Rhiannon (17 page)

“Geoffrey, it is Simon,” he said softly once he was inside.

He was glad he had been careful. As he spoke, both squires
came to their feet with swords bared. If he had gone closer to Geoffrey’s cot,
he might have been spitted before he was recognized.

Geoffrey sat up and laid aside his own bared sword,
signaling the boys to lie down again. “Madman,” he said, “what are you doing
here?”

“Why?” Simon asked, throwing back his hood. “Am I accounted
an enemy?”

“Not yet,” Geoffrey responded dryly, turning to draw his
bedrobe over his shoulders. Then he goggled at Simon’s blackened face. “What is
wrong with you?” he asked, jumping out of bed and coming closer.

“Nothing,” Simon said, feeling much surprised until Geoffrey
gingerly touched his face. Then he laughed. “Soot and grease, Brother, soot and
grease. Did you expect me to walk through the lines in a white, satin robe?”

“I did not expect you to walk through the lines at all. Is
that how you came?” There was a note of relief in Geoffrey’s voice.

“Of course. I do not intend anyone to know I am here. It
would be unwise. I am with Richard at Usk.”

“Fool! Why did you let yourself be trapped there?”

“I was not trapped,” Simon replied indignantly, but Geoffrey
had turned to reach for his traveling case of wine and the movement had brought
the light of the night candle more clearly on his face. It was so haggard that
Simon’s heart smote him. “Is Papa well?” he asked anxiously.

Geoffrey waved him to a seat on a camp stool. “Yes…in his
health, but… It was by God’s gift that you left London when you did. A day
later, or perhaps it was two days, when the news came to Henry that Richard had
come and gone, he demanded hostages.”

“From you?”

“Do not be a fool. My sons are already in his service. From
Ian.”

“From Papa?” Simon asked with amazement, then laughed. “But
who?”

“Henry wanted you or Adam, but more you, I believe. Thank
God William was serving wine in the room and heard the whole. He slipped out
and warned Adam to be gone at once.”

“But what did Papa say?”

“First he asked the king why hostages were needed from a man
who had been faithful to his father. Everyone knows how John tried to have Ian
killed and that he tried to take your mother. Still, Ian held to his oath. Then
Ian said he would be his own hostage, give his men into my hand, and go into
prison wherever Henry desired. You can imagine what happened. Ian is greatly
beloved. Ferrars said that if Ian were doubted, then he could not be trusted
either and he would go where Ian went. Then Cornwall pulled off his sword belt
and threw it on the ground by Henry’s feet. He said he would not violate his
blood by rebellion, but he, too, would go into prison with Ian.”

“And Winchester?” Simon growled.

“I thought the bishop would faint or burst with rage. There
can be no doubt that he had not expected what happened. Perhaps he did not
intend Henry to make his demand before the whole court. I cannot decide whether
he intended that you should be confined secretly first and Ian told later, or
that Ian should be asked privately to order you to give your parole to the
king. I think the first. Winchester wanted a whip, I think, after that talk Ian
had with him. But Henry wanted to show his power.”

Simon snorted. “So he learned what little strength he has
against an honest man. The king backed down, no doubt.”

“Yes,” Geoffrey sighed, “but that is nothing to be glad of.
You know how Henry holds a hurt and remembers it. Still, no harm may come of
it—I hope. I made it easy by pointing out that he already had two of Ian’s
grandsons in his service. Henry made a great to-do over that, clapping his hand
to his forehead and calling himself a fool. He even came down and took Ian’s
hand and kissed him.”

“Do you think he will try to hurt Papa some other time?”

For a moment Geoffrey’s tired face lightened. “No, because
Ian is Ian, thank God. He was not angry; he was hurt. You know he does not see
Henry as a man, but loves him as he loved you—spoiled brat that you were. Henry
saw the love. He is neither stupid nor unfeeling, only impulsive and unwise.
The king cast a look at Winchester that really did my heart good.”

