‘We should fight. All is not yet lost…’
‘Aye, fight on,’ a man next to Morgan agreed and went charging out of the line on his horse, his sword arm raised as he made a valiant attempt to reach the King.
His scream as the arrow entered his eye was fearful, his body crashing to the ground where it writhed in agony for a time before lying still. Morgan hesitated as he waited to see what would happen next. It seemed that a small detachment of soldiers was being allowed to go with Richard, and that His Majesty was so far being treated with the respect due to a King.
One of the attacking force, clearly an officer by his manner and dress, was riding along the line of the King’s men, calling out in a loud voice that any who joined him now and pledged allegiance to Bolingbroke could go with him, those who did not wish to change sides would be permitted to leave in peace. Only a handful of men accepted the terms offered, their faces shamed as they moved to join him and were directed to join the ranks of Bolingbroke’s men.
‘Are you all decided?’ the officer asked again and was met with a sullen silence. ‘God have mercy on your souls…’
A hail of arrows came from out of the trees, the men’s screams horrible as they died for their act of defiance. Morgan had expected treachery and was ready for it, bending low over his horse’s back, he raced towards the officer who had offered terms to the King’s men, a wild battle cry on his lips. His action spurred the men around him to a similar desperate act and their combined force took the enemy by surprise. Morgan was on the officer who had betrayed them in seconds, and with one blow he sliced into his shoulder, passing by swiftly without stopping to glance back. But he heard yelling behind him and guessed that he was not the only one to seek revenge for dead colleagues.
He knew that he must reach the trees, must force his way through the Bowmen still gathered there, their bows trained on what was left of the King’s men. His horse was maddened by the stench of blood and the screaming that rent the air on all sides as the bloodbath Richard had hoped to prevent began. The screams of dying men ringing in his ears, Morgan had almost reached the safety of the trees when he felt the arrow strike his arm. He reeled with the pain, yet managed to hold on, clutching on to his horse’s reins as he ploughed into the forest, trampling on the Bowman crouched there before he could load another arrow into his bow.
Gritting his teeth against the agony of the iron tip embedded deep in his arm, he rode without stopping until the sounds of screaming were far behind him and he was lost deep within the forest. Alone and faint from loss of blood, he dismounted at last beside a small stream. Taking the arrow with his right hand, he pulled it from his arm, a scream of agony wrenched from his lips as he staggered to the edge of the water. There he bent to cup his hand, drinking a few sips and then lying back, his eyes closing as he tried to fight the exhaustion creeping over him and failed. The sleep that claimed him was restless and wrought with fever, but after a while it became strangely pleasant, carrying him to a place that he had never visited before – a place of sunlight and music and a face that seemed to gaze down at him with love.
*
Day was breaking when the shock of icy water dashed into his face brought him back to consciousness. He swore and opened his eyes, thinking himself back at home until he looked up into the face of a stranger. Starting up, Morgan reached for his sword but found it was not beside him.
‘I thought it best to remove your weapon in case you were maddened with fever when you woke,’ the man standing over him said. ‘You do not know me, but I know you – you were the Welsh singer that was to accompany Lady Rosamund to Chester. Here, my lord, drink this for it will ease you.’ He offered a cup which Morgan did not immediately accept.
‘You were at the castle that day…’ Morgan sat up gingerly, gazing warily at the face of the man before him. He was well into his later years, his face lined, his beard and hair a silvery grey, but his eyes had a brightness that seemed to belong to a man half his age. Morgan’s arm was very sore but as he looked at it, he saw that it had been bound with what was clearly some kind of poultice. ‘Did you do this?’
‘Aye, I have some skill with healing that is why the lord de Grenville ordered me to go with him and his men. That drink is brewed from herbs and will dull the pain. I have already given you some and it will not harm you.’ He took a sip from the cup and then offered it to Morgan, who took it from him this time but still did not drink.
‘Are you not one of de Grenville’s men?’ Morgan looked at him suspiciously. ‘Is de Grenville near?’
