Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  The other’s face did not change. “That battle was fought nigh on thirty years ago. Why tell me this now?”

  “Because you may be sure the Welsh do remember. Because that’s how war is waged in Wales—on both sides. I’ve fought in Normandy, in Scotland, even in Ireland, and I tell you true when I say the Welsh do make the worst enemies. They do not play by your rules, they win when they are not supposed to, and they do not know when they’re beaten. They’re wild and cunning and treacherous, not to be underestimated. It’s been only a week since we captured one of Llewelyn’s men not a mile from Hawarden. When we put the knife to him, he admitted that Llewelyn was encamped in these woods. Knowing that, we’d be mad to take yon path, no matter how much time we’d save.”

  “Our guide assures me that this rebel you seem to fear so much is not in the area, that he’s known to be in Arfon. He also assures me that this is the quickest way to Rhuddlan.” Walter de Hodnet paused, his eyes moving from Giles to the encircling men. Although most of them spoke only rudimentary French, it was evident that they’d followed the argument; their faces were flushed, hostile. He stared them down and, turning back to Giles, said curtly, “Give the order to move out.”

  Giles had black eyes, flat and shallow-lidded. They flickered now, glittering with impotent fury. And then he nodded, signaled the men to fall into line. There was hesitation, but only briefly. From the cradle, they were taught obedience to rank; rebellion was utterly beyond their ken.

  But although they obeyed, they did not like it. Walter could hear them muttering among themselves in the guttural English he found so harsh upon the ear. Saxon swine. As a boy, he’d thought it was one word, Saxonswine. Stupid and sly, the lot of them. It was always his accursed ill luck to have such oafs under his command. Little wonder he’d yet to win the recognition he craved, to find his niche. But this time would be different. By getting Chester’s message to Rhuddlan by nightfall, he’d stand high in Montalt’s favor. It was not inconceivable that Montalt might even make mention of him to Chester.

  A smile softened his mouth at that, and for a happy moment he indulged in a gratifying daydream, imagining himself summoned by the mighty Earl, friend to King Richard, one of the most powerful lords of the realm. A knight in Chester’s service would be a made man. He’d have no reason then to envy his elder brother Baldwin; Baldwin might even envy him.

  His smile faded; thoughts of Baldwin were always sure to sour his mood. There was less than a year between them, but Baldwin was the eldest born, Baldwin was his father’s heir, would inherit all when Sir Odo died. For Walter, for his brothers Will and Stephen, there would be nothing, only what they could win with their wits or their swords. And a younger son’s options were limited. If he was fortunate, he might find a place for himself in some lord’s household. Or he might try his luck in the tournament lists, but that was a risky way to earn a living. For those who’d failed to find service with a lord, or lost in the lists, there was little left but banditry. Of course, one could become a clerk, like his brother Will. But a clerk had no social status; he was a nonentity, of no account. Walter’s mouth tightened. Was he any better off, in truth? What had he except his horse, his armor, and a shilling a day in wages?

  But if he could do this for Montalt and Chester…he glanced back over his shoulder, at Giles’s dark, sullen face. He’d managed to infect them all with his damned fool fears; they were shying at every sound, as jumpy as cats. As little as he liked to admit it, it was even getting to him. He tilted his head back, studied the sky with narrowed eyes. Dusk was falling fast. But if their guide was right, they were less than seven miles from Rhuddlan.

  Walter slid his fingers under the noseguard of his helmet, rubbed the chafed skin across the bridge of his nose. What was the guide’s name? Martin? A quiet sort, half-Welsh, half-Saxon, an outcast in both worlds. But he knew these hills as few men did, and he—

  “Sir Walter!” Giles had come up alongside his stallion. Keeping his voice pitched for Walter’s ear alone, he said tensely, “You hear it—the silence? Suddenly there is not a sound, no birds, nothing.”

  Walter stiffened, listened. Giles was right. “Oh, Christ,” he whispered. He swung about in the saddle, peering into the surrounding shadows, saw nothing.

