Roselynde (27 page)

How strong the demands of the stomach are was clear when Simon's
first reaction was disappointment. Ian was bringing a prisoner, not food. The
disappointment, however, was brief. Simon's eyes widened as he took in the
clothing and then the features of the young man—little more than a boy,
really—whom Ian was hurrying along. A variety of modes of action flashed
through his mind.

The pure-blooded Welsh had their own code of behavior, owing
little to Norman or Saxon ideas of honor. Moreover their Christianity was, to
say the least, different. Simon knew enough only to know he did not understand
their form of "honor" but he was not such a fool as to believe, as
some did, that they had none. Often they were called sly, sneaking creatures,
little better than beasts, but Simon knew better than that also. Nor did he
make the mistake of scorning their way of fighting; he had seen its effect too
often. One thing was the same, however. The Welsh were bound by blood ties,
often more firmly than Norman or English.

All blood bonds were recognized, and it was in blood-related clans
that their political structure was based.

Simon made a sharp gesture that stopped Ian from forcing the young
man to his knees. "Gently, gently," he said. "Have some respect
for your betters. It is no shame for any man to be taken prisoner by a force
stronger than his own."

The face had been sullen and desperate, with the wild, darting
eyes of a trapped animal. Now the glance fixed on Simon, flicking over his body
which looked even huger than usual, naked as he was.

"Do you wish to give me a name by which I can address
you?" Simon asked politely.

"Llewelyn."

That was no help. The name was as common in Wales as William was
in England. Nonetheless, the face was not common, and Simon, having seen its
counterpart more than once, could almost put another name to it. Surely this
young man was nobly born, as the Welsh counted nobility, and surely he was
closely related to Owain Gwynedd, who was the nearest thing to a king that
there could be in North Wales.

"Will you enter?" Simon asked with a courteous gesture.
He smiled wryly. "I cannot offer you much in the way of accommodation or
entertainment, we are a little thin of supplies, but what I have I will gladly
share with you, my lord."

"There is no need to make jest of me," the young man
blazed, his fists clenching so that the flesh of his bound wrists stood ridged
between the leather thongs. "Nor will sweet words wring any more from me
than rod or pincers. Do not waste your time. Put me to the torture and be
done!"

"Lord Llewelyn, I am making no jest of you," Simon
returned gravely, "nor am I so much a fool as to offer the smallest hurt
or insult to someone so near in blood to Lord Owain Gwynedd."

The inward hiss of breath told Simon almost all he needed to know
and, realizing he had betrayed himself, Llewelyn did not attempt to deny the
relationship. He merely said, "You will not find me near enough related to
be worth anything to you."

To that forlorn hope of a lie, Simon made no answer. He walked
across the tiny room to where his accoutrements lay and drew his knife from its
belt sheath. Llewelyn's breath drew in again, but he did not flinch or retreat.

"Allow me to loosen your wrists, my lord," Simon said
quietly. "I am afraid you will need to suffer that indignity when we are
abroad, but here there is no reason for you to be uncomfortable." He
turned to Ian as soon as Llewelyn's wrists were free. "Call for a guard, eight
men. They must watch around the day and night. When you have chosen them, come
and join us."

When the guards arrived, Simon told them, "This is Lord
Llewelyn. If he escapes, you die. However, he is to be treated with every
courtesy. If any hurt befalls him, worse will befall you. Choose among
yourselves four to watch by day and four by night and let the night four guard
this door."

The men stared at Llewelyn both to fix his features in mind and
out of curiosity. In their experience a noble prisoner would give oath upon his
honor not to escape and then would be treated as an ordinary guest. To call for
a guard would mean that the prisoner had a bad character and could not be
trusted to keep his word. Usually such men could be treated with brutality and
contempt, but this prisoner was obviously different. Sir Simon did not threaten
idly, and eight guards bespoke great importance.

After they filed out, each having bowed respectfully to both Simon
and his captive, Ian entered triumphantly bearing a cooking pot and a triangle
to support it. Simon cocked a suspicious eye at the contents of the cooking
pot.

