Rhuddlan

Copyright 2011 Nancy Gebel

Cover Photograph of Eilean Donan Castle
Copyright 2011 Anne-Marie Gebel

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PART I

Chapter 1

May, 1170

Westminster Palace, near London

The wine was surprisingly good. Hugh thought
it must have come straight from the ship.

The flavorful taste of the wine was
surprising because the king was not one to pay much attention to
anything he wore, ate or drank with the result that his household
tended to be just as careless, and a visitor to the court could
well find himself choking down a cup of muddy, stale liquid which
had been offered to him under the guise of wine. The king never
seemed to notice—even when he was drinking it himself.

Perhaps it was due to the solemn occasion of
the day that the tables in the great hall had been shrouded in fine
linens and spread with a mouth-watering feast of roasted pig and
venison, stuffed plover and pheasant, cheeses, imported figs and
oranges, and above all, that pleasing wine. Servants hurried back
and forth with platters and pitchers, making the rushlights in the
sconces on the walls flicker wildly from the movement, attending to
the lively, jovial crush of important guests. The king and his
eldest son, who just that day had been crowned as his successor,
sat at the raised dais with their counselors and other notable
persons.

It was probably a combination of the large
crowd inside the hall and the excellent condition of the wine which
assured that much more of it was drunk than usual, that overheated
many of the guests and caused the celebration to spill outside,
down into the ward. And in the air of that fine spring evening, the
loud and boastful conversations of the inebriated, mostly young men
gathered in chatty clusters turned to tales of their exploits in
war. One boast was challenged, and honor had to be defended. Swords
were drawn. Half-drunk and half-serious, two opponents faced each
other in a ring formed by their cohorts.

Watching from the top of the stair, idly
swirling wine in his cup, Hugh had a clear view of the fighting
men. One was a red-faced, red-haired giant of a man whom he had
heard on previous occasions, bragging about this or that in a
booming voice intended to impress. The other knight Hugh didn’t
know. He was shorter than his adversary by a full head and grossly
outweighed. In fact, his slight build, almost girlish-looking as he
crouched in a defensive posture with his sword clutched firmly in
both hands, going up against this Goliath would have made a comical
sight if the red-haired knight hadn’t been glaring in such deadly
earnest.

But the lithe knight soon proved himself more
than equal to the fight. At first he kept moving, stepping lightly
aside as the big man slashed his sword downwards and whirling away
from his sideswipes. If he offered his own sword it was only to
block a thrust or divert a stroke. After only a short time at this
dance, the big knight began to tire. He was hot and had eaten and
drunk too much at the feast. He was forced to turn round and round
to find his opponent and jab out at him, and he was breathing hard.
His friends shouted out encouragement and this seemed to rally him,
but Hugh could tell the man wouldn’t last much longer. Not long ago
he’d been laughing and joking; he probably couldn’t even remember
what had prompted this battle and his heart wasn’t in it
anymore.

The other knight saw what Hugh saw. His fair
head sparkled under the torchlights and Hugh caught the satisfied
expression on his face. He’d only been waiting for the precise
moment to strike. As the big man lunged gracelessly towards him, he
jumped easily out of his path and raised his own sword in a
threatening manner.

Just then Hugh felt himself jostled roughly
aside and when he turned to protest, he saw it was the king who had
pushed his way onto the stair, followed by an entourage of curious
soldiers, and that the king was furious.

“Bolsover!” he thundered down into the
ward.

The blond knight checked his would-be blow
and dropped the point of his sword immediately. He looked up at the
king with a bland face. “Your Grace?”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing!
Who’s that other man?”

Bolsover’s opponent panted out his name, not
daring to meet the king’s eyes.

“We were merely showing each other our
technique, Your Grace,” Bolsover said in an easy tone. “We
apologize if we’ve disturbed you.”

The king stared narrowly at him. “This is a
celebratory feast, not a tournament, Robert!” he snapped. “There
are ladies within who have no interest in seeing the color of your
blood tonight. Do you understand me? Save your exhibitions for
another time!”

Bolsover inclined his head without another
word and the red-headed knight bowed hastily. The king turned,
scattering his bodyguard and the onlookers who had crowded onto the
stair behind him, and strode back into the hall.

Hugh made his way down to the ward. Bolsover
was in the midst of a small group of soldiers, leisurely cleaning
the dust from his sword by wiping it across the top of his leather
boot, but the soldiers fell away when they recognized Hugh.

The young man glanced up. “My lord earl of
Chester, isn’t it?” he asked. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

“I saw the whole thing,” Hugh said. “I admire
your footwork.”

Bolsover laughed. “Then you’re the first one
who ever has,” he said, returning the sword to his belt. “The
knights who trained me despaired of ever making me into a competent
soldier. Too much dancing and not enough slashing, they’d say.” He
shrugged. “Anyway, it was only a bit of fun. The day was too
somber, wasn’t it?”

“Coronations are meant to be solemn
occasions, I think,” Hugh answered with a little smile. He added
curiously, “You weren’t planning to kill the man?”

“No! And the king knew it! He just didn’t
want anyone stealing the thunder from his precious son.” But he
spoke good-naturedly. His eyes held Hugh’s, mischievous and daring.
“Henry’s a good man to serve,” he said.

“Which Henry?” Hugh inquired. “The old one or
the young one?”

Bolsover laughed again. “That’s right! I have
two masters now, haven’t I? Well, I’m sure the old Henry will set
the young one up in his own household somewhere in the depths of
Normandy, and somehow I’ll contrive not to be sent with him.” He
spotted a squire hovering nearby and called him over. “Alan! Fetch
the earl a cup of wine, and bring me water.”

