by Karin Tabke
The Blood Swords nodded and came together as one, and as they were wont to do, they devised a treacherous plan of action.
Several hours later, Stefan stood with his brothers high on the rampart walls of Hereford Castle. “If your plan does not work, Valrey, your men will die this day,” William fitz Osbern said flatly.
Stefan turned to the Norman cousin of the Conqueror and curbed the sneer from his lips. Greed, not honor, drove the bastard. “Time will tell.” And as the words left Stefan’s mouth the first standard poked through the wood at the edge of the wide meadow surrounding the castle. He smiled tightly and softly said, “Now watch and learn.”
Fitz Osbern moved to the edge of the stone rampart and stood with Stefan and his brothers, watching as Welsh and Saxon approached.
When the wide swath, more than thirty men deep, cleared the forest edge and marched into the open field, Stefan raised his hand and a loud horn blew. All at once, score after score of shallow blinds popped up from the meadow ground and Norman soldiers burst onto the field, stabbing and hacking the enemy taking them completely by surprise. Confusion reigned amongst the Welsh and Saxon forces. Stefan grinned.
Lying low in the grass farther back, a deadly band of archers stood and let loose on the enemy, then dropped back to their hiding places amongst the tall grass. Stefan raised his hand again, the horn sounded, and the Norman soldiers dropped and rolled, disappearing beneath the thatched blinds just as quickly as they had popped up. As the Welsh army scattered in confusion, the nearly two hundred Norman archers facing the battlefield just outside the castle walls let loose with another hailstorm of arrows. Screams and curses tore across the field. Another barrage of arrows followed, the reward more screams and, now, wild panic. Stefan raised his hand again and the horn blew once more. The blinds opened up, the soldiers emerged, stabbing and hacking at the enemy. And as before, just as quickly as they appeared, they vanished, and the ground was still. The scene replayed itself out repeatedly until the enemy was able to stabilize themselves and pull back.
Stefan frowned. Before they regrouped, for every Welsh and Saxon soldier who fell, three replaced him.
“Lower the bridge and send the first wave of soldiers!” Fitz Osbern called down to his captain, who waited in the bailey. The huge gate slowly lifted and the heavy bridge lowered. Nearly half of the garrisons charged out to meet the enemy.
“Send the first cavalry group!” Stefan called out. He watched as the archers continued to land their arrows just ahead of the Norman foot soldiers. As the regrouped Welsh and Saxon army came into view, Stefan cautiously watched, and his concern grew. Despite the scores of knights engaging alongside the foot soldiers, and the continued onslaught of arrows into the forest, the Normans on the field began to falter.
“Instruct the archers to shoot into the forest, to stay the flow!” Stefan called to fitz Osbern.
Fitz Osbern scowled, not liking Stefan’s interference.
“Do it now!” Stefan commanded.
The command was given, and the result was immediate. With the flow of soldiers staunched, the Normans, sorely outnumbered, gained the time to do what they did best. Fight.
As the battle raged, Stefan watched, his hand gripping and ungripping the leather hilt of his sword. He smiled as he noticed each one of the Blood Swords fondle their hilts as well. They could not help it. ’Twas in their blood.
Stefan turned his attention back to the battle scene playing out before him. The archer’s cache of arrows had grown dangerously low, and so the hailstorm into the forest edge was not so quick or heavy. The Welsh took advantage of it. They broke the Norman line, and when they did, fitz Osbern’s men began to break ranks.
“They falter!” Stefan cried. “To horse, men!” The Blood Swords followed him down the narrow stone stairway to the bailey where their horses awaited them.
“ ’Tis too early!” Fitz Osbern yelled after them.
Stefan turned on his heel and looked up at the Earl. “If we do not go to rally the men and show them we can win the day, all will be lost!” He turned and hurried to his horse.
When the portcullis slowly raised, the creaking sound of the turning chain on wheel overriding the din of battle, the eight knights sat astride, four abreast, a most fearsome sight. Stefan, flanked by Thorin on his left and Rorick and Warner to his right, was followed up by Wulfson, Rohan, Ioan, and Rhys at his back.
