Rhiannon (19 page)

“My lord, what apples? What tree?” Philip asked. “I swear
there is not an apple left on any tree in all South Wales.”

“We are the apples and Usk is the tree,” Richard replied,
smiling at Philip’s confusion, “but Lord Geoffrey was doubtless speaking in a
parable. Never mind that now. Let us consider how we can cause the greatest
loss among our attackers at the least cost to ourselves.”

“We can load the ballistas and catapults and fire them at
the camp,” Philip urged promptly. “They set up far too close, either trusting
to your mercy—or contemptuous of your forbearance.”

Simon tensed slightly. Philip Bassett might not recognize a
parable until it was explained to him, but in matters of war he had keen good
sense. Until now, Richard had made no move at all that could be called
aggressive, but now his eyes were thoughtful as he considered Bassett’s remark
in the light of his earlier conversation with Simon.

In a moment, however, he had shaken his head. “Whether they
be bold, trusting, or foolish, I will not attack my liege lord,” Richard
reiterated. “Some day I will need to answer for this to my peers, or, when I
die, to God. Thus far, I hope, I have done nothing beyond my right.”

“You take too strict a view. If the king has declared you
outlaw, are you not freed from your oath in the sight of man and God?” Philip
asked passionately.

“I do not wish to be free,” Richard said, frowning. “I wish
to be a loyal vassal, to be reconciled to my lord in such a way that there will
be honor for him and safety for me and for us all.”

“The Great Charter,” Simon put in, it having been drummed
into his head ever since he was a child, “must be upheld. Henry must understand
that all men—kings also —must live within the law.”

“And I agree to that with all my heart,” Philip insisted,
“but I believe it will be necessary to give the king a sharp lesson before he
will come to the same understanding.”

“Perhaps,” Richard conceded, “but I will not affront my lord
yet. Let him see that even in war, even though he mocks me and tempts me, I
will not move against him. Let us talk of our defense now—and before I forget,
Philip, if Geoffrey FitzWilliam comes against you again, do him no hurt if that
be in any way possible. If he can be taken prisoner, by all means do so. He is
dear to the king and would make a most excellent ambassador to plead our cause.
Pass that word, and I will also.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Simon exclaimed.

“I did not say it for your sake,” Richard said, smiling
nonetheless. “It will do us no good to harm those the king loves, and
especially not those who, I believe, agree with our purpose in their hearts.”

An attempt at a surprise attack that night failed miserably.
Although it was difficult to tell, Simon thought the king’s forces had taken
more hurt than in the daylight. One siege tower had been burned to a charred
skeleton by a flaming barrel of pitch that hit it just right, so that it
exploded, spreading fire too widely to be quenched by sand or water or
smothered by wet hides. It was not the tower Geoffrey had been on, but his
position might have been changed, and Simon had something new to worry about.

A third assault followed the very next dawn. Aware of
weariness, Simon felt some concern that Henry’s huge force might be divided,
one part resting while the other attacked. He soon realized, from the lack of
enthusiasm of the attackers, that they were as weary as he and his men. They
never even got ladders up this time, and the archers on the walls again took a
heavy toll. For the first time Simon saw the men hanging back, needing to be
urged and threatened by their captains.

This was an utter stupidity, Simon thought as he watched the
troops retreat toward their camp. It was an act that the king would be likely
to urge out of spite, but Simon could not understand how the great warlords,
like Ferrars and Geoffrey, could have permitted Henry to have his own
way—unless they did not wish any assault to succeed!

Simon was not alone in this opinion, and others, older and
wiser, argued against Philip Bassett when he urged again and again that Richard
ride out and attack the king’s army now that they were in disarray. Richard
would have resisted in any case, but it was easier for him because so many of
his supporters now agreed with his passive role. So they sat and watched each
other for four days. On the fifth, a mighty assault was made. New siege towers
had been built and the king’s forces flung themselves against the walls of Usk
with a mad ferocity that spelled desperation.

After the attack was over, it reminded Simon of a great
storm at Roselynde, when gigantic waves crashed against the cliffs below the
walls, only to break in spray and fall back, helpless. Simon was sure that this
was the beginning of the end, and he smiled grimly to himself and thought,
They
are growing hungry
. Possibly they had used the four days for foraging as
well as building, and had found nothing or even had been mauled by Welsh
ambushes.

He was pleased and amused, thinking that Richard would soon
know the worth of Prince Llewelyn’s help, and he came off the walls rather
smugly satisfied with himself and the situation. A few hours later, this mood
changed abruptly when, as the last of the daylight faded, a single man rode to
the walls under a flag of truce and begged that Richard send out Simon de
Vipont, under safe conduct to come and go freely, so that he might speak with
his brother, Lord Geoffrey.

