Chapter 41
May, 1177
Llanlleyn, Gwynedd
Olwen watched Goewyn pace the small confines of Teleri’s room with increasing agitation. She was highly distressed. Little Henry reacted to the tension by squirming in Teleri’s arms. His face screwed up in preparation, Olwen knew, for a loud howl. She couldn’t blame him; she felt like howling, too. She looked at Teleri, who looked back at her with upraised eyebrows.
“He’s about to cry,” Olwen said in a low voice. “Do you want me to take him?”
Teleri shook her head. She picked up the baby, smiled into his face and jiggled him playfully.
“These men are nothing but animals!” Goewyn burst out suddenly. She stopped pacing to address them, her normally capable demeanor replaced with a wild, frazzled expression which worried Olwen.
“You’ll get no argument from me,” Teleri agreed mildly. “But, to be fair, the fault lies not only with the Normans. Rhirid provoked this. Lord William is just reacting to it in his usual, bull-headed fashion.”
Goewyn stared at her, turning red with anger. “Rhirid may have burned a few fields but he never murdered anyone! Your husband has just attacked his third holding! God alone knows how many innocent people he’s killed this time! Why is he doing it?”
Teleri shrugged with apparent disinterest and made a funny face for Henry.
“You don’t care, do you?” Goewyn demanded, stepping closer to Teleri. “Lord William may destroy our people—your people, too, I might add!—but all that matters to you is getting to the Perfeddwlad!”
Teleri’s diversions failed. Henry, frightened by the shouting, started wailing. “Oh, look what you’ve done!” she scolded. “Really, Goewyn, can’t you see? The sooner we get to the Perfeddwlad, the sooner my uncle can put a stop to this war. Or isn’t that what you want?”
“I want the war ended but I don’t want the prince involved,” the other woman retorted. “For reasons that should be obvious even to you, Dafydd will be on Lord William’s side, so any settlement will only hurt Rhirid and Llanlleyn. It would be better if you go back to Rhuddlan and not involve the prince!”
With a noise of disgust, Teleri handed the baby back to Olwen and stood up to face Goewyn. “I am not going to Rhuddlan. There’s no debating that point so you might as well accept it! As for my uncle favoring Lord William—he has yet to hear the tale I have to tell him.”
“Can’t you two stop fighting?” Olwen pleaded. “Lady Teleri won’t get anywhere if we don’t stop arguing and start making plans.”
Goewyn and Teleri stared malevolently at each other for a little while longer, and then Teleri returned abruptly to her seat and Goewyn said in a more subdued voice, “Dylan told me they’re riding out at dawn to retaliate against this latest attack. He said they don’t expect to be gone long—they might not even be out overnight. But I think their absence is our best chance to sneak Lady Teleri out of Llanlleyn without anyone noticing.”
“Tomorrow!” Teleri exclaimed. “That gives us little time. Olwen, can you be ready?”
Olwen and Goewyn exchanged a glance. “I’m not going, Lady Teleri. That was never part of the plan. I can’t travel quickly with two small children,” Olwen said.
“Besides, Lady Teleri,” Goewyn added with a malicious gleam, “Rhirid will notice immediately if Olwen isn’t here to greet him upon his return.”
Surprise flitted briefly across Teleri’s face but to Goewyn’s disappointment, she recovered smoothly. “Is that so? It doesn’t matter. But tomorrow morning! I’m not sure…”
“Lady Teleri, what have you got to do?” Goewyn asked in exasperation. She felt the anger pulse again, giving her a headache. “You’re only taking yourself! There’s nothing you must prepare!”
“I’d like to interview the man who’s escorting me to the Perfeddwlad,” Teleri said blandly. “I want to make sure he knows the way and won’t accidently drop me at Rhuddlan.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” Goewyn demanded furiously. “I disagree with you but if you insist on going to the Perfeddwlad then that’s where you’ll go! And good riddance to you!” Without giving Teleri an opportunity to reply, she turned to Olwen. “I have to see to the evening meal. Could you please persuade Lady Teleri she must leave tomorrow morning?” With a last glare at Teleri, she whirled around and left the room.
