Rhiannon

by Roberta Gellis

  “Do you think he will try to hurt Papa some other time?”

  For a moment Geoffrey’s tired face lightened. “No, because Ian is Ian, thank God. He was not angry; he was hurt. You know he does not see Henry as a man, but loves him as he loved you—spoiled brat that you were. Henry saw the love. He is neither stupid nor unfeeling, only impulsive and unwise. The king cast a look at Winchester that really did my heart good.”

  “You mean he blamed Winchester for the trouble he had got himself into?” Hope made Simon’s voice vibrant.

  “Yes, but do not let yourself think that one mistake will do the bishop much harm. It took years of carelessness to rouse Henry against de Burgh.”

  Simon grimaced. “A few months more of Winchester and either the king or the realm will be destroyed.” Geoffrey did not answer that remark but looked so grim and sad that Simon was sorry he had made it.

  After a little silence, Geoffrey repeated, “What brought you here, Simon? Did you come to see your father? He is not here. He has gone north to keep that border quiet. I have his men in my care.”

  Guilt flicked Simon again. That was another reason Geoffrey looked so exhausted. In addition to his political worries, he was carrying the burden of Ian’s troops as well as his own, and Geoffrey was one who always saw to everything himself. If Simon had not been opposed to the king, he would have been sharing Geoffrey’s burden.

  “No, I did not expect to see Papa. He worries too much about me. I thought you would tell him I am well. But that is not why I came. I have news. Richard really does not wish to come to blows with the king.”

  “That is scarcely news. However, he will have no choice,” Geoffrey said dryly. “The king says he will take nothing but abject surrender. He says he will not even see Richard unless he comes naked with a halter around his neck.”

  “He will have a long wait for that,” Simon replied. “Usk is victualed for half a year, and we could last another three to six months if necessary. The land is cleared and burnt for ten miles around also, and the people are fled or inside the keep. Can Henry pay his mercenaries for so long? And do these flatlanders know anything about fighting the Welsh?”

  “As to the last—no,” Geoffrey replied, smiling grimly, “I should not laugh, but I cannot help it. I warned both Henry and Winchester, and they would not listen. The Flemish were badly hit by raids twice already and have lost half their supplies. The ballistas and mangonels were burnt—” Geoffrey stopped speaking abruptly and cocked an eye at Simon. “Now that is a strange thing,” he went on. “I have never known a raiding party to bother with siege weapons unless the war was their own.”

  Simon lowered his eyes. “I am Llewelyn’s man. Do not expect me to answer you.”

  That, of course, was the answer. Simon knew Geoffrey would understand. Geoffrey ran his hands through his hair. “What terms do you think Richard would take?” he asked.

  If Llewelyn was involved, Geoffrey had much less hope for the successful outcome of the attack on Usk, as the question indicated. Simon was relieved to see that his brother-by-marriage was not at all depressed by this information. In fact, he seemed rather more cheerful.

  “You must understand first that I have not discussed this with Richard at all, so I am not sure about anything. However, if any reasonable truce is offered, I do not think Richard will refuse. As to particular terms, I do not believe he will demand more than that a council be held to examine the merits of his case and Bassett’s and that the king agree to give judgment only according to the decision of the council. Maybe he will also ask that the king’s ministers be dismissed, but I do not think so.”

  “It will not be possible to prevent an attack on Usk,” Geoffrey said thoughtfully, “but if the attack is resisted firmly, the king may become less adamant. He is not, as you know, patient or determined. If a thing does not fall into his hand like a ripe apple, he shakes the tree, then loses his temper and kicks the tree. Having hurt his foot, he blames for his pain the one who last mentioned apples to him and says he hates apples anyway.”

  “Blames the one who last mentioned apples, eh?” Simon repeated, smiling. “Now that would be a good thing for us and a bad thing for Winchester. If enough blame could be heaped up quickly… Hubert de Burgh made fewer mistakes and those further apart from each other, I think.”

