Even after Oxford, however, these seesaw struggles had surged back and forth. Until at last, the magnetic Simon de Montfort went to Oxford, and marshaled the reformers into an armed host. In their ranks were many young and energetic knights.
Simon took his small, well-trained army of knights and men-at-arms across the Severn and into the Western Marches. At the end of June, they had attacked the Bishop of Hereford, a foreigner of ill-repute and a man known for his hand in the Sicilian Affair. They captured and locked the bishop and his church cannons in Castle Eardisely.
Eardisely was closer to Pellinore Castle than Roger Mortimer’s Castle Wigmore. Baron Hugh had grown nervous with Simon’s army so near. But Simon had taken his force to Gloucester and gained entry into the ancient city. Then, following the Severn River north, he’d either stormed or taken control of the castles on both banks of the river and the few important bridges. Finally, he’d taken the key city of Worcester.
Prince Llewellyn’s Welsh hadn’t been idle. Unlike most years, however, the Welsh had left the Marcher barons alone, most who had joined Simon’s standard. Instead, Prince Llewellyn had concentrated on the King’s Welsh castles, or on those few landlords and barons in the Western Marches who still supported the King. In the North, Prince Llewellyn together with his Welsh ally Madog, had besieged Diserth. News of its fall was still fresh, having only come to Pellinore Castle two days before Baron Hugh’s death. Now only the King’s strong castle at Degannwy stood in the Marches. But it was under siege by Llewellyn and Madog.
All this Cord knew, as many Englishmen who listened to rumors and gossip mongers knew. From Edric’s manner, Cord guessed that something terrible had occurred.
“An excellent meal, my sister,” Edric said as he pushed away his plate.
Gwen smiled in delight.
Edric smiled too, although there seemed something sinister about it. He said, “Sometimes I think you waste your talents on this stay-at-home husband of yours.”
“You’d better be polite,” Gwen told her brother. “If you embarrass my husband, I won’t talk to you for at least a year.”
“But will you cook for me?” asked Edric. “That’s the important thing.”
“Beast,” she said.
“Ah, if you only knew,” Edric said.
She grinned, leaning toward her brother. “You think you’re so mighty, brother dearest. Why not arm-wrestle my man and see if you can match him.”
“Never!” said Edric. “If I’d win, you’d hate me. If I’d lose, you’d think yourself cleverer than I.”
“Of course I’m cleverer,” Gwen said. “I married Rhys ab Gruffydd didn’t I? Where is
your
mate, brother? Where is your match made in Heaven?”
“Ah,” Edric said with a grin. “My match is here.” He picked up his lyre. “With it I bring Heaven to Earth.”
“At least you boast like the heroes of old,” said Gwen.
“And he drinks like them, too!” Rhys said, causing laughter to ripple among the feasters.
“Yes, and you drink like them,” Gwen echoed. “What I want to know, dear brother, is if your deeds can match the deeds of the heroes of old?”
Edric laughed, although there seemed to be a note of bitterness in it. “The Welsh heroes of old?” he asked. “No, I don’t match them. How could I? In those days Wales stood free, untrammeled by invaders, unshackled by men in iron cocoons.”
The bailiff scowled.
“Maybe I match the heroes of old in the fire for freedom that burns in my belly,” Edric added. “Aye, there I am like them.”
An embarrassed silence filled the room. The bailiff shifted uncomfortably, although Cord noticed that he’d shifted toward the edge of his bench. Maybe he readied himself to jump up and draw his sword, in case something untoward happened.
“My brother-in-law speaks rashly,” Rhys said. “But since he is a bard, and has drunk much today, that is to be expected.”
The bailiff gave a noncommittal grunt.
“He came here under a flag of truce,” Gwen suddenly said, perhaps sensing the bailiff’s intent.
“Truce?” the bailiff asked in surprise.
“Bridgenorth has fallen,” Rhys said slowly. “Edric was there and has brought us the latest news.”