“That poor man…” Teleri murmured, watching her go.
“I think it’s the better plan to go to the prince,” Olwen ventured.
“Of course it is! If I turned up at Rhuddlan, my beloved husband would probably have me murdered! He would never believe I was abducted against my will.”
“We’ve promised your escort that the prince will reward him generously…”
“I swear to you, Olwen, if this man gets me safely to the Perfeddwlad, I will reward him generously. He’ll never want to come back to this mud-spattered place.”
Olwen seriously doubted he’d be able to…“Lady Teleri,” she asked hesitantly, “do you think you’ll be ready tomorrow?”
“I would leave now if I could! That woman has done her utmost to make my life here a misery and the others aren’t any kinder.”
Olwen rocked the baby in her arms, his wailing reduced to small squeaks and murmurs. “I told you the reason for that,” she said. “They’re afraid your presence will draw Lord William to Llanlleyn. Look what he’s done already.”
“What about you?”
“Me?”
“Well, you’re a hostage, too, aren’t you? And Sir Richard is Lord William’s closest friend. What makes everyone think all this isn’t for your benefit?”
“For me?” Olwen laughed. “I’m not important enough.”
“Not even to Sir Richard?”
The grin on Olwen’s face died. She looked down at her baby and did not respond.
“But apparently to Lord Rhirid…” Teleri added slyly. “Is he the real reason you won’t come with me?”
“I told you the reason,” Olwen said firmly. “I can’t travel. Henry’s nursing and William still has nightmares about being snatched away from his home. We’ll stay where we are for the moment.”
Teleri shrugged indifferently. “Very well.”
After Olwen left her, she threw off her nonchalant façade and started shaking with impotent anger. She was mortified, mortified, that Goewyn should have insinuated that in the battle for Rhirid’s regard, she was the loser! Dylan must have found her interest in the chief to be beyond merely curious and commented on it to his wife. She was mortified that Goewyn should even imagine she had a reason to be jealous of Olwen.
As she was—but she didn’t anyone to know it. Her only relief was the realization that at this same time tomorrow, she’d be far away from Llanlleyn and the gossiping would be out of earshot.
Olwen had spoken of nightmares. Teleri would have sworn she was living one. Far from being her hero, Rhirid had turned out to be just a petty Welsh chief administering a petty Welsh commote. And to add insult to injury, he wanted nothing to do with her because he was in love with Olwen! It was the low point of several years of bad luck—dating from her unfortunate marriage—and it was the last straw. She was going back to her uncle’s court and she would not budge from it unless God Himself came down from Heaven with a divine command.
“It looks like rain,” Teleri said, her head tilted up towards the cloudy sky.
“You don’t want to change your mind about leaving over a little bad weather, do you?” Goewyn said.
“Of course not! I just hate getting wet. Fortunately I’m not wearing anything that might spoil.”
Goewyn, who had given her the plain dress to wear in place of her own, which they’d all agreed attracted too much attention, frowned at the insult but bit her tongue. She refused to be drawn into an argument; she didn’t want to do or say anything that could result in Teleri perversely deciding to change her mind about leaving.
“Cover your head with this,” she instructed, handing Teleri a large square of bro
wn linen. “It’s clean!” she added sharply, after she saw the other woman eye it doubtfully.
Teleri put it over her hair, crisscrossed the hanging ends across her chest and threw them back over either shoulder. Goewyn studied her critically and reached forward to pull the front of the hood a little lower down on her forehead.
“Where’s Olwen?” Teleri asked.
“She’s got to see Rhirid off, hasn’t she?” Goewyn answered. “I told you before: he’ll notice if she isn’t around.”
Teleri said innocently, “And Dylan won’t notice if you’re not around?”
Goewyn gritted her teeth. “Olwen will be here when it’s safe for us to leave.”