"Did Beorn Fisherman fill that pot for you?"

Ian laughed but shook his head as he fixed the triangle and set
the pot over the flames. "No, although he was patiently waiting with his
prize to see if you would change your mind if we came back empty-handed. You
have Lord Llewelyn to thank for our supper."

"Ian!" Simon warned.

"Nay, Lord Llewelyn," Ian said, turning toward the
silent young man, "it was no gibe. If we had not been twenty to your one
we never would have taken you." Then to Simon he said, "He knows
these woods, I think he knows every stick and stone in them. But in pursuing
him, Odo the Dane stumbled upon a hut hidden in a glade, and there were chickens
and rabbits and vegetables in the garden—"

Llewelyn's great familiarity with the area and a single hut
hidden— "Can Odo find that place again?" Simon asked quickly.

"There is nothing there now," Ian said.

"You did not burn it!" Simon burst out.

"Nay, what for? We only took what we needed, but that was
everything."

"It is only some old beldame's hut. What matter where it
is?" Llewelyn sneered.

Ian was stirring the contents of the pot with the blade of his
dagger, and Simon saw the movement hesitate almost imperceptibly. Ian was
clever. He had caught Llewelyn's mistake. Had the hut been nothing, he would
have said nothing. Had he been a little older, he would have said nothing in
any case.

"I do not know," Ian replied to Simon's original
question, but his steady gaze was more reassuring than his words.

"Well, if there is nothing there, it is not important,"
Simon said. "Lord Llewelyn, this is Ian de Vipont, my squire. He is
wellborn and well-bred. I hope you will accept him as your companion. Ian, Lord
Llewelyn is to be your guest. He must be bound when at large, but see that it
is with silk and that none remark upon it. You will serve him now. Beorn will
do for me." He turned to his damp clothing and began to dress and belt on
his weapons. "I must see to the setting of the sentries."

Fortunately Odo had a very clear memory of where the hut lay, and
Simon sighed with pleasure when the area was described to him. They must be
very near to the encampment, for that hut, still stocked, must be a sentry
place. That it was empty meant the Welsh had been warned of their presence in
the neighborhood, but that did not disturb Simon. It was hopeless even to dream
of surprising Welsh hillmen in their own forests.

Simon nearly forgot how hungry he was as he gathered the leaders
of his troop to explain the possibilities. If God was good to them, he said,
the Welsh would launch a raid in an attempt to rescue the prisoner both because
he was kin to Owain Gwynedd and because they would be afraid of what he might
tell if put to torture. Not, Simon remarked, that he wished to speak against
Lord Llewelyn's courage, but he was only a boy, after all. The men listened
quietly but with faintly puzzled expressions. They could see their lord was
excited, and they did not understand what could be exciting about another
slash-and-run raid by the Welsh.

"But after this raid," Simon smiled grimly, his eyes
glittering, "they will not succeed in melting away."

At that the fighting captains came more upright and leaned
forward.

"Will they stand and fight for the young lord?"

"Perhaps," Simon replied, "but if they do not, it
will not matter for we will know to where they flee."

Beorn licked his lips and Simon thought of the rat and laughed.

"Yes," he added, "I think we will all feed full
tomorrow night, if we fight well for our dinners."

That brought a chorus of laughter and assurances that they would
fight with all their hearts for a good dinner. Then Simon moved to practical
details. He described how, past the sentry posts, less care was taken to avoid
making trails.

"Moreover, it cannot be avoided," he pointed out.
"The convergence of many men and horses on one place can be spread only so
much, especially over such rough ground. Odo will go now with foreriders and
mark the trail to the cabin, but do not go past it."

Quick nods of comprehension. There was enough danger that even the
few sent to mark the more distant trail would be seen and the Welsh have
warning that their lair was known. Simon's men knew they would attack in any
case, but the fight would be far more bitter if they had to ride against an
armed and prepared camp. If the raid took place as Simon hoped, they would be
attacking a disordered camp with half its men straggling back and already
weary.

