then there was a roaring sound and part of the cliff crumbled away, a wave of mud and turf and boulders engulfing the dazed soldier and those who’d hastened to his aid. Henry clung to his plunging stallion’s reins, somehow kept the petrified animal from bolting. Hitching it to the closest wagon, he ran forward. But there was nothing to be done. Their broken bodies swept along like debris in a floodtide, the men caught in the avalanche were gone.
As soon as they could find a suitable place to pitch camp, Henry ordered it done even though it was not yet dusk. He’d seen the stunned faces of his men, staring down mutely at the torn-up, flattened grass that marked the mudslide’s track, and he ordered, as well, an extra ration of ale with supper. But that night he was awakened by the sound he most dreaded to hear: the drumbeat of rain upon the canvas roof of his tent.
All eyes were upon Henry. But no one spoke. It had already been said, the arguments made for retreat. The wretched weather. The danger of another mudslide. Men with empty bellies and loose bowels and a weakened will to fight. The specter of hunger stalking them as relentlessly as the shadowy, unseen wolves who’d learned that armies were worth trailing. Henry knew that the arguments were right, rooted in common sense and a realistic assessment of their worsening plight. But still the words stuck in his throat as he turned and finally said, “So be it. Make ready to withdraw at first light.”
Every man in the tent was relieved by that grudging command, none more so than Ranulf. He sagged down on one of Henry’s coffers, drawing his first easy breath in weeks. But then Henry said grimly, “We will go back to Chester and await the arrival of the fleet I hired from the Danes in Dublin. This war is not over yet.”
The English retreat was disorderly and hurried, as retreats usually are. Harassed by the Welsh, Henry’s army retraced its route through the Ceiriog Forest and headed back toward the border. There was some skirmishing between the more zealous of the Welsh pursuers and the English rearguard, but eventually Henry’s men reached safety in Shropshire. After halting in Shrewsbury to treat the wounded and ailing, Henry collected the hostages surrendered to the Crown eight years earlier by the Welsh princes, and continued north to Chester. There he encamped his army on the Wirral Peninsula northeast of the city and settled in at Shotwick Castle to plan the next stage of his Welsh war.
Henry’s chamber in Shotwick Castle’s great square keep had been transformed into a council of war. The trestle table was littered with maps of Wales-none of them very accurate, for mapmaking was not an advanced science. As the men crowded around the table, Henry gestured with a quill pen, splattering ink upon the parchment as he pointed out the proposed route his army would follow upon their return-along the coast road toward Owain Gwynedd’s manor at Aber-while his fleet ravaged the fertile lands of the island called Mon by the Welsh and Anglesey by the English.
Glancing up as the door banged open, Henry flashed a smile at the sight of Ranulf. “Ah, there you are, Uncle. Come take a look at this new map-”
“Tell me it is not true, Harry! You cannot mean to take your vengeance upon the Welsh hostages?”
“Of course not,” Henry said indignantly and the hurtful, heavy pressure squeezing Ranulf’s ribcage began to ease.
“Thank God!”
“You, of all men, ought to know me better than that, Ranulf. That would be an unworthy act, both cruel and mean-spirited. The hostages are not scapegoats, but pledges of Welsh loyalty. It is as pledges that they must be punished, and for no other reason-”
Ranulf’s mouth was suddenly so dry he could not even spit. “You cannot kill them, Harry!”
“I do not want to kill them, Uncle. They must pay the price for the treachery of Owain Gwynedd, Rhys ap Gruffydd, and the others, but I will forbear to make this a blood debt. That is why I have given the command that they are only to be blinded and maimed, not delivered to the gallows.”
“ ‘Only blinded and maimed…’ ” Ranulf’s voice thickened. “Jesu, do you hear yourself? Two of the hostages are Owain Gwynedd’s sons, another is Rhys ap Gruffydd’s. What if you’d turned one of your sons over to the Welsh? Could you talk so calmly of a mere maiming if it were your own facing the knife?”
