Rhiannon

by Roberta Gellis

  “I do not understand how you came to be so conveniently lost right here,” de Guisnes said. “It is not common for a woman to act the spy—but it is not impossible. You had better explain yourself more clearly.”

  “There is nothing to explain,” Rhiannon insisted, but she entered the tent without protest when he gestured her inside.

  He dropped the tent flap, but there was no reason to tie it. His eyes were on Rhiannon, whose beauty, although a little marred by dust and fatigue, was quite striking in the better light provided by candles. Thus, he did not notice the gray shadow that slipped under the flap and then melted away under his bed. Rhiannon’s eyes flicked to it and away. The sidelong glance was unintentionally provocative, for she had just been replying to the question of why her men had laughed.

  De Guisnes seized on that, called it a lie, and insisted on an answer. But he neither wanted nor expected one, he simply needed an excuse to punish Rhiannon. The questioning continued for almost half an hour, with Rhiannon pretending to weep but refusing to answer “for shame”. Then, feeling he had justification in case the Pwyll she had mentioned was more important than he thought, he began to threaten her. Rhiannon realized she would have to offer something new, and admitted with more false tears that her husband had put her away for being barren. The men he had sent to escort her back to her father’s house had laughed at her in mockery.

  This was better than de Guisnes had expected. The name Pwyll of Dyfedd had seemed familiar to him—which was not surprising since the story of Pwyll was one of the commonest legends in Wales—and de Guisnes had felt a touch of uneasiness about raping the wife of a man who might be important. But if he had rejected the woman already, there could be no harm in it. De Guisnes cocked his head as some faint sounds in the distance caught his ear. Then, someone closer cried a challenge. An authoritative voice answered in cultured French. De Guisnes dismissed the matter from his mind, grasped Rhiannon’s wrist, and drew her toward him.

  “I think your husband was a great fool,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The commanders at Grosmount were no more intelligent about patrols after they camped than on the march. Some men did ride around, but they went no farther than the banks of the Dore two miles away. Not a quarter of a mile west of the bank, most of Prince Llewelyn’s army had slept away the hours between dinnertime and dusk. By then sufficient places had been found in the river that could be used as fords with a line slung from bank to bank to prevent men from being swept away and drowned.

  A few advance posts had also been set up by the mercenary captains, but these were on the road. It was quite fixed in the minds of continental mercenaries that armies carried huge siege trains and supply wagons and, therefore, traveled on roads. By dusk the advance posts were gone and the strangled bodies quietly removed. Before it was completely dark, Prince Llewelyn’s army was across both road and river and advancing quietly on the main camp behind a fan of scouts who cleaned up the few men wandering out of the camp for one reason or another.

  Just beyond the perimeter of the fields several hundred chosen men waited, watching the activity die down and the fires burn low. There were guards, but not very many. Soon shadows began to flit across the fields and there were fewer guards, then fewer still. Then the whole open area seemed to darken and crawl and heave. Prince Llewelyn’s army was on the move. They were not aimed toward the rows of tents where the men-at-arms slept, but toward the area closest to the keep, where the draught animals were tethered and the baggage wains lay. It was not completely silent, it was impossible that so many men should not make some noise, but the camp was not completely silent either, and the invaders did not raise any alarms.

  Simon and his troop were in the second wave, although the best of his men had worked with the scouts. When it came to actual battle, Simon preferred to be in mail and on horseback. There were already a few cries in the distance as Simon rode across the fields toward the camp. Here and there a groom or a guard of the supply train could not be silenced quickly enough. It would not be long before the whole camp was stirring.

  Even as he thought it, a voice cried a sleepy challenge. Simon could see well enough to make out a face peering from a tent. He answered with an autocratic snap. The mail-clad form, shield on shoulder and sword sheathed, together with the tone and the cultured voice and accent, were enough. The sentries had not called any alarm, it was not the business of a common man to question a knight riding through the camp with a few men on his tail. No one would bother to inform a common soldier about any duty but his own.