  “You think quite correctly, Simon. I did not like de Burgh. I am glad he was cast down, although I think it wrong he should be treated so harshly. However, I will say for de Burgh that, at his worst, he never drove the barons to rebellion. That mistake will come home to roost and lay the largest egg.”

  “God willing,” Simon assented fervently.

  Chapter Twelve

  Simon did not stay long after that exchange. Geoffrey saw him to the boundary of the camp and sent him off, the sentries assuming he was a spy in his brother-by-marriage’s service. On the hillside at the edge of the woods, Simon’s men were waiting for him, silently comparing their spoils. They came to their feet, stuffing away their ill-gotten gains, when Simon arrived and began the three-mile trek back to Usk. When they had come far enough so that no vagrant breeze could bring the sound of their voices back to the armed camp, each man in turn reported what he had seen to Simon.

  All in all it was a most satisfactory venture. Simon had discovered not only what he wanted to know, but why Henry had stopped to offer battle in so inviting a place. It was not a trap in the usual sense, but the king’s chances of defeating Pembroke in open battle were far better than his chances of breaking into Usk. Supplies were dangerously low, lower even than Geoffrey realized, and not only war machines but timber and leather to make new ones had been destroyed by the raiders.

  The next morning Simon carried his information to Richard. “I have added up what the men told me,” he said, “and they cannot take Usk.”

  “I did not think they could,” Richard snapped testily. “If I had thought so, I would have chosen another keep in which to make a stand.”

  “Pardon, my lord, I said that ill. What I mean is they have not food enough to support the men while they rebuild the siege machines and those they build will do them as much harm as us, I think, from being made of green wood. Nor can they obtain supplies from elsewhere. Bassett is in the south, and I do not think much will come to them from Hereford or Gloucester because Llewelyn’s men will be lying in wait for the supply trains. They can try an assault or two, but I suspect there will be little enthusiasm for it from the English levies, and there are not enough mercenaries.”

  “They will not take Usk by assault,” Richard said. “If they could batter down the walls…but that would take months…”

  “They have not supplies for three weeks. The Flemish leaders have been generous with provender to the troops while in England, so there would be no need for them to harass the local people. I suppose they were warned there would be no easy pickings in Wales, but they did not believe it. You know those mercenary captains always think the local lords are either fools or soft-hearted.”

  Richard smiled grimly. There were no pickings to be had around Usk. Men and animals were behind the walls. The crops had been harvested, the fruit picked from the trees—even what was not yet ripe—and the fields had been burned over so that there would be no grazing for the horses and oxen of Henry’s army. It was too early for nuts. Perhaps there were a few berries. Those grew wild and could not have all been picked, but they would not sustain an army.

  “Then they will try assault, and we will beat them back,” Richard said. “Then what?”

  The question was not addressed to Simon, of course. Richard might ask his advice about Prince Llewelyn, whom he did not really know, but he would not ask it about war or English affairs. Simon stood silent, waiting for the earl’s mind to survey the possibilities. Finally his eyes fixed on his companion again.

  “If I make truce with King Henry, will Lord Llewelyn feel I have betrayed him?”

  “I cannot say for sure, but I think not. You did invite him
to join you, but he made no answer. This may make him more cautious about committing himself in the future, should you ever desire such an alliance, but Prince Llewelyn respects a reasonable man.”

  Simon was rather relieved at the turn things had taken. If Henry had not brought matters to a head and he had been sent back to Llewelyn to negotiate a firm alliance, he would have had to warn his overlord that Richard was not really determined to prosecute the war and only wished to act defensively. Simon would have hated to do anything to increase Richard’s troubles, but Llewelyn was his overlord and his first duty must be to him. This way it was unlikely Simon would have to give any opinion; he would only need to relate facts.

