by Clint Dohmen
Kojiro looked around the castle. Situated on a ridge with steep slopes on either side, the stone castle was small, but its towers were tall and the walls sturdy. Kojiro thought he could hold the place with a hundred men against thousands.
Waiting in the courtyard, and by all appearances somewhat nervously, was Lord Sir Thomas Bevan. Simon could see that Lord Bevan had aged gracefully and looked to be a fit sixty-five year old with the same unfortunate nose that he had given his son, but also with the same otherwise handsome features.
Lord Bevan was indeed nervous. He did not fear harm to himself, though. He was a fearless veteran of many campaigns for Welsh freedom, and had faced death many times, but he was afraid that he may not be able to protect his own family. Oh, he would die to prevent any harm coming to his favorite cousin’s child, English though he may be, but he feared that even his death and that of his household knights and archers would not be enough to save the poor bastard. He was a man who held familial bonds higher in honor than anything else.
Simon bowed to his mother’s cousin, who was flanked on either side by his household guard; five knights, all grim-faced and all carrying scars of battle on one part of their body or another. Most recognizable was the forty-year-old man who stood directly to Lord Bevan’s right, for one of his scars extended from the left corner of his mouth all the way up to his ear, giving the impression that he was permanently half-smiling even though the rest of his demeanor indicated anything but.
Lord Bevan’s standard of a brown, diving hunting hawk with legs extended, grasping a quiver of black arrows on a white background, stood flapping in the breeze behind the Lord himself. This coat-of-arms also decorated the tunics of his household guard. Lord Bevan bowed back to his first cousin once removed, a boy he really considered to be his nephew. “I cannot be happier to see my dear cousin’s child after all these years, nephew. Alas, I will tell you now, you were a fool to come here.”
I have been called a lot worse, Simon thought.
“We may all die within the walls of my castle tonight, but rest assured, myself and my men will die with you.” In spite of that rather ominous statement, not one of the men flanking Lord Bevan even blinked.
Simon noticed the lack of reaction and thought, That type of loyalty is earned neither quickly nor lightly.
His uncle carried on. “Just so we are clear, and I instructed my son to tell you this, Sir Rhys Ap Thomas and two hundred of his men also enjoy my hospitality at the moment. You may have noticed the three-bird decoration that a heavy majority of the men-at-arms walking my castle grounds sport on their tunics. That is his coat of arms.
“As for myself, you see the only five knights that my overtaxed lands can afford standing next to me, and other than my son, I have nothing but the peasant levy to support me. They would be no match for Thomas’ professional soldiers.”
Simon understood his uncle’s meaning full well. They had no hope of battling their way out.
Then his uncle smiled. “But, be it our last day before joining the Lord in his grace or not, I’ll be damned if you don’t get the full hospitality that I offered you as a child.”
Simon did not think the Lord Bevan appreciated the irony in that statement.
Sir Thomas Bevan and his knights began to lead them across the open castle grounds towards what Simon remembered to be the dining hall, but they were stopped halfway across the courtyard by a tall, dark-haired, muscular man who sported a tremendous mustache. The man was accompanied by ten retainers; all outfitted with the same three-bird tunics that the tall man wore.
“Sir Bevan,” the man’s voice boomed. “Who do we have here now?”
“Rhys Ap Thomas, this is my dear cousin’s boy, Simon Lang.”
“Ah, then that would have been your father that died at Towton, would it not?”
“It would,” Simon answered, as politely as he could.
“And I can see from your shield that you proudly display the red rose of Lancaster beside my beloved dragon of Wales, which clearly means you must have a giant set of balls.”
Simon said nothing in reply but looked Rhys up and down, deciding where he would strike.
Kojiro looked at the ten men with the three-bird heraldry decorating their Western armor, working out how he would kill them. He knew Simon would manage their leader and he figured Aldo was good for one or two, Neno for three or four, so that only left somewhere between four and six.
Rhys’ voice boomed again. “You land in a nation ruled by King Richard, and yet you have the red rose of Lancaster on your shield. Did you get lost? Brittany and France are well south of here. And I hear you’re English to boot, so the red dragon on your surcoat is a lie.”