Teleri wasn’t sure if she liked the look of the man who was to escort her to the Perfeddwlad. He was slight and non-descript and he stared at her with a strange, unblinking gaze. Once or twice, as Goewyn gave him instructions, he started to cough, a heavy, rumbling noise which turned Teleri’s stomach, and then, without warning, swiveled his head and spat out the by-product. The first time it happened, Teleri shot Goewyn a horrified look but the other woman appeared not to have noticed, or perhaps she was merely accustomed to his habits.
The sight of the horse she and this man were to share on the journey was even more discouraging. An old, placid grey mare, most likely the smallest beast in Rhirid’s stable, Teleri wondered if it could successfully complete the trip, let alone support their combined weight.
“She’s sturdier than she looks, lady,” growled the man, noticing her apprehensive glance.
Teleri had no choice but to believe him. And to trust him.
Goewyn had explained that the man had been one of a few to favor Rhirid’s cousin. After the cousin had been summarily deposed, his supporters were shunned by the new chief and not permitted to join in any of his activities. “Rhirid was never so vindictive before the Normans,” Goewyn had told her, but it was to their advantage because the man wanted to get out of Llanlleyn just as badly as Teleri.
Still, it was reassuring to feel the unfamiliar weight of a dagger at her hip, hidden beneath her cloak, and to know she wasn’t completely at this stranger’s mercy. Olwen had given it to her; it had been a gift of protection from Richard Delamere after the earl of Chester’s men had taken Gwalaes’ child. “It didn’t work, did it?” Olwen had laughed. “I mean, when Rhirid’s men came to the manor…” But Teleri believed she would be able to use it if she had to.
Finally, Olwen appeared. She was breathless, as if she’d been running, and without her children. She told them the direction Rhirid’s army had gone and how long ago it had departed. Goewyn looked expectantly at Teleri and the latter, who was finding a great deal of sport in provoking her, couldn’t resist inquiring why she had to leave after all. “If Lord Rhirid is answering this last attack by the Normans now, then he must have decided against using me in his scheme for revenge.”
She was rewarded with a gasp from Goewyn. “No, no, no,” the woman said hurriedly. “He’s only going out to make mischief in the land around Rhuddlan. Slaughtering livestock, burning crofts…He won’t even be seeing Lord William. You’ve still got to go!”
And so she went. Her escort smelled horrible and their mount’s pace was so slow she sourly imagined that she could make better time if she walked. The man had estimated three days for the journey; she had no idea but a general direction where the Perfeddwlad was, yet she believed he was being generous. Still, she bit her tongue and kept all negative comments to herself. She was going home—how could she possibly complain?
It was after midday when she started to think that perhaps something was wrong. The one thing she did know—that the Perfeddwlad lay to the west of both Llanlleyn and Rhuddlan—seemed out of line with the direction in which they were traveling. She wondered if the man had been so eager to leave Llanlleyn that he’d exaggerated his familiarity with the way…
“I don’t think this is right,” she said to him.
He didn’t turn his head. “What? I can’t hear you.”
“I said, I don’t think this is the right way to go,” she repeated, with more force.
To her disgust, he began coughing. The fit lasted quite a long time and she cringed behind him, praying no flecks of spittle flew back into her face. Finally, it ended—with a large splat onto the gound.
“Didn’t you hear me?” she demanded, when it appeared he would not speak. “I just told you this isn’t the right way!”
He twisted his head around. “Of course it is. We’ll be there in no time. Just sit tight.”
But there was a strange, nagging voice in the back of her mind which insisted he was wrong. In fact, the whole situation suddenly felt wrong. Her previous suspicions multiplied. She began to imagine that Goewyn, Olwen and this man had concocted a plot to lead her in a circle back to Llanlleyn, for a laugh. The people of Llanlleyn didn’t like her; this was a plot to humiliate her for their amusement…
She dismissed the idea; it was a lot of trouble for one laugh and, after all, there was the very real possibility that she might truly seek to escape.
