Here Be Dragons - 1 (10 page)

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escorting had an urgent message for Davydd ab Owain, a Welsh Prince who had allied himself with the Normans. Godfrey had told him the Welsh Prince was encamped at Rhuddlan Castle, some twenty-five miles from Hawarden, and he wondered how long the journey would take. He wondered, too, why they were no longer following the coast, why they'd swung inland at Basingwerk Abbey.
"Godfrey?" He quickened his pace, caught his cousin's arm. "Godfrey, why did we change our route? Are we not more vulnerable to attack in the hills?"
"You'd bloody well better believe it!" Godfrey tripped, cursed as the mud sucked at one of his boots. "But our guide told de Hodnet that this is a quicker way, a road made long past by the Romans. And that Norman whoreson is set upon getting us to Rhuddlan as fast he can, no matter the risk."
Edwin had been about to ask who were these Romans, but with his cousin's last words, he forgot all else, stared at Godfrey in amazement. De Hodnet was a
Norman, a knight; to Edwin, that made him a being beyond criticism. He glanced ahead at the knight, his eyes lingering admiringly upon the man's roan stallion, the silvery chain-mail armor. He felt no resentment that de Hodnet should ride while they walked. That was just the way of it, and now he ventured a timid protest.
"But Godfrey, surely he knows what he's doing. After all, he's a knight."
"So? Does that make him the Lord Jesus Christ come down to earth again?"
Godfrey sneezed. "Think you that no man Norman-born can be a fool? As for his
Norman knighthood, that'll count for naught against a Welsh longbow."
"Should you speak so?" Edwin asked uneasily, provoking a snort of derisive laughter from his cousin.
"You think he'll hear? Nay, he knows just enough English to order us about."
Godfrey reached out, grasped Edwin's arm. "If a man is like to lead you over a cliff, Little Cousin, you'd best see him for what he is. De Hodnet wears a long sword and sits a horse well, but he's no more fit to wage war against the
Welsh than our Aunt Edith. He's as green as grass, lad, and as arrogant as
Lucifer, and there are no more dangerous traits known to man or God."
Edwin stared at him, dismayed. "But . . . but he's been taught the ways of war. All knights ..."
"Aye, and I daresay he'd fare well enough on a battlefield in France or
Flanders. But what does he know of the Welsh? He was in service with Lord Fitz
Warin for a time, did garrison duty at Fitz Warin's manor of Lambourne in
Berkshire. After that, he found a place with a Wiltshire lord. Then his lord took the cross like King Richard, and de Hodnet
I

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had no urge to see the Holy Land." Godfrey sneezed again, spat into the road.
"Shropshire, Berkshire, Wiltshire. But not Wales, Edwin, not Wales."
He shook his head, said bitterly, "Giles tried to tell him, warned him that the risk be too great, what with Llewelyn known to be in the area. But what
Norman ever heeded Saxon advice? He does not know his arse from his elbow when it comes to fighting the Welsh, but he gives the orders, we obey, and if we reach Rhuddlan Castle, it'll be only by the grace of the Almighty."
Edwin glanced over his shoulder at the shadowed, wet woods that rose up around them, dark spruce and pine blotting out the sky, giving shelter behind every bush to a Welsh bowman. The Welsh scorned the crossbow, preferred a weapon called a longbow, and they used it with deadly skill. According to Godfrey, a
Welsh bowman could fire twelve arrows in the time it took to aim and fire one crossbow; he swore he once saw a Welsh bowman send an arrow through an oaken door fully four inches thick. Remembering that, Edwin hunched his shoulders forward, suddenly sure that even at that moment a Welsh arrow was being launched at his back.
"Who is Llewelyn?" he asked at last, and at once regretted it, for Godfrey gave him an incredulous look.
"God keep me if you are not as ignorant as de Hodnet!" But Edwin's discomfort was so painfully obvious that he relented somewhat. "You do know that Davydd ab Owain claims to rule most of North Wales? Well, Llewelyn ab lorweth is his nephew and sworn enemy. They've been warring for nigh on six years, and were I
to wager on the outcome, I'd want my money on Llewelyn. He's not much older than you, I hear, yet he's been able to get the people on his side, has forced
Davydd on the defensive. Davydd still holds a few strongholds like Rhuddlan
Castle, but Llewelyn now controls the countryside, owns the night."
Edwin decided he did not want to hear any more, lapsed into a subdued silence.
The rain had ceased, but the small patches of sky visible through the trees were an ominous leaden grey. Although it was unusually mild for January, Edwin shivered each time the wind caught his gambeson. Stuffed with rags, quilted like eiderdown, it suddenly seemed a poor substitute for de Hodnet's chain-mail hauberk. He ran his hand over the padding, trying to convince himself that it could deflect a lance.
As the men moved deeper into the woods, so, too, deepened their sense of unease. They were bunching up, all but treading upon each other's heels, moving at an unusually brisk pace for men who'd been on the march all day.
Edwin paused to fish a pebble from his boot, sprinted

