“Your point is taken, Madame. You need not worry; I mean to head north on the morrow, to raise an army in Normandy if need be.”
Eleanor searched his face, found what she sought, and nodded. “I’ve done what I could. It is up to you now.”
“Yes,” John said coolly. “I know.”
Eleanor watched as he departed the crypt, pausing for only the briefest of moments before the tombs of their dead. She did not move until the Bishop of Lincoln came to stand beside her.
“Do you know why he missed the funeral, Madame? As soon as he learned Richard was mortally stricken, he rode straight for Chinon. Not Châlus, where his brother lay dying, or Fontevrault, where he would be laid to rest, but Chinon…where the royal treasury is kept.”
“I know,” Eleanor said wearily, and he presumed upon an old and enduring friendship to put a supportive hand upon her arm.
“Madame…I would not add to your griefs for the very surety of my soul. But I cannot deny my fears, not even for you. If John does prevail over Arthur, it will be in large measure your doing, Madame…and your responsibility. Are you sure you’re making the right choice?”
“Choice?” Eleanor echoed, with such bitterness that he shrank back. “Think you that I’m blind, that I do not see John as he is—as Henry’s son?” She drew a labored breath, then said softly, “But he is still my son, too. And at least he’ll not be Philip’s puppet, as Arthur would. At least he’ll not be that…”
9
Powys, Wales
April 1199
Never having been in Wales, Aubrey de Mara looked about with interest when Thomas Corbet informed him that they’d just crossed from Cheshire into Powys.
“I hear Wales is a wild, beautiful country, deeply wooded and right mountainous.” But Thomas just grunted, and Aubrey cast a sideways glance at the other man, a big-boned, burly youth in his early twenties. He had no liking for Thomas Corbet, would not of his own accord have chosen Thomas as a traveling companion. But in his passage through Shropshire, he’d twice enjoyed the hospitality of the Corbet family, first with Thomas’s uncle, Walter Corbet, Prior of Ratlinghope Priory, and then with his father, Robert Corbet, at the latter’s castle of Caus, and when Thomas decided he would accompany Aubrey into Cheshire, Aubrey could think of no graceful way to escape Corbet’s company.
He’d hoped Thomas would turn back once they reached Hawarden, but he showed no signs of homesickness, spent a month as the guest of Aubrey’s cousin, Ralph de Montalt, and when Aubrey announced his intention to move on to the Montalt castle of Mold, Thomas nonchalantly allowed that he, too, would stop over at Mold.
“Your cousin at Mold, Lord Ralph’s brother…you’ve never met him, either?” Thomas now asked idly, and Aubrey shook his head.
“No. Their grandfather and my great-grandfather were brothers, but they settled here in England with William the Bastard whilst my family kept to Normandy.” Turning in the saddle, he signaled to his squire, was handed a wineskin. “Are you sure, Tom, we needed no escort from Hawarden?”
“Damned sure. Mold is but six miles from Hawarden. Moreover, the Welsh dare not trespass in these parts; they’re not ones to risk their necks unless the odds are rigged in their favor. So you need not fret, I’ll get you there safe enough.” Thomas smiled, to signify that he was, of course, joking, and Aubrey smiled sourly back; he did not doubt that Thomas could merely wish a man good morning and yet manage to give offense.
“Tell me of the Welsh,” he said. “Who rules in these parts? Was there not a Welsh Prince named David, who was wed to a half-sister of old King Henry?”
“Yes, although the Welsh do pronounce that as Dav-ith. But Davydd was dethroned nigh on five years ago. The man who now wields the greatest power in Gwynedd is Llewelyn ab Iorwerth.”
“Ah, yes, I recall hearing some talk about him. He sought to overthrow Davydd at a rather young age, did he not?”
“At fourteen.” Thomas was frowning. “When he was twenty-one, he defeated Davydd in a bloody battle at the mouth of the River Conwy, and since then has ruled Gwynedd with his cousins and allies; they hold the lands west of the Conwy and he all that lies east…for now. Sooner or later, he’ll find a pretext to claim all of Gwynedd. Nor would I—were I a prince of Powys—sleep well nights with him for a neighbor; I’d sooner bed down with a snake.”
