Hawks of Sedgemont

by Mary Lide

  Now the prince had never made a secret of his own personal vow and, ever since the start of this last campaign, had openly spoken of it with his companions. And to tell the truth it was something these fickle Breton lords might well admire, for they held vows of this kind, made to avenge personal wrongs, as most sacred. Feudal vows, Norman oaths of military strategy and policy, they cared not a fig for, but personal honor, that they understood. Taliesin had not thought then to explain to them thoroughly all the details of the king’s message to him. What explanations he had sent were obviously lost somewhere in the general confusion of the time, the more so, as I have explained, since the Breton lords, almost at once, had decided to withdraw their troops. But Taliesin had learned a lot from these Breton lords. Honed to sharpness these past six months like Gervaise, hardened by war, he had begun to know how to deal with these wily Normans and had not walked unwarily into their trap. He had brought his own bodyguard, and they worth twice as much as any other men, and as was later proved wise, he had set bowmen in the trees on the opposite side of the ridge from which the Normans should approach. They, spotting Henry’s additional troops, began to prepare themselves, at once seeing the sense of their prince’s strategy, to expect some underhanded move. And there were still our three Cambray men, somewhere nearby, for I was sure they had not been captured, else would Taliesin have known of our whereabouts. And like all border men, they could move as warily as the Celts when they chose and were worth a dozen Norman knights.

  So there we came, the bait. There appeared Taliesin, on his black horse. I caught but a glimpse of him, armed I saw, like a Norman with captured booty and with his six taciturn men at his back. At Hue’s nudge I threw back my head, howled out the cry of our house, and as best I could whistled aloud the Cambray call, whilst Hue tried to lift up my sword.

  That cry, that painful gesture of defiance, almost cost us our lives. The Norman leader, who had reined up expectantly, either in salute or to signal to his hidden men, at once spun around and with a fearful curse lunged at us. His own hood slipped; I saw the king’s face, even as he knocked Hue backward with a blow to his head. Hue fell, the horse startled, plunged forward, the reins slid through my hands, and I fell, too. Together we rolled over and over down the gulley to the edge of the pool, kicked and trampled underfoot as the king gave the signal for his men to charge.

  I do not remember much of that initial charge, drifting in and out of consciousness as the air filled and rippled with the shouts and screams of men and steeds, the thudding of hooves, the slice of swords. I remember the taste of blood, the heat of the sun as it beat down between the leaves, the coldness of the water to my waist, where Hue and I lay together, he still half under me, his face a mask of blood. I remember finding and holding on to my knife with some thought of self-defense. I remember seeing the prince and his men stand firm, even as Henry’s first charge smashed against their spears, even as down the south-facing slope the rest of the ambushers now appeared, the sun glinting on their lances like a silver line. And overhead, like dark hail whistling, like a wind of steel, I remember how the Welsh arrows fell upon these advancing knights.

  Better, I think, not to remember it. Better not to have been forced to watch, bound and gagged but eyes free, as did my little lady. Nor to do as Gervaise, whose bonds had been already freed as the queen had promised, to seize a sword from a fallen comrade and fight, not knowing which was enemy, which friend.

  I pieced together what happened afterward. It was a rout that made no sense. Henry’s men should have won. For even those arrows, although they took their toll, could not be used when men fight hand to hand. And the king was an old and experienced warrior. He knew how to make best use of men, and even decimated, he had more soldiers than Taliesin’s seven. Down the open turf like a tilting field the Normans charged, were beaten against the Welsh shield wall, swept back and forced to charge again, Henry urging them on, himself in the midst of the fray. And riding with him, desperate, came Gervaise, who forced that bay horse of his against the prince, howling what he believed as truth, “Welsh treachery be damned,” determined in only one thing, that to him would fall the honor of saving his bride and of killing the man he loathed, as the queen had promised him (although Henry had decreed he wanted Taliesin alive). These were Henry’s best men, the ones he relied upon. They had never failed him before, they might not have failed him then, had not in the rear of the king a third force appeared.