Well, she thought…if not to the Perfeddwlad and if not back to Llanlleyn, then there was only one other destination and that was Rhuddlan. Despite her insistence to the contrary, Goewyn had betrayed her and had directed the man to return her to Longsword. Teleri was enraged. To see her husband again under such circumstances would be the worse humiliation.
She made a sudden decision. Her legs were relatively unencumbered because the skirt of her gown was hiked up to her knees so that she could sit astride. And the horse’s dull plod made it a simple matter to put her left leg across its rump, let go of the guide’s tunic and slide to the ground with only a slight jar.
“What are you doing?” the man demanded, immediately jerking back on the reins and bringing the horse to a stop.
“I told that woman I was not going back to Rhuddlan and I meant it!” Teleri retorted. “I’ll find my own way to my uncle and I don’t mind telling you that he’ll be extremely angry to learn what happened here!”
“Lady, please! I’m not taking you to Rhuddlan! If this path looks unfamiliar to you, it’s only because it’s a seldom used route. I figured we had less of a chance of running into Lord Rhirid or Lord William if we went this way.”
She hesitated only briefly. She didn’t trust this man; there was a prickling at the back of her neck which even made her fear him. She put one hand down to her dagger and felt somewhat calmer. She began to back away from him slowly but steadily, her eyes locked on his, her heart beating furiously. She did not reply.
As she watched, his face changed expression and she knew then she was right to be apprehensive. The dull-witted, wheedling look vanished and was replaced with desperate determination. When he dismounted, she whirled around and started running.
She had never been so frightened in her life. She imagined the man would kill her if he caught her. But she didn’t know how to evade him. All she could do was flee down the same path they’d just traveled up: a narrow, worn trail barely large enough for a cart. Outstretched branches caught at her billowing cloak and skirt and slowed her pace; the shawl over her head slipped further down and blinded her momentarily until she could push it up past her eyes. She ran without thinking, without a plan. She could hear the man’s rushing footfalls behind her, the sound growing louder and louder; she forced her feet to move faster but she was unused to the strenuous exercise, her shoes were thin and had no grip on the packed, sometimes stony, earth and she could not get enough air into her lungs. She flagged, stumbled over a tree root and fought to regain her balance but it availed her nothing. She shrieked when the man grabbed her arm and forced her to stop; she struggled and twisted in his grip, too frightened now to make anything other than involuntary whimpers; she tugged and pulled but could not get her arm out of his grasp…suddenly, she remembered the dagger and reached down for it with her free hand, fumbling with the cloak that blocked access to her gown and the cord around her waist t
o which the dagger was fixed, all the time pulling and twisting away from him, no longer paying attention to him…when all at once she felt a sharp, blinding pain explode on the left side of her face and everything went black…
…She woke up gradually, groggily, but remembered what had happened immediately. She had a tremendous headache and couldn’t focus her thoughts but she remembered it in bursts of images. She was back on the horse, bouncing up and down uncomfortably; the horse was moving faster than it had done previously; she was once again astride it—but this time she sat in front of the man and it was his arm that snaked around her waist and held her so firmly she could scarcely take a breath.
“Awake, are you?” she heard his harsh voice demand. She didn’t answer; she was too frightened to speak. In all her pampered life a rough hand had never grabbed her, threats had never been made against her and she had certainly never been struck. She was dazed and overwhelmed by events and the possiblilities of what lay ahead.
