Rhuddlan
Page 4
Chapter 4
April, 1172
St. David’s, Deheubarth, Wales
William Longsword dropped to his knees, crossed himself and muttered a short, earnest prayer of gratitude that he had once more made it safely to solid ground. It made no difference that the brief voyage had been smooth; he had, as his father had one time laughingly accused, an unnatural fear of the sea for a man of Norman blood. “It’s actually reassuring to know that there is something you fear, Will,” Richard Delamere had told him cheerfully. “A little weakness makes you seem human.”
The king and his court had just returned from a six-month stay in Ireland. Several years earlier, a small band of Norman adventurers had invaded the island and in September 1171, Henry had heard rumors that their lord, Richard de Clare, was styling himself king of Leinster. Henry didn’t object to his knights conquering new lands to the greater glory of his empire, as long as it was understood that he was the king and they no more than his vassals. He sailed for Ireland in October, confronted de Clare and demanded his submission which he received without a fight, with that of a few of the Irish kings voluntarily thrown in for good measure.
Longsword wasn’t impressed with Ireland, but at least it had been terra firma. They had planned to leave for Britain soon after Christmas, but the winter winds had been contrary and had prevented departure. Longsword had been the only one relieved with the frustrating delay, even though he knew it just prolonged the inevitable. In February, a messenger had managed to get across to the king with the news that papal legates had arrived in Normandy to negotiate his absolution of the murder of Becket. It was important that Henry return to bargain with the legates and restore himself to the fold of the Church. Rome was a powerful force, and if it were to decide against him and give its full backing to his adversaries, such as King Louis VII, the empire he had so painstakingly created could very well fall down around him.
Longsword rose. The capricious wind, so gentle the last few days, was beginning to blow harder. The sky overhead was fast filling with ominous purple and black clouds. From behind him, a horse whinnied shrilly and he turned in its direction, back to the quay. The sight of the choppy water made him shudder. He shifted his eyes instead to the boatload of horses being unloaded with efficient skill. One animal, however, was impatient, perhaps aggrieved with the sudden rocking of the ship. It snorted and thrashed within the confines of its leather bonds and caused the boat to sway even more precariously. Someone shouted to cut its straps before the vessel was capsized, and a young man, a squire by his dress, jumped forward with a dagger in his hand. He grabbed the horse’s bridle with one hand and slashed at the bonds with his other. By this time the animal was hysterical, and once it was free the boy, his footing unsteady on the swaying bottom of the boat, was unable to keep hold of the bridle. Unfettered, the animal somehow stumbled over the edge of the ship and into the shallow water, and up onto the beach, bounding away at a furious pace and scattering all in its path.
“That’s Bolsover’s, isn’t it?” said Delamere, who was also watching. The big black disappeared up the beach. He corrected himself. “I mean, was Bolsover’s?”
Longsword smirked. “Yes.”
Bolsover’s squire ran after Avranches with deadly urgency.
“He shouldn’t bother,” commented Delamere. “He’ll never catch that one. Remember how impressed the Irish chiefs were when Bolsover showed them how fast his precious horse could fly?”
“Serves him right for being so smug,” Longsword said. He craned his neck. “I’d love to see his face right now. Where is he?”
Delamere didn’t know. “Perhaps we should help the boy. Bolsover isn’t going to be too happy with him.”
“If we help him, we might find the animal,” Longsword retorted. “And I’d rather not, seeing as he stole it from me in the first place.”
Delamere shrugged indifferently. He knew from long experience that his friend’s sense of grievance, whether justified or not, was unshakeable.
Avranches did not reappear. Alan d’Arques had chased him as far as he could over unfamiliar land without getting lost, but he finally returned alone to the camp as the call to mount up was being passed along. Robert Bolsover lashed into him with angry words, even though Delamere came to the boy’s defense, protesting that the horse had been crazed and that only an arrow might have managed to stop it. Bolsover would not go horseless despite the loss; the earl of Chester had given him three magnificent stallions on the occasion of his marriage to the knight’s young sister last September. But Avranches had been a particular favorite of his, a reminder of the time he had set out to woo Hugh Fitz Ranulf.
