A Lord for Haughmond

by K. C. Helms

  Hope Castle fell, followed by the castle at Ewloe. Anglesey became Edward’s next objective. He planned to link the island with the mainland by a bridge of boats, and establish an invasion route into Prince Llywelyn’s stronghold of Snowdonia.

  Boats had been ordered but were too large for the ships to transport them. Edward was furious.

  Dafydd found himself strapped with the responsibility to remedy the complicated operation. It did not please him one whit, for it took him from the fighting and necessitated retracing his journey to Chester, where he must needs purchase stouter vessels and hire more carpenters. His frustration grew all the more, being so nigh to Haughmond, yet held by his duties to the old Roman city. A warrior did not undertake the role of chandler without some burthen.

  Chafing at the enforced inactivity, his thoughts strayed oft to Katherine. Was she safe? Was she well? What did she do with her time? Her daily routine was unknown to him, for she never responded to his daily missives sent by private courier.

  At last they sailed for Anglesey with the refitted ships. But it had cost Edward dearly. ’Twas well past summer when they reached their destination and commenced work on the floating bridge.

  In the mean time, raids from both sides had taken their toll. But little had been accomplished, only that while Dafydd languished in Chester, Queen Eleanor had delivered a daughter at Rhuddlan Castle.

  By the time he landed at Anglesey, the king was anxious to review battle plans. He was just as happy to share his joy at the birth of a healthy child. Edward’s humility at the safe deliverance of his beloved queen showed in his voice. And with his usual vigor the king was already planning alliances. He drew Dafydd into a lively discussion of possible husbands for this newest babe, Elizabeth.

  ’Twas a painful experience, a reminder that Katherine would erelong birth her own babe. Would she be delivered safely? Would the child be healthy?

  Would it be a boy?

  Shaken to his soul, Dafydd knew ’twould be an ordeal for them both, the day Katherine’s babe came into this world.

  Edward’s command swelled as more foot soldiers and cavalry joined his ranks. In the south of Wales, William de Valence conducted a successful raid. Another skirmish brought Ruthin to its knees, while the garrison of Cardigan landed a large booty when they surprised Gruffydd ap Maredudd ap Owain. ’Twas claimed a great many cattle were taken, along with some grateful English captives.

  Dafydd shook his head at the figure. Three thousand horses? Clearly an exaggeration.

  Never had he felt the limits of his frustration so thoroughly than at Anglesey. Not only was he missing the excitement of combat, but also confined by mundane duties that allowed his concern for Katherine to hinder his thoughts and judgment. Did her condition allow for a hearty appetite? With the responsibility of the castle and its people on her shoulders, did she manage proper rest?

  Was she content?

  He sighed wearily. ’Twas not comforting, the niggling suspicion she may have, indeed, found peace in his absence.

  With colder days, the insurgents retreated into the fast Welsh mountains. Luke De Tany, commander of the troops at Anglesey, had done his best to prevent supplies from reaching them. But his spies were certain the chieftains were successful in setting aside winter provisions.

  Trying to end the stalemate and the battle of wills, Edward offered Prince Llywelyn an English earldom if he would hand over Snowdonia. But English destruction of Welsh churches and the slaughter of its people, suckling babes included, put an abrupt end to the discussions. In an angry letter Llywelyn refused to fetter his people with servitude.

  The tales abounding through the ranks of the army sickened Dafydd. Innocents were not part of the fight. A warrior set on battle expected attack. Women and children did not. And dear Katherine, she was as vulnerable, if Sir Geoffrey had his way.

  Daily he struggled to keep his mind on the tasks at hand. The bridge building was progressing to his satisfaction, though. Surveying the construction, he inhaled the cold November air. Yea, the structure did look sturdy, floating as it was intended on the waters of the Menai Strait. They would be done in a few more days and this grueling duty would be finished, God be thanked. Overseeing engineers and laborers had not made these months more bearable, even with Edward’s exalted praise.

  A sigh escaped his lips. Katherine’s time of confinement approached. Watching the water of the strait, gray and dark, reflecting the dreary cold day, Dafydd hoped the king would release him. He must needs be at Haughmond. With the birth of his own babe so fresh within his memory, the king must be merciful and grant him leave.