“There’s been a change of plan,” he continued. “I’ve decided against going to the Perfeddwlad. I don’t know anybody there. But you needn’t fear I’m taking you to Rhuddlan because I’ve no wish to be skewered on the point of your husband’s sword. If you’d been paying the least bit of attention when Rhirid’s whore was talking, you’d have noticed that we’re traveling in the same direction she said Rhirid had gone. I figure Rhirid will be very grateful to learn what that bitch Goewyn’s been up to. Grateful enough to forgive me and let me back into his circle. That’s all the reward I need. There’s nothing the prince could give me—” His breath caught on the phlegm in his throat and he started coughing violently. From a vague distance inside her head, Teleri worried that spittle would land in her hair, because she knew she had lost the square of brown cloth. He tightened his grip on her waist with each successive spasm so that her body was shaken as much as his. At length the fit ended with the now-familiar splat onto the ground. He removed his arm from her waist in order to wipe his sleeve across his mouth but it was a fleeting respite and the arm was immediately returned to its lodging place. “I don’t know who Goewyn thinks she is to make decisions for Rhirid,” he said, his voice no longer harsh but plaintive. “It’s no secret she runs Dylan’s life but that’s his problem. Taking it upon herself to get rid of you affects all of us. I wouldn’t be surprised if Rhirid casts her out of Llanlleyn, and Dylan behind her…”
He rambled on but Teleri ceased listening. She was sleepy and couldn’t stay focused on the meaning of his endless words. She fought desperately to stay awake because if she were about to meet Rhirid again she didn’t want to seem dazed, but it was difficult. Her head sagged downwards and the only thing in her field of vision was the mesmerizing blur of passing ground.
The first splash of rain slightly revived her; cold, fine droplets. She was glad of the rain: she wanted to be as uncomfortable as possible, to feel as sorry for herself as she could. She hoped it was a long, steady storm and not merely a shower. She raised her head and closed her eye and the cool water on her face seemed to restore her equilibrium. And then something happened which banished all her tiredness.
She heard her captor’s sudden intake of air and felt his body tense. Again, the arm tightened around her waist. She opened her eye and saw on the path ahead of them a trio of horsemen who were decidedly not Welsh, but Norman. Elation jolted through her, making her stomach lurch and her heart pound. Rhuddlan wasn’t as agreeable as the Perfeddwlad but at this point it was more welcome than Llanlleyn.
The Welshman jerked on the reins and the horse stopped. For an instant, he and the Normans stared at each other, neither side moving; then one of the Norman horses lifted a foreleg and pawed the ground like a bull preparing to charge and the Welshman sprang into action. He pushed Teleri away from him and pulled the horse’s head around in one fluid motion, and fled back down the path.
Teleri hit the ground hard and fast, landing on her shoulder with such force that the wind was knocked out of her and for a horrifying moment she couldn’t breathe. But she was sufficiently aware to realize that the knights were going to chase after the Welshman and so, gathering all her strength, she rolled herself off the path and into a cluster of thin, scraggly bushes. A snap of the fingers later and the Normans came charging.
They thundered past with shouts and whistles, paying her no attention, intent on their quarry ahead. Teleri opened her mouth and to her relief was able to gasp the moist air without pain. She raised herself until she was half-sitting, half-kneeling, her arms propping her up. She looked down the path. The Welshman never had a chance. The distance between him and the Normans wasn’t enough to make his capture debatable, and the latter were upon him almost instantly, forcing him to stop. One of the men took his reins and another began talking to him. Teleri couldn’t hear the words but she was surprised because she didn’t remember anyone other than Richard Delamere capable of speaking Welsh and it was obvious the man understood what was being said to him because he calmed down, nodded several times and then responded.
And then he pointed at her.
The three Normans turned in their saddles and looked at her. Although only a moment before she had had trouble breathing, now her breath came rapidly. She felt strangely lightheaded. She didn’t recognize them; their faces were obscured by the protective nasals which came down from their helmets and they were dressed in undistinctive battle gear. They stared at her and spoke among themselves, discussing her for so long that she forgot her apprehension and grew irritated. Did they intend to keep her sitting in mud for the entire afternoon?
Finally, one of them kicked his horse and came down the road towards her. She decided to get to her feet and salvage a bit of her dignity, and slowly pushed herself upright. Her head swam and her stomach felt sick. She squeezed her eyes shut and the dizziness drained away. When she opened them, the knight was standing only several feet away. She still didn’t recognize him but she’d never paid much attention to every one of her husband’s men. She was a little puzzled when he asked if she were indeed Lady Teleri of Rhuddlan but even as she retorted sharply she flushed with embarrassment, realizing she must have looked a mess, disheveled from travel and the rain, dressed in a cast off gown and nondescript cloak, hair hanging down untidily in dripping snarls…small wonder he had to ask!
