Roselynde, p.23
Roselynde, page 23
“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 onto the fires. Men ran about, more concerned with dousing the fires than with protecting themselves. “Half archers with true arrows forward.”
Leaving their pots and sacks behind, half the archers ran forward again, pulling war arrows from their quivers, seizing wound bows from their seconds. The range, even from the forward position, was long but some shots went true. There were occasional shrieks of pain added to the cries and calls of the fire fighters. To the cast, the sky grew lighter. Simon’s men-at-arms shifted uneasily in their saddles and he issued a sharp order for them to hold their positions. Their time was not yet.
The archers grew bolder, since no one had yet returned their fire. Simon watched keenly, but he did not order them back. Their aim improved. The shrieks of pain became more frequent, and cries of anger began to mingle with them. The palisade was burning in many places now. In some places the wood itself was afire rather than the pitch from the arrows and the bark on the logs. Suddenly a cry of pain rang out near at hand. The Welsh archers were climbing up behind the palisade wherever the flames were not too close and one of them had hit his mark.
“Shield wall,” Simon ordered. For every two archers and two seconds in the forward line, one man-at-arms dismounted and unhooked from his horse a wide, tight-woven wicker shield. Bearing this, he ran forward to where the archers crouched, more visible now as dawn advanced. They formed around him, sheltering until they saw a suitable target. The wicker could not stop an arrow, but by the time the shaft passed through, much of its force would be spent. Moreover, the Welsh archers could aim only at the shield itself, and the only one close enough to the wicker to be touched by a piercing arrow was the heavy-armed man-at-arms whose mail would easily be proof against a nearly spent missile.
The Welsh archers cursed; Simon laughed. Many of the archers with fire arrows crept closer also, crouching behind the shielded groups, running out to fire, and darting back. New fires appeared among the shelters inside the palisade. The noise in the encampment was growing more intense. With his eyes on the gate in the wall of rough logs, Simon loosened his sword and checked that his morningstar and battle-ax could be slipped from saddle bow to wrist without fumbling. His eyes then slid reluctantly to the pitch-arrow sacks. They were dangerously flat. If the Welsh had discipline enough to remain behind their palisade, it would be necessary to assault the encampment, and that was sure death for many.
Gold blazed suddenly from the dewdrops that clung to the grass tips. The warm orange of the fires turned a sickly yellow. The sun had lifted over the treetops of the lower eastern slope. Simon bit his lip. All at once, a mass sigh almost as loud as the morning breeze swept along the line of men. The gate was opening.
“Hold,” Simon ordered.
It was the men’s instinct to ride forward at once to catch the emerging fighters at a disadvantage. For a counterassault on a besieged keep, the move was right. The Norman-trained knights and fighting men determined upon a sortie would come out with cold determination to engage because they had a good reason to come out. Here reason was all against a sortie. Safety and good military tactics dictated sitting still when the opposing force was neither strong enough for assault nor well-provisioned enough for siege. What drove the Welsh was irrational rage. Simon knew the few fires that had been started would do no real harm nor would the green logs of the palisade burn long. Every move had been calculated to enrage and insult, particularly the exposure of his men-at-arms, so few of them, drawn up in battle formation. If his men attacked, thus displaying their anxiety, the Welsh might come to their senses and retreat. To sit still and wait would seem contemptuous and enrage them further.
Suddenly, as if they had been waiting to see whether Simon’s group would charge, the gate swung fully open and a band of horsemen burst forth with couched lances. Simon uttered a stifled oath. His men were not knights, not trained for charging with a lance; in any case, they had none. He grasped his battle-ax and flicked a glance down the lines of men, most of them were doing the same. If they had not charged with lances, most of them knew how best to withstand such a charge.
“Now! Pour le roi Richard!” Simon bellowed.
The horse had been ready even before Simon clapped spurs to him. He leapt forward. As they thundered between two groups of shield bearers and archers, Simon saw the wickerwork objects cast aside, saw the archers scatter, running back to where their horses were being held. He crouched forward under his shield, holding his ax close to his horse’s body. A forest of lances tipped forward, the sun turning the burnished steel tips to gold. How many? Too many.
To Simon, who had fought his way up from nothing in tourneys little less brutal than actual war, the blow on his shield was nothing. A practiced twist threw the lance harmlessly aside. The danger came from his other side where a lance leaned in on his unshielded right. The ax, turned in his hand, struck outward. The splintering of wood was a harsh promise of momentary safety. Only momentary. Simon leaned out to the right and struck again.
Beyond the horsemen, he was aware of a yelling crowd of footmen. Then he was through the line of riders. Not so many as he had thought when he faced the lances. He hooked the ax back to his saddlebow and drew his sword while he wheeled his horse, spat an oath when he saw loose horses running free. He had no time to look at the accoutrements and see whether his men or the Welsh had fallen. Behind him he heard Beorn’s voice. The man was singing! Just as he struck out against a sword blow launched at him, Simon laughed aloud. He had caught one of the words of the song; it was a bloodcurdling obscenity.
