Roselynde (31 page)

Leaving their pots and sacks behind, half the archers ran forward
again, pulling war arrows from their quivers, seizing wound bows from their
seconds. The range, even from the forward position, was long but some shots
went true. There were occasional shrieks of pain added to the cries and calls
of the firefighters. To the east, the sky grew lighter. Simon's men-at-arms
shifted uneasily in their saddles and he issued a sharp order for them to hold
their positions. Their time was not yet.

The archers grew bolder, since no one had yet returned their fire.
Simon watched keenly, but he did not order them back. Their aim improved. The
shrieks of pain became more frequent, and cries of anger began to mingle with
them. In some places the wood itself was afire rather than the pitch from the
arrows and the bark on the logs. Suddenly a cry of pain rang out near at hand.
The Welsh archers were climbing up behind the palisade wherever the flames were
not too close and one of them had hit his mark.

"Shield wall," Simon ordered.

For every two archers and two seconds in the forward line, one
man-at-arms dismounted and unhooked from his horse a wide tight-woven wicker
shield. Bearing this, he ran forward to where the archers crouched, more
visible now as dawn advanced. They formed around him, sheltering until they saw
a suitable target. The wicker could not stop an arrow, but by the time the
shaft passed through, much of its force would be spent. Moreover, the Welsh
archers could aim only at the shield itself, and the only one close enough to
the wicker to be touched by a piercing arrow was the heavy-armed man-at-arms
whose mail would easily be proof against a nearly spent missile.

The Welsh archers cursed; Simon laughed. Many of the archers with
fire arrows crept closer also, crouching behind the shielded groups, running
out to fire, and darting back. New fires appeared among the shelters inside the
palisade. The noise in the encampment was growing more intense. With his eyes
on the gate in the wall of rough logs, Simon loosened his sword and checked
that morningstar and battle-ax could be slipped from saddle bow to wrist
without fumbling. His eyes then slid reluctantly to the pitch-arrow sacks. They
were dangerously flat. If the Welsh had discipline enough to remain behind
their palisade, it would be necessary to assault the encampment, and that was
sure death for many.

Gold blazed suddenly from the dewdrops that clung to the grass
tips. The warm orange of the fires turned a sickly yellow. The sun had lifted
over the treetops of the lower eastern slope. Simon bit his lip. All at once, a
mass sigh almost as loud as the morning breeze swept along the line of men. The
gate was opening.

"Hold," Simon ordered.

It was the men's instinct to ride forward at once to catch the
emerging fighters at a disadvantage. For a counterassault on a besieged keep,
the move was right. The Norman-trained knights and fighting men determined upon
a sortie would come out with cold determination to engage because they had a
good reason to come out. Here reason was all against a sortie. Safety and good
military tactics dictated sitting still when the opposing force was neither
strong enough for assault nor well-provisioned enough for siege. What drove the
Welsh was irrational rage. Simon knew the few fires that had been started would
do no real harm nor would the green logs of the palisade burn long. Every move
had been calculated to enrage and insult, particularly the exposure of his
men-at-arms, so few of them, drawn up in battle formation. If his men attacked,
thus displaying their anxiety, the Welsh might come to their senses and
retreat. To sit still and wait would seem contemptuous and enrage them further.

Suddenly, as if they had been waiting to see whether Simon's group
would charge, the gate swung fully open and a band of horsemen burst forth with
couched lances. Simon uttered a stifled oath. His men were not knights, not
trained for charging with a lance; in any case, they had none. He grasped his
battle-ax and flicked a glance down the lines of men; most of them were doing
the same. If they had not charged with lances, most of them knew how best to
withstand such a charge.

"Now!
Pour le roi
Richard!" Simon bellowed.

