Roselynde (30 page)

"Do not be so foolish, Ian," Simon grated. "You
have offended me in no way. I will miss you sorely, but the needs of the realm
come above my needs and your desires."

It was useless to tell Ian that a close connection with Lord
Llewelyn and an intimate knowledge of Lord John's ways would be of infinite
benefit to him. His age and training would make him scorn the notion of
personal benefit in comparison with loyalty, but Simon could not be equally
careless of his squire's advantage. It was his duty to forward the young man's
interests as it was Ian's duty to serve and be obedient. Even worse would be to
suggest that he wished to send Ian away to preserve him from danger. Simon's
lips twitched. If he said that, he would have an open rebellion instead of
tears on his hands.

"Your duty now," Simon continued severely, "is to
bring Llewelyn to trust you and to bring him to an understanding of our ways.
Also—" Here Simon hesitated. It went against his grain to speak ill of any
member of the royal family, but John's character was such that a pair of eyes
and ears in his

Court would be of great value to the King and Queen. "Lord
John is not always so trustworthy as a man in his station should be."

Ian nodded calmly. Everyone had heard how Henry's favorite son had
turned on his father when a great part of the trouble was caused by Henry's
attempts to redivide his lands so that John would have a patrimony. Richard's
quarrel with his father was different. Richard had been wronged and, if his
reaction was somewhat overviolent, that was customary among the Angevins.

"What I do not understand," Ian said thoughtfully,
distracted from his distress, "is why the King gave such power into Lord
John's hands. He is near a king himself now, being palatine lord over all the
counties of the southwest and a whole girdle across the midlands."

"I am not sure I understand, either," Simon replied,
"although I see two possible reasons. The Welsh Marcher lords are not
exactly docile vassals. They are glad to obey the King now because he is doing
what they desire, but they are not above threatening to make alliance with the
Welsh and permit them to flood out upon England when they are thwarted in their
desires. Perhaps the King expects John to stand as a buffer between the Welsh
and the rich heart of England. Yet John is as like to ally himself with the
Welsh—more like if he could draw Richard into Wales before he leaves for
Crusade. Wales is an easy place to die from a chance arrow."

Ian drew in breath sharply, and Simon knew he need not be more
specific. He continued, "This is one thing you must watch and listen for.
Lord John may seek to reach Owain through Llewelyn. I wish to know if he does.
I also wish to know if he seeks to bind Llewelyn to him. This is not so
dangerous. It is a thing for the long future. However Llewelyn is no fool for
all he is so young. He might conceive a dangerous hatred from the wrong type of
cozening."

"But my lord," Ian protested, running a hand through his
already disordered hair in unconscious imitation of Simon's own habit,
"how can I know these things?"

"From Llewelyn who, if you are deft, will ask your advice.
You and I mean Llewelyn and his people no harm. We wish only that they live in
peace and cease from raiding the border towns."

Matters might not be so simple if Richard decided on the conquest
of Wales, but Simon was certain that Richard could not be diverted from the
Crusade for such a purpose. As long as the King held his present course, what
Simon said was true.

"Thus," he went on, "your advice to Llewelyn should
be honest. You will not violate his trust. You already have a strong beginning
in gaining that trust. It was you who comforted and sympathized with him when
he discovered what had befallen his men because his uncle David would lend them
no support. It was you who went with him so that he could see that those who
were captured were being treated as well as we are able in our condition. You
will be the only person he knows at Court, and you have shown him kindness and
goodwill when he was utterly in your power. It will be natural for him to turn
to you."

"I hope I may not violate
your
trust," Ian said
unhappily. "To lead your guard as you instruct me, to cling behind your
left shoulder—these things I can do, but—"

"You have keen wits, Ian, I know. You can do this also."

Simon stood up and rubbed his stiffened knees. He shook his head
as Ian rose lithely from his equally cramped crouch. "I am getting too old
for paddling about in all this wet," he said disgustedly. "Go wake
Llewelyn and ask if he wishes to bid his men farewell. He must do so now,
before we bind them. I do not wish him to remember that harshness, even though
it is forced upon us. Our worst wounded will guard them, but—" He embraced
Ian. "Go with God."

"And when this duty is done, then I may return to you?"
Ian insisted.

By then the King would certainly have left the country. But
Alinor? Simon put the thought aside and smiled. "If you have not been
knighted and called to some other duty, yes, of course."

That had been the best thing to say, Simon thought, as Ian
returned his embrace heartily. Since the young man did not yet see where close
attendance on a Welsh prince might lead him, he would go about his duty with a
lighter heart. And the question might never arise. Simon knew he might not live
through the battle ahead. He passed a hand wearily across his face and squatted
down again a little closer to the low-burning fire. This was the time he hated,
when everything that was needful was done and nothing was left but the waiting.
What he wished to do—since he could not hold her in his arms or speak to
her—was to write to Alinor.

It was a ridiculous desire. There was nothing he could say to her.
Could he tell her that every woman he embraced turned to Alinor in his arms?
That he dreamed about her so vividly that in spite of the women he woke in the
night, sometimes spent, sometimes hard and ready? That during the day the wind
in the trees brought her voice and the birdsong was her laughter? Even if he
could find such soft words of love, they were forbidden; to write them would be
inexcusable. This separation should wean them apart; love letters would
scarcely serve that purpose. Even if he should die, such a letter would be
unpardonable. It would only increase Alinor's grief and her distaste for
marriage to another man.

