Rhuddlan

Chapter 56

  June, 1178

  Llanlleyn, Gwynedd

  At last it was midday. The fog and chill of dawn had burned off long ago and the day was bright and hot and increasingly uncomfortable for men dressed in heavy mail, their heads and feet encased in smothering metal and leather. For the most part, that group belonged to Warin fitz Maurice, who had assembled his entire army in the field while awaiting his master’s release.

  Roger of Haworth, who had spent the remainder of the morning honing his sword and his plan, was not subjecting his men to the relentless sun. He waited with only his translator, a handful of knights and the three hostages. The other men had been divided into two groups; one waited at the fringe of the forest, seemingly unconcerned with the proceedings at the fortress; most were lounging on the grass, bareheaded, joking with each other, while the second group waited out of sight, further in the forest. Haworth’s dispostion of his soldiers was more purposeful than mere concern for any sensitivity to the sun: it was imperative that fitz Maurice remain unsuspicious of his intention and seeing Hawarden arrayed in all its strength before him might not have that desired effect.

  Although Haworth was beginning to imagine fitz Maurice would swallow just about anything he told him. He’d thought fitz Maurice would balk at the decision that Longsword should be released to him and not his own soldiers, but he hadn’t. The men from Rhuddlan were apparently content to believe the earl of Chester was now their most faithful ally and were willing to take direction from his commander.

  That was fine with Haworth because there wasn’t any time to be wasted in argument. And it was important that the Bastard be given over to him because he’d decided the quickest way to get back to Rhuddlan with his army more or less intact was to kill the man.

  He’d thought it all through. Longsword alive would be hard to control. He knew the truth of the situation at Rhuddlan and might call out to fitz Maurice and order his men to attack Haworth. Fitz Maurice would fight strenuously on behalf of his lord and this would cost Haworth a lot of time. If Longsword were dead, however, fitz Maurice and his men would perhaps be demoralized and not inclined to fight. Or if there were a response by fitz Maurice, Haworth’s first group of soldiers, who weren’t really lolling but waiting for a signal, would rush in to beat it back and the second group would be ready to reinforce their comrades.

  But Haworth was betting there would be little fighting.

  The countryside was strangely quiet for all the men assembled on it. There was the occasional snort from a horse and the far-off birdcalls in the forest but nothing more. The stillness of the air and the lack of visible activity at Llanlleyn made Haworth suddenly doubt his plan. Why should the Welsh give up Longsword when his presence in their fortress was the only reason two Norman armies hadn’t yet flattened it? He glanced at the hostages. He’d recognized the children at once as those he had seen with the earl’s daughter at Richard Delamere’s manor and the woman who’d been with them in the forest had been with Delamere’s Welsh whore the last time he’d visited Llanlleyn. He had a good memory for faces. He had seized the children because he believed they meant something to Longsword and, of course, to their mother who he knew was in the fortress with him. Haworth hoped that between the two of them they’d convince Guri to do what Haworth wanted him to do. But he didn’t know much about Guri. He remembered him vaguely from the time the Welsh had spent at Hawarden; he’d seemed capable enough, but so had all the warriors in Rhirid’s little force. What kind of chief Guri was remained unknown.

  “My lord,” the translator said and Haworth looked in the direction of the fortress. Guri now appeared in the tower, surrounded by his entourage. Haworth and his man walked their horses forward.

  “It is midday, Lord Guri!” Haworth called. “Do we have an exchange?”

  “Sir Roger, we are prepared to give you Lord William in exchange for our people, but we must have assurances that once he’s in your hands, you’ll leave Llanlleyn without causing further harm!”

  “You have my word!”

  Guri sounded patient but firm. “We also had an agreement of peace for three years, Sir Roger. We would like something more tangible.”

  Haworth was angry. A Welshman doubting his word? Under normal circumstances, he would have abandoned the pleasantries and attacked the puny fortress with zealous ferocity but current circumstances were not ordinary. He desperately needed the Bastard. When the earl was freed, he might return to Llanlleyn and teach Guri a lesson.

  “What do you want?” He could curse the Welsh underbreath and give his disdain for them a free rein in his tone of voice; they heard none of it. His man translated only the relevant sentences and his voice was monotonous and neutral.

  “Three of your knights to be given up to us for keeping until we are certain all you Normans have well and truly gone!”

  Haworth snorted. That was easy enough. “Agreed!”

  “They will enter the fortress first and then we will send out Lord William as you send forward your hostages!”

  “Tell him I agree,” Haworth said to the translator. He turned his horse and trotted back to the small group of hostages and their guards. He gestured to one man. “Go tell fitz Maurice to send me three of his knights. The Welsh want a few hostages of their own.”

