by Clint Dohmen
“Something like that,” Simon replied, not quite ready to give up any more information, but also knowing that Rhys probably had all the same knowledge that he did.
“And Henry is going to land in Pembroke with boatloads of frog eaters sometime in the near future? No need to answer, no need to answer, I already know,” Rhys announced then drained a very large cup of mead in one swig. “I’m quite aware of Henry’s plans. He’s not going to take Richard with just a few boatloads of Frenchmen, mind you. In fact, I’ve been communicating with him regularly, and he fully anticipates my support.”
“And will he have it?” Simon asked pointedly.
“Well, I’d say the odds are about sixty forty in his favor at the moment, but you never know, things could change,” Rhys answered honestly. “The way I stand on this issue will have a great deal of impact on how my nation is treated by yours for the foreseeable future. It behooves me to decide wisely, but as I said, I’m leaning in Henry’s favor.”
“I don’t suppose I could offer you any incentive that may tip those odds, could I?” Simon asked.
“So you’ve got French gold, have you?” Rhys intuited from the remark.
“I do,” Simon returned Rhys’s directness.
“Well, how much are we talking?”
And with that Simon quoted a figure equivalent to half the French gold Henry had entrusted him with. It was a substantial amount, and it now sat in the hold of the Triarii.
“Well that would put me squarely at sixty-five thirty-five, without a doubt,” Rhys grinned.
Simon and Rhys then went back and forth for a couple minutes until Simon finally offered nearly three-quarters of what he had been given. “Well, I’ll tell you this,” Rhys said, “you’ve got me up to a solid seventy-five twenty-five in Henry’s favor, but I’ll need to see the gold.”
“I will not only let you see half the money, I’ll give you half the money. The rest you can have when you bring Welsh troops to join Henry. And just so we’re clear, I haven’t seen a Welsh boat, or fleet for that matter, capable of ‘pirating’ the money from my dear friend Aldo’s boat.”
“I admire a man who knows how to bargain, Lord Lang!” Rhys cried. “When I bring all of South Wales to meet Henry, you can bring me the remainder of my gold. For now, we drink,” he said as he drained yet another goblet of mead all at once.
Simon noticed that the wording “I’ll bring all of South Wales to meet Henry” left a lot to be desired in terms of clarification. He didn’t think he would get much better from the crafty Welshman though, so he toasted Rhys and their new odds. “Here’s to seventy-five twenty-five.”
After the toast, Rhys summoned one of his retainers. “Send messengers to all who owe fealty to me, as well as those who wish to kill Englishmen and get paid for it. They are to raise their levies and meet me in a week’s time.”
The retainer bowed and walked swiftly out of the room.
Chapter 34
IT DID NOT take long for word to cross the Welsh countryside. Pikes flashed by the light of the moon as the fiercely patriotic Welsh crowded onto the forest paths, mountain trails, and riverside roads.
Peasant farmer Dai Evans was out in his fields when he saw the messenger on horseback tear past his cottage and up towards the manor house. “I wonder what that’s all about,” he wondered out loud since messengers on horseback came rarely to his lord’s humble manor and never at high speed.
“Nothing good, I’m sure,” his wife Gwen retorted.
Dai wasn’t the only one to notice. His friend Howel, who lived in the cottage next door, walked out into the lane and remarked exactly as Dai had, “I wonder what that’s all about.”
It wasn’t long before they both knew. Shortly after the horse messenger galloped back away from the manor, Lord Fellowes’ personal servant came jogging down from the manor house where he stopped to talk to Dai. “The levy is raised. You are to report in the morning.” And almost as an afterthought, the servant smiled and said, “We are going to march on London.”
Dai and Howel shared a look, their faces grim. Only half of the men in the village had returned home from the last march to war, and both of their wives were expecting. Dai went back inside his cottage to break the news to his wife.
“I know,” Gwen said as she fought through tears. “You need to come back alive no matter what.”
“I don’t want to leave you,” Dai said, “but I am duty-bound.”
