Time and Chance eoa-2

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Rhys ap Gruffydd swore, then leaned over and spat. “There is nothing worse than an enemy with imagination.”

  “I wonder that he did not just order the woods to part, like Moses at the Red Sea,” Hywel said bleakly. To his surprise, his bitter jest seemed to amuse his father, for Owain’s mouth was curving in a slight smile. Hywel’s own humor rarely failed him, but to save his soul, he could not wring a single drop of amusement from their present plight. How could they hope to defeat in the field an army so much larger than theirs? “It looks as if we shall have to revise our battle plans. We were so sure they’d not get across the Berwyns, so sure…”

  “I still am,” Owain said, and they all turned in their saddles to stare at him.

  “Why?” Blunt as ever, Rhys was regarding his uncle with an odd mixture of dubious hope. “Why should a mountain range halt a man willing to chop down an entire forest?”

  “Have you so forgotten your Scriptures, Rhys? I suggest you think upon Proverbs.”

  That was less than illuminating to Rhys and Davydd. Much to Davydd’s vexation, it was his brother, with a poet’s love of the written word, who solved the puzzle. “ ‘Pride goeth before destruction,’ ” Hywel quoted, “ ‘and a haughty spirit before a fall.’ ”

  “Exactly,” Owain said, so approvingly that Davydd’s jealousy rose in his throat like bile. “What could be more prideful than this? Only Our Lord God is omnipotent, not the King of England. That is a lesson this Henry Fitz Empress needs to learn, and I do believe it is one he will be taught, for such prideful presumption is surely displeasing to the Almighty.”

  The others did not doubt that the English king was not in God’s Favor, for soon after crossing into Wales, his soldiers had plundered and burned several churches. But they did not have Owain’s apparent faith in divine retribution, not with the English army soon to be within striking distance of the Welsh heartland. Owain saw their skepticism and laughed softly.

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” he said mockingly. “You want proof of the Almighty’s Intent, do you?” Wetting his forefinger, he held it up. “The wind has shifted-from the northwest to the northeast. Need I tell you what that means?”

  He did not, for these were men who, of necessity, had long ago learned to read the skies and cloud patterns as a monk might study the Holy Word. That wind change signaled a coming storm.

  For days, the sky had been heavy with clouds, the air muggy and uncomfortably close. Passing birds were flying much lower to the ground than usual. The last visible sunset had turned the sky a dull red. There were Englishmen as adept as the Welsh in interpreting nature’s portents, and so Henry’s army had fair warning that unsettled weather was on the way.

  They were not men to be disheartened by a few summer showers, though. Rain was an occupational hazard of the soldier, particularly in a land as wet as Wales. As long as they no longer had to shy at shadows and fear that there was a Welsh bowman lurking behind every tree, they were willing to slog through a little mud. That seemed a fair trade for being able to sleep again at night. Morale had soared with each felled tree, each trampled bush. It was slow going, but what of it? Once they got to the Berwyns, they’d make better time, for its slopes were not as deeply wooded as the valley. Their Welsh guides would lead them across the barren heaths and bogs and over the mountain pass toward a reckoning with the Welsh army at Corwen. After that, they could go home, for few doubted that they would prevail once the two forces met on the battlefield.

  There was still an hour or so of daylight remaining when the English at last reached the foothills of the Berwyn range. But the wind had picked up and the clouds to the west looked like billowing black anvils. Henry was pleased with the progress they’d made and decided to reward the men by making camp instead of pushing on till dusk. They hastily set up their tents, laid out their bedrolls, and braced themselves to ride out the breaking storm.

  Soon after dark, the rains began. It was immediately apparent that this was no mere summer soaker. The winds were shrieking through the camp, collapsing tents and terrifying the horses. Men who left their shelter were drenched within moments, half drowned in the downpour. Just before midnight, hail mixed with the rain, ice pellets the size of coins pelting the ground and stinging every inch of exposed skin on the unfortunate sentries. Sleep was the first casualty of the storm and, for all, it was a wakeful, nerve-racking night.

