Rhuddlan (29 page)

Chapter 21

March, 1177

Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd

Longsword made a quick recovery.

He was barely conscious when they left the
abbey and Delamere had had to hold him in his arms the entire,
torturously slow way back to Rhuddlan, but once put to bed he made
rapid progress. When Teleri hadn’t bothered to greet her husband’s
return, Gladys had immediately stepped in and insisted on being the
one to nurse the man through his convalescence. It was Delamere’s
opinion that she did so only because she had a vested interest in
keeping Longsword alive but he had to admit she was gentle and
solicitous and obviously successful, for by the end of three days
Longsword was sitting up and eating solid foods and by the end of
the week he was complaining that if he wasn’t permitted down in the
hall with his men for supper that night, he would climb out the
window and join them.

Delamere grinned at his querulous tone.
“Don’t you find it ironic that you were the only man wearing a
hauberk that day and the only one to be almost mortally
wounded?”

“No, just bad luck,” Longsword retorted. It
always seemed to give Delamere pleasure to joke about his mail. If
it was hot or raining, Delamere wouldn’t wear his because the
hauberk was heavy and uncomfortable but Longsword would no sooner
go out without it than his sword.

He didn’t remember anything after being shot.
He had some vague memories of a soft voice and calm touch which he
couldn’t quite reconcile with Gladys’ capable hands and
incomprehensible tongue, but didn’t pursue. He had a more important
matter on his mind: revenge.

The six men who had chased after the Welsh
had returned that same night to Rhuddlan, having seen not a trace
of their enemy. But even though the warriors had been mostly hidden
during the attack, Longsword was certain Rhirid ap Maelgwn had been
their leader. It was the image of the Welshman’s cool, appraising
eye frozen in Longsword’s mind that convinced him of it.

After two weeks, Longsword was still
complaining of pain but he rode his horse, swung his sword and
hurled his javelin anyway. The lips of the wound hadn’t fused but
he kept the area covered and drank the chamomile tea Gladys boiled
for him and didn’t think anymore about it.

One day he said to Delamere, “I’m ready
now.”

“Ready for what?”

“Rhirid!” he said impatiently. “I want
Rhirid!”

“We’ve had men out every day, Will, and not
one of them has seen a Welshman since the attack.”

“We’ll go to Llanlleyn,” he declared. “A big
settlement of stinking Welsh—it shouldn’t be too difficult to
find.”

Delamere was cautious. “I don’t know, Will;
you’re not completely healed. Riding around the ward isn’t the same
as running down a settlement.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Longsword agreed
grimly. “Overrunning Llanlleyn will be much more pleasurable.”

The day was unusually warm for March but even
Delamere was wearing his hauberk.

A sense of increasing excitement gripped him.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought about Olwen and the
little ones, so wrapped up had he been in Longsword’s near fatal
wound and the necessity to get him back to full strength. And now
the quick pace through the forest, the dull, steady clomps of the
horses and the jangling of hardware—tack and weapons—all served to
revive memories of previous journeys and campaigns, memories which
had nothing at all to do with his current familial obligations. It
was suddenly as if Olwen, his children and the manor had ceased to
exist; he belonged solely to Longsword and could think of nothing
he’d rather be doing than avenging his lord’s wounded honor.

The Normans had a rough idea where Llanlleyn
lay. When Longsword had assumed responsiblility for Rhuddlan, he’d
been given a quick review of his neighbors. The land was a bit more
of a mystery but at least the season favored them—another month and
a profusion of greenery would have obscured their passage.

On the second morning, their journey was made
easier when they were spotted.

Delamere, riding ahead with several
companions, suddenly saw the not-too-distant figure of a man on
horseback galloping away from them. Whether the man was a simple
traveler or some sort of guard Delamere didn’t know but it was
obvious he was rushing to warn Llanlleyn of the Normans’ close
presence.

Delamere sent word back to Longsword and took
off after the Welshman. He didn’t want to overtake the man; he only
wanted to follow him. He was more wary of traps and ambushes now
than he’d been before the day Longsword was shot.