  More waiting, but Haworth was no longer apprehensive that Guri would reject his deal. Instead, he planned the rest of his day: the exchanges, Longsword’s murder, a small skirmish against fitz Maurice…The moon was waning now but still nearly full and if the fine weather held, his men could march all night and be at the gates of Rhuddlan by mid-morning. Even if several of fitz Maurice’s men managed to arrive before him, it was no matter. The Bastard would still be dead. Haworth couldn’t imagine Rhuddlan standing for a dead man.

  The three knights sent by the ever-accommodating Warin fitz Maurice were finally at the gate; it opened, they passed through and it closed behind them. Haworth glanced up at the tower but Guri was no longer visible among the men there. He frowned; was it possible that he and Longsword were planning something? He stared hard at the closed gate, feeling the time slipping by, becoming nervous despite his previous optimism. His hostages were restless from the waiting and their fright; the children were crying again and the woman seemed to have lost her desire to comfort them.

  He leaned towards his translator, preparing to tell him to shout for Guri when the man himself re-appeared in the tower. At the same time, the gate opened slowly and Haworth’s pulse quickened at the sight of the Bastard, blindfolded and hands tied behind his back, being helped onto his horse. Haworth was tempted to call out and ask that the blindfold at least be removed; not for chivalry but because he wanted the Bastard to see death coming at him, but decided against it. It would only mean another delay.

  Longsword was led by a large, heavily mustachioed man whom Haworth remembered as Rhirid’s champion. He’d often wondered how he would fare against him in an open contest, but that was another battle to be saved for the future. The woman behind Haworth caught sight of him and half-cried a word, probably his name.

  The two men were drawing closer. Haworth heard nothing and saw nothing now but the steady clomps of their horses and their growing figures. Without removing his gaze, he slowly put an arm behind his back and made a small signal with his hand. One of the knights guarding the hostages walked his horse a few steps up and into the empty space behind Haworth’s left side, and slid a javelin into his grip. A moment passed; the approaching men came into his range. With one smooth motion, the knight cocked his elbow, hoisted the javelin over his shoulder and hurled it with great force, straight at Longsword.

  A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye caught Guri’s attention and he reflexively looked from Longsword’s receding back to its source, which was the group of the Norman’s own soldiers waiting a short distance away from Roger of Haworth and his men. Guri started to turn back to this latter group and then did a double-take. Was an archer, apparently unseen by anyone but G
uri, fitting an arrow to his bow, one of longbows favored by some Welsh, and drawing the cord back to his ear? He squinted. Yes. Having gained Guri’s attention with that one brief motion, the archer now stood unmoving as a statue, poised and prepared to shoot at the first syllable of the order. But at whom? Dylan, who was leading the Norman’s horse straight towards Haworth and the hostages? Longsword, blindfolded and bound with his arms behind his back? Goewyn, craning her neck to get a better glimpse of her husband? Guri followed the line of the bowman’s sight as best as he could imagine it.

  “Look over there,” he remarked to the man standing next to him in the tower. “Do you think that archer is aiming an arrow at Sir Roger?”

  The other man stared hard at the scene for a moment and nodded.

  Guri nodded as well. “I wonder why…” But he suddenly knew he’d been right about one thing: there was tension between Hawarden and Rhuddlan that had nothing to do with Llanlleyn. In fact, he thought, it was actually fortunate for Llanlleyn that Hawarden had shown up because this action had diverted Rhuddlan’s attention from its original opponent.

  He felt his decision to give up his hostage was now vindicated. Let these foreigners fight each other. He had saved Llanlleyn.

  And then he thought: if that archer kills Sir Roger, then Hawarden will scatter. If Hawarden scatters, then Rhuddlan is left alone on the field. Only this time, with Lord William as its leader and no impediment to attacking Llanlleyn.

  He didn’t know how to speak the Norman language, but it really wasn’t necessary. All he had to do to warn Sir Roger was shout his name until he gained the knight’s attention and point towards the archer from Rhuddlan.

  It would be a month or so before Longsword acknowledged that Dylan ab Owain had saved his life when it seemed for no reason at all that he had suddenly urged his horse to swerve hard right, which had caused the animal to crash into his own horse, an action which had knocked him off-balance and sent him plunging to the ground. A rush of thoughts and not a few curses flashed through his mind; at first he thought Dylan was finishing the fight he had started that morning in the feasting hall. He was incredulous; he thought the man was insane. Here they were on a solemn business transaction and the Welshman had to involve his personal revenge.

