Cord wasn’t used to the Welsh manner of homecoming after a hard day’s work. He’d heard of it, but listening to it was another matter entirely.
As two shepherds joined Rhys, the stocky Welshman began to hum. The shepherds, who looked like a father and son team, grinned at each other as Rhys hummed louder and louder. Their grimy faces became less strained, their slumped shoulders more squared. The sheep, which bleated all around them, quickened their pace, and the sheepdogs herded with more zeal.
Rhys suddenly broke into song. His powerful voice started low and built up in tempo and volume. Soon he was booming out one of the myriad songs that come to the Welsh as naturally as breathing. It wasn’t long before the father joined Rhys, and then the son joined, too. All three Welshmen sang with gusto, their voices echoing off the hills and filling the glades and small forests with joyful sounds. Before three songs had been sung, another team of shepherds ambled along. They too joined the merry singers, adding their lusty voices to the mix.
Cord marveled at them, and he delighted in the singing. If he’d known the songs or understood the Welsh language, he would have joined in.
The bailiff, however, said under his breath, “Bah! They’re all Singers.”
The Anglo-Normans had never understood the Welsh love of singing, and had come to call them ‘Singers’ as a term of contempt. The Welsh were just as contemptuous of the Norman lack of poetic talent.
Cord’s weariness lessened as he listened to the singing. He wondered idly if the Norman nobles would walk more, instead of riding everywhere, if they sang more.
The shepherds soon herded their flocks into a large stone corral, which stood beside a low-built barn of wood and woven wattles. Although the fence had been made to last, the barn didn’t look sturdy. The house, a big, sprawling affair a little higher up than the barn, had the same rickety look. It had one floor, a small door and many stuffed-shut windows. Smoke billowed out of the window to the side, while a stand of fir trees cut off the stiff mountain breeze that blew down the hill. The entire place had been built on a small plateau, although both above and below the barn and house the hill sloped steeply.
Cord counted twelve shepherds, about as many wives, a host of children and another handful of servants. It made Rhys’ Place seem large, bigger than any other freeholder’s home he’d been to. Cord knew that the Welsh were unlike his own Saxons or the overlord Normans. Both types of Englishmen lived in settled communities, whether in villages, towns or castles. Seldom did an English family live all alone, without any neighbors less than a stone’s throw away. The Welsh, on the other hand, often built their homesteads well away from others, hidden in some wooden glade or deep in a moor. If Rhys had had any neighbors, the other house would have been built at least a mile or more away.
Servants ran to the bailiff’s palfrey, and soon led him away to the barn where cows lowed.
“Should we look at the pups now?” the bailiff asked.
“Let’s wait till after supper,” said Rhys.
A tall woman in a clean woolen dress strode out to greet them. She had a shock of long red hair, a regal stride and smiles for the guests.
“This is my wife, Sir Knight,” Rhys said with a proud smile. “The Lady Gwen ab Gruffydd.”
The bailiff surprised Cord by taking one of the lady’s clean white hands and like a palace courtier pressing his lips to the delicate skin. “You add grace and beauty to this lonely mountain hideaway,” the bailiff said grandly.
Gwen curtsied, while Rhys, if it was possible, seemed to stand taller and puff out his chest even more than before.
“And this tall man is the boar-slayer,” Rhys told his wife. “He slew Old Sloat, the beast who tragically slew Baron Hugh.”
Gwen’s hand flew up to her mouth, her startling green eyes showing her concern. “The Baron is dead?”
“Alas, yes,” Rhys said. “I had hoped to have you meet him, my love. He was a good man, generous, bold and brave.”
“When is his funeral?” Gwen asked the bailiff. “We must attend.”
“Sir Guy returns from Castle Gareth,” the bailiff said. “In a day, maybe two, the funeral will be held in the castle.”
Gwen moved up to Cord, touching his cheek. “You must be very brave, and a mighty hunter, to have slain this beast which killed your Baron. You are most welcome in our home.”
Cord could barely find his tongue, although he managed to say, “Thank you, milady.” As she turned away, he added, “But I didn’t slay Old Sloat by myself, milady. Sebald helped.”
