“You are thieving savages, and I would no more open my gates to you than I would to —” De Lacy’s hands rose in the air, for he could think of no comparison mean enough.
“You defy the king’s writ?” demanded Dai, his voice rolling like the thunder of many hooves over the green meadow. “Think you what you say, before you talk treason!”
“The king does not give writs to savages smelling of sheep!” sneered de Lacy. “Begone, before I give word to my archers to shoot!”
“Against Welsh bowmen?” Dai turned to leave the field. “Beware of sending an arrow at my back, in the Norman fashion,” he warned, “lest my friends take your action amiss!”
He returned to the shelter of the forest edge. “I was not sure I would not feel a Norman arrow at any step!”
Caerleon laughed. “They couldn’t hit the side of a mountain!”
The attempt to take the castle must wait then until the next day, for it was fast growing dark.
“Tomorrow,” said Rhys, “tomorrow we must try our luck with de Lacy, without the one trick that could gain us the castle.”
“Or,” said Caerleon defiantly, “gain us our deaths!”
Later that night, camped in the dark, without bread for supper, Gwyn took courage and inched toward where she knew Rhys lay.
“Is all lost then?” she whispered.
Rhys reached for her, holding her arm to bring her close enough to whisper. “No, but I had not thought … the Welsh are ever thus, though,” he said sadly. “They will not forget their own petty pride. But perhaps —”
“Here,” she whispered. She reached for his hand and placed the rolled writ in it and closed his fingers over it. “I saved it from the burning.”
His exclamation was muffled. “Does he know?”
“Caerleon? I do not think so,” she murmured.
He tucked the scroll away inside his jerkin. She felt his lips cool and brief on her forehead, and his words fell like a breath of night air on her ears. “My thanks,” he said. And that was all.
At last came the morning. “This is our only chance,” said Rhys, ruminatively, pulling the scorched writ from beneath his jerkin. “Let us hope that de Lacy has no priestly clerk to spell out the Latin.”
Caerleon’s jaw fell. He stood half a head taller than Rhys, but his sinuous grace made the other’s stockiness more noticeable. “Where did you find it?” murmured Caerleon.
Rhys did not answer directly. “The king of the Normans believes the Welsh are all magicians,” he reminded his captain, “and perhaps we have need of such ability. But this is a chancy hour now, and at the end of it — who knows?”
He glanced around at his men — almost, thought Gwyn, as though in a kind of farewell — and then stepped out into the morning sun.
He went alone, with the piece of paper waved aloft as his flag of truce. His bowmen, back at the edge of the woods, fitted arrows to the notches in their bows, ready to defend their lord. Rhys, advancing to the foot of the walls, bellowed up for de Lacy. He made no other statement until at last de Lacy appeared on the ramparts. The soldiers on the walls, laughing and hurling curses down at Rhys, fell silent as de Lacy approached.
The voices rose and fell as the wind took them. Caerleon, watching closely, thought he saw a menacing fist raised on the wall. He fitted his own arrow into the bow and drew sight on de Lacy. He muttered, “I’ll give them something to think about, keep them busy while we take the castle.”
Gwyn standing beside him knocked down his arm. “Do you want to get him killed?” she cried. “If de Lacy fell, Rhys would be riddled with arrows before he hit the ground.”
She looked at Caerleon then, askance, and saw deep in his eyes the very real hope that Rhys would be killed. Only then did she realize the depth of the hatred that existed in Caerleon’s heart.
De Lacy disappeared from the wall, and a few moments later emerged through the small gate at the foot of the wall. He walked across the meadow, stiffly, like a man unused to walking.
Around them the meadow stretched, spangled with little flowers like an old mosaic, and so silent now that Gwyn could hear even the gurgling of the river, at the far side of the meadow.
Daffyd, on a predictable impulse, left the shelter of the trees and followed his lord across the knee-high grass, dotted with blue and yellow flowers. His burly figure, in its dark leather jerkin, looked strangely out of place among the daintiness of the full-flowering spring.
“I have King William’s writ here,” said Rhys. She could barely make out the words. “It tells me to take over the castle from you and recalls you to Windsor.”
