Swordland Page 5

  ‘One more word and I’ll …’ FitzStephen snarled as the doors to the main hall opened and the men-at-arms poured in to begin eating. The first men quickly spotted their two leaders’ tussle and stopped in their tracks to stare. FitzStephen lessened his grip on Roger’s surcoat and it allowed Quincy to slither free and to his feet.

  ‘You bastard,’ Quincy said loudly, holding his throat and pointing his finger at FitzStephen’s chest. ‘This is not my doing, it is yours!’ Roger was red-faced, shocked, and scared by the attack and humiliated in front of the men. ‘You lost the battle. I saved the castle,’ he accused. ‘Those dead men out there,’ he swept his finger towards the north, ‘they are on your conscience! The Welsh want your life, not ours.’

  A growl of support issued from the group of warriors before FitzStephen could answer and it was quickly taken up by a number of other men. Guilt had been circling FitzStephen’s mind all day and it left him speechless and frowning. Usually FitzStephen would have gone on the offensive at the first sniff of attack, but now he hesitated. He hated his indecision.

  William Ferrand climbed to his feet and started to direct the milites out of the hall rather than have them listen to the fight between the Constable and his deputy, but FitzStephen stopped him with a wave of his hand.

  ‘No,’ he told his friend, signalling instead for his warriors to enter the hall, ‘come in and get some food into your bellies.’ The men trundled into the room and took their places at the tables silently. Seconds later Rhygewarch, unaware that anything had happened, led in the other servants with trenchers, cauldrons of steaming food, and mead for the warriors.

  FitzStephen turned and with a last venomous look at Quincy, started up the steps to the solar. He heard Sir Roger complain loudly to Ferrand over the general chit-chat in the great hall. He knew that they would be talking about the disagreement between the two knights and about his failures and probably his illegitimacy. He stopped at the door to the solar, at the top of the curling stone stairs, and tried to tidy his hair which was pasted to his head after being encased in a spangenhelm all day. Richildis was inside and some short dirty words in the English tongue described perfectly what he had planned for her. The language of England was definitely better than French in this instance, and FitzStephen grinned as he thought of the words which Wulfhere had taught him.

  In the distance he heard the crunch of burning wood as a building collapsed in the midst of the town. The Englishman had done his job and it was now just a matter of time before the Cymri would be forced to retreat. He smiled when he heard the faraway voices of the panicked besiegers shouting for water, assistance, and mercy. The smell from flaming thatch annoyed FitzStephen’s nostrils even in the highest point of the castle donjon and he inhaled strongly with his eyes closed, enjoying the Welsh despair outside his citadel.

  The day had been a disaster, but the campaign could still be salvaged. The Cymri would be forced to give up the siege and in the spring Sir Robert FitzStephen would sally out against them and anyone who remembered the Welsh victory would fall beneath his war horse’s hooves. The thought left a good feeling in his chest and he opened the door in front of him and stepped through.

  ‘Hello, soldier,’ Richildis said as FitzStephen closed the door on a dreadful day.

  Rhys, son of Gruffydd, son of Rhys, son of Tewdwr, and descendant of Rhodri the Great of the House of Dinefwr, was angry. He had won at Carmarthen and destroyed his enemy at Llandovery. He had humbled his enemies at Aberdyfi and Aberystwyth, Blaenporth, Pwntan, and Olfagren. He had taken Cilgerran and Llandygwydd without losing a single life, but he knew that he unless he took the castle at Aberteifi he could yet lose everything he had won. He stared at the fortification in the light given off by the burning buildings and tried to calm his seething fury. It took the small man several seconds to steady himself, but the resentment at the Norman success soon passed and he was able to think clearly about his next move.

  ‘Are we under attack?’ Ieuan ap Hywel shouted in Rhys’ direction. Though unsteady on his feet, probably the effect of copious drinking, the tall warrior had five armed men with him, ready to fight the flames which scorched through the town. Rhys found it difficult to even look at the blaze, such was its ferocity.

  ‘Take your men to watch the gates of the castle,’ Rhys shouted over the roar of the fire. ‘If the Normans sally out again, raise the warning.’