  At first the king’s party made noises as if it would be war to the death. The insults Henry’s herald flung at Richard when the army finally arrived at Usk two days later were disgusting. Many of Richard’s men were incoherent with fury, but Richard himself only laughed. Such insults, he pointed out to his angry supporters, were designed to get them out of the keep so that they could be cut to pieces by a superior number of men.

  To Henry’s frustration, Richard replied gravely and sadly that he had no desire to contest at arms with his acknowledged overlord, that he would never attack his king but only defend himself against injustice, that he asked only for a trial before his peers so that they might judge his offense and Gilbert Bassett’s. Since the outcome of such a trial would most certainly be in Richard’s and Gilbert’s favor, it was not a course that recommended itself to the king or his ministers. Henry was left to reiterate furiously that he and he alone was the judge of his vassals’ rights and duties, which further angered and embittered those barons who had answered his summons.

  No other course then remained but to besiege or attack. Teams of men were already busy building new siege engines, but it was clear that there would not be time enough to batter down the walls before the king’s party starved—not to mention that it was not really possible to make satisfactory machines out of green wood. Raiding parties came back nearly empty-handed—if they came back at all. If Henry wanted Usk, he would have to take it by the crudest form of direct assault.

  Simon watched the preparations with bright-eyed eagerness, and Richard came across him on a dawn tour of inspection when it appeared that the assault was imminent. The earl examined Simon’s preparations for repelling attack on his section of the wall and had no fault to find. He stood a moment looking out at the king’s camp and then sighed.

  “Do you not have kin in that army?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Simon agreed brightly, “and good friends too.”

  “Do you not care?” Richard asked, rather shocked at the young man’s apparent hard-heartedness. “I mean, what if your brother came up the wall?”

  “That is one worry I do not have, thank God,” Simon answered. “Geoffrey cannot climb a scaling ladder. He was crippled at the Battle of Bouvines—oh, long ago. I was only a child then. It does not affect him fighting mounted or even on foot much, although he cannot run well but he cannot manage a ladder.”

  Richard’s face relaxed a little. There was so much good-humored mischief in Simon’s eyes that he guessed what was coming even as he asked, “And the others? The good friends?”

  “They will not attempt this section of the wall,” Simon said. “I sent a man over as soon as you told me where I would be. I hope you do not mind, my lord,” he added with sudden doubt. “I thought it would be better that way. Thus we can honestly all fight our best. It is not like a battle on an open field, where we could see each other’s colors and avoid. I do not think I could bear to cast over a ladder on which my mother’s vassal stood. Those men, most of them, dandled me upon their knees.”

  “No, I do not mind,” Richard said, smiling and feeling better suddenly.

  The thought that tormented Richard most bitterly was that in a war of this kind, brother might fight brother and father fight son. Simon’s insouciance reminded him that those who cared would probably find ways to avoid each other, and those who did not would have ended at each other’s throats whether or not they had the excuse of war. He remembered, comfortingly, that his own father and elder brother had managed never to come to blows, even though William had rebelled against King John and had joined Prince Louis.

  “Look!” Simon exclaimed, interrupting Richard’s thoughts.

  “I see,” he responded, and took off around the wall at a trot, calling an alarm as he went.

  It was hardly necessary. All along the wall men were shouting to their companions to come to attention. Simon’s archers sprang to their feet and bent their bows against their arches to string them, plucking experimentally at the long piece of gut and listening to the music of the string. Here and there a man began to curse the wet South Welsh weather—as if it were different and drier in the north—and unstrung his bow to adjust it.

  Simon found no fault with his own, but he was not the perfectionist about the bow that his men were. Although he was a fair shot and respected the bow and the bowmen from the bottom of his heart, Simon was still primarily a Norman knight. His weapons were the lance, sword, and mace, and it was there that his pride was fixed. That showed in his next move, which was to hook the bow over his shoulder so that it could not fall and loosen his sword in its scabbard. His shield, with its snarling black leopard on a silver ground—chosen to blend into the light and shadow of a Welsh forest—leaned against the merlon in front of him.