  A shout of laughter punctuated the air and a mounted soldier trotted onto the floating bridge. Beckoning with exuberance, he encouraged others to join him.

  Concerned for the safety of the men on the unfinished structure, Dafydd hastened down to the beach. A festive air had taken hold of the work camp these past days. But this was no way to celebrate. The bridge sagged beneath the weight of additional soldiers and horses.

  “Hold!” he called. The wind threw his voice back at him. He waved his arms and motioned for the enthusiastic soldiers to return. They merely laughed and gestured for him to join them and continued further across the bridge.

  The cold rushing water soaked through the stitching of his boots. Suddenly aware of the danger, leaping back from the rising surf, he shouted and flailed his arms frantically.

  ’Twas too late. The incoming tide swelled and covered the bridge.

  The swift tidal current swept the soldiers into the icy black water. Floundering, horses whinnied, trying to keep their heads above the churning surf. But they were weighed down with heavy armor. Laughter turned to desperate shouts. The tide rolled in. Bobbing heads disappeared beneath the water’s surface.

  Figures appeared on the far shore of Snowdonia. Welsh long bows sent a barrage of arrows toward the water. The hapless soldiers struggling to stay afloat were cut down, butchered to a man.

  ’Twas over in a moment. The Welsh retreated back into the forest as quickly as they had come. The far shore was empty again.

  Dafydd stood in numbed shock.

  Blinking, unable to believe his eyes, there was naught to see, except the churning surf, eddying and crashing across the strait. The silence—deafening, sickening—was broken by frantic shouts from the stunned soldiers behind him, who raced along the shore in a futile search for survivors. With his stomach resembling that churning tide, he forced down the bitter taste in the back of his mouth and willed himself not to be sick in front of his men.

  * * *

  Two days later they were yet plucking corpses from the surf.

  Bodies continued to wash up with each new tide, the air pungent with the stench of the dead. Armor, salvaged from the bloated corpses, was set aside. The remains were buried two and three to a grave. But many soldiers were never recovered, their bodies washed out to sea.

  Dafydd stood on the beach with his heart in his throat. The cursed water was calm at the moment, unlike the daily tides that roared in from the sea. Such a waste of English bravado. God humbled mankind in the most startling manner.

  He caught his breath, suddenly realizing the enormity of the disaster. His sword hand began to shake.

  Rhys’s transgressions would plague him no more.

  A weight the size of Wales lifted from his shoulders. But tears burned in his eyes as he realized the pain this meant for Katherine.

  Falling to his knees, he offered up a desperate prayer of thanksgiving.

  * * *

  Dafydd was astounded when Sir Geoffrey entered his tent that same evening. His father was late in joining the muster due to a shortage of mounts for his household knights. But a portion of his prayer had been answered—God be thanked, with his father here Katherine was safe for the time being.

  “How many died?” Sir Geoffrey asked, after the briefest of greetings. He heard about the accident on his way through the camp and seemed more intrigued than horrified.
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  “I have not asked.” Dafydd shook his head. “Newly arrived Gascon soldiers did not know any better. They encouraged others to follow them.”

  “I heard ’twas close to three hundred. A terrible loss.”

  “What brings you to Anglesey, Sir Geoffrey?” He changed the subject, not willing to dwell on the tragedy. “You were able to find a suitable mount?”

  “Mayhap.” His father lounged against a wooden chest. “My stallion is young and not thoroughly trained.”

  “That could prove dangerous.”

  “Well I know it!” Sir Geoffrey stretched his legs out in front of him. “If I am unable to manage the steed I will return to Myton, rather than find a Welsh arrow in my arse! Paying the king’s fine is of little consequence by comparison.”

  The flap of the canvas tent moved. Simon stepped inside. “I was told you have a visitor— ” His voice ground to a halt at the sight of Sir Geoffrey.

  Lunging to his feet, Sir Geoffrey swept his sword from its scabbard. “What does this boy do here?” he rasped.

  Dafydd leaped forward, blocking the thrusting sword tip. “Hold, father! Simon is not your enemy. He is my squire.”