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to catch up. Panting, he slowed, came to a bewildered halt. The men had stopped, were gathered around Giles. Edwin squeezed into the circle, straining to hear.
Edwin was very much in awe of Giles. A dark, saturnine man in his forties, laconic and phlegmatic, he was renowned for his icy composure, and Edwin was stunned now to hear the raw emotion that crackled and surged in his voice.
"We've taken too great a risk as it is, should have followed the coast road.
But if we take this path, we are begging to be ambushed!"
"I do not agree. We're losing the light, are wasting time even now that we can ill afford to squander. I have an urgent dispatch for Davydd ab Owain, a message that comes from His Grace, the Earl of Chester. I swore to my lord
Montalt that I'd get it to Rhuddlan without delay, and that is what I mean to do."
Giles stepped forward, stopped before the roan stallion. "Sir Walter, I urge you to heed what I say. You do not know the Welsh, you do not know how they fight. This is not war as you learned it. It is bloody, brutal work, with no quarter given. Let me tell you about the battle of Crogen. The old King, Henry of blessed memory, led an army into Wales, went up against Owain Fawr. The
Welsh won the day, and King Henry was forced to retreat back into England. But ere he did, he had a number of Welsh hostages brought before him, wellborn men all, including two of Owain's own sons. He ordered them blinded, Sir Walter."
The other's face did not change. "That battle was fought nigh on thirty years ago. Why tell me this now?"
"Because you may be sure the Welsh do remember. Because that's how war is waged in Waleson both sides. I've fought in Normandy, in Scotland, even in
Ireland, and I tell you true when I say the Welsh do make the worst enemies.
They do not play by your rules, they win when they are not supposed to, and they do not know when they're beaten. They're wild and cunning and treacherous, not to be underestimated. It's been only a week since we captured one of Llewelyn's men not a mile from Ha warden. When we put the knife to him, he admitted that Llewelyn was encamped in these woods. Knowing that, we'd be mad to take yon path, no matter how much time we'd save."
"Our guide assures me that this rebel you seem to fear so much is not in the area, that he's known to be in Arfon. He also assures me that this is the quickest way to Rhuddlan." Walter de Hodnet paused, his eyes moving from Giles to the encircling men. Although most of them spoke only rudimentary French, it was evident that they'd followed the argument; their faces were flushed, hostile. He stared them down and, turning back to Giles, said curtly, "Give the order to move out."

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Giles had black eyes, flat and shallow-lidded. They flickered now, mering with impotent fury. And then he nodded, signaled the men fo fall into line. There was hesitation, but only briefly. From the die, they were taught obedience to rank; rebellion was utterly beyond their ken.
But although they obeyed, they did not like it. Walter could hear them muttering among themselves in the guttural English he found so harsh upon the ear. Saxon swine. As a boy, he'd thought it was one word, Saxonswine. Stupid and sly, the lot of them. It was always his accursed ill luck to have such oafs under his command. Little wonder he'd yet to win the recognition he craved, to find his niche. But this time would be different. By getting
Chester's message to Rhuddlan by nightfall, he'd stand high in Montalt's favor. It was not inconceivable that Montalt might even make mention of him to
Chester.
A smile softened his mouth at that, and for a happy moment he indulged in a gratifying daydream, imagining himself summoned by the mighty Earl, friend to
King Richard, one of the most powerful lords of the realm. A knight in
Chester's service would be a made man. He'd have no reason then to envy his elder brother Baldwin; Baldwin might even envy him.
His smile faded; thoughts of Baldwin were always sure to sour his mood. There was less than a year between them, but Baldwin was the eldest born, Baldwin was his father's heir, would inherit all when Sir Odo died. For Walter, for his brothers Will and Stephen, there would be nothing, only what they could win with their wits or their swords. And a younger son's options were limited.
If he was fortunate, he might find a place for himself in some lord's household. Or he might try his luck in the tournament lists, but that was a risky way to earn a living. For those who'd failed to find service with a lord, or lost in the lists, there was little left but banditry. Of course, one could become a clerk, like his brother Will. But a clerk had no social status;
he was a nonentity, of no account. Walter's mouth tightened. Was he any better off, in truth? What had he except his horse, his armor, and a shilling a day in wages?
But if he could do this for Montalt and Chester ... he glanced back over his shoulder, at Giles's dark, sullen face. He'd managed to infect them all with his damned fool fears; they were shying at every sound, as jumpy as cats. As little as he liked to admit it, it was even getting to him. He tilted his head back, studied the sky with narrowed eyes. Dusk was 'ailing fast. But if their guide was right, they were less than seven miles from Rhuddlan.
Walter slid his fingers under the noseguard of his helmet, rubbed the chafed skin across the bridge of his nose. What was the guide's