All waiting ends. Simon's was terminated when Beorn entered the
hut to tell him all was ready and help him to arm. After a brief conference and
inspection to be sure no part of the plan he had outlined had been forgotten or
overlooked, Simon led his troop out on the trail to the sentry place. The men
were tense and ready, shields bound to their arms rather than hung over their
backs. Often, too often, archers lay hidden in the forest along the trail and
let fly at them as they rode.

This day, however, they were not harassed. Simon was thankful for
it even if it meant that the men would add to the numbers inside the
encampment. In all probability they were already so outnumbered that a few more
would not matter.

Beyond the sentry place, Simon found his deductions had been
correct. There were soon well-marked paths leading to the easiest passages of
the broken ground. Simon chose the widest and best marked, and the troop
followed. The choice increased the danger of ambush, but his men were prepared
for that and would not be surprised or disheartened. They had their orders.
Ambush or no ambush, they were not to break ranks. If a blow must be launched
in self-defense, it must be launched while moving. No man was to attack or
pursue.

"Remember," Simon had warned his men, laughing, "it
is your dinner you are fighting for and that can be served only inside the
Welsh encampment."

However, there was no ambush. Although the air was cool, sweat
trickled down Simon's face and neck. He wet dry lips and ground his teeth. The
encampment was up ahead; it had to be. The paths had to lead somewhere. The
Welsh, however, might no longer be in the encampment. They could have fled in
the night, as soon as news came to them that the raid had failed. If they were
gone, Simon knew his enterprise was finished. The small victory the night
before had done more harm than good in that the men's emotions had peaked. If
they now faced nothing beyond more starvation and discomfort, their spirit
would fail.

When they came through the trees into the cleared area, Simon's
heart sank still further. Against the slight graying of the sky that hinted
that dawn would soon come, the palisade showed black and sharp-toothed. The
camp was there. Beyond the palisade at an angle, one could see that the ground
rose, and there were irregular blotches of darkness—lean-tos? Huts? But
nowhere, not at any angle, was there a glimmer or a wink of light—no candle, no
torch, no banked fires. Where there was no fire, there were no men.

Blank with disappointment, Simon automatically followed the plan
of action he had outlined and fixed firmly in mind. He moved forward to a
distance where an arrow could reach but an archer could obtain little force and
less accuracy from his crossbow. To each side of him men filed out, forming a
long, flat semicircle, parallel with the palisade.

"Lord," Beorn muttered from behind Simon, "are they
gone?"

"I—" Simon began, and then stopped to swallow.

"Perhaps they fled in such haste that they could not carry
all with them?" Beorn suggested hopefully.

And the word "haste" woke a succession of images in
Simon's mind so that he drew a deep breath of relief and grinned. There had
been no need for great haste. The men who fled the raid must soon have realized
that Simon's troop was not pursuing them. Even if they thought Simon would only
take time to secure the prisoners and see to the wounded, they had more than
time enough to set torch to the encampment. If it were necessary to leave their
goods behind, the Welsh would do so, but they would never allow them to fall
into their enemy's hands.

This, then, was another clever trap, and very clever it was. So
accustomed had Simon become to finding empty villages and farms that for a time
he had failed to comprehend the difference. The farms and villages were
indefensible, of no value to either side. The Welsh did not fire them because
they hoped to return. Occasionally out of frustration, Simon's men did burn a
village out, but usually they were glad of the shelter and let them stand. The
encampment was a different thing altogether. The men inside it were definitely
at an advantage because it was defensible. Only an idiot would leave a strong
emplacement to flee a force weaker than his own, half starving, without means
of shelter. David ap Owain might be a treacherous and unloving uncle, but he
was neither an idiot nor a coward.

"No," Simon said softly, but loud enough for the men on
either side of him to hear, "they are there. They wait for us to ride up
to the gates, all unwary, thinking the encampment is ours for the taking. Hold
to your orders."

The word passed quickly from mouth to mouth down the line. The
archers moved forward, opened leather sacks that had been tied to their
quivers, and withdrew some very peculiar arrows. These were nothing but
moderately straight sticks, well sharpened and fire hardened at the tip and
most crudely feathered. Each third man set out a little clay pot from which,
when the covers were removed, came a dull red glow. When the arrows were dipped
into the pots, bright yellow flame blossomed. Then the archers fired them
hastily. They flew most awkwardly, not only because they were ill made but
because they were overweighted at the tip with little bags full of soft pitch
that now burned merrily. When they struck the wooden palisade, the pitch, which
had been further softened by the heat, ran down in long streaks. Soon, here and
there, the rough-barked logs began to burn merrily, too.

"Hold," Simon ordered suddenly. "Move forward. See
if you can hit the shelters."

A faint groan went up from the men. In the shelters was the food
and drink they craved. They were so hungry now that they were willing to face
greater danger for a better assurance of full bellies. Nonetheless, they ran
forward and fired higher. Quicker, brighter blazes announced that thatched
roofs were alight. Then, at last, the assurance that Simon desired was given.
Against the growing light of the fires, dark forms scurried.

"Back out of range," Simon ordered. "Fire again at
the walls."

At first there was an attempt to continue the pretense that the
encampment was empty. For a short time, no one seemed to try to quench the
flames. This was not as foolhardy as it seemed. After the rains that had fallen
so constantly, everything was sodden. There was a good chance that, when the
pitch burned out, the fires would cease to spread. Soon, however, it became
evident that even this device would not draw Simon to believe the encampment
was empty. An angry buzzing began to come across the field to Simon's ears. He
glanced eastward and his teeth showed in a grim smile. He had judged the time
very close. There was just a little pink.

Now the camp was openly active. There were shouts and cries and
the hiss of water as it was cast into the fires. Men ran about, more concerned
with dousing the fires than with protecting themselves.

"Half archers with true arrows forward."