“The Welsh stormed Bridgenorth?” the bailiff asked in horror.
Edric laughed rudely as he tossed down more ale.
Rhys grew pale with anger, perhaps sensitive at this misuse of Edric’s guest-rights. To the Welsh, nothing was more sacred than hospitality. Since Edric had eaten from Rhys’ table and drank his ale, Rhys couldn’t harm him without the gravest of slurs being attached to his name.
“Owain ab Ifan along with other Welshmen besieged Bridgenorth this summer,” Gwen said. “I think they worked in conjunction with Prince Llewellyn, who as I’m sure you know stormed Diserth Castle up North a few days ago. Earl Simon and his army, who have raced up the Severn, came upon Bridgenorth and besieged it on the opposite side as the Welsh. The city soon fell,” Gwen said in a whisper. “Now, Simon controls the bridges, cities and castles along the Severn. Now the Western Marches are his.”
“And what isn’t in Earl Simon’s hands is in Prince Llewellyn’s,” Edric boasted.
The bailiff had grown pale and his shoulders slumped. With an effort, he drained his cup and then looked up. “Are Llewellyn and Simon allies?”
“Not yet,” said Gwen.
“But they parley,” Edric boasted. “Soon, knight, your King will fall, and then we’ll see.”
“See about what?” the bailiff growled.
Edric didn’t answer. He’d seemed to discover a sudden interest in his lyre.
Rhys rose abruptly. His intense eyes burned with rage and his forked beard seemed stiff like an angry dog’s raised hackles. He opened his mouth to speak, his gaze riveted upon Edric.
Gwen touched his forearm.
“He’s drunk,” Gwen said. “Let him sleep it off. In the morning, he’ll leave. I promise you this.”
Edric stood unsteadily, the lyre tucked under his arm. “What should I tell Owain ab Ifan?” he asked Rhys.
The bailiff’s eyes widened at the mention of one of the Baron’s greatest enemies.
Rhys couldn’t contain himself. He spat near Edric’s feet. “
That
for Owain ab Ifan! Someday I’ll kill him.”
“Should I tell him you spoke so?” Edric asked.
“I demand that you tell him!” Rhys shouted. He stepped near Edric. “Did you hear me, bard? I demand it!”
Edric made a vague gesture, then stepped away from the table and headed toward the door outside. Gwen hurried after him. She whispered into his ear. Soon Edric turned and headed deeper into the house, no doubt to one of the sleeping areas.
The bailiff almost said something, then perhaps thought better and toyed with his cup instead.
Rhys slumped into his chair. In a moment, he rubbed his broad forehead and glanced at the bailiff. “I’m glad for the news of what happens abroad, but the news-bearers sometimes bring ideas of their own.”
The bailiff nodded stiffly.
“Owain ab Ifan still burns against the Baron,” Rhys said. “He longs for his day of vengeance. He longs to be avenged against the Baron’s sword stroke that crippled his knife-arm forever.”
“Edric is Owain’s man?”
“Owain isn’t Edric’s clan chieftain, but I think Edric admires whatever bravery Owain showed at the siege of Bridgenorth. He carried Owain’s message to me. But I know you understand that Owain is and never will be a friend of mine.”
“I believe you,” the bailiff said. “And I understand what it means to have relatives.” He lowered his voice and said, “My mother-in-law, well….” He shrugged.
Rhys gave him a wan smile, although his anger left bitter lines in his face.
“Maybe we should look at the pups,” the bailiff said.
Rhys sighed, nodded and stood up.
Cord followed them outside and past the barn. A boy arose from a pile of hay at Rhys’ shout and followed them out behind the pigsty. Soon the boy held back a shaggy mother-dog with sagging teats.
Rhys pointed out the belly-fat puppies that playfully yipped and barked at them.
Cord grinned, but made no move toward the pups.
“Take a closer look,” the bailiff said.