‘Not him,’ the other man pulled a wry face. ‘He is with Henry of Bolingbroke celebrating the betrayal of King Richard by now. He saw you break out from the King’s men and bid me follow you, for he would know where Lady Rosamund has taken her followers.’
‘Is that why you bound up my wound – so that I could betray her?’
‘Nay, for I served my lady before I served him, and I would go to her and offer her my help for what little it is worth.’
‘Why should I trust you?’ Morgan asked. ‘You might have poisoned my wound while I slept.’
‘I might have slit your throat while you slept,’ the other man said, an odd smile on his lips. ‘Why should I trouble myself to bind your wound – why not let you bleed to death as you might had I not come?’
Morgan nodded, knowing that this much was true, yet uncertain whether to trust a man who came from Philip de Grenville.
‘What do they call you?’
‘I am known as Kestrel, but I have many names.’
‘I am Morgan Gruffudd.’
‘Known to some as Morgan the Rogue, I believe?’
Morgan’s gaze narrowed. ‘Who are you? And how do you know of that name?’
‘I know many things, my lord.’
‘Why do you give me that title? I am not your lord, nor any man’s.’
‘Titles given by men are but empty things, yet I think you have that about you that deserves this one. You are a man destined for great things, Morgan Gruffudd. This I have seen and for this reason I nursed you while you lay in your fever. How long do you think you have lain without waking?’
‘A few hours – a night.’ Morgan stared at him. ‘Why do you ask since you followed me after the ambush?’
‘That was three days since,’ Kestrel replied. ‘My charms held you in a sweet dream from which you have woken as if from a night’s sleep – tell me if I lie.’
‘You do not lie about the way I feel. Apart from some soreness in my arm I feel nothing of my wound…yet three days lost. I cannot believe it.’
‘You do not believe in the power of my magic?’ Kestrel smiled. ‘You are not alone, my lord. Yet if I did not have the healing power – if I could not look into the future – how should I know who and what you are? Or that much lies ahead for you?’
Morgan’s eyes narrowed warily. ‘If you know so much why did you need to follow me to discover the Lady Rosamund’s whereabouts?’
‘My lady is at Caris of course – where else would she go? I said that the Lord de Grenville sent me to follow you to discover her whereabouts. I did not say that I needed to be told.’
Morgan got to his feet. His head swam for a moment or two but then he recovered his balance and the feeling of nausea passed. ‘I think they should name you Kestrel the Fox,’ he said, ‘for you are as sly as that cunning creature. Yet it would seem that you mean me no harm.’ He drank the mixture, which tasted bitter, and returned the cup to its owner. ‘Since you know so much, tell me – shall I gain what I desire most in the life?’
Kestrel’s eyes were bright with secret laughter. ‘It is the question all men ask of me and few deserve a true answer, for most would slit my throat if I gave it – yet I shall answer you, Morgan Gruffudd. That which you believe you most desire shall never be yours, though a time will come when you will remember my words and think me wrong – but that which you do not yet know is your secret desire shall be yours. You may betray yourself and yet yo
u shall not betray those you love.’
‘Those I love…’ Morgan’s eyes narrowed. ‘You speak in riddles, good healer, but you have probably saved my life and I thank you for it. If ever I can do you a service, you may ask.’
‘And you will refuse me,’ the other said. ‘But it will not be your fault and so I forgive you now.’
‘Have done with this nonsense,’ Morgan said gruffly. He was feeling a cold chill at the base of his spine and this talk of future betrayal disturbed him. ‘My sword and my horse. I see that you have cared for my horse – but I need my sword. Fear not, I shall not strike you down. If I have wasted three days in a fever I must lose no time.’
‘Do you go to Caris?’
Morgan hesitated for a moment, then reached inside his clothing and brought out the ring given him by King Richard.
