it seemed years since they’d last seen each other, although it was merely weeks. A thought crossed her mind and the irony of it made her chuckle.

  “What is it, Lady Teleri?” Olwen asked anxiously. “What do you see?”

  Teleri stepped down from the window. “Nothing yet,” she said. “I laughed because for the first time, the idea of meeting my husband doesn’t make me shudder. That’s how desperate I am to get out of here.”

  Olwen was so astonished that her anxiety evaporated. “But I thought you never wanted to see Rhuddlan again—when we were at Llanlleyn, you insisted you would only return to the Perfeddwlad…”

  Teleri shrugged. “I know, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ve had a lot of time lately to think.” Another smile pulled at her lips and she added in a modest voice, “Besides, it would be churlish to spurn Lord William when he’s gone to all this trouble to fetch me.”

  Longsword watched the day wane and with it, he thought, his last chance to defeat the earl of Chester. And as the shadows grew, so did his frustration.

  He was angry because his plan had failed; the earl had slipped through every trap laid for him and was, presumably, once more ensconced behind the walls of Hawarden. He was angry because Gruffudd ap Madog and Rhirid and their men had acquitted themselves well during the battle and had done what they were supposed to have done. He was angry because of all that might have failed out of all he had planned, it had been his own part which had gone disastrously wrong.

  But above all, he was angry because he’d wanted to march in triumph to Hawarden, Chester’s head stuck on the point of a pike, three armies at his back, and impress the countess with his military prowess.

  Well, there would be no impressing now. He racked his mind for some other way to get to the earl and kill him, and discarded every idea. The man was absurdly lucky. And there wasn’t any point in sitting outside Hawarden; he couldn’t possibly hope to outlast the well-provisioned and secure fortress unless he was prepared to wait a year or more…

  Chester had won. There would be an exchange of hostages, he and the Welsh would go home and everything would be as it had been.

  The general disposition of the camp was a pleased satisfaction. No one knew of his desperate desire to murder the earl and so everyone was content with the effect of the ambush, the seizure of nearly one hundred prisoners and the forced flight of the earl of Chester. The ransoms were certain to make many rich. There was music and merriment on the Norman and Welsh sides of the camp and even some friendly exchanges of the paraphernalia of warfare.

  Although his smile felt as if it looked false, Longsword maintained a celebratory demeanor so he would not dampen the spirits of his men. Delamere, however, had no such qualms. He rode into the makeshift camp at dusk with Rhirid and his huge champion and such an evident frown that no one had the nerve to call a greeting to him. Strangely enough, one glance at his friend’s set face had the perverse effect of lightening Longsword’s own mood. Longsword always felt slightly apprehensive when Delamere was out of sorts, as if the entire natural world ebbed and flowed according to his whim. It was impossible to dwell on his own problems when the likelihood of earthly disaster loomed imminent.

  He turned to acknowledge Rhirid but his attention was caught by a figure on horseback just behind him, guarded by Normans, and two others, obviously dead. When Longsword realized who the live one was, his mood improved further still. It would not be a routine exchange of hostages after all; now, at least, he could withdraw with dignity intact. All at once, the smile was genuine.

  Delamere dismounted, tossing the reins to a squire. He inclined his head at Longsword. “My lord…”

  “Richard, is that who I think it is?”

  “Yes. He was about to kill Rhirid when I rode up and saved his hide.”

  “Whose? Rhirid’s?”

  Delamere glowered. “Why should I want to save Rhirid’s hide? No, Haworth’s. Rhirid’s warriors would have ripped him apart after he killed their chief.” He looked past Longsword and across the field to the forest and then his line of vision swept back to linger on Gruffudd’s men. “The earl?”

  “Safe and sound, the hellspawn.” Longsword spat onto the ground. “Who’re the other two?”

  “One’s ours. The other is Ralph de Vire.”

  “De Vire!” He was shocked and suddenly felt uncomfortable. “A bad end…” he muttered.

  Fortunately, Delamere was not in the mood for reproach. “I’ll see to Haworth,” he said shortly and began to walk away. He stopped almost immediately and turned around. “By the way,” he added, “keep your new friend away from me. I don’t trust myself around him.”