Cord stepped closer, bent low and petted the puppies as the shaggy mother whined and tried to get at him. The pups all made a mad dash to be under Cord’s hand and nipped at one another’s long ears. Cord laughed and tried to pet them all at once.
Rhys whispered to the bailiff, the bailiff whispered back. “Go ahead,” Rhys said.
“Cord,” the bailiff said, “what do you notice most about the litter?”
Cord studied them. “Ah,” he said, “they have wolf blood in them.”
“Very good,” Rhys said.
Cord shrugged.
“What do you think?” the bailiff asked. “Would these pups make good hunters?”
Cord glanced at the whining mother. She was shaggy and large, and she didn’t like that he played with her pups. But she wasn’t barking at him either, which meant that she was well trained. He studied the pups, petted them and tried to envision them as fully-grown dogs. He’d trained a half-wolf before. It had been a trying experience.
Finally, brushing his hands on his breeches, Cord stood and faced the two men. “They could be trained to attack, yes. But wolf dogs can be dangerous. Usually, they’re very loyal to one person and
only
to that person.” He shrugged. “If you want my opinion....”
The bailiff nodded.
“I would only use them as bear or boarhounds.”
“Not a wolfhound?” the bailiff asked.
“No. I’d be worried that they’d want to join the pack. When the wolves come around, I’d lock them in the kennel.”
“I see,” the bailiff said.
Rhys inspected Cord anew, clearly impressed.
Cord backed away from the litter and nodded to the boy holding the shaggy mother. She immediately went over and sniffed her brood, then looked up and glowered at Cord. He smiled. She lay down among the pups and let them yip and crawl across her as they played.
“Cord,” the bailiff said, “would you go saddle the palfrey?”
Cord ambled off, walking with the boy who had handled the shaggy mother. As he saddled the palfrey, Cord saw the bailiff speak sternly with Rhys. No doubt, that came from Edric’s dropped hints.
That others had problems eased Cord, although he wished no ill will upon Rhys. Cord sighed. Soon Sir Philip would be back with Sir Guy. He wondered what would happen, and frankly, he wondered how the journey went with Philip and Guy. With Earl Simon and his allies victorious everywhere within the Western Marches, there could be trouble for the new baron.
A day ago, a splendid train of knights, men-at-arms, body servants, cooks and carters set out from Gareth Castle. In the lurching, two-wheeled carts that brought up the rear of this procession sat the entire portable wealth of Sir Guy of Pellinore. He guarded this wealth like a hawk, and he sent out scouts as the splendid train crawled across the countryside. Behind the mule-carts marched a full half of Gareth Fief’s peasant levy. They were stocky men mostly, armed with scythes, flails, mattocks and axes. A number of them had mules whereby they carried extra bread and cheese and skins filled with ale. Most of them shouldered heavy burdens and prayed for the journey’s end so they could return home to their wives and children.
That Sir Guy had demanded this half of the peasants levy to act as trail guards.... The demand had caused noble heads to wag in Gareth Castle. Wiser, and in this case feminine heads, had whispered that whatever it took to ensure Sir Guy’s departure should be welcome. It was their advice that in the end had won over the more vocal naysayers. The selected peasants had been given their orders, and however sullenly, the orders had finally been obeyed.
Sir Philip still didn’t like it. Pack the wealth onto mules had been his advice. Surround them by horsemen and dash for Pellinore Castle. The journey would be over in a day. This method would take three days, maybe even four. That was time enough for a small enemy army to marshal together and swoop down to collect the wealth.
They traveled through a sparse forest of oak and beech trees and endless shrubs. The sun struggled toward noon as a cool breeze kept the horses, mules and a few oxen from over-heating. A weedy track provided the only road.