“Me? Lost?” Simon chuckled. “Hardly. These are the lands of my family. It seems you are lost. I’ve heard of you, too. In fact I’ve heard that you yourself fought for the red rose in the past.”
“Yes, the past,” Rhys swiftly interrupted.
Simon continued. “And you’ve been exiled to Brittany as well for your troubles. I’ve also heard that since you refused to join the rebellion of 1483, you’ve been given titles and money by Richard. Well, if King Richard doesn’t like me being here, he should send someone capable of doing something about it. And I can tell you now, some country bumpkin who has been bribed to betray his own country is not that person.”
Insolent bastard, Rhys thought.
“Oh, and you’re a lot shorter than the stories make you out to be.” Simon made this remark in spite of the fact that Rhys was actually slightly taller than he had thought from the stories and a good few inches taller than Simon himself. Simon smiled widely after his comments and bowed while Rhys’ retinue all reached for their swords.
Rhys motioned for his men to leave their weapons sheathed as he looked Simon up and down, wondering what type of man this was who clearly did not fear him. He sneered. “By all rights I should hang you. You are doubtless a minion of Henry Tudor.” And at the mention of hanging their lord’s favorite nephew, Sir Thomas Bevan’s five retainers all reached for their sword hilts, outnumbered though they were.
Sir Bevan motioned for his men to still their blades. “You enjoy my hospitality, Rhys, and you ask for my archers. I will not have you hang my cousin’s child.”
“He talks big, Sir Bevan, yet I’ve heard nothing of his exploits in the wars. Is there any justification for this bravado that I’m hearing now from the whippersnapper?”
Simon did not give Sir Bevan a chance to answer. “I have no exploits to speak of,” Simon lied, “but neither do I feel the need to share my stories with an over-famous Welsh sheep shagger.”
“You insolent English twat!” Rhys exclaimed, breaking out with an extremely deep and hearty laugh, catching everyone off-guard. “No respect for your ancestry, I see. A common fault among you English pricks.” There was a pause. “I have an idea.”
“Wonderful,” Simon said with a hint of sarcasm, “the Welsh are widely known for their ideas.”
“Show me some of your Welsh heritage, and I won’t hang you.”
Rhys called to one of the hundred or so of his men who had by now surrounded the group, and in short order, a Welsh longbow appeared in his hand. “I want to see you hit that,” Rhys said as he pointed to a straw dummy at least a hundred yards across the castle grounds.
Simon considered carefully. He didn’t know if Rhys truly intended to hang him or not, which of course would never happen. He’d die fighting. Unfortunately, based on what he’d seen and heard from his dear uncle and his retinue, his friends and relatives would die fighting, too.
“To hang me, you presuppose that I would not cut off your nuts first, but if you wish to see a display of archery, I will happily grant you one.”
Of course the game was fixed. There wasn’t a chance in hell that Simon could hit the designated target. Simon was immensely strong, but pulling a longbow required a special kind of strength. To even pull a Welsh longbow to its full extension took years of practice, trai
ning, and an almost unnatural strengthening of the shoulder muscles.
Simon thought he probably had the strength to pull it fully once, but there was a significant chance his arrow would sail clean over the castle wall or skip across the ground. As for actually getting near the target, it wasn’t going to happen. He and Rhys both knew it.
Rhys smiled a genuinely pleasant smile. Not the smile of a man that was about to hang him, but then again, you never knew. Simon had met people who didn’t feel any emotions at all, people who faked emotions to get along in life, but who could run their sword through the belly of a pregnant woman or split open the head of an infant with an axe without blinking an eye. Perhaps Rhys was one of those people.
Simon thought quickly. “I am an English knight and lord, and your test is too easy for me. And besides being too easy, it is the job of a peasant or a farmer to pull a bowstring. But, as I said, if you wish to see a display of archery, I will show you one. I will have my smallest, weakest servant hit your target, and afterwards, if you still desire to make empty threats, I will happily slice you from arsehole to earlobe.”