Gwen knew this was the lot of poor peasants, and her husband had no choice. She choked back her tears to try to be strong for him. “I will tell our child that you died for Wales if I must; do your duty.”
Dai hugged his wife until he thought he would squeeze the life out of her.
The next morning Dai stood with his pike on his shoulder next to Howel and their other neighbors, while Lord Fellowes reviewed them from his horse. Lord Fellowes was dressed in well-worn mail that had protected him on many occasions. His coat of arms, a brown and green oak tree on a white background, adorned his tunic and the tunics of his men.
Lord Fellowes stopped in front of Dai. “It’s Dai Evans, if I am not mistaken?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“You stood until there were none left standing beside you the last time we fought, did you not?”
“I did, Lord,” Dai answered humbly, but honestly.
“Then you shall be in the front and center of the pikes when we go to battle.”
Lord Fellowes was a practical man with a good memory and a good head on his shoulders, which he dearly hoped he could keep there. He remembered that this stout lad had fought like the devil himself in their last border squabble with the English. Lord Fellowes didn’t care that others were senior to Dai in age or status; it was Fellowes who stood to lose his head if they lost to Richard. And if the rumors he had heard about Richard were true, losing his head might be the best possible outcome.
“I am honored, my lord,” Dai answered. And indeed, he was. Dai had seen his first battle when he was fifteen, and from the start, he’d had the ability to keep his head when all turned to chaos around him. He got a congratulatory clap on the shoulder from Howel and a quick glance around at his fellow pikemen revealed that Lord Fellowes’ decision was a popular one.
When Lord Fellowes finished reviewing his peasant pikemen and the semiprofessional men-at-arms from his household, he spoke a few words. “We will not all return from this journey, that is reality. But the soil of Wales and the pride of your ancestors run thick in your blood. I would not want to be the Englishman standing across from you.” With that, his standard bearer unfurled a pennant emblazoned with the Fellowes’ family oak tree, and the column marched west.
Gwen cried as she watched her husband leave. She called out as he passed, “Da bochi chi.” Gwen said her Welsh goodbye as the tears streamed down her cheeks, and she prayed that she would not be raising their child alone.
Carmarthen, Wales
Simon heard the clang of armor before he saw the men. He was standing on a hill near the coast on a cold, damp Welsh afternoon with Duncan and Kojiro. They stood and watched as a column of a hundred or so grim-faced men wearing the livery of a brown oak tree marched past them. There was no joking or bantering amongst the group; they marched with discipline. These were veterans.
The Welshmen marched on towards a giant encampment near the coast of southwest Wales that was exploding in size by the hour. Duncan looked at Simon. “The dragon in the west is awakened, dear cousin. I suggest you pray for England.”
Chapter 35
Mill Bay, Pembrokeshire, August 7, 1485
“SO, HARRY, IT appears as though Rhys has prepared a welcome for us,” Jasper commented from the deck of the French ship Margaret.
“So it would seem.” Henry scanned the panoply of colors and standards on the bluffs above Mill Bay. The purple three-bird standard of Rhys Ap Thomas flew prominently above all the others.
“Do you think he keeps his word to Richard or to me?” Henry asked.<
br />
“His grandfather died beside me at the Battle of Mortimer’s Cross, so I hope that counts for something,” Jasper replied. “But God only knows what runs through his mind. He did not support our attempt two years ago, and was rewarded by Richard for that. What do you think, Sir John?”
Sir John de Vere, the thirteenth Earl of Oxford, had joined Henry’s company in France after escaping Richard’s captivity. As a renowned military commander, Henry had immediately and wisely taken him on as a close advisor. The Earl of Oxford was both a cunning military strategist and an able battlefield tactician, and Henry, though inexperienced in warfare himself, was good at utilizing the talents of others.
“If he’s going to make a move against us, it will likely come after he’s had time to gather more support from the countryside and he’s lured us more deeply into Wales,” Oxford answered.
“You give me great comfort, Oxford. So who’s coming with me to find out?” Henry grinned as he stepped towards the dinghy that would bring him ashore.
