Roselynde, page 22
“Why did you send a message to your master-at-arms?”
“Because I wish to know what my men are doing and how they are used,” Alinor said firmly.
The queen stared at her, then smiled and nodded. “I would have done the same. Where is the letter?”
Alinor handed it to her and watched her break the seal. In a very short time, the queen raised her eyes. “You received a letter too?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Give it here.”
Alinor handed it over, watched while the queen perused it, and received it back.
“I wonder,” Queen Alinor said bemusedly, “why he bothered to write. Usually Simon’s letters are excellent. I feel that if I see the word ‘well’ again, I will be ill.”
Laughter gurgled out of Alinor. “It is not all his fault, Your Grace. Indeed, he had little enough to say beyond that they were wet and hungry, and it was pointless to say that in a letter.”
“And how do you know they were wet and hungry?” the queen asked with a glint of mischief in her eyes.
“Your Grace, my grandfather was no great letter writer. When he was from home, my grandmother bound over a trusty man to remember where they went, what they did, and suchlike. Recalling this, I bade Beorn to send me news of what befell.”
“You are very attentive to the well-doing of your men-at-arms,” the queen remarked dryly.
“And to Sir Simon’s well-doing also,” Alinor said boldly, although her heart did flip-flops. “I have a deep interest in his well-doing, especially now.”
“How now especially?”
“Because I see in Sir Simon the hope of safety and profit for me and mine.”
That startled the queen. Her eyes opened. “Safety, yes. But you see hope of profit? From Simon?”
“Well,” Alinor temporized, “at least avoidance of loss.” She looked steadily into the queen’s eyes and said, “You know Isobel of Clare and I are good friends. Her husband trusts her and speaks much to her—and Isobel trusts me. Further than me, madam, what William Marshal tells his wife does not go. I hope it will do him no hurt to admit to you that Isobel spoke to me about William’s offer of fifty marks to be made Sheriff of Gloucestershire.”
“It is no special secret,” the queen said. “If he wishes to speak of it, it is his affair entirely.” She looked puzzled, not seeing the connection between William’s appointment as Sheriff and Simon.
“I desire that Sir Simon be Sheriff of Sussex,” Alinor said quickly. “I will pay one hundred marks for the shire.”
The queen made no reply at first, merely stared attentively at the girl. Then she said, “Where will you get the money?”
“There are sources enough. The dower jewels are mine. I am heir, not a bride of the family. I can pledge them. I can borrow from my vassals. For such a purpose I could easily obtain an aide from them. They would pay gladly to have a just and honest sheriff.” Alinor was not going to admit that her strongboxes, untapped by Simon, would yield the sum without help. In fact, she planned to ask an aide from her vassals. There was no reason, as far as she could see, to strain herself to pay for what would benefit her men as much as herself.
After due consideration, the queen nodded briskly. She accepted the fact that Alinor would be able to pay what she said. Then came the crux of the matter.
“Why does not Simon ask for himself? How do you know he desires this?”
“I never said he desired it. He knows nothing about it.”
Now the queen stared in blank amazement, and then burst out laughing. “Alinor, he will slay you!”
“Perhaps,” Alinor agreed, laughing also, “but I care more for my lands and my vassals than for a few bruises or for Sir Simon’s bad temper. He will not refuse the duty after the king sends him notice of the appointment, and my lands and my vassals will be safe.”
The queen sobered and her eyes narrowed. “That is part of your purpose,” she agreed, “you do not lie. But sometimes you leave out a little. Do you think to wean Simon from the royal service by these duties?”
“Oh, no, madam! Indeed I do not,” Alinor exclaimed with such sincerity that it could not be mistaken.
“Then he will be much away from his duties as sheriff and your benefit—”
“Will be all the greater. Pardon me for interrupting you, Your Grace, but you know Simon. If I have paid for the appointment, do you believe he will contest with me if I suggest who should be his deputy?”
The queen’s lips twitched. So ho! The clever little witch. She would use Simon’s name to get a bargain from Richard and some hireling of hers would reap profits that need not be accounted for. She was so clever, she deserved to get what she wanted. “No, he will not contest with you—at least not if the man be suitable,” she warned.
“Sir Andre will suit Sir Simon very well—and me, even better.”
Very well pleased that Simon should gain so rich a prize without cost to Richard or herself, the queen smiled. “Very well. I will make your offer to Richard, and I will add my word to it also. I think you may count the matter settled.” Suddenly she smiled again. “I wish I knew whether I did Simon a good turn or an ill when I made him your warden—I wish I knew.”
On the following morning, some hours before the queen summoned Alinor to confirm the appointment and set a date for the money to be paid, Simon was making what arrangements he could to protect both his men and his mission in the event of his death.
“But my lord,” Ian protested, his eyes stricken.
“Did you not understand what I have told you?” Simon asked severely. “Llewelyn is Owain Gwynedd’s grandson, the eldest son of his eldest son. God has been good to us. We have the means to bring peace—or, at least, as near peace as there ever is—to North Wales.”
“But after the battle—”
“If we win, it would be safer to go after the battle,” Simon said bleakly, “but that is becoming ever and ever a bigger if. To you I will say that I have my doubts. And, if we do not win and you are not long gone with our prisoner, we will lose him also. No, Ian. When we take the trail to the camp, you and the twenty I have chosen must ride as swiftly as possible eastward. Try for Chester. Shrewsbury would also be safe, but if you miss it and stray too far south, the boy will fall into Rhys ap Gruffyd’s hands, and that will be ill for all of us.”
“And from Chester?”
“Send to the king and to Lord John and tell them whom we have.”
“Then I may return to you, my lord?”
This was the hardest part of all. “I think not, Ian,” Simon said. He was very fond of the young man and this, although Ian did not see it, was a great opportunity for him. It was also an honorable escape from the differing dangers emanating from Alinor and King Richard.
“Lord,” Ian said softly, fighting back tears, “how have I offended you?”
Neither of the causes Simon had for desiring separation ever entered Ian’s mind. He was aware of the vice of homosexuality but he did not connect it with the king, who had available any woman he could desire, and his worship of Alinor was so pure—almost impersonal—that it never occurred to him that Simon, if he noticed, would think it dangerous. In fact, if Simon had not had a far less innocent desire for Alinor, he would have understood that what Ian felt, at this time, would do no harm.
“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 Llewellyn and an ultimate 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 good will 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 him 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.