Bolsover was well pleased with the fruits of his endeavors. He didn’t love Hugh as Hugh loved him—he was oblivious to that emotion with regard to either sex—but he was willing to provide the earl with the comforts he needed as long as the earl continued to reciprocate with expensive gifts of land and horses. Arranging the marriage to his sister had ensured there would be perpetual contact between himself and the earl, and so, greater opportunity to obtain whatever he wanted. Robert genuinely liked Hugh; the earl was intelligent and good-looking, although quiet. His humor tended to the sardonic, and they had had many laughs together at the expense of the king’s household. He didn’t know his appeal to Hugh, but he suspected the earl had few, if any, intimates and that he enjoyed the company of someone who wasn’t in awe of his power and wealth.
With the manors Hugh had granted him, Sir Robert was now a modestly wealthy man of property. There was no longer any reason for him to serve as a member of the king’s assembly except when he was called for his annual guard duty, and even then he could simply hire a knight to go in his place or pay, as his father had done for many years, the shield tax. But despite Hugh’s entreaties to remain with him at Chester through Christmas, Bolsover had instead decided to accompany Henry to Ireland. His reason, which he didn’t share with the earl, was a vain one: he wanted to wear his new riches among the landless knights of the king’s company, the group to which he had formerly belonged. Hugh, who had been born heir to enormous riches, wouldn’t have understood Bolsover’s flashy need to show off.
Unlike Longsword, Robert Bolsover had enjoyed Ireland. The Normans who had gone there at the request of a petty king in 1167 had carved out neat dominions for themselves. The native Irish were overwhelmed by the military tactics and arms of the Normans, and large numbers of them were easily defeated by relatively small bands of mounted knights. When Henry made a small circuit of the eastern coast, local chiefs came to him to voluntarily offer their submission. Such displays were not lost on Bolsover. He saw quite clearly the effects of wealth and power. If he had been the kind of man who thrived on violence and brute force, he might have been tempted to stay behind and try his own luck in winning himself a lordship. But he returned with the king’s entourage because he knew there was a much easier—and less risky—way to make a fortune.
It was Henry’s plan to get to Normandy as quickly as possible, which meant getting through Wales and into England without delay. Unfortunately, the prince of Deheubarth, Rhys, sent messengers to the king with an invitation to encamp at Cardigan, where he had just completed a fortress to replace the Norman one he’d demolished six years earlier. Since Rhys had been his implacable enemy until only a few years ago, it was politically impossible for Henry to refuse even though it meant a detour of some thirty miles in the wrong direction.
Longsword disliked Wales almost as much as he’d hated Ireland. “I’ve finally figured out your problem, you know,” Delamere commented to him as they rode in their places in the long line wending its way north to Cardigan. “It’s language. You just can’t tolerate strange languages.”
“And strange customs, strange clothing, strange manners, and the strange things the men do to their hair, not to mention their strange drinks,” Longsword said. “Why do you consider that a problem?”
“Because your dismissive attitude is offensive. It’s not these peoples�
�� fault they weren’t born Norman, Will.”
“Nor mine that I was born a bastard, but it’s still the cross I must bear,” he retorted.
His friend’s illegitimate birth was another subject which Delamere never sought to pursue. As far as he could tell, it only prevented Longsword, the firstborn, from succeeding his father to the throne. In all other affairs, he was treated with the proper respect accorded to any of the king’s offspring. Delamere had no doubt that in due course Henry would find William a rich heiress to marry and invest him with an earldom. Despite such prospects, Longsword brooded continually and bitterly over what he considered his less than perfect birth.
“Ah, well,” Delamere replied instead with an exaggerated sigh, “I, for one, found the language of Ireland fascinating.”
“Probably because you had many willing teachers,” Longsword said dryly. Delamere had made the most of the enforced layover in Dublin. Longsword had hardly seen him for three months. He gave his friend a sly look. “But did you actually learn anything?”
“Of course!” Delamere managed to seem offended. “Hello, good-bye, I love you, you look beautiful by the light of a candle…things like that. I’d like a similar opportunity to learn Welsh,” he mused. “Sounds so lovely, doesn’t it? The women don’t speak, they sing. Of course, I don’t think the king will stay more than one night. Then it’s rough sleeping, non-stop riding and more sailing straight back to Normandy.”
Longsword’s lips twisted sourly at the thought of another imminent sea voyage. He firmly put it in the back of his mind. “Richard, if you can’t get a woman to share your cloak within an hour of our arrival at Cardigan I’ll lose all respect for you.”
Delamere laughed. “Well, Will,” he answered. “You know it’s not in my nature to refuse a challenge.”