  Simon went on, laughing silently. He was nearly to the center of the camp. Pembroke’s forces must by now be poised at the edge of the woods to come down the moment action started. His business, and that of others like him, was to cause enough disturbance to prevent the men-at-arms from going to the assistance of those guarding the baggage when the inevitable alarm came. Then Pembroke’s men could come in and sweep up the remains. Simon was beginning to wonder whether he would have to begin the disturbance himself, when a violent outcry broke out almost simultaneously in the supply area and at the southern end of the camp.

  He had just time to notice that he was close to the largest and most luxurious tent he had yet seen when there were shouts of alarm right behind him. He swung his shield onto his arm, drew his sword—and almost dropped it in shock. The most appalling squall he had ever heard burst from the tent just ahead of him, followed by a man’s hoarse scream of pain, and then the single word, “Math!” coming from the last voice Simon expected to hear. All around him now men began to cry out warnings and alarms. His troop spread out, shouting at the top of their lungs, cutting tent cords, knocking down lean-to supports, striking men with the flats of their swords, and in general creating the maximum amount of terror and confusion.

  A male shout of rage had followed the scream of pain and the woman’s cry of protest just before the chaos began, but the man’s third yell, of surprise as much as pain, was almost drowned by the rising noise. Then the tent flap billowed, emitting first a squalling fury of a cat and then—Rhiannon. The whole thing took only five seconds, but Simon felt as if he had been sitting mute and paralyzed for an hour. When the man burst from the tent behind Rhiannon, Simon was at last galvanized into action and urged Ymlladd forward, shouting a challenge.

  He hoped for one moment in which to come close enough to strike Rhiannon’s pursuer down. If the man rushed back into his tent, it would be more difficult to deal with him. Either Simon’s shout or the sights and sounds that met his eyes when he came out had just that effect. De Guisnes stopped, his mouth and eyes distended. The flat of Simon’s sword caught him on the side of the head hard enough to knock him two feet to the left.

  As the blow fell, Simon could not help but feel sorry for the man. He had had enough to stun him, apparently, before he came out of his tent. His face and neck were covered with blood, as was the sleeve of his left arm. Simon knew what had happened, and he did not have time to wonder why it had happened. That would come later.

  “Rhiannon!” he bellowed.

  It never occurred to him that she might have run away in terror, and indeed she had not. She slipped back around the side of the tent instantly, crying out happily, “Oh, Simon, how fortunate! I came to find you.”

  This statement, not unnaturally, had almost the effect on Simon that his sword had had on de Guisnes, His stunned speechlessness gave Rhiannon time to add, “My men are prisoners somewhere here—Twm and Sion. Will you pass the word to look for them? And I must get Math’s basket.”

  On the words she nipped back into the tent. Simon let out another bellow, this time of rage. At once Siorl was at his elbow. “Get—” Simon began, just as Rhiannon stepped out of the tent, calling for Math. Siorl’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. He had heard Simon shout Rhiannon’s name just after he struck down the owner of the tent, but he had been busy at the moment and had assumed it was a war cry. It might be an odd one, but it would identif
y Simon as attached to the Welsh party, and it was not unreasonable in Siorl’s mind that his master would call his witch-woman’s name as a talisman. However, Siorl had hardly expected the appearance of the witch herself in answer.

  “Get her a horse, and get her out of here!” Simon roared.

  “What about my men?” Rhiannon cried.

  “Any Welsh prisoner will be freed,” Simon replied, then turned to order Echtor to strip de Guisnes’ tent and found Rhiannon was gone. “Rhiannon!” he bellowed.

  “I am getting Math,” she shouted back.

  She was not far, but he could hardly hear her. The whole camp was a bedlam as Bassett with Pembroke’s troops poured into it. The confusion was indescribable, for Henry’s whole army had been caught sleeping, unarmed and unprepared, and was now in a state of total panic. Here and there a captain would try to organize his men to resist, but by specific instructions he would be struck down as the first target. The few knights and barons were being immobilized by the simple expedient of cutting their tents down around them, extracting them half-smothered, and rendering them unconscious.