When the order of fighting, the place where the horses were to be
held ready saddled, and all other matters had been arranged, Simon hurried
back. Now the light was beginning to fade. He hoped Odo would be able to find
the hut before it grew dark. He hoped with almost equal passion that the Welsh
raid would not come before he had time to eat what the two boys had left him
for dinner.

There was an honest third still warm in the pot, and it
disappeared in remarkably short order. When it was gone, Simon lay back by the
fire watching Llewelyn's face in the uncertain light of the flames. It was a
handsome face, dark and fine-boned. The body was fine, too, slight but hinting
of a wiry strength that might outlast a more brutish force.

"What will you do with me?" the young man asked
suddenly.

"I have been thinking of that," Simon replied, "but
it is really more for you to say what you desire than for me to order. If you
desire to be ransomed, you must tell me to whom to send word. However, I will
not urge you, if you do not wish it."

"I do not wish to tell you. Now what?"

"Nothing unpleasant, I assure you," Simon chuckled.
"I think the safest and most honorable disposition would be to send you to
Lord John. He will command the Welsh Marches and will treat you with honor. I
would send you to the King himself, but he is bound upon Crusade. I think you
will enjoy Lord John's Court."

Whatever ill could be said of John, no one had ever claimed that
he lacked charm or the kind of political acumen that would flatter an important
hostage. Simon went on to speak of life at Court, but he did not think Llewelyn
would be there long. Doubtless as soon as the raid was over they would know the
young man's true name—if his name was other than Llewelyn, and the exact degree
of his kinship with Owain Gwynedd.

Full dark had fallen and an owl cried mournfully from the north.
Llewelyn's head swung toward the sound, his lips parting. Then, hastily, he
asked, "Will I be free to come and go at Court, or will I be prisoned
close?"

Simon smiled and got to his feet. "Ian will tell you. I must
go and see if I can catch that owl. These days any bird is welcome to our pots,
even owls."

The consternation in the man's dark eyes was sufficient
confirmation of Simon's near surety that the bird call was a signal. He went
out and closed the door of the hut. "They come," he said softly to
the men on guard. "I hope Ian will be able to keep him from crying out,
but be prepared."

It was necessary for Simon to stand still for a little while to
accustom his eyes to the dark, but it was not as black as he had expected. The
rain had stopped, too. Shortly, utter blindness was replaced by a faintly
luminous dark gray against which blacker shadows could be distinguished. Simon
rounded the hut and found his horse tethered at the back. He mounted, listening
intently, but all he heard were the normal sounds of a camp at night.

At last another owl hooted. A shadow flickered between the huts.
Softly Simon drew his sword from its scabbard.

"All is ready, lord," Beorn's voice muttered. "The
sentries think they come in two bands, but whether they will spread or not they
cannot tell."

"Ian is pent up with the captive. Do you fetch your horse and
take your place at my left shoulder. You can watch me better for your lady from
there anyway."

"Oh, thank you, my lord," Beorn said naively.

Simon would have laughed, but he was too busy listening. He was
proud of his men. Even knowing what he did, the camp looked perfectly normal.
There was some soft-voiced talk, and now and again a burst of laughter. The
fires burned low now that the cooking of the evening meal was done. The soft
clop of hooves on wet ground warned Simon of Beorn's coming before he saw the
man leading his horse between the huts. Then he heard the slither of metal on
leather. Beorn was also drawing his sword. Simon smiled wryly. There was no
need for weapons yet, but Beorn felt just as uneasy as he did at being
concealed. It was the only way to keep from the Welsh the fact that armed and
mounted men were ready, but Beorn and Simon could not see the enemy advance, either.
Simon's horse sidestepped nervously and he patted its neck. He felt as if his
body had been turned into a single huge listening organ, which was foolish; the
call to action would be loud enough, as it was said, to wake the dead.