  A little force it was, a bird’s cry in the air, a hawk’s cry, and like hawks they swooped, our three men, charging down the gulley path, seeming to multiply to ten times their number, seeming to swell and fill an emptiness. Now it was Henry’s men who in turn sensed a trap. Like a wave they had poured down to overwhelm their opponents, like a wave their force was spent. Thrust upon the Sieux guard at one end of that open place, thrust back against the Welsh spears at the other, they began to waver, fragment into groups, hover, despite the king’s insistence. And Taliesin took advantage of that hesitation. His own men, who had closed ranks to make their shield wall, began to move apart. From their closed line they started to fan out, their long spears still snaking from their shields, until each one had room to draw his sword, beginning now to hack a way clear toward their Sieux comrades, whom they recognized by the colors they wore. So, gradually, a way was cut through to the place where Hue and I had rolled, where the Lady Olwen waited, guarded by two men.

  It must also have been obvious to the king by this time that he had made a mistake. He might even have sensed it from the very moment when he had heard our battle cry and Hue had tried to hoist my sword. He certainly realized it now, the trap that he had so carefully set beginning to shut him in. His own men, those left, were not cowards; they did not try to run but closed ranks, encircling their king, and in a mass sought to cut their way out. But in this, too, they could not succeed. Gasping, grunting with effort, their horses blown with it, in the end they could fight no more, just stood and waited to be worn down.

  Then it was that the king called a halt. “Hold,” he cried, “hold back. Parley, I claim, in the king’s name.”

  Taliesin heard him, pushed up his helmet, too, had his men lower their swords and shields, glad for a small respite. I cannot tell you if he knew anyone. Certainly he had never openly met this king; he would not have seen Hue in the mud; he did not realize Olwen was there; and he did not recognize Gervaise.

  But Gervaise knew him. From beside the king, where he had been fighting with the rest, caught up in the wash of men back and forth, bewildered, the plan the queen had laid for him to rescue Olwen come to naught, Gervaise of Walran gave a cry of pure rage. Like a man run amok, he rode out to break the king’s parley, straight at the prince. It was the one thing he seized upon; whatever else not made clear, this was, that the prince would barter for Gervaise’s bride. And that was a lie that the queen had told.

  “Rot you to hell,” Gervaise cried. “By the rood I run you down, treacherous dog.” And uncaring that he acted as no knight should, to strike against a foe unprepared, in the midst of talk, he hurled himself and his horse with all his might. His sword came flailing down. The prince had no time to throw up his shield, barely succeeded in parrying Gervaise’s sword, caught it full upon his own, thrust up his arm so that Gervaise’s hold slipped. And as that bay horse careened past, with his free hand he hit at it to make it swerve. Off-balanced by the blow, Gervaise lost control of his horse, that Norman knight who boasted of his horsemanship. Crazed now with defeat, overcome, I think, with a sense of shame, he staggered in the saddle, tried to turn his beast, tried to run it full upon Taliesin, and almost without lifting his own weapon to defend himself, threw himself with all his weight upon the prince’s descending blade. There was a gasp, an inrush of air, like a sigh. Gervaise tried to speak, choked, bent over the saddle as if catching his breath. “Rot you all,” he whispered, through lips that had turned red, “kings and princes, both, and your treacherous feuds.” He tried to say something else, choke
d again, toppled slowly to the ground, lay there puddled in scarlet against the green. Well, to die of treachery is perhaps better than to live with it. But so he died, Gervaise of the merry smile and proud look, although I think he first died long ago at Cambray, when he put his hand to war and fame.

  All this I was told afterward. I saw it not, nor did Hue, both of us lost to consciousness. But the Lady Olwen saw, numb with horror, unable to cry or make a sound, forced to watch as her betrothed, the man she had promised to wed, died on the point of her lover’s sword.

  But some of the rest I did see for myself, from the mud banks, when the world came back in sickening waves. Henry was saying, “In the name of England, I ask a truce. Let me and my men withdraw in peace.”

  Taliesin said softly, trying to recover breath, “I know now what trust to put in you, King of England, whose words are writ in water.”

  Henry’s face was infused with red; he seemed to bloat with it, and his gray eyes, ever prominent, grew hot with temper as they had with lust. He, too, tried to speak, but anger choked him. He tried to argue; shame silenced him. From the water’s edge, where I held Hue’s body out of the mud, sheltering his head with both my bound arms, I watched the king draw his sword.

