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.
Before Ranulf could go to Henry’s assistance, he was again under attack himself. When at last he looked back at Henry, the young king was still holding his own. But then he saw the royal standard dip, disappear into the dust churned up by the thrashing horses.
The impact was immediate and devastating. “The king is dead!” The cry went up from a dozen throats, and Ranulf knew what would happen next. Believing that Henry was slain, his men would lose heart, think only of flight. Ranulf raced his horse across the clearing, leaned recklessly from the saddle and snatched up the fallen standard. Some of the English had already bolted, but the reassuring sight of that red and gold banner steadied the others, forestalling a rout.
“Sound the retreat!” Ranulf thanked God that his nephew had a voice made for shouting. Henry’s command rose above the din of battle, followed by the blare of trumpets. Bunching together, the English began an agonizingly slow-paced withdrawal, keeping their horses under tight rein though they yearned to spur into a wild gallop, knowing that such a flight would doom them all.
Ranulf had been in running battles before, but this one was night marish, for they were walled in by the dense woods, trapped on a winding trail that made speed impossible, and under unrelenting attack by the pursuing Welsh. They had to abandon their dead, even their wounded. But after several harrowing miles, they succeeded in fighting their way free.
The danger had eased, but not ended. Henry was too tempting a target for Welsh bowmen; they’d be back, and in greater numbers. The English rode on, pushing their horses, relieved but still wary once they left the woods behind. They’d not yet counted their dead. Ranulf knew that the toll would be a high one. But it could have been worse, Christ Jesus, so much worse. Glancing from time to time at his nephew, he wondered if Harry realized just how close he’d come to dying.
Henry did. He could still feel the hot rush of air on his skin as that Welsh arrow whistled past his ear. He was no novice to battle-he’d bloodied his sword for the first time at sixteen-but this had been different. This time his luck had almost run out.
They were heading for the coast road, hoping to catch up with the rest of their army before the Welsh could rally for another attack. But they’d only covered a few miles before they saw dust up ahead. Drawing their swords, they waited, and soon were cheering, for the riders galloping toward them were friends, not foes.