Philip twisted in the saddle and peered back at the two-wheeled carts. They lurched this way and that. The carters aboard them expertly swayed like sailors, while the tarped wealth creaked if it were furniture or clanked if it were metalwork of some kind. All expect for one cart, that is. That cart had wooden bars around it and a wooden top to hold its prisoner. Unfortunately, not even Philip knew the man’s name, nor had he seen the prisoner but for a glance or two. A thick curtain surrounded the bars on the inside. The prisoner lurched about in his prison and in the dark, no doubt cursing whatever grim fate awaited him.
Sir Guy, from the hints, expected the sky to rain gold because of the prisoner.
“Look out,” said Hob, who rode nearby.
Philip faced forward and ducked just in time. The tree leaves merely swatted his face instead of the heavy branch knocking him from the saddle.
“This is an ill-conceived route,” Philip muttered. He wore chainmail armor and the same dyed scarf around his bull neck as the day he’d left Pellinore Castle. Leather hunting gloves clad his hands and his mail coif, or hood, protected his head. A great helmet hung from his saddle pommel in case he should suddenly need it in order to fight.
In such an emergency, he’d whistle for his groom. His groom acted as a squire since Philip didn’t have one. Philip didn’t presently ride his war-horse, but a gentler palfrey. If he needed the war-horse, Philip didn’t want it weary from carrying his heavy, mail-armored bulk. Rather, he wanted his war-horse to be fresh and eager for the fray. The groom, as per custom on a dangerous trail, kept the war-horse to Philip’s right. In this way, Philip knew exactly where to look in order to find his war-horse. He’d practiced thousands of times the maneuver of passing from his palfrey and onto his destrier without bothering to step down onto the ground. Both horses had learned this routine with Philip
always
passing from the palfrey’s left and onto the destrier’s right.
In fact, so ancient was this particular custom of keeping the war-horse to the right that the word destrier came from the Latin word
dexter
, or right.
The groom was on his own palfrey. Like a squire, he kept several painted lances ready. He’d long served Philip and seemed to know his master’s wants to a nicety.
Hob only had one horse, a brown stallion grown strong carrying his master’s fat, ale-fueled frame. Hob carried his lance in a holder, resting the butt on his left stirrup. His armor didn’t shine like Philip’s, nor was it as finely crafted or as strong. The sword slung onto his belt, however, was fully as long and as thick as Philip’s sword. Whether the steel was as good or the edges as sharp remained to be seen.
“Should we rest the peasants?” Hob asked as their steeds plodded along together.
“Eh? What?” Philip asked.
“The peasants, milord. If you’ll look back, you’ll see them straggling. I wondered if we should rest them.”
Philip studied Hob closely before he asked, “Is your arse sore?”
“It’s always sore, milord. But that isn’t my concern at the moment. If the peasants are weary then they won’t put up much of a fight.”
Philip showed surprise. “Do you expect a fight?”
“I always expect a fight, milord. The infidels taught me that.”
Philip rolled his eyes. “Infidels, eh? Do you mean Turks?”
“What if thieving Welshmen should drop out of the trees, milord?” Hob asked. “Or what if Earl Simon should ride up and catch us by surprise?”
Philip stared at Hob in surprise, and for a moment, he had to concentrate. He asked crossly, “Must you always croak doom?”
“We cart wealth, milord. To croak doom is wiser than to be ill-prepared.”
Philip shot the carts and the peasant footmen behind them an ugly glance. “You may be right,” he admitted. “But I want to push on as far and fast as possible. Let those farmers walk themselves into the ground. Then maybe Sir Guy will see reason and ride with us to Pellinore.”
“I’m not so sure, milord. Sir Guy’s like a bear with a honey tree. To leave the prisoner in the cart, or to let the prisoner sit upon a mount, I don’t think Guy will do either.”
“Hmmm.... Neither do I,” Philip said.
“So we might as well stop and rest the peasants, milord. Once they’re footsore, nothing will move them.”