  All around Rhys his people were running in the semi-darkness, carrying their stolen belongings away from the inferno that was spreading from building to building in the town of Aberteifi. Rats fled the thatch and one Welshman jumped over a long line of the vermin as it passed through the streets. There were only sixty or so buildings outside the slick castle walls and almost half were alight, threatening the remaining thatched and wooden homes which stood downwind to the east. But no-one was organising water for the blaze. No-one cared about anything other than their plunder. Screams from the animals still tethered to fences surrounded Rhys but he just stared at the mesmerising flames, considering his options silently in an unblinking daze. Perhaps he could use the blaze to burn down the walls of the castle? Or he could signal another attack! He immediately discounted the latter thought. Night assaults were notoriously dangerous even with sober troops and safe conditions underfoot. He had neither of those things. And anyway, the Cymri chieftain could think of no method to get his men past the deadly archers crouched behind the Norman defences. His attackers would be easy targets as they blundered forward into the darkness, outlined against the flaming backdrop.

  Another roof collapsed into the heart of a building and Rhys flinched as the beams tumbled with a crash sending hundreds of fiery cinders skyward. How had the damned Normans managed to get a blaze going with the rain falling so heavily, he wondered. He made a mental note to extract the information from one of the prisoners when the castle fell. If it fell, he thought grimly. It looked so fragile from where he stood in the street, and yet he could find no weak point to attack, no earthwork ready to crumble, and no stretch left undefended.

  ‘Bleddyn ap Gruffydd, come here,’ Rhys shouted at a hulking warrior as he dragged a screaming woman through the darkened town. ‘I thought I told you to keep watch on the postern gate?’ Rhys could picture how a small detachment of devious Normans had crawled down from the keep in the shadow of the castle motte to set the fires and rob his army of the protection of the houses in the town.

  ‘Nobody came through the gate,’ Bleddyn asserted to his chieftain. At his heels the screaming foreign woman tried to break free of his grasp and the Cymri warrior slapped her hard across the face. ‘The Devil is protecting the murderer FitzStephen,’ exclaimed Bleddyn, making a sign to ward off evil. ‘He must’ve set the fire. It is the only answer!’

  Rhys shook his head slowly and despairingly. ‘Gather your warriors and get these fires put out. I am holding you responsible. Do you understand?’ Bleddyn started to protest, but a stern glance from the prince stopped him in his tracks and he took off into the darkness where Rhys heard his orders echo over the flames to the five warriors whom he had brought with him to battle.

  The Welsh chieftain knew that the grumbles would grow louder now. They would say that he had not fulfilled his oath to avenge his nephew Einion’s murder. They would say that the crusade against Aberteifi had been for naught. But Rhys knew better. He had cared not a jot for Einion ab Anarawd and, if he was being honest with himself, he was glad that Robert FitzStephen had cut his nephew’s throat. Einion had been a powerful and popular rival for his own throne in Deheubarth and, despite Rhys’ many successes there were those who thought that Einion could have done a better job as ruler of Deheubarth than he. Rhys had heard the debate rage in quiet corridors during the bad days when the Normans were advancing deep into his territory. They had said that Einion was tougher, younger, and stronger than Rhys, bolder in his decisions and more forthright in his opposition to the invaders. Rhys had made his own plans to deal with his elder brother’s son, but than
ks to the Norman FitzStephen, he no longer had to sully his own soul with the sin of murder.

  However, the reaction of his people to Einion’s demise had surprised Rhys. Stories of the murder had spread quickly and suddenly his boorish nephew was being portrayed as a saintly Welsh hero cut down treacherously by the bestial devil of a Norman knight. From Lleyn to Cardiff, Welshmen were up in arms at the assassination and Rhys had used the wave of anger to draw support to his cause. He had paid priests to say that it was God’s wish that he lead the army and take vengeance for the death of his beloved nephew. And how his people had swarmed to his banner! The holy men had even convinced Owain of Gwynedd to join the offensive; all Wales was united against that most evil and foul murderer, Sir Robert FitzStephen. And suddenly, thanks to one death, his dream of freeing Cymru from the invaders had become a very real possibility.