The horse had been ready even before Simon clapped spurs to him.
He leapt forward. As they thundered between two groups of shield bearers and
archers, Simon saw the wickerwork objects cast aside, saw the archers scatter,
running back to where their horses were being held. He crouched forward under
his shield, holding his ax close to his horse's body. A forest of lances tipped
forward, the sun turning the burnished steel tips to gold. How many? Too many.

To Simon, who had fought his way up from nothing in tourneys
little less brutal than actual war, the blow on his shield was nothing. A
practiced twist threw the lance harmlessly aside. The danger came from his
other side where a lance leaned in on his unshielded right. The ax, turned in
his hand, struck outward. The splintering of wood was a harsh promise of
momentary safety. Only momentary. Simon leaned out to the right and struck
again.

Beyond the horsemen he was aware of a yelling crowd of footmen.
Then he was through the line of riders. Not so many as he had thought when he
faced the lances. He hooked the ax back to his saddlebow and drew his sword
while he wheeled his horse, spat an oath when he saw loose horses running free.
He had no time to look at the accoutrements and see whether his men or the
Welsh had fallen. Behind him he heard Beorn's voice. The man was singing! Just
as he struck out against a sword blow launched at him, Simon laughed aloud. He
had caught one of the words of the song; it was a bloodcurdling obscenity.

The sword he had struck aside glittered as it came in against his
shield. Simon leaned forward, using his longer reach. His opponent howled; red
fountained from a severed arm. A blow on the left thrust Simon sideways and
without even looking he tilted his sword up over his stallion's neck and swung
in that direction. Although he made no contact, someone screamed. Either Beorn
had struck his man or he himself was down. Simon swung right, thrusting at one
of a pair who were attacking a single man. He caught a shoulder, opened a gash,
but the man turned and slashed at him. Simon cursed as he felt the point catch
in his mail just above the newly healed wound that Alinor had treated. The skin
was thin and tender. He could feel it open, but his opponent's sword was caught
momentarily, and that moment was his death. Simon's blade went in through the
mouth. Below the eyes, it was not a man anymore.

Right again, parry, thrust, gasp as ice-fire ran down his right
calf, parry, thrust. A sword glittered red and gold, dangerously fast and
close. A blow on the back hurt and drew a choked cry from him. One before and
one behind was death, but not for him alone. Simon thrust up under the oncoming
blade and steeled himself for oblivion. Only the song he had heard before sounded
again in his ears, and it was certainly not produced by a choir of angels. In
spite of the pangs that made holding his shield a curse, Simon laughed.

"Hurt, lord?" Beorn called.

"Forward!" Simon shouted, not deigning to answer that.
It was not important. "Drive them back toward their gates!"

Beorn took up the cry and it spread to some other leather-lunged
men-at-arms. There had not been many horsemen. Simon knew his impression had
been at fault. The Welsh seldom used many mounted fighters. They counted on the
quickness of their footmen and their ability to melt away into the forested
mountains. Here that art was of no help. Simon's mounted men were making havoc
among the footmen, driving them somewhat back in spite of their numbers.

Even though the horses gave Simon's troop much advantage, there
was little effort to harm them. Any horse was precious to the poor hillmen, and
a war trained stallion taken as booty was great wealth. Slowly the battle moved
toward the palisade. The fires were almost out now, but a pall of smoke hung in
the air and occasionally as a gust hit a smouldering log or thatch a new gout
of smoke would rise. The nearer they came to the encampment, the harder it was
to see. Suddenly, at the gate, a band hammered for admittance, crying hoarsely
in Welsh for the defenders to open to them. They were blood-spattered and
appeared to be unarmed.

Grudgingly the gates opened, enough to let in a man at a time. But
no man slipped in. Grappling hooks caught the exposed edges. Willing hands
pulled suddenly, fiercely.

"Disengage!" Simon roared, clapping spurs to his horse
again. "Forward!"

On his word every rider roweled blood from his mount's sides and
forced him toward the gate, which swayed back and forth as those within and
those without struggled against each other. The horses reared and screamed,
striking out with their hooves. Perhaps a quarter of Simon's men fought their
way free of the combat that they were engaged in and followed him through the
gates and into the Welsh encampment.