Philip doffed his chainmail hood and let the breeze dry off his sweaty bald dome. If the truth were known, he was concerned about this trip and concerned about what he’d learned about Sir Guy. Nothing at Castle Gareth had been as he’d expected. What he’d learned had made him fearful for his future. Then, as he’d carefully considered the ramifications, he’d finally bid his last farewell to his old companion-in-arms, Baron Hugh. More importantly, he’d considered his oath of loyalty to the house of Clare as no longer binding.
The decision still left him uncomfortable.
Long ago, when he’d been young and the ladies had smiled at his good looks, he’d stood before Baron Hugh. At the signal, he’d knelt heavily and put his thick hands into Hugh’s strong palms. The oath of fealty had been spoken: “I am your man, Baron Hugh de Clare. I will serve you, obey your summons to war and help pay your ransom if ever you are captured. I pledge my sword to you, Lord. I am yours to command. By God’s grace and His Son Jesus Christ I swear this to be true.”
Now you’re dead, Hugh
.
Now I serve no man but
myself. For I cannot pledge myself to what your son has become
.
Philip shivered. Sir Guy sickened him, and scarred him in a sinister way. Frankly, it wasn’t right that a man in Guy’s condition could stand, let alone ride in the saddle and soon take control of the barony. And that old crone Guy kept near him.... Surely, she was in league with the Devil! Philip spat over his shoulder and muttered an Ave Maria for protection against evil. The old crone was a witch. That had to be it. Surely, she gave Sir Guy potions or chanted incantations over him at midnight to give him strength. Where else but from the Devil could a living skeleton of a man like Guy find the strength to do what he did?
“At least he isn’t a leper,” Philip muttered to himself.
“Milord?”
Philip shook his head, shivering once again. He hated lepers and had a sick dread of leprosy. Whenever he saw a leper wearing his mandatory red hat and gray coat or heard the leper’s horn, Philip took a wide detour or sometimes turned around and rode back the way he’d come. The horrible sores, the stink of corruption and the terrible memories of his mother—Philip dreaded wasting away, dreaded losing his strength and becoming a shell of a knight. To see a leper not only reminded him of what had happened to his mother, but also that one bad accident could lose him everything—as Sir Tostig had almost lost him everything.
Leprosy had struck his mother down. She’d been a stern woman, and had run her husband’s tower with a sure and heavy hand. Alms went there, bags of forged horseshoes here, the cart-fulls of cabbage into the root cellar. All those decisions and more his mother had made with decisive thoroughness. Then, after a week where she’d helped clean the moat, a curious white spot had developed on her brawny forearm. The spot grew, and in three weeks, everyone within the fief knew that she’d contracted leprosy.
Philip had only been a lad of nine then, and his father had seldom been home. He’d loved his mother, and he’d feared her wrath and her sharp, stinging boxes to his ears. Worse, he along with everyone else in the tower had feared her acid tongue.
Leprosy had changed all that.
When her sickness could no longer be hidden, a delegation led by the tower priest had met her by the stable.
“You have leprosy,” had said the priest, a weak man permanently bowed by rickets.
Philip’s mother glared at him, and glared at the men-at-arms and at the smith, the tower mason and at the chief huntsman who’d tried to hide behind the rickets-bowed priest.
“Leave me alone,” she’d said.
The priest had stubbornly shaken his head.
That moment when fear had finally entered her eyes, oh, Philip had never forgotten that. He’d sat upon one of the palfrey’s, ready to go riding with his mother. A terrible haunted look had entered her stern eyes. The tower folk no longer feared her. Well, maybe they feared her, but they feared the dreaded leprosy more.
“You must go,” the priest had said.
His mother had swelled as a cat sometimes does when faced by hounds.
“If you don’t go,” said the priest, “then we’ll force you to leave.”
A moment of rage had given her a last dose of power, but it too had finally wilted under generations of custom. She’d hung her head and let her brawny shoulders sag. That evening she’d left the tower a broken woman, a shell of what she’d been only that morning. She’d been banished to death in life, to one of those lonely, filthy, leper’s cabins hidden in the woods.