The heavy bridge lowered, and before it hit dirt, the eight black knights, with lances at the ready and battle cries booming across the field, thundered out to meet their enemy. As the Red Sea had for Moses, so the soldiers before them parted. In a tight formation, they rode out, and with each stride in practiced precision, they moved an inch further apart until they fanned out in a tight semi-circle. In that formation, they began to hack a swath across the field. As bodies fell, a renewed fervor swept through the Norman army.
Each time they regrouped, the Blood Swords raised their battle cry, and like the plague, they destroyed every living being in their path. But as the battle raged, the Blood Swords became the focus of the Welsh kings Rhiwallon and Bleddyn, who watched from the forest edge.
Over time, the tight formation loosened; and when Stefan hacked off the arm of the soldier who would have done the same to him, he cast his gaze to his right, then his left. His brothers were so heavily embedded in the thick of battle that he could not distinguish them.
He turned in his saddle, and with a mighty arc and swipe, separated yet another English head from the shoulders it had rested upon its entire life.
Sweat ran in rivulets down his face, stinging his eyes. He blinked, and spurred Fallon deeper into the fray. His hawk-sharp gaze swept the field of battle, locating then resting on the backs of his fellow Blood Swords up ahead, and he saw they too were as deep into the combined forces of Welsh and Saxon as he. He did not allow the fact that they had become separated to deter him from the task: secure Hereford Castle by any means necessary.
He watched as Wulfson, Ioan, Thorin, Warner, Rohan, and Rorick hacked their way through a gantlet of foot soldiers. As Stefan urged his horse forward, he narrowed his gaze. More Welsh erupted from the surrounding forests to swallow them up. Concern gnawed at his gut. He called to Rhys to his right, and pointed with his bloody sword toward the descending hordes running with the velocity of the wind at his brothers up ahead.
Rhys reined his horse around to flank the right column as it raced forward, while Stefan circled around the left. Both men sheathed their swords and drew their longbows and let loose, one after the other, scores of arrows on the attacking men. Stefan did not have the time to admire his work, as one man fell for each arrow he notched. He did not look to see if Rhys was as accurate, for he knew from years of riding and fighting together there were few who could best the young knight.
Once his quiver was depleted, Stefan reined up the black and drew his broadsword again, and with his other hand he grasped a deadly pike and pulled it from the carcass of a downed Welshman. He twirled it around in his large hand until it fit comfortably in his grip. Then he scanned the horizon for his brothers amongst the hordes. When he could not locate them, for the first time since the eight of them had fled that hellhole of a prison in Iberia, Stefan knew that Madam Death lurked on the horizon for not one of them, but for all of them.
Rage infused him. They would not fall to these cowards!
Stefan cast a quick glance over to Rhys, who had moved in, and as Stefan had, grabbed a pike from a dead man. In his other hand he held his sword at the ready. Each of their mounts was as highly trained in the art of war as were their masters. With both hands free to wield weapons, the knights controlled their mounts with their legs and body movement.
“To the Blood Swords!” Stefan yelled above the din of battle. As they came together, a force of nature to be reckoned with, they let loose their battle cry. The buzzards that waited patiently in the trees above scattered high into the hot summer sky.
And as his brothers came into view, S
tefan watched in horror as they were swarmed by scores of Welsh. He roared his fury that he should lose any one of them, and as he hacked his way toward them, the sharp burn of a blade sliced into his thigh. He turned in his saddle to see the flat end of several swords flash before his eyes. Pain seared his face, and then the world went black.
TWO
Dinefwr Castle
“Lady Arrrreeeeeeaaaaaaannnnn,” Jane called from the chapel door. “Hurry, child, the Jarl’s train comes!”
Arian’s heart thumped in her chest, and she suddenly felt nervous. From the small graveyard not too far from the chapel, she nodded, acknowledging her nurse’s command. Letting out a long breath, Arian patted the spray of late bluebells resting next to the ones her father had left just that morning on her mother’s grave. Papa told her they had been her mother’s favorite, and every time the sweet scent was taken up by a breeze and passed beneath her nose, it reminded Arian of the woman she would never know.