  Although his command tent had withstood the tempest, Henry had gotten no more rest than his soldiers, listening to the howling of the wind and the occasional shouts when another tent was blown down. Daylight brought no respite from the gale. If anything, it seemed to intensify, and Henry had no choice but to order them to remain in camp until the storm passed. The day was torture for so impatient a soul as Henry’s. He might be drier than most of his men, but he was no less miserable, trapped in his tent as the hours dragged by and his frustration festered. The night was easier, for he finally fell into an exhausted sleep. But upon awakening, he discovered that the wind still raged and the rain continued to fall in torrents.

  When Henry announced that they would break camp and head out, his audience looked at him as if he’d lost his senses. Watching as his men struggled to take down their tents and load the wagons and packhorses, he soon realized they were right. The meadow had become a quagmire and men slipped and lurched and sank to their knees in the muck. The wind hindered them as much as the mud, tearing at the tent stakes and blowing over one of the supply wagons. As sacks of flour split open and a keg rolled down the hillside, spewing out a spray of ale in its wake, Henry hastily countermanded himself, and his sodden, shivering soldiers gratefully pitched their tents again, seeking what small comfort they could find under wet blankets and dripping mantles.

  For the rest of his days, Henry was to refer to the squall upon the Berwyns with the very worst of the obscenities he had at his considerable command. Never had he encountered a storm so savage, or so long-lasting. Ironically, the English would have fared better had they still been down in the Ceiriog Forest they’d been so eager to leave behind. Here upon the unsheltered moors, they were at the mercy of the elements. Fires could not be set as kindling was saturated, the ground soaked. The only food available was what could be eaten uncooked or raw, and men were soon sickening, stricken by chills, fever, and the feared bloody flux. Henry was far less superstitious than most of his contemporaries, with a skeptical streak that few besides Eleanor either understood or appreciated. But even he began to wonder if such foul weather could be dismissed as mere happenchance.

  When the rain finally eased up two days later, the English army resumed its march, only to discover that the mountain road was washed away in places, the streams swollen with runoff water, and the moorlands pitted with newly formed bogs. Still, they pressed on, driven by the sheer force of Henry’s implacable will. By now some of the ailing men had begun to die. They were buried with indecent haste, left to molder in an alien, hostile land, and the army straggled on. They had a new concern now-their dwindling supplies, for some of their provisions had been lost or ruined during the storm. But when they sent out a hunting party to search for game, it did not come back. Hungry and dispirited, the soldiers trudged on, cursing the Welsh aloud and Henry under their breaths.

  They were higher up now and the air held a surprising chill for August. Henry had dismounted and was wrapping a blindfold around his stallion’s eyes, for there was a narrow stretch of road ahead and English horses were not as accustomed to these heights as the surefooted animals the Welsh rode. The wind was still pursuing them, shrieking at night like the souls of the damned, chasing away sleep and catching their words in midsentence, so that men had to shout to make themselves heard. Now a sudden gust ripped the blindfold from Henry’s hand and sent it flying. He was turning to get another strip of cloth when the screams began.

  One of the Flemish sergeants lay bleeding in the road, struck by a large rock that had come plummeting from the heights above them. Before anyone could reach the i
njured man, other rocks began to roll down the slope, and then there was a roaring sound and part of the cliff crumbled away, a wave of mud and turf and boulders engulfing the dazed soldier and those who’d hastened to his aid. Henry clung to his plunging stallion’s reins, somehow kept the petrified animal from bolting. Hitching it to the closest wagon, he ran forward. But there was nothing to be done. Their broken bodies swept along like debris in a floodtide, the men caught in the avalanche were gone.

  As soon as they could find a suitable place to pitch camp, Henry ordered it done even though it was not yet dusk. He’d seen the stunned faces of his men, staring down mutely at the torn-up, flattened grass that marked the mudslide’s track, and he ordered, as well, an extra ration of ale with supper. But that night he was awakened by the sound he most dreaded to hear: the drumbeat of rain upon the canvas roof of his tent.