“You mean he blamed Winchester for the trouble he had got
himself into?” Hope made Simon’s voice vibrant.

“Yes, but do not let yourself think that one mistake will do
the bishop much harm. It took years of carelessness to rouse Henry against de
Burgh.”

Simon grimaced. “A few months more of Winchester and either
the king or the realm will be destroyed.” Geoffrey did not answer that remark
but looked so grim and sad that Simon was sorry he had made it.

After a little silence, Geoffrey repeated, “What brought you
here, Simon? Did you come to see your father? He is not here. He has gone north
to keep that border quiet. I have his men in my care.”

Guilt flicked Simon again. That was another reason Geoffrey
looked so exhausted. In addition to his political worries, he was carrying the
burden of Ian’s troops as well as his own, and Geoffrey was one who always saw
to everything himself. If Simon had not been opposed to the king, he would have
been sharing Geoffrey’s burden.

“No, I did not expect to see Papa. He worries too much about
me. I thought you would tell him I am well. But that is not why I came. I have
news. Richard really does not wish to come to blows with the king.”

“That is scarcely news. However, he will have no choice,”
Geoffrey said dryly. “The king says he will take nothing but abject surrender.
He says he will not even see Richard unless he comes naked with a halter around
his neck.”

“He will have a long wait for that,” Simon replied. “Usk is
victualed for half a year, and we could last another three to six months if
necessary. The land is cleared and burnt for ten miles around also, and the
people are fled or inside the keep. Can Henry pay his mercenaries for so long?
And do these flatlanders know anything about fighting the Welsh?”

“As to the last—no,” Geoffrey replied, smiling grimly, “I
should not laugh, but I cannot help it. I warned both Henry and Winchester, and
they would not listen. The Flemish were badly hit by raids twice already and
have lost half their supplies. The ballistas and mangonels were burnt—”
Geoffrey stopped speaking abruptly and cocked an eye at Simon. “Now that is a
strange thing,” he went on. “I have never known a raiding party to bother with
siege weapons unless the war was their own.”

Simon lowered his eyes. “I am Llewelyn’s man. Do not expect
me to answer you.”

That, of course, was the answer. Simon knew Geoffrey would
understand. Geoffrey ran his hands through his hair. “What terms do you think
Richard would take?” he asked.

If Llewelyn was involved, Geoffrey had much less hope for
the successful outcome of the attack on Usk, as the question indicated. Simon
was relieved to see that his brother-by-marriage was not at all depressed by
this information. In fact, he seemed rather more cheerful.

“You must understand first that I have not discussed this
with Richard at all, so I am not sure about anything. However, if any
reasonable truce is offered, I do not think Richard will refuse. As to particular
terms, I do not believe he will demand more than that a council be held to
examine the merits of his case and Bassett’s and that the king agree to give
judgment only according to the decision of the council. Maybe he will also ask
that the king’s ministers be dismissed, but I do not think so.”

“It will not be possible to prevent an attack on Usk,”
Geoffrey said thoughtfully, “but if the attack is resisted firmly, the king may
become less adamant. He is not, as you know, patient or determined. If a thing
does not fall into his hand like a ripe apple, he shakes the tree, then loses
his temper and kicks the tree. Having hurt his foot, he blames for his pain the
one who last mentioned apples to him and says he hates apples anyway.”

“Blames the one who last mentioned apples, eh?” Simon
repeated, smiling. “Now that would be a good thing for us and a bad thing for
Winchester. If enough blame could be heaped up quickly… Hubert de Burgh made
fewer mistakes and those further apart from each other, I think.”

“You think quite correctly, Simon. I did not like de Burgh.
I am glad he was cast down, although I think it wrong he should be treated so
harshly. However, I will say for de Burgh that, at his worst, he never drove
the barons to rebellion. That mistake will come home to roost and lay the
largest egg.”

“God willing,” Simon assented fervently.