They had been receiving updates on the ships’ location from spies along the coast, and when it was reported that the ships had been spotted of the coast of Pembrokeshire, Rhys knew it was the place where Henry would land.
“This is his uncle’s home ground. It is where I would have landed, too,” he said to his small retinue, which included Simon. “He’s a clever bastard, I’ll give him that,” Rhys said as a dinghy grounded onto the shore of Mill Bay with pennants waving. Along with the cross of St. George, Henry’s flag was emblazoned with the red dragon of Cadwaladr on a white over green background: the flag of Wales. “The men will certainly appreciate that.”
“So have you decided for Henry?” Simon asked.
“Of course I have,” Rhys said with no conviction whatsoever. “By chance, would you mind getting out of this hot sun with me?”
Simon looked at the overcast Welsh sky then puzzlingly at Rhys. In spite of his bewilderment however, he spurred his Andalusian stallion after him.
“Ah, Mullock Bridge,” Rhys said as they came to a rather unremarkable bridge that led inland from the coast. “Let’s take our horses under there and shade ourselves from the sun.”
Simon looked up again at the gray Welsh sky and kept his mouth shut even as Henry and his entourage passed overhead. Perhaps he’s a bit daft? Simon wondered.
After the sound of hooves receded, Rhys spoke again. “Well, that should about do it. I think I have protected my skin sufficiently.” Then Rhys, with Simon in tow, trotted away to meet Henry.
Henry addressed the Welsh warlord as if he had no doubts of his loyalty. “Rhys, it is good to see you, my friend.”
Henry was pleased to see a friendly face riding alongside his ambiguous ally. “And Lord Lang, a pleasure to see you again as well. I trust your sword master from afar and your giant are well?”
“They are, thank you, my lord,” Simon replied.
“And Rhys, I hear you have begun to raise the countryside, but I see naught but pennants. Where are the men?”
“They are assembling as we speak,” Rhys said without answering the question.
“A more important question, of course, is do you raise them for me or for Richard?”
“Why, for you, of course, my king,” Rhys stated very matter-of-factly, convincing exactly no one of the truthfulness in his statement. “I am happy to see Jasper, and you as well, Oxford. No doubt your presence will help sway many to Lord Henry’s cause.”
“We are counting on dear Oxford to buttress our support in England, without question, but we need you and Wales behind us, Rhys,” Henry stated directly.
“Forgive my forwardness, milord, but that will be much easier to accomplish if your men behave themselves. You bring an army of French and English to march across Wales. Any, shall we say, misbehavior, will cost you.”
Henry took advantage of the opening on an issue that he knew he needed to address. “Let me introduce you to Philibert de Chandee,” Henry said as he introduced a man wearing a tunic decorated with golden fleur-de-lis on a blue background. “He is in command of our French allies and has personally assured me that his men will not become a ‘problem’ for us.”
“This is true, monsieur,” Philibert spoke up. “You have my word on it. And that of my captain, Sir Walter Scott.”
Simon had recognized the large Scot immediately from their tournament encounter, but had not wanted to interrupt the formal introduction process.
“The King of France has sent his Scottish Guard to join you?” Rhys asked. He was somewhat surprised because he had not been sure how committed France actually was to Henry’s cause. The presence of the Scot’s Guard was evidence that the King of France was in deep. He knew the reputation of the elite warriors, and he knew that French kings, in general, liked to keep them close to their person.
“A hoindred of us, saarr,” Walter Scott added in his deep, booming voice. “And it’s a pleasure to see ye again, Lord Lang. I shall be pleased to fight beside ye this time.”
Rhys’s head moved as if on a swivel. He looked at Simon, then back at Sir Walter Scott. Then he looked back at Simon with a newfound respect. Captains in the Garde Écossaise were not known for giving compliments, especially not to Englishmen. A hundred Scottish Guards would provide an immovable anchor on the battlefield. He was beginning to like Henry’s chances more and more.
“So what is your plan?” he asked the would-be king.