Aubrey grinned. “Still, though, few men gain so much so young. How old is he now?”
“Twenty-six this February past,” Thomas said flatly, and Aubrey’s eyes shone with sudden curiosity.
“You seem uncommonly well informed about the man, even to his very birthdate.”
“He’s my cousin,” Thomas said reluctantly, and then made haste to add, “by marriage,” lest Aubrey think he had Welsh blood. “My uncle Hugh did wed with Llewelyn’s mother.”
“I gather there is no love lost between you,” Aubrey said wryly, and Thomas leaned over, spat into the road.
“What of Llewelyn’s uncle Davydd? Was he put to death?”
“No,” Thomas said grudgingly. “Llewelyn banished him into English exile.”
Aubrey was thoroughly enjoying the turn the conversation had taken. “Most magnanimous,” he murmured, much amused when Thomas rose at once to the bait.
“Do not fool yourself,” he snapped. “He knows no more of mercy than he does of honor. If he spared Davydd’s life, it was only so as not to make a martyr of the man; I’d wager my birthright on that.”
Aubrey laughed. “It sounds as if the poor man cannot win with you, Tom. If he’d claimed Davydd’s life, I daresay you’d have scorned him for a coldblooded murder; yet because he did not, you scorn him even more!”
“If that is a jest, I see no humor in it.” Thomas lapsed into a sullen silence, and they rode without speaking for a time, Aubrey congratulating himself upon having discovered so effective a burr for Thomas’s saddle.
“Where mean you to go after our stay at Mold?” Thomas asked at last, and Aubrey, grimacing at “our stay,” shrugged.
“I thought I might venture down into South Wales, the lands under Norman control. Whilst serving with King Richard in Normandy a few years past, I became friendly with a Marcher border lord, and I should like to renew that friendship, to spend some days with him at Abergavenny Castle.”
“Aber—Jesú, man, are you talking of William de Braose?”
“Yes, Lord of Brecknock and Upper Gwent. Why does that so surprise you?”
“Because de Braose’s name stinks like a mackerel in the sun; I’d have thought the foul smell sure to’ve reached even as far as Normandy.”
“You speak of a man I call friend,” Aubrey said stiffly. “I’d advise you to choose your words with care.”
“You are an innocent, Aubrey, in truth,” Thomas said impatiently. “Ere you unsheath your sword, you’d best hear me out, hear how de Braose avenged the death of his uncle. The man responsible was a Welsh lord, Seisyll ap…whatever. De Braose summoned this Seisyll and his followers to Abergavenny to hear a royal proclamation, set out for them a rich table, as much wine as they craved. When the Welsh were off guard, de Braose’s men fell upon them, killed them all. Then, ere word could get out, he dispatched others to Seisyll’s camp, there abducted Seisyll’s wife and, right before her eyes, murdered her seven-year-old son.” Thomas reined in, looked challengingly at Aubrey. “I bear no love for the Welsh, but vengeance such as that does no man honor.”
Aubrey was shocked. “But he had such an agreeable nature, was quick to jest, to open his purse to his friends. And he seemed truly pious, never passed a wayside cross without offering up a prayer…”
“Farsighted of him, I daresay, given how greatly he’ll be in need of prayers come Judgment Day. Although, to be fair, there are those who say de Braose was urged to it by his kin. There are even those who think the old King was not displeased. And that bloody night at Abergavenny is twenty years past. But none would deny that de Braose is a hard man, a man not overburdened with scruples.” Thomas laugh
ed suddenly. “Little wonder his greatest friend at court is none other than Lord John!”
Aubrey was not surprised that Thomas should be so indiscreet, not after some six weeks in the latter’s company. But he had no intention of compromising himself, of sharing his political prejudices with Thomas. “Indeed?” he said coolly, and then, “Tom, look at the sky. There must be a fire ahead.”
Thomas stared at the smoke spiraling up through the trees, and then spurred his stallion forward. Rounding a bend in the road, he came to an abrupt halt. Aubrey and the squire reined in, too.
“Christ Jesus!” Thomas sounded stunned, turned to Aubrey in disbelief. “The whoreson’s besieging Mold!”
Aubrey searched in vain for an identifying banner. “Who?”
