The Reckoning - 3 (84 page)

His frustration intensified as the day wore on. Just one wretched bridge lay between him and what might be the decisive battle of the war. But the Irfon was running high with snow-melt, and they had no hope of crossing it unless they could take the bridge, as they'd conclusively proved they could not do.
So now they waited, and Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, damn his soul to Hell, took his ease behind the Irfon L Lestrange thought sourly, laughing at them.
The continuing clamor was one aggravation too many in a day so hill of disappointments, and when Lestrange spotted John Giffard's wife, he went over to complain. He'd meant to speak sharply to her; after all, she was the lady of the manor, and responsible for maintaining some semblance of order. But as he looked into Maude's tired, troubled face, he found himself softening his words.
Lestrange had known Maude Clifford in her youth, remembered her as a handsome lass, flirtatious and given to giggling, but that was before her abduction and marriage to John Giffard. This woman was a stranger, a pitiful, drab creature, wan as a ghost, timid as a hedgesparrow. Her oldest daughter by Giffard, a girl of ten, clung to her skirts. Katherine had inherited Maude's dark coloring, but none of her father's swagger; she seemed unwilling to leave
Maude's side for even a moment. Lestrange was not normally one for speculating about what went on in women's heads, but he found himself recalling now that
Maude was a kinswoman of the Welsh Prince; which one, he wondered, did she pray forhusband or cousin?
When he suggested, far more kindly than he'd intended, that Lady Maude ought to quiet the hall, Maude hastily compliedor tried to. Watching as she attempted to restore calm, Lestrange soon saw how ineffectual her efforts were. She might be a great heiress and John Giffard's lady wife, but she seemed unable to daunt a single soul in the hall, even the youngest ones.
Lestrange turned away, stopped a servant, and ordered a flagon of hippocras.
It was then that John Giffard strode into the hall. Coming to an abrupt halt, he scowled, and shouted, "Quiet!" Children froze where they were, and the babble of voices subsided, gave way to subdued hush. Giffard paused just long enough to locate Lestrange. "Roger! I need to talk to you!"
Lestrange did not appreciate the other man's peremptory tone, but Giffard never even noticed. He was close enough now for Lestrange to see how flushed he was. His eyes had a glazed, blue glitter that Lestrange associated with too much wine, but Giffard was quite sober. "What was it you said, Roger . . .
that we needed a miracle? Well, I've brought yo one." Turning, he beckoned to a man who'd trailed him into the ha»-

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"Meet your miracle, also known as Helias Walwyn. Go on, Helias, tell him-"
The man was not known to Lestrange, but his name identified him as a fellow countryman; the English had been settling in Wales in ever growing numbers, lured by their King's promises of profit and opportunity. Helias Walwyn seemed to be relishing the attention. He grinned, brushed back a shock of blond hair, letting the suspense build, like a child about to share a secret.
"I know of a way to cross the Irfon, my lord. There is a ford not far from where the Wye and Irfon meet. It will be a hazardous crossing, what with the water running so high. But if we are willing to risk it, we can hit the Welsh defenders from the rear, take the bridge, and then fall upon Llewelyn ap
Gruffydd ere he realizes his danger."
JUST as Goronwy had predicted, December dusk descended swiftly upon the wooded hills and valleys of Buellt. The last light had begun to fade from the winter sky as Llewelyn rode back toward Llanganten. Somewhere in the distance, Vespers was being rung. "Llanynys Church, most likely," Rhosier concluded, tilting his head to listen. "A pity that it is on the wrong side of the Irfon, or we could have stopped for the service. I had no obliging White Monk to say
Mass for me today," he said, casting Llewelyn a sideways glance of mock reproach.
"Ah, but you've led such a sinless life that you're always in a state of grace," Llewelyn said blandly, although the corner of his mouth gave him away, twitching as he sought to suppress a grin. The other men hooted loudly at that, but Rhosier was not offended, for he was a man quick to laugh, even at his own expense.
Only Llewelyn and Rhosier had attended the meeting in a secluded grange barn.
Their escort had waited at a discreet distance, out of hearing range, and they were quite curious about the outcome. One youth was especially eager to know the particulars, and as Robyn ap Gwern seized control of the conversation, Trevor fought back a disapproving frown. Robyn was a newcomer to his lord's household, a well-born youth who was connected by marriage to Llewelyn's nephew, Rhys Wyndod. But Trevor found him to be insufferably cocky and brash, and it vexed him now to hear Robyn interrogating his lord as if they were equals; that Llewelyn did not seem to mind only irritated him all the more.
"Well . . . what happened? Did they pledge you their support, my °rd? Or swoon dead away at the mere thought of committing themselves?"
'I hope," Llewelyn said, "that the Almighty is more forgiving of

