Rhiannon (16 page)

“On foot? Quicker than riding?” Disbelief was clear in
Richard’s voice. “And what could they do against armed and mounted knights?”

Simon opened his mouth to laugh, then reminded himself that
Richard was not being stupid. Because he had spent nearly all of his adult life
in France, Richard really did not know.

“They run up the mountains and across the ridges where no
horse can go,” Simon said patiently. “My men and I came down the river valleys,
more than two hundred miles, perhaps nearer to three hundred. For them it will
be little over one hundred. As to what they can do against knights, it is more
a question of what the knights can do against them. This is no formal, open
challenge on a clear plain. The attacks will be made when a group passes
through a heavily wooded area or through a narrow ravine. They will cut off the
guards with a hail of arrows, drive away the horses, carts, and oxen, and
disappear into the hills or woods again.” Simon sighed. “I wish I could be with
them.”

“You have been too long among the Welsh,” Richard growled,
appalled by such tactics and Simon’s approval of them.

Simon shrugged. He knew that many knights thought Welsh-type
war dishonorable. But any other kind would be suicide for the numerically
weaker and infinitely poorer Welsh. However, it did not seem worthwhile to
argue the question, so all Simon said was, “Perhaps, but I never loved to be
pent up within walls.”

Nonetheless, Simon had little choice in the matter. In
private Llewelyn had given him specific orders in addition to the oblique
promises to Richard, and the oblique permission to take part in the war. Before
he allied himself, Llewelyn wished to be sure that Richard was really committed
to this war and would not yield at the first offer of compromise. Now Simon was
not at all sure that this was true. Richard’s distress over the broken vow of
fealty was very great. Simon understood; he would have felt the same and could
only be grateful that his homage had been given to Llewelyn, so he had no vows
to break.

This, however, made very strong the possibility that Richard
would compound with the king. Undoubtedly the earl was an honorable man and would
not make any truce in which Llewelyn was not included once Llewelyn was his
ally. But this was not sufficient. Llewelyn did desire the overthrow of
ministers who fed Henry ideas of grandeur and absolutism, because such ideas
might engulf Wales, but his nation was too poor to engage in a war that would
bring no real profit and might bring a massive and disastrous retaliation.
Simon was sure that the Bishop of Winchester was every bit as skillful as any
Welsh princeling at finding “honorable” reasons why a truce should not be kept.
Unless Richard was ready to fight until Winchester was dismissed from office,
Llewelyn could not afford any formal alliance. It was thus imperative that
Simon stay in Usk until Henry made his move and Richard responded to it.

Two days later Simon’s doubt of Richard’s willingness to
fight was confirmed. Word was brought to Pembroke that King Henry and his army
had paused in an open valley some three miles north of Usk. Plainly they were
inviting attack. Philip Bassett, a keen soldier who knew the area and was very
hot against the king because of his brother, Gilbert’s, injuries, pointed out
that there were several approaches to that valley. He was sure the king’s men
did not know all of them, and Richard would have an advantage in both attack
and, if necessary, retreat, despite the fact that he had fewer men.

Richard listened but shook his head. “I do not know why the
king is doing this. He is no soldier, I know, but he has with him men who know
war as well as or better than I do.”

“I and my men can scout the routes,” Simon offered. “We can
make sure there is no trap set there now, or,” he smiled grimly, “remove the
trap so that it turns to our benefit.”

“No,” Richard said. “I do not fear a trap.” His lips
twisted. “I will not raise my hand against my overlord. If he attacks me—well,
then, I must defend myself, but I will commit no act of aggression against
him.”

Simon was quietly thoughtful after that. Usk was a strong
keep and very well stocked for war. Around it for miles was only forest and
barren fields from which all produce had been harvested. Nonetheless, all the
people of the area were also in the keep. If Henry was ready to sit in front of
Usk for six or eight months, Usk would be starved out. Simon did not think the
king had that kind of patience or the money to pay mercenaries for so long, but
it was possible. In any case, Simon did not want to be trapped with no chance
of action—and that would be just what he would face if Richard refused to act
and Henry determined to carry out a siege.

