“You, too, sweetheart,” Henry shot back, stirring laughter in all within hearing range. Glancing over at Ranulf as they paused to let the alaunt sniff a wagon wheel, he said quietly, “You do not like this flank attack. Tell me why, Uncle.”
“I do not like this war!” Ranulf said, too loudly, for heads turned in their direction. “I know you say this campaign is meant only to intimidate Owain and the Welsh, and I do not doubt your intent, Harry. Set a fire to contain a fire. But what if it gets away from you? If you and Owain misread each other, all of Wales could go up in flames.”
Henry did not deny it. “I never promised you that there would be no fighting, Uncle. I’d not lie, at least not to you. I would much prefer that we come to terms with the Welsh, but if it take some bloodshed to bring that about, so be it. However little you like to admit it, Ranulf, I have the right in this argument.”
Ranulf knew that Owain Gwynedd would say the same. But there was no use in pointing that out to his nephew. He had an uneasy sense that events were taking on their own momentum, already beyond the power of either Henry or Owain to control.
“What do you think of this flank attack?” Henry persisted. “Is it worth the risk?”
“I have a bad feeling about it.” Even to Ranulf, that sounded lame. Henry whistled to the dog and they started back toward his tent. Neither spoke for several moments. Ranulf studied his nephew’s moonlit profile; it was bright enough to see the freckles scattered across Henry’s nose. “You’re going to do it, though,” he concluded. “So who gets the command? Cadwaladr? Hertford or Salisbury?”
He caught a sudden flash of white as Henry smiled. “The command,” he said, “goes to me.”
HENRY HAD NEVER seen woods so thick and tangled. Clouds of rustling foliage shut out the sun, and by the time it filtered through that leafy web, the summer heat had lost its oppressive edge. The forest trail was overgrown in spots, but at least it was not mired in mud, and their Welsh guides followed its meandering track as if every hollow and fallen log and brambled barrier were branded into their memories. They’d only ridden a few miles so far, but they’d left the known world behind, all that was familiar and safe. This was the Wales of legend, primal and impenetrable.
“My liege?” Eustace Fitz John urged his mount to catch up with Henry and Ranulf. “Are we sure that Owain is with his army at Dinas Basing?”
He used the Welsh name rather than the Norman-French Basingwerk, and Ranulf liked him for that. It offended him that his father’s countrymen were so loath to use the names given by the Welsh to their own castles, towns, and abbeys. He’d had a few dealings with Eustace Fitz John, the Constable of Chester, and had always found him to be a decent sort, not as high-handed as most of the Marcher lords. It seemed such a pity that so many good men, Norman and Welsh, were putting their lives at risk on this hot August afternoon.
Ranulf would have thought that he’d be used to tallying up casualties by now; he had, after all, fought in the very worst of that bloody war for his sister’s stolen crown. But a few years of peace had stripped away those hard-won defenses. He was a battle-seasoned soldier with a monk’s loathing for bloodshed, and he could expect neither the Welsh nor the Normans to understand. He’d learned the hard way that most people could see no side but their own. Snapping out of his reverie, he saw that Henry and Fitz John were discussing the most lethal weapon in Henry’s arsenal: the royal fleet sailing up the Welsh coast from Pembroke. Ranulf had been dismayed to learn of the naval force; the Welsh king had no warships of his own. Nor could Owain match the manpower of the English Crown. The bulk of Henry’s army, now making its way along the coast toward Dinas Basing, was sure to outnumber the Welsh. Ranulf’s instinctive empathy for the underdog had fused with his love for his adopted homeland, and if it did come to outright war, his deepest sympathies would be with Wales.
The fact that he’d be bleeding for England only underscored the perversity of his plight. With a flicker of forced humor, he wondered how the Almighty would view his muddled prayers for victory. Let the Welsh win, O Lord, but not by much. That sounded suspiciously like St Augustine’s memorable plea for chastity—eventually.
Henry happened to glance in his direction at that moment, catching a glimpse of Ranulf’s self-mocking smile. “What are you laughing at, Uncle?”