  “He is that knight’s squire.”

  “That he was,” Dafydd corrected, gently but steadily pushing the sword tip away. “Rhys of St. Quintin is dead.”

  “He drowned in the accident?”

  “Many drowned. He is dead.”

  Lowering his sword, Sir Geoffrey shoved it back into the scabbard with a bark of laughter. “’Tis fortuitous. A stroke of luck for us, would you not say? Now all that remains is for his bastard to be dispatched.”

  Dafydd turned to Simon with a swift, hard glare. “Fetch my father some wine.”

  With a glower the squire ducked out of the tent.

  “The birth will not be long, eh?”

  Dafydd gave a brief nod. “A matter of weeks.”

  “I could end your troubles, my boy.” Sir Geoffrey leaned close and continued in a low voice. “’Tis easy if one knows how to proceed.”

  Staring fixedly at his father’s scabbard, he dared ask, “You have a plan?”

  A smile touched Sir Geoffrey’s lips. “When the babe is born do not allow it to suckle. A few days without nourishment— ”

  “Nay!” Horror clenched Dafydd’s stomach. Once anon, he must seek to turn a heedless reaction to his advantage. ’Twas easier each time. “’Tis murder, Father. I do not fancy excommunication.”

  “But of course.” Sir Geoffrey’s tone became soothing. “’Twill not be necessary to imperil your soul. Leave everything to me.”

  * * *

  Determined to put an end to the fighting, King Edward ordered more magnates to join the forces at Carmarthen. Recruitment of fresh infantry from the southwest swelled the royal forces. Attacks against Snowdonia harried the inhabitants, torched buildings, left naught to sustain the living against the coming winter.

  The sword was not needed where hunger abounded. Yet the Welsh took heart with their victory at the Menai Strait, attacking and retreating more fiercely.

  Dafydd’s troops were difficult to control after the brutal carnage at Angelsey. They had powerful reason to vanquish the enemy.

  On one of their frequent patrols, Dafydd and his mounted troops unexpectedly came across tracks of mounted riders. Much heartened, they gave chase. ’Twas not long when they overtook a small Welsh force.

  The insurgents tried to flee. But the mud was deep and the trees were thick. Dafydd ordered a detachment of his troops on ahead.

  Soon they had the Welsh surrounded. But the enemy would not give up.

  The English were as determined.

  Sir Geoffrey, having taken to joining Dafydd in his daily forays, tried to engage a Welsh soldier, but his mount turned unruly in the heat of battle. Sawing on the reins and stabbing his horse’s ribs with his sharp spurs, he barely escaped the swing of a Welsh mace.

  One particular combatant drew Dafydd’s attention. The knight compelled respect, possessing the proud aura of a chieftain, wielding his sword as a true leader. Even his saddle was tooled a mite better than the average soldier. He fought his way toward the warrior. ’Twas plainly a man worth sparing for ransom.

  A sword suddenly smote the air at his left and came at him again. With raised sword he met the attack, deflecting the blows. Standing in his stirrups, hammering from one direction and then another, he pounded his attacker with relentless slashes. One last lightning-fast thrust of his sword ended the engagement.

  By the time he turned and could urge his destrier forward, Sir Geoffrey had control of his mount and was heading towards the proud warrior.

  Dafydd shouted through the din of the battle, but Sir Geoffrey did not stop. Leveling his sword like a jousting lance he charged the man from the side and ran him through. The Welshman slouched in his saddle, his sword falling from his glove.

  With a growl of anger, Dafydd urged his steed closer. In dismay, he watched his father swing his sword again. The sharp blade sliced into the man’s neck. In a splatter of blood, his head separated from his body, toppling to the ground. The body, caught within the high-backed saddle and spurting blood into the air, required a push from Sir Geoffrey’s boot before it tumbled into the mud.

  In moments, it seemed, the fighting ceased. The few Welsh that yet lived gave up the fight, laying down their weapons and holding up their hands in defeat.

