Caermoel with its ownership bitterly disputed. Earl Ranulf wanted it, but was not yet ready to make his move. Other, more important pots were simmering on his hearth, such as forging contacts with the rebels in Bristol and poking his nose into affairs at Lincoln, but he had given his patrols and the Welsh levies of Cadwaladr ap Gruffydd rein to raid and forage where they would.
Hamo gazed at the lands, imagining himself the lord of one of these border fiefs. He had been indirectly promised a holding of his own if he proved worth his salt, or failing that, a castellan’s position in one of the Earl’s many keeps. It was a dream that goaded him as he fought to pitch a tent in the streaming rain of a dark field, while snug within the keep the lord he served sat practically on top of a roaring fire, gorging himself on venison, drinking wine and fondling the maidservants.
‘Do we go in?’ asked his second in command, a small tough Welshman who spoke appalling French.
Hamo gave him a withering look. ‘Don’t be stupid, boyo!’ he mimicked. ‘Of course we go in. Who’s to stop us? There’s a village a few miles down. Anyone fancy roast pork?’
The village consisted of no more than a dozen daub and wattle huts clustered around an even smaller ramshackle wooden church. There was very little to raid, but the villagers had not yet begun the autumn slaughter and there was pork to be had, the young pigs plump and succulent. The sound of their squeals was deafening and drowned out the screams of the human occupants as they either fled or died.
Hamo allowed his men to quench their thirst on the villagers’ cider, but not to the point of intoxication. A pack-horse was laden with spoils and provisions. What they could not carry they killed or burned and then they rode on, their passing marked by the crackle of flame and a pall of smoke darker than the sky.
An hour later Hamo was contemplating turning for home via a quick slaughter run through a flock of sheep he could see dotting the horizon when he caught sight of the riders joining the main road below from the rutted drover’s track that led to Woolcot. Hamo narrowed his gaze and counted eight knights and a like number of serjeants.
‘Women, look you!’ cried his second with a wolfish grin.
Hamo fixed his gaze upon the red chevrons on the leading knight’s shield, and a little behind him, riding with the women, the gold lozenge on blue background of another knight.
‘God’s teeth, it’s Henry FitzGuyon and Adam de Lacey.’
‘Who are the women then?’
‘How should I—?’ Hamo began on a snarl, then stopped, his focus becoming intense. ‘That one in front is de Lacey’s wife. Those two behind are maids, you can tell from their dress, and they’re joining the road from the Woolcot track, so the other must be Elene de Mortimer — Renard FitzGuyon’s betrothed.’ Discovering her identity as he spoke, his eyes brightened with the hunting instinct that was never far from the surface. ‘And what would my lord of Chester give to have her in his hands?’ Hard on that question came the thought that despoiled goods were far more likely to go to the despoiler than to a second party, particularly if that despoiler had already been promised lands of his own.
‘Are we going to take them on?’ The Welshman’s voice was rough with excitement. Henry FitzGuyon might be as dull as an ox, but he was also as solid and strong as one in a fight and de Lacey had a fearsome reputation in battle.
‘If it were man to man I’d think twice, but they’re hampered by the women, and it’s the women — or rather one woman — we want. We’ll catch them going into those trees further down, hit them in the centre, cut out the woman and use our bows to stop them pursuing.’
The glint of sunlight on mail rivets caught the corner of Henry’s vision. He jerked round so quickly that he wrenched his neck and the sudden streak of hot pain, coupled with the inability to move his head, prevented him from scanning the horizon. When he was able to look again, the sun had retreated behind clouds and there was nothing to be seen.
‘What’s wrong?’ Adam asked, as they rode into a scrubby willow coppice lining the moist valley bottom.
‘Nothing. I thought I saw something on the hill but it was probably just the sun reflecting off that stream up there.’ Rubbing the back of his neck, Henry winced.
Adam decided nevertheless to tighten up their form ation and turned to give Sweyn the order, his words becoming a bellow of warning as the horsemen crashed suddenly upon them, hitting them dead-centre.
