Time and Chance

CHAPTER NINETEEN

August 1165

Powys, Wales

The sun did not linger, soon plunged behind the mountain range that protected the Welsh army from the righteous wrath of the English king. For that was how Henry’s men were coming to view this campaign, as a crusade against the godless and the guilty. It had not begun as such. They’d marched out of Blancminster in good order, eager to bring these Welsh rebels to heel and return back across the border, for word had soon spread among them that Wales was a cheerless, barren land with no towns for the plundering, not even taverns or alehouses where a soldier could quench his thirst and find female company.

But nothing had gone as expected. The Welsh proved to be infuriatingly elusive, phantom foes who refused to take the field against them. The roads were so narrow that the men were constantly getting slapped in the face by overhanging branches or tripping over hidden roots. When it rained, they were slogging through mud, and when it was dry, they were choking on the dust kicked up by so many marching feet. The insects were relentless, tormenting horses and men alike. During the day, they sweated in sultry, humid heat, but at night, they shivered in their bedrolls, for the temperature dropped sharply once the sun set.

A soldier’s lot was never an easy one and most of the men were inured to hardship. But this was like no war they’d ever fought. At first, they’d advanced unchallenged, passing through a ghost country bereft of life. The few houses they found were deserted, empty shells hardly worth torching, for the people had fled with their livestock and all the belongings they could carry off. They’d not be able to forage for food, to live off the land as soldiers so often had to do. Wales was like an oyster shell, closed tight against them.

But it all changed once they reached the forest known to the Welsh as Ceiriog, stretching before them like a towering, tangled wall. Most had never seen woods like this, so densely grown that not even the sun could penetrate that rustling, leafy canopy above their heads. The road became a deer trail, easier to lose than follow, and those men unfortunate enough to have an unease of enclosed spaces began to feel as if they were struggling through a dark, green tunnel, with no end in sight. It was in these eerie, alien woods that first blood was drawn-English blood.

The Welsh came in the night, with flaming torches and wild yells, and, as suddenly, they were gone, leaving in their wake burning wagons and mass confusion and crumpled bodies. There had been no repetition of that abrupt midnight raid, but men went to sleep with their weapons at the ready and awoke each time a horse snorted, a twig snapped underfoot. The daily pace speeded up noticeably after stragglers began to disappear. No one ever heard or saw anything, just a tired soldier trudging along in the rear, falling farther and farther behind. Yet when his companions glanced back, he was gone. Men got cricks in their necks from looking over their shoulders and headaches from squinting into the deep shadows on both sides of the road. Fights flared up over trifles and tempers soured. But the English army continued to press on into the Ceiriog Valley, toward the looming silhouettes of the Berwyn Mountains.

None objected when Kort moved to the front of the line, for he was a battle-scarred veteran who’d done more fighting-for pay-in his thirty-four years than most men would ever see in a lifetime. Moreover, he was a member of that elite, a crossbowman. So awesome was the crossbow’s lethal power that the Church had sought to prohibit its use, proclaiming at the Fourth Lateran Council that it must be restricted to campaigns against infidels. But the weapon’s deadly force was irresistible to even the most devout of Christian battle commanders, and crossbowmen were eagerly recruited.

The twenty men in Kort’s unit were Flemings, and the wild, mountainous terrain of Wales was stirring in many of them a yearning for the low-lying, fertile plains of their homeland. They liked to see the enemy coming, they muttered; here even the sunsets were sudden, more like an ambush than a natural duskfall. Kort paid their grumbling no heed, for such campfire complaints were routine, a familiar soldier’s lament. Many took a contrary pride in the privations they endured. And even the worst of the malcontents were not likely to desert now, for where could they go?

Once his share of the bean pottage had been ladled into his bowl, Kort sat cross-legged under a gnarled oak and ate hungrily, using his bread as a spoon. The soup was heavily salted and the bread gritty, but he’d eaten worse. He was washing his meal down with ale when Jan joined him, lolling in the grass with the boneless abandon of youth.

Jan was never too tired to talk and as the sky darkened and night came on, he chattered on cheerfully about a multitude of topics, flitting from one to another like a dragonfly. Did Kort think the Welsh would ever be brought to bay? A poor, pitiful country it was that had no taverns. Was it true the Welsh spurned good ale for a sickly-sweet drink called mead? Had Kort ever visited the alehouse on Wolle Straete? They had a serving-maid riper than summer plums… what was her name? Anna… no, Jutka! He’d wager no Welshwoman ever born could pleasure a man like Jutka could. Rolling over onto his back, he gave Kort a companionable poke in the ribs. “What am I doing in this God-cursed hellhole when I could be back home with Jutka on my lap and a brimming ale at my elbow?”