  Dafydd halted beside the body on the muddy ground. Dismounting, sheathing his sword, he nudged the torso over with his boot. Raising his visor, he hunkered down to examine it, even lifting the bloody head that had lost its helmet, holding it by its dark mane of hair, turning it from side to side. Two of his knights came to peer over his shoulder.

  “What think you?” inquired Will. “Was this one worth a ransom?”

  He straightened to his full height and eyed his friend with a significant look. “I reckon ’tis Llywelyn himself.”

  Will bent to have a closer look and let out a long whistle. “The king would reward us had we captured him alive.”

  Dafydd made a sound of disgust. “We will needs fetch the body back to Edward. Let us hope ’tis not the Welsh prince my father has skewered else the king will deny the boon I ask of him.”

  With a grin, Will rose to his feet. “The cat jumps either way, my friend. Mayhap he will praise you for bringing the Welsh to their knees. With Llywelyn dead, who becomes the leader for his people to rally behind?” He backhanded a friendly blow to Dafydd’s arm. “A pence says this will make of you a hero.” He winked and rasped in a whisper, “Better you than Sir Geoffrey.”

  * * *

  Dafydd had the right of it. They had slain Prince Llywelyn.

  But Will had the right of it, thereto, for Edward was jubilant and attached no blame for the unfortunate slaying. He sent the body back to Snowdonia, so all of Wales would know of his power. The prince’s head was carted off to London, to be displayed upon a well-placed pike.

  Gracious in his victory, the king deigned to grant Dafydd’s leave.

  Never had he packed so hastily. Within the hour, their possessions tossed thither and yon into satchels, he and his two squires departed for Haughmond.

  Galloping across Wales as though the whole Welsh nation nipped at their heels, they made Rhuddlan Castle the first night. Though crowded with the king’s men-at-arms, space was found for their tent by the wall in the outer bailey.

  They had just left a gracious feast hosted by the queen, when the trumpet announced new arrivals. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of Sir Geoffrey and his knights riding into the castle.

  Sir Geoffrey spied him at once and turned his horse in their direction. “This steed is unfit,” he declared, dismounting from his dancing destrier. “I have paid the royal fine and am homeward bound. How fortuitous we caught up with you. We can journey together.”

  His hands itched to run Sir Geoffrey through with the nearest sword. He had left his father behind apurpose.


  A chill coursed down his spine. His palms broke into a sweat. “How very fortuitous,” he replied. The calm in his voice was reassuring, but his heart pounded as though he were in the midst of battle. “I thought you eager for war. Does the king not require you?”

  Sir Geoffrey gave him a quizzical frown. “I should think you more important to Edward, yet he releases you.”

  Dafydd shrugged. He did not dare do more for fear he would attack his father. While Sir Geoffrey had remained in Wales Katherine was safe.

  But that had changed in a split second.

  * * *

  They rode hard. Hoping the others would lag behind, Dafydd did not spare the horses. To his chagrin, Sir Geoffrey matched his pace.

  They found lodging in Chester the second night, then headed south into Shropshire. By the time they approached Shrewsbury, the horses’ quivering flanks steamed in the cold December air. They paid their toll and crossed the bridge, then thundered across the flat land eastward, following the Severn River, a long dark ribbon cutting through the landscape. It set his heart aracing. Erelong, he would see Katherine.

  At last, perched atop the rocky limestone hill, Haughmond Castle came into view.

  It drew him like a homing pigeon. Village hounds set up an unending chorus as they cleared the empty fields and entered the small hamlet at the foot of the hill. Wood smoke rising from the openings in thatched roofs welcomed him like ethereal sprites, beckoning him closer.

  Missed you.

  The wind blowing in his face murmured again, Missed you, and urged him homeward. Up the narrow street he flew, climbing closer, climbing to Katherine. A trumpet blast pierced the air above his head where soldiers gathered on the ramparts.

  He pulled rein. He was home. Home to Katherine! Joy burst within his breast.

  Beside him, Sir Geoffrey let loose an angry oath. Struggling to restrain his impatient destrier, wheeling the stallion in a tight circle, he called up to the guard, “Tell the lady her husband arrives.”

  Dafydd’s gladsome mood evaporated into dread as his father added in a shout, “Say thereto, her lover is dead!”