The stone cross that marked where her mother lay gleamed white, like the seashells on the beaches under the clear August sun. For a long moment, Arian stared at it, and mourned the loss not of her mother, but a father who, so saddened by the loss of his one true love, lived with bouts of such despair she feared for his well-being. Of late, his bouts of darkness came more frequently. He roamed the dark halls of the castle, and could be found late at night and in the early morning fog, sitting here as she did now, tears glistening on his cheeks.
In all her score of years, Arian had tried to pull the man who was responsible for her life out of his dark moods. Gone were the days when he strode robustly through the castle, calling for his daughter to race the wind upon the Dinefwr stallions. Gone were the days when she accompanied him to far-off lands to trade for silks and spices and exotic baubles. And while those luxuries were most coveted in her land, the true treasure they sought in their travels was discovering another hotblood to strengthen their renowned stable’s line.
Since their return last spring from King Murchad’s court in Dublin, if she came too close, he would stop and stare at her as if she were a phantom. She loved the man who looked at her as if she were a ghost. ’Twas not so easy to convince him, though. For all his distance, she was, with each anniversary of her mother’s death, in his eyes Branwen reincarnated. And she knew she was the reason for his deepening despair.
“Arian!” Morwena, her stepmother, called sharply, coming toward her from the bailey. “Get thee in the castle now!”
Arian sighed and gave one last glance to the cross and slowly stood. Morwena. ’Twas not a more unhappy woman in all of Wales than her father’s wife. Arian sighed again, and slowly swept the dirt from her emerald and saffron kirtle. She shrugged, and looked over her shoulder to the woman who stood ramrod stiff in the middle of the bustling bailey, her hands on her narrow hips, her dark brows dipped in a V above her noble nose.
She could not blame Morwena. Though the woman tried, she could not, even with the birth of a son, make Hylcon of Carmarthenshire happy. And it was her father’s great sorrow that tutored Arian well in the lessons of love. While she looked forward to marriage with Magnus the Tall of Norway she would never love him. The life her father led, having loved so deeply only to lose, was not what she wanted for herself. And the misery Morwena suffered daily because her husband would not let go of a ghost did not settle well either.
Nay, Magnus was a good man, nephew to the young King Olaf of Norway. But there were no guarantees he did not have a mistress or two tucked away in his holdings. ’Twas the way of men, was it not? Friar Wythe called her pragmatic, and she took it as a compliment. She would be a good wife to Magnus, and give him sons, but she would never give up her heart only to have it broken. And she was not so naïve to think her husband would never turn from her to another. She understood the ways of marriage, and she was prepared that should he turn away from her as Hylcon had from Morwena, she would be content to raise her children and run the numerous households as one of her station was expected to.
“Now, child!” Morwena beseeched. “Get thee up here before he sees you in those rags!”
Arian hastened her step, if only a little. Her clothing could hardly be construed as rags, even soiled as they were. They were fit for any princess. Hylcon was rich, and his vigorous trading with the Norse paid off handsomely. She was better jeweled and garbed than most queens. She smiled as she made her way to her stepmother. Aye, she might be pragmatic in the ways of the heart, but she possessed a frivolous side as well. She was a woman after all! One who appreciated fine cloth and jewels and rode upon the most coveted horses in Wales. Not only did King Rhiwallon, her mother’s cousin, and his brother King Bleddyn ride the finest stallions bred from the Dinefwr-Castile line, but kings and emperors brought their mares to stand under the great Spanish stallions of Dinefwr. Aye, she rode with the ease of a breeze upon her cheeks and cherished that time when she galloped like the wind, her chaperone left behind in her dust calling for her to slow. Arian laughed aloud as she thought of poor Oswain, her father’s squire, just yesterday. They had ridden west and she had him convinced she was going all the way to the Irish Sea to meet Magnus when he landed!