Rhys laughed again. He was starting to like this Englishman. He looked over at the most pitiful-looking man in Simon’s retinue, a man with strange, small eyes who was dressed like a sailor but didn’t stand like one. That man was clearly the lowly peasant that Simon referred to, and there was no way he hid enough muscle underneath his loose-fitting shirt to pull a longbow, much less hit the target. “Give the bow to the wee little man. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have your knight give it a try? He looks a stout fellow,” Rhys asked as he pointed the hilt of his sword at Neno.
Knight? I quite like the sound of that, Neno thought to himself as he unconsciously looked around him, feeling awkward at being identified above his station.
“No. That wouldn’t be fair to you; much too easy for him as well.”
Rhys gave the dark-skinned man a second, more thorough look. He had the uneasy feeling he was falling into a trap, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what it might be. The peasant was a foreigner without question, but that just made it less likely he could shoot a longbow. Everyone in the world knew you had to grow up with a longbow to know how to shoot one, and only the English and Welsh did that. Regardless, he had no option now. “Let’s see what he can do then.”
“It’s far, can I have four tries?” Kojiro asked.
Rhys nearly bent over in laughter. Simon kept a straight face, but his asshole puckered tightly. Simon had seen Japanese archery skills, but maybe it was not a talent of Kojiro’s?
Rhys knew the game was his now. Either you could shoot a longbow or you couldn’t. There would be no ‘beginner’s luck’ on a target at a hundred yards. And if you couldn’t hit it the first time, you wouldn’t be able to hit it on the fourth try either.
“Sure, give him four tries. If he can’t hit the target in four tries, your servant hangs beside you. You must introduce me to this other well-dressed man with you; I understand his ship flies the flag of Venice?”
“It does indeed, and he is a merchant among merchants. If I don’t have to kill you, I will be pleased to make the introductions,” Simon offered. Then all attention turned to Kojiro who was fumbling as he tried to fit an arrow to the string of a Welsh longbow.
Simon could not control the lump that formed in his throat. Rhys’ men began to join their leader in his good humor.
All at once, though, the laughter stopped. It didn’t slowly trail off; it just stopped, as if everyone in the courtyard had their tongues removed at once. Not even breathing could be heard as Kojiro drew the enormous Welsh bow fully back to his ear with what appeared to be no more effort than if he were plucking a harp string. When he released the first arrow, the entire gathering, Simon included, snapped their heads at once in the direction of the target.
The arrow buried itself into the head of the dummy. Everyone turned to watch Kojiro load his second arrow, but by the time they turned their heads, his second arrow was already sailing downrange. The second arrow pierced the heart of the dummy.
Now half the crowd looked at Kojiro and half the crowd looked at the target. None of them ever saw the full process from arrow fitting to target penetration because it was just too fast. The half of Rhys’ men-at-arms and knights who had been watching Kojiro and not the target jerked their heads immediately as they heard an audible groan from the crowd that had been watching the target. Kojiro had sent his third arrow right into the location on the target, had it been a real human being, that would have been occupied by his balls.
When the fourth arrow did not immediately follow the third, all eyes turned quickly to Kojiro to see what the problem was. The gaiety amongst Rhys Ap Thomas’ men subsided as everyone saw that the fourth arrow was pulled fully to Kojiro’s ear and aimed directly at Rhys’s face. At a distance of no more than five feet, the plate armor-piercing, bodkin-tipped arrow would likely enter the front of Rhys’s face and exit the back of his skull, and there wasn’t anything anybody could do about it. After all, the only thing Kojiro had to do was stop holding the pressure of two hundred pounds of pull weight, and Rhys would cease to breathe air.
Rhys’ men were loyal men, experienced in battle, and to a man they drew swords and fit arrows. They did know better, however, after the demonstration that they had just witnessed, to do any more than that.
“I’m afraid I’ve been cheated, Lang,” Rhys opined.
“You have indeed been cheated, Rhys. I’m an Englishman. My word is not my bond. My word is only but a tool, much like a sword or an, ahem, arrow, that I use for my purposes. This man is a warrior the like of which I’ve never seen, and he will put that arrow straight through your eye and likely clear through your brain if I ask him to.”
