Stuart, Elizabeth (59 page)

He
glanced out from his dubious sanctuary, noting with satisfaction that his
knights were following his example. The ground was too rocky and uneven here to
even think of remaining mounted. Yes, Dylan had planned well.

Feathered
shafts flew about them, thick and fast, and an arrow thudded into a gnarled
tree, inches from Richard's shoulder. He jerked behind the rock with an oath.
Christ, he didn't dare lift his head so intense was the fire!

But
Richard's own archers had taken up position behind a small ridge. A barrage of
arrows was returned up the hillside, slowing, if not stopping, the murderous
Welsh fire.

A
sudden blood-curdling yell rent the air, and the Welsh swarmed down the
mountainside, screaming and yelling, a hoard of vengeful demons sprung up from
hell. Richard took a deep breath and steadied himself. The sight was one to
make an Englishman's blood run cold, and he was thankful his men were well
seasoned.

He
waited until the last possible moment, then swung out to meet the enemy, his
men surging out from behind rocks and trees to do the same. The fighting was furious,
hand to hand, but the most difficult time was still to come, the time when de
Veasy's armor-clad mercenaries moved in.

He
parried the furious thrust of a Welshman's sword, swinging his blade inside and
under his enemy's guard with the ease of long practice. With a cry the man went
down. These men wore no armor, carried shields made of wood and hide. They
excelled in lightning ambushes, but were no match in pitched battle with
trained knights.

Richard's
own divided force was outnumbered and the Welsh were attacking with a
single-minded fury. He could feel the hate in the air like a tangible thing,
could sense the zeal that drove them to fling themselves against armored
knights and trained men-at-arms. Give him an enemy who fought for pay any day
over one who fought for a cause!

Gradually
Richard and his men began giving ground before the onslaught. He realized what
was happening and redoubled his efforts, shouting at William, his other
knights, apprising them of the danger. Merciful Father, why didn't the Gascons
move? If Giles brought in the reserve too soon, they would lose the advantage
of surprise. But Richard's men were rapidly tiring. They couldn't hold much
longer.

He
parried another thrust and swung out with his blade, holding off three Welshmen
attempting to encircle him. His sword was bloodied to its hilt, his surcoat and
armor liberally splattered with red. He had no doubt these men knew him; each
wanted to be the one to take the Wolf.

He
darted a quick glance over his shoulder, measuring his distance from the river.
There was still room to maneuver. If they could hold their ground, his men
would be in no danger.

Then
he saw it—a flash of sunlight glinting against mail. De Veasy's Gascon troops
marched out of the trees, precision perfect, swords and shields held before
them as they advanced to finish off the beleaguered English.

Richard
shouted a warning, knowing the next few minutes of the battle would be most
critical, the time when he and his men would be set upon from all sides by a
hopelessly superior force. But just as the Gascons made ready to engage,
confusion seemed to sweep their ranks. Men were veering off toward the river,
others surging forward in an uneven line against Richard's desperately
struggling men.

Richard
lunged forward into the chaos, fighting his way to the forefront. What fool was
giving the Gascons their orders, he wondered. He didn't know, but he thanked
God for him!

He
pushed on, so hard-pressed he no longer even tried to strike quick and clean.
He swung at whatever part of his enemy's anatomy was exposed. He slashed at
hands, heads, bellies, even kicked a Welshman viciously in the groin, taking
him out of the way as he raised his shield to fend off the well-aimed blow of
one of the Gascons. There were no rules of chivalry here; it was kill or be
killed in whatever manner possible.

And
all at once, Richard realized the cause of the heavensent confusion in the
enemy ranks. Philip... his fool of a brother, Philip, was shouting out
conflicting orders. For one incredulous moment Richard couldn't believe his
eyes. Then his lip curled contemptuously. The Almighty was indeed merciful. He
was cursed with a brother hell-bent on seeing him dead, but at least the boy
was plagued with the worst battle instincts Richard had yet seen!

Richard
pushed blindly away in the opposite direction, knowing Philip would be little
menace to any of his men, more than a little loath to meet his brother over
steel. But his push carried him too far. He was now dangerously near the muddy,
reed-choked banks of the river, with little room to fight and four wiry Gascons
closing in for the kill.

He
backed away from the men, eyeing them warily. There was no offer of mercy if he
threw down his arms, no request for ransom as was usual when a great lord was
taken. These men were obviously working together, bent on killing. And Richard
had a sudden inkling he knew why. De Veasy must have offered a substantial
reward for the man or men who took his life.

He
feinted toward the right then swung back to his left, darting a few paces away
to put the thick, protective trunk of an oak at his back. It was the best he
could do, and he glanced desperately over the seething, chaotic field,
searching for someone to come to his aid. But the few men who might reach him
in time were locked in their own desperate struggles.

Then
he heard it—the echo of his war cry wavering over the field as Giles came
surging down the valley leading the attack. But Richard knew the men would
never reach him, would never even realize he was in danger until it was too
late.

He
stared grimly at the circling soldiers, wondering how long he could hold them
at bay. One darted in and Richard swung at him with such force he felt the
shattering ache all the way to his shoulder. The man howled with pain and staggered
away, blood welling from his chest. The stroke had been a lucky one, severing
mail and cleaving living flesh.

The
remaining men hesitated, none wanting to be next, but Richard had no time to
congratulate himself on reducing the odds. Philip suddenly materialized out of
the melee, an unholy grin on his grimy, bloodstained face.

The
sweat was trickling into Richard's eyes, his breath coming in deep labored
gulps as he recognized the bitter irony of his situation. Philip had dreamed of
besting him on the field. His half-brother would never be man enough to take
him down alone, but he'd damn sure enjoy being in on the kill!