“For the money, of course,” Kort said laconically and Jan grinned.

“Speaking of money, do you want to join in our dicing tonight? Be warned, though, for I am feeling lucky.”

Kort snorted “The last time you felt ‘lucky,’ you lost a fortnight’s wages, a good dagger, and your mantle. Try to walk away tonight whilst you still have the shirt on your back.”

As usual, Jan took no offense; to men of more volatile temperament, his constant equanimity could be irksome. “If you do not want to play, at least come to watch. That way you can help me carry off my winnings.”

As he sauntered away, another man took his place beside Kort under the huge oak. “That one prattles on like a drunken parrot,” Klaas said dourly. “Why you befriended him, I cannot for the life of me understand.”

“Ah, he is not such a bad sort,” Kort insisted, “just in need of seasoning,” and Klaas flung him a skeptical look, for he was not usually so tolerant of the foibles of the very young. Kort could have explained that he and Jan had drunk from the same well, both of them born and bred in the beautiful city of Brugge. They’d each fished in the Rijver Rei, skated upon the iced-over canals, frequented the same taverns and browsed in the Grote Markt and mourned their dead in the great church, Onze Lieve Vrouwkert. But Kort was not a man to whom explanations came naturally, and so he merely shrugged, then watched in bemusement as Klaas shared some of his pottage with a hungry dog who’d been tagging after the soldiers.

“Why waste food on that flea-bitten cur?” he asked curiously. “Better it should fill your belly than his.”

“Hers,” Klaas corrected, tossing the dog the last of his bread. “I’ve named her Gerda, after a whore I once knew in Ieper.”

Kort did not comprehend the appeal of the scrawny brown beast curled up at Klaas’s feet. But as long as it wasn’t his ration of food the dog was eating, he was prepared to overlook his friend’s eccentricity. “I’m trying to decide who should be more insulted by your choice of names, the whore or the dog.”

“Well, they’re both bitches.” Klaas’s heart wasn’t in his bantering, though. Absently stroking the dog, he glanced sharply at Kort and then away. “I wish I’d never set foot in this accursed land..”

Kort’s jest died on his lips. “Why?”

“Did you hear that nightjar crying out last night after we made camp? A sound to make the hairs stand up on the back of a man’s neck. The Welsh call it Deryn Corff… the Corpse Bird.”

“Since when did you let yourself be spooked by a bird, even one of ill omen? Did you forget the time you brought down that raven on the wing with one well-aimed stone?”

Klaas’s fingers clenched in the dog’s fur, not loosening until she began to whine. “I heard it in my dream, too,” he muttered. “It was a bad dream, Kort. It foretold my death.”

Kort instinctively made the sign of the cross even as he scoffed, “Bah-dreams like that are as common as lice. Your nerves are on the raw and why not? I’d wager half the men in camp have had death dreams in the past fortnight.”

Kort continued on in that vein and eventually seemed to have convinced Klaas. He thought he’d convinced himself, too, but he was still awake hours later, staring up at a sky afire with stars and listening for the nightjar’s shrill whistle. When he finally slept, it was deep and dreamless and he awoke with a start, momentarily disoriented. The blackness of the night was retreating before the milky greyness of coming dawn and the air was cool and damp. All around him men were stirring, yawning, cursing.

The object of their wrath was Klaas’s little dog. Surrounded by shouting men, she was cowering between Klaas’s legs, barking frantically. Scooping her up into his arms, Klaas swore to disembowel any man who laid a hand upon her, and since he was known to be very handy with a knife, that was no idle threat. Shoving forward into their midst, Kort demanded to know the cause of this brawl.

Klaas glared at his dog’s tormentors. “I got up to take a piss. But as soon as I started off into those trees over there, Gerda began to bark and she kept it up. I think she heard some Welshmen on the prowl-”

He was hooted down by the other men. When someone rudely suggested that the dog had likely been scared by a rabbit, Kort had to step between them. “Whatever caused the dog to bark, it’s done and we’re all up now. There’s not a dog alive worth shedding blood over, so let’s rouse the cooks for an early breakfast.”

Hunger won out over irritation, as Kort expected it would. Klaas fell in step beside him, still insisting that his dog had warned him of unseen danger. Only half-listening, Kort found himself gazing over at a blanket-clad form beside a smoldering campfire. Recognizing that shock of bright blond hair, so fair it was almost white, he said, “I know Jan is a heavy sleeper, but even so… Jan? Wake up, lad!”