“If I’d given up my son as a hostage, I would have kept faith with his captors! If you must lay blame about, lay it then at Owain Gwynedd’s feet! If he cared for his sons, why did he put their lives at risk?”
“What choice did he have? He loves Wales as he loves his sons!”
The other men had been listening, openmouthed, to this quarrel so unexpectedly sprung up in their midst. Their faces were as familiar to Ranulf as his own-his brother Rainald; his nephew Hamelin and cousin Hugh, the young Earl of Chester; the Earls of Leicester and Arundel-but he could find in none of them echoes of his outrage. They were staring at him without comprehension, unable to understand either his rage or his sickened sense of betrayal. Pushing his chair back, Rainald said, in the soothing tones one might use to placate a drunkard or madman:
“Ranulf, the whole point of taking hostages is that they must be sacrificed if faith is breached. Otherwise, the system makes no sense. Surely you see that? By sparing the lives of these Welsh hostages, Harry is showing considerable magnanimity and mercy, more than the Welsh deserve after such treachery-”
“There is no mercy in gouging out a prisoner’s eyes or taking a knife to his manhood! It is barbaric,” Ranulf charged, and blood surged up into Henry’s face.
“I have been more than patient with you, Uncle. Again and again, I have made allowances for your wavering loyalties. But no more. You have sworn an oath to the English Crown-to me, your father’s grandson and your lawful king. It is time you remember it!”
“Owain Gwynedd is my king, too!”
There were loud gasps at such heresy. “And a right fine king he is,” Henry said scathingly. “You think I do not know about Owain Gwynedd’s bloody vengeance against his own kin? He had his nephew blinded and gelded, by Christ! Where is the honor or mercy in that?”
“I care naught for Owain Gwynedd’s sins. They are between him and God. I do care about your sins, Harry. For the love I bear you, do not put your soul at risk like this. Would you truly sacrifice your chance of salvation just to avenge a battlefield loss?”
“I am not after vengeance! I am doing what must be done, and it matters little if I like it not. Not only do you know nothing about the duties of kingship, you plainly know nothing about me!”
“Stephen would never have committed this cruelty!”
That was the one insult Henry could not forgive. “You dare to hold Stephen up as an example-the usurper who stole my mother’s crown? Need I remind you that Stephen once hanged the entire garrison of Shrewsbury Castle, more than ninety men? Is that what you would have me do with these Welsh hostages? You tell me, Ranulf-is it to be the punishment I ordered or the gallows?”
Ranulf looked at his nephew, saying nothing. And then he turned abruptly on his heel, strode out of the chamber.
Henry stared at that closing door before swinging around to face the other men. “I have no choice in this. If I let their rebellion go unpunished, the Welsh would take my mercy for weakness. You do all see that?”
They hastened to affirm their agreement, with convincing sincerity. Somehow, though, their approval did not give Henry the balm he needed. “Why,” he said, “does Ranulf not see that, too?”
Henry slept poorly that night. His anger at what he considered an unjust accusation continued to smolder. He was not introspective by nature. Rarely did he attempt to probe beneath the surface for hidden emotions, covert motivations. But he was troubled by Ranulf ’s challenge, that he was taking out his frustration and anger upon the Welsh hostages. Lying awake during those solitary hours before dawn, he sought to convince himself that he was not lashing out in vindictive, retaliatory rage. Not to punish the Welsh hostages would be to subvert the entire process. If men could offer up hostages with impunity, sure they’d never be harmed, what inducement had they to keep faith? Hostages were only demanded from untrustworthy allies or disaffected vassals, when honor alone was not enough to guarantee a man’s loyalty. The Welsh princes had failed to live up to their part of the bargain. It was up to him now to exact a penalty for that breach. In mutilating and blinding the hostages, he would be teaching the Welsh that there were always consequences in this life, even for the highborn. Such a lesson might well deter future rebellions.
Yet his sense of disquiet lingered. As far back as he could remember, his mother’s brother had been there for
