Rhuddlan (95 page)

For a moment he could do nothing but lie
curled on the ground, barely able to breathe because of the white
hot pain radiating through his arm, up into his shoulder and into
his chest. His head felt as if it were full of pressure and his
stomach heaved. If he’d had sufficient breath, he probably would
have vomited. Then a detached part of his mind warned him that
whatever had happened was still happening and he was in danger.

The blindfold over his eyes had been tied
securely but the strip of cloth hadn’t been pulled tight. Despite
the additional pain it caused, he scraped his head against the
ground until the cloth shifted enough to permit him to see with one
eye.

His horse and Delamere’s stood nearby,
stepping with a little agitation, their ears back and the whites of
their eyes showing, but well-trained enough not to bolt. He tried
to speak a few reassuring words but could do no more than gasp at
them, which seemed to agitate them further so he stopped. He
rotated his eye in as much of an arc as he could manage without
moving his head. Dylan had abandoned him; he was nowhere to be
seen. But Longsword certainly recognized the rider hurtling towards
him at full speed, leaning over in the saddle and holding his long,
straight sword low: Roger of Haworth. He knew his chances of
evading that sword were better if he was underneath his horse than
out in the open field. The pain in his arm momentarily forgotten,
he summoned up all his remaining strength, got awkwardly to his
knees and scrambled towards the animal just as Haworth reached
him.

The speed of Haworth’s ride sent him past
Longsword and his sword met air where Longsword’s body had just
lain. Longsword watched as he pulled back hard on the reins and
wheeled his mount around in preparation for another assault.

Longsword wasn’t wearing a helmet and there
was danger in his horse’s increasing nervousness and strong,
stepping legs. The animal sensed the threat from Haworth and wanted
to turn around to face it. Longsword rolled out from under his
dubious shelter before a hoof knocked into his head and just as
Haworth began a new attack. He was lucky again. Haworth couldn’t
immediately locate him and then Longsword’s horse reared up on its
hind legs and gave a long, high-pitched shriek. Its forelegs came
crashing down with a menacing thud in the direction of Haworth’s
own horse, which backed nervously away before its master could
assert his control.

The air was suddenly filled with noise. Men
were shouting from every direction and Longsword could hear the
clash of weapons. He felt incredibly naked, kneeling in the middle
of a field with no weapon, his arms tied behind him and with only
one eye to see. And there was Haworth, breathing heavily but
looking at him with a steady, hate-filled glare. For a moment he
was still; Longsword knew he was thinking his quarry was trapped
and he could take his time—and of course he was right. Longsword’s
own breath came in harsh, ragged bursts; the pain had returned with
cruel intensity and he thought he wouldn’t even be able to kneel
much longer. The half vision was hurting his head and making him
dizzy. He watched with unmoving fascination as Haworth touched his
spurs to his horse and headed towards him one last time.

When he’d seen the way Haworth had arranged
his men, Warin fitz Maurice had hardly believed his luck. Just the
dozen or so within immediate range. Until then, he hadn’t known
exactly what he would do; Haworth was, by reputation and in fact,
intimidating and his army outnumbered his own by half again, so
fitz Maurice had simply agreed to all the other man’s proposals
while warning his men to be prepared for anything.

Haworth’s deployment of his soldiers,
however, had shifted the odds in fitz Maurice’s favor. And if
Haworth were killed, would those odds overwhelm Hawarden? Fitz
Maurice was counting on it. He had one man, an archer with
exceptional skill, at the ready.

But typical of many schemes, there was an
unforeseen element in this plan and that, fitz Maurice discovered
an instant too late, was the big Welshman who was leading the bound
and blindfolded Longsword to Haworth. The Welshman suddenly moved
sideways with such force that Longsword’s horse was pushed off
balance and Longsword himself was thrown to the ground. The men
from Rhuddlan watched in horror as a javelin shot towards the space
where their master had just stood; a missile that now narrowly
missed the Welshman, who was nearer to that spot. At the same time,
there was a loud roar from the direction of the fortress, which
startled fitz Maurice’s archer, who released his bow string. But
Haworth had seen Longsword fall and had started forward almost
immediately with his sword drawn. The arrow meant for him struck
the translator who’d been standing next to him instead, and the man
fell out of the saddle, dead, the arrow jutting out of his
neck.