“Llewelyn, you fool! Who else would dare?”
Smoke from the smoldering palisades drifted across the outer bailey, set Llewelyn’s men to coughing. Most of the faces around him were well smudged with soot, but he saw only jubilant smiles, for they’d broken through the first ring of the castle defenses. Ahead lay the deep ditch that separated the inner and outer baileys, and beyond, the castle curtain wall, a far more formidable obstacle than the timber palisades, which had been easily set afire with brushwood and flaming arrows. But the curtain wall was stone, the gateway shielded by a portcullis grille.
The drawbridge meant to link the two baileys still blazed, torched by retreating soldiers. Llewelyn glanced about at his captains, said, “We can do nothing till we fill in the ditch; see to it. But we’ll need cover. Remember, their crossbows may be more cumbersome than our bows, but they have a greater range.”
As if to prove his point, behind him a man screamed, fell forward into the dirt. Up on the walls, an English bowman gave a triumphant shout. Encouraged, his comrades loosed their own arrows down into the bailey. The Welsh drew back, retreating behind a wall of upraised shields.
When enough wood, sand, and fagots had been thrown into the ditch, Llewelyn signaled and the battering ram was brought up, a huge tree trunk capped in iron, sheltered by a large-wheeled shed fireproofed with raw cowhide.
Ednyved ducked behind the shed, gave the battering ram an approving pat. “What are your orders?”
“Whilst we seek to break through with the ram, turn the mangonels upon the walls. Now I want every bowman we have aiming up at the walls. Have the scaling ladders ready.”
Ednyved gave a pleased grunt. “Consider it done,” he said, crawled under the shed to confer with the men crouching within. Llewelyn raised his right arm, dropped it sharply. At once the air throbbed with the twanging of Welsh longbows, and the battering ram began creaking across the bailey.
By the time the shed reached the curtain wall, the castle defenders were raining every possible sort of missile down upon it: stones, lances, lit torches, even quicklime. But it continued to creep inexorably forward, like a huge shelled turtle, leaving a trail of deflected weaponry in its wake. Once within range, the men inside jerked on the ropes, straining until the massive log began to swing back and forth, gathering momentum and smashing into the portcullis. There was a splintering; the iron reinforcements held, but the wood buckled, and the Welsh raised a cheer.
The capture of Mold Castle would be a signal victory for the Welsh, and Llewelyn had left little to chance; his army was equipped both with the huge crossbow machines known as ballistas and with the even larger mangonels, catapultlike devices capable of launching boulders of considerable size. He watched as his largest mangonel was dragged forward, as a windlass was wrenched to pull the beam back, as it was loaded with heavy rocks, and then released. The beam jerked back to a vertical position, propelling the rocks into a deadly overhead arc. Some shattered against the castle walls; others plummeted down into the inner ward. Not waiting to savor their success, his men were already reloading the mangonel. Llewelyn paused long enough to shout, “Good lads!” and then sprinted across the open ground toward the lean-to being set up by the ditch. “Bring out the second mangonel,” he panted. “And keep your shields up. They’re launching red-hot bolts from the walls; I just saw one go clean through a man’s belly.”
So far, all was going according to Llewelyn’s expectations. The battering ram continued its relentless thrusting. Up on the walls, men were lowering large hooks, desperately fishing for the ram, but the arrow fire was too intense for any man to risk exposure for long, and they were grappling blindly.
“Llewelyn!” Rhys raced for the lean-to, flung himself down a split second before an arrow buried itself in the wood above his head. It had all but grazed his hair, yet he said only, “Close, that one. Llewelyn, they signal from the ram. They’ve broken through the portcullis, have reached the door.”
“Now!” Again Llewelyn raised his arm, let it fall. “Do not let up, drive them off the walls!” And as his bowmen obeyed, launching arrow after arrow with eye-blurring speed, he pulled his sword from its scabbard, brought his shield up.
With wild yells, the Welsh rushed the castle walls. Those up on the battlements threw down stones, flaming pitch; more than one Welshman was engulfed in fire, rolled screaming upon the ground. But Llewelyn’s bowmen had achieved their aim, forcing many of the English to retreat, and the Welsh headed now for these exposed areas, threw scaling ladders against the walls, and began to scramble up, trailing light thong ladders over their shoulders.