  All eyes were upon Henry. But no one spoke. It had already been said, the arguments made for retreat. The wretched weather. The danger of another mudslide. Men with empty bellies and loose bowels and a weakened will to fight. The specter of hunger stalking them as relentlessly as the shadowy, unseen wolves who’d learned that armies were worth trailing. Henry knew that the arguments were right, rooted in common sense and a realistic assessment of their worsening plight. But still the words stuck in his throat as he turned and finally said, “So be it. Make ready to withdraw at first light.”

  Every man in the tent was relieved by that grudging command, none more so than Ranulf. He sagged down on one of Henry’s coffers, drawing his first easy breath in weeks. But then Henry said grimly, “We will go back to Chester and await the arrival of the fleet I hired from the Danes in Dublin. This war is not over yet.”

  The English retreat was disorderly and hurried, as retreats usually are. Harassed by the Welsh, Henry’s army retraced its route through the Ceiriog Forest and headed back toward the border. There was some skirmishing between the more zealous of the Welsh pursuers and the English rearguard, but eventually Henry’s men reached safety in Shropshire. After halting in Shrewsbury to treat the wounded and ailing, Henry collected the hostages surrendered to the Crown eight years earlier by the Welsh princes, and continued north to Chester. There he encamped his army on the Wirral Peninsula northeast of the city and settled in at Shotwick Castle to plan the next stage of his Welsh war.

  Henry’s chamber in Shotwick Castle’s great square keep had been transformed into a council of war. The trestle table was littered with maps of Wales-none of them very accurate, for mapmaking was not an advanced science. As the men crowded around the table, Henry gestured with a quill pen, splattering ink upon the parchment as he pointed out the proposed route his army would follow upon their return-along the coast road toward Owain Gwynedd’s manor at Aber-while his fleet ravaged the fertile lands of the island called Mon by the Welsh and Anglesey by the English.

  Glancing up as the door banged open, Henry flashed a smile at the sight of Ranulf. “Ah, there you are, Uncle. Come take a look at this new map-”

  “Tell me it is not true, Harry! You cannot mean to take your vengeance upon the Welsh hostages?”

  “Of course not,” Henry said indignantly and the hurtful, heavy pressure squeezing Ranulf’s ribcage began to ease.

  “Thank God!”

  “You, of all men, ought to know me better than that, Ranulf. That would be an unworthy act, both cruel and mean-spirited. The hostages are not scapegoats, but pledges of Welsh loyalty. It is as pledges that they must be punished, and for no other reason-”

  Ranulf’s mouth was suddenly so dry he could not even spit. “You cannot kill them, Harry!”

  “I do not want to kill them, Uncle. They must pay the price for the treachery of Owain Gwynedd, Rhys ap Gruffydd, and the others, but I will forbear to make this a blood debt. That is why I have given the command that they are only to be blinded and maimed, not delivered to the gallows.”

  “ ‘Only blinded and maimed…’ ” Ranulf’s voice thickened. “Jesu, do you hear yourself? Two of the hostages are Owain Gwynedd’s sons, another is Rhys ap Gruffydd’s. What if you’d turned one of your sons over to the Welsh? Could you talk so calmly of a mere maiming if it were your own facing the knife?”

  “If I’d given up my son as a hostage, I would have kept faith with his captors! If you must lay blame about, lay it then at Owain Gwynedd’s feet! If he cared for his sons, why did he put their lives at risk?”

  “What choice did he have? He loves Wales as he loves his sons!”

  The other men had been listening, openmouthed, to this quarrel so unexpectedly sprung up in their midst. Their faces were as familiar to Ranulf as his own-his brother Rainald; his nephew Hamelin and cousin Hugh, the young Earl of Chester; the Earls of Leicester and Arundel-but he could find in none of them echoes of his outrage. They were staring at him without comprehension, unable to understand either his rage or his sickened sense of betrayal. Pushing his chair back, Rainald said, in the soothing tones one might use to placate a drunkard or madman:

  “Ranulf, the whole point of taking hostages is that they must be sacrificed if faith is breached. Otherwise, the system makes no sense. Surely you see that? By sparing the lives of these Welsh hostages, Harry is showing considerable magnanimity and mercy, more than the Welsh deserve after such treachery-”

  “There is no mercy in gouging out a prisoner’s eyes or taking a knife to his manhood! It is barbaric,” Ranulf charged, and blood surged up into Henry’s face.

