Swordland

by Edward Ruadh Butler

  ‘You heard what the priests said during the summer, Rhys. King Amalric needs knights to fight this Saracen General Nur ad-Din and his nephew, Salah ad-Din. They need help now! Edessa has already fallen to the Muslims. I could make a difference in Jerusalem. I could be given forgiveness by the Pope himself, damn you!’

  Rhys did not even bother turning around to answer but continued trudging up the steep stone slope towards the main gate. ‘I am sure that Jerusalem will stay Christian for a long time yet, Sir Robert. We have been there for a hundred years and my bet is that we will be there for another thousand. God has willed it, has He not?’ As he passed into the fore-building Rhys stopped and turned to point his own finger at his cousin. ‘And stay away from my serving girls. I can’t afford to have any more away from their work having your bastards.’

  FitzStephen did not smile. Rhys knew what he was doing if he was still punishing him for his past misdemeanours. His cousin could have locked him up in his oubliette two years ago and thrown away the key, allowing him to die slowly in horrid conditions. He might have executed him back in Ceredigion. But he had done neither of those things. Instead he had allowed him to exist in wretchedness. FitzStephen had been abandoned by his king and his lord, separated from the security of his brothers, betrayed by his warriors, and left as a landless failure. He was adrift and alone. He could try and dull the darker spells with drink, women, gambling, and hunting, but he knew that nothing could dispel those depressing thoughts other than keeping his mind and body active. And what whetted FitzStephen’s appetite was the business of conquest, plunder, and the command of warriors.

  ‘Satan makes use of idle hands’, that was what FitzStephen remembered his brother, David, telling him when he was just a boy, and the Bishop of St David’s was right. He automatically dropped his hand to his waist where his sword should have been hanging, but it was not there. He closed his eyes and shook his head. He needed a drink. He needed a woman. He needed something to take his mind off his depressing situation. Instead he turned to an esquire who was crossing the cobbled and muddy bailey holding a saddle.

  ‘Get me a courser saddled,’ he told the boy. ‘Tell Prince Rhys I am going hunting and he is welcome to join me.’

  The stag was the biggest that he had seen in his life. An eighteen-pointer with white muscled haunches that took him through the frosted stream like it was not even there. Up the sandy bank the hart raced, through a gorse bush and out of sight of the pursuing lymers, whose tongues were already lagging out the side of their mouths.

  ‘C’mon,’ FitzStephen breathed hard, a lungful clouded before him on the cold winter air. The cloak-swathed Norman pulled on his reins with his one free hand and brought his mare to a standstill on the snowy bank of the stream. Swinging his horse around, he searched through the snow-strewn conifers for his companions. He could not see them, but shouted back to the group of hunters hidden amongst the trees. ‘Over here, it’s a big one. And it’s white!’

  A white hart was rare, and possessed a special, almost mythical, significance to the hunter. To catch such a beast was to be considered among the greatest in a famously tough sport, and would give the successful hunter his place in the songs of poets and minstrels in every noble home in Christendom.

  The ignominy of defeat, FitzStephen thought, would not taste so foul if it were followed by the roasted flesh of the white stag. He would be lauded for his skill rather than derided for his failures. Yet the animal was proving a difficult prey. Forever moving in circles rather than taking a panicked flight away from the pursuers, he had caught only passing glimpses of the stag’s white flank as he gave chase. But he refused to give up.

  He swivelled in the saddle and spotted the coloured surcoats and billowing cloaks of Rhys’ group as they pushed through the heavy foliage across the small valley. He could hear the men encourage their horses onwards as they fought to defeat the terrain and follow their prey. FitzStephen and the hounds had stretched their lead over the pursuing group quickly, both man and beasts having become lost in the excitement of the sport. The Norman, hood blown back in the wind, had forced the jealously of Tewdwr’s departure, and his own dark mood, to the back of his mind. Instead he concentrated on the pursuit of the great stag. Below him, the dogs circled around his stationary mare. Scent hounds all, their noses were close to the hard earth as they sought sign of the stag. His mare pulled on her bit in frustration at the hold-up, but the dogs soon caught the scent and, with a happy bark, forged ahead through the icy water and up through the tangle of branches on the far side. FitzStephen tarried just a moment before he urged his mare over the brook with a double click of his tongue. The water surged up the flanks of the courser, powering against his legs in the shortened stirrups. In battle, he preferred to have the stirrups as long as possible so that he would not lose his seat when striking downwards with a sword or spear. But the pursuit of the hart needed the manoeuvrability and comfort of the shorter stirrup which allowed him to cushion the impact of heavy riding with his knees. The water was both deeper and colder than expected but within moments FitzStephen was encouraging the mare up the steep bank with his heels so that his pursuit could continue.