Later in the day, he requested permission to take his men
out to scout Henry’s army. Richard gave permission, but Simon could see he was
not happy with even so minor an initiative against the king’s forces. To ease
his mind, Simon promised that his party would not raid, would mark the size of
the army, what engines of war were carried, and other such matters.

“That is not really fair to your men, is it?” Richard
sighed. “They are accustomed to raiding.”

“There will be opportunity enough for them later,” Simon
said, eager to get away before Richard changed his mind altogether.

He was not concerned for his men, who were most accomplished
thieves and would doubtless collect enough loot without actually raiding to
make the little excursion profitable. What Simon wanted to know was whether
Henry intended assault or siege, and he knew just how to get the most accurate
report of Henry’s state of mind.

Probably Richard would have had a fit if he had seen Simon
when he and his men left Usk just after dark. They went afoot, and there was
nothing at all to mark the knight as different from his base-born followers.
All wore knee-length tunics of deerhide mottled dark and light, with chausses
and shoes deliberately splotched and streaked with dirt. All had short
swords—or very long hunting knives—that were meant for stabbing and slitting
throats rather than for formal combat. All carried longbows and quivers filled
with yardshafts and a long, dark cloak rolled tight across their shoulders, and
all had well-blackened faces and hands.

One by one they slipped through the postern. The guard saw
them cross the small footbridge that spanned the moat and, before his
unbelieving eyes, seemingly disappear, even though there was a well-cleared
area for several hundred yards surrounding the keep. Once or twice the guard
caught a flicker of movement across the open area, but he was sure that if he
had not known there were fifty-one men out there, he would have assumed it was
a hare or a cat or some other small animal.

Simon’s bent body moved automatically in the slow steps and
quick rushes that carried him from one shadow to another. Bifan had taught him
the art when he was a child. He was not quite as proficient as his men—it was
Simon whom the guard saw—but he was good enough not to endanger them, and they
were as proud of him as they would have been critical of one of their own. For
a Saeson he was a miracle, and they believed that only the greatest devotion to
their ways and people could have permitted him to learn so well.

Although Simon was aware of what the men thought, he no
longer worried about the fond condescension with which they regarded him.
Tonight in particular the silent slipping through the darkness released a well
of joy in his soul. Richard’s depression was oppressive and made the crowded
conditions and restricted activities inside Usk even less palatable than usual.

They had reached the forested stretch now and could come
upright and move faster and more steadily. Still, they were silent as any other
predator, circling like wolves to be sure the wind would not carry their scent.
Naturally the men would not notice, but the horses and oxen might grow restless
and thus give warning to guards who might be extra alert because of recent
raids. In less than an hour they were on the low, wooded hill that lay
northwest of the armed encampment. The moon was just rising, but its light did
not yet fall into the valley. For Simon and his men the time was perfect, the
low moon providing even more disturbing shadows that flickered and shifted as
the breeze drove clouds across the sky.

The field was also perfect, dotted with tall weeds, low
bushes, and clumps of saplings. There was, Simon thought, cover for an army of
Welsh. But there were guards in plenty too, not quite shoulder to shoulder but
well within sight of each other. The little existing light gleamed fitfully on
the ring-sewn leather armor they wore. Simon smiled. Such precautions surely
indicated that Llewelyn’s men had been at work.

Siorl, Simon’s captain, and the other men knew what to do.
They were now fading away into the open area one at a time. From his perch on
the hill, Simon could see one guard and then another tense up and call softly
to his neighbors. Most often all three would take a few steps forward and peer
around. Simon did not see his men slip past and around the searching groups
into the camp. He hoped none of them would be carried away by temptation and
steal enough to wake anyone. He had said no killing—if possible—but made no
limits against stealing. Some would have stolen anyway. If he punished them for
it, there would have been resentment; if he did not, respect for his orders
would have diminished. Leadership was mostly the art of the possible.