  “Fight with me, then,” he cried. “You claimed it as a right. I give it you.” He and Taliesin began to advance upon each other without ado, the king quick, determined, angry but not so angry that he was not in control, Taliesin gone past anger, cold and hard. From their huddle the king’s men gave a groan, folly for a king to give combat like this, an honor that was seldom granted ordinary men. But from both ends of this arena, from the southern ridge, where the Welsh bowmen had appeared, there was a cry jubilant; the prince threw up his arm, the gold bracelet gleamed, and he smiled as if he claimed combat as his right.

  They say, men say who saw them fight, that the two horse-men spurred together, their breath coming in great gasps, each blow forcing the wind out of them. Shield rim to rim rang until the air was numbed, their swords hammering, hammering, like an incessant drum. They say the king was a canny fighter, deadly quick, full of tricks. His horse carried him unfalteringly; tirelessly the king rode; tirelessly he raised his shield to push and force; tirelessly he used his sword to stab and slash, sweeping right and hacking left, turning his horse in and away from the return blow. But they say that Taliesin was quicker, more alert, making up by practice and courage what the king owed to long experience. And having one advantage, that since he had never held his stallion on the curb bit since that first day he had ridden him, he rode now with only heels and voice, so that he had both hands to lunge and thrust, could turn quicker, make a feint and swerve. And in the end, they say, he pushed back his helmet, laughed, and swept down as he had done at Cambray. But this time it was the king’s sword that flew into the air and arched away.

  They say Henry, covered with sweat, panting with a sudden fear, shouted, “Kill me, and all of France will hunt you down. A king’s murderer, you’d never escape from Normandy alive. But safe conduct I promise you to the coast, you, your men, and your hostages. My life for theirs.”

  They say the king cried, “Take your hostages and give me life. Or I will kill them first.”

  They say he snapped his fingers so that the two guards who held the lady pointed their swords at her throat and threw back her hood. For the first time that day the prince and the lady looked full at each other, and the prince knew who she was.

  And the king, on seeing their look, whispered, “Let me go; take your prisoner, Prince, as you agreed.”

  Well, the prince let the king go. Back Henry withdrew, close under guard, his men milling around him, our men opening a path to let him through. Back to Falaise he spurred, where he called out his army, bid them search and kill, set after the Bretons with full force, stormed the castle of Dol and captured it along with the Breton rebel lords. As for his queen, the king bid her prepare to leave. For sixteen years thereafter he imprisoned her, and never saw she Poitiers again. But the stain of that betrayal that he had planned he could not shake; nor the order to take and kill us. So much for a safe conduct. And he ordered no one to write or mention this event, so it never has been writ before. Behind him in that small hollow he left the wreckage of his plans, the dead, the dying, while Prince Taliesin, his sword still red from Gervaise’s blood, gazed at the lady who believed she was his prisoner.

  The delivery of the hostages had been planned for dawn. It was near midday when I again knew where I was, awareness lurching beneath me like the saddle I was on. I felt as if I had been flogged, my body on fire, and I had only lain still while others fought! The motion of the horse seemed far away, both familiar and strange, not related to me or the man who was riding behind. I remember the sky seemed brighter, the trees more green, even the dust motes dancing in the sun, which filtered in streaks between the leaves, seemed golden bright. We rode on. We rode, rode all day, I think, and at the end of the hot afternoon, when those soldiers of Taliesin put us down, I realized at last we were safe. Safe for the moment, that is, from Falaise and Henry’s pursuit.

  Little needed to be done for me; a few rough bandages around my bruised and bleeding ribs, a healthy slap on the back to make me sit up, a rough soldier’s laugh when I coughed and spat. Lord Hue was a different case. The broken hands and fingers they could reset while he lay in a swoon; the open wound that gaped across his forehead along one eyebrow, that they could pull close, although the bleeding was long done, washed away in the water’s cool. But they could do nothing for his lack of consciousness. He lay breathing heavily; the good eye half open, already the sheen of fever on his skin. I suppose it was luck he breathed at all, but it was obvious he was too sick to ride much farther and needed special care and rest. And when, looking around cautiously, for the slightest movement or turning of the head jarred my spine and made me retch, I saw the Lady Olwen sitting apart, head buried in her knees, I felt my spirits sink. The thick brown cloak was thrown over her, as if she still wished to hide behind it, and it, too, was blotched with great dark stains that had stiffened through the folds. I tried to crawl to her, each step seeming to last a year, but she would not speak to me when I came up, lost, I suppose, in her own terrible memories. The marks of the thongs had left welts across her cheeks, and her wrists were raw. But it was the blank stare that eventually she turned on me, the empty eyes, that set my pulse racing with new dread.