  But then he heard shouting and the clanging of armor and swords and the dizzying tumult of a melee and realized that although Dylan had indeed pushed him on purpose, it hadn’t been for his own revenge. Something unplanned had occurred, but Longsword, blindfolded and bound, didn’t know what it was.

  And then all he felt was an incredible pain. He had landed directly on his right side, onto something hard. Instinctively, he had sought to put out his arms as he fell but as they were bound behind his back at the wrists this had been an impossible contortion. He had managed, at least, to pull most of his right arm around so that it was underneath his body when he finally hit the ground. The maneuver had probably saved his shoulder from being shattered; the arm itself didn’t fare as well. It snapped on the large, flat rock beneath it and he felt a warm rush of blood on his skin. All thoughts of Dylan’s insanity evaporated and all sound from the unseen conflict ended as every nerve and muscle in his arm screamed in outraged protest. He screamed as well.

  For a moment he could do nothing but lie curled on the ground, barely able to breathe because of the white hot pain radiating through his arm, up into his shoulder and into his chest. His head felt as if it were full of pressure and his stomach heaved. If he’d had sufficient breath, he probably would have vomited. Then a detached part of his mind warned him that whatever had happened was still happening and he was in danger.

  The blindfold over his eyes had been tied securely but the strip of cloth hadn’t been pulled tight. Despite the additional pain it caused, he scraped his head against the ground until the cloth shifted enough to permit him to see with one eye.

  His horse and Delamere’s stood nearby, stepping with a little agitation, their ears back and the whites of their eyes showing, but well-trained enough not to bolt. He tried to speak a few reassuring words but could do no more than gasp at them, which seemed to agitate them further so he stopped. He rotated his eye in as much of an arc as he could manage without moving his head. Dylan had abandoned him; he was nowhere to be seen. But Longsword certainly recognized the rider hurtling towards him at full speed, leaning over in the saddle and holding his long, straight sword low: Roger of Haworth. He knew his chances of evading that sword were better if he was underneath his horse than out in the open field. The pain in his arm momentarily forgotten, he summoned up all his remaining strength, got awkwardly to his knees and scrambled towards the animal just as Haworth reached him.

  The speed of Haworth’s ride sent him past Longsword and his sword met air where Longsword’s body had just lain. Longsword watched as he pulled back hard on the reins and wheeled his mount around in preparation for another assault.

  Longsword wasn’t wearing a helmet and there was danger in his horse’s increasing nervousness and strong, stepping legs. The animal sensed the threat from Haworth and wanted to turn around to face it. Longsword rolled out from under his dubious shelter before a hoof knocked into his head and just as Haworth began a new attack. He was lucky again. Haworth couldn’t immediately locate him and then Longsword’s horse reared up on its hind legs and gave a long, high-pitched shriek. Its forelegs came crashing down with a menacing thud in the direction of Haworth’s own horse, which backed nervously away before its master could assert his control.

  The air was suddenly filled with noise. Men were shouting from every direction and Longsword could hear the clash of weapons. He felt incredibly naked, kneeling in the middle of a field with no weapon, his arms tied behind him and with only one eye to see. And there was Haworth, breathing heavily but looking at him with a steady, hate-filled glare. For a moment he was still; Longsword knew he was thinking his quarry was trapped and he could take his time—and of course he was right. Longsword’s own breath came in harsh, ragged bursts; the pain had returned with cruel intensity and he thought he wouldn’t even be able to kneel much longer. The half vision was hurting his head and making him dizzy. He watched with unmoving fascination as Haworth touched his spurs to his horse and headed towards him one last time.

  When he’d seen the way Haworth had arranged his men, Warin fitz Maurice had hardly believed his luck. Just the dozen or so within immediate range. Until then, he hadn’t known exactly what he would do; Haworth was, by reputation and in fact, intimidating and his army outnumbered his own by half again, so fitz Maurice had simply agreed to all the other man’s proposals while warning his men to be prepared for anything.

  Haworth’s deployment of his soldiers, however, had shifted the odds in fitz Maurice’s favor. And if Haworth were killed, would those odds overwhelm Hawarden? Fitz Maurice was counting on it. He had one man, an archer with exceptional skill, at the ready.

  But typical of many schemes, there was an unforeseen element in this plan and that, fitz Maurice discovered an instant too late, was the big Welshman who was leading the bound and blindfolded Longsword to Haworth. The Welshman suddenly moved sideways with such force that Longsword’s horse was pushed off balance and Longsword himself was thrown to the ground. The men from Rhuddlan watched in horror as a javelin shot towards the space where their master had just stood; a missile that now narrowly missed the Welshman, who was nearer to that spot. At the same time, there was a loud roar from the direction of the fortress, which startled fitz Maurice’s archer, who released his bow string. But Haworth had seen Longsword fall and had started forward almost immediately with his sword drawn. The arrow meant for him struck the translator who’d been standing next to him instead, and the man fell out of the saddle, dead, the arrow jutting out of his neck.