  “Martin!” he called sharply. A few yards ahead, the guide turned, his face questioning. But as he did, a low humming noise cut through the eerie stillness. Walter gasped, flinched as a rush of hot air fanned past his face. His stallion leapt sideways, and he jerked on the reins, turned the animal in a circle. Only then did he see Giles. The other man had dropped to his knees in the road. As Walter watched, he tugged at the arrow shaft protruding from his chest, and then fell forward, slowly slid into the mud churned up by Walter’s stallion.

  For a moment frozen in time, nothing happened. And then one of Walter’s men, the one called Godfrey, dropped to the ground, rolled toward a fallen log, shouting, “Take shelter!” An arrow slammed into the log, scant inches from where he crouched, followed by an earsplitting, wordless yell, and Walter’s men panicked, whirling about, slipping in the mud, crashing into one another in their haste to escape the trap.

  Walter jerked his sword from its scabbard. Godfrey’s action had been instinctive, but Walter knew it was also futile. The Welsh were firing from both sides of the road, with savage-sounding battle cries that only panicked his men all the more. The woods offered no refuge, only shafted death, and he shouted, “Make haste for the castle!” An arrow burned past his thigh, grazed his stallion’s mane, and he spurred the animal forward. The horse stumbled over Giles’s body, righted itself, and lengthened stride. In the fading light, Walter never saw the rope stretched across the road. It caught him in the chest; he reeled backward, hit the ground with jarring impact.

  When he came to, dazed and disoriented, he did not at first remember where he was. He groaned, started to move, and a knife blade was at once laid against his throat. Behind the knife were the coldest green eyes he’d ever seen. The man was young, twenty at most. He said something in Welsh, and Walter said, “I do not understand.”

  The youth spoke again, harshly, and Walter shook his head, tried to sit up. His coif was jerked off, and the knife nicked into his throat; a thin red line appeared upon his neck. He froze, scarcely breathing, and the pressure eased slightly.

  From the corner of his eye he could see several figures huddled on the ground: a freckle-faced, frightened youngster, Godfrey, and a third man smeared with his own blood. Beyond them a body lay sprawled in the mud, and nearby was a young Welshman, seeking to soothe Walter’s roan stallion.

  Another man was now bending over him, a huge youth with a scarred cheek and deepset brown eyes. He reached for the neck of Walter’s hauberk, and as Walter recoiled, he grinned. “Easy, English,” he said, in accented but understandable French. “The Lord loveth a cheerful giver!”

  He drew out the rolled parchment, eyes widening at sight of the Earl of Chester’s seal. “Chester,” he murmured, passing the scroll to his companion. “Well, well. You fly high, English.”

  Walter drew a deep breath, thanking God for this French-speaking, amiable giant. Surely he could reason with this one. But the other…he glanced at the glinting blade, swallowed, and said in a rush, “My name is Sir Walter de Hodnet, son of Sir Odo de Hodnet of Welbatch in Shropshire. My father is a man of means, and will pay dear for my safe return.”

  “Indeed?” The Welshman smiled at him. “Horses? Gold?”

  “Yes, both,” he said, knowing his father would not part with so much as a shilling on his behalf.

  “You hear, Rhys? We’ve a man of wealth in our midst. Tell me, English, what of your men there? Who ransoms them?”

  Walter stared up at him, perplexed. Who’d pay money for men-at-arms? “I do not see—”

  “No, I know you do not. But I’d wager your men do.” He was no longer smiling; and Walter’s mouth went dry. Giles’s voice was suddenly thudding in his ears: He blinded them. Blinded them. Blin
ded them.

  He was barely twenty, his face contorted with pain, sweat beading his upper lip, his temples. A dark stain was spreading rapidly across his tunic. Llewelyn knew few injuries were as dangerous as an upper-thigh wound; all too often the man died before the bleeding could be checked. Drawing his dagger, he split the tunic, set about fashioning a rude tourniquet. It was with considerable relief that he saw it begin to take effect.

  “You’re a lucky lad, Dylan,” he said, and grinned. “Half a hand higher and you’d have lost the family jewels.”

  Dylan was chalk-white, but he managed a weak smile at that, whispered, “Jesú forfend.”