The sword he had struck aside glittered as it came in against his shield. Simon leaned forward, using his longer reach. His opponent howled, red fountained from a severed arm. A blow on the left thrust Simon sideways and without even looking he tilted his sword up over his stallion’s neck and swung in that direction. Although he made no contact, someone screamed. Either Beorn had struck his man or he himself was down. Simon swung right, thrusting at one of a pair who were attacking a single man. He caught a shoulder, opened a gash, but the man turned and slashed at him. Simon cursed as he felt the point catch in his mail just above the newly healed wound that Alinor had treated. The skin was thin and tender. He could feel it open, but his opponent’s sword was caught momentarily, and that moment was his death. Simon’s blade went in through the mouth. Below the eyes, it was not a man anymore.
Right again, parry, thrust, gasp as ice-fire ran down his right calf, parry, thrust. A sword glittered red and gold, dangerously fast and close. A blow on the back hurt and drew a choked cry from him. One before and one behind was death, but not for him alone. Simon thrust up under the oncoming blade and steeled himself for oblivion. Only the song he had heard before sounded again in his ears, and it was certainly not produced by a choir of angels. In spite of the pangs that made holding his shield a curse, Simon laughed.
“Hurt, lord?” Beorn called.
“Forward!” Simon shouted, not deigning to answer that. It was not important. “Drive them back toward their gates!”
Beorn took up the cry and it spread to some other leather-lunged men-at-arms. There had not been many horsemen. Simon knew his impression had been at fault. The Welsh seldom used many mounted fighters. They counted on the quickness of their footmen and their ability to melt away into the forested mountains. Here that art was of no help. Simon’s mounted men were wreaking havoc among the footmen, driving them somewhat back in spite of their numbers.
Even though the horses gave Simon’s troop much advantage, there was little effort to harm them. Any horse was precious to the poor hillmen, and a war-trained stallion taken as booty was great wealth. Slowly the battle moved toward the palisade. The fires were almost out now, but a pall of smoke hung in the air and occasionally as a gust hit a smoldering log or thatch a new gout of smoke would rise. The nearer they came to the encampment, the harder it was to see. Suddenly, at the gate, a band hammered for admittance, crying hoarsely in Welsh for the defenders to open to them. They were blood-spattered and appeared to be unarmed,
Grudgingly the gates opened, enough to let in a man at a time. But no man slipped in. Grappling hooks caught the exposed edges. Willing hands pulled suddenly, fiercely.
“Disengage!” Simon roared, clapping spurs to his horse again. “Forward!”
On his word every rider roweled blood from his mount’s sides and forced him toward the gate, which swayed back and forth as those within and those without struggled against each other. The horses reared and screamed, striking out with their hooves. Perhaps a quarter of Simon’s men fought their way free of the combat that they were engaged in and followed him through the gates and into the Welsh encampment.
That was the end of the battle, although not the end of the bloodletting. Few men had remained within, only the wounded, the very young, and the very old. When those at the gate had been vanquished, however, it took a little time to round up and confine the women and children. Many of them fought as hard as the men and some more effectively because Simon’s men dared not strike back with weapons. The men might not have been so dainty, but Simon was aware that any hurt to these battling noncombatants would wake blood-feud enmity. He had sworn personally to put to death any man of his who hurt a woman or child beyond bruises.
As soon as Simon’s colors were flying from the palisade, his men began to cry out to their opponents that the battle was over, quarter would be given. The nobles, whose wives and children were safe with Owain Gwynedd, might have fought on, but the men cared nothing for that. They threw down their arms, caring nothing for quarter for themselves, seeking safety for their families. The capture of Llewelyn brought Simon one more piece of good fortune. David ap Owain would have fled—not out of cowardice but to be free to rally more men—only some who had loved Llewelyn seized and held him in the vain hope that they could exchange him for their own lord.
Chapter Fourteen
To desire a thing very greatly, Alinor discovered, did not always make one happy when desire became reality. She moved closer to the fire, although she was aware that the chill she felt came from within rather than from the February weather. Simon was returning at last to Court, but Alinor did not know why.
Simon’s part in the expedition into Wales had been a brilliant success. The recurrence of that thought brought a recurrence of a deep blush of rage as she remembered that wasted effort. John had the credit of it—John, who had not struck a blow. After Simon had nipped in the bud Owain Gwynedd’s intentions to revolt—if that had ever been his intention and was not a private ploy of his son David—he had turned south again and chastised Rhys ap Gruffyd’s robber bands. Mortimer and Braose had done manfully also. Simon was well pleased by their energetic prosecution of the plan of action, but he did not lose sight of Richard’s purpose in sending him west. Late in October he had written to the king that one strong show of force would bring Rhys to terms and impress him with the king’s power above that of the Marcher lords.