*-w

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men's failings than you are, Robyn." Although Trevor could not see his face, it sounded as if he was smiling. "It has not been easy for them, living in the shadow of the Crown. Edward's lackeys have ruled Buellt with a heavy hand these five years past. They've had to learn caution, to embrace it as an article of faith. In fact, so skittish have they become that the letter they gave me is so cryptic and obscure it reads as if it were in code!"
Robyn was too young, though, to empathize with those who were half-hearted, apprehensive, or downtrodden. "That just proves what I've been saying, that
I've seen field mice with more backbone. If they lack courage enough even to seek you out in daylight, how likely is it that they'd take up arms on your behalf? If I may be blunt, my lord, this is one quest that will yield no Holy
Grail!"
"Mayhap not, but I gained information from them that might well save our lives," Llewelyn said, and Robyn turned sharply in the saddle to stare at him.
The others urged their mounts closer to hear, too; Llewelyn had their undivided attention now. "I knew Edward had appointed Roger Lestrange to de
Mortimer's command, and I knew, too, that he was on his way to join Giffard at
Buellt Castle. But what I did not know was that he'd already arrived, and with a large force from Montgomery and Oswestry." Llewelyn paused, then added dryly, "With half our army on their way to Brycheiniog with Dai, I suppose if s rather obvious that I did not know!"
There was a silence after that, until Robyn gave voice to the thought uppermost in all their minds. "Thank God," he said, "that we hold the bridge!"
"Speaking of the bridge," Llewelyn said, "we might as well take care of it now. Morgan, you and Andras ride on ahead to the camp, tell Goronwy and my cousin what we learned about Lestrange, and that we've gone to check upon the bridge. We'll set it afire, and bring our men back with us to the camp. The day of reckoning with Giffard and Lestrange will have to wait."
It had snowed earlier in the day, and they were studying the sky as they rode, attempting to gauge the chances of snow on the morrow. But Robyn soon brought his stallion up to ride beside Llewelyn and Rhosier. "Whilst we were at
Cwm-hir, I got to talking with one of the monks. He was almost as old as God, having reached his full three score years and ten, and he told me about an ambush that had taken place fifty years ago or more, involving Llewelyn Fawr and a monk or Cwm-hir. Do you know about that, my lord?"
Trevor had been bristling over this new evidence of Robyn's pi*" sumption, but at the mention of Llewelyn Fawr, he no longer minde so much. His lord could not yet bear to talk of his wife; that wound was

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still too raw. But he took great pleasure in reminiscing about the grandfather he'd so loved, and Trevor was glad to see those memories evoked now, even if it was Robyn's doing. Already he could hear the laughter in his lord's voice, just beneath the surface, as Llewelyn said, "Indeed, I do, lad. That was a story my grandfather loved to tell. It happened during one of his campaigns against the English King, Edward's father. Henry's men came upon a White Monk, who offered to show them a way to ford the Gwy. Instead he led them into a marsh, where they were soon bogged down and easy prey for the Welsh. Henry was so wroth with Cwm-hir that he burned one of their barns, levied a fine of three hundred marks"
They heard it, too, then, sounds echoing through the trees. As Llewelyn drew rein, he saw sudden fear on the faces of his men, fear for him. "Let me scout ahead," Robyn urged. For once, though, Trevor was the bolder of the two youths; he was already in motion.
But there was no need to seek out danger; it found them. Trevor had not yet reached the bend in the trail when he ran into a band of English horsemen.
There was no knight among them, for they wore hooded coifs and leather gambesons, not the great helms and mail hauberks too costly for men-at-arms.
They were clearly no novices to warfare and battlefield surprises, for they recovered swiftly and surged forward, confident that they would prevail; they easily outnumbered their Welsh foes.
None of this mattered to Trevor; none of it even registered with him. He knew only that his Prince was in grave peril. Shouting over his shoulder, "My lord, save yourself!" he spurred his horse forward.
Trevor barely had time to draw his weapon. As soon as a target was within range, he lashed out wildly with his sword, too frantic to feel any fear. The first man he encountered seemed startled by the ferocity of his attack, and veered off. Another swung at Trevor as he galloped past, but his battle axe just sliced through the air, harmlessly. Trevor's rush had carried him into the very midst of the enemy ranks. As he tugged at his horse's reins, seeking to turn it about, he risked a quick glance back, and what he saw took his breath like a blow. His lord had not fled. He was unsheathing his sword, making ready to defend himself.
"No," Trevor cried, "no!" He jerked again on the reins, wheeled his mount, and careened into the nearest rider. His sword struck the Englishman's shield, glanced off. As the other man counter-thrust, Trevor twisted in the saddle to avoid the blow. But it was then that his horse's hooves came down upon a patch of ice. It scrabbled to keep its °oting, slid sideways, and went down heavily.
Trevor was thrown clear, °Uing over and over until he slammed into a tree. But his opponent