De Lacy said, “Let me see it.”
Rhys, holding his temper with some difficulty, produced the parchment that Gwyn had saved from the burning. He hoped devoutly that de Lacy, in common with most of his fellows, could not read. Unrolling it before de Lacy, he said, “You see the king’s signature there.” He eyed de Lacy carefully, and was pleased to see no spark of comprehension as he glanced at the written document. De Lacy was a true Norman.
“The king would never give a tribal chief the right to take my castle,” said de Lacy in proud accents. “This must have been stolen — no doubt the king’s army is coming directly. I was a fool to parley with you!”
He turned to retrace his steps, but Rhys said, letting a note of triumph creep into his voice, “Ach, you are right. I did steal it — from Monfichet. The king’s army will not come to lift the siege, I promise you, for I took the scroll from Monfichet by force.”
De Lacy said, surprisingly, “Very well. I must obey the king.” He turned back toward the castle, as though to concede, then suddenly, whirling around, he had his sword in his hand and advanced upon Rhys.
“King William fly away with the foul fiends!” shouted de Lacy. He called to the men on the walls to fire at Rhys. A shower of arrows filled the air, all falling short. Rhys’s arm shot out and took the Norman by surprise. He swung him around in front of him, using de Lacy’s body as a shield for his own. Rhys shouted, “Shoot! But your lord dies first!”
The sentries on the wall dropped their weapons, puzzled as to what to do. The Welsh, intent on Lord Rhys, had forgotten about their prisoner.
Gwyn glanced at Valdemar. She had purposely stayed far enough away from him so that his complaints, his attempts at cajoling pity from her, did not reach her. He had inched now toward the edge of the woods, the long rope that tethered him dragging unnoticed behind him. His face was suddenly beaded with glistening sweat, and he stared unblinkingly across the meadow at the Norman knight, and the fortress itself. Perhaps he conceived that rescue lay at hand — she could not know what lay in his thoughts.
But even as she watched, he broke into flight. He stumbled out of the forest and nearly fell as the rope caught on brush behind him. He did not seem to feel it. He shambled forward, shouting hoarsely, “Rhys is a traitor! We came to get the girl! They killed Rainault!”
She cried out, too, in sympathy with a prisoner no matter how brutal, in alarm lest he distract Rhys fatally.
Caerleon was quick. Bursting from his own place of concealment near Gwyn, he loped like a stag from the forest and, sharp of thought, did not try to retrieve the prisoner — instead, he leaped to the dragging rope and planted himself on it. Valdemar stopped, jerked in midair by the rope held by the Welsh captain’s feet, and twitched like a leveret caught in a snare.
Then, while Gwyn clapped her hand to her mouth to smother a scream, Caerleon deliberately stooped, picked up the long tether in both hands, and pulled, hand over hand, the fallen Norman across the ground back to the edge of the woods.
He summoned Elkyn and handed over the leather thong. “See that he does not make this mistake again,” said Caerleon. “He has not yet lost his value for us.”
But the damage was already done. Rhys could no longer expect the king’s writ to do the work for him. He hissed in de Lacy’s ear, “The king’s writ is worth nothing here on the border. I have you, and you will tell y
our men to come out of the castle and start back toward Winchester. The castle will, in fact, change hands, not by king’s writ, but by force.”
Without turning around, de Lacy said, “Let me go back and get some of my things.”
Rhys laughed shortly. “I wish I may see the day that you would go back into your castle, and come out again.”
De Lacy laughed scornfully. “Don’t you know a Norman’s word is as good as his bond?”
Rhys said, “As good as your king’s word?”
De Lacy said, surprised, “My king? Then you are a traitor to William.”
Rhys said, “No more than you are, for you remember you were willing to defy the king’s writ.”
De Lacy said then, curiously, “Who are you, then? Welsh, I know. But your name?”
Rhys said, “I am Rhys ap Llewellyn, Lord of the Western Marches, and I bow the knee to no man!”
De Lacy sneered, “You call yourself lord, but of what? A troop of half-naked savages, without honor.”