Simon did not stay long after that exchange. Geoffrey saw
him to the boundary of the camp and sent him off, the sentries assuming he was
a spy in his brother-by-marriage’s service. On the hillside at the edge of the
woods, Simon’s men were waiting for him, silently comparing their spoils. They
came to their feet, stuffing away their ill-gotten gains, when Simon arrived
and began the three-mile trek back to Usk. When they had come far enough so
that no vagrant breeze could bring the sound of their voices back to the armed
camp, each man in turn reported what he had seen to Simon.

All in all it was a most satisfactory venture. Simon had
discovered not only what he wanted to know, but why Henry had stopped to offer
battle in so inviting a place. It was not a trap in the usual sense, but the
king’s chances of defeating Pembroke in open battle were far better than his
chances of breaking into Usk. Supplies were dangerously low, lower even than
Geoffrey realized, and not only war machines but timber and leather to make new
ones had been destroyed by the raiders.

The next morning Simon carried his information to Richard.
“I have added up what the men told me,” he said, “and they cannot take Usk.”

“I did not think they could,” Richard snapped testily. “If I
had thought so, I would have chosen another keep in which to make a stand.”

“Pardon, my lord, I said that ill. What I mean is they have
not food enough to support the men while they rebuild the siege machines and
those they build will do them as much harm as us, I think, from being made of
green wood. Nor can they obtain supplies from elsewhere. Bassett is in the
south, and I do not think much will come to them from Hereford or Gloucester
because Llewelyn’s men will be lying in wait for the supply trains. They can
try an assault or two, but I suspect there will be little enthusiasm for it
from the English levies, and there are not enough mercenaries.”

“They will not take Usk by assault,” Richard said. “If they
could batter down the walls…but that would take months…”

“They have not supplies for three weeks. The Flemish leaders
have been generous with provender to the troops while in England, so there
would be no need for them to harass the local people. I suppose they were
warned there would be no easy pickings in Wales, but they did not believe it.
You know those mercenary captains always think the local lords are either fools
or soft-hearted.”

Richard smiled grimly. There were
no
pickings to be
had around Usk. Men and animals were behind the walls. The crops had been
harvested, the fruit picked from the trees—even what was not yet ripe—and the
fields had been burned over so that there would be no grazing for the horses and
oxen of Henry’s army. It was too early for nuts. Perhaps there were a few
berries. Those grew wild and could not have all been picked, but they would not
sustain an army.

“Then they will try assault, and we will beat them back,”
Richard said. “Then what?”

The question was not addressed to Simon, of course. Richard
might ask his advice about Prince Llewelyn, whom he did not really know, but he
would not ask it about war or English affairs. Simon stood silent, waiting for
the earl’s mind to survey the possibilities. Finally his eyes fixed on his
companion again.

“If I make truce with King Henry, will Lord Llewelyn feel I
have betrayed him?”

“I cannot say for sure, but I think not. You did invite him
to join you, but he made no answer. This may make him more cautious about
committing himself in the future, should you ever desire such an alliance, but
Prince Llewelyn respects a reasonable man.”

Simon was rather relieved at the turn things had taken. If
Henry had not brought matters to a head and he had been sent back to Llewelyn
to negotiate a firm alliance, he would have had to warn his overlord that
Richard was not really determined to prosecute the war and only wished to act
defensively. Simon would have hated to do anything to increase Richard’s
troubles, but Llewelyn was his overlord and his first duty must be to him. This
way it was unlikely Simon would have to give any opinion; he would only need to
relate facts.

At first the king’s party made noises as if it would be war
to the death. The insults Henry’s herald flung at Richard when the army finally
arrived at Usk two days later were disgusting. Many of Richard’s men were
incoherent with fury, but Richard himself only laughed. Such insults, he
pointed out to his angry supporters, were designed to get them out of the keep
so that they could be cut to pieces by a superior number of men.