By the time Llewelyn reached the walls, the battering ram was smashing through the oaken door. He was among the first to plunge through, fought his way clear of the gatehouse to find many of his men already within, clambering down their thong ladders to head off the English retreat. Of the buildings ranged along the curtain walls, only one was not of wood: a squat, two-story tower. Seeing themselves overwhelmed, the English soldiers were running for this, their last refuge, and Llewelyn shouted, “Christ, cut them off!”
But even as he raced for the keep, he knew they’d be too late. Men with torches were standing in the doorway. When most of the soldiers had made it to safety within, they scattered brushwood upon the stairs, tossed their torches onto the pile. The stairs ignited at once. One of the torchbearers was too slow, took a Welsh lance in his chest, and tumbled down into the flames, but the other ducked back inside; the door was slammed and bolted behind him.
Smoke hung heavy over the inner ward; the wooden buildings had been put to the torch. Llewelyn and his captains had gathered in the gatehouse, were measuring the keep with speculative eyes.
Rhys gestured toward the charred ruins of the wooden stairway. “Even if we built a platform and then forced the door, all the advantages would lie with them; they could smite us down one by one as we sought to enter. Better we should build a mine, tunnel under the wall, and bring it down about their ears. Or else use the battering ram to smash into the cellar.”
“The River Alyn sinks underground here; the ground is like to be too wet for tunneling.” Ednyved took up a flask, drank, and passed it around. “But we could use the battering ram, though it’d be slow going. What say you, Llewelyn?”
Llewelyn considered. “If we go across the battlements, we can enter onto the roof of the keep. If we then stuff burning brushwood down the louvres, mayhap we can smoke them out. But ere we decide, I’d see if I cannot talk them out.”
Moving to the door of the gatehouse, he raised his voice. “I would speak with your castellan or constable!”
There was a silence, and then a shutter was cautiously drawn back. “I am Sir Robert de Montalt. Identify yourself.”
Llewelyn and his friends exchanged surprised looks; they’d not expected to hook so large a fish. “I am Llewelyn ab Iorwerth, Prince of Gwynedd below the Conwy.”
The silence was even longer this time. “What would you say to me?”
“Just this. I shall take your keep. If nothing else, I need only wait, starve you out. You can neither escape nor hope for succor. Your overlord, the Earl of Chester, is in Normandy with your King. The Lord de Montalt, your brother, is known to be ailing; nor has
he the men to break my siege. Remain mewed up within the keep and you do but prolong your own suffering, do only delay what is writ in blood. Yield now and with honor. Your lives shall be spared, and you may ransom your freedom, with no shame to you, for a fight well fought.”
The shutter opened wider. “And if I refuse to yield?”
“Need you ask? You know full well what’s like to befall a besieged garrison that persists in holding out after all hope is gone. My people call this place Yr Wyddgrug: the burial mound. If need be, I’ll turn this ground into a burial mound in truth. I shall take this keep, easy or hard, but take it I shall, and when I do, all within shall be put to the sword. So the choice is yours. I do give you two hours to decide.”
Llewelyn passed the next hour conferring with his captains, getting reports on the casualties suffered, the prisoners taken, and planning for their assault upon the keep, should it become necessary. There was still an hour remaining upon his deadline when Ednyved appeared at his side.
“Well, my lord, once more your silver tongue triumphs!” He pointed toward the keep. The door was opening. As they watched, elated, a ladder was slowly lowered over the side.
“My grandfather took Mold Castle, too, Rhys. The garrison held out for three months before yielding, and he later said it was his sweetest victory ever.”
“My lord!” Llewelyn and Rhys turned from the window, toward the man just entering the solar. He was carrying a large bolt of emerald velvet; this he held out to Llewelyn, saying, “As soon as I saw this, my lord, I knew your lady should have it. Nothing better becomes a woman with red hair than the color green.”
Llewelyn fingered the cloth. “Indeed, you are right, Dylan. It shall please her greatly to make a gown of this.”
“Llewelyn?” Ednyved paused in the doorway. “Is it your wish to see de Montalt now? And our men captured two English knights up on the road. I’ll fetch them, too.”