  “I have been more than patient with you, Uncle. Again and again, I have made allowances for your wavering loyalties. But no more. You have sworn an oath to the English Crown-to me, your father’s grandson and your lawful king. It is time you remember it!”

  “Owain Gwynedd is my king, too!”

  There were loud gasps at such heresy. “And a right fine king he is,” Henry said scathingly. “You think I do not know about Owain Gwynedd’s bloody vengeance against his own kin? He had his nephew blinded and gelded, by Christ! Where is the honor or mercy in that?”

  “I care naught for Owain Gwynedd’s sins. They are between him and God. I do care about your sins, Harry. For the love I bear you, do not put your soul at risk like this. Would you truly sacrifice your chance of salvation just to avenge a battlefield loss?”

  “I am not after vengeance! I am doing what must be done, and it matters little if I like it not. Not only do you know nothing about the duties of kingship, you plainly know nothing about me!”

  “Stephen would never have committed this cruelty!”

  That was the one insult Henry could not forgive. “You dare to hold Stephen up as an example-the usurper who stole my mother’s crown? Need I remind you that Stephen once hanged the entire garrison of Shrewsbury Castle, more than ninety men? Is that what you would have me do with these Welsh hostages? You tell me, Ranulf-is it to be the punishment I ordered or the gallows?”

  Ranulf looked at his nephew, saying nothing. And then he turned abruptly on his heel, strode out of the chamber.

  Henry stared at that closing door before swinging around to face the other men. “I have no choice in this. If I let their rebellion go unpunished, the Welsh would take my mercy for weakness. You do all see that?”

  They hastened to affirm their agreement, with convincing sincerity. Somehow, though, their approval did not give Henry the balm he needed. “Why,” he said, “does Ranulf not see that, too?”

  Henry slept poorly that night. His anger at what he considered an unjust accusation continued to smolder. He was not introspective by nature. Rarely did he attempt to probe beneath the surface for hidden emotions, covert motivations. But he was troubled by Ranulf ’s challenge, that he was taking out his frustration and anger upon the Welsh hostages. Lying awake during those solitary hours before dawn, he sought to convince himself that he was not lashing out in vindictive, retaliatory rage. Not to punish the Welsh hostages would be to subvert the entire process. If men could offer up hostages with impunity, sure they’d never be ha
rmed, what inducement had they to keep faith? Hostages were only demanded from untrustworthy allies or disaffected vassals, when honor alone was not enough to guarantee a man’s loyalty. The Welsh princes had failed to live up to their part of the bargain. It was up to him now to exact a penalty for that breach. In mutilating and blinding the hostages, he would be teaching the Welsh that there were always consequences in this life, even for the highborn. Such a lesson might well deter future rebellions.

  Yet his sense of disquiet lingered. As far back as he could remember, his mother’s brother had been there for him-fighting in the bloody civil war to oust Stephen, offering wry advice and affection that was more paternal than avuncular. Henry’s own father had died when he was eighteen, and although Ranulf and Geoffrey could not have been more different, his bond with Ranulf had helped to ease his feelings of loss. This sudden threatened rupture in their relationship disturbed him more than he wanted to admit.

  He’d hoped to get word that day about the projected arrival of his fleet. It did not come. Surely they must have sailed from Dublin by now? It was September already, and as much as he wanted to quell this Welsh rising here and now, he was not so sorely crazed as to attempt a winter campaign. Welsh weather was vile enough under the best of circumstances.

  After dispatching a courier with a letter to Eleanor at Angers, where she awaited the birth of another child, he found an excuse to confer with his other uncle, Rainald of Cornwall. Rainald was not usually his choice of confidants. Despite the fondness between them, Henry had never shared any secrets of his soul with Rainald, not as he had with Ranulf and Thomas Becket. Rainald was a companion for good times, a practical jokester whose bluff heartiness hid sorrows that few suspected: a mad wife, a sickly heir, and a dearly loved bastard son who would never inherit his earldom. But Rainald was the one most likely to know the state of Ranulf’s mind on this morning after their quarrel.