Edric examined his mug. He even took hold of it and twisted it from side to side.
“Baron Hugh was a good man,” Gwen said from the fireplace, as she helped the servers ready the plates.
“How do you know that?” Edric slurred. “I thought you’ve never met him?”
“He helped my husband,” Gwen said. “That’s all I need to know.”
Edric nodded thoughtfully. Then he looked up at the frowning bailiff. Edric lifted his mug. “To this noble Norman baron. May he rest well in his grave.” So saying, Edric quaffed the ale.
Rhys did likewise. So did the bailiff and the rest of the company. Cord smacked his lips. This was tasty ale, very refreshing. He quaffed again.
Under Gwen’s direction, the young boys and the tall girl set down plates of butter, cheese and roasted mutton. Conspicuous by its absence, Cord noted the lack of bread. Welsh people, he’d heard, seldom ate it.
The meal went apace, with small talk, a few jibes and the tossing of meat to the prowling hounds. Gwen, Cord noticed, ate delicately as she sat beside her husband at the head of the table. She engaged the bailiff in conversation, and soon had him smiling.
The bailiff had asked Rhys about Earl Simon’s army for good reason. The Earl’s army terrorized the Western Marches, at least for those who still sided with the King and his son, Prince Edward.
Earl Roger Mortimer, never any friend of Simon’s, had been playing a shrewd and wily game. Although several of his estates had gone up in flames and many of his herds had been slain in order to feed Simon’s host, he hadn’t come out openly against Simon. Baron Hugh, as one of Roger Mortimer’s chief vassals, had kept Pellinore Fief ready for war the entire summer, just in case his valley should be invaded. So far, Roger Mortimer had been content to watch Simon and gauge his every move, waiting for that moment when the Earl overreached himself.
Earl Simon de Montfort had sailed back to England in April 1263. With the death of the old Earl of Gloucester, Simon had taken charge of the reformers. The reformers wished to change the way King Henry ran the kingdom.
King Henry the Third had always been a weak King, ruled by advice from his favorites. The first had been stern old William Marshal, who had never been knocked out of the saddle in any of his five hundred tournaments. Henry had only been ten years old then, and had followed William Marshal’s lead as they’d ousted the French from England. In the last days of bad King John’s reign—John had been Henry’s father—the barons who had forced King John to sign the Magna Charta had asked the King of France to come and be their monarch. With the death of John and the crowning of King Henry the Third, the English, both Saxon and Norman, had rallied to the boy King’s side. Then, after the French had been ousted, William Marshal had died and Hubert de Burgh had become the king’s right hand man. Henry in time had tired of de Burgh, and had had him killed. When King Henry married Eleanor of Provence, he’d come under the spell of her countless French-Provencal relatives. Royal funds had flown out of the treasury and into the pockets of those stiff-necked, haughty Provencals. Eleanor’s uncles, brothers and sisters came to Henry’s court and sapped his will as well as England’s treasury. Ill-conceived wars, fiasco’s where Henry poured out yet more English money to the Pope in order to win for his son the Sicilian Crown, and the gaining of half-brothers from his mother who had married a French noble, all became too much for many of the English barons. Haughty overlords, often Italian or French, ran many an English church, shire and barony. Tempers flared against all the foreigners, and men groaned at the taxes they paid to the King, that were so quickly squandered on frivolous things.
Finally, many of the barons became angry at Henry’s weak rule. They met with him at Oxford, in Parliament, and they wore chainmail to the meeting. There they forced the King to sign the Provisions of Oxford. It insured that English money wouldn’t be wasted on stupid ventures, nor would the King’s inlaws rule the countryside like minor kings.
Even after Oxford, however, these seesaw struggles had surged back and forth. Until at last, the magnetic Simon de Montfort went to Oxford, and marshaled the reformers into an armed host. In their ranks were many young and energetic knights.
Simon took his small, well-trained army of knights and men-at-arms across the Severn and into the Western Marches. At the end of June, they had attacked the Bishop of Hereford, a foreigner of ill-repute and a man known for his hand in the Sicilian Affair. They captured and locked the bishop and his church cannons in Castle Eardisely.
