by Wayne Grant
It had taken less time to take the fortress than a smith took to shoe a horse. Had the two hundred men in the camp acted boldly and assaulted the lower bailey in those first minutes, the outcome would likely have been different, but they had not. Surprise gave the attackers enough time to secure the fortress before they faced a serious challenge from the men below. But soon, it would be coming.
As they watched, fires in the camp were doused and dozens of torches that had been moving about like sparks from a bonfire among the tents and huts, winked out one by one. Roland looked up. The clouds blowing in from the south now blocked the moonlight and the breeze from that direction felt moist on the skin. A storm was coming.
“Douse the torches,” he ordered. As the encampment at the bottom of the hill was plunged into darkness he saw little to be gained by illuminating his own position. The burning brands would not cast effective light much beyond the wall, but would make his men easily visible from below. The order was relayed from the south gate along the walls of the bailey and up to the hilltop forts.
When the last light was snuffed out, a deep darkness fell over Deganwy. Men all along the south wall strained to see as down the hill scuffling sounds could be heard moving up through the dark toward the south wall.
“Make ready!” Roland shouted, as a hail of arrows and a mass of men came hurtling out of the darkness straight for the gate.
Affair of the Heart
It was full night when Rhys Madawc reined in his horse and dismounted. His village was a mile away, but Talfryn’s men sometimes patrolled this road and he could not risk being discovered. He led the animal into the woods where he found a small clearing with some feeble shoots of grass. He hobbled the horse and set off on a familiar game trail to approach the village unseen. It had been a long day in the saddle and it had not started well.
He’d awakened on a ridge overlooking the valley of the River Clwyd to find the sun already above the eastern horizon. He cursed himself for not stirring earlier and crept back to observe the trail behind him. His heart caught in his throat as he heard movement coming his way through the woods, but gave a sigh of relief when a doe bounded up the track then turned off onto a game trail. There was still no sign of pursuit from the east. He’d hurriedly mounted and headed west, toward the far side of the valley and home.
Rhys pushed his horse hard, anxious to make up the ground he’d lost by his late start in the morning, but the day had turned mild and the path had thawed into a sloppy mess. He’d stopped in the early afternoon to let the animal drink from one of the many streams flowing down from the hills and to feed it a few handfuls of grain he’d carried in a sack, but then pressed on westward as hard as he dared push his mount.
At midafternoon, he’d forded the Clwyd proper and, by nightfall, had reached country he knew by heart. He was relieved when he led his horse off the trail and into the woods. He’d feared pursuers from Shipbrook might overtake him, but there was no danger of that now as he hurried through the dark woods.
As he followed the trail, his hand went to the sword he had belted to his side. It was an old blade he’d spied that was waiting for repair by Shipbrook’s smith, but the edge had seemed keen enough. He was not as much a fool as Sir Declan might think. He knew he was far from skilled with the weapon, but perhaps he would not need to be. Somewhere ahead he heard a dog bark. His heart began to pound—and not from the exertion.
Almost there.
***
The men from Shipbrook had risen before dawn and ridden hard all day in pursuit of the missing boy. Near noon, Sir Roger had reined in and pointed to a pile of horse turds by the trail. Declan slid out of the saddle and squatted down to get a closer look.
“Very fresh, my lord. Not more than an hour old.”
They had closed the gap, but not enough. As darkness fell, they pushed on, picking their way slowly along the muddy path. They would have ridden right past this spot on the trail, had Declan not heard a horse whinny off in the woods to his right. He signalled to Sir Roger to dismount and together they walked slowly along the track until Declan found the faint signs of hoof prints.
“That looks like our boy,” he said.
“It would appear,” Sir Roger agreed. “At least he is smart enough not to just ride straight into a nest of vipers. He’ll be coming at things quietly and on foot. His village must be close now.”