It wasn’t until he’d politely instructed her to put a foot into his stirrup and take his hand so that he could hoist her onto the back of his horse and this had been accomplished that her suspicion grew. As they rode back to the others waiting down the road, she realized that he’d spoken to her in Welsh.
Richard Delamere ran as fast as he could in his bulky, heavy hauberk, up the short incline to where Longsword sat on his horse and watched the activity in the meadow with an increasing frown. “My lord! Change of plan!” he shouted.
“What the hell is going on down there?” Longsword demanded.
“The slope is slippery from the rain,” Delamere said, hands on his knees, breathing heavily. “Several of the horses couldn’t control their footing. What are the Welsh doing?”
“Turning back! They saw the commotion.”
“They know we’re here…”
Longsword nodded grimly. “We’ve got to go now. We can’t let them get to the woods.” He took up his reins. “Don’t just stand there, Richard!” he snapped and kicked his horse forward, shouting orders to his men both mounted and on-foot. By the time Delamere managed to hoist himself into his saddle, most of the army was halfway down the hill, with Longsword at its helm.
It was pure luck which had led the Normans to Rhirid. Scouts had spied the Llanlleyn party as it came out of the hills and proceeded onto the knobby vale, headed in their direction. Longsword could not have hoped for a better meeting; the Welsh would be forced to fight a Norman-style battle, on open land. All the advantages would fall to him. His men were organized and efficient and worked as a group, unlike the Welsh who were used to fighting helter-skelter, with quick strikes and sudden re
treats. And while the Welsh preferred to fight on foot, the Normans’ power relied heavily on the combined strength of a knight and his horse. A charging line of mounted knights with their spears held horizontally was almost invincible. But only on open ground. Longsword and his men had remained hidden to ensure that Rhirid would cross enough of the meadow to make a bloodless retreat impossible.
But several Norman horses, unable to keep their footing on a steeper part of the rocky hill, had put that scenario in jeopardy. The Welsh saw no shame in prudent withdrawal and Longsword could see that they were already turning around. His archers would never be able to catch up and he shouted for them to stop and take up positions on the near side of the stream. The only way to rescue the situation, he thought, was to somehow get behind the Welsh, force them to turn again and drive them into his archers.
But he and his knights would need great speed to get behind Rhirid and on the treacherously rain-saturated grass and bumpy and stony ground, speed was an impossibility. To sacrifice their horses would gain them nothing and probably cost them their lives. His sole consolation was the knowledge that the Welsh were as much at the mercy of the weather and terrain as he was.
He splashed across the shallow stream, followed immediately by a dozen of his better mounted soldiers. And there, behind the tufts of overgrown vegetation that invariably springs up alongside water, the Welsh were waiting.
There was only a handful of them, but they were archers and they greeted the Normans with a hail of arrows shot at close range. They aimed for the horses; the larger targets and half of the knights’ effectiveness. Longsword, bounding past them first, escaped unscathed, but he heard the screams of one or two beasts and the shouts of fallen men. There was no time to stop.
It was a trick, the best that Rhirid could salvage of the situation. Once he had seen the Normans charge out of the forest, he’d sent some of his men back the way they’d come to give the illusion of flight, but the rest he’d deployed in groups behind whatever shelter they could find. Another man might have given Rhirid a grudging respect for having so completely fooled him, but not Longsword. He didn’t respect trickery, no matter how clever, only skill and bravery in an open contest.
“Will!”
