When men said that Owain Gwynedd cast a long shadow, they were speaking both literally and figuratively, for he was taller than most Welshmen. He was fairer in coloring, too; in his youth, his hair had been as bright as beaten gold, now silvered like moonlight. He bore his fifty-seven years well, but his cares had chased the laughter from his soul. Inspiring both admiration and awe in his subjects, he was a redoubtable figure even to those who loved him.
Owain said nothing; he’d long ago learned the tactical advantages that waiting could confer. Davydd and Cynan were soon squirming under the piercing power of those flint-grey eyes. “Did something happen here that I ought to know about?” Posed as a question, it was not. He controlled their response as thoroughly as he controlled the moment, and Davydd and Cynan hastily assured him that nothing had happened, nothing at all.
Owain regarded them impassively, just long enough to communicate an unmistakable message: that he knew better. “One of our scouts has ridden in from the east,” he said. “The English king’s army is breaking camp at Saltney, getting ready to cross into Wales.”
A murmur swept the hall, subdued and unsurprised. Cristyn moved unobtrusively to her lover’s side. The others, too, had drawn closer to Owain, putting Hywel in mind of the way people huddled before an open hearth on a blustery winter’s day. Only this storm would strike in August.
“Papa . . .” Owain’s youngest son had followed his father into the hall. Rhodri’s eyes were as round as coins and his voice held the hint of a tremor. “What . . . what will you do?”
Owain glanced down at the boy, letting his hand rest on Rhodri’s shoulder. “Well, lad, we shall have to teach this young English king how wars are fought in Wales.”
THE ENGLISH KING’S command tent was lit by sputtering cresset lamps that gave off more smoke than light, and the men had to crowd in to see the map spread out upon the trestle table. The Marcher lords were dominating the discussion, for they claimed to know Wales better than the Welsh themselves. William Fitz Alan was embellishing his conversation with such sweeping arm gestures that he’d already caused one lamp’s flame to gutter out, and Walter Clifford was using his dagger for dramatic effect, stabbing down at the map as if he were thrusting into the heartland of Wales itself.
“Here,” he said, “here is where our war begins and ends.” The dagger flashed, the knife biting deeply into the table.
Henry looked down at the target pierced by that quivering blade. “I already know Owain awaits us at Basingwerk, Walter,” he said coolly, for he had little patience with posturing. “If he fights, it’ll be here. Was it really necessary to mutilate the table for that?”
Most men were flustered by royal rebukes. Walter Clifford was oblivious to the sarcasm, as thick-skinned as he was single-minded. “What is more important, my liege?” he asked brashly. “A table or a chance to outflank your enemy?”
“How?” Henry sounded skeptical. “We’ve agreed that we must march along the coast. What would you have us do, try to take an army over the goat tracks that pass for roads in most of Wales?”
Clifford grinned triumphantly. “No, my lord king. But you could send a smaller force through the Cennadlog Forest.”
“I know it sounds rash at first hearing,” William Fitz Alan said hurriedly. Furious with Clifford for presenting the Marcher plan as his own, he glared at the other man even as he sought to persuade the king. “The forest trails are indeed narrow and not easily followed. But with trustworthy guides, a body of lightly armed horsemen could penetrate those woods and reach the coast—behind Owain’s army.”
Henry glanced inquiringly at Owain Gwynedd’s brother. “What say you, my lord? Can this be done?”
Cadwaladr nodded vigorously. A tall, robust man in his late forties, with a cocky grin and thick chestnut hair that had not yet begun to grey, he was not one to pass unnoticed in any company. Only in his brother’s presence was he somehow diminished, a paler, lesser copy of the original. When seeing the two men together, Ranulf had occasionally felt an involuntary pang of pity for Cadwaladr, no more able to eclipse Owain than a man could outrun his own shadow. He was not surprised now that Cadwaladr should back the Marcher plan, for the Welshman’s courage was equaled only by his confidence.
“I can do it,” the Welsh prince said, with just enough emphasis on the “I” to hint at doubts about the corresponding capabilities of these alien allies of his. “Give me the command and we’ll salt Owain’s tail for you, good and proper!” An uproar at once ensued, as the Marcher lords began to object strenuously to the idea of turning over command to Cadwaladr.