Setting off on foot and leading their horses, they followed the tracks a quarter of a mile into the woods. There they found the missing Shipbrook horse, hobbled and contentedly munching weeds in the clearing. Quietly, they hobbled their own mounts and Declan slowly walked the perimeter of the small clearing looking for signs of Rhys’ passing. He found a game trail with what might be a boot mark in the soft ground, but it had grown too dark to be sure if the boy had gone that way. Then he heard a dog bark off in the distance. The sound had come from the same direction the game trail was heading. He beckoned to his master.
“Can’t be sure, but I think Rhys passed this way.”
Sir Roger nodded and the two men set off down the track travelled by many deer and one Welsh boy. Here, the woods were thin and occasional shafts of moonlight penetrated to illuminate the path, but it was still slow going. The game trail was faint and the woods grew thicker the further they went. Finally, in frustration, Declan stopped.
“My lord,” he whispered, “I can barely see the ground, much less our boy’s tracks. I fear we’ve lost our way.”
Just then, they heard a cow bellow off to their left. Sir Roger made a hand motion and bent into a crouch. Declan did the same and together they moved toward the sound. After a few hundred paces, they fetched up on the edge of the trees, with cleared land stretching away into the moonlight.
The large field to their front was well-tended, with stubble from last season’s harvest standing atop neat rows of earth. A substantial dwelling sat alone in the middle of the open land, a wisp of smoke curling from the peak of the roof. Sir Roger carefully studied the soft ground at the forest’s edge and scratched his chin.
“No tracks,” he whispered.
“Aye,” Declan said. “He’s gone off this trail somewhere back a way. We must have missed it in the dark. It’s too bad we don’t have Roland with us. I’m no tracker. So, what now, my lord?”
Sir Roger sat down on a clear spot and did not speak for a time.
“It’s certain enough it was his horse we found in the clearing,” he said.
“Our horse,” Declan added cheerfully.
“Aye, our horse. And we saw only one decent path from the clearing and it was heading this way.”
“Aye, and I’m thinkin’ that house yonder must be near the village,” Declan said. “So, where is he?”
Sir Roger looked once more at the lay of the land in the dim light.
“Nothin’ but two hundred yards of open ground ahead, but see how the house backs up to the wood line over there,” he said, pointing to the south edge of the cleared land. “That’s less than fifty paces, and, if I wanted to approach the house without being seen, that’s where I would come from.”
“I see yer point, my lord, but what if this is not the place he has been heading to? He may skirt this stead entirely and keep moving.”
Sir Roger took another long look at the house.
“He very well may. Look at the house. I would not expect our friend Talfryn to dwell in a place this modest, though it is fairly grand for a simple farmer’s place. I wish I knew what was in that damn boy’s head!” he hissed in frustration. “Either way, he’d likely stay to cover as much as he can. If it were me, I’d circle around to the south, either to approach the house or bypass it.”
Declan nodded.
“So would I.”
Together they set off south, just inside the last rank of trees that formed the border of the cleared land. As they moved they kept watch on the house, as a quarter-moon climbed higher into the eastern sky. When they reached the place where the wood line swung back to the
east, Sir Roger grasped Declan by the arm.
“There!”
Across the moonlit field, a figure had emerged from a neck of the woods and was moving toward the house. Declan stood, his hand going to his sword hilt.
“Wait!” Sir Roger commanded. “We do not know what the lad is up to. Best we watch a bit.” They settled back and watched the boy creep carefully toward the back of the house, not more than a hundred paces from where they stood. At length, he reached the shadow of the dwelling and disappeared into the gloom. For a moment, there was a curious sound, then the boy stepped back into the moonlight. This time, there was someone with him.
It was a girl.
“What’s this?” whispered Sir Roger.
“That doesn’t look like Talfryn,” Declan replied, dryly.
The two watched from the shadows as Rhys Madawc spoke urgently to the girl, who kept glancing back at the house. They were too distant to make out the words being spoken, but the tone was unmistakable. The boy opened his arms in supplication, but the girl crossed hers, unmoved by whatever plea he was making.