“We march separately across Wales, recruiting as many to our banner as we can. I will march north along the coast then east. You can march from ‘wherever’ you are,” Henry paused here to see if Rhys would volunteer his position. He did not so Henry continued, “through the center of Wales to meet with me at Welshpool. From there we will cross into England and march on London together.”
Rhys was quite sure he could attract more support with a march through the right districts, but would their final numbers be enough to confront the King of England and his royal army? He didn’t know, but he thought he might as well play along for now. “I will meet you at Welshpool then,” Rhys agreed.
After spending some time bantering with Sir Walter Scott, Simon set off back to Carmarthen with Rhys and his retinue, where he met with Kojiro, Neno, and Aldo. “We’re marching with Rhys across Wales, gentlemen, and there’s little in this world I can think of that I would like to do less.”
“Ah, let me correct you,” Aldo told Simon. “You’re marching across Wales with the rest of these poor wretches. I’m sailing in a London-y type direction in the comfort of my quarters on the Triarii to await the inevitable news of your demise.”
“Why would you want to do that? You’ll miss all the fun,” Simon teased. In fact, Simon did not want Aldo and his Venetian sailors taking part in a land war in England. Henry was bringing enough foreigners into this battle as it was. Except for Neno, of course. Simon had already hired Neno.
“Really?” Aldo said with a grin.
“When was the last time you trudged through peat bogs and thorn bushes carrying heavy loads, sleeping on muddy ground, eating slop, suffering from fatigue, and being surrounded by men who don’t bathe?”
“Don’t forget the sheep shit,” Aldo reminded Simon. “I’ve seen an awful lot of sheep droppings since I came ashore. I can’t imagine there’s anyplace to camp in this country where it wouldn’t be smelling distance to sheep excrement.”
“It builds character,” Simon said grinning. “And Aldo, we’ll see you in London or in hell.”
“The Good Lord rewards his loyal servants, my misguided friend. He will send me to my just reward, and as part of that reward, perhaps he will allow me to send you water as you roast in the fires of eternal damnation.”
What on earth are they talking about? Kojiro wondered.
Chapter 36
Nottingham, England
OFFA’S DYKE WAS a wide, deep ditch built by King Offa in the eighth century between Wales and England to protect the Mercian farmers from marauding Welsh ban
dits. Watling Street ran parallel to a portion of the dyke, an ancient Roman road that snaked along the Welsh border then arced east towards the Midlands of England.
In spite of the dangers presented by the decaying road at night, as well as the Welsh bandits that still existed centuries later, two riders spurred their perspiring mounts along the ancient route towards Nottingham. By morning, the horses had reached Nottingham Castle, nearly dead from exhaustion.
Nottingham Castle was built on a hundred and thirty-foot cliff and therefore was practically unassailable. Richard had chosen to reside at Nottingham for the summer both for the strength of its fortifications and for its location near the center of England. He did not yet know where Henry would land. The riders changed mounts at the castle, then took off northwards at a gallop; the Royal Hunting Lodge in Sherwood Forest was their destination.
As they entered the sweetly scented forest the riders passed the men of green, the men who enforced the draconian forest law. The beasts of the forest: red deer, hare, fox, pheasant, quail, wild boar, and wolf were all protected. Only the king was permitted to hunt them.
If a peasant was caught poaching, the punishment was severe: hanging, castration, or the possibility of being ripped apart by hunting dogs. Yet starving peasants occasionally took their chances. The two spies who had ridden nonstop all the way from South Wales drew near to a group of mounted men surrounding a pack of wolfhounds. The hounds were hungrily devouring the entrails of a dead hart.
The exhausted spies delivered their news.
“He landed when?” Richard shrieked.
“Four days ago,” the messenger answered meekly. “At Mill Bay in Pembrokeshire.”
I should have known it would be Wales, Richard thought smugly. “And I’m only finding out now?”
“The Welsh lookouts were slow to report, Majesty. And it seems Rhys Ap Thomas and a number of Welshmen have joined him, making it difficult for us to get through. Rhys controls all the roads in Wales.”