Unable to explain his own urgency, even to himself, he strode forward. “Jan, you hear me-God in Heaven!”

Klaas was now close enough to see, too, and sucked in his breath. Jan’s eyes were open, staring up sightlessly at them. There was no horror on his face, no contorted grimace, just a look of puzzlement There was blood on his blanket. Kneeling by Jan’s body, Kort pulled the blanket back and exposed the death wound: a lethal thrust to the jugular vein. Kort’s fists clenched. After a moment, he said in a scratchy, harsh voice, “There are faint bruises on his cheeks. A hand was clamped over his mouth to stifle any outcry as the dagger was driven home. The whoreson knew what he was about.”

Flies were already buzzing about the body and if Jan were left unprotected, they’d soon be laying their eggs in his mouth and nose. In less than a day, his flesh would be crawling with maggots. It occurred to Kort that he’d seen too many corpses, buried too many friends.

Klaas leaned over to close Jan’s eyes, for there was something unnerving, even accusing, about that blind, blue-white stare, only to recoil as soon as he touched the dead man’s skin. “Jesu! He’s still warm!”

“I know,” Kort said grimly. There was no need to say more. Jan had died as the night waned, slain by a killer bold enough to venture alone into an enemy encampment, his presence observed only by a small stray dog.

Henry’s wrath was volcanic. Seething and swearing, he paced the cramped confines of his command tent, raging at the murder of his men and the treachery of the Welsh and the appalling ineptitude of his guards. No one interrupted his harangue, knowing from experience that it was safer just to let his furies burn themselves out.

“A half dozen men dead, throats slit! And no one hears or sees a bloody thing? I’ve a mind to hang some of the sentries. I daresay that would encourage the rest of them to stay awake on duty!”

Rainald didn’t really think his nephew would carry out that threat, but he deemed it prudent, nevertheless, to deflect his anger away from the sentries and back onto a more legitimate target. “The Welsh know these woods the way one of our soldiers knows his local alehouse. They can shadow us at their ease, knowing they’re well nigh invisible in that God-awful tangle of trees and brush, awaiting their chance to strike. If you ask me, it is a craven way to fight a war, a coward’s way.”

“It is that,” Henry said tersely. “There is no honor in stabbing a man whilst he sleeps.”

The other men echoed their heartfelt agreement, all but Ranulf, who was conspicuously silent. Henry’s eyes narrowed. “What say you, Uncle? Surely you have some thoughts about these loathsome killings?”

Ranulf knew he should keep quiet. But he’d been keeping quiet for far too long, a mute and unwilling accomplice to this English invasion of his homeland. “If my house was broken into, my only concern would be to protect my family and my home-any way I could.”

“That is a peculiar comparison, by God,” Henry said incredulously. “You would equate an outlaw’s crime with a king’s campaign to punish disloyal vassals?”

“The Welsh do not see themselves as disloyal vassals.”

“Do they not? Well, they will soon learn different, that I can promise you. For all their delusions of grandeur, they are no more than malcon tented rebels on the run, afraid to face us in the field.”

“If you truly believe that, you’re in for a rude awakening.”

“Indeed?” Henry’s tone was sardonic. “So you think, then, that they might yet find enough backbone to fight us fairly?”

Ranulf’s mouth twisted. “If by that, you mean in the field, one army against another, no, they will not do that. Why should they? They are winning, after all.”

“The Devil they are!” Henry strode forward to glare at his uncle, as the others marveled at Ranulf’s audacity. “I have enough Welsh foes skulking about in the woods, need none in my own tent!”

“I thought this was why I was here-to tell you what the Welsh are thinking. Or am I only to say what you want to hear? Like it or not, my lord king, the Welsh do think they are winning this war, and why not? Those men we are burying this morn are not Welsh, and I’d wager that the next graves dug won’t be for the Welsh, either.”

Henry’s breath hissed between his teeth. He made an abrupt gesture of dismissal, which Ranulf was more than willing to obey. Ducking under the tent flap, he began to walk through the camp. The sky was overcast, the air uncomfortably humid; within a few steps, his tunic was damp with sweat and his hauberk felt as heavy as lead. Off to his right, a small group of men were conducting a brief funeral for one of the night’s victims, soldiers standing somberly around a shallow grave. The guttural murmurs of Flemish caught Ranulf’s ear as he passed and he paused for a moment, feeling a prickle of pity for any man who’d died so far from his own homeland. At least if he was struck down in this accursed war, he’d be dying on Welsh soil.