Eardisely was closer to Pellinore Castle than Roger Mortimer’s Castle Wigmore. Baron Hugh had grown nervous with Simon’s army so near. But Simon had taken his force to Gloucester and gained entry into the ancient city. Then, following the Severn River north, he’d either stormed or taken control of the castles on both banks of the river and the few important bridges. Finally, he’d taken the key city of Worcester.
Prince Llewellyn’s Welsh hadn’t been idle. Unlike most years, however, the Welsh had left the Marcher barons alone, most who had joined Simon’s standard. Instead, Prince Llewellyn had concentrated on the King’s Welsh castles, or on those few landlords and barons in the Western Marches who still supported the King. In the North, Prince Llewellyn together with his Welsh ally Madog, had besieged Diserth. News of its fall was still fresh, having only come to Pellinore Castle two days before Baron Hugh’s death. Now only the King’s strong castle at Degannwy stood in the Marches. But it was under siege by Llewellyn and Madog.
All this Cord knew, as many Englishmen who listened to rumors and gossip mongers knew. From Edric’s manner, Cord guessed that something terrible had occurred.
“An excellent meal, my sister,” Edric said as he pushed away his plate.
Gwen smiled in delight.
Edric smiled too, although there seemed something sinister about it. He said, “Sometimes I think you waste your talents on this stay-at-home husband of yours.”
“You’d better be polite,” Gwen told her brother. “If you embarrass my husband, I won’t talk to you for at least a year.”
“But will you cook for me?” asked Edric. “That’s the important thing.”
“Beast,” she said.
“Ah, if you only knew,” Edric said.
She grinned, leaning toward her brother. “You think you’re so mighty, brother dearest. Why not arm-wrestle my man and see if you can match him.”
“Never!” said Edric. “If I’d win, you’d hate me. If I’d lose, you’d think yourself cleverer than I.”
“Of course I’m cleverer,” Gwen said. “I married Rhys ab Gruffydd didn’t I? Where is your mate, brother? Where is your match made in Heaven?”
“Ah,” Edric said with a grin. “My match is here.” He picked up his lyre. “With it I bring Heaven to Earth.”
“At least you boast like the heroes of old,” said Gwen.
“And he drinks like them, too!” Rhys said, causing laughter to ripple among the feasters.
“Yes, and you drink like them,” Gwen echoed. “What I want to know, dear brother, is if your deeds can match the deeds of the heroes of old?”
Edric laughed, although there seemed to be a note of bitterness in it. “The Welsh heroes of old?” he asked. “No, I don’t match them. How could I? In those days Wales stood free, untrammeled by invaders, unshackled by men in iron cocoons.”
The bailiff scowled.
“Maybe I match the heroes of old in the fire for freedom that burns in my belly,” Edric added. “Aye, there I am like them.”
An embarrassed silence filled the room. The bailiff shifted uncomfortably, although Cord noticed that he’d shifted toward the edge of his bench. Maybe he readied himself to jump up and draw his sword, in case something untoward happened.
“My brother-in-law speaks rashly,” Rhys said. “But since he is a bard, and has drunk much today, that is to be expected.”
The bailiff gave a noncommittal grunt.
“He came here under a flag of truce,” Gwen suddenly said, perhaps
sensing the bailiff’s intent.
“Truce?” the bailiff asked in surprise.
“Bridgenorth has fallen,” Rhys said slowly. “Edric was there and has brought us the latest news.”
“The Welsh stormed Bridgenorth?” the bailiff asked in horror.
Edric laughed rudely as he tossed down more ale.
Rhys grew pale with anger, perhaps sensitive at this misuse of Edric’s guest-rights. To the Welsh, nothing was more sacred than hospitality. Since Edric had eaten from Rhys’ table and drank his ale, Rhys couldn’t harm him without the gravest of slurs being attached to his name.
“Owain ab Ifan along with other Welshmen besieged Bridgenorth this summer,” Gwen said. “I think they worked in conjunction with Prince Llewellyn, who as I’m sure you know stormed Diserth Castle up North a few days ago. Earl Simon and his army, who have raced up the Severn, came upon Bridgenorth and besieged it on the opposite side as the Welsh. The city soon fell,” Gwen said in a whisper. “Now, Simon controls the bridges, cities and castles along the Severn. Now the Western Marches are his.”
