There was a raucous laugh from the center of the group, and a coarse voice cried out, "If we must wait until we see the Gaunt blazon in retreat, we'll win or die. I've never yet seen your standard going backward, my lord."
Radnor swung his horse a little to the left, laughing. "William Tanner, I know your voice. You are not yet so old that you will not see things more strange than my banner in strategic retreat. It was well said long ago that 'he who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day.' I've a pretty young bride waiting for me, and with what you take in plunder on this trip, if you don't drink it all, you can buy one for yourself. If I say run, you run—like a scared rabbit. But if you run before I say so, I'll have your ears."
"You can only have one of them, my lord. I lost the other when you got that pretty smile you wear."
"Ay, I had forgot, you bloody devil. Guard yourself well. Pretty brides like at least one ear to bite. Mount up now, men, our hour draws upon us."
The rays of the sun indicated about four o'clock when Lord Radnor received word that his troop was ready and in position. Through the trees and across the intervening fields, sounds of human occupation came faintly to the waiting men. Radnor fingered the scars near his mouth and on his forehead with an unconscious gesture, and his lips began to move, although he made no sound.
Odo and Cedric, sitting tensely in their saddles nearby, could see their master. Cedric watched with amusement and pleasure, because watching gestures he knew well from hundreds of preludes to battle reduced his own nervous tension. His lordship always did the same. At first Cedric had thought Lord Radnor was praying, but he had asked one of the priests and he had been told, disapprovingly, that it was pagan, heretic poetry written when the Romans were still in England, that Radnor recited.
If that wasn't like his lordship, to be flying in the face of Providence by mouthing heresies before battle, Cedric had thought then, and he thought it again now. Cedric's own pre-battle gestures, as familiar to his comrades as Lord Radnor's were to him, went unnoticed by himself. He ran his fingers along the blade of his already drawn sword and bit his lips, then licked them, then bit them again.
Odo, watching the silent fidgeting of the veterans around him, was overcome by a desire to relieve himself so intense that tears came into his eyes. He did not dare break silence; Cedric had told him in no uncertain terms what could happen to a man who fouled his lordship's battle plans. He pressed his knees against his horse, his body against the saddle pommel. He could not move. He knew he would not be able to move when the charge was called. He was a coward, and it was true that the serfs were made of lesser stuff than the lords. He wished he were back on the farm, that he had never said or thought anything to distinguish him from his fellow serfs. The tears rolled down his cheeks, but he no longer cared what the other men thought of him. There was death across that field of stubble, lying so quiet in the afternoon sun.
Lord Radnor pressed his hands against his thighs. He listened intently while his lips moved without sound in Allecto's speech from the Seventh Book of the Aeneid. "Lo, discord is ripened at thy desire into baleful war: bid them now mix in amity and join alliance! Insomuch as I have stained the Trojans with Ausonian blood, this likewise will I add, if I have assurance of thy will. With my rumors I will sweep the bordering towns into war, and kindle their spirit with furious desire for battle, that from all quarters help may come; I will sow the land with arms."
Faintly a metallic clangor drifted from the Welsh camp. Soup was being ladled from huge cauldrons into individual bowls. Radnor drew his sword and lifted it. He raised his voice, clear and loud, as his men heard it only in battle.
"À Gaunt, à Gaunt. Le droit est à moi."
Spurs clapped suddenly to his horse's side made the beast leap forward, and the whole troop surged after its leader in a shallow V, each man charging a split second after his more central neighbor. They rode into the disordered camp like a band of the furies Radnor had been describing a few moments previously. The noise of their charge had heralded their arrival and men were mounting, mounted, armed, searching for arms, fighting, and running all at once. In the first few moments many of the Welsh were slaughtered like sheep, but the others soon recovered and began to fight back.
Cedric hissed through his teeth with each breath and paused momentarily to roll the body of a richly armed chieftain into the shelter of a tent. He wanted that armor as plunder, and he expected to be too busy for a while to strip the corpse. He turned quickly to help Odo who was barely holding his own against three unmounted men.
"Back your horse," he screamed. "They will broach him." And he cleaved the nearest man's head with a direct downblow. The sword was caught in the bone of the skull, and Cedric wrenched at it, making the soft brain tissue ooze out and using his long shield to hold off another man who had run up.
Giles fought his way steadily from the right wing towards the center of the camp where the thickest press of men were. He could see the Gaunt blazon staggering back and forth as Sir Harry struggled to keep his horse directly behind and to the right of Lord Radnor. Giles smiled grimly although his breath was coming a little short. Beaufort was doing well in his first experience as standard-bearer and Radnor was still safe.
Old Giles had fought so long that he worked like a machine, scarcely conscious of his sword arm darting forward to slice at an oncoming Welsh horseman. He twisted the blade hard as he withdrew it. These he wanted dead, not with clean wounds that would heal; dead, they would fight no more. He could see the group he was heading towards now. Radnor's sword arm moved up and down like a pump handle, the blade gleaming red and wet each time the weapon rose. The great painted shield made a sharp downward thrust and another cry rang out as a footman fell, brained, under the ironshod hooves of the war horse.