“Myself.” Ranulf swatted a fly off his stallion’s withers, squinting as a bead of sweat trickled into the corner of his eye. While it was cooler in the depths of the woods than out in the full glare of sun, their chain-mail armor was stifling. “I was curious why you decided against letting Cadwaladr accompany us?”
“If I had,” Henry explained, “that would have set all those Marcher noses out of joint. Just as Cadwaladr would have been sorely vexed if I’d brought Clifford along. Better to send the lot of them by the coast road with Fitz Alan’s archers. I said I had need of you to talk truce terms with Owain, but that glib tongue of yours might be called into service sooner—to make peace midst our own men.”
“I’ll leave that to your chancellor,” Ranulf said and Henry grinned.
“You’re right. I daresay Thomas could talk a nun out of her habit. Not that he would. Even after two years in my constant company, he remains remarkably indifferent to the sins of the flesh.”
Ranulf laughed. “Well, he is an archdeacon, Harry. And the last I heard, the Church took a rather negative view of sins of the flesh.”
“A man can be virtuous without being a zealot about it.” Henry laughed, too, reaching up under the nose guard of his helmet to rub his chafed skin. “Thomas claims I do enough sinning for the both of us.”
They could see a pool of sunlight up ahead as the trail widened, dappled brightness briefly dispelling some of the deeper shadows. A small woodland creature darted across the path, too swiftly to be identified. As they rode on, there was a sudden flurry and a flock of chittering birds burst from a nearby tree, a shower of feathered arrows aiming at the sky. Ranulf gazed upward, following their soaring flight with the beginning of a smile. But then he saw Tegid, one of their guides. The young Welshman was staring up at the fleeing birds, too, and on his face was an expression of dawning horror.
“Rhagod!” Only Ranulf understood that hoarse cry, a warning of ambush come too late. The urgency in the guide’s voice needed no translation, though. Henry checked his stallion, starting to draw his sword from its scabbard. Tegid’s second shout was choked off as he was slammed backward, knocked from his saddle by the force of the spear protruding from his chest.
An arrow thudded into a tree trunk above Ranulf’s head. Another shaft found a target in flesh, and a knight slumped across his stallion’s neck, sliding to the ground as the horse reared up in fright. Then the killing began in earnest. With savage-sounding yells, the Welsh, charging from the woods on both sides of the road, sought to drag the English from their horses. The English in turn slashed and thrust with deadly effect in such close quarters, and blood splattered the combatants, the trampled grass, even the leaves of low-hanging branches.
Ranulf had passed some sleepless hours in recent weeks, envisioning a battle in which he found himself fighting against the Welsh. What if he saw someone he knew amongst them? Celyn, his brother-by-marriage? Hywel? Now that the dreaded moment was here, he had no time to spare for such fears. His only concern was defending himself against men set upon killing him, and when a Welsh soldier grabbed his arm, jerking to pull him from the saddle, he spurred his stallion into rearing up. His attacker lost his balance, falling in front of those flailing hooves.
A few feet away, Eustace Fitz John was not as lucky. His horse had bolted and a tree branch caught him in the throat. He crashed heavily to the ground and before he could regain his feet, a Welshman was astride him, plunging a spear downward. Ranulf tore his gaze away from the constable’s body, seeking his nephew. Henry was struggling to control his panicked stallion, while fending off a swarthy Welshman wielding a mace. His sword was already bloody, and as Ranulf watched, an arrow sco
rched past his face, almost grazing his cheek.
Before Ranulf could go to Henry’s assistance, he was again under attack himself. When at last he looked back at Henry, the young king was still holding his own. But then he saw the royal standard dip, disappear into the dust churned up by the thrashing horses.
The impact was immediate and devastating. “The king is dead!” The cry went up from a dozen throats, and Ranulf knew what would happen next. Believing that Henry was slain, his men would lose heart, think only of flight. Ranulf raced his horse across the clearing, leaned recklessly from the saddle and snatched up the fallen standard. Some of the English had already bolted, but the reassuring sight of that red and gold banner steadied the others, forestalling a rout.