Elene screamed as a weight smacked on to Bramble’s crupper. Hard mailed arms snatched the reins from her hands and spurred heels rammed into the mare’s flanks, sending her at a bolting gallop through the trees. A branch whipped Elene’s face. Her world tilted and see-sawed as the mare ploughed through the mud and started to strain up the slope. The man seated behind shouted at the horse and kicked her again. Elene wriggled and immediately his right arm clamped around her waist.
‘Don’t even think of it,’ he growled against her ear.
Adam slammed his shield into one man’s face, cut at the mercenary on his right, and pressed Lyard forward in front of Heulwen’s mount.
‘They’ve got Elene!’ Henry bellowed, hacking at his own opponent. The blade bit into the man’s arm and lodged in bone. He screamed. Henry grunted with effort as he wrenched his blade free and spun his stallion in the direction of the escaping mercenary. He found himself accompanied by several of the enemy, but none of them bothered to engage him, and in the moment that he realised why, an arrow thumped into his right pectoral and sent him reeling from the saddle. As he struck the ground, he heard the shaft snap. Fluid filled his mouth. As he lost consciousness, the last thing he saw was Adam’s sorrel stallion buckling beneath a rain of arrows and Adam trying desperately to scramble free of the saddle.
Renard slowed Gorvenal from lope to walk as he reached the crossroads where he had arranged to meet Elene and her escort, and discovered that he was the first to arrive.
‘You could have spared me another hour abed, Fonkin,’ he said, dismounting to stretch his legs and gaze into a windswept distance of half-naked autumn trees that obscured the road from view.
William squinted at the dull haze of the sun. ‘It’s not that we’re early,’ he said, ‘but that they’re late, and that’s very unusual for Adam.’
‘But not for Henry. He’d miss his own funer—’ His eyes narrowed as a startled flurry of birds wheeled above the treetops.
‘That will be them now,’ said William as Smotyn sidled, nostrils flaring to test the wind. ‘In a hurry, whoever they are,’ he added as the sound of galloping hooves came to them, accompanied by a dull vibration.
Renard caught Gorvenal’s bridle and remounted. ‘It can’t be Adam, there aren’t enough horses.’
Around the bend and into their sight pounded a grey palfrey racing at full stretch. Astride her was a young man in a half coat of mail whom William recognised immediately.
‘It’s Gerard, Adam’s squire, and that’s Heulwen’s mare!’ he cried in alarm as the youth galloped up to them, reined his mount back on her haunches, and all but fell out of the saddle.
‘Lord Renard, Lord William, grave news!’ he gasped. ‘We were hit by a mercenary troop five miles back! They snatched Lady Elene and made off with her. Lord Henry’s sore wounded and Lord Adam’s horse killed beneath him … They sent me … lightest man … fastest horse … fetch you!’
‘Blood of Christ!’ William muttered.
Renard set his jaw. ‘All right, lad, well done.’ His gaze moved from the youth to the road. ‘I’ll have to leave you with the mare. When she’s recovered enough, ride on down to Ravenstow and raise the alarm there.’
‘Yes, sire.’
Renard grilled the squire for the finer details and fixed them in his mind as he rode for the place described. Again Gorvenal started to outstrip the other horses, but this time no one hailed him back.
He found Heulwen kneeling beside Henry, one of the knights’ cloaks pillowed beneath his head.
‘Renard, thank Christ!’ Adam exclaimed.
Renard flung himself down from the saddle. He spared a brief glance for his brother-by-marriage, saw that he was not injured beyond nicks and bruises, and knelt quickly beside Heulwen.
She gave him a desolate look. ‘He fell on the arrow and broke the shaft. The head will have to be dug out and it’s in deep …’ She drew a shuddering breath and choked down a sob. Such a wound was almost certain death, and if by the remotest chance he survived, he would never wield a sword again.
Henry’s sparse sandy lashes flickered as he heard Renard’s voice. ‘I saw them coming,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I saw them coming and I ignored them!’ His eyes were hazed with pain and there were gashes in his lower lip where he had bitten down on it.