  Two men were bringing up a blanket stretched across two poles, and Llewelyn rose, watched as Dylan was lowered onto it. A flash of movement caught his eye. He turned, saw the guide, Martin, standing several feet away. Llewelyn unfastened a pouch at his belt, sent it spinning through the air. Martin caught it deftly, tucked it away in his tunic. For a moment their eyes held; then he silently saluted Llewelyn and vanished into the wooded darkness beyond the road.

  Ednyved was now at his side. He said, “Well?”

  “Three dead, including one gutshot so badly that I thought he’d count death a mercy. Four captured. The rest fled. One horse taken. And this.” Handing Llewelyn the parchment roll.

  Llewelyn, too, was startled at sight of the seal. “Chester, no less!” He turned, beckoned to the closest man. “Rosser, fetch a torch.”

  “One of those taken is the lack-wit who led them right to us. A fool of the first order, but you might want to talk with him nonetheless, Llewelyn. He says his name is de Hodnet. Is that not what an English friend of yours be called, too?”

  Surprised, Llewelyn nodded. “Yes, Stephen de Hodnet. Yet the last I heard, Stephen was attached to Fulk Fitz Warin’s household, not Montalt’s. Of course, Stephen does have several brothers—” He broke off and, after a moment, laughed and shook his head. “But no, I could not be that lucky!”

  Godfrey was cursing under his breath. Edwin sat stunned and silent beside him. They both stiffened at Llewelyn’s approach, watching warily as he stopped before them and then moved toward Walter de Hodnet.

  Walter waited no less warily. The man standing before him was quite young, nineteen or twenty, dressed in the same homespun as his comrades, and Walter was startled when he said, in fluent French, “I’m Llewelyn ab Iorwerth. Welcome to Wales.”

  Walter flushed; even as frightened as he was, he did not miss the mockery in the other’s voice. But he could not afford pride, not now, and he said hurriedly, “It’s glad I am that you speak French, my lord. If I may say so, you’re young to have made such a name for yourself.” He summoned up a smile, was encouraged when Llewelyn smiled back. “My lord Llewelyn, may I speak plainly? I can pay for my release; you need only name your price. My father—”

  “You do not remember me, do you?”

  Bewildered, Walter shook his head. “We’ve met? My lord, I think not. I would—”

  Llewelyn was still smiling. “A pity your memory is so poor, Walter de Hodnet. For I do remember you, all too well.”

  This was no pretense, Llewelyn saw; Walter was genuinely baffled. He stood looking down at the Norman knight, and then, abruptly tiring of this cat-and-mouse game, he said, “I think you’ll remember if you put your mind to it. Think back some years, to a summer noon and a meadow beyond Shrewsbury, to a chestnut gelding and a fearful ten-year-old boy.”

  “I still do not—” Walter began, and then sucked in his breath.

  Llewelyn saw his face twitch, saw his eyes glaze over with horror, and he said, “You see? You have not forgotten me, after all.”

  Rhys and Ednyved had been following this exchange with increasing curiosity. Now Rhys demanded, “What is this English to you, Llewelyn?”

  “A man who has long owed me a debt.” Speaking rapidly in Welsh, Llewelyn gave them a terse summary of that long-ago encounter by Yokethul Brook, concluding in French, “So what say you? What shall I do with him?”

  Rhys’s eyes flicked to Walter. “Need you ask? Kill him,” he said, without hesitation. He’d answered in Welsh, for he used French only under duress, but it was obvious that Walter understood; he was ashen.

  “Ednyved?”

  Ednyved shrugged. “This English is such a dolt, it would be almost a shame to lose him; never have I seen a man so eager to be ambushed. And he is the brother of your friend. Would his death grieve Stephen?”

  “I very much doubt it,” Llewelyn said dryly, saw Walter flinch, and thought that Stephen had just unknowingly gained vengeance for a childhood of beatings and intimidation.

  “Well, I can think of no other reasons to spare him, Llewelyn. There are too many English as it is; one less would be no loss. This grievance you hold against him, how deep does it fester?”

  Llewelyn smiled at that. “Is there ever a time when you do not go right to the heart of the matter? The answer is, of course, that it does not…not anymore.”

  He gazed down at Walter, his eyes thoughtful. And then he turned, for Rosser was approaching with a burning pine torch.