He barely heard Delamere’s shout through the confusing haze of noises in his head, the shrieking horses, the pounding of his own mount’s hooves, his rapid, steady breathing and the wind echoing inside his coif, but he knew his friend wanted him to slow down and wait to be joined by more of his men. But his blood was up and he did not want to lose his momentum. And just before him, not a hundred yards away, he had seen Welsh who were stopped and facing him. Waiting for him.
Longsword didn’t quite remember what Rhirid ap Maelgwn looked like, but he knew instinctively that it was the Welsh chief who stood at the front of the group. Without answering Delamere, he lowered his sword and spurred his horse onward.
Rhirid watched Longsword rush towards him. One of his companions raised a bow, fitted with an arrow, but Rhirid snapped at him to aim elsewhere. The Norman bastard was his quarry alone.
He pressed his knees into the flanks of his horse. He didn’t relish the idea of fighting from horseback but if he was to die, he didn’t want to be remembered as having waited for death to come to him. In his right hand he held the reins, in his left he gripped his sword. It was his bloodcurdling roar as he moved to meet Longsword that caught Richard Delamere’s attention.
Longsword was standing in his stirrups, leaning forward and holding his weapon out as if it were a spear. Rhirid’s sword was up and out. At the last moment, Rhirid jerked on the reins and forced his horse to swerve to the right. Longsword’s sword met air and as the wild-eyed warhorse thundered past him, Rhirid cut viciously down at his opponent’s back with the butt of his own sword. Longsword felt the wind go out of his lungs and forced himself to relax until he could breathe again. He hadn’t realized the Welsh chief was left-handed; he wouldn’t give Rhirid a second opening like that.
Now the two men were each in dangerous territory, having exchanged positions. Rhirid was between the Normans and Longsword; Longsword was between the Welsh and Rhirid. Delamere had rushed forward upon hearing Rhirid’s war cry. The Welsh shouted out to their chief; Rhirid looked over his shoulder and saw Delamere bearing down on him. He barely had time to react. Delamere pulled up just short of the Welshman, sword flailing wildly. Rhirid blocked the swipes, but his horse was intimidated by the Norman’s snorting, prancing stallion and backed nervously away. Delamere pressed his advantage, urging his mount closer and closer, propelling the Welsh horse backwards. Rhirid pulled hard on the reins but his horse wasn’t bred, as were the Norman mounts, for steadfastness under the duress of warfare. The animal was too terrified to heed any of Rhirid’s exhortations.
It was Longsword who saved him. He had recovered from Rhirid’s blow and had pulled his horse around. His back was to the Welsh but he paid them no attention. Rhirid ap Maelgwn was the only enemy he wanted.
He shouted to Delamere to leave the chief and reluctantly Delamere obeyed. Rhirid patted his horse’s neck reassuringly. Then, without warning, he kicked the animal hard and it jumped forward, straight at Longsword.
The rain, which earlier had been light, suddenly flung itself down in loud, fat drops. It splattered into the men’s faces and obscured their vision. It adversely affected the aim of the Welsh archers. The unhorsed knights rushed them, hacking at both men and greenery with their swords.
Further on, Rhirid charged, shouting at the top of his lungs, cursing Longsword with Welsh invectives. The Norman urged his mount to meet him, this time holding his sword close. He barely heard Rhirid’s roaring because the thrill of finally being able to exact his revenge caused the blood to pound loudly in his ears. He saw nothing but the Welsh chief bearing down on him in deadly earnest. He didn’t look at Rhirid’s face, only the man’s left arm, which held his weapon, and his chest, which he planned to run through with his own sword.
This time, the horses did not pass each other. At the last possible moment, Longsword nudged his horse left with his knees. The heavy animal crashed into Rhirid’s smaller mount.
Rhirid knew his horse would fall. With admirable dexterity, he managed to extricate his feet from his stirrups and as the beast beneath him tottered and fought for its balance, he gave himself a mighty heave and flew straight onto a totally unsuspecting Longsword.