  ‘C’mon,’ he cheered her.

  His dogs had gone through the same gap in the gorse and brambles that the stag had used, but FitzStephen was forced to skirt the heavy undergrowth which, even still, snagged at the edge of his cloak. On the other side he jumped a small ditch and both man and horse grunted on the landing on the frozen ground. His horse began her heavy snorting again as she powered behind the lymers. FitzStephen chanced a look over his shoulder and caught another sight of Rhys and his retinue puffing up towards the stream, at least a quarter a mile behind him. Could they see him? He did not particularly care if they did catch up. Rhys was being far too jolly for FitzStephen’s mood, more interested in recanting tales from his successful campaign in the south than the business of hunting. The Cymri, while not averse to taking part, did not view the hunt as a serious piece of strategy, more a fun romp of an afternoon. Needless to say, FitzStephen, like most Normans, considered it to be much more than that, and not just because he had little else to take up his time. In its truest form the hunt had eight parts: the quest, assembly, relay, finding, chase, baying, unmaking, and curée. The quest was where the seeker and lymer stalked prey and preceded the assembly when the huntsmen listened to expert advice before deciding how to best bring their quarry down. This was normally done over food, drink, and lots of laughter but FitzStephen had been infuriatingly forced to forgo these important sections by Prince Rhys. The relay part of the hunt saw dogs positioned along the predicted course so as not to exhaust the animals that would eventually chase and take down the hart. The main aim of the hunt, no matter what the beast, was to force the prey to decide that he could not escape and thus would have to turn and fight. It made sense that when that happened the dogs had to be fresher than the hart. Again Rhys had not understood the need for relays and had forced a frustrated FitzStephen to do without the necessary planning, but he was not in the mood to quibble even over something he considered so vital. This was because the hunt proper followed the relay: the finding, when the dogs got the scent of the hart on their nostrils, and then the chase. FitzStephen considered this part of the hunt to be the best fun a man could have outside the bedroom, but it was not the last piece. The baying was when the hart could run no longer and would turn and prepare to defend itself to the death. Usually the hounds were kept away from the scared animal, and the most prominent man from amongst the hunters would creep forward like a gladiator of Rome and make the kill with spear or bow. The hunt ended with the unmaking. Lastly, the dogs were rewarded for their efforts with pieces of meat and body parts that would not be used for the feast.

  There were eight parts to the hunt and they were the one set of conventions that Sir Robert FitzStephen had always held sacred. He was a master of the strategy.

  FitzStephen and his party had made their way through the forested footh
ills to the north of Llandovery. The Norman knew the countryside as well as anyone and it was one of his favourite places for the pursuit. Initially Rhys did not allow him out into the countryside alone, lest he escape, and had supplied him with two guards whose companionship FitzStephen had quickly learned to begrudge. He had subsequently ended his rides into the hills. But during the hunt he could pretend that his guards were simply his fellows partaking in good sport. He could pretend he was free and at ease.

  Running hard now, FitzStephen could feel that his courser was as keen as he to prolong the chase and he loosened the reins slightly while keeping his leg on, maintaining the mare’s speed. Ceredigion had been awful country for hunting; its bare hills had given no natural cover for deer. It had been a good place for hawking, but not for the pursuit. FitzStephen wondered if this stag was from the royal herds originally bred by William the Conqueror in Cheshire. Perhaps it had strayed from the former Montgomery lands around Shrewsbury? He certainly had not heard of any herds west of Hereford.