“And what isn’t in Earl Simon’s hands is in Prince Llewellyn’s,” Edric boasted.
The bailiff had grown pale and his shoulders slumped. With an effort, he drained his cup and then looked up. “Are Llewellyn and Simon allies?”
“Not yet,” said Gwen.
“But they parley,” Edric boasted. “Soon, knight, your King will fall, and then we’ll see.”
“See about what?” the bailiff growled.
Edric didn’t answer. He’d seemed to discover a sudden interest in his lyre.
Rhys rose abruptly. His intense eyes burned with rage and his forked beard seemed stiff like an angry dog’s raised hackles. He opened his mouth to speak, his gaze riveted upon Edric.
Gwen touched his forearm.
“He’s drunk,” Gwen said. “Let him sleep it off. In the morning, he’ll leave. I promise you this.”
Edric stood unsteadily, the lyre tucked under his arm. “What should I tell Owain ab Ifan?” he asked Rhys.
The bailiff’s eyes widened at the mention of one of the Baron’s greatest enemies.
Rhys couldn’t contain himself. He spat near Edric’s feet. “That for Owain ab Ifan! Someday I’ll kill him.”
“Should I tell him you spoke so?” Edric asked.
“I demand that you tell him!” Rhys shouted. He stepped near Edric. “Did you hear me, bard? I demand it!”
Edric made a vague gesture, then stepped away from the table and headed toward the door outside. Gwen hurried after him. She whispered into his ear. Soon Edric turned and headed deeper into the house, no doubt to one of the sleeping areas.
The bailiff almost said something, then perhaps thought better and toyed with his cup instead.
Rhys slumped into his chair. In a moment, he rubbed his broad forehead and glanced at the bailiff. “I’m glad for the news of what happens abroad, but the news-bearers sometimes bring ideas of their own.”
The bailiff nodded stiffly.
“Owain ab Ifan still burns against the Baron,” Rhys said. “He longs for his day of vengeance. He longs to be avenged against the Baron’s sword stroke that crippled his knife-arm forever.”
“Edric is Owain’s man?”
“Owain isn’t Edric’s clan chieftain, but I think Edric admires whatever bravery Owain showed at the siege of Bridgenorth. He carried Owain’s message to me. But I know you understand that Owain is and never will be a friend of mine.”
“I believe you,” the bailiff said. “And I understand what it means to have relatives.” He lowered his voice and said, “My mother-in-law, well….” He shrugged.
Rhys gave him a wan smile, although his anger left bitter lines in his face.
“Maybe we should look at the pups,” the bailiff said.
Rhys sighed, nodded and stood up.
Cord followed them outside and past the barn. A boy arose from a pile of hay at Rhys’ shout and followed them out behind the pigsty. Soon the boy held back a shaggy mother-dog with sagging teats.
Rhys pointed out the belly-fat puppies that playfully yipped and barked at them.
Cord grinned, but made no move toward the pups.
“Take a closer look,” the bailiff said.
Cord stepped closer, bent low and petted the puppies as the shaggy mother whined and tried to get at him. The pups all made a mad dash to be under Cord’s hand and nipped at one another’s long ears. Cord laughed and tried to pet them all at once.
Rhys whispered to the bailiff, the bailiff whispered back. “Go ahead,” Rhys said.
“Cord,” the bailiff said, “what do you notice most about the litter?”
Cord studied them. “Ah,” he said, “they have wolf blood in them.”
“Very good,” Rhys said.
Cord shrugged.
“What do you think?” the bailiff asked. “Would these pups make good hunters?”
Cord glanced at the whining mother. She was shaggy and large, and she didn’t like that he played with her pups. But she wasn’t barking at him either, which meant that she was well trained. He studied the pups, petted them and tried to envision them as fully-grown dogs. He’d trained a half-wolf before. It had been a trying experience.
Finally, brushing his hands on his breeches, Cord stood and faced the two men. “They could be trained to attack, yes. But wolf dogs can be dangerous. Usually, they’re very loyal to one person and only to that person.” He shrugged. “If you want my opinion....”
The bailiff nodded.
“I would only use them as bear or boarhounds.”
“Not a wolfhound?” the bailiff asked.
“No. I’d be worried that they’d want to join the pack. When the wolves come around, I’d lock them in the kennel.”