Rhys controlled himself with difficulty. “I have seen enough of your Norman honor, in William’s court, to last me. I do not consider your honor as anything except a word to use to sicken decent men.”
A fitful breeze brought snatches of Rhys’s parley with de Lacy to the small army waiting, sitting on their heels, watching Lord Rhys.
“I went to your king,” said Rhys, “to seek peace along the Marches. You lose men, we lose men. We will not submit to Norman might, and you well know you will never sleep, save with a sword by your side, until the border wars are laid to rest.”
“We do not treat with savages,” said de Lacy.
“You repeat yourself,” pointed out Rhys. “Savage sheep are good enough to eat, I note, and a savage arrow kills as quickly as a Norman lance.”
“You fight a losing battle,” said de Lacy. “This writ you show me is worthless. Back to your mountains before we take you prisoner. Our dungeons are deep.”
Rhys laughed aloud. “You are not in a position to threaten, de Lacy. Give it up. The warrant reads true enough — William wants you back, although I consider your worth less than he does. Send for your priest,” he added with scorn, “perhaps he can make out the Latin that puzzles you!”
De Lacy stirred angrily. Rhys continued, “Give your men orders to evacuate the castle. You stay here, to make sure that there is no treachery. For even kings are without honor in your land.”
He marched de Lacy back to the edge of the woods. The orders had been given, and now de Lacy had to await the event. Caerleon’s eyes glittered. “We ought to kill him.” He gestured towards de Lacy’s insolent face. “There is no way you can trust him.”
Gwyn, out of pity, crept closer to Valdemar. He lay on the ground, and she feared Caerleon had killed him. It would have mattered little to Caerleon, she knew, but yet she must see.
Valdemar’s eyes opened. “You, lady? Best kill me now, else I tell such a tale at court as will singe their ears!”
“What could they do to us,” said Gwyn sadly, “that they haven’t already done?”
Valdemar struggled to sit up, but fell back on one elbow and gasped for breath. Finally, he found words. “Remember de Mowbray? He defied the king, and he is worse than dead — a thing under the ground, in a cell, all but forgot.”
“You threaten me with vengeance like that?” said Gwyn, leaning back on her heels. “The king would not lift his finger to avenge your death. Caerleon should have finished you.”
She took a cup and dipped it in the stream and carried the water to him. He showed her his manacled hands and said, “I can’t drink this. Unloose my bonds.”
She set the cup down near him and backed away. “Lap it up,” she said, “like the dog you are.”
She could read his disappointment when she would not come close enough, for she was sure he intended to seize her and use her as a hostage to gain his freedom. She stayed nearby, watching him, as he managed to lift the cup to his lips and drink. When he was done, he tossed the cup toward her, and it rolled to her feet. “I thank you for your mercy, lady,” he said, “but truly I fear I will not get out of this alive. Your friend is anxious to kill me, and I doubt not that there will be a knife in my ribs as I sleep one night.”
Gwyn said hardly, “Death is no more than you deserve. You have earned it, and I will not be sorry to see it. But if you think that Lord Rhys will kill an undefended man in his sleep, then you have him wrong.”
“Lord Rhys! No, I meant that other, the one who slapped me. He’s waiting his time to get back at me for that.”
Gwyn said, “I don’t think you need to worry, for Caerleon is one of Rhys’s men, and he would not dare.” But she spoke without conviction, and she feared it would show in her voice.
When Gwyn looked again, the parley had been augmented by a black-clad priest. Apparently de Lacy had summoned him — for he may have had certain intimations of his own that William Rufus was far from pleased with him.
At any rate, the priest nodded — that much could be seen from the distance — and before the sun tipped the far hills, the exodus from the castle had begun. It was clear — so Rhys told them later — that the Welsh at hand were no threat whatsoever, but the strong arm of William Rufus reached across hills and valleys and rivers, to pluck the Norman, quaking, from his fortified castle.