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name? Martin? A quiet sort, half-Welsh, half-Saxon, an outcast in both worlds.
But he knew these hills as few men did, and he
"Sir Walter!" Giles had come up alongside his stallion. Keeping his voice pitched for Walter's ear alone, he said tensely, "You hear itthe silence?
Suddenly there is not a sound, no birds, nothing."
Walter stiffened, listened. Giles was right. "Oh, Christ," he whispered. He swung about in the saddle, peering into the surrounding shadows, saw nothing.
"Martin!" he called sharply. A few yards ahead, the guide turned, his face questioning. But as he did, a low humming noise cut through the eerie stillness. Walter gasped, flinched as a rush of hot air fanned past his face.
His stallion leapt sideways, and he jerked on the reins, turned the animal in a circle. Only then did he see Giles. The other man had dropped to his knees in the road. As Walter watched, he tugged at the arrow shaft protruding from his chest, and then fell forward, slowly slid into the mud churned up by
Walter's stallion.
For a moment frozen in time, nothing happened. And then one of Walter's men, the one called Godfrey, dropped to the ground, rolled toward a fallen log, shouting, "Take shelter!" An arrow slammed into the log, scant inches from where he crouched, followed by an earsplitting, wordless yell, and Walter's men panicked, whirling about, slipping in the mud, crashing into one another in their haste to escape the trap.
Walter jerked his sword from its scabbard. Godfrey's action had been instinctive, but Walter knew it was also futile. The Welsh were firing from both sides of the road, with savage-sounding battle cries that only panicked his men all the more. The woods offered no refuge, only shafted death, and he shouted, "Make haste for the castle!" An arrow burned past his thigh, grazed his stallion's mane, and he spurred the animal forward. The horse stumbled over Giles's body, righted itself, and lengthened stride. In the fading light, Walter never saw the rope stretched across the road. It caught him in the chest; he reeled backward, hit the ground with jarring impact.
When he came to, dazed and disoriented, he did not at first remember where he was. He groaned, started to move, and a knife blade was at once laid against his throat. Behind the knife were the coldest green eyes he'd ever seen. The man was young, twenty at most. He said something in Welsh, and Walter said, "I
do not understand."
The youth spoke again, harshly, and Walter shook his head, tried to sit up.
His coif was jerked off, and the knife nicked into his throat; a thin red line appeared upon his neck. He froze, scarcely breathing, and the pressure eased slightly.
From the corner of his eye he could see several figures huddled on the ground:
a freckle-faced, frightened youngster, Godfrey, and a third

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an smeared with his own blood Beyond them a body lay sprawled in the mud, and nearby was a young Welshman, seeking to soothe Walter's roan stallion
Another man was now bending over him, a huge youth with a scarred cheek and deepset brown eyes He reached for the neck of Walter's hauberk, and as Walter recoiled, he grinned "Easy, English," he said, m accented but understandable
French "The Lord loveth a cheerful giver'"
He drew out the rolled parchment, eyes widening at sight of the Earl of
Chester's seal "Chester," he murmured, passing the scroll to his companion
"Well, well You fly high, English "
Walter drew a deep breath, thanking God for this French-speaking, amiable giant Surely he could reason with this one But the other he glanced at the glinting blade, swallowed, and said in a rush, "My name is Sir Walter de
Hodnet, son of Sir Odo de Hodnet of Welbatch in Shropshire My father is a man of means, and will pay dear for my safe return "
"Indeed7" The Welshman smiled at him "Horses7 Gold7"
"Yes, both," he said, knowing his father would not part with so much as a shilling on his behalf
"You hear, Rhys7 We've a man of wealth in our midst Tell me, English, what of your men there7 Who ransoms them7"
Walter stared up at him, perplexed Who'd pay money for men-atarms7 "I do not see"
"No, I know you do not But I'd wager your men do " He was no longer smiling, and Walter's mouth went dry Giles's voice was suddenly thudding in his ears
He blinded them Blinded them Blinded them
HE was barely twenty, his face contorted with pam, sweat beading his upper lip, his temples A dark stain was spreading rapidly across his tunic Llewelyn knew few injuries were as dangerous as an upper-thigh wound, all too often the man died before the bleeding could be checked Drawing his dagger, he split the tunic, set about fashioning a rude tourniquet It was with considerable relief that he saw it begin to take effect
"You're a lucky lad, Dylan," he said, and grinned "Half a hand higher and you'd have lost the family jewels "
Dylan was chalk-white, but he managed a weak smile at that, whispered, "Jesu forfend "
Two men were bnngmg up a blanket stretched across two poles, and Llewelyn rose, watched as Dylan was lowered onto it A flash of movement caught his eye
He turned, saw the guide, Martin, standing