“Sebald?” she asked.
Cord petted Sebald’s massive head.
“Ah, I see,” she said. “Yes. He is a mighty beast himself.” She turned to Rhys. “You should ask the boar-slayer to stud out his hound. We could use dogs like that up here in the hills.”
“You’re always right, my dear,” Rhys said, taking his wife’s arm. “But at the moment, I’m famished.”
“Then enter within, husband, and let us begin the feast.”
Arm in arm, Rhys and Gwen led everyone into the house. The smoke was thick since supper was still being cooked, but the roasting mutton smelled mouth-watering.
Cord noticed that the sprawling house had been divided into several sections. The divisions were wooden walls, not just curtains. His estimation of Rhys’ wealth rose accordingly.
A tall handsome man who looked a lot like Gwen sat on a stool and strummed a lyre. His long red hair had been pulled back and was now held in place by a golden band. What most impressed Cord was the man’s linen shirt and fur-lined leather jacket.
“This is my brother-in-law,” Rhys said. “Edric the Bard.”
Edric held up a mug of ale. He swallowed a long draught before returning to his lyre.
“He’ll sing for us later,” Gwen said from the fireplace.
“Yes, in order to earn my keep,” Edric said in a melodious voice, plucking a lyre string for emphasis.
“Now! None of that,” Rhys boomed, slapping Edric on the back a trifle harder than seemed necessary. “You’ll have the bailiff and the boar-slayer thinking that Rhys ab Gruffydd makes men
earn
his hospitality. Such a thing will never be said, or if said, then I’ll hunt the liar down and cut out his tongue.”
Edric grinned, which put deep lines in his face. He appeared to be over thirty, and it was obvious that he’d been drinking. “That was spoken like a true Welshman,” he said loudly.
“Aye, aye,” chorused someone in the rear of the smoky room.
Cord saw Gwen flash her brother a frown. The bard, who also noticed the frown, looked intently upon his lyre as he plucked strings, although it seemed that he secretly smiled.
As Cord sat on a bench at the main table, he felt the Welsh and half-Welsh all around him. It was a subtle feeling, a tension waiting to build or lessen, depending on what happened next. Maybe the bailiff felt it too, for he shook his head when Gwen asked if he’d like to set aside his sword. Rhys tugged his beard at this. Then he shrugged as Gwen shot him a questioning look. The stocky Welsh freeman unbuckled his long knife and set it on a hook on the wall. The shepherds did likewise, until everyone but Cord and the bailiff were unarmed.
“My hounds will give us warning if marauders attempt to invade my house,” Rhys explained to the bailiff. “A year ago, I heard how the ancient Greeks used to go unarmed in their homes. How civilized, I thought to myself. In such a civilized way I’ve now trained my household.”
“I always keep my sword at my side,” the bailiff said gruffly.
“Just like the Viking pirates of old,” said Edric the Bard. He’d arisen, and now sat across the table from the bailiff.
“What do you mean?” the bailiff demanded.
The bard merely gave him a lazy half-smile, his startling green eyes (just like his sister) alive in the smoky gloom.
“Do you call me a pirate?” the bailiff asked.
“You wear your sword like one,” Edric said quietly.
“Enough!” said Rhys, slapping the table. “You’re my guest, bard, but you must treat my other guests with the respect they’re due.”
Edric lifted his fiery eyebrows.
“The bailiff is the Baron’s man,” Rhys explained. “He is also a good and just man himself, and a friend of mine. He will therefore be treated as such.”
“He’s a Norman knight,” said Edric, as if that were an insult.
“Yes,” said Rhys. “The same kind of Norman knight who fought with you and your brethren at Bridgenorth.”
“Bridgenorth?” the bailiff asked. “What’s this about Bridgenorth?”
Rhys gave the bailiff a soothing smile. He sat at the head of the table, the bailiff to his right. Edric sat to Rhys’ left. Cord sat farther down the table, beside the shepherd’s son. Young boys set down wooden cups, while a tall girl poured ale first to Rhys, then the bailiff and then refilled Edric’s mug before going on down the line.