Fitz Maurice knew there wasn’t much time. The
men on the upper field were mounting up and pulling out their
swords. Haworth’s first run at Longsword had failed but he had
reined in and turned around and was preparing to attack again. Fitz
Maurice shouted to the bowman to take another shot; the arrow flew
straight and fast but even before they could tell whether or not it
had hit home, the Rhuddlanmen were hurtling forward on horse and
foot to save Longsword.

The longbow was a more cumbersome weapon than
its shorter counterpart, requiring greater strength and a practiced
coordination but its advantages were similarly weighty: its
missiles travelled further and could pierce mail from a longer
distance. Haworth had just urged his mount into a final run at
Longsword when he was struck on his right side, underneath his
arm.

Through the narrow slit in his helmet, fitz
Maurice saw Haworth’s body jerk abruptly to the left. The horse,
trying to respond to this new command, faltered and then also
turned left, but the hand on the reins slackened its grip and the
pressure of Haworth’s knees suddenly ceased; the animal was further
confused, slowed to a walk and finally halted. Haworth slumped in
the saddle and then slipped out and crashed heavily to the ground.
Fitz Maurice glanced to where he’d last seen Longsword; his master
lay unmoving.

Now it was a race to reach the two fallen
leaders. Fitz Maurice and his men had had a head start but
Haworth’s little band near the hostages was closer and his men on
the upper field were already riding down. Presumably, the remainder
of Hawarden’s force had been alerted and would soon be on the scene
as well. Fitz Maurice knew there wasn’t any time to spare. The
forty-odd foot soldiers lumbering after him through the rough,
grassy ground could not hope to arrive before Haworth’s knights,
who far outnumbered fitz Maurice’s fifteen mounted companions, nor
could they stand for long against men on horseback. But it was too
late to turn back. He urged his horse to greater speed and put all
thought of the approaching enemy out of his mind.

He reached Longsword before anyone. The
fallen man’s face was grey but his eyes flicked open and seemed to
recognize fitz Maurice. The knight looked back at the men reining
in. “Praise God, he’s alive!” he said to them. “Now get to Sir
Roger and surround him before his men come! You two!” he gestured
to a pair at the rear. “See to Lord William. Unbind him and get him
on a horse. Ride back to the camp. Quickly!”

Haworth’s soldiers came up as the Rhuddlanmen
formed a line between them and their captain. They halted and one
of them heaved a javelin which bounced off a hastily thrown up
shield.

“Enough!” fitz Maurice shouted, trotting
over. “One more act of aggression and Sir Roger will die!” He
tilted his sword toward the man on the ground.

“Give him to us, Sir Warin!” one of Haworth’s
men demanded. “You’ve got Lord William back. Sir Roger’s of no use
to you now.”

“He’s a guarantee of our safe passage to
Rhuddlan,” fitz Maurice answered. “And of your immediate departure
from this place back to Hawarden.”

The other man glanced between the tangle of
horse legs obscuring Haworth’s body. “How do we know you haven’t
killed him, Sir Warin?”

“He breathes. See for yourself.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the knight from
Hawarden dismounted, pushed his way between the line of horses and
fell to his knees at Haworth’s side. He tugged off his helmet and
tossed it carelessly away, then pressed his ear to Haworth’s mouth.
He gingerly examined the arrow shaft protruding from under his arm.
Finally, he straightened up.

“He breathes, but not for long, Sir Warin. He
must have a physician!”

“Call off your men and send them home
immediately,” fitz Maurice ordered. “When we’re satisfied you’re no
longer a threat, we’ll give you Sir Roger.”

“He’ll die long before we leave the
field!”

Fitz Maurice shrugged.

The other man glared at him. “You’ll regret
this!”

