* * * * *
"We must see now to Clare," I said to Meg. We stood on the battlements above the gate and watched the Bohuns exit through the northern castle gate and follow the road east to England. They rode side by side at the head of Bohun's men. The elder Bohun hadn't castigated his grandson in public, but I wouldn't have wanted to be in Humphrey's shoes when his grandfather admonished him in private. That would be a tongue lashing to remember.
The scouts I'd sent south had returned an hour earlier. "It is as you suspected, my lord," Bevyn had reported. He was the youngest of the group but the other men respected his intelligence and ability and allowed him to speak for them all. "A few stakes in the ground are all that Clare has placed. However, of more significance are the preparation for defensive dams and moats."
"We spoke with people in a village nearby," Rhodri continued. "They claim it will be the largest castle ever built-even in the whole of England!"
"So the Red Earl has plans, does he?" I said. "We'll see about that."
"King Henry will support you, surely," Goronwy had said. "It's your land."
Tudur snorted. "Not likely. The King won't be pleased to know that Clare is playing fast and loose with our treaty, within only a few months of its confirmation, but within the Marche, the King has tied his own hands long since."
"Marcher lords are allowed to wage war on one another without royal interference," Goronwy said. "But Prince Llywelyn is not included in that understanding."
"So we say," said Tudur. "Clare doesn't seem to be paying attention."
"Then I will make him," I said.
Even as I dictated the letter to King Henry objecting to Clare's actions, the Earl of Hereford's parting words stayed with me, hovering in the back of my mind like the warning they were: "You have a warrior at your threshold in Mortimer. Don't allow the Red Earl to distract you such that you lose this castle. It is my castle, remember, and I expect it back in good condition, when you're done with it."
And that night, I lay awake thinking of battle, unable to sleep, even as I wrapped my arms around Meg to hold off the coming challenge:
May twenty-second, in the year of our Lord, twelve hundred and sixty-six. I pace across the great hall of my castle at Brecon. Although it belonged originally to the Bohuns, I took it from Clare in 1265. Mortimer thought it should have been his. He cannot forgive me.
The men are waiting; they've been waiting for days as we've watched the progress of Mortimer and his men across the plains, up and down the ridges and valleys that lead to Brecon. They crossed into Wales at the great Dyke, and I wish every day of my life that it still stood as it once did, a barrier between my people and those who seek to conquer us.
I mount Glewdra and she tosses her head in expectation. Battles don't scare her. She's fought in many, carrying me through all of them with a surety that makes her one of my staunchest friends. I pat her side.
"Another chance, cariad."
She whinnies and trots forward, head up and proud, for she knows that it is her place to ride at the head of any host of men. I'm joined by Goronwy and Hywel. We cross the drawbridge and take the main road out of Brecon. Once past the village, however, we head across the fields, making for the heights above Felinfach, the last major ford before Mortimer can reach us.
"You are prepared," I say to Goronwy, not as a question, but a statement of fact.
"Yes, my lord," he says. "They will crowd the ford. It is the best place to hit them, and the farthest they will reach into Wales, now and perhaps forever."
"You are that confident?"
"Do you remember Cymarau?"
"I could never forget such a victory," I say.
"It will be like that," Goronwy says.
I nod, sure in his assurance, and turn my attention to the road ahead and the task that lies before us. We will turn Mortimer back, and he will not raise another army for many a year.
The sun rises over our heads as we climb the ridge, a hundred feet above the ford, but sloping down to it over less than a quarter mile. Goronwy has spent some time thinking about his plan of attack and has prepared the ground accordingly. Trees blocking our view of the river have been cut down and hauled away, and now the archers crouch behind a stone wall he built over the course of three days, a perfect one hundred yards from the ford. At Goronwy's signal, they will stand and fire.
As horsemen, we wait just inside the stand of trees at the top of the ridge. Mortimer doesn't know we're here, hasn't realized that our scouts have been following his progress throughout the last three days. Mortimer's stronghold at Wigmore Castle in Herfordshire is not far away, but this is a foreign land and he doesn't know the terrain.
I suspect, though I do not know, that Mortimer's attempt at Brecon is actually an attack on Clare, whom he despises, even as he welcomes him back into the royal fold. King Henry gave Brecon to Clare, if he could take it from me, that is. As he cannot, Mortimer sees it as fair game.
A mistake.
"They're coming, my lord! They've reached the ford of the Dulas!"
Goronwy's hand rises and then falls, loosing the arrows the archers have been holding. The arrows fly, arcing through the morning light, the sun glinting off their metal heads. They hit, and the carnage begins at the ford. Another flight of arrows flies, and then another. Underneath the cover of the last, Goronwy releases the cavalry. They race forward, screaming to the heavens, a lance headed straight for the heart of Mortimer's men.
For once, Goronwy has convinced me to stand with the rear guard, to watch as a sentinel on the hill. Under normal circumstances, it is my role to lead my men, but today, there is something he wants me to see.
And there it is. On the left flank of Mortimer's army is the man himself. He has led a host of men and horses away from the ford and is attempting to cross at a more southerly point. Yet, the horses flounder in the current. I could have told them that the Dulas runs deep there. Any Welshman could have. But he is of the Marche, and has received some bad advice.
With a shout, I urge the men with me into a gallop. We race down the slope to the point where Mortimer will come across, if he makes it. He sees us coming and even from this distance I see him shake his head. Almost at the same moment, another flight of arrows passes over our heads and slams into the hapless riders on the opposite bank. The archers have moved east so as to not hit us, and have found better ground from which to kill.
Mortimer glances left then right. He shouts at me words I can't hear properly over the rush of the water and the screams of dying men and horses. He brandishes his sword, but then turns his horse's head and retreats up the bank. His men follow.
Soon the defeat becomes a rout. Mortimer's army is decimated; defeated so entirely that only a handful of knights and men-at-arms are able to flee to the woods on the other side of the Dulas.
The archers fire at their backs and more men go down. The horsemen outpace the foot soldiers, who are racing away, but still not fast enough because Goronwy gives the order for our cavalry to cross the river after them. They splash through the river shoulder to shoulder and give chase, running Mortimer's men down from behind, one by one. In the final count, Mortimer loses a hundred and fifty foot and twenty horse at the ford of Felinfach. We lose less than a tenth of that.
Death is everywhere, but yet again, has not come for me.