Footsteps in Time (33 page)

As soon as Hywel helped
David into it, he started sweating. With padding underneath and
surcoat over the top to show his colors, the red Welsh dragon on a
white background, David was blazingly hot. He couldn’t imagine what
the European knights were thinking when they wore this in the Holy
Land. Hywel buckled on his sword, David drank a flagon of water,
and then exited the tent. Only Carew, Bevyn, Gruffydd, and two of
Carew’s men (Dogfael and Cadoc) would accompany him. Ieuan would
stay in camp, in charge of the other men and on guard. If it came
to a fight, they would lose, but by remaining out in the open, they
could abandon their possessions and flee.

David mounted Bedwyr and, with a nod
to his men, rode the short distance to the English camp. The sun
was lower now, but in these long English summers, it was hard to
tell the hour. It was perhaps seven or eight o’clock, with two more
hours until full dark. Given the time, David hoped Edward had
finished his evening meal, but as they entered the camp, most of
his men were still eating. David dismounted outside a grand
pavilion. Its sides and back were closed but the front was open to
the evening breeze.

He ducked through the
opening. Edward sat at a solitary table some forty feet away. He
didn’t look up as David entered and his lack of courtesy made David
hesitate.
Surely this isn’t usual?
Beside Edward, on a small stool, sat another man
whom David would have recognized even if Aaron hadn’t warned him
what to expect. It was Aaron’s brother Jacob, wearing the yellow
badge of his religion, acting as the royal food taster. How
offensive must that have been to a man whose religion forbade him
to eat with gentiles!

Other men sat at tables on
either side of King Edward. Uncle Dafydd sneered at David from one
of them but didn’t speak.

Carew leaned in and whispered that
Edmund, the Earl of Lancaster, was to Edward’s left, Roger and
Edmund Mortimer, Gilbert de Clare, and John Gifford were to his
right.

“
So the Marcher lords have
come too,” David said. “What can we expect from them?”

“
I can’t say,” Carew said.
“Probably nothing good.”

Other men sat at tables along the side
walls. Carew didn’t see the Archbishop of Canterbury, nor Humphrey
de Bohun, the Earl of Hereford. Perhaps they were to arrive
later.

David rolled his shoulders,
straightened them, and then lifted his chin. “My lord Edward. I
give you greetings from my father, the Prince of Wales.”

Finally, Edward looked up. He jerked
his head. Bevyn shouted a warning and Carew and David spun around,
reaching for their swords, but too late. Other swords were already
at their throats. Not even Bevyn’s blade had cleared its
sheath.

“
Take your hands off your
weapons,” one of the men said.

The five men raised their
hands, but otherwise didn’t move. It would take very little
provocation to make these men shove swords through their throats,
and David hoped to live a little while longer at least.

Other men relieved David and his men
of their swords and knives. While Carew and David had soldiers on
either side of them, gripping their arms to contain them, Bevyn and
the others were manhandled to the tent posts and tied, their hands
behind their backs.

All the while, David kept his gaze on
Edward, who still ate his food as nonchalantly as before. David
clenched his fists. “There’s a certain freedom in finally facing
that which you most fear,” he said to Carew.

Carew ground his teeth. “Don’t do
anything rash, my lord. This is my fault. Let me try to speak to
the king.”

Edward interrupted their conversation.
“Separate them!”

David’s captors jerked his arms and
pulled him away from Carew. David was still trying to get a sense
of whether Carew thought Edward’s actions were his fault because
he’d talked David into coming to England, or whether he was
betraying him to Edward but this wasn’t how he’d meant it to
happen. David saw nothing in Carew’s eyes, however, but anger and
maybe a touch of fear. Unless they were just mirroring David’s
own.