  Rhys said a short prayer for FitzStephen’s soul. Everyone knew of his exploits, and bards already sang about FitzStephen’s great deeds and his bravery in battle. Rhys had heard accounts about how his cousin had saved King Henry’s life at Coed Ewloe when but an esquire, before almost single-handedly beating back a hoard of Gwynedd spearmen to rescue his army on Mona. A few short months ago, before Einion’s death, the songs had seemed frivolous and silly to Rhys. But now, in front of the fiery backdrop and with a battle against his cousin fought, the stories somehow seemed more visceral, savage, and territorial. The tales of his cousin’s fall from grace were almost as numerous as the songs of his brave exploits. Stories of pillaging, brawling, and murder committed by Robert FitzStephen were told up and down the country. Rhys heard how he would fight against anyone for the right price, were he Welsh, Norman, Dane, Fleming, or Englishman.

  Across the street, Rhys watched Maredudd ap Dafydd pull a smoking body from a burning building by its arms and dump it in the middle of the road. He then darted back into the flames, escaping seconds later, his arms laden with several pieces of plunder. Coughing, Maredudd shouted inaudibly at the bullish Owain of Gwynedd who stomped angrily in Rhys’ direction. Owain was a brute of a man and his contempt for Rhys was obvious. The Prince of Deheubarth did not turn around to greet his fellow chieftain but the familiar feeling of apprehension arose in his chest whenever he was confronted by this veteran warrior. Rhys immediately chastised himself for the weakness and turned to meet Owain’s massive presence.

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you post sentries?’ Owain demanded in his harsh northern accent. His shoulders were wide and uncovered despite the chill in the damp air that forced Rhys into a heavy cloak. As ever he was accompanied by his seneschal, Cynwrig ab Ednyfed.

  Deliberately, Rhys waited to answer for a long time, annoying the impatient Owain. ‘I had planned to burn the town when I captured the castle,’ he said finally, ‘this saved me the bother of wasting firewood.’ Rhys glanced purposefully at Owain’s foolhardy show of manliness and grimaced like a disapproving tutor. He made sure that Owain saw the look. ‘I notice that you did not post any sentries either,’ he said.

  Owain ignored at the quip. ‘The weather’s coming in again,’ he stated, wiping his nose with his forearm.

  ‘Without the protection of the houses,’ Cynwrig spoke for the first time, ‘I don’t know how we can keep our men from leaving, especially since they now have plunder to take home.’ Owain sniffed and agreed with Cynwrig’s words.

  In other words, thought Rhys, Owain had all the loot he could carry and didn’t see the point of maintaining this siege so far from his own lands. But he could never admit that and had left it to his seneschal to describe the reasons for leaving. Exhausted as he was from little sleep and ferocious activity in the lead-up to the battle, Rhys was in no mood to be civil to the ally who meant to abandon him. ‘So you’re running away then?’ he asked brusquely.

  ‘What is the point in assaulting the castle? To avenge Einion?’ Owain laughed sarcastically. ‘Let Robert FitzStephen stay in there and rot! We have taken back all Ceredigion but for this small fort!’ He waved his hand northwards. ‘They are like a tiny pimple on my fat arse,’ he laughed. ‘We have squeezed the poison juice from them and soon enough they will wither.’

  This was the problem, thought Rhys, as he swept rainwater off his brow. Owain and many of his people were only interested in short-term gain rather than lasting security. Just raiders, he concluded with a small shake of his head. Not like the Normans. After they had won a battle the first thing they did was to build a castle from which they could sally again and again and again to ravage the wealth of the surrounding countryside and keep the people under their boot heel. War was a career to the marauding foreigners whereas the Welsh were little more than brigands who slipped across the landscape at night to steal cattle and sheep. Thieves against soldiers, he considered, and Owain was the worst of bandit of them all. Yet Rhys had forged an army of iron from amongst the rustlers and won the greatest victory since Arthwyr had crushed the Saesneg at Mount Baddon. The murderer, his proud cousin, still held the castle, but he would be humbled, Rhys thought, despite his countrymen’s shortcomings.

  ‘Go then,’ Rhys turned his back on Owain and Cynwrig, ‘and take your plunder back to Gwynedd with you.’