Rhys swallowed and turned his head from the tip of the arrow towards Simon. “You know that I have always been friendly towards Lancastrians.”
“Really?” Simon queried.
“The Yorkists razed my family’s castle of Carreg Cennen when I was a child, and my grandfather was killed at the battle of Mortimer’s Cross fighting for the Lancastrians.”
“So you will fight for Henry?” Simon asked.
“My loyalty has always been with the Welsh, not the monarch in London,” Rhys said cryptically.
“What about the land Richard gave you?”
“I accepted title, money, and land because I would be mad not to. I pledged my allegiance to Richard because it was the only way to stop him from holding my son hostage in London.”
“And the oath?” Simon said carefully, looking into the unblinking eyes of Rhys.
How the hell does he know about that? Rhys wondered.
“Ah, the oath. I did pledge that any invasion of Wales by Henry would have to take place over my body.”
“It seems we have a problem, then, if you are a man of your oath.”
“I am a man of my oath,” Rhys said soberly. He paused. “But I will find a way to resolve this delicate problem.”
Simon studied him suspiciously. The Welsh were a clever folk; savage and rustic, but clever. He gave a nod, and Kojiro lowered the bow. Rhys’ men heaved a collective sigh of relief.
Rhys smiled. “I think a drink is in order. What say you?”
“Do they still serve disgusting Welsh ale around here?” Simon asked.
“Indeed they do. I’d love to hear more of this peasant servant of yours over a drink.”
Chapter 33
GRATEFUL THAT HIS favorite cousin’s son was not going to be hanged, at least not yet, Sir Thomas Bevan had a feast the likes of which were not normally seen outside of Christmas or Easter. Pigs and sheep were roasted over spits, quail and pheasant baked in his wood-fired kitchen ovens along with fresh bread. The vegetables from his tenant farms were boiled in giant pots until all the taste was leeched out of them and they reached mushy English perfection.
Sir Thomas Bevan was not yet convinced his nephew was safe, though, and it being his feasting hal
l where he was lord, his five armed knights stood behind him at the head of the table. Sober, grim-faced, armed, and armored, they did not partake in any of the festivities. Though they were far overmatched by the two hundred of Rhys’s men feasting in the hall, the point was not lost.
Rhys recognized that Lord Bevan was first and foremost loyal to his familial bonds, and he liked that. Not only do the best archers in Wales come from this area, he thought to himself, but they are loyal and stubborn against all odds, as every Welshman should be. Rhys, two of his men, and Simon sat next to Lord Bevan at the head of the U in the table, and Duncan, Aldo, and Kojiro sat next to them. On the two sides of the U, the remainder of Rhys’ men, Neno, some of the Triarii’s crew, and some local Welsh chieftains sat.
“Sir Bevan, I am sad that your knights are not able to join in this glorious feasting that you have prepared for us,” Rhys stated, knowing full well that Lord Bevan meant to demonstrate through their presence that he and he alone ruled in his lands.
“Alas, I wish I could allow them to join us, Rhys, but unfortunately, they must later patrol the grounds to ensure there are no English spies among us,” Sir Bevan blatantly lied.
“A righteous and necessary undertaking no doubt,” Rhys grinned at the explanation. “So, Mr. Lord, Sir Simon Lang,” Rhys exaggerated the importance of Simon’s heritage, “what brings you to the service of our dear Henry?”
Simon was well aware by now that Rhys Ap Thomas must have been in some communication with Henry but was likely still playing the field with his loyalty. He decided to skip the hogwash with this man who was clearly capable of producing his own copious amounts of bullshit. “Bent-Back Dick keeps trying to kill me.” Simon had never met Richard in person and had no personal knowledge of his rumored spinal deformity, but that was no reason to hold back on the disparaging remarks.
“Really?” Rhys roared, honestly surprised. “Well I’ll be damned. I knew he was a paranoid prick, but I had no idea his assassination list ran so low!” With this little bit of humor, Rhys laughed heartily. “So you’re some type of pre-invasion scouting force or something like that?”