  Fitz Maurice knew there wasn’t much time. The men on the upper field were mounting up and pulling out their swords. Haworth’s first run at Longsword had failed but he had reined in and turned around and was preparing to atta
ck again. Fitz Maurice shouted to the bowman to take another shot; the arrow flew straight and fast but even before they could tell whether or not it had hit home, the Rhuddlanmen were hurtling forward on horse and foot to save Longsword.

  The longbow was a more cumbersome weapon than its shorter counterpart, requiring greater strength and a practiced coordination but its advantages were similarly weighty: its missiles travelled further and could pierce mail from a longer distance. Haworth had just urged his mount into a final run at Longsword when he was struck on his right side, underneath his arm.

  Through the narrow slit in his helmet, fitz Maurice saw Haworth’s body jerk abruptly to the left. The horse, trying to respond to this new command, faltered and then also turned left, but the hand on the reins slackened its grip and the pressure of Haworth’s knees suddenly ceased; the animal was further confused, slowed to a walk and finally halted. Haworth slumped in the saddle and then slipped out and crashed heavily to the ground. Fitz Maurice glanced to where he’d last seen Longsword; his master lay unmoving.

  Now it was a race to reach the two fallen leaders. Fitz Maurice and his men had had a head start but Haworth’s little band near the hostages was closer and his men on the upper field were already riding down. Presumably, the remainder of Hawarden’s force had been alerted and would soon be on the scene as well. Fitz Maurice knew there wasn’t any time to spare. The forty-odd foot soldiers lumbering after him through the rough, grassy ground could not hope to arrive before Haworth’s knights, who far outnumbered fitz Maurice’s fifteen mounted companions, nor could they stand for long against men on horseback. But it was too late to turn back. He urged his horse to greater speed and put all thought of the approaching enemy out of his mind.

  He reached Longsword before anyone. The fallen man’s face was grey but his eyes flicked open and seemed to recognize fitz Maurice. The knight looked back at the men reining in. “Praise God, he’s alive!” he said to them. “Now get to Sir Roger and surround him before his men come! You two!” he gestured to a pair at the rear. “See to Lord William. Unbind him and get him on a horse. Ride back to the camp. Quickly!”

  Haworth’s soldiers came up as the Rhuddlanmen formed a line between them and their captain. They halted and one of them heaved a javelin which bounced off a hastily thrown up shield.

  “Enough!” fitz Maurice shouted, trotting over. “One more act of aggression and Sir Roger will die!” He tilted his sword toward the man on the ground.

  “Give him to us, Sir Warin!” one of Haworth’s men demanded. “You’ve got Lord William back. Sir Roger’s of no use to you now.”

  “He’s a guarantee of our safe passage to Rhuddlan,” fitz Maurice answered. “And of your immediate departure from this place back to Hawarden.”

  The other man glanced between the tangle of horse legs obscuring Haworth’s body. “How do we know you haven’t killed him, Sir Warin?”

  “He breathes. See for yourself.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, the knight from Hawarden dismounted, pushed his way between the line of horses and fell to his knees at Haworth’s side. He tugged off his helmet and tossed it carelessly away, then pressed his ear to Haworth’s mouth. He gingerly examined the arrow shaft protruding from under his arm. Finally, he straightened up.

  “He breathes, but not for long, Sir Warin. He must have a physician!”

  “Call off your men and send them home immediately,” fitz Maurice ordered. “When we’re satisfied you’re no longer a threat, we’ll give you Sir Roger.”

  “He’ll die long before we leave the field!”

  Fitz Maurice shrugged.

  The other man glared at him. “You’ll regret this!”

  Fitz Maurice’s eyes were cold and he was very still. He said: “Take care, sir! We know about the earl’s plot to lay waste to Rhuddlan and Llanlleyn. We’ve just seen Sir Roger attempt to murder Lord William. And now you’re making threats for the future? Remember who you’re talking to! I am a representative of the king’s son! Already the earl has much to answer for—don’t compound his crime! The last thing you want is King Henry coming to Gwynedd; he might take away Hawarden and banish the earl and all of you who serve him someplace further away than Wales this time.” He gave the man a humorless smile. “Unless, of course, you like the idea of living among the Irish…”