Like his horse, Longsword was bigger and heavier than his adversary and should have been easily able to knock Rhirid away, but the Welshman’s unexpected move caught him off guard and while his mind sifted through possible reactions the decision was made for him. With determination and with gravity on his side, Rhirid managed to pull Longsword off his horse. The two men tumbled onto the slippery grass.
The Norman had lost his weapon. Luckily, he had landed on top of Rhirid so the Welshman was unable to get his own sword up for an attack. Longsword spied the sword on the ground, a yard or two away and scrambled towards it. The rain was a hindrance; his boots slid on the mud and water coursed off his helmet and into his eyes. As his fingers closed on the hilt of the sword, he heard Rhirid coming up from behind. Still prone, he rolled onto his back and slashed sideways in a wide, crazy arc. Steel met steel with a harsh clash.
For the moment, Rhirid had the advantage. He stood over Longsword and played the aggressor, never letting up his onslaught of blows. He jabbed and swung and cut at Longsword, who could do nothing from his position on the ground but defend himself. Having felt all along that he was the injured party in their feud, Longsword found himself startled that the Welsh chief was being so relentless and so desperate in his attack.
But Rhirid’s advantage didn’t last long. Collecting himself, Longsword blocked a blow and then brought his leg up and jammed his muddy boot square into Rhirid’s chest. The Welshman went flying backwards and in that instant, Longsword clambered to his feet. He strode purposefully towards Rhirid, who was sitting on the ground, gasping for breath. r />
Rhirid’s chest heaved painfully. The rain was still steady and loud; the shouts and screams of the men fighting surrounded him, although he heard everything as if it were happening very far away.
He looked up and saw Longsword coming at him. He tried to stand but one of his heels slipped in the mud and he fell back again. He became dimly aware that he was precariously close to his panicked horse. His last thought was that he was surprised the beast didn’t just run away. Instead, it stood nervously, stepping fitfully and snorting anxiously—until Dylan ab Owain, seeing Rhirid’s plight, opened his mouth and lungs and bellowed so loudly that even Longsword was momentarily diverted. Then the animal reared up in fright and came crashing down, its left foreleg catching Rhirid on the side of his head.
Rhirid collapsed into a still heap. Longsword stopped in his tracks as if confused as to what to do next. He glanced back at Delamere and lifted his hands.
“Will, look out!”
Longsword whirled around. Dylan ab Owain was bearing down on him, followed closely by the other Welsh on horseback. He looked to his horse, which waited patiently for him where he’d been knocked off of it. The pounding of hooves suddenly drowned out the sound of the pouring rain. The Normans, led by Richard Delamere, were also charging.
Longsword ran to his horse and hoisted himself into the saddle with a kick. He took the reins in his left hand and pulled the animal’s head around just as the Welsh reached him. He blocked a blow intended for his head and pushed his adversary’s sword down. He slashed back quickly and caught the man under his arm, but it was nothing more than a scratch because both horses had moved slightly apart. The man came at him again, furious and intent, sword flailing wildly, and again Longsword rebuffed him. The Welshman tried a third time. This time, Longsword managed to stab him straight through the chest with the point of his sword. He pulled his sword free; the man made a choking sound as the blood began to pour from his mouth and finally he toppled to the ground.
There was a shrill whistle. Longsword looked around to see who had done it. Delamere and the others had flown past him and now they were chasing the Welsh away, back into the hills. He was alone on the grass. The rain fell heavily onto the body of the dead Welshman. He looked to the spot where Rhirid had fallen, but the chief was no longer there.
He rode back to the stream, where the remainder of his men, the unhorsed knights, the archers and the men-at-arms, had collected. He counted four of his men lying prone on the ground, and six of Rhirid’s. Dying horses thrashed and screamed.
Longsword wished the damned rain would stop.
Not long after, Delamere returned. “They’ve disappeared,” he told Longsword, panting heavily from exertion.
Longsword frowned. “What happened to Rhirid?”
He shrugged. “One of them picked him up and carried him off.”
“Do you think he’s dead?”
Delamere shook his head. Longsword, who agreed with him, spat onto the ground.