‘You may give this to Lady Rosamund and tell her I shall come to her when I can. His Majesty gave this to me for her and I also have a message for her. When I come I shall tell her what he said, but for now I have other things I must do. Tell her to stay where she is for the moment, to defend her castle and trust no one.’
‘Your advice is good,’ Kestrel said. ‘The lord de Grenville may come for her, but she would do well to bar her gates to him – he was very angry when he discovered that she had gone to Richard.’
‘As any husband might be,’ Morgan said. ‘Yet I believe she may have had cause to dislike her lord.’
‘He is not a man many would like or trust.’ Kester moved a pile of leaves and twigs and handed Morgan his sword. ‘Where do you go, my lord?’
‘Do you not know already?’ Morgan mocked him with a smile. ‘Where are your powers, old man?’
‘The gift is not mine to dictate,’ Kestrel replied. ‘When a sight is given to me it is not of my choosing. Indeed, I might choose not to know some things that are revealed to me. If you go in the vain hope of rescuing King Richard…’ he shook his head. ‘But the choice is yours, your destiny is in your own hands. I know where you will arrive at a certain point in time, but the path you follow is your own.’
Morgan gazed down at him, eyes narrowed intently. It had been in his mind that he might try to discover the whereabouts of King Richard with some thought of an attempt at rescue. Yet in his heart he knew that a vain hope. Still he would discover what he could before making his report to Owain and then to Lady Rosamund.
‘I bid you farewell, sir,’ he said gazing down at the old man, who seemed to be waiting for something, his eyes fixed on a distant peak. ‘Perhaps we shall meet again one day.’
‘Yes, we are destined to meet,’ Kester replied, his eyes coming back to rest on Morgan’s face. ‘I see danger for you – not the kind of danger you are accustomed to facing. You are about to do something that will cause you much pain one day. Perhaps your death…’
‘I am accustomed to all kinds of dangers, sir.’
‘This is different…’ Kester shivered as though someone had stepped on his grave. ‘I would beg you for your own sake as well as others not to do this thing – but I do not know what it is…’
Morgan threw back his head and laughed. ‘I thank you for your warning, my friend – but since I do not know of what you warn me I cannot heed it.’
He saluted the other man with his sword, and then sheathing it, he mounted his horse and laughing once more, waved a last farewell before galloping away.
It was only when he was disappearing into the distance that Kester gave a groan of despair. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘You must not…she is not for you. I beg you to listen…hear me…you must not…’
It was too late, Morgan had gone, and he knew that when they met again it would be too late.
FIVE
Morwenna sighed as she walked in the meadows near her kinsman’s house at Sycharth, feeling the heat of summer begin to wane as autumn approached. She had been here for more than six weeks now and was anxious because she had heard nothing from her father. It was unusual for him to stay away so long, and she worried that something might have happened to him. It was not that she was unhappy here, for she had companions and she was treated with kindness, yet it was not quite the same as being at home.
She longed for a home of her own, where she might be the mistress and welcome her husband back at the end of the working day, and it irked her that nothing more had been said of her wedding. She had promised her father that she would not plague Owain, but she was growing weary of waiting to be told what had been arranged. She had ceased to think of Morgan Gruffudd as often now, for there had been no word of him since he rode away that day, and his cousin had told her that he did not believe he would return.
‘Morgan was angry because Owain believed his mother’s tales of him,’ Rhys Llewelyn had told her. ‘I do not believe he will come again to be dismissed so summarily.’
Perhaps he was right and she had let her imagination run away with her, Morwenna decided. She would be foolish to let her head be turned by a man she might never see again, especially as another handsome man was here and more than willing to pay attention to her.
He was waiting for her as she returned from her walk. It was happening often now, and she smiled as she saw Rhys loitering just outside the gates. The drawbridge was always left down during the day to allow the people of the village to come and go at will. At night it was raised and none was allowed to enter unless they were known, for the times were uneasy since Henry Bolingbroke had captured King Richard at Flint. The usurper was meanwhile busy fortifying various castles, which were to be held against any attempt by Richard’s Irish troops to come to his assistance, and demanding allegiance from those who might have taken a stand against him. Most had hurried to assure him that they were for him, though in Wales it was an uneasy truce.
