by Robyn Young
Humphrey turned as Robert halted. ‘Come on.’
‘Not until you tell me where we’re going. You don’t even have a sword yourself.’
Humphrey’s rigid face flooded with anger. He strode to Robert, coming right up in his face. ‘Why did you do it? I warned you not to!’
‘Do what?’ Robert demanded, his own anger building with the confusion.
‘Helena.’
Robert went silent, the shock of the name hanging between them. ‘How did you know?’ His voice had thickened.
‘Aymer,’ said Humphrey caustically. ‘He saw her leaving the tower.’
‘She told him?’ murmured Robert disbelievingly. Helena stood to be in almost as much trouble as him if caught.
‘Aymer guessed something having seen you both. He made her confirm it for him.’
‘Made her?’ Robert said sharply.
‘He threatened to go to her father if she didn’t tell him the truth. Was it some reckless game, Robert, like the ones your brother plays? Is this how things are done in your family? In Scotland?’
Robert stared at him. In all the months he had known Humphrey he had never caught anything in his tone that disparaged his homeland, unlike some of the others. It pricked him through the shock.
Humphrey seemed to realise he had gone too far, for his voice lost some of its vehemence. ‘Didn’t you think you might get caught?’
‘Did Aymer tell her father?’ Now the initial blow had faded, reality was settling coldly in Robert. The Earl of Warwick had the king’s ear. He might well have jeopardised his place here, having only just secured it through his induction into the order. The concern wasn’t new; he’d had it since the first feverish moment with Helena, but after his initiation he had been feeling somewhat invincible and had convinced himself no one would discover his secret. It was true then, what poets and priests said: a woman could destroy a man better than any blade. He thought of Eve with her apple and he thought of his father, marrying his mother without the king’s permission – passion had almost lost him his lands.
‘No,’ answered Humphrey, quietly now. ‘He told her brother.’
With the sword’s solid weight against his leg, Robert realised what Humphrey was leading him to.
‘I couldn’t stop it,’ said Humphrey, reading his changing face. ‘I tried, but the others . . .’ He drew a breath. ‘Guy has been a part of our circle for four years and his father is a member of the Round Table. He demanded justice that wouldn’t ruin his sister in the process. It was agreed it should be served.’
Robert felt a tightening sensation in his chest, but he wrapped his hand around the hilt of his sword, determination lengthening his stride. This was his doing, yes. But he wouldn’t pay for it with his life. Not willingly.
Humphrey led the way down through the corner tower and out into the gardens that were set on a terrace between the castle’s inner and outer walls, the latter rising above the rocks over the river. Passing four guards, one of whom nodded discreetly to Humphrey, they headed out through the gate on to the stone ramp that curved around the rocks to the wooden pier. For a moment, Robert thought Humphrey meant for them to board a boat, but as they turned a pillar of rock he saw torchlight on the pier illuminating a group of men. One, in their centre, was swinging a sword back and forth. Robert glanced over his shoulder, realising that apart from the four guards at the gatehouse and a small section of the walkway far above, the pier was hidden from view. This wasn’t the way duels were usually fought, without arbiter, without judgement.
The wind chased white peaks across the surface of the river. Robert blew into his hands, trying to breathe warmth into his rigid fingers. Guy would have had time to loosen up already, but his own muscles were stiff. Humphrey led the way on to the pier, the sound of his boots moving from stone to wood loud on the expectant quiet, broken only by the water sloshing around the rocks. At the end an empty boat swung to and fro, grating against the boards. The men turned to look at them. Guy stopped swinging his sword and stood still, his hair, red like his sister’s, burnished by the light of the torches that lit the pier. The knight’s gaze was hooded, his anger pent up, ready to be released in the fight. Thomas and Henry were there, along with Ralph and the others. Robert’s eyes came to rest on Aymer de Valence. Loathing flooded him at the sight of the knight’s hard face. Aymer looked eager, as if he were hungry for this.
Humphrey moved in front, breaking his view. ‘Sir Guy, are you ready?’
Guy nodded once, his gaze not leaving Robert’s. He was dressed in a black shirt that came down to his thighs, beneath which he wore woollen hose and hide boots criss-crossed with thongs of leather to hold the soft material in place. His sword belt, studded with silver, was double-looped around his waist and he wore leather gloves.