  The common men-at-arms were being rounded up and put to work at loading everything movable on carts and pack animals and driving them out. Welsh guards with arrows nocked to their bows patrolled up and down the line of carts. The pack animals were fastened together in long trains, each led by a single trustworthy man.

  As Rhiannon came back around the side of the tent, Ewyn came up with a cart, and Echtor drove forward some dazed, bloodied, and half-naked Flemish mercenaries, who promptly fell on their knees, thinking they had been brought before Simon for judging. They could not, of course, understand a word Echtor said to them.

  “Get up,” Simon said in French, “and load the goods into the cart. No more harm will befall you than already has.”

  Their relief was so great that they worked with more enthusiasm than could have been expected. The tent was down and rolled, its contents stowed away by the time Siorl returned with a great black brute of a stallion that was kicking and plunging. Simon called his captain several improbable things, but Siorl shouted back that the stallion was the only horse he could find. Nothing but oxen were left. The stallion remained because he was too wild to handle.

  “Not in this noise,” Rhiannon cried. “I cannot quiet him in the middle of this chaos.”

  “Take Ymlladd,” Simon yelled.

  Rhiannon ran to the horse’s head and stroked him. He, too, was nervous and snorting, eager to rear and fight as the smell of blood excited him more and more. Still, he did not attempt to savage Rhiannon, and she went to the side and up into the saddle before Simon came down. It would not do in the midst of such turmoil to leave the stallion with an empty saddle.

  As it was, when Simon came down, Ymlladd plunged and reared, fighting the lessening of the weight he was accustomed to bearing until he realized there were still firm hands on the reins and a voice he knew well in his ears. It took time to strap Math’s carrying basket on behind the saddle, as even Simon was cautious about approaching the horse where he could not see and Math was yowling like a banshee.

  Then came the question of mounting the black destrier. Shouts brought men to hang on the bridle so he could not rear, and at least he was not as bad as Ymlladd and did not try to bite. Simon sprang into the saddle, tore the reins from Siorl’s hands, and checked the horse as hard as he could. The black rose, pawing the air; Simon roweled him hard.

  “Go,” he bellowed. “Siorl, take her to Llewelyn before Ymlladd starts to fight.”

  The noise, which had lessened around them, began to swell again. Groups of men who had run out of the camp in panic had been gathered by some of the captains who had escaped. Once their shock diminished, so did their terror. They began to realize that the army attacking them was far inferior in numbers to their own. They had found weapons and scraps of armor and began to return to try to drive the invaders away. Partly it was a matter of pride, but an even stronger inducement was their own need for the supplies that were being stolen. If they did not fight back, there would be no food for them, no money, no tents, no shoes, no blankets—nothing. Some had gathered loot in past battles. That was being taken, too, and they did not want to lose it.

  Where these groups were fighting their way back into the camp, the sounds were different—curses and cries of pain but no screams of unreasoning terror. Rhiannon turned her head to listen and knew she must go. Her eyes were blazing like emeralds even in the dim light.

  “Give me a bow, and I will guard the wagon,” she cried.

  Simon was battling with his new stallion and had no attention to give to anything else. Siorl, who had listened to Rhiannon sing to the voices in the wind around Dinas Emrys, would never question the orders of the witch. He set up a cry for a light bow, and a man came running up with a boy’s weapon as the wagon was started forward. Rhiannon swung the quiver over her shoulder and then grasped the bow.

  “Have a care, Simon,” she shouted back as she kicked Ymlladd into forward motion, which finally stopped his dancing and plunging. “I will marry you where and when you will, so have a care to yourself.”