  As he jinked around a small wooded hillock, he momentarily lost sight of the hounds and slowed to a trot while he searched the trees with his ears and eyes. The bow, unstrung at his shoulder, got caught in some branches above him. It gave him a painful thud in the side of the head as it came free and sent a sprinkling of snow down his back. He had become quite proficient with the weapon during his captivity, although he would never have the skill of those who grew up using the bow. He had peppered enough targets to make him comfortable with the massive effort required to draw the weapon. His spear was also proving awkward in the forest and he had to hold it underarm so that it did not snag on the branches which passed him by.

  Looking left and right he finally caught sight of the dogs, leaping over the uneven ground to the north, their pink tongues hanging out the side of their mouths. He kicked his horse into action and was after them in an instant. Somewhere ahead was his target and he focussed his mind on the task until he distantly heard a horn blaring behind him. Rhys had obviously lost his trail and was heading east, parallel to the stream which his Norman captive had crossed just a few minutes before. He should have gone back to find Rhys, but he threw caution to the wind and urged the horse over an earthen bank at full pace, squeezing the courser’s sides with his knees. FitzStephen’s blood boiled and his heart quickened as the excitement of the chase took hold. He vaulted the embankment without breaking step, thumping into the pine-needle sprinkled forest floor with a dull thud before his mare took off into the snow-filled landscape.

  ‘C’mon, girl,’ he said again to his horse. The pursuit took him further to the north and west, away from Rhys’ group but he was not gaining on the stag as he had wanted. He was escaping.

  Escape . The word rebounded around his skull as his horse cantered between the trees. Escape. Could he do it, he wondered? England was a great distance to the east but he was armed and had enough rations to last at least a day. After that he could forage for food. He had a bow on his back, for God’s sake! Melted snow would suffice for drinking water and he could make a rudimentary shelter with little effort. Immediately FitzStephen pulled the horse to a stop, all thoughts of the white hart gone. His courser snorted, shook her mane, and stamped her feet impatiently.

  FitzStephen wiped away the sweat which gathered at the edge of his gambeson cap and looked at the woods around him. Again the hunting horn sounded off to the south-east. He knew Rhys would discover his mistake sooner rather than later, cross the stream, and pick up his path. But FitzStephen could run eastwards before the prince even realised he was missing, giving him a head start which Rhys would never be able to close. He had to move now.

  Briefly FitzStephen considered his most recent illegitimate son, Maredudd, still living with his mother Merwyn back in Llandovery, but he instantly dismissed any consideration for her one-year-old bastard and clipped his heels to his mare’s flanks. Maredudd would be better off growing up as the cousin of Prince Rhys of Deheubarth than the son of a landless knight struggling to sell his sword to the highest bidder in Outremer. For FitzStephen could see no other future for himself. Still, he thought, the unknown was better than imprisonment.

  He kicked his horse into a trot. He knew he had to get some important distance between himself and the tracks left by the hounds. At every moment he feared that he would stumble across Rhys and his followers, and he prepared his excuses for his absence.

  An hour passed, and then two as he hurried through the beautiful but deadly landscape. It had started snowing again and though it was still only the afternoon, it became hard to see through the conifers. He rode on, ever eastwards, away from the cloud-blanketed sun.

  It was tough on both man and horse, but they forced their way on at a steady trot through the slippery terrain, hour after freezing hour. To his left FitzStephen saw that he was almost past the shadow of Mynydd Mallaen, a mountain which stood alone far to the north. He knew that up ahead was the River Tywi, a tumbling and treacherous torrent through the hills which he still had to cross. But he didn’t worry, remembering a score of places to ford the river. However, his rather vague knowledge of the mountainous land beyond the river did worry him somewhat, as did the possibility of finding protection from the weather in the night ahead. He was so involved in this thinking that he was completely unaware that he was no longer alone.

  ‘Sir Robert!’ a voice called cheerfully from about twenty paces to the Norman’s right.