  “Ah, at last.” Breaking the seal, he held the parchment up to the light. “Let’s see what message is worth the lives of three men.” Beginning to read, he laughed aloud, beckoned to those within hearing range.

  “It seems King Richard had more to fear from his fellow Christian crusaders than he did from the infidels. On his way back from the Holy Land, he fell into the hands of his erstwhile ally, the Duke of Austria, and is being held for ransom by the German Emperor!”

  His men had gathered around to listen. They burst out laughing, too, began to exchange markedly unsympathetic quips about the English King’s plight.

  Llewelyn was rapidly scanning the rest of the letter. “Wait, you’ve yet to hear the best of it. When word reached England, Richard’s brother John did himself proud in the finest tradition of Cain and Abel, at once set about gaining the crown for himself. He’s sailed for France, where he means to ally himself with the French King Philip. It seems they plan to offer the Emperor an even larger ransom not to let Richard go!”

  Llewelyn was elated, for nothing better served Welsh interests than English discord. God had indeed been good to Wales, he thought, in giving Richard a brother as untrustworthy as John. With Richard languishing in some Austrian castle and John scheming to steal the throne, the English would be too taken up with their own troubles to have time to spare for Welsh conquest. That meant he’d have a free hand to move against Davydd, to force a battle that would break his uncle’s power once and for all.

  “One good turn deserves another, so I wish John well,” he said, and laughed again. “For although he does not know it yet, he’s going to give me Gwynedd.”

  “I do not doubt it, my Prince,” Ednyved said with mock servility, “but at the moment you’re a rebel on the run, and we’d best be gone ere any of those English soldiers reach Rhuddlan. Now,” jerking his head toward their captives, “what mean you to do about them?”

  “To tell you true, Ednyved, I have not made up my mind.” Llewelyn walked over, looked down at his prisoners.

  Godfrey tensed, and then blurted out in broken French, “My lord, spare my cousin. He’s but a lad of eighteen; do not put him to the knife, I beg you.”

  “Why should I put any of you to the knife? There are but two legitimate times for torture, when a man has information you must have or when he has committed a sin so great that justice demands he suffer for it.” But Godfrey did not fully believe him, Llewelyn saw.

  And what of Walter de Hodnet? A rare jest of God, in truth, that de Hodnet should fall into his hands now, years too late. Walter was mute; but his eyes pleaded with anguished eloquence.

  “You fear more than death, do you not?” Llewelyn said slowly. “You think I mean to extract every ounce of mortal suffering for a boyhood wrong. A pity, Walter, you know so little of the Welsh. You see, we have a saying amongst my people: O hir ddyled ni ddylir dim. ‘Fro
m an old debt, nothing is due.’”

  Walter stared up at him in utter disbelief. Rhys looked no less startled, but Ednyved laughed, as if at some private joke.

  “I thought it was your ambition to be Prince of Gwynedd, Llewelyn. Are you seeking sainthood, too?”

  “I know you’re woefully ignorant of the Scriptures, Ednyved, but even you must have heard: ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’” Llewelyn paused, and then added in Welsh, “Of course, we do have another proverb I rather fancy: ‘The best revenge, contempt.’”

  Ednyved nodded, eyes alight in amused understanding. “Now that sounds more like you,” he said, as Walter found his voice.

  “You truly mean to let me go?” Walter sounded more suspicious than relieved, for magnanimity to an enemy was an alien concept to him.

  “Yes, I do, but I rather doubt you’ll thank me for it. For I mean to release your men, too. I should think they’ll have a most interesting tale to tell Montalt. You’ve hardly endeared yourself to them, have you?”

  Walter opened his mouth, shut it abruptly, but he was unable to keep his eyes from shifting toward Godfrey. Llewelyn saw, smiled.

  “Of course you will have time to think up an explanation for your appalling ineptitude…on your walk to Rhuddlan. For although you are free to go, we’ll be keeping your horse and armor. Spoils of war…remember?”

  Five minutes ago, Walter would have bartered anything on God’s earth for his life and not counted the cost. But his were now the changed priorities of reprieve, and he gave a gasp of dismay. “If I do reach Rhuddlan like that—naked, alone, on foot—Christ, I’ll be a laughingstock!”