The only thing Simon could think of was that Geoffrey was
dying. He would listen to nothing, impatiently dismissing Richard’s warnings
that it might be a trap and ignoring his efforts to discover who the messenger
was so he would be more secure as to Simon’s safety. Simon could barely wait
for his destrier to be saddled, flinging himself onto his mount and clattering
across the drawbridge before it was properly down so that Ymlladd had to jump
at the end. He was so frantic that he never noticed the expression on Tostig’s
face—the fact that Tostig had come confirmed Simon’s conviction of disaster.

“Where is he?” Simon cried.

“In his tent, my lord.”

“Quick, then, quick.”

Tostig was well acquainted with Sir Simon and quite
accustomed to his fits and starts. He regularly thanked God that he had been
placed in the service of a man such as Lord Geoffrey, who was not given to
sudden lunacies. However, if Sir Simon said “quick,” it was not Tostig’s place
to dispute. Indeed, he would be in danger of a broken head if he did. Therefore,
he obeyed Simon’s order, wheeling his horse and clapping heels to its ribs with
enough force to set it off at a gallop. This action, naturally enough, further
increased Simon’s fear that Geoffrey was at his last gasp.

It was thus a considerable shock to Simon, who arrived quite
frantic and with his eyes half-blinded by tears, to find Geoffrey sitting at
ease, with his feet up, comfortably sipping a cup of wine. He let out a bellow
of mingled joy and rage that startled Geoffrey into dropping his cup and
leaping to his feet with his hand on his sword.

“I will kill him,” Simon roared, looking over his shoulder.

“Who? Who?” Geoffrey cried, drawing his own sword and
limping forward, fearing that insult or treachery had been offered.

Had he not been so startled by Simon’s shout, Geoffrey would
have realized there was as much laughter as outrage in Simon’s voice, but that
became clear only a moment later when Simon ducked around his bared blade,
seized him in his arms, and kissed him heartily.

“Your man Tostig,” Simon chuckled, finally answering
Geoffrey’s question when he released him so that he could resheath his sword.

“What in the world did Tostig say to make you so angry?”
Geoffrey asked, really amazed. Occasionally, like any longtime servant, Tostig
offered his betters good advice—even when they did not want it or ask for it.

“Nothing!” Simon replied, still half-furious in reaction to
his past fear. “That idiot did not say a word except that you were in your tent
and left me to believe you were dying.”

“Dying?” Geoffrey echoed. “But why should you think I was
dying in the first place? What did Tostig say? I told him only to ask for you
and to offer safe conduct.”

“Well, that is all he did,” Simon grumbled, watching
Geoffrey pick up his cup, set another on the table, and pour wine into both.
“But what did you expect me to think after a hard battle that went so ill for
your side?”

Geoffrey’s fair brows arched upward and his lips twitched.
“I am old enough to take care of myself.”

“Yes,” Simon agreed, but with so little conviction that
Geoffrey began to laugh aloud. Simon shrugged. “You do tend to run amok in
battle.”

“Coming from you—” Geoffrey began, then laughed again.
“Never mind. Sit down. I have something to suggest to you and I wish to hear
what you think, but first a question. You told me the last time we spoke that
Richard would make truce if one were offered. Is this still true, or has the
attack on him changed his mind?”

“I am sure it is still true, but you must know that I am not
the first of his advisers. Still, I am sure he does not wish to break his oath
of fealty. And you must see this to be true. He has not used the catapults or
ballistas or mangonels against the king’s army and he has refused to ride out
to attack, even after he saw that your men had been used too hard.”

Geoffrey sighed with relief. “Good. That is very good. I
hope that Henry is now willing to listen to reason, and I do not believe
Winchester will oppose a truce. He is enough of a soldier himself to see that
our situation is growing worse, not better. If a desirable arrangement can be
devised, would Richard receive a delegation? I am afraid it will have to
contain Winchester, but the Bishop of Saint David’s and the Bishop of London
will be there also, as will I.”

“I am sure he will receive you, but whether he would agree
with you as to what is desirable is a different matter. I think he is eager to
make peace, but he has not changed his principles.”

“I know that. I wish, however, to avoid making matters worse
while I am trying to mend them. If Henry and Richard can come to terms before
any real damage is done, it would be much better for everyone. It is possible
to forget an injury, of course, but it is always better when there is nothing
to forget.”

Simon frowned. “Yes, but I fear things have already gone so
far… Do you really think the king, and more especially Winchester, will deal
faithfully? However, you are right, I suppose. It is necessary to try. What do
you want me to do?”

“Only to tell Richard what we have said to each other, and,
of course, if he should have changed his mind to let me know as soon as
possible. If we talk Henry around and Richard will not even receive us, that
would be very bad.”

“I do not think it,” Simon assured him, “but if the other
men should be so hot against it that Richard must yield to them, I will come to
you myself or send Siorl. He can speak enough French to make himself
understood. Before I go, tell me how everyone is at home.”