Humphrey looked between the two men. ‘You will fight until first blood.’ He spoke loudly, so all the group could hear. ‘The victor will then decide the terms of his opponent’s surrender.’ Pulling off his gloves, he lowered his voice. ‘Here,’ he said, handing them to Robert, ‘these should help.’
The royal knight Robert Clifford came forward, bearing two bucklers as Robert drew on the gloves, warm from Humphrey’s hands, the leather wrinkled. He took one of the small shields Clifford passed to him, grasping the handle in the centre of the disc, the front of which was bowl-shaped. Robert hadn’t used a buckler since his training days with Yothre. In comparison to the large, tapering shield he bore when mounted it felt incredibly small, leaving most of his body exposed to a strike. He remembered Yothre barking at him on Turnberry beach after he’d been knocked flat on his back, the buckler on the sand beside him and the pugnacious man shouting that one of his sisters would hold the shield better. How many times had his instructor punched in through his defences? Robert forced away the thought as he faced Guy. The mist of rain had grown heavier, darkening their clothes. Drops of water sputtered and hissed as they hit the torch flames.
Robert drew his broadsword. The blade’s length was balanced by a ball-shaped pommel of bronze, stained turquoise with use, and the grip, of bound leather wrapped around bone, was worn. The weapon had been presented to him at his knighting by his grandfather, who had carried it into battle in the Holy Land. The steel was from Damascus, the strongest in the world and the sword, his grandfather told him, had been christened with the blood of Saracens. Guy’s sword looked newer, the blade longer, the teardrop pommel larger to compensate. His grip was bound in red and yellow cord, the colours of the Beauchamp arms. The weapon looked comfortable in his right hand, the buckler covering his left. Robert gave his sword a few turns, using his thumb as a lever, spinning it first this way then that, keeping his wrist loose. He lunged a couple of times, finding his footing on the pier boards and stretching the taut muscles in his thighs. Then he moved back and was still, his eyes fixed on Guy.
Humphrey’s voice sounded. ‘The duel may begin.’
Guy didn’t wait, but came straight in, swinging his sword in a fierce arc directed at Robert’s neck. Robert brought his blade up quickly to block and the weapons crashed in a concussion of steel. He shoved forward, forcing Guy’s sword away to regain his space. The knight was pushed back a few paces, but retaliated immediately, giving Robert little chance to recover. Their weapons collided again as Guy struck at Robert’s side.
In this way, they went at one another for several minutes, Guy attacking, furious and rapid, Robert defending strongly. The torches glowed in the faces of the watching men, Aymer’s teeth flashing white as he grinned, enjoying Guy’s rage-fuelled assault. Neither Robert nor Guy saw them, all their attention focused on one another, as they hammered and hacked and blocked, the rain now dashing their faces. Humphrey had said until first blood only, but Guy’s brutal strokes, if any struck, would do far worse.
Robert tossed back his fringe that was dripping rainwater into his eyes, the pier’s boards becoming slippery underfoot. Guy lunged at his chest. Robert smashed the blade away with his shield, the crack har
sh on the air. As he did so, he felt a hot rush that burned away any lingering sense of compunction, along with his intent to follow Humphrey’s instruction. He had felt it before, in training: a burst of something ferocious that crackled inside him – a desire to win. His pride was at stake here, his reputation and perhaps even his life. Guy was angry, that was what fuelled him, but anger made a man rash. A man could only use anger for so long in a fight like this. It would make him tire quickly, each blow expending more energy than necessary. If Robert used that against him, he could beat him. He could win.
Recovering well, he pressed in with his own attack, forcing Guy to counter. The red-haired knight snarled through clenched teeth as he fought him off. Robert’s lips peeled back in a grin than only goaded the knight more, until he was spitting curses as they clashed, sparks shooting from the blades in tiny slivers of metal, heated red-hot by the vicious impact. Robert heard Humphrey shouting at them, but he ignored the knight’s sharp reminder of the rules. Exhilaration and determination pulsed through him, making him crave that win, even if he had to kill the man in front of him to achieve it.