The Welshman made no effort to hide himself.
Perhaps he believed the Normans already knew exactly where
Llanlleyn was situated. In any event, he couldn’t afford to waste
time by trying to keep out of their sight. His sole purpose in
flying at breakneck speed was to get to the fortress and warn the
chief before the foreigners attacked.

Then the man rounded a curve and disappeared
from Delamere’s view. His companions spurred on ahead of him,
enjoying the chase, but when he followed them around the hillside
he had to suddenly pull back hard on the reins to keep from
crashing into them.

They had stopped because they had seen, about
a mile in the distance, the fortress of Maelgwn ap Madog. It sat on
a short hill; a sprawling collection of low, unimpressive
structures surrounded by an earth and timber wall. One of the
knights made a contemptuous noise in his throat. He’d been
expecting something a little more worthy of his trouble.

They could see the Welshman below them,
riding hard towards the fortress. The knight asked Delamere if he
should continue the chase.

“No.” Delamere shook his head. “It’s Lord
William’s revenge. Let him lead the charge.”

They dismounted to wait for the others to
catch up. Delamere’s two companions amused themselves by practicing
with their swords while he kept an eye on the walls of the
fortress. The gate had been open—he was certain of it—but now that
the Welshman had ridden through it was closed. He saw no other sign
of activity.

After a while, they heard the gathering sound
of hoofbeats behind them. The Normans had been riding at a steady
but not very quick pace to save their horses for the attack. They
halted and milled around the narrow road, really nothing more than
a rough path, looking across at the fortress. Delamere turned to
grin at Longsword, who had pulled up next to him. “Take a look at
your quarry,” he said. “Are you sure you want to bother?”

Longsword stared at Llanlleyn and didn’t
smile. “Yes.”

“Their most formidable defense appears to be
the gate.”

“We’ll ride it down.”

He was confident this would be easily
accomplished. Formidable was hardly the word he would have used
himself. Llanlleyn wasn’t a particularly rich or strategic commote
and in all likelihood no one had ever bothered with it—past
invaders of the region had probably simply absorbed it along with
larger, more important conquests while permitting its chiefs to
remain. Longsword was certain the gate and the walls were only
there as a matter of form and not function.

He split his knights into three groups. The
larger was to attack the front of the fort; the two smaller ones
would ride around it on either side. But to the Normans’ surprise,
as they swept down upon Llanlleyn, there was no reaction at all
from inside. No warriors appeared along the wall; no arrows flew at
them. They reached the fortress unscathed. Longsword was
momentarily disconcerted; he and Delamere exchanged a puzzled
glance. The gate was apparently their only adversary, but even this
proved to be easily overcome. One man stood on his saddle and,
after a cautious peek, hoisted himself over the wooden gate. He
lifted the bar which had effectively locked the gate and stood back
as his compatriots rushed inside.

Llanlleyn was deserted. No one—not even a
stray dog—was there.

Longsword was furious. He’d wanted revenge
and was being denied it. He galloped his horse around the clusters
of small buildings, looking for anything that might move and not
finding it.

Delamere watched his friend slash his sword
through the air in frustration. Other knights rode into and out of
the houses, ducking their heads to pass under the doorways. There
was no one anywhere.

He stuck his sword back into his belt and
urged his horse forward. When he reached the rear of the fortress,
he met the men from the two groups which had circled around it.

He returned to Longsword. “They must have
gone out the back,” he told him. “There’s a gate there, too. It was
wide open.”

Longsword cursed and spat on the ground. “You
should have intercepted the Welshman.”

“Oh, it’s my fault you have no one to kill,
is it?”

“If he hadn’t been able to warn them, they’d
still be here!”

Delamere dropped the argument, mostly because
he’d already thought the same thing himself. But he was damned if
he were going to apologize. “What do you want to do?”

“Burn it.”

Suddenly they heard shouts behind them. They
turned to see Alan d’Arques and half a dozen others rush towards
the front gate.

“Looks like you’ll have your
fight after all,” Delamere said to Longsword as he pulled on the
reins and maneuvered his stallion around. “I think the Welsh are
attacking
us
.”