“Sound the retreat!” Ranulf thanked God that his nephew had a voice made for shouting. Henry’s command rose above the din of battle, followed by the blare of trumpets. Bunching together, the English began an agonizingly slow-paced withdrawal, keeping their horses under tight rein though they yearned to spur into a wild gallop, knowing that such a flight would doom them all.
Ranulf had been in running battles before, but this one was night marish, for they were walled in by the dense woods, trapped on a winding trail that made speed impossible, and under unrelenting attack by the pursuing Welsh. They had to abandon their dead, even their wounded. But after several harrowing miles, they succeeded in fighting their way free.
The danger had eased, but not ended. Henry was too tempting a target for Welsh bowmen; they’d be back, and in greater numbers. The English rode on, pushing their horses, relieved but still wary once they left the woods behind. They’d not yet counted their dead. Ranulf knew that the toll would be a high one. But it could have been worse, Christ Jesus, so much worse. Glancing from time to time at his nephew, he wondered if Harry realized just how close he’d come to dying.
Henry did. He could still feel the hot rush of air on his skin as that Welsh arrow whistled past his ear. He was no novice to battle—he’d bloodied his sword for the first time at sixteen—but this had been different. This time his luck had almost run out.
They were heading for the coast road, hoping to catch up with the rest of their army before the Welsh could rally for another attack. But they’d only covered a few miles before they saw dust up ahead. Drawing their swords, they waited, and soon were cheering, for the riders galloping toward them were friends, not foes.
A scout on a lathered horse reached them first, explaining that a few of the English fugitives from the battle had overtaken the rearguard, claiming that the king had been slain, the rest lost. “But your uncle the earl would not believe it, my liege,” the scout told Henry. “Nor would the chancellor.” His begrimed, sweat-streaked face lit up in a wide grin. “The sight of you is going to gladden their eyes, and that’s God’s Blessed Truth!”
Rainald began to whoop as soon as he was in recognition range. “I knew those fools were wrong, by God, I did!”
Thomas Becket was more restrained in his greeting, but his jubilation burned no less brightly than Rainald’s, just at a lower flame. “Do you realize what you almost put me through, Harry?” He shook his head in mock reproach. “I’d have had to be the one to tell your queen that you got yourself killed in some godforsaken corner of Wales!”
“That was foremost in my mind. Whilst I was fighting for my life, I kept thinking, ‘I cannot do this to Thomas!’ ”
“You think telling Eleanor would have been rough? God pity the man who’d have had to tell my sister Maude!” Rainald’s grimace was partly for effect, partly quite genuine. “So . . . tell us. How bad was it, truly?”
“Well, I’ve passed more pleasant afternoons,” Henry allowed, and they all grinned. But as his gaze met Ranulf’s, there was no levity, no laughter in either man’s eyes, only a haunted awareness of what might have been.
AFTER HENRY’S ESCAPE from the Welsh ambush, Owain withdrew his forces before the advance of the much larger English army, and Henry continued along the coast to Rhuddlan Castle, awaiting the arrival of his fleet. But when word came, it was not good. Acting against orders, the English ships had anchored at Tal Moelfre on the island of Môn and the sailors had gone ashore, plundering and looting and burning the churches of Llanbedr Goch and Llanfair Mathafarn Eithaf. The island residents were so outraged that they staged a counterattack, led by Owain’s son Hywel. In the fighting that followed, the English took much the worst of it, suffering many casualties, including a half-brother to Ranulf and Rainald.
IT WAS DUSK when Ranulf and his men reached the encampment of the Welsh king at Bryn y pin. The day’s sweltering heat had yet to ebb and the English flag of truce drooped limply in the still, humid air. The Englishmen’s spirits were sagging, too, for they were convinced that Ranulf’s mission was doomed and they lacked his confidence in the worth of Owain’s word. They were greeted with predictable antagonism, subjected to jeers and catcalls as they were escorted through the camp. But no hands were raised against them, and the only weapons to threaten them were the fabled sharp edges of the Welsh tongue.
Ranulf dismounted from his stallion, then stiffened at the sight of the man striding toward him. Slowly unsheathing his sword, he offered it to Owain’s son. Hywel accepted it awkwardly and they walked together across the encampment. The Welshman was finding this meeting as uncomfortable as Ranulf, and after a few moments he said, “So . . . how has your summer been so far, Ranulf? You keeping busy?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. How about you?”