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was more interested in claiming Trevor's floundering stallion than in confirming a kill, and paid no more heed to the boy sprawled in the snow, dazed and defenseless, under a barren alder tree.
Trevor put his hand up to his head; his fingers came away bloodied. He tried to sit up, sagged back against the trunk of the tree. His vision was slow to clear. When it did, he saw Rhosier's body crumpled nearby. Robyn was unhorsed, struggling to hold off a soldier armed with a deadly chained mace. But it was
Llewelyn whom the boy sought, Llewelyn alone who filled his world. He was some yards away, but Trevor heard the shivering sound his sword made as it deflected his enemy's slashing blade. The other man was bleeding, and when
Llewelyn struck again, the Englishman's sword went spinning out of his grip, fell into the trampled snow between their horses. But Llewelyn did not see the second rider bearing down upon him, lance couched and at the ready. Lurching to his knees, Trevor screamed, "My lord, beware! Look to your left!"
Llewelyn heard his warning. Turning in the saddle, he started to bring up his shield. But it was too late, for the man was coining fast, was already upon him. The chain mail of his hauberk proved no protection against the penetrating power of a lance. It hit him in the side, with the full weight of horse and rider behind it, chain links breaking apart as the weapon plunged into his flesh, thrust up under his ribcage. The impact of the blow sent him reeling against the saddle cantle. There was a burning pain as the lance blade tore free, and unable to catch himself, he went over backward into the snow.
The rider followed, reined in, and for a moment, the lance hovered above
Llewelyn's throat, splattering him with his own blood. But then it was withdrawn. Satisfied that there was no need for a second strike, the
Englishman set off in pursuit of Llewelyn's stallion.
Llewelyn sought to raise himself up on his elbows, only to sink back, defeated. It was as if his body no longer belonged to him, obeyed no more orders from his brain. He was bleeding heavily, and the snow was rapidly turning crimson. He put the palm of his hand over the wound and pressed. That caused fresh pain, but the blood continued to drain away, and his strength with it. He watched in disbelief as it soaked his glove, seeped through his fingers, a river of red that showed no signs of stopping. How could it end like this? Was this where God had been leading him, to this December dusk and a thrusting lance What of Wales?
The English were riding off, triumphant. Trevor reached Llewel, first, and then Robyn. Blood was still streaming down Trevor's ia ' and Robyn's right arm hung useless at his side, at an odd angleneither youth seemed even aware of his own injuries. Their faces asn

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their eyes filled with horror, they knelt beside their Prince, saying his name in unison, almost like a prayer.
It was Robyn who took control. Jerking off his mantle, he said tautly, "Help me wrap this about the wound, Trevor, and hurry! If we do not stop the bleeding ..." Trevor still seemed to be in a state of shock, but he did as
Robyn bade, and then took off his own mantle, made of it a pillow for his
Prince's head.
"Rhosier?" Llewelyn's voice was slurred and breathless, but Trevor had never heard a sound more welcome to his ears. The question, though, was one he did not want to answer, and he felt a surge of gratitude when Robyn did it for him.
"Rhosier has gone to get help, my lord." They could not tell if Llewelyn believed the lie, for he'd closed his eyes again. Robyn was finding it harder to ignore the dull throbbing of his broken arm, but he knew he could not give in to it, not yet. "I'll bring back men and horses," he told Trevor quietly.
"Stay with him."
Alone with Llewelyn in the twilit clearing, Trevor gently removed his coif, smoothing his lord's hair with fingers that shook. Llewelyn's skin was cold to the touch, and almost as pale as the surrounding snow. Their makeshift bandage seemed to have slowed the gush of blood, but not enough. Not, he knew, nearly enough.