To Henry’s frustration, Richard replied gravely and sadly
that he had no desire to contest at arms with his acknowledged overlord, that
he would never attack his king but only defend himself against injustice, that
he asked only for a trial before his peers so that they might judge his offense
and Gilbert Bassett’s. Since the outcome of such a trial would most certainly
be in Richard’s and Gilbert’s favor, it was not a course that recommended
itself to the king or his ministers. Henry was left to reiterate furiously that
he and he alone was the judge of his vassals’ rights and duties, which further
angered and embittered those barons who had answered his summons.

No other course then remained but to besiege or attack.
Teams of men were already busy building new siege engines, but it was clear
that there would not be time enough to batter down the walls before the king’s
party starved—not to mention that it was not really possible to make
satisfactory machines out of green wood. Raiding parties came back nearly
empty-handed—if they came back at all. If Henry wanted Usk, he would have to
take it by the crudest form of direct assault.

Simon watched the preparations with bright-eyed eagerness,
and Richard came across him on a dawn tour of inspection when it appeared that
the assault was imminent. The earl examined Simon’s preparations for repelling
attack on his section of the wall and had no fault to find. He stood a moment
looking out at the king’s camp and then sighed.

“Do you not have kin in that army?” he asked.

“Yes,” Simon agreed brightly, “and good friends too.”

“Do you not care?” Richard asked, rather shocked at the
young man’s apparent hard-heartedness. “I mean, what if your brother came up
the wall?”

“That is one worry I do
not
have, thank God,” Simon
answered. “Geoffrey cannot climb a scaling ladder. He was crippled at the
Battle of Bouvines—oh, long ago. I was only a child then. It does not affect
him fighting mounted or even on foot much, although he cannot run well but he
cannot manage a ladder.”

Richard’s face relaxed a little. There was so much
good-humored mischief in Simon’s eyes that he guessed what was coming even as
he asked, “And the others? The good friends?”

“They will not attempt this section of the wall,” Simon
said. “I sent a man over as soon as you told me where I would be. I hope you do
not mind, my lord,” he added with sudden doubt. “I thought it would be better
that way. Thus we can honestly all fight our best. It is not like a battle on
an open field, where we could see each other’s colors and avoid. I do not think
I could bear to cast over a ladder on which my mother’s vassal stood. Those
men, most of them, dandled me upon their knees.”

“No, I do not mind,” Richard said, smiling and feeling
better suddenly.

The thought that tormented Richard most bitterly was that in
a war of this kind, brother might fight brother and father fight son. Simon’s
insouciance reminded him that those who cared would probably find ways to avoid
each other, and those who did not would have ended at each other’s throats
whether or not they had the excuse of war. He remembered, comfortingly, that
his own father and elder brother had managed never to come to blows, even
though William had rebelled against King John and had joined Prince Louis.

“Look!” Simon exclaimed, interrupting Richard’s thoughts.

“I see,” he responded, and took off around the wall at a
trot, calling an alarm as he went.

It was hardly necessary. All along the wall men were
shouting to their companions to come to attention. Simon’s archers sprang to
their feet and bent their bows against their arches to string them, plucking
experimentally at the long piece of gut and listening to the music of the
string. Here and there a man began to curse the wet South Welsh weather—as if
it were different and drier in the north—and unstrung his bow to adjust it.

Simon found no fault with his own, but he was not the
perfectionist about the bow that his men were. Although he was a fair shot and
respected the bow and the bowmen from the bottom of his heart, Simon was still
primarily a Norman knight. His weapons were the lance, sword, and mace, and it
was there that his pride was fixed. That showed in his next move, which was to
hook the bow over his shoulder so that it could not fall and loosen his sword
in its scabbard. His shield, with its snarling black leopard on a silver
ground—chosen to blend into the light and shadow of a Welsh forest—leaned
against the merlon in front of him.