Philip shuddered at the memory. In the entire world, he feared nothing so much as to be driven into one of those cabins. He had nightmares about it, and from that, he’d learned to fear any sort of bodily harm.
He automatically tested his right hand, his sword hand. His shoulder constantly hurt, and that caused a twinge of pain to shoot down his forearm and into his hand. He’d never told anybody about the injury. He’d sustained it hunting, when a bear had torn his boar spear out of his hands. Sometimes, when he was alone in the woods, Philip practiced swinging his sword with his left hand, but it wasn’t any good. The right hand would always be his sword hand. To not be the knight he’d once been—he wanted to grind everyone into the ground because of it. He wanted to crush their unharmed hands and stamp out their secretly jeering smiles. He was Sir Philip of Tarn Tower, a warrior-born! To be less than that galled him. It made him want to weep with the terror and unfairness of it. If he could no longer fight—
“No,” he whispered. “I can fight. My shoulder will soon heal. And even if it hurts, it doesn’t matter. My cunning will make up for whatever strength I’ve lost.”
“Milord?” asked Hob, riding closer than before. “Did you say something?”
“What?” Philip snarled, embarrassed at being caught talking to himself.
“I thought I heard you say something, milord.”
“I did,” Philip said, thinking fast. “I asked you if one of those crusading kings hadn’t been a leper.”
“Ah! You mean Baldwin the Fourth,” said Hob, who was known as something of a scholar when it came to the crusading kings and kingdoms. “Yes indeed, Baldwin was called the Leper King. He was a doomed and tragic figure, milord.” Hob warmed to his subject, even allowing himself a ghost of a smile. “Baldwin was the last of Jerusalem’s good kings. He was only a lad of thirteen when his father Almeric died. Baldwin’s fingers dropped off one by one and then his toes. But at Montgisard he inflicted a terrible defeat upon the infidel Sultan Saladin. Not even King Richard the Lion Heart defeated the noble Saladin better. The Leper King at last became too sick to rule his kingdom. When his sister married the Frenchman, Guy of Lusignan, the end was near. Guy striped the many castles and cities of their garrisons and led the Kingdom of Jerusalem horde into the desert where Saladin slaughtered them. In the Third Crusade neither Richard the Lion Heart nor Philip Augustus of France could win back for the Leper King what Guy of Lusignan had lost for him.”
Philip shook his head. To lose ones fingers and toes, to wait as they dropped away, leaving one defenseless and weak.... He wiped sweat off his brow and thanked God that at least Sir Guy wasn’t a leper.
But Guy was wasting away nevertheless. The very fact of that had set Philip to thinking. He, like any wily noble, knew the truth of fiefs and fealty. The truth was this: A fief was a living entity. It either grew or shrank, but it never stayed the same. It either was fed with new additions or was starved as chunks were cut away. During his lifetime, Baron Hugh had proven this truth. Pellinore Fief had only been a middling-sized fief upon Hugh’s rise into the barony. The hills which Rhys ab Gruffydd lived upon had been an early addition to Pellinore Fief. Later, in the fifth year of Hugh’s rule, he’d feuded with a fellow baron. Hugh had handily won the feud and added one of the losing baron’s outlying castles to Pellinore Fief. His greatest acquisition, however, had been Gareth Fief, won from Alice’s father. Old Sire de Mowbray had been forced to pledge fealty to Baron Hugh. In return, Hugh had given him Gareth Fief back, but it had henceforth legally been part of the greater Pellinore Fief. Yet just as a fief could grow, so could it whither away under weak rulers. Philip believed that under Guy, or for as long as Guy lived anyway, Pellinore Fief would shrivel and wither. Right now Pellinore Fief stood at the pinnacle of power and prestige. The baron of Pellinore had become Earl Roger Mortimer’s greatest vassal.