Philip
raised his sword in salute. "To the Wolf," he said mockingly. "I
never hoped to see you treed. You'll forgive me if I mention you appear more
cat than wolf at the moment."

Richard's
fury was cold, deliberate, born of outrage. It burned through him, sending new
strength coursing along his limbs. "Then come and get me, little
brother," he challenged. "Mayhap you can take a cat. God knows you've
not the courage to take a man!"

Philip
held his sword in one hand, drawing his dagger with the other. He leaned toward
one of his companions, making a jibe at Richard's expense. Then coolly and
efficiently, he sheathed his blade in the man's throat.

For
just a moment, Richard stood, amazement rooting him to the earth. Then
blessedly, his instinct for survival took over. He lunged forward against one
of the soldiers, fighting with all the desperate strength of a man unexpectedly
reprieved from death. He hadn't any idea what Philip was about, but he wasn't
waiting to find out. Men who pondered battlefield deliverance seldom lived to
enjoy it.

He
hacked his way forward, glancing back at his half-brother from the corner of
his eye. Philip was fighting the other Gascon, more than holding his own.

"Ware,
Richard... behind you!"

Philip
swung his sword in a half-point and Richard twisted in time to meet two
onrushing soldiers. But so intent were the men on racing away from the battle,
they paid him little mind. The rout had begun.

The
autumn wind sighed brokenly through the pass, drying the sweat still soaking
Richard's body and making him shiver unexpectedly. He sat on a grassy hillock,
rubbing his aching right arm. In the aftermath of the furious fighting, the
abused limb was already growing stiff. Farther down the valley, his men were
still checking the field, searching for comrades, dead or wounded, searching
for any sign of the elusive Welsh Fox.

He
gazed up at the sun, surprised it had moved but a short distance in its journey
across the heavens. The life-and-death struggle enacted in this valley had
taken scarcely an hour. It never ceased to amaze him that so many men could
die, that the course of history could be changed in such a short space of time.

The
wind picked up and he drew his cloak about his shoulders, as he watched the
activities below with an odd feeling of detachment. Three men broke away from a
milling group of prisoners and made their way uphill toward him: Giles, and
William, his half-brother, Philip, walking between.

They
came to a halt. "We found him," Will stated gruffly. "Down by
the river, just as you said. And unhurt, more's the pity!"

Giles
said nothing. His sharp eyes traveled from Richard to Philip and back again.

Richard
gestured for the men to be seated. "I owe you my life, Philip, but before
rendering effusive thanks, I'd best discover just what the hell you were doing
here in the first place."

"I
don't want your thanks," Philip said sharply. He dropped to his knees,
then shifted to sit cross-legged in the dead grass. "Consider it payment
of a debt owed. And as to what I'm doing here, you'd not believe it
anyway."

"Try
me."

Philip
shot William an angry glance. "I know what you think. I realize what this
looks like, but it's not that way at all. We all know this ambush is Sir Hugh
de Veasy's doing. But I left his service weeks ago."

Richard's
voice was cold. "So why are you here?"

Philip
plucked at a twig, breaking it into pieces. For a moment silence reigned among
the men, and the cries of the wounded, the shouting of Richard's soldiers could
be heard clearly from below. "Sir Hugh never wanted my friendship as he
claimed," Philip admitted, each word measured, won with a price. "He
used me to get to you. I see that now, should have recognized it long
ago."

His
eyes met Richard's evenly. "For a long time, I've regretted the Judas role
I played for him last summer. Christ's blood, I regretted it even as I did it!
I wanted to pay you back for what you'd done to me, but I never knew Sir Hugh
actually planned to have you killed. I'd not have been a part of that for any
reason."

"And
yet when I was last at Waybridge you told me you'd see me dead." Richard's
eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. "I remember it distinctly."

"Y-you
didn't really believe that," Philip stammered. "Christ Jesus,
Richard, that was schoolboy stuff! I was furious and that was the worst I could
think to say."

"In
light of the present circumstances, I must consider it at least," Richard
remarked dryly.

"Believe
me as black as you wish, but don't think I'm fool enough to commit treason for
something so petty as a beating!" Philip exclaimed. "Lord, if you
think I'd join the Welsh—" He broke off and took a deep breath. "I
guess you might at that."

"Just
tell me what you're doing here, Philip. I'll decide what to believe
later."

"I
left de Veasy, left him some weeks ago," Philip began. "I wanted to
put things right but didn't dare come to you. But I'd no wish to return to
Waybridge and face our father either. So I moved north through Marcher country,
hoping to sell my sword to one of the border lords if I could find one who'd
have me.

"I'd
reached Chester when I ran into a man I recognized, Lile de Ponsant, a Gascon,
a mercenary captain I'd once seen at Ravensgate Castle. I struck up a
conversation with the man, thinking to find out who was taking on soldiers. But
he put me off, swore he didn't even know Hugh de Veasy when I mentioned where
I'd learned his name."

Philip
frowned darkly. "By that time I was suspicious. I followed Ponsant, saw
him join up with a small group of soldiers once he passed over the Welsh
border. And the further we got into Wales, the more men began to gather. They
came under cover of night in small groups, four or five at most. I didn't know
what was in the wind, but from the way Ponsant acted I figured de Veasy must be
behind it."

He
glanced up. "And I knew it didn't bode well for you, Richard. Believe what
you will, but I swear on the surety of my soul, I only followed those men with
the intention of warning you. I thought to make amends for the harm I'd done
before—that maybe you'd not think so ill of me if I were able to help you
somehow."

He
shrugged. "But you stumbled into us this morning and you know the
rest."

William
snorted derisively, unable to contain himself. "That's why you were out
there in the thick of it just now, fighting with the bastards! I notice you
didn't step forward to help until the scale tipped decidedly in our
favor."