  ‘Holy Jesu,’ Robert dropped a piece of bread upon which he had been chewing. Both man and horse skittered sideways as he tried to ready his spear to fight. But it was just Ieuan ap Hywel, a young warrior whose father owned land south of Carmarthen, estates formerly held by Robert’s half-brother, Maurice FitzGerald, at Llansteffan. Ieuan walked out from between the trees leading his horse, a grin plastered across his face. At his hip hung a hunting horn and at his waist, a sword.

  ‘I thought I was going to have to walk home alone,’ the youngster with the wispy beard told him. ‘I’m glad I ran into you. It’s bloody cold, isn’t it?’

  FitzStephen nodded his head and smiled, ‘Truly. Are you by yourself?’ He tried to make the question seem as flippant as possible.

  ‘Yes, all by myself,’ Ieuan said as he walked over to the Norman. ‘Prince Rhys and the rest went over the river to find you but Daff,’ he indicated towards his mount, ‘stood in an old rabbit warren and hurt his shoulder.’ FitzStephen saw that Ieuan’s horse did indeed have his front leg rested on the edge of the hoof, keeping his whole weight off the limb.

  ‘Should we wait here for Rhys or make our way back to the castle?’ Ieuan asked.

  FitzStephen padded over to Ieuan slowly without answering. A year before Rhys had asked him to teach some of his battle skills to his young noblemen, and Ieuan had been one of those men. The knight had been happy to do it, simply to break the tedium of life as a prisoner, and had got the warriors to fight each other using wooden replicas of swords. This, amongst others, was a skill which a Norman esquire would learn during his apprenticeship. FitzStephen remembered a diminutive Ieuan being particularly popular with the other boys, a joker who had made them all laugh heartily when he put an overweight boy on his back to take on Tewdwr and his partner in some piggy-back horseplay. Needless to say all involved had ended up in a pile on the ground in fits of laughter.

  ‘How long since you left Rhys?’ Again FitzStephen tried to be as glib as possible.

  ‘About two hours ago,’ Ieuan replied, throwing back his hood to reveal his long dark hair. ‘They told me to make my own way home.’ His eyebrows crinkled as he looked around the Norman. ‘Where are the prince’s hounds?’ Proper hunting dogs took time to train, and were expensive and prized possessions. As if sensing that something was not right, Ieuan’s hand dropped to his sword pommel which protruded above the edge of his cloak.

  ‘No,’ FitzStephen said as he rolled his spear into the couched position under his armpit. Instantaneously he kicked his horse forward at Ieuan. The Welshm
an stood no chance to defend himself without a shield and FitzStephen savaged the younger man’s stomach with an underarm spear thrust. He had been aiming for Ieuan’s throat and a quick death but the uneven roots of the forest made his horse stumble and FitzStephen had missed his target. Momentum took him past Ieuan to the edge of the trees and he abandoned his weapon as he clung to his saddle for balance. Behind him, Ieuan screamed. FitzStephen tried to turn his courser around to finish the murder and silence his victim, but Ieuan’s unrestrained horse was in his way and he could not get past. He shouted at the terrified beast but he still would not move so he jumped off his mount and pushed through some trees to get at Ieuan. As he came out through the undergrowth he saw the Welshman on his knees in the snow, blood pouring from the wound. Before FitzStephen could stop him, Ieuan lifted his head and placed his horn to his lips. He prayed that the youngster would be unable to blow the instrument because of his injury, but the note sounded clear and strong, ringing in FitzStephen’s ears and causing a dusting of snow to fall to the ground from above. Ieuan dropped the horn to his lap where blood already puddled. The young warrior looked pale and tired but he smiled widely as FitzStephen finally approached with an angry look across his face. ‘Pardon me. Must have been something I ate,’ Ieuan joked as if he had broken wind. His smile quickly distorted into a grimace as the pain struck him.

  FitzStephen did not return the smile, cursing instead. He fancied that he could already hear horns replying across the hills to the west and heralding the resumption of their hunt. He turned back to Ieuan whose eyelids drooped as if in exhaustion.

  ‘I am sorry,’ was all FitzStephen could manage as he stole Ieuan’s sword and food from his saddle. He could not hold the Welshman’s gaze.