“All well when I last heard. Ian is still in the north, just
barely keeping his men from rushing down here and attacking our rear. Joanna is
at Hemel. Your mother is riding the south holdings to keep them quiet, and— Oh,
I have a funny story for you. You know that old Sir Henry is too old for his
duties, far too old. Naturally your mother would not turn him out, but there
must be a new castellan. Lady Alinor chose Sir Harold, Giles of Iford’s
youngest son, to succeed at Kingsclere. He knew Sir Henry and will be kind
enough to pretend deference and not hurt the old man. Unfortunately, Sir Harold
is here with me, and it would cause Sir Henry great distress to put in a
temporary castellan, so Sybelle is at Kingsclere. She is very clever at making
her decisions look as though she were taking his advice.”

Simon grinned at Geoffrey, who laughed back. Sir Henry was a
total blockhead. He had been a strong fighter, was absolutely loyal and honest,
but advice from him would be more likely to cause a disaster than to be of any
help. Still, he had known how to defend his lady’s lands, to recognize
unauthorized encroachments, and to mete out simple justice. Now he was too old
and too crippled to ride out, but his mistress had not forgotten his good
service and was ready to do her best for him even at considerable inconvenience
to herself.

“You remember,” Geoffrey went on, “that the king disseisined
Gilbert Bassett of Upavon—”

“Geoffrey,” Simon protested, “do you think I am so
addle-witted that I do not remember why I must come to speak to you under safe
conduct?”

There was a brief, eloquent silence. Geoffrey’s lips
twitched, but he managed to remain grave and said, “No, of course not.”

In fact, Geoffrey did not think Simon addle-witted at all,
merely apolitical. Simon liked Richard Marshal and did not like the king. That
would have been reason enough for him. He did not need the fact of Henry’s
offense to insinuate himself into a war.

“Anyway,” Geoffrey continued, “Upavon is not much more than
twenty miles from Kingsclere, and Walter de Clare has been raiding in that area
so that the king would get as little benefit as possible from having
transferred Bassett’s property to Maulay. Some of Walter’s men appear to have
wandered a bit astray and have encroached on a Kingsclere farm. Needless to say
they were driven off and soundly drubbed. They ran for their base camp with—”

“Not Sybelle! No, that is too much. I will have to talk
seriously to that girl. She will never get a husband if she takes to—”

“
You
will have to talk to her?” Geoffrey gasped. “Who
taught her to be such a hoyden?”

“Not I!” Simon exclaimed indignantly. “I always told her she
should not be so wild. Whenever she got so dirty and her clothes in such a
terrible state, I—”

Geoffrey burst out laughing. “Yes, you told her—
after
leading her into the scrape in the first place. But this time it really was not
her fault—at least, I suppose she should have ordered the men not to give chase
or should have gone back to the keep with a few while the others pursued the
raiders. In any case, she was with the troop when they hit the camp, and she caught
Walter de Clare with—as the saying is—his chausses undone.”

“You think that is funny?” Simon groaned.

“Do not you?” Geoffrey chortled. “You can imagine what she
said to him.”

“I certainly can,” Simon agreed sourly. “Well, there is one
marriage that will not be made.”

“Are you so sure?” Geoffrey asked. Then he shrugged. “If you
are right, it was the wrong marriage to consider anyway. A man needs to know
what he is getting when he takes one of the women of Roselynde to his bosom.”

“Did you?” Simon asked interestedly.

Geoffrey eyed his brother-by-marriage for a moment and then
said softly, “Yes.” His lips twitched. “I came to Roselynde when your father
married your mother. Joanna was then nine years old. She was beautiful even
then, and very sweet and proper—until I crossed her will and she hit me on the
head with Beorn’s quarterstaff. Yes, I knew.”

“But I do not think Walter—” Simon began, and then stopped.
He did not find Rhiannon’s aggressive ways distasteful. He found them exciting.
Perhaps Walter would, too—after he recovered from how Sybelle expressed her
disapproval of his management of his men—if he ever recovered. Simon sighed.
“Where is he now?”

“In the same area, perhaps farther west, nearer Devizes. I
think there is more to it than just raiding to make the king’s adherents
dissatisfied. I fear the end purpose has something to do with de Burgh. If you
see or hear from Walter, Simon, bid him have no part in attempting to free de
Burgh. Devizes is too strong, and any attempt will only increase the severity
of the old man’s imprisonment.”

“I will,” Simon said, but his voice was doubtful, and there
was a question in his eyes.

“Do not be a fool.” Geoffrey sighed. “I cannot write to him.
If I know such a thing, I should warn the king of it—and that is the last thing
I wish to do because it would bring about all the bad effects of such an
attempt without achieving anything at all.”

“But I do not believe I will go back to England when this
siege is over, and I do not have a messenger I can trust to go anywhere but
Roselynde, so—” Simon’s voice broke off suddenly and he slapped himself on the
forehead and grinned. “Oh, what a dunderhead I am,” he laughed. “Of course. I
will write to Sybelle. That will either set the fat in the fire or supply a
miraculous cure—but she will not fail to send on your warning.” Simon put down
his empty wine cup and stood up. “Is there anything else?”