  The sound of footsteps behind brought his head around. He nodded to Siorl, the leader of his troop, who was shepherding a number of serfs, each of whom carried a large, wicker shield. One thing Usk did not lack was men. These churls could not fight, but they could protect the archers from the arrows of the opposing force. It was a most excellent idea, for the merlons of Usk were less than a man’s height. Simon stood at a crenel opening roughly in the center of his troop. At the far end of his section of wall, Siorl divided his attention between the enemy, who were clearly forming to attack, and his master, who would give the word to shoot. At the other end, Echtor, the underleader, also watched the enemy and Simon, while smiling and running his hand as lovingly up and down the smooth, silken wood of his bow as he would over the side of a beloved woman.

  The serfs chattered excitedly. They were not much afraid, knowing they would be behind the shields until the arrows stopped flying. If and when men came against the walls, they would be sent down—not to save them, but because they would be in the way. Then Simon bellowed for silence and the chatter stopped. He warned his men to look to their other weapons and to the thrusting poles with which the scaling ladders could be pushed over.

  Simon’s position would not be exposed to any dangerous assault machines. The siege towers he could see around to the southwest would be directed against the walls near the gateway, where winning the wall would permit the invaders to lower the drawbridge and lift the portcullis. The possibility did not trouble Simon. Richard himself and the best of his vassals and men-at-arms would defend that section.

  Then Simon realized that Geoffrey would almost certainly be on one of the siege towers, since he could not climb a ladder. His mouth went dry, and he strained his eyes into the distance, but it was too far to make out the colors of any man’s shield. Most sincerely, although silently, Simon prayed that if one of them had to die or be wounded, it would be he. His parents would grieve bitterly either way, but he would be no loss to any other person. Even if Rhiannon cared enough now, she would soon forget.

  The concern Simon felt for Geoffrey was pushed from his mind when a line of men in tight groups of three began to run toward the keep. Simon shouted aloud both in warning and in pure joy. Now that the banners were spreading out, he could see that he was opposing one of the Flemish mercenary groups. He need have no fear at all of killing or injuring them. There would be no kinfolk in England who might be his allies in the next war. Mostly such things were understood, but occasionally bitterness lingered. It was not easy to have for a backup man one w
hose father or brother you had killed.

  Another advantage of facing the mercenaries was that they used the crossbow. There was little choice in power between the two, but the longbow was far more accurate and could be fired twice or three times as fast. Simon reached back and drew an arrow from his quiver. Officiously a serf stepped before him holding the wicker shield. Simon pushed the man away.

  “Idiot! They are not near enough to fire yet. Stand aside. When I need shelter, I will seek it.”

  Almost on the words the first flight of arrows rose, glinting in the light of the early sun. The serf began to move and Simon snarled at him. Similar growls—and some sharp blows—could be heard all along the wall. The experienced archers could see that the initial volley was exploratory, loosed more to judge distance and windage than in hope of hitting anything. Only about a fifth of the men had fired, and all of the shafts had fallen short. The men on the walls smiled grimly. They had all the advantage at this point and knew it.

  A second flight of crossbow bolts rose. This time a few clattered against the walls before they fell. One even passed through a crenel opening, but it was spent and could not have hurt a man even if it hit him. Close enough, Simon thought, and lifted and drew his bow, stepping into a crenel opening briefly to aim and fire, and then moving back behind the serf’s extended shield just as a third volley of quarrels, much denser, flew skyward.

  To the right, Simon heard one of his men shout, but he had not been struck. He was apparently angered because he had missed his aim. Simon roared at him to take shelter and not be a fool, as he drew and nocked another arrow. Some of these crack men were a little too proud of their skill and tended to be unwisely contemptuous of crossbowmen. The short quarrels could not be aimed very precisely, but if enough of them were fired, that scarcely mattered.