He had turned as white as the swans that glided along the Tywi just below the steep slope the castle was built upon. Once returned, the upstart informed her father that she was a hellion and she would break her neck and that of any escort who chased after her. Hylcon frowned and forbade her to ride again unless he accompanied her. What good would she be with a broken neck to the Norse jarl, he demanded when she argued. His mandate only reinforced her decision to marry. She could not wait for Magnus to claim her as his bride. And she could not wait to be gone from Dinefwr and her mother’s ghost.
As Arian came closer to Morwena, she watched her creamy cheeks redden. Morwena was slight, with long dark hair and big bright heather-colored eyes. She was, for one so slight, full of vigor. “If you were my daughter I would box your ears so soundly you would hear bees buzzing in your head for a fortnight. Come, get thee to your chamber. You must bathe and dress for your betrothed. You do not want him to see his future lady with dirt on her face and mud on her dress. He will rethink his offer.”
Arian let Morwena prattle on as she dragged her from the bailey past the dark castle walls and through the great hall that bustled with activity. In two days’ time, she would be a married woman, and a great celebration would follow. She shivered at the thought of the marriage bed and hoped that Magnus would be gentle. Her mood settled when she thought of her husband-to-be. They had met in Dublin this spring past. Upon their first introduction, Magnus made known his interest in her. He was a large, gentle, handsome man with a noble heart. He had asked but for a kiss to seal their contract. When she left Dublin, she left with his promise to come to her by summer’s end and wed her.
Morwena must have felt her apprehension. “Jarl Magnus is a good man, Arian. He promised Hylcon to put you above all other women. He gave his oath he would never raise a hand to you.”
“Papa made him swear that?” Arian asked, genuinely surprised.
“Aye, ’twas your mother’s dying wish he give you only to the man of your choice and who placed you above all other women.”
Arian stumbled at the words: not that Magnus had pledged such an oath, for he wanted a princess bride and would tell the prince he would dance on his head and swallow fire if that was what it took. She came with a large dowry of gold, lands, horseflesh, and the bluest blood in all of Wales. Nay, it was that her mother even on her deathbed had thought of her future.
“Did Papa tell you this?”
Morwena shook her head, and then gently pushed her ahead up the wide stone stairway leading to the upper chambers. “Nay, Jane; one night after too much honey wine.”
Arian smiled. Jane. Though she was aged, she was spry and could still keep up with Arian. That she was going to Norway with her greatly calmed the girl’s nerves. Jane was all wise and would be able to guide Arian in all things wifely.
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br /> As they entered the chamber, Arian expected to see Jane, but did not. “ Did not Jane come up from the chapel?”
“Aye, but I sent her on an errand. I would have you fitted one last time in your wedding gown before the wrinkles are smoothed,” Morwena spun Arian around, and not waiting for her to undress, began to untie the back laces of her kirtle.
“I am hurt at your eagerness to rid my home of me,” Arian softly said, standing still as her stepmother lifted the fabric over her head.
Morwena paused in her chore, the fabric stifling Arian. Then she pulled it all the way off and said, “Do not be, Arian, ’tis not you I want gone but the memories you stir.”
Arian let out a long breath and nodded. If she were waspish she could hurt Morwena, but she was not. In her own way, Morwena had been a good mother, and was a most doting parent to her brother Rhodri. He was just ten-and-seven, and so much a man. Where Arian was told she was her mother’s image, Rhodri was their father’s.
“I pray, Arian, that once you are wed and gone from here, Hylcon will begin to see me as his wife.”
“I pray it as well. You both deserve happiness.”
Morwena made a soft sound deep in her throat, but when Arian turned to look at her she turned away and motioned to the steaming tub. “Come, the water grows cold as you dally.”
As she sank into the warm velvety water, Jane bustled into the chamber, followed by two maids. It took the three of them to carry the length of a sky-blue velvet and gold-embroidered wedding gown. Arian frowned. Though beautiful, ’twas not what she had charged the dressmaker with.
Her heart began a soft steady thump against her chest. “ ’Tis beautiful, Jane, but not what I was to wear on my wedding day.”
The old nurse looked up and a frown wrinkled her brow. “ ’Twas your mother’s.”