Edward went back to his
food, and eventually the noise in the tent rose to its previous
levels. Edward laughed at something Uncle Dafydd said. He waved his
knife around, a parsnip speared through the end. Edward’s sojourn
in the Holy Land had given him a taste for heavily spiced and
sauced foods and David wondered what the meal was. Eventually,
Jacob was allowed to leave, but Edward made David stand until he
finished eating. Thankful now for his mail armor, David entertained
himself with various scenarios for escape. Despite Carew’s fears,
however, David knew enough not to act until he had no other
choice.

Bevyn grumbled, and when
David turned to look at him, he gave David a fearsome grimace.
David was glad to see his mustachios were still in place. Bevyn’s
captors, like David’s, had grown bored with their task, and David
tried to watch them without looking at them directly.

Finally, Edward finished his meal and
deigned to look at David. David’s captors pushed him forward until
he stood some ten feet in front of his companions.

“
Well,” Edward said,
speaking in French. “The time has come.”

He leaned back in his chair and rested
his boots on the table, newly cleared of dishes.

“
Welcome to England.”
Edward held his hands out expansively. “Though I’d hoped your
father would come, you will do very nicely. You will be glad to
know that you abdicate the throne today or you die where you
stand.”

David held his gaze. “No.”

A sigh blew around the
tent.

“
No, you say?” Edward
pulled his feet down and leaned forward. “You don’t even want to
hear my terms?”

“
No,” David said
again.

Edward laid his hands flat
on the table. “You would not trade your inheritance, such as it is,
for land in England, yours free and clear? You would not, perhaps,
enjoy the adventure of a crusade? You love your rocks and mountains
so much, do you?”

“
You offered this to my
father not long ago,” David said. “He gave you his reply. I have
given you mine.”

At that, Edward stood and pulled his
sword from its sheath. He rounded the table and pointed his sword
directly at David.

“
Edward! What are you
doing?” Carew said.

“
You think a king
shouldn’t get his hands dirty?” Edward said. “I’ve looked forward
to this day for many months, ever since the Vale of Conwy, which I
understand was your doing. Did you call upon the weather as well?
You and that witch mother of yours?”

“
The Welsh need only God to
assist us,” David said.

“
You’ll need more than
that today.” He closed the distance between them, grasped David’s
surcoat, and pulled. It ripped and came free. Edward held it in his
left hand, spinning on one heel so everyone could see the red
dragon in tatters. Then he dropped the cloth on the ground and
kicked it away. “A king shouldn’t ask his men to do that which he’s
not man enough to do himself.”

“
He doesn’t even have a
sword, Edward,” Carew said. “You think to kill him in cold
blood?”

Edward brought his sword up
and saluted Carew with it. “Give the boy his sword back.” He
gestured to one of the soldiers, who pulled it from its sheath and
tossed it at David. David caught the hilt and his guards backed
away, leaving David alone in the center of the room, facing
Edward.

More comfortable now, David brought
his sword up. He was young and strong. His men were hopelessly
outnumbered, but if he could hold Edward off long enough, perhaps
he would see reason, or his brother would—or perhaps even Uncle
Dafydd would intervene, though David wasn’t going to hold his
breath on that one.

With no warning at all, Edward
attacked. David parried his first blows, backing away to gauge what
kind of fighter the king was. He was very skilled, which was no
surprise given who he was. David held his ground and Edward backed
off, sweat dripping down his face. David was sweltering, but so
focused on Edward that everything else he saw or felt was as if
from a great distance. As Edward attacked and David countered,
David had an image of himself back in Castell y Bere with Bevyn
shouting instructions and curses at him while he hacked away at
Fychan.

David tried every move that he knew
and Edward had an answer for them all. The two men fought on, both
tiring as the minutes passed, though David less than Edward, who
was feeling his age perhaps. David put the king in his
mid-forties—no young stripling but with a full head of dark hair
and athletic build, David wasn’t going to underestimate
him.

Edward took a great stride toward
David. He tried to trap David against a table to end the fight, but
David twisted away. As Edward turned to follow, his foot slipped
and he stumbled, falling forward onto one knee. Before he could
recover, David swung his sword as hard as he could and swept the
king’s blade aside. It tumbled across the grass that formed the
floor of the tent.