  Longsword walked off to the edge of the encampment to relieve himself, and stopped to stare up into the clear night sky and think. Encumbered by prisoners who needed to be guarded, baggage carts pulled by lumbering oxen and scores of men on foot, he figured he’d need the better part of a day to make it to Hawarden. If the weather held. Negotiations could start the next morning…He knew Chester would pay generously to ransom his men…Haworth was certainly worth Olwen…Teleri he’d part with for nothing, to avoid problems with the prince, who might complain to the king…If there was any part of the drama which caused Longsword the slightest anxiety, it was the thought tha
t the earl, in his anger, might exact on Gwalaes the revenge he could not take on his more inaccessible adversary. Having Haworth was no advantage if Gwalaes was to be threatened—

  “My lord!”

  Longsword jumped at the unexpected interruption. Cynan was running across the darkened field towards him.

  “My lord!” he repeated, breathless; “Sir Warin asks if you can come right away!”

  “Is it Sir Richard?”

  The boy nodded violently.

  Longsword swore and took off in the direction of the tents. He’d only been gone a moment! Mindful of Delamere’s terse warning, he’d stuck close by his friend all evening, particularly during the supper to which the two Welsh chiefs had been invited. Delamere had been quiet during the meal and unable to keep his eyes from Rhirid. Longsword had been relieved when it was over and Rhirid had returned to his own side. Now what had happened?

  It was worse than he’d anticipated. Up ahead he could see a circle of men and blazing torches and emanating from some unseen force within it, he heard the clash of swords. He cursed again and broke into a run.

  He slowed down just enough to push his way through the on-lookers and size up the situation of the combatants. As yet, Rhirid and Delamere both appeared to be unscratched; thank God at least for that small favor, he thought. Without further hesitation, he strode up to Delamere and demanded his sword.

  “Get out of the way, Will; this doesn’t concern you!” Delamere said tersely, looking past him at Rhirid.

  Longsword’s voice was cold and low. “Don’t presume upon our friendship out here, Richard. If you don’t give me your sword, I’ll have you taken back to Rhuddlan and locked up.”

  Delamere’s eyes swiveled to his in surprise. After a slight pause, he handed the weapon over and then, before Longsword could say another word, spun angrily on his heel and strode off.

  Longsword turned to Rhirid and the Welsh contingent with him. The chief’s bruised face looked eerie in the shadows, as if half of it were missing. Only the white of his eye stood out in the darkness. There was nothing to say, as neither one spoke the other’s language; one of the warriors spat out a few words but Rhirid immediately put a hand up to silence him, and then he, too, turned and left the circle, albeit less angrily, and his men followed.

  “What happened?” Longsword snapped, but no one answered. He glared at the sheepish faces around him. “Fine. Did anyone at least see where he went?”

  Someone answered, “To the horses, my lord.”

  He thrust Delamere’s sword into the man’s hand. “Don’t return this to Sir Richard until the morning, do you understand?” To another, he ordered, “Bring me a torch.”

  It didn’t take long to find Delamere. He waited at the edge of the grassy plain where the horses had been hobbled for the night. It was apparent from his angry stance—arms folded across his chest and legs planted aggressively—that he’d decided to have his fight after all; if not with Rhirid then with Longsword, who approached him cautiously.

  Delamere struck out first. “Why did you stop the fight?” he demanded.

  “Because one of you was going to get killed,” Longsword said reasonably. “And no matter who it was, the result would be disastrous for this enterprise, which happens to be the reason we’re all here in the first place.”

  “He challenged me, Will!”

  “It doesn’t matter who chal—”

  “He told me Olwen’s going back with him! He said she prefers to be with her own people!”

  “He was just saying that—”

  “How could he say it if he knows it isn’t true?”

  Delamere’s voice was loud and, to Longsword’s ears, frightened. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to require an answer because he turned away sharply, staring over the neat rows of horses tied up for the night, focusing on something Longsword couldn’t see.

  Finally, Delamere exhaled noisily and rubbed his hands over his face. In a calmer voice he said, “I know I swore to keep away from him but I just couldn’t…”

  Longsword put a hand on his shoulder. “Richard, it’s not Rhirid’s decision to make. It’s Olwen’s. She’s the only one who can tell you what she’ll do.”

  Delamere glanced at him, the torchlight flickering across his face but the cynical expression all too apparent. “I suppose I was trying to help her…”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “So she wouldn’t need to choose. If he’s dead, then she’d have to come back with me.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t want to take the chance that she’d decide for him.”

  “But what if…”

  “If he’d defeated me?” He grinned. Longsword could tell because the light glinted off his teeth. “I guess in that case, too, there’d be no choice to make.”