Henry heard them all out. Ranulf sensed that he was intrigued by the Marcher suggestion. There was an inherent boldness in the idea that was sure to appeal to him. Ranulf said nothing as the discussion swirled about him, drawing further back into the shadows. He was accustomed to feeling like an outsider, for he’d lived much of his life as one, half Welsh, half Norman-French, a king’s bastard, neither fish nor fowl, as he put it in his more whimsical moods. But rarely had he felt as isolated as he did now, or as helpless, watching as war’s insidious fever claimed first one victim and then another. Was it burning, too, amongst the Welsh?
His silence did not go unnoticed by Henry, who rarely missed much. “It is getting hotter than Hades in this tent,” he complained. “I am going to take a walk around the camp, and will give my decision when I return. Uncle . . . you want to help me walk the wolf?” he asked, gesturing toward the large black alaunt napping under the table.
Rainald half-rose from his seat, then sank back in disappointment as he realized he was the wrong uncle. Ranulf got slowly to his feet, waiting as Henry slipped a lead on the dog’s collar, and then followed his nephew out into the night.
Henry’s pretext had some basis in truth, for it had been an uncommonly hot August so far. The sky above their heads held not even a wisp of cloud, just stars beyond counting. Soldiers nudged one another as they recognized the king, and one of the inevitable camp-followers, a buxom young woman with fiery red hair, called out cheekily, “Good hunting, my liege!”
“You, too, sweetheart,” Henry shot back, stirring laughter in all within hearing range. Glancing over at Ranulf as they paused to let the alaunt sniff a wagon wheel, he said quietly, “You do not like this flank attack. Tell me why, Uncle.”
“I do not like this war!” Ranulf said, too loudly, for heads turned in their direction. “I know you say this campaign is meant only to intimidate Owain and the Welsh, and I do not doubt your intent, Harry. Set a fire to contain a fire. But what if it gets away from you? If you and Owain misread each other, all of Wales could go up in flames.”
Henry did not deny it. “I never promised you that there would be no fighting, Uncle. I’d not lie, at least not to you. I would much prefer that we come to terms with the Welsh, but if it take some bloodshed to bring that about, so be it. However little you like to admit it, Ranulf, I have the right in this argument.”
Ranulf knew that Owain Gwynedd would say the same. But there was no use in pointing that out to his nephew. He had an uneasy sense that events were taking on their own momentum, already beyond the power of either Henry or Owain to control.
“What do you think of this flank attack?” Henry persisted. “Is it worth the risk?”
“I have a bad feeling about it.” Even to Ranulf, that sounded lame. Henry whistled to the dog and they started back toward his tent. Neither spoke for several moments. Ranulf studied his nephew’s moonlit profile; it was bright enough to see the freckles scattered across Henry’s nose. “You’re going to do it, though,” he concluded. “So who gets the command? Cadwaladr? Hertford or Salisbury?”
He caught a sudden flash of white as Henry smiled. “The command,” he said, “goes to me.”
HENRY HAD NEVER seen woods so thick and tangled. Clouds of rustling foliage shut out the sun, and by the time it filtered through that leafy web, the summer heat had lost its oppressive edge. The forest trail was overgrown in spots, but at least it was not mired in mud, and their Welsh guides followed its meandering track as if every hollow and fallen log and brambled barrier were branded into their memories. They’d only ridden a few miles so far, but they’d left the known world behind, all that was familiar and safe. This was the Wales of legend, primal and impenetrable.
“My liege?” Eustace Fitz John urged his mount to catch up with Henry and Ranulf. “Are we sure that Owain is with his army at Dinas Basing?”
He used the Welsh name rather than the Norman-French Basingwerk, and Ranulf liked him for that. It offended him that his father’s countrymen were so loath to use the names given by the Welsh to their own castles, towns, and abbeys. He’d had a few dealings with Eustace Fitz John, the Constable of Chester, and had always found him to be a decent sort, not as high-handed as most of the Marcher lords. It seemed such a pity that so many good men, Norman and Welsh, were putting their lives at risk on this hot August afternoon.