The big Norman knight shook his head in wonderment.
“We’ve had this all wrong. He’s not come back for revenge at all. He’s in love!”
Declan suppressed a rueful laugh.
“We’ve ridden half way across Wales for a lovesick pup, my lord!”
“By God, he is more like his father than any of us realized!” the big Norman knight said, with a touch of affection in his voice.
At that moment, the girl turned and started back toward the house. Rhys grasped her arm, but she pulled away and turned on him. Her words did not reach the watchers in the woods, but the heated tone in her voice was plain enough.
“It would appear, my lord, that the lady does not return the poor lad’s affections,” said Declan. “Shall we collect up the young suitor and get us all back to Shipbrook?”
“Aye,” sighed Sir Roger. “This would be a jest, if it were not so damned dangerous!”
They watched as the girl hurried to the back of the house and disappeared within. For a long moment, the boy just stood there, illuminated by moonlight, his head hung low. Then he turned and headed straight toward where Sir Roger and Declan lay in hiding. In his despair, he paid little attention to his surroundings and walked right into their ambush.
Declan rose behind him, clapping a hand over the boy’s mouth and twisting his right arm behind his back, as Sir Roger stepped out of the shadows.
“We’ve come to take ye back, lad,” he whispered.
For a moment, the boy tried to pull away, but Declan held him firm. When he stopped struggling, the Irish knight lowered his hand, but kept a loose grip on the boy’s arm.
“My lords, what are you doing here?” Rhys gasped.
“Chasin’ a horse thief,” Declan said.
“We thought ye’d come to do harm to Talfryn, lad, and feared ye’d get yerself killed,” Sir Roger said. “But it seems we were wrong.”
The boy hung his head in shame.
“I…I loved her, my lord, and she loved me. Or so she told me many times. But when I fled, there was no time to speak to her. So I had to come back. I was going to take her with me—back to Shipbrook.”
“And she said no,” prompted Declan.
“She was afraid, my lord. She said she could not leave her home—that England was an evil place filled with evil men.”
“She had the right of it there!” Declan declared.
“I am done with women!” the boy said flatly.
Sir Roger smiled in the dark. Any boy who would ride across Wales and risk his life for love was not likely done with women.
“Fair enough, he said. “Now, let’s be home to Shipbrook before word starts to spread of your presence here.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth, when a new sound came from the direction of the house. It was the nicker of a horse. They all turned in time to see a man leading the animal from a small barn beside the house. In the bright moonlight, they saw him climb into the saddle and kick the horse into a trot, then a run.
“It’s Mairwen’s father!” Rhys whispered in alarm.
“He’ll be goin’ to fetch yer step-father I expect,” said Sir Roger. “How far to Talfryn’s place?”
“Not far,” Rhys said mournfully.
“Then no time to waste,” the big knight said. “We’d best run.”
No further urging was needed as the three abandoned the cover of the woods and fled across the open ground. When they found the path that would lead them back to the horses, Sir Roger called a halt and bent over, sucking in lungfuls of air.
“I’m…getting too old…for this,” he gasped.
Recovering a bit, he waved the two younger men forward. Under the trees, the darkness deepened and their pace slowed as they moved along the narrow and uneven game trail. Finally, a horse’s snort in the distance led them to the clearing. They unhobbled their mounts and led them quickly back toward the road, but the journey through the woods had taken most of an hour.
As they reached the road and started to mount, the stillness of the night was shattered as a dozen armed and mounted men came thundering down the track from the village. The man at the head of the column shouted at them to halt, as half of his men swept past them, blocking the road in both directions. Cut off, Sir Roger and Declan drew their swords.
“It’s Morgant,” Rhys said mournfully.
Declan whispered an oath under his breath.
“That’s the bastard I disarmed at the ford.”