But David didn’t finish
him. He couldn’t really kill the King of England—not in front of
his own men—and live himself.

Edward knew it too and took advantage.
“Guards!”

A soldier with a flail flicked his
wrist, wrapped the end of the weapon around David’s blade, and
pulled. David couldn’t recover quickly enough to stop two guards
from hemming him in. They grabbed his arms whilst the man on
David’s right used his free hand to grab his hair and pull back
David’s head.

Edward got to his feet, recovered his
sword, pointed it at David, and smiled.

“
This is beneath you,
Edward,” Carew tried again. “He is a Prince, your own
cousin.”

Edward kept his sword
steady, pointed at David’s chest. “He is no prince, Carew! He’s an
upstart bastard; a traitor just as you are. You and I both know
traitors deserve death.”

“
Except for my uncle.”
David’s eyes flicking to his uncle, Dafydd, who was still seated at
the table.

Uncle Dafydd’s mouth
twisted in an angry moue. Perhaps it was mouthy of him, but Edward
was going to kill him regardless of what he said. David ignored his
uncle’s stutters and returned his concentration to Edward’s feet
and hands in preparation for the moment the king moved against
him.

Edward shifted, the sword
two feet from David’s throat. “Don’t you dare speak of him again.
He’s twice the man you are.”

“
Or twice the traitor,”
David said.

Then both men moved—David a half a
second before the king. Edward stepped forward, his face suffused
with anger while David brought his left foot up and drove it
sideways into the right knee of the guard on his left. As he fell
sideways, David grabbed the guard and pulled him forward, just as
Edward slashed at David’s head. Instead of hitting David, Edward’s
sword ripped through the back of the guard’s neck.

David continued the spin, swinging the
man into the guard on his right, who couldn’t withstand the weight.
Using the guard’s momentum as a pendulum, David twisted around to
make space for himself between the tables. Though shocked, Edward’s
men moved quickly to surround him.

“
Stay back! Do not
interfere. He’s mine!” Edward said.

Again, David stared
across the open space at the king. Edward was breathing hard, one
hand clenched to his chest, his face pale.
Is he ill?
His sword wavered and
Edward hesitated. David didn’t.

He strode forward, closing the
distance between them in two steps. With the flat of his left hand,
safely covered by his half-glove gauntlet, David batted the blade
of Edward’s sword away and then drove his right fist into the
king’s face. Edward staggered back, falling into the table behind
him, blood pouring from his nose. David grasped the sword he’d
dropped and held it to Edward’s throat.

The nobles had gotten to their feet in
an uproar, but above the noise, someone said, “Do not kill him, I
beg you.”

David glanced to his left.
Edmund, Edward’s brother, had risen unsteadily to his feet, his
hand out, beseeching him. David gazed down at Edward. “A prince
does not kill another, Edward.” David stepped back, pointing the
sword at the ground.

Edward looked up at David,
and the loathing on his face caused David to take another step
back. “You have not won, cur. I am too ill to fight tonight.”
Edward nodded to the men behind David. “Bind him. I will deal with
him tomorrow.”

But David wasn’t going down without a
fight. He swung around to hold them off. This time, however, they
didn’t make the mistake of trying to grab him. Instead, a soldier
held his knife to Carew’s throat. Carew’s eyes met David’s as
silence descended on the tent.

“
You can escape, my lord,”
Carew said. “I am only one man. You are Wales.”

David couldn’t do it and couldn’t
think of a way out, not that wouldn’t end in Carew’s death as well
as David’s own. Twenty Englishmen still stood between him and the
door. David lowered his sword and a mass of guards crowded him.
Once again, they stripped his sword from his hand. This time, they
bound David as they had his men. By the time David was trussed,
Edward was gone and the tent all but deserted. Only two guards
remained, standing sentry at the entrance to the tent. David wished
then that he had his mother’s talent for laughing at impossible
situations, but the skill seemed to have deserted him.