There was something appealing about Sir
Robert Bolsover, Hugh thought. He possessed a rare self-assurance
for someone so young, for he couldn’t have been much past twenty,
but the impish glint in his eye also meant he didn’t take himself
too seriously. His figure was slender but not soft, and in all his
movements he carried himself straight and resolutely. He was
clean-shaven and wore his dark blond hair fashionably short and
neat. But it was his face that Hugh’s gaze kept returning to,
almost against his will it seemed; Bolsover’s intelligent blue-grey
eyes and wry mouth. He had never before met a man who appeared to
be thumbing his nose at the world.

Hugh himself wasn’t old—twenty-six—but he was
one of the wealthiest men in Henry II’s empire, with estates
stretching across the breadth of England from his earldom in
Cheshire on the Welsh marches to Lincolnshire in the east, as well
as property in Normandy, and hence, one of the most powerful. Such
responsibilities had served to dampen whatever youthful enthusiasm
he might have once had, while simultaneously imbuing him with an
air of permanent impatience; the mild arrogance born of wealth and
power. He was used to being around important men, as his father had
died (some said he’d been poisoned) when he was young and he had
spent the remaining years to his majority as a royal ward, and had
learned to have scant regard for the mundane aspects of life. He
was not ostentatious or loud, but neither was he content to melt
into the background. It was merely that he understood his due and
insisted upon receiving it.

So when he was confronted with the mocking
smile of a man who obviously didn’t share his demeanor, he felt
himself attracted in the way that opposites attract. He wasn’t
certain of the reason. Perhaps, he thought, he wished he might be
even just a little carefree as Robert Bolsover seemed to be
carefree. To not be so constantly aware of his position. To have a
joke at the king’s son’s expense…Or perhaps he simply found
Bolsover’s charismatic personality a pleasing contrast to his
own.

The squire, whom Bolsover introduced as Alan
d’Arques, a young kinsman of his from Normandy, returned with the
wine and a skin of water. As he drank, Hugh watched his companion
raise the spout of the skin to his lips and thirstily gulp down its
contents. With a satisfied belch, Bolsover wiped away the water
that had trickled down the sides of his mouth with the back of his
hand and tossed the empty skin back to his squire.

“Tell me one thing,” Hugh said. “You say you
were only having a bit of fun. But that big knight with whom you
were fighting looked very serious. Didn’t you think it was a
dangerous undertaking to incite someone like him to challenge you?
Didn’t you think you might actually be killed?”

Bolsover leaned towards Hugh and grinned
broadly. “Not for one moment.”

The celebration of the coronation of the
king’s son, young Henry, or the Young King as he would now be
known, lasted a week. Although he found himself hoping for the
opportunity of another private meeting with Robert Bolsover, Hugh
only met him again while he was in the company of fellow knights or
in attendance on the king. To his delight, Bolsover was unfailingly
charming to him in his passing comments. Hugh observed the esteem
in which the young knight’s companions held him, and how even King
Henry seemed to be amused by his antics. Bolsover was always
noticeable, whether he was competing in the contests the king had
devised to honor his son or heartily laughing at some bawdy joke
someone had told him at the dinner table. Hugh’s eyes were
constantly seeking him out.

There was one person among the vast audience
which had come to witness the coronation who was aware of this
sudden infatuation and that was Sir Roger of Haworth, a member of
the earl’s personal bodyguard. Haworth was an intimidating figure,
possessing a physique and temperament which were eminently suitable
for his job. He wasn’t much above average height, but his body was
so solidly muscular that he seemed larger than most of his peers,
and neither his mouth nor his eyes ever smiled. His origins were
obscure, but Hugh had taken a liking to him several years before
and had removed him from the ranks of the common men-at-arms and
placed him in his own bodyguard. Although it wasn’t normal practice
to make knights of men who were not of noble birth, Hugh had
flouted convention, giving Haworth a warhorse and bestowing the
honor on him. No one was going to argue with the earl of Chester
when he declared all his personal attendants were to be
knights.

Haworth was a faithful servant. He was always
at Hugh’s back and waited only for the opportunity to draw his
sword on his master’s behalf. Hugh’s appreciation for the man had
grown as time had passed, and he often confided in Haworth. Because
of his status, the earl wasn’t a popular man and his quiet demeanor
made him even less accessible. Roger of Haworth was probably the
only intimate he had, and Hugh had never expressed an interest in
finding another.

Until now. Haworth saw the way the earl’s
eyes followed Sir Robert Bolsover and how instead of displaying his
usual polite disinterest at the tournament, the earl’s face lit
with animation whenever Bolsover took the field. Haworth didn’t say
anything; he retreated further into the background but was ready to
come forward when Hugh beckoned him. Hugh’s attitude towards him
hadn’t changed at all. Nonetheless, Haworth was jealous.

“Would you just look at that pompous ass!”
William fitz Henry muttered to his friend, Sir Richard Delamere, as
the two stood nearby a colorful blue and white tent crested with
rippling pennants and prepared to join the day’s tournament.
Delamere shifted his helmet from one hand to the other and patted
his back to satisfy himself that his dagger was stuck securely in
his belt. He didn’t bother to look up because he knew to whom
William referred. It was an old and occasionally tiresome story.
“You don’t know how much it galled me to go on my knees and do
homage to him,” William continued darkly. “I knew without looking
that he was laughing at me!”