“I see,” the bailiff said.
Rhys inspected Cord anew, clearly impressed.
Cord backed away from the litter and nodded to the boy holding the shaggy mother. She immediately went over and sniffed her brood, then looked up and glowered at Cord. He smiled. She lay down among the pups and let them yip and crawl across her as they played.
“Cord,” the bailiff said, “would you go saddle the palfrey?”
Cord ambled off, walking with the boy who had handled the shaggy mother. As he saddled the palfrey, Cord saw the bailiff speak sternly with Rhys. No doubt, that came from Edric’s dropped hints.
That others had problems eased Cord, although he wished no ill will upon Rhys. Cord sighed. Soon Sir Philip would be back with Sir Guy. He wondered what would happen, and frankly, he wondered how the journey went with Philip and Guy. With Earl Simon and his allies victorious everywhere within the Western Marches, there could be trouble for the new baron.
Chapter Eleven
A day ago, a splendid train of knights, men-at-arms, body servants, cooks and carters set out from Gareth Castle. In the lurching, two-wheeled carts that brought up the rear of this procession sat the entire portable wealth of Sir Guy of Pellinore. He guarded this wealth like a hawk, and he sent out scouts as the splendid train crawled across the countryside. Behind the mule-carts marched a full half of Gareth Fief’s peasant levy. They were stocky men mostly, armed with scythes, flails, mattocks and axes. A number of them had mules whereby they carried extra bread and cheese and skins filled with ale. Most of them shouldered heavy burdens and prayed for the journey’s end so they could return home to their wives and children.
That Sir Guy had demanded this half of the peasants levy to act as trail guards.... The demand had caused noble heads to wag in Gareth Castle. Wiser, and in this case feminine heads, had whispered that whatever it took to ensure Sir Guy’s departure should be welcome. It was their advice that in the end had won over the more vocal naysayers. The selected peasants had been given their orders, and however sullenly, the orders had finally been obeyed.
Sir Philip still didn’t like it. Pack the wealth onto mules had been his advice. Surround them by horsemen and dash for Pellinor
e Castle. The journey would be over in a day. This method would take three days, maybe even four. That was time enough for a small enemy army to marshal together and swoop down to collect the wealth.
They traveled through a sparse forest of oak and beech trees and endless shrubs. The sun struggled toward noon as a cool breeze kept the horses, mules and a few oxen from over-heating. A weedy track provided the only road.
Philip twisted in the saddle and peered back at the two-wheeled carts. They lurched this way and that. The carters aboard them expertly swayed like sailors, while the tarped wealth creaked if it were furniture or clanked if it were metalwork of some kind. All expect for one cart, that is. That cart had wooden bars around it and a wooden top to hold its prisoner. Unfortunately, not even Philip knew the man’s name, nor had he seen the prisoner but for a glance or two. A thick curtain surrounded the bars on the inside. The prisoner lurched about in his prison and in the dark, no doubt cursing whatever grim fate awaited him.
Sir Guy, from the hints, expected the sky to rain gold because of the prisoner.
“Look out,” said Hob, who rode nearby.
Philip faced forward and ducked just in time. The tree leaves merely swatted his face instead of the heavy branch knocking him from the saddle.
“This is an ill-conceived route,” Philip muttered. He wore chainmail armor and the same dyed scarf around his bull neck as the day he’d left Pellinore Castle. Leather hunting gloves clad his hands and his mail coif, or hood, protected his head. A great helmet hung from his saddle pommel in case he should suddenly need it in order to fight.
In such an emergency, he’d whistle for his groom. His groom acted as a squire since Philip didn’t have one. Philip didn’t presently ride his war-horse, but a gentler palfrey. If he needed the war-horse, Philip didn’t want it weary from carrying his heavy, mail-armored bulk. Rather, he wanted his war-horse to be fresh and eager for the fray. The groom, as per custom on a dangerous trail, kept the war-horse to Philip’s right. In this way, Philip knew exactly where to look in order to find his war-horse. He’d practiced thousands of times the maneuver of passing from his palfrey and onto his destrier without bothering to step down onto the ground. Both horses had learned this routine with Philip always passing from the palfrey’s left and onto the destrier’s right.
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