‘Did you enjoy your walk, Morwenna?’
Rhys had walked to meet her as she lingered to retrieve a wild flower she had dropped from the posy she had picked in the meadow. She held the flowers to her nose, hiding her delight in seeing him. She suspected that her eager suitor was in love with her, and it pleased her well for she liked to be courted by him. He was softly spoken with her, and his passionate looks sent little thrills down her spine. She had made up her mind that when her father returned she would ask him if she could be betrothed to Rhys Llewelyn.
‘It was pleasant,’ she replied, smiling up into his handsome face. ‘But the air grows colder. Soon it will be winter. If my father does not soon return the snows may come and who knows when I shall see him again.’
‘You are worried for him?’ Rhys asked and looked pleased as she nodded. ‘Then I am glad to be the bearer of good news. Hywell Gethin has returned not twenty minutes ago and waits for you within.’
‘My father is here?’ Morwenna’s face lit up. ‘That is good news indeed, Rhys. I thank you for bringing it to me.’
‘It will not be good news for me if he takes you away from here, my lady.’
The throb of passion in his voice made Morwenna gurgle with laughter. It was so pleasing to know that he cared for her that much.
‘Shall you miss me, Rhys?’ she asked. ‘If we leave here and return to our home at Bala shall you be sorry?’
‘You know that I shall…’ He stared at her hungrily, the longing in his eyes. ‘You must know that I…’
‘I must go to meet my father…’ Morwenna’s heart was racing and suddenly she was a little frightened by his intensity, though she did not know why. He meant her no harm and yet a cold chill had passed over her and she felt that she was on the brink of some terrible disaster.
‘Nay, do not go for a moment,’ Rhys said and caught her by the wrist as she would have walked past him. The look he gave her was almost desperate, and lifting her hand to his lips he placed a heated kiss within her palm. ‘I love you, Morwenna. I do not know what I shall do if you leave here. I am desperate for love of you…’
‘You should not,’ she said, trying to pull her hand away and feeling the strength of his as he denied her.
‘If you care for me you must speak to my father.’
‘It is my intention,’ Rhys said eagerly. ‘I have nothing to offer as yet, Morwenna, but I shall work hard to earn my living and one day I shall give you a house and lands that you will be proud to be mistress of.’
‘You must speak to my father. Now let me go…’
She pulled sharply away and this time he released her. As she walked on ahead of him, her cheeks were heated. She had thought it amusing to dally with the young man, but something in his eyes had frightened her that morning. Until this moment she had not given a thought to his prospects, but now she realised that he was too poor to offer her the kind of life she had been accustomed to living. Until he proved himself and began to rise in Owain’s service, they would have nothing but the revenues from her estate at Oswestry.
She was not sure that her father would allow such a match, and in her heart she had begun to realise that perhaps she did not truly want it either.
*
After a meeting with Henry of Bolingbroke at Flint, the details of which were revealed only to a chosen few, Richard, King of England, was arrested and taken to Chester, that citadel which had been his pride. By the time Morgan reached the city he was greeted by the news that the King had been taken to London, there to be imprisoned in the Tower.
It was useless to think of going to his assistance, nor was there any sense in repining at the days lost to a fever. Morgan could not understand his own desire to make the attempt, nor his rage at the deceit and betrayal that had led Richard into a trap. Richard the king was his enemy, yet despite himself he had liked Richard the man – and for her sake he would have tried to rescue that man had it been possible.
In his heart he had known Richard’s was a lost cause, and perhaps Richard himself had also known that – perhaps his fate had been foretold in the stars? Something in Kestrel’s farewell had seemed to indicate that he believed Morgan would be wasting his time making this journey, as if he had already looked into the future and seen it was hopeless. But for Morgan it had proved useful in many ways.
Morgan the Rogue Page 8