  Prince Taliesin was conferring with his men. One by one I counted them, taking in suddenly the rips and tears on their mail coats, the bloody rags, the cuts. There were not so many as before, five left of his guard, two men of Sieux, and even as I counted them the Sieux men saluted him, saluted each other, and began to ride away, one heading east, one directly south. Prince Taliesin, too, had not escaped unharmed. There was a dark and bleeding bruise on his face where a shield rim had caught, and along his arm a long open wound where Gervaise’s sword had slashed through his mail sleeve. But it was his look that also held mine, stern, unsmiling, no sense of relief, or joy, as he might have shown, only darkness. And I suddenly remembered what the king was supposed to have said, what the lady had heard, “his” prisoners, as “he” was supposed to have planned.

  Perhaps he sensed my look. He turned in his saddle and returned it; there was a pride, a sadness, in his eyes that haunted me, and when he came up to my lady, pride and grief were in his voice. Yet he spoke graciously, giving her a choice, allowing her to understand what lay ahead, explaining the predicament, not to alarm but to ensure she knew what was being done.

  Taliesin said, “My lady, I fear the road to Sieux is already blocked. The king’s troops have come storming out of Falaise, like bloodhounds on our trail. My messenger, whom I sent previously to report to my Breton comrades, tells me they are retreating fast with Henry in hot pursuit. I bade him follow to see if shelter can be claimed among them or if they will honor us. I have sent your men back by stealth to see if they can force a way through to alert Sieux. I do not believe th
ey will succeed.” Bleakly he spoke, to have sent men he admired to certain death, but she made no sign she had heard him. “As for your brother, he cannot go on.”

  She did not reply, simply nodded her head beneath its hood as if the thought of speaking sickened her.

  He continued insistently, “A decision must be made. A night in the open is nothing for us, but for you? And for your brother it may be fatal. With your permission I will send someone ahead to scout for a resting place. Somewhere in these hunting lands I have been told there are charcoal burners with their huts; there we could spend this night at least. But if we hide among them, we must go west, not south to Sieux. The king will have put a price upon our heads; every crossroad will be watched; we may not be able to circle back.”

  Calmly he spoke, in a formal way, with as much regard as if he were discussing a hunting field, west or south, which track the lady would chose. But the lady was the game that was hunted today; so were we all.

  My lady’s voice was dull, so lifeless, I scarcely recognized her. “As you will,” she told him. “We are prisoners in your hands.”

  I saw the flush that overflowed his face at her charge, one he neither denied nor accepted but suddenly seemed to understand, the accusation that King Henry had thrust on him, the king’s last trick. Well, in truth, hostages he had wanted, and now he had them, to his despite, certainly not in this way and not these. And so I thought, in pity for him (for whatever my lady said, that charge I, at least, did not accept), now has his oath come back to curse him.

  He gave her his hand, but she did not take it, only swayed to her feet by herself, clinging to a tree bole. He whistled up his horse, but she gestured instead to one of his guard, who, red-faced, at last came forward at his master’s nod and took her up instead. Another trooper took up Hue, a third me, whatever spare horses we had brought from Sieux lost somewhere in the confusion of escape. Seeing Hue, Olwen pushed back her hood and took his arm where it lolled across the man who held him. Lifeless, gray seemed his face, except for that matted wound, as if all vitality had drained from him; only the blood still seeped from his fingers. She crossed herself and seemed to mutter a prayer. “As God is my witness.” Then she cried for the first time that day, all the pent-up grief and fright pouring out. “Why do you keep him alive, why send away our last men to leave us alone? Hostages you wanted, now you have us. And if we do not suit, why not kill us, too? You have already killed Gervaise; murderer once, why not murder again?”