Fitz Maurice’s eyes were cold and he was very
still. He said: “Take care, sir! We know about the earl’s plot to
lay waste to Rhuddlan and Llanlleyn. We’ve just seen Sir Roger
attempt to murder Lord William. And now you’re making threats for
the future? Remember who you’re talking to! I am a representative
of the king’s son! Already the earl has much to answer for—don’t
compound his crime! The last thing you want is King Henry coming to
Gwynedd; he might take away Hawarden and banish the earl and all of
you who serve him someplace further away than Wales this time.” He
gave the man a humorless smile. “Unless, of course, you like the
idea of living among the Irish…”

Chapter 57

June, 1178

Llanlleyn, Gwynedd

Longsword refused to ride in the litter which
had been made for him. The jostling gait of his horse, even at the
slowest walk, caused his broken arm to throb mercilessly but he
suffered the pain and resulting nausea as a self-bestowed penance.
He spoke little but his men didn’t mind; they were happy he was
back in Gwynedd and happy that he’d been recovered from the Welsh
and the near-fatal clutches of Roger of Haworth. He wished he could
have been as happy. Returning to Wales had so far brought him
nothing but misery.

Their pace was tedious. Fitz Maurice sent a
messenger ahead to notify the castle about their impending return
but the rest of the army stayed together and travelled at
Longsword’s speed. Longsword thought this unnecessary but fitz
Maurice had insisted and everyone had agreed with him. They
couldn’t be certain Hawarden wouldn’t attempt an ambush. Fitz
Maurice had made a good argument, but most men believed revenge was
both honorable and obligatory, and worth the risk of
banishment.

Longsword had lost consciousness when the two
men designated by fitz Maurice to bring him back to their camp had
cut the bonds around his wrists. They had seen the blood but hadn’t
realized the right arm was broken and he had been so weak from pain
that he’d been unable to tell them. They were working quickly on
fitz Maurice’s instructions and had tried to lift him as soon as
the cut had been made. Pain overcame him and he passed out, which
was just as well because it spared him the rather frightening
debate back at the camp over how best to treat the break, and he
felt nothing when someone ultimately took his wrist and pulled hard
and steady on it in an effort to line up the broken pieces of his
upper arm while someone else held his torso. The bleeding was
stanched and the entire arm wrapped tightly to keep down the
swelling.

He’d regained consciousness as dusk began to
fall and the army stopped to rest and have a meal. Fitz Maurice had
decided to continue on through the night but it was necessary to
wait for the moon to rise. Longsword awoke, groggy and sick to his
stomach, and found himself lying on a litter constructed from
cloaks suspended between two stout poles, which was presumably
carried by a pair of foot soldiers. His head throbbed, his neck and
shoulder throbbed and his arm was on fire. Through hazy eyes he saw
men nearby but found he had no voice to call to them. He was
desperately thirsty. He summoned all that remained of his strength
and kicked a foot against one of the poles in an effort to attract
attention. The ploy succeeded too well; he soon had a packed circle
of concerned faces staring down at him.

“Water…” he managed to croak and for some
reason, everyone started grinning and cheering.

Fitz Maurice sat with him until the moonlight
was bright enough to show the road and told him what had happened
to Roger of Haworth. “Who knows what will come of it,” he added
with a shrug of indifference. He raised a skin of wine to his mouth
and drank. “Will you take some, my lord?” he asked, holding the
skin out to Longsword. “It will dull your pain.”

But Longsword’s stomach revolted at the idea
of drinking wine and he was already dizzy enough. “Haworth finally
met his match,” he said hoarsely.

“Thank God everything turned out well for
us—except for your arm, of course, my lord—but I must admit, it was
probably a boon that Sir Roger and his men showed up, even if they
were planning treachery.”

Longsword was indignant but couldn’t properly
show it in his present condition. The best he could manage was a
weak hiss. “How so?”

Fitz Maurice took another swallow of wine.
“My lord, I will tell you that when we saw you taken into
Llanlleyn, we had no idea what to do. The hostages, the
exchange—that was all Sir Roger’s plan.”

“But you had been warned about him,”
Longsword said, a little breathlessly.

“Yes, but of course I never believed that
story!” Fitz Maurice laughed at the memory. “That poor fellow…he
couldn’t believe that I—that none of us—believed him! We thought
Lady Teleri had gone out of her mind!” He sobered abruptly. “But
then Sir Roger appeared the very next morning and proved the story
true. How could he have travelled to Llanlleyn so quickly if he
hadn’t come from Rhuddlan? And he never mentioned that Earl Hugh
was prisoner, just that the earl had sent him to help us. Someone
was lying to me, my lord, and I didn’t think it was our own
messenger.”