Roselynde, page 20
Simon’s single real concern was whether they could bring the Welsh to battle before the rage that was building up in the men, whetting their appetites for fighting, would turn in upon itself. Once that happened, the troop would begin to quarrel among themselves and, even worse, be afflicted with a sense of hopelessness. Simon had seen that destroy a whole army once and he was watching keenly for signs of the rot. There were none as yet.
The men grew silent without command as some lightening indicated that the trees were thinning. They were approaching the grazing land that surrounded the village. Simon could hear the creak of wet leather as the men hopefully loosened their weapons and two or three low-voiced wagers were laid on whether or not they would be attacked. Simon did not think so, but he was pleased with the lighthearted tone of the remarks and even more pleased that the exchanges were as often between his men and Alinor’s as between the members of each separate troop.
The two groups had worked in very well with each other. In fact, Alinor’s men seemed almost more anxiously devoted than his own. Simon had to grin even while the hollow fluttering sensation that took him every time he thought of Alinor made his breath uneven. He wondered what she had threatened them with if any harm should come to him. That Alinor! She was not taking any chances on her property being lost or damaged. Nor was she taking any chances on losing track of its condition, he thought, grinning even more widely. After every encounter, no matter how minor, he had found Beorn Fisherman beside him, examining him from head to toe. It had puzzled him until he found the man questioning Ian about what he ate and the state of his clothing. Then Simon realized that the two messengers bearing letters from Alinor were carrying back word pictures of his well-being.
Doubtless, Simon thought, his grin fading, that was not all the information they were carrying back. Somehow all the time he had been with Alinor he had not taken another woman. Aroused as he had been by her touch and presence, it had never occurred to him to ease his frustration on one of the many whores that serviced the Court. There had been no conscious impulse to “faithfulness.” Simply, Alinor’s proximity had quenched casual desire.
With distance that restriction had lifted. Simon had made no secret of the women he took to his bed. He was not playing the part of a faithful lover. To the best of his ability he was acting exactly as he would if no thought of Alinor had ever crossed his mind. He tried intermittently to erase the memory of that moonlit encounter, especially on nights when he lay awake watching the moon rise above the treetops.
Tonight at least he would not be troubled by the sight of the moon. Simon stopped at the edge of the field and scanned the huddle of huts still some distance away. The foreriders, some of Lord Rannulf’s huntsmen-turned-soldiers in answer to Alinor’s need, had chosen the path well. The troop would emerge where the fields were narrowest between the wood and the village. To each side, the fields were wider—too wide for bowshot accuracy. If anyone wished to attack them here, they would need to show themselves. Simon touched his horse with his heels and rode forward. There would be no attack.
When at last the wet wood the men had gathered had been induced to burn, Simon squatted naked on the damp mud floor of the largest hut. He was shivering a little and coughing when the wet wind blew the smoke away from the smoke hole in the roof and into his face. His mind was nearly blank as he watched the steam rise from his clothing as it dried. In the saddle bag lying near the wall were a couple of handfuls of rusty grain and three or four strips of leather-hard dried meat. Simon’s innards growled but he made no move toward that unappetizing fare. Ian and the younger men of the troop were out. With God’s mercy they would bring back something. Even a squirrel or a crow would be welcome.
Simon laughed softly. Beorn had been in a little while ago to offer him a nice, plump rat. He had refused, but only after a moment’s thought. Simon’s shoulders shook as he recalled the troubled frown on the ex-fisherman’s face.
“I should have skinned it,” Beorn had said, his voice replete with self-accusation. “You would have thought it was a hare and eaten it then.”
Whatever Alinor had threatened them with had a remarkable effect. Simon’s laughter stopped abruptly, and he rose to his feet, his head nearly touching the low thatched roof. A hubbub of voices indicated something unusual, but not danger; there were no cries of alarm. Simon licked his lips. Mayhap a deer had been brought down. A single stride brought him to the doorway.
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 well born 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.
Finally there was a single cry of “Ware! Arms!” and then another. Then a few well-simulated shrieks and curses as of men taken unaware and scrabbling for their arms and weapons. Simon gritted his teeth as he fought the urge to clap his spurs to his horse and ride out. The half of his troop who had remained unmounted in the outermost huts launched only a few blows at the attackers who came out of the dark fields, and then gave back. The Welsh followed, breaking up into smaller groups as they came in among the huts.