As he feinted left, Guy swung to follow, then Robert switched back fast and pressed in. His foot stamped down as he lunged, but his boot slipped on the wet boards, unbalancing him in mid-strike. Guy brought his sword slashing back towards him, seeing the opening. The blades met in a screech of metal. Guy pushed in, using his body’s weight to jam Robert’s sword down with his blade, while he punched up with his buckler. Robert had time to see the circle of steel sailing towards his face, then he ducked to one side and brought his own shield up to crack away Guy’s hand. The rim of the buckler caught Guy’s wrist, flinging his arm wide and making him shout in pain. He wheeled away, causing some of the watching men to fall back. Gathering shield and sword to his centre again, he barrelled in, intent on battering Robert to the ground.
Robert raised his sword against an overhead chop to his head, the blades making a cross in mid-air. Guy growled as he shoved down with all his might. Robert dodged suddenly. Pivoting under Guy’s now sharp falling thrust, he slammed his buckler into the knight’s stomach. Guy doubled up over the punch. The breath rushing from him, he collapsed to his knees in the wet, dropping his sword. He flung up his buckler, expectant of a blow to the head, but Robert didn’t strike. Instead, he stepped back, licking salt from his lips and pushing his wet hair from his eyes. The watching men were hushed. Humphrey stepped in, clearly ready to end it, but Henry Percy caught his arm. After a moment, Guy snatched up his sword and staggered to his feet, grimacing with the effort. Both men were drenched, lines of water and sweat streaking their faces.
Silent now, except for his wheezing breaths, Guy moved in. He struck again, three fierce, rapid blows, designed to hammer through Robert’s defences. But Robert was ready. With all those beatings and taunts on the sands of Turnberry, Yothre had trained him well, as had his grandfather. He could see the defeat in his opponent’s eyes, the awful tiredness, the crushing pain in his arm and shoulder, from the weight of the sword. Robert felt those things too, but he had not used as much energy in that first burst of attacks as Guy had. Slower, more reasoned strokes had left him with just enough to finish it. On the fourth strike, he caught Guy’s sword between his blade and his buckler, then wrenched to one side, pulling Guy with him. Kicking out as they were both hunched over, he caught the knight above the knee. Guy’s leg buckled and gave way, sending him crashing to the boards. This time, Robert stamped down on the sword, crushing Guy’s fingers beneath it. He flicked his blade to Guy’s throat, where it wavered, rain dripping from it. Guy stared up its length from his knees, meeting Robert’s storm-blue eyes. He closed his in defeat.
Robert stepped back and raised his head to the sky, taking in lungfuls of air.
‘It is done,’ said Humphrey. His voice was tight, but the respect in his eyes was unmistakable as he met Robert’s gaze. ‘Sir Robert is the victor. You must now decide the terms of Sir Guy’s surrender.’
Robert shook his head, struggling through his breaths. ‘I don’t want anything from him.’
Some of the knights frowned, surprised. Guy was breathing through his teeth, his gaze fixed on Robert as if he wanted nothing more than to continue the fight even though he could barely stand.
‘You won the duel, Robert,’ said Humphrey. ‘You have the right.’
‘He owes me nothing. But this is over,’ Robert added to Guy. He meant the dispute, as well as the trysts with Helena.
Guy stared at him. After a moment, he nodded, seeming to understand. Aymer de Valence crossed to him, his face tight, but Guy pushed him away angrily and rose, handing his buckler to Clifford. As Aymer looked over at him, Robert realised the duel had been his idea. Meeting the knight’s vicious gaze, he smiled coldly in triumph.
32
The train of men wound slowly through bare hills. To the right the brittle grass stretched into brown fields that sloped towards the sea, while to the left the ground rose steeply into tree-tangled summits.