The Welsh fought with the stubborn courage for which they were famous. Actually, man for man, they were no match for Lord Radnor's well-disciplined troop, but even the best disciplined veteran fighters can only fight so long and kill so much. The very weight of the Welsh army, which outnumbered his men at about five to one, was forcing Radnor slowly back. He gasped as the point of a blade slipped under his shield from the back and gashed his ribs through the mail, but in the same instant he heard his attacker cry out as Beaufort's shield bludgeoned the footman's face to pulp.
he press of Welsh moved ever closer. Radnor was enjoying himself, but a flickering glance up and down the field showed him that great pressure was being exerted all along the line. Another footman appeared at his right, sword held ready to broach his horse. Dropping his sword point because there was not room enough to use the weapon in the normal way, he thrust forward with the pommel. Blood sprayed over his gauntlet and leg as the teeth fell out of the face so near him and an eye bulged slowly from its socket. Radnor backed his horse, about to signal retreat, when a new cry came from the other end of the camp.
"À Gaunt, à Gaunt. For Owen, à Gaunt."
At first the Welsh drove forward even more frantically because of the pressure of this new attack on their rear, but Radnor's men had new heart. Castle Penybont was still theirs and Owen of Wells had men enough and strength enough to help in the fight. Lord Radnor grinned, his teeth flashing in his unshaven face, and addressed himself with satisfaction to decimating his enemies.
William Tanner laughed aloud and said to the man fighting beside him, "I told you that you wouldn't see the Gaunt blazon going backward." But the last word finished in a bubbling sound as he crumpled up with a faint look of surprise on his face and his chest bathed in the blood that gushed from his slit throat.
The twilight was now darkening into true night, and Lord Radnor found that he could not see well. He lifted his shield so that he could wipe the perspiration from his eyes with the leather inside of his gauntlet. A blow that numbed his sword arm made him lower the shield precipitately, but Beaufort had knocked the man aside. A little while longer and one could not tell friend from foe. Well, there could be no harm in trying a trick that h
ad worked before. Radnor raised his voice.
"À Gaunt, à Gaunt. Hold hard. They break. They run."
The cry was picked up by the men closest who had breath enough to cry aloud and soon rang from every quarter of the field. Radnor's men set their tired jaws; now they had them. Soon there would be rest and plunder, no running through the woods with pursuers close behind.
"Le droit est à moi. They break. They run." Radnor's voice rang out again. It was getting very dark and a frightened boy did run. He was not a Welsh fighter; he was no more than a cook's helper who had been trapped in the melee, and a boy at that, not a man, but it was too dark to tell man from boy now and that note of panic caught and spread like wildfire. Half an hour longer saw the end of it, and Radnor's men, pre-warned not to pursue a group still larger than themselves into forest they did not know well, straggled together to count up their gains and losses.
Lord Radnor sagged forward against the high pommel of his saddle after he had unstrapped his shield and slung it in its usual place across his shoulder. He roused himself briefly to pull the cloak from a prisoner passing with one of his men to wipe his sword and sheathe it. A reaction to battle that he had not had for a long time was taking possession of him. He could feel his tired horse trembling and he thought dully how strange it was that a war horse would press forward in the thick of a fight almost without urging, would not shy even when blood spattered its face, yet when the battle was over that same horse would tremble with fear and even bolt because of the smell of blood. The horse's reactions made no connection in Radnor's mind with those of their riders, but he turned and took the loose reins of Beaufort's mount as the destrier laid back his ears and showed the whites of his eyes. Radnor watched the young man retch.
"My lord," a strong voice called. "Fifty men are dead; forty-three are like to die of their wounds and certainly cannot travel with us on a near day. Of the rest, about half are hurt, but not badly."
Lord Radnor lifted his head; his eyes had misted over at the sound of those matter-of-fact tones. "Giles! I am not used to be separated from you in a fight. I am glad you are here safe."
The master-of-arms wiped at his mouth to hide his surprise, and his voice came even harsher than usual to conceal his own emotion. "And it's just as well I am too. How many years have I told you that after a battle you must count your dead and put your wounded in a safe place? What if the Welsh were to come down upon us again? And you sit like a bump on a log, as usual, looking at nothing." The old man's words were sharp, but his hand touched Radnor's neck and shoulder in a gesture that was certainly a caress. "Look at yourself, bleeding in half a dozen places and too stupid to call for a leech."
"Not too stupid, Giles, too tired."
"Beaufort," Giles called sharply.
"Let him be," Radnor murmured. "The sickness of battle is upon him. I have known it myself. Let him be."
"Good greeting to you, my lord," Owen of Wells called cheerfully as he rode up on a blood-spattered grey horse. "I thank you for coming so soon. Had you delayed longer we might not have been able to issue out to help you."
"Greetings, Owen." Radnor removed a gauntlet and held out his hand, which Owen kissed. "Have you fresh men enough in the castle to guard this camp and collect the plunder?"
"Yes, and enough to bury the dead too," Owen replied. "Most of the serfs are in the castle. I did not think we would be starved out; it did not look to me as if they planned a siege, so I took them in."