  Owain realised that he had been dismissed and stomped off into the darkness, with Cynwrig ab Ednyfed in his wake, cursing all soft bookish men of the south.

  It irked Rhys that the oafish Owain had taken half the glory simply by agreeing to add his warriors to his own. It had been Rhys’ plan to use the hidden cavalry during the battle, and his idea to isolate the Baron of Cemais. His jealousy raged, reminding him of the envy he had often felt as the youngest of six brothers.

  It was my direction of the archers , he thought, and my discipline that had destroyed the Norman army. What had Owain done? Nothing, yet the man from Gwynedd had demanded all Ceredigion north of the River Dyfi as payment for his help. Bastard, thought Rhys, bastard.

  More than anything the prince wanted the invaders gone from his kingdom, thrown back across the Severn and into their own lands. That was his dream. All his life he had heard the stories of the heroes of old; stories that had survived even after the deaths of the men of whose lives they spoke. He wanted the immortality that Arthwyr had discovered, not at Avalon but in the memory of the Cymric people. That great warlord had thrown the English out of his kingdom and ruled as Lord and Master answerable only to God. It was tantalising to think that only the small garrison of Aberteifi lay between him and the rule of Ceredigion. And after that? Pembroke, Brecon, and Striguil were the only strongholds of real note in Wales, and why would they stand where all others had fallen? Owain of Gwynedd was a fine warrior, but the northerner could see no further than the plunder he could carry back across the mountains that encircled his small territory. His banner would fall too and Rhys’ raven standard would rise even higher. The whole of Wales could be his! Like his ancestor Rhodri he could be Tywysog Cymru – Prince of all Wales.

  Ultimate victory was within his grasp, but first he had to find a way into Aberteifi Castle which lay dark and menacing beyond the firelight, blanketed in smoke which drifted in the small wind of the night.

  Chapter Two

  Robert FitzStephen woke with a start. Was it his dream that had awakened him or was there something else that pricked his senses? He listened intently, eyes flicking from side to side in the semi-darkness. Nothing stirred within earshot, but the alertness remained. He used the ball of his palm to rub the sleep and drink from his head. He rolled onto his back upon the palliasse bed.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Richildis asked angrily from his side.

  ‘A bad dream,’ he replied. St Maurice had certainly invaded his slumber, he remembered, to warn him of dangers yet to come. Einion had been there, and his own father Stephen, and Sir Henry FitzRoy to whom he had been apprenticed as an esquire. His imaginings had been long and confused, but just as he had woken up he distinctly remembered being on a boat drawn over rough seas towards a strange and forested land.

  �
�No more wine and cheese before bed,’ he groaned as he stretched his legs and arms to their furthest extreme. He broke wind loudly and Richildis gave him a dig in the ribs with her elbow. He growled cheerfully at his mistress as he leant over and kissed her shoulder in the semi-light. There had been no cockcrow even though light was pouring through the gaps in the shuttered windows of the solar. He supposed that one of the Welsh had caught the bird for a tasty meal during the night. He would have done the same if it was him sitting outside the walls of the castle, bored and hungry.

  It had been three weeks since Aberteifi had been put under siege and the garrison had suffered its share of hardship. Five Welsh attacks had been bloodily repulsed with the loss of twenty archers and four milites. But it was the food situation that was becoming most desperate, and he had been forced to halve the daily ration in an effort to maintain his defiant stance. To make matters worse, someone had been stealing from the stores, and despite Wulfhere’s best efforts the perpetrator had yet to be discovered. Nonetheless, FitzStephen still believed that he could last another two weeks before he would be forced into action, but that did not assuage his fears. His best hope was that his half-brother, Sir Maurice FitzGerald, would come north to break the siege, but that seemed less and less likely given that Pembroke was only two days’ march away and no sign of help had appeared from that direction. And so FitzStephen prayed that hunger was biting Rhys’ men as hard as it was his. He had only shared the true extent of their situation with Sir Roger de Quincy, a feeble attempt to clear the air with his second-in-command. The young knight had seemed genuinely shocked at the news that they were running low on food, and had quickly vanished into the depths of the bailey with his small band of cronies including Theobald Laval.