  Simon heard and for a moment his control of the black destrier faltered. He started to rise and tip in the saddle, but his knees gripped hard and he pulled back the rein until the animal’s mouth was forced open. Then, as the wagon and its escort disappeared into the dark, he wrenched his mount around to the direction from which the sounds of battle rather than rout were coming, relaxed the rein and roweled the beast hard again. The horse sprang forward. In moments they were among the fighters. Simon called warnings in Welsh and then let his half-crazed mount attack.

  That group broke soon, but there was more legitimate prey on the way. Once the noise of the initial rout began, it was inevitable that the keep should be warned. It had taken a little time for those within to understand what was happening. Now the few nobles and the mercenary captains who had been with the king inside Grosmount were leading out the garrison of the keep in an attempt to drive away the attackers.

  Before the defenders from the keep could reach the camp and interfere with the systematic looting that was going on, they were met by both Bassetts, Siward, Simon, and half a dozen others plus their mounted men-at-arms. The black destrier now had his fill of work, and the strange, cruel hands became kind and steadying. Spurs no longer raked his sides but touched him gently, directing him here and there. The unfamiliar scent began to mingle with the familiar and grow acceptable. His energy and fury could be directed at opposing horses and men.

  The clash was sharp, and half an hour of hard fighting ensued, but those who had come out of Grosmount were driven back in. Several were unhorsed and their animals caught and led away, but no attempt was made to capture anyone, even after he became easy prey on foot. They were simply prevented from coming anywhere near the camp where they might rally the men and prevent the removal of every stick, shred, and crumb that might be useful for any purpose at all.

  Another sally from the keep was met and thrust back, and now the sounds of battle within the camp were dying down as well. The defeated were thoroughly cowed, and there was very little left to fight over. As the last of the wagons and packtrains rolled out of the camp, Gilbert Bassett rode back and ordered his men to begin an ordered retreat that would prevent any attack to recover the loot. The Welsh were already gone. Organization was not a strong point of their fighting style.

  For half an hour more, Simon, Philip Bassett, and their men held the land between the keep and the camp. A final blast of horns told them that all the allied forces were out. Then they turned and galloped away. They assumed that as soon as they were gone, those in the keep would rush down and try to organize a counterattack, but no one was worried. The men were so demoralized that they would not respond well to orders, and there was hardly a weapon or a piece of armor left in the camp. The garrison of the keep had been somewhat mauled already, and they were far inferior in numbers to the rearguard Gilber
t Bassett had set up.

  The rearguard action was maintained all the way to Abergavenny, but no one expected it to be necessary, and it was not. Having fought hard twice and having had an energetic gallop with a proper load on him, the black stallion had settled into a model of obedience. Naturally, the moment Simon’s mind was free of the need to concentrate on keeping alive, it turned to Rhiannon. First, equally naturally, he was so consumed by outrage that he gasped for breath and felt as if he would burst.

  What the devil had she meant when she said she had come to find him in the tent of an officer of an enemy camp? Idiot woman, imagine wandering around in the middle of a battle looking for a cat! And how dare she scream aloud that she would marry him where and when he desired and make that an afterthought to demanding a bow?

  At this point, Simon began to laugh. No one would believe this, no one! He was not sure he would have believed it himself if he were not riding a strange, black horse instead of Ymlladd. Then, as soon as he thought of his destrier, he began to worry about whether the wagon had been attacked by one of the organized bands and, if so, whether Rhiannon had been able to manage the stallion. Fear for her woke anger again, and he fretted and fumed until the ridiculous aspects of the situation struck him anew.

  Between this seesaw of emotion, he wondered how the devil he was going to find Rhiannon in the madhouse that Abergavenny keep must be, with loads of loot of all kinds coming in and ten times the number of men the keep was designed to hold accompanying it. Actually, Simon should have known better than to worry about such matters when both the Earl of Pembroke and Prince Llewelyn had remained at Abergavenny. By the time the rearguard reached the keep, everything was completely organized. As each man entered, he was asked his name and the name of his leader and directed to where his group was resting and reorganizing. Simon’s name made the guard look up.