"Well, then, I suppose …" Radnor rubbed his forehead and eyes with the gloveless hand. He was now almost dropping with desire for sleep.
"Go to. Go to," Giles interrupted. "Go into the castle and have your hurts tended. Will you teach your grandfather to suck eggs?"
Lord Radnor looked at his master-of-arms in patent amazement. Never before had Giles interrupted him when he was about to give an order—although in his youth he had frequently countermanded his orders. Nor did he usually exhibit in public the familiarity with which he treated his lord in private. Cain's mind flashed back over the last few minutes—nor had Giles ever touched him with a caress like that before. Or had he? Was it possible that he had never noticed the old man's affection? In any event he was too tired to argue or to seek explanations.
"All right, grandfather," he said with a gleam of humor, "suck eggs for me and see how much nourishment I get from them. One moment you tell me not to sit and look at nothing and the next you send me off to do just that. And while you are offering me wise saws, do not forget to have your own hurts seen to." Radnor touched his horse and moved over to Beaufort. "Enough, Harry. Wipe your mouth and swallow your gorge and come with us." The young man was shaking with dry sobs. "It will pass, Harry. I have been there and I tell you it will pass."
"Will you eat with us, my lord? I confess I am sharp set. We heard your battle cry just as we sat down to meat. Needless to say we did not wait to finish but came at once." Owen was irrepressibly cheerful and, loving a good fight, rather exhilarated by the victory.
At the mention of food, Lord Radnor had to swallow his own nausea before he could reply. "No. I want only to sleep, and a leech for my wounds. In God's name, man, ask me nothing and tell me nothing, but show me a bed."
Several hours later Lord Radnor woke. Beaufort was asleep on the floor on the other side of the fireplace where embers still glowed, lighting the room with a dull red. Radnor considered waking him and sending him for food, then changed his mind, belted on his sword again over the tunic and gambeson in which he had slept, and went down to the great hall. Except for one woman servant puttering about and men sleeping on the floor, the hall was deserted. Radnor grasped the woman by the arm.
"Go find me something to eat."
"My lord, there is nothing fitting for you," she cried.
"Anything will do, I care not what. The broken meats and bread."
As he sent her off, he noticed that she was young and not ugly. That would complete his needs. All women were alike, and if Pembroke's daughter was a snake like her father, there would be others. When the maid returned carrying a platter heaped with meat and bread, he told her roughly to wait and set to with real appetite. A good fight, a good meal, a good tumble, and a good sleep—a good day.
Radnor pushed the empty platter away and drew the girl to him. Under his hands, her body was rigid with revulsion. That was nothing new to him and usually did not affect him, but this time he was astonished to find that his body would not obey his desire. He looked around at the men in the hall. This was not the place for it anyway; if the girl cried out he would have an audience. Dragging her with him, he returned to the tower room in which he had slept. Beaufort was still asleep and so heavily that Radnor thought nothing would wake him.
"Be silent," he said to the trembling girl. "Whatever I do, be silent. If you cry out and wake my man, I will cut your tongue out." He drew her down on to the pallet with him, undid her bodice, pulled up her skirt, and lay for a while fondling her breasts and hips. Her skin was young and smooth and pleasant even though her whole body protested against his caress silently, the back arched and the limbs rigid. What had been an idle thought before, now was an insistent desire. He would have her! But still his body would not obey and, in spite of his inflamed mind, he was cold as ice. Radnor shoved the girl away. Was he doomed to be capable only with the daughter of his worst enemy?
"Wait!"
Dim as it was, Radnor could read the terror in the maid's stance, could sense the revulsion she felt in the way she clutched the open bodice across her breasts. He knew what he was and what he looked like in her eyes and wondered abstractly if even her fear could keep her still if he touched her again. He made no attempt to try the experiment, reaching for a purse he had dropped by the side of the bed.
"Take this." A couple of coins clinked into her free hand. "Go. Get out," he snarled at her, and she fled to the safety of the kitchens.
No sooner was Radnor alone, however, when Leah's image rose into his mind. To this his body respon
ded with such promptness that he cursed aloud, and with such fluency and vehemence, that Sir Harry woke with a start.
"What is it, my lord?"
"Nothing," Radnor replied, "go back to sleep."
Chapter 10
In the misty dawn of another hot day, Lord Radnor levered himself to a sitting position. Beaufort was gone and, free of the restraint of his presence, Radnor groaned aloud at the thought of the duties of the coming days. Stiff and sore as he was, the Welsh camp had to be broken up immediately, the plunder divided and distributed, and a plan of action against those who had escaped roughly formulated. The prisoners would have to be tortured for the names of the tribes involved and siding with the rebellion so that his father would know where to strike next.
At least Owen could see to the torturing of the prisoners, and, with the addition of all Radnor's men except his personal guard, would have a large enough force to protect this area until Gaunt and the vassals arrived. Nonetheless there was enough for Cain himself to do, some of it very unpleasant. He began to dress, wincing as he moved at first and wincing again as he pulled on his left boot. The pain in his body was almost welcome for it occupied his thoughts, at least for a little while. Then there was breakfast to busy himself with, then the council with Owen.
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