“You spoke about Bridgenorth,” the bailiff said. “Does that have anything to do with Earl Simon’s army?”
“Let us eat first,” said Rhys. “We can talk politics later.”
“But if you have important news—” the bailiff tried to say.
“To Baron Hugh’s memory,” Rhys shouted as he lifted his cup.
Men and women raised their cups, all except for Edric.
“I ask, brother-in-law,” said Rhys, “that you drink to my benefactor’s memory.”
Edric examined his mug. He even took hold of it and twisted it from side to side.
“Baron Hugh was a good man,” Gwen said from the fireplace, as she helped the servers ready the plates.
“How do you know that?” Edric slurred. “I thought you’ve never met him?”
“He helped my husband,” Gwen said. “That’s all I need to know.”
Edric nodded thoughtfully. Then he looked up at the frowning bailiff. Edric lifted his mug. “To this noble Norman baron. May he rest well in his grave.” So saying, Edric quaffed the ale.
Rhys did likewise. So did the bailiff and the rest of the company. Cord smacked his lips. This was tasty ale, very refreshing. He quaffed again.
Under Gwen’s direction, the young boys and the tall girl set down plates of butter, cheese and roasted mutton. Conspicuous by its absence, Cord noted the lack of bread. Welsh people, he’d heard, seldom ate it.
The meal went apace, with small talk, a few jibes and the tossing of meat to the prowling hounds. Gwen, Cord noticed, ate delicately as she sat beside her husband at the head of the table. She engaged the bailiff in conversation, and soon had him smiling.
The bailiff had asked Rhys about Earl Simon’s army for good reason. The Earl’s army terrorized the Western Marches, at least for those who still sided with the King and his son, Prince Edward.
Earl Roger Mortimer, never any friend of Simon’s, had been playing a shrewd and wily game. Although several of his estates had gone up in flames and many of his herds had been slain in order to feed Simon’s host, he hadn’t come out openly against Simon. Baron Hugh, as one of Roger Mortimer’s chief vassals, had kept Pellinore Fief ready for war the entire summer, just in case his valley should be invaded. So far, Roger Mortimer had been content to watch Simon and gauge his every move, waiting for that moment when the Earl overreached himself.
Earl Simon de Montfort had sailed back to England in April 1263. With the death of the old Earl of Gloucester, Simon had taken charge of the reformers. The reformers wished to change the way King Henry ran the kingdom.
King Henry the Third had always been a weak King, ruled by advice from his favorites. The first had been stern old William Marshal, who had never been knocked out of the saddle in any of his five hundred tournaments. Henry had only been ten years old then, and had followed William Marshal’s lead as they’d ousted the French from England. In the last days of bad King John’s reign—John had been Henry’s father—the barons who had forced King John to sign the Magna Charta had asked the King of France to come and be their monarch. With the death of John and the crowning of King Henry the Third, the English, both Saxon and Norman, had rallied to the boy King’s side. Then, after the French had been ousted, William Marshal had died and Hubert de Burgh had become the king’s right hand man. Henry in time had tired of de Burgh, and had had him killed. When King Henry married Eleanor of Provence, he’d come under the spell of her countless French-Provencal relatives. Royal funds had flown out of the treasury and into the pockets of those stiff-necked, haughty Provencals. Eleanor’s uncles, brothers and sisters came to Henry’s court and sapped his will as well as England’s treasury. Ill-conceived wars, fiasco’s where Henry poured out yet more English money to the Pope in order to win for his son the Sicilian Crown, and the gaining of half-brothers from his mother who had married a French noble, all became too much for many of the English barons. Haughty overlords, often Italian or French, ran many an English church, shire and barony. Tempers flared against all the foreigners, and men groaned at the taxes they paid to the King, that were so quickly squandered on frivolous things.
Finally, many of the barons became angry at Henry’s weak rule. They met with him at Oxford, in Parliament, and they wore chainmail to the meeting. There they forced the King to sign the Provisions of Oxford. It insured that English money wouldn’t be wasted on stupid ventures, nor would the King’s inlaws rule the countryside like minor kings.