The sound of footsteps behind brought his head around. He
nodded to Siorl, the leader of his troop, who was shepherding a number of
serfs, each of whom carried a large, wicker shield. One thing Usk did not lack
was men. These churls could not fight, but they could protect the archers from
the arrows of the opposing force. It was a most excellent idea, for the merlons
of Usk were less than a man’s height. Simon stood at a crenel opening roughly
in the center of his troop. At the far end of his section of wall, Siorl
divided his attention between the enemy, who were clearly forming to attack,
and his master, who would give the word to shoot. At the other end, Echtor, the
underleader, also watched the enemy and Simon, while smiling and running his
hand as lovingly up and down the smooth, silken wood of his bow as he would
over the side of a beloved woman.

The serfs chattered excitedly. They were not much afraid,
knowing they would be behind the shields until the arrows stopped flying. If
and when men came against the walls, they would be sent down—not to save them,
but because they would be in the way. Then Simon bellowed for silence and the
chatter stopped. He warned his men to look to their other weapons and to the
thrusting poles with which the scaling ladders could be pushed over.

Simon’s position would not be exposed to any dangerous
assault machines. The siege towers he could see around to the southwest would
be directed against the walls near the gateway, where winning the wall would
permit the invaders to lower the drawbridge and lift the portcullis. The
possibility did not trouble Simon. Richard himself and the best of his vassals
and men-at-arms would defend that section.

Then Simon realized that Geoffrey would almost certainly be
on one of the siege towers, since he could not climb a ladder. His mouth went
dry, and he strained his eyes into the distance, but it was too far to make out
the colors of any man’s shield. Most sincerely, although silently, Simon prayed
that if one of them had to die or be wounded, it would be he. His parents would
grieve bitterly either way, but he would be no loss to any other person. Even
if Rhiannon cared enough now, she would soon forget.

The concern Simon felt for Geoffrey was pushed from his mind
when a line of men in tight groups of three began to run toward the keep. Simon
shouted aloud both in warning and in pure joy. Now that the banners were
spreading out, he could see that he was opposing one of the Flemish mercenary
groups. He need have no fear at all of killing or injuring them. There would be
no kinfolk in England who might be his allies in the next war. Mostly such
things were understood, but occasionally bitterness lingered. It was not easy
to have for a backup man one whose father or brother you had killed.

Another advantage of facing the mercenaries was that they
used the crossbow. There was little choice in power between the two, but the
longbow was far more accurate and could be fired twice or three times as fast.
Simon reached back and drew an arrow from his quiver. Officiously a serf
stepped before him holding the wicker shield. Simon pushed the man away.

“Idiot! They are not near enough to fire yet. Stand aside.
When I need shelter, I will seek it.”

Almost on the words the first flight of arrows rose,
glinting in the light of the early sun. The serf began to move and Simon
snarled at him. Similar growls—and some sharp blows—could be heard all along
the wall. The experienced archers could see that the initial volley was
exploratory, loosed more to judge distance and windage than in hope of hitting
anything. Only about a fifth of the men had fired, and all of the shafts had
fallen short. The men on the walls smiled grimly. They had all the advantage at
this point and knew it.

A second flight of crossbow bolts rose. This time a few
clattered against the walls before they fell. One even passed through a crenel
opening, but it was spent and could not have hurt a man even if it hit him.
Close enough, Simon thought, and lifted and drew his bow, stepping into a
crenel opening briefly to aim and fire, and then moving back behind the serf’s
extended shield just as a third volley of quarrels, much denser, flew skyward.

To the right, Simon heard one of his men shout, but he had
not been struck. He was apparently angered because he had missed his aim. Simon
roared at him to take shelter and not be a fool, as he drew and nocked another
arrow. Some of these crack men were a little too proud of their skill and
tended to be unwisely contemptuous of crossbowmen. The short quarrels could not
be aimed very precisely, but if enough of them were fired, that scarcely
mattered.

As if to prove Simon’s point, cries of pain began to ring
out here and there on the wall. The next volley from below was even denser. One
of Simon’s men was hit in the act of loosing an arrow. His shriek was more of
rage than pain, for the bolt only caught him in the outer part of the thigh and
with little force. He even fired his shot and hit his man before he squatted
behind the shield and wrenched the bolt out.