That was the end of the battle, although not the end of the
blood-letting. Few men had remained within, only the wounded, the very young,
and the very old. When those at the gate had been vanquished, however, it took
a little time to round up and confine the women and children. Many of them
fought as hard as the men and some more effectively because Simon's men dared
not strike back with weapons. The men might not have been so dainty, but Simon
was aware that any hurt to these battling noncombatants would wake blood-feud
enmity. He had sworn personally to put to death any man of his who hurt a woman
or child beyond bruises.

As soon as Simon's colors were flying from the palisade, his men
began to cry out to their opponents that the battle was over, quarter would be
given. The nobles, whose wives and children were safe with Owain Gwynedd, might
have fought on, but the men cared nothing for that. They threw down their arms,
caring nothing for quarter for themselves, seeking safety for their families.
The capture of Llewelyn brought Simon one more piece of good fortune. David ap
Owain would have fled—not out of cowardice but to be free to rally more
men—only some who had loved Llewelyn seized and held him in the vain hope that
they could exchange him for their own lord.

To desire a thing very greatly, Alinor discovered, did not always
make one happy when desire became reality. She moved closer to the fire,
although she was aware that the chill she felt came from within rather than
from the February weather. Simon was returning at last to Court, but Alinor did
not know why.

Simon's part in the expedition into Wales had been a brilliant
success. The recurrence of that thought brought a recurrence of a deep blush of
rage as she remembered that wasted effort. John had the credit of it—John, who
had not struck a blow. After Simon had nipped in the bud Owain Gwynedd's
intentions to revolt—if that had ever been his intention and was not a private
ploy of his son David—he had turned south again and chastised Rhys ap Gruffyd's
robber bands. Mortimer and Braose had done manfully also. Simon was well
pleased by their energetic prosecution of the plan of action, but he did not
lose sight of Richard's purpose in sending him west. Late in October he had
written to the King that one strong show of force would bring Rhys to terms and
impress him with the King's power above that of the Marcher lords.

Accordingly, a large army was sent to the shires that bordered on
England with Lord John in command and William Longchamp to keep an eye on the
King's brother. It was fortunate, indeed, that Simon was right and only a show
of force was needed. The army was unprovisioned and without weapons.

Beorn himself had returned to Alinor after Rhys had agreed to meet
the King and make submission. He had described Simon's rage and shock.

"He was beside himself, my lady, not being one to speak
openly of such matters to me in an ordinary way. It was a bad thing. If the
Welsh knew and joined together, they could have slain those raw plowhands like
cattle and all would have been ruined, all our labor and blood wasted. And Sir
Simon was not so perfectly well, as I sent you word."

"The wounds fester?" Alinor asked in a constricted
voice.

"I think not. It is hard to know because he does not complain
nor let me look at him, but I think it is more that he will not give them time
to heal. After that battle in the hills, we rode to Owain's stronghold. We were
very well received, and I thought he would bide there until he was healed.
Instead, as you know, we rode south as soon as he had Owain's promise of peace.
Moreover, he knows, I believe, that I sent you word. At first he did not care,
but after he was hurt he grew more secretive. I suppose he feared you would
fret."

Alinor hoped Beorn was right, but she did not believe it. Beorn
had also brought a letter with him thanking her for Simon's appointment as
sheriff in such icy terms that she had wept. She did not fear a roaring rage,
but this frozen politeness—not a word of protest, of threat, of terms of
repayment—signified an unforgiving hurt that terrified her. To make all worse,
Simon did not return to Court. He had come as near as Oxford, traveling with
Rhys, who demanded his company to be sure John's safe conduct would be honored.
At Oxford the final blow had been struck in the Welsh campaign. Richard sent
word that he was too busy to come and meet Rhys and accept his submission.