Accordingly, a large army was sent into the shires that bordered on England with Lord John in command and William Longchamp to keep an eye on the king’s brother. It was fortunate, indeed, that Simon was right and only a show of force was needed. The army was unprovisioned and without weapons.
Beorn himself had returned to Alinor after Rhys had agreed to meet the king and make submission. He had described Simon’s rage and shock.
“He was beside himself, my lady, not being one to speak openly of such matters to me in an ordinary way. It was a bad thing. If the Welsh knew and joined together, they could have slain those raw plowhands like cattle and all would have been ruined, all our labor and blood wasted. And Sir Simon was not so perfectly well, as I sent you word.”
“The wounds fester?” Alinor asked in a constricted voice.
“I think not. It is hard to know because he does not complain nor let me look at him, but I think it is more that he will not give them time to heal. After that battle in the hills, we rode to Owain’s stronghold. We were very well received, and I thought he would bide there until he was healed. Instead, as you know, we rode south as soon as he had Owain’s promise of peace. Moreover, he knows, I believe, that I sent you word. At first he did not care, but after he was hurt he grew more secretive. I suppose he feared you would fret.”
Alinor hoped Beorn was right, but she did not believe it. Beorn had also brought a letter with him thanking her for Simon’s appointment as sheriff in such icy terms that she had wept. She did not fear a roaring rage, but this frozen politeness—not a word of protest, of threat, of terms of repayment—signified an unforgiving hurt that terrified her. To make all worse, Simon did not return to Court. He had come as near as Oxford, traveling with Rhys, who demanded his company to be sure John’s safe conduct would be honored. At Oxford the final blow had been struck in the Welsh campaign. Richard sent word that he was too busy to come and meet Rhys and accept his submission.
William Marshal had been employed to deliver the insult, and his reaction had been little less violent than Simon’s. Alinor had heard the tale direct from William. Once Isobel had carried him the news of Alinor’s purchase of the Sussex appointment for Simon, William had been very much Alinor’s friend.
“Simon did not believe me,” he had said, his voice shaking with indignation as he relived the incident. “Well, I did not believe it myself when the king told me what I was to say. However pretty the words, it was an insult that will make Rhys fight to the last drop of blood he can command. Alinor, I went down on my knees to Richard, and it was not only for Simon’s labor. I am Sheriff of Gloucestershire. Isobel’s property is spread all over Wales. When I consider the burdens the king has laid upon me in the governance of England, it must be plain I cannot spare the time continually to be fighting in Wales.”
“William, do not shout at Alinor,” Isobel remonstrated. “It is not her fault.”
“I beg your pardon,” William said, lowering his voice.
“Never mind that,” Alinor exclaimed. “You can bring the roof down for all I care if you will only tell me why! Why? Did the king do it to shame Simon?”
“Oh no. Of that I am sure enough. I am sure also that Simon has his respect and gratitude for a work well done. Nor did he do it to hurt me. He even looked troubled when I pointed out what this would mean in Pembroke and Carmarthen and Glamorgan, where Isobel’s lands mostly lie.” William’s face grew congested with blood, although this time his voice remained low.
“He said that John was overlord of those lands and would keep the peace. John!” he bellowed so suddenly that both Alinor and Isobel jumped. “John could not, even if he would—and, I fear me greatly that he would not even if he could.”
“Hush, William!” Isobel cried. “They will hear you in the Hall.”
“I do not care if they hear me in heaven!” William exclaimed passionately. “John’s only interest in Wales was to draw the king there. Now he will demand his rents and we, who must collect those rents from men who will need to spend their substance in fighting, whose serfs are killed and crops destroyed and who thus have no money with which to pay rents—we will be caught between the upper and nether millstones. But the king cares nothing for that. I suppose he hopes we will not pay our rents. All he cares is that John should be busy—very busy.”
“Does Simon believe this too?” Alinor asked.
“He suggested as much to me. I was like a stunned ox. I could not believe what I had to do even though I was there, doing it. When he said it, however, everything fell into place.” William’s voice softened and he looked oddly at Alinor. “Simon said something else, something I did not understand. He said his first duty was to ride back with Rhys and then he would go into Sussex—as it was God’s will he should not return to Court but to set his duty in distant places. It is not like Simon to speak of God’s will in that way.”
Tears started into Alinor’s eyes. “He is angry with me for buying the office. I tried to explain that it was no condescending gift from me, that I was not trying to pay him in gold for his kindness. I know that what Simon has done for me cannot be repaid in gold. He thinks I cheapen him and set his honor at naught, trying to ensure further kindness with rich gifts.”