“You were there, were you not? With the English king in the Cennadlog Forest?”
Not for the first time, Ranulf found himself marveling at the efficiency of Owain Gwynedd’s espionage system. “Tell me, Hywel, does a leaf fall in the forest without your father’s learning of it within the hour?”
“A stray leaf or two may get past him. But we’ve tried to keep an eye on you—for your own good, of course.”
“Of course.” Ranulf decided not to ask why, not sure he wanted to know the answer. “That ambush almost worked. If only they’d waited until we’d gotten deeper into the woods, we’d never have been able to fight our way out. Lucky for us you Welsh are such an impatient, impulsive people.”
“Lucky for you I was not in command. That honor went to my brothers, Cynan and Davydd.” Hywel’s sly smile told Ranulf he was not entirely displeased that his brothers’ timing had been off. “I was occupied elsewhere, teaching greedy English sailors that plunder has its price.”
They’d reached Owain’s tent, but neither man was in a hurry to enter. Hywel’s eyes were solemn now, for once devoid of all amusement. “I’ve always had a way with words; with a Welsh father and an Irish mother, how could I not? But tonight I hope you’re the eloquent one. You’ll have to be more than persuasive, Ranulf, if you expect to convince my father to make peace. You’ll have to be downright spellbinding.”
Hywel didn’t wait for Ranulf’s response. Instead, he handed him back his sword. “It is never wise,” he said, “to go unarmed into the lion’s den.”
RANULF WAS NOT as cynical as Hywel; his expectations were usually much more optimistic. Not this time, though. He agreed wholeheartedly with Hywel’s pessimistic assessment of his chances. The tent was poorly lit by a single torch and crowded with as hostile an audience as he’d ever faced. Owain’s seneschal was regarding him balefully. So were his lords and four of his sons: Cynan, Davydd, Iorwerth, and Maelgwn.
Owain was not as easy to read as the other men. He never was. They were seated on the ground, for the Welsh scorned the campaign comforts of their English enemies. Signaling for Ranulf to join them, Owain said, “Give the man some mead, Hywel.”
Davydd started to object, caught Owain’s eye, and reconsidered. Ranulf gratefully accepted a cup from Hywel and took a deep, bracing swallow. “I am here, my lord Owain, at the behest of King Henry. He does not want all-out war with the Welsh. It is his hope that you and he can come to terms.”
Owain drank from
his cup, keeping his eyes on Ranulf all the while. “His terms, I’d wager.”
There was no way to temper the blow, and Ranulf was wise enough not even to try. “King Henry would expect you to do homage to him for your domains, to offer up hostages as a show of good faith, to restore your brother Cadwaladr to his lands in Meirionydd, and to renounce all claims to the cantref of Tegeingl.”
He knew what reaction he’d get, but it was even more heated than he’d expected. Owain’s sons were the most vocal in expressing their outrage. Cynan vowed passionately that he’d die ere he gave up his share of Meirionydd to Cadwaladr, Maelgwn and Iorwerth fumed at the insufferable arrogance of the English, while Davydd was reduced to sputtering incredulous oaths. Even Hywel dipped his oar in, pointing out acidly that the English fleet had been defeated at Tal Moelfre, just in case that had escaped King Henry’s notice.
Ranulf made no attempt to defend himself, letting their indignation run its course. Owain, too, waited for the tumult to subside. “Your king’s notion of peace is a curious one. It sounds suspiciously like Welsh surrender to these ears. Suppose you tell me, Lord Ranulf, why I should even consider such one-sided terms. What could I possibly get out of it?”
“You’d get the English army out of North Wales.”
Owain smiled skeptically. “For how long?”
Ranulf leaned forward tensely. “That would be up to you.”
Owain’s eyes narrowed, but his expression did not change as the others began to heap scorn on this “English peace,” and when Owain got to his feet, Ranulf reluctantly rose too, taking it as a dismissal. So did Owain’s sons, and they were all caught by surprise when the Welsh king beckoned to Ranulf, saying, “Come with me.”