Ranulf would have thought that he’d be used to tallying up casualties by now; he had, after all, fought in the very worst of that bloody war for his sister’s stolen crown. But a few years of peace had stripped away those hard-won defenses. He was a battle-seasoned soldier with a monk’s loathing for bloodshed, and he could expect neither the Welsh nor the Normans to understand. He’d learned the hard way that most people could see no side but their own. Snapping out of his reverie, he saw that Henry and Fitz John were discussing the most lethal weapon in Henry’s arsenal: the royal fleet sailing up the Welsh coast from Pembroke. Ranulf had been dismayed to learn of the naval force; the Welsh king had no warships of his own. Nor could Owain match the manpower of the English Crown. The bulk of Henry’s army, now making its way along the coast toward Dinas Basing, was sure to outnumber the Welsh. Ranulf’s instinctive empathy for the underdog had fused with his love for his adopted homeland, and if it did come to outright war, his deepest sympathies would be with Wales.
The fact that he’d be bleeding for England only underscored the perversity of his plight. With a flicker of forced humor, he wondered how the Almighty would view his muddled prayers for victory.
Let the Welsh win, O Lord, but not by much.
That sounded suspiciously like St Augustine’s memorable plea for chastity—eventually.
Henry happened to glance in his direction at that moment, catching a glimpse of Ranulf’s self-mocking smile. “What are you laughing at, Uncle?”
“Myself.” Ranulf swatted a fly off his stallion’s withers, squinting as a bead of sweat trickled into the corner of his eye. While it was cooler in the depths of the woods than out in the full glare of sun, their chain-mail armor was stifling. “I was curious why you decided against letting Cadwaladr accompany us?”
“If I had,” Henry explained, “that would have set all those Marcher noses out of joint. Just as Cadwaladr would have been sorely vexed if I’d brought Clifford along. Better to send the lot of them by the coast road with Fitz Alan’s archers. I said I had need of you to talk truce terms with Owain, but that glib tongue of yours might be called into service sooner—to make peace midst our own men.”
“I’ll leave that to your chancellor,” Ranulf said and Henry grinned.
“You’re right. I daresay Thomas could talk a nun out of her habit. Not that he would. Even after two years in my constant company, he remains remarkably indifferent to the sins of the flesh.”
Ranulf laughed. “Well, he is an archdeacon, Harry. And the last I heard, the Church took a rather negative view of sins of the flesh.”
“A man can be virtuous without being a zealot about it.” Henry laughed, too, reaching up under the nose guard of his helmet to rub his chafed skin. “Thomas claims I do enough sinning for the both of us.”
They could see a pool of sunlight up ahead as the trail widened, dappled brightness briefly dispelling some of the deeper shadows. A small woodland creature darted across the path, too swiftly to be identified. As they rode on, there was a sudden flurry and a flock of chittering birds burst from a nearby tree, a shower of feathered arrows aiming at the sky. Ranulf gazed upward, following their soaring flight with the beginning of a smile. But then he saw Tegid, one of their guides. The young Welshman was staring up at the fleeing birds, too, and on his face was an expression of dawning horror.
“Rhagod!”
Only Ranulf understood that hoarse cry, a warning of ambush come too late. The urgency in the guide’s voice needed no translation, though. Henry checked his stallion, starting to draw his sword from its scabbard. Tegid’s second shout was choked off as he was slammed backward, knocked from his saddle by the force of the spear protruding from his chest.
An arrow thudded into a tree trunk above Ranulf’s head. Another shaft found a target in flesh, and a knight slumped across his stallion’s neck, sliding to the ground as the horse reared up in fright. Then the killing began in earnest. With savage-sounding yells, the Welsh, charging from the woods on both sides of the road, sought to drag the English from their horses. The English in turn slashed and thrust with deadly effect in such close quarters, and blood splattered the combatants, the trampled grass, even the leaves of low-hanging branches.
Ranulf had passed some sleepless hours in recent weeks, envisioning a battle in which he found himself fighting against the Welsh. What if he saw someone he knew amongst them? Celyn, his brother-by-marriage? Hywel? Now that the dreaded moment was here, he had no time to spare for such fears. His only concern was defending himself against men set upon killing him, and when a Welsh soldier grabbed his arm, jerking to pull him from the saddle, he spurred his stallion into rearing up. His attacker lost his balance, falling in front of those flailing hooves.
A few feet away, Eustace Fitz John was not as lucky. His horse had bolted and a tree branch caught him in the throat. He crashed heavily to the ground and before he could regain his feet, a Welshman was astride him, plunging a spear downward. Ranulf tore his gaze away from the constable’s body, seeking his nephew. Henry was struggling to control his panicked stallion, while fending off a swarthy Welshman wielding a mace. His sword was already bloody, and as Ranulf watched, an arrow scorched past his face, almost grazing his cheek.