If the Normans had expected to come out as a fighting force, they were not acquainted with Lord Rhys. For the men were allowed to take only their personal belongings, and no weapons save for half a dozen lances in the entire troop, to protect themselves against wild animals, and to provide themselves with food for the next six days on their march back to Winchester. De Lacy, who had been held under close guard while the men were ordered to come out, was freed at last, to lead his men.
Caerleon was seething. He told Rhys, “Your magnanimity is a fool’s, for the Norman has no more honor than a serpent. We should have killed him.”
Rhys said, “No doubt you’re right, for I mistrust him greatly myself. But I think that King William will have enough on his hands to keep all his men busy, for a few months at least. Now we must see what we have here at the castle.”
4
News travels fast along the border.
Out of the setting sun, sinking behind the grape-blue hills of her homeland, Gwyn watched the first handful of mountain-folk coming to rejoice in the victory of Rhys ap Llewellyn.
From the watchtower, she saw the half dozen inch their way across the rolling plain between Wenlock Edge, a ridge of foothills sparsely forested, and the castle. They were but the first of many to come.
One of the new arrivals was Morwyth. A slender girl, taller than Gwyn, with hair the color of clover honey and eyes of blue, flecked oddly with gray. As fair as a princess, Ifan said, bringing her to Gwyn shyly, as though coveting more praise for Morwyth than he could find words for.
“My wife, lady,” Ifan introduced her. “She has come all the way from Ruthin.”
“A long journey,” commented Gwyn.
“I hoped Ifan would be here,” said Morwyth. Her voice was low and sweet as the doves in the valley and fell soothingly on the ear. She added, “We were wed but last year, and he had to leave, too soon.”
Gwyn liked the girl at once, and before long they were inseparable, except for the nights — when Gwyn would climb the rude stone steps to her room in the donjon, and Morwyth and her love would disappear into the shadows.
Day after day the Welsh folk came to Ludlow. Now the new arrivals were fighting men. First to arrive with his troops was Wil of Ruthin, on the Clwyd River, bringing fifteen men and a score of ponies. The next day came Maldwyn with six of his followers, from Corwyn on the Dee.
Caerleon’s joy was apparent when he caught sight of his cousin Jenkyn, leading his fighting men in rapid step across the plains toward the castle, as fresh as though they had not already marched forty hard leagues from Dinas Head in Dyfed. “Ten men and ten ponies,” crowed Caerleon. “Now I have as many troops
as you, Rhys.”
“We are not rivals,” said Lord Rhys.
“Perhaps not,” said Caerleon carelessly, “not in this, anyway.” His eyes fell, as if by chance, on Gwyn, lingered a moment, and then passed on.
It was three days before the largest contingent of men came — Rhudd of the Vale, with twenty men and ten ponies. Rhudd himself was a great ruddy man with red beard and wild red hair, never shorn, so he said, in this life!
“Only ten ponies?” objected Caerleon.
Rhudd took instant issue with Caerleon, whom he made no secret of disliking. “You’ll have ponies enough eating their heads off, boy. And I have yet to see a pony set an arrow to a bow.”
Surely these walls, defended by an army strengthened daily, would be proof against any enemy attack. And yet, Gwyn could not help but remember, even Winchester had its weak point, a secret exit — or entrance, and she found herself wondering whether Ludlow Castle had the same kind of weakness.
Every day Rhys or Cledog or Wil set off, upstream along the River Corve, in the opposite direction from that in which one might expect the avenging army of the Norman sovereign to approach.
And every day, as the sun westered toward the purple mountains, the men returned with sheep slung on staves carried between the shoulders of two men, or sacks of grain slung over broad shoulders. The number of mouths to feed had become enormous.
“He’s not stockpiling for a siege,” fretted Gwyn. She had known a few sieges in her time, even though William’s land was considered to be at peace. But even William could not control every greedy neighbor, and every Norman lady knew how to manage the defense of her castle, in case her lord should be away.
“There will be no siege,” Morwyth told her serenely.
“But William will not suffer the castle to fall into Welsh hands, not for long.”
“Lord Rhys knows best,” comforted Morwyth.
“At least he thinks so,” retorted Gwyn.
Crown of Passion Page 24