Near the front of the train rode King Edward, his destrier sure-footed on the frost-bitten ground. Bayard, his favourite, was a huge, muscular warhorse, a necessity considering his burden. A quilted caparison covered the animal from head to tail, hiding a skirt of mail that swayed stiff about his legs. On top of the trapper, which took two grooms to haul over the beast’s back, was the wooden saddle in which the king sat at ease, the horse taking the weight of his armour: a long-sleeved mail hauberk, over which he wore a coat of plates, buckled at his back. Leather gauntlets, covered with more steel plates, protected his hands and mail chausses his legs. The upper ranks of Edward’s army, with him in the vanguard, were similarly dressed, whereas the infantry made do with tunics of boiled leather or gambesons stuffed with straw. But all, high or low, wore armour of some kind, for they were deep in hostile lands, Madog and his men lurking somewhere in these frozen hills.
Four days earlier, Edward’s scouts brought him the news he had been impatient for. The enemy had been sighted south of Caernarfon, not far from the village of Nefyn. Gathering his knights around his table, he had announced his decision to move out. A few of them had cautioned against this, fearing the weather could turn any day and the snow, threatening for weeks, would finally fall. More were keen to wait for the other companies to meet up with them from the south so that they might strike out in strength. The Earl of Pembroke, fresh from a successful attack on a group of rebels who had laid siege to an English-held castle near Cardiff, had bolstered their number, but there were several more divisions yet to join them.
Edward had poured scorn on the implication that his army, mostly made up of heavy cavalry, couldn’t stand against an inferior force of insurgents, armed with spears and short bows. He was angered by their reticence, for he had spoken of his fears ten years earlier around the very same table, the wood newly carved with the names of Arthur’s knights. He had told them then of the necessity of securing the crown that had united Wales. Now, his fears had been proven right. The Crown of Arthur had risen on the head of another, as predicted, and the country was aflame with rebellion. Madog must be put down, yes. But, more importantly, the crown must be seized.
The next day the king’s company left Conwy, heading down the thin coastal strip between Snowdonia and the sea. The first town they came to was Caernarfon.
Edward knew his greatest fortress had been attacked: all the reports had told him so. He had steeled himself, expecting to be greeted with damage, but he had not been prepared for the scene of total devastation that met him. The town was visible for several miles before the English army reached it, the destruction slowly unfolding before their eyes, the men becoming hushed with disbelief. Caernarfon’s walls were battered into rubble in places, gashes torn through the fortified line as if slashed open by the claws of some giant. The town beyond was unrecognisable. Houses were blackened ruins, the trees in the orchards charred stumps. The sour smell of smoke still haunted the air.
Edward had
ridden through the ruins, his eyes on his castle; the birthplace of his son and heir. There were scores of bodies in the ditch below the walls, the flesh mutilated by scavengers. Crows circled the battlements, death’s shadows in the winter sky. Two skeletal forms, wearing the tattered remains of surcoats recognisable as belonging to the constable and local sheriff, were strung from one of the towers. Cawing birds hopped on the parapet close by, wary of the men moving below, yet keen for the last scraps of their meal.
Inside the castle the ground was thick with debris: crumbled masonry, spent arrows, more corpses, of men and horses. There were heaps of timbers where roofs of buildings had collapsed in flames. To Edward it had seemed another life when he had stood here last. Back then he had ridden in to the din of drums and trumpets, a victory song in the mouths of his men. The land had been golden with summer and his wife had been at his side, her perfume sweetening the air. Wales had been in his control, his enemies dead or captured. His boy, Alfonso, had been alive in London and his thoughts had teemed with the future, the carpenter already carving the wood for his table. Standing there in the midst of the smoking devastation, the fallen castle felt like the ruin of his reign. He had stayed less than an hour in the wreckage, before turning his back on the sight and heading south towards Nefyn, murder in his mind.
The sound of laughter distracted the king from the brooding memory. Turning to seek its cause, Edward saw Humphrey de Bohun and Henry Percy close behind him at the head of a group of young knights. Humphrey was speaking, a grin on his face. Seeing their youthful high spirits, despite the grave circumstances, Edward felt a sharp nostalgia. The day was fading for him and his men, cold twilight approaching. Bold midday was for the young bloods, these knights who would soon take the place of their fathers around his table, or the table of his son. In their faces, unlined with age or grief, Edward saw the future and the past: his past, their future. They were stalwart men, loyal and keen, but as yet untested in battle, like molten metal in a sword mould, all fire and heat, but no structure, not yet cooled and tempered to steel.