“Not our lucky day then,” Sir Roger whispered back.
“Do we fight, my lord?”
Sir Roger nodded.
“We kill him first,” the big Norman said grimly as he started to put the spurs to his mount. Declan laid a restraining hand on his arm.
“My lord…” he said and needed to say no more. For three of the riders had dismounted and were pointing longbows in their direction. Had it been swords on swords alone, a fight would have been worth the risk, but with no armour there was no chance against these archers. They would die before they struck a blow.
Morgant smiled grimly as he saw his quarry was snared. He rode up to Declan.
“You owe me a sword, English!” he growled.
“I told you, I’m Irish,” he said and offered his weapon, hilt-first to the man. The Welshman took it, then urged his horse in close and struck Declan a hard blow to the face that almost unhorsed him.
“Yer English scum in these parts.”
Sir Roger still held his broadsword in his hand and there was murder in his eyes as he saw Declan reel back in his saddle. It was Rhys who saved him. As the big man’s sword arm drew back, the Welsh boy seized it and held tight.
“My lord!” he hissed, “the bows.”
For a moment, Sir Roger reflexively fought to pull his arm free, but the Welsh archers had edged closer and only waited for a signal to bring down the knight. With a force of will, he let his arm fall to his side. Morgant rode up to him with a smirk on his face.
“Yer weapon.”
Sir Roger handed his sword over.
“And who are you, old man?”
Declan had recovered himself enough to see his master go stiff.
“I am Sir Roger de Laval, master of Shipbrook and vassal of Earl Ranulf of Chester. What is yer name, pup?”
Morgant bristled at the insult, but did not strike Sir Roger. Perhaps the Norman’s claim of connection to the powerful Earl of Chester gave him pause, or perhaps it was the murder that still lingered in the man’s eyes. He turned instead to Rhys, who offered up his sword without complaint.
“Welcome home, Rhys,” he said with a sneer. “Your father will be so pleased to see you!” Rhys made no reply and Morgant swung around in his saddle.
“Bind them!” he ordered.
Men leapt forward and quickly tied the hands of the three prisoners. With no further word, Morgant spurred his horse back along the trail as his men fell
in around their new prisoners. The men from Shipbrook had no choice but to follow. They rode a half mile to the edge of the village and continued through the darkened hamlet. The road led up a long slope to a small timber palisade, with torches burning above the gate. Morgant led the troop inside and dismounted. Taking up most of the interior of the crude little fort was a rather grand hall. From the large arched door of the dwelling, a tall man emerged.
“Talfryn,” Rhys whispered to Sir Roger, which brought a quick cuff to his head from the nearest guard.
Morgant gave his master a short bow and pointed to his prisoners.
“It seems your son, the thief, has returned and brought henchmen with him, my lord!” he said in triumph.
In the torchlight, it was hard to read the expression on Talfryn’s face, but when he spoke there was grim satisfaction in his voice.
“So, the young snake I held close to my bosom has come back to bite me once more! Were the tithes you stole not rich enough for you, son, that you should return for more and bring these brigands with you?”
“You know well, I stole no tithes,” Rhys snarled at the man. “Ask old Tomas. After your men waylaid me on the trail, I threw the bag to him as I passed through town.”
Talfryn came down the short set of steps to the muddy courtyard and looked up at Rhys, shaking his head sadly.
“My men reported no such meeting with you on the trail, Rhys, but I did get a report of you galloping through the town on the day you were to deliver the silver to the fathers at St. Asaph’s. Old Tomas swears you dropped an empty bag at his feet and fled onward.
“That’s a lie,” Rhys said bitterly.
Talfryn shrugged.
“Old Tomas, bless his soul, will testify otherwise.”
“What did that cost you?” the boy shot back.
“Deny what you will, Rhys, you left with the money and it did not reach the church. You were seen fleeing and now you’ve returned in the dead of night, with these two, who are no doubt outlaws.”