They soon discovered this statement was not
precise. The Welsh had not mounted a conventional attack; instead,
they had crept up to the fortress while the Normans were occupied,
shut the gate without being noticed and set it and the timbered
portions of the wall on fire. The blaze was quite substantial
before Alan d’Arques and his companions had caught sight of it and
shouted the warning. And now, as they all stood and stared at the
burning wall, flaming arrows whizzed over their heads. Some landed
harmlessly on the ground but others found their marks: thatched
rooves.

“Cover the rear gate!” Longsword ordered when
he realized what the Welsh were planning. “Fitz Maurice! De Vire!
Get to the back! Quickly!”

They were lucky. It was clearly the Welsh
intention to trap them inside the burning fortress but a handful of
Normans had remained at the rear gate and spoiled the plan. The
knights sat idly on their horses exchanging glares with twenty of
Maelgwn’s men. The Welsh, although on horseback like the Normans,
were not disposed to attack and the knights believed themselves too
few in number to go on the offensive. Delamere, who had raced to
the back as well, did not have such prudence. “Go! Go!” he shouted
at them. Fitz Maurice and de Vire were right behind him.

The Welsh were waiting for them as they burst
through the open gate, the hooves of their horses throwing up
clumps of earth and grass. Half a dozen archers stood to the left;
at the first appearance of the Normans, they released a hail of
arrows. One bounced harmlessly off Delamere’s helmet. He swung
around sharply. The sword he’d thought he wouldn’t need was back in
his hand. He raised it high and charged at the archers, screaming
at the top of his lungs. The Welsh frantically attempted to fit
another arrow but they were too late. They were close to the
fortress and Delamere was almost on them. Four of them turned and
ran but the other two had swords in their belts as well as arrows.
They pulled them out but were no match for a screaming Norman
bearing down upon them on his snorting, wild-eyed beast. There was
more of an immediate threat in the animal’s strong legs than in
Delamere’s sword. Another Welshman turned and ran. The last
remaining warrior slashed futilely at the horse before the heavy
animal knocked him into oblivion.

De Vire, fitz Maurice and the others had
engaged the Welsh on horseback. Although a century of dealing with
the Normans had taught the Welsh that they must be prepared to
fight while mounted, it was not their preferred tactic. They
outnumbered the Normans almost three to one but after a few
half-hearted swings and jabs, they fled the field.

“Go round to the front!” Delamere shouted. By
this time more knights had joined them, since the fire made the
main entrance impassable. En masse, they flew around the perimeter
of the small fortress but their adversaries were nowhere to be
seen.

“They’ve gone into the hills, Sir Richard!”
Ralph de Vire said excitedly. “Should we follow them?”

Delamere shook his head. “Those hills are a
better fortress to them than Rhuddlan is to us. You wouldn’t get
any further than a hundred paces.”

Longsword trotted up to him. “Any
casualties?”

“None on our side. One trampled man on theirs
but I think they took him away. They weren’t here to fight us,
Will; they only wanted to deny you the pleasure of burning
Llanlleyn to the ground.”

“I know it. They succeeded.” He glanced at
the growing flames. “He’s quite clever, isn’t he?”

“Rhirid?”

“Yes.” Longsword stared at the fire consuming
Llanlleyn and cursed. “He knew exactly what I wanted to do!”

Something in his friend’s manner struck
Delamere as odd. Although Longsword was obviously angry, his voice
wasn’t as loud or strong as it inevitably was on such occasions.
And it was odd, too, that he hadn’t pushed by all of them to be the
first out the back gate. “Are you all right, Will?” he asked.

“What do you mean? Yes, of course. I’m just a
little tired.” He frowned at Delamere. “Why are you looking at me
like that?”

Delamere’s voice was dismayed. “Your neck is
bleeding again.”

This time, fever set in. For several days
Longsword writhed and moaned in his bed, unaware of anyone or
anything. It was all Gladys could do to slip a bit of broth down
his throat at the odd moment.