Finally there was only one man remaining. Echtor, the
underleader, and Simon slipped down the hill, hugging shadows, crouching beside
bushes while they chose out another path. The light breeze shook the leaves on
the bush beside which Simon had paused. Closer to the perimeter of the camp,
another bush was more violently agitated and a low sound like a rising wind
filled the air. Simon slid sideways, hesitated, and came upright behind two
saplings. He stood perfectly still, knowing that even if a guard looked
directly at him, he would not notice anything. The dappled coloring of his
garments, broken by the thin trunks and branches and sparse leaves of the
saplings, would convince the guard that he was looking between the young trees
at the shade-mottled clearing behind.

Again the fitful breeze blew, and the bush off to the right
became active again. Simon watched, turning only his eyes from one guard to
another. Yes, now! The two nearest the bush were both watching it nervously,
hefting their pikes. One started forward and the other fixed his eyes on his comrade
to be sure nothing would jump at him out of the darkness. Simon laughed
silently and pitched a stone well off in the opposite direction. He saw the
head of the guard on the other side turn sharply as the stone hit the ground
and Simon ran softly, softly around the guard’s back into the camp.

Only a few steps back was an empty wagon, strategically
placed for the guards to take shelter in case of an attack—more evidence that
the Welsh raiders had been at work with their knives and longbows. It was also
very convenient for Simon, who stopped in the deep shadow beside it to unfasten
and unroll his cloak. This he donned, pulling the hood well over his head and
down to conceal his blackened face. Then he strode out boldly, kicked awake the
first man he saw, and asked where Lord Geoffrey FitzWilliam’s men were
quartered.

When he had found the area he needed, Simon strolled idly
around the tents until he found Tostig, whom he shook awake, just dodging back
in time to save himself a punctured throat but not quickly enough to prevent
Tostig from seizing him by the ankle.

“Some welcome,” he grumbled, a bit nettled at having been
caught.

“Sir Simon,” Tostig gasped, recognizing the voice. “Whatever
are you doing here?”

Simon tensed. “Keep your voice down. What do you mean, what
am I doing here? Is there some reason I should not be here? Damn and blast, did
Henry learn I was with Richard and outlaw me?”

“No—that is, you have not been outlawed. As for the rest, I
cannot say, but I heard my master tell the Earl of Cornwall that you had gone
back to Wales.”

“Well, we are in Wales,” Simon said. “Is Geoffrey here?”

“Asleep in his tent. Sir Simon, it is the middle of the
night!”

Simon grinned. “Yes, well, there are reasons I could not
come calling by day.”

“Yes, my lord.” Tostig sighed. “Be careful you do not step
on the boys. They sleep near the opening to protect my lord—for all that is
worth. Both of them sleep like logs.”

Simon laughed softly. He did not blame Geoffrey’s squires if
they did sleep heavily, although he guessed the remark was partly engendered by
Tostig’s anxiety for his master. Simon remembered his own campaigns when he
served Lord William. It was a noble thing to be a squire to a great man, but it
was hard, hard work. In addition to the same riding and fighting the men did, a
squire had to run messages, oversee the care of his horse and his lord’s, clean
his lord’s armor and weapons—and, of course, his own—see that meals were
properly cooked for his lord and serve them with as much elegance as could be
provided, attend to the comfort of visitors should there be any, keep an eye on
the men-at-arms and report any gross mistreatment or neglect by the captains,
set the pickets and make sure the guards were doing their duty—and do a million
other one-time-only things either ordered by his lord or directed by his own
common sense. And God help him if his common sense did not direct him and he
missed doing something. It was no wonder that the boys slept hard.

Nonetheless, Simon spoke outside the tent before he entered
and, although the boys did not seem to have awakened, he did not go too near
Geoffrey’s cot. His brother-by-marriage did not sleep heavily on campaign and
was quicker and deadlier than anyone Simon knew. Adam might be stronger, but
Geoffrey was as swift in striking as an adder.