He had not expected his emotions to be so raw, his anger so close to the surface. He had thought that he could handle the pull of conflicting loyalties, as he had in the past. But this time it was different. He was betraying the Welsh by fighting with the English, betraying the English by hoping the Welsh would win, and betraying himself with each stifled breath he drew. And the end was not yet in sight.

Ranulf was seated upon a fallen log, gazing out upon the forest fastness of Ceiriog, when Henry finally found him. “I’ve been scouring the entire damned camp for you, Uncle, began to think you’d ridden off on your own.”

“I thought about it,” Ranulf said tonelessly, and Henry grimaced, then sat down beside him upon the log.

“I know you do not want to be here,” he said after a long silence. “If truth be told, neither do I, Ranulf. I’ve never hungered for Welsh conquest; what man in his senses would? Look around you,” he said, gesturing toward the encroaching wall of trees and brambles. “This whole wretched country is a fortress. And we have not even gotten into the mountains yet. This campaign has not gone at all as I planned-and I do not always take it with good grace when my plans go awry.”

“Do tell,” Ranulf murmured, but there was a softening beneath the sarcasm, for that was as close to an apology as Henry could get and they both knew it. “So now what, Harry? Do I lie the next time you ask me how I think your war is going?”

“You know better. There are precious few people I can trust to tell me the truth, but you are one of them.”

“The truth, then. I think you will be making a great mistake to continue on with this campaign. The Welsh will keep on harassing us with their contrary tactics, bleeding away your army’s strength with quick raids and retreats, fading back into the woods ere you can retaliate. War by attrition, the wearing down of the enemy. In your words, it may indeed not be honorable. But it works, Harry. It works.”

“I know,” Henry admitted. “But I am not about to give up, Ranulf. I cannot do that, for a king who lets one rebellion go unpunished will soon see others springing up all over his domains. Think of weeds in a garden, if you will. Stop pulling them up and the garden is lost.”

“What will you do, then? Just press ahead by day, keep losing men by night?”

“No,” Henry said, “that would be a fool’s play. The rules of this game are too heavily slanted in Owain Gwynedd’s favor. So-I mean to change the rules.”

From their vantage point upon the heights of the Berwyn Mountains, they looked out upon the vast, green expanse of the Ceiriog Valley. They had come to see for themselves if their scouts’ reports were accurate, and they stared down in silence now at the devastation being wrought below them. The woods echoed with the sounds of axes and hatchets, the cursing of men, the snorting of horses as they struggled to uproot saplings and lightning-scarred hollow trunks. Henry’s bowmen fanned out in defense of the axe wielders, yelling hoarse warnings when trees began to topple. It was a slow, laborious process, but the English army was cutting a swath through the thick underbrush on each side of the road, hacking away at the trees, brambles, and scrub providing cover for Welsh bowmen or Welsh ambushers. The Ceiriog Valley would be scarred for years to come by the passage of the English army.

Hywel was not easily shocked, but this purposeful and far-reaching destruction did shock him, both by the scope of the damage done and by the arrogance of the English king. A man who thought he could impose his will even upon nature was as dangerous as he was mad. He saw his foreboding reflected upon the faces of the other Welsh princes; even his half-brother Davydd seemed daunted by what they were watching, an attack upon the very land of Wales itself.

Rhys ap Gruffydd swore, then leaned over and spat. “There is nothing worse than an enemy with imagination.”

“I wonder that he did not just order the woods to part, like Moses at the Red Sea,” Hywel said bleakly. To his surprise, his bitter jest seemed to amuse his father, for Owain’s mouth was curving in a slight smile. Hywel’s own humor rarely failed him, but to save his soul, he could not wring a single drop of amusement from their present plight. How could they hope to defeat in the field an army so much larger than theirs? “It looks as if we shall have to revise our battle plans. We were so sure they’d not get across the Berwyns, so sure…”

“I still am,” Owain said, and they all turned in their saddles to stare at him.

“Why?” Blunt as ever, Rhys was regarding his uncle with an odd mixture of dubious hope. “Why should a mountain range halt a man willing to chop down an entire forest?”

“Have you so forgotten your Scriptures, Rhys? I suggest you think upon Proverbs.”

That was less than illuminating to Rhys and Davydd. Much to Davydd’s vexation, it was his brother, with a poet’s love of the written word, who solved the puzzle. “ ‘Pride goeth before destruction,’ ” Hywel quoted, “ ‘and a haughty spirit before a fall.’ ”

“Exactly,” Owain said, so approvingly that Davydd’s jealousy rose in his throat like bile. “What could be more prideful than this? Only Our Lord God is omnipotent, not the King of England. That is a lesson this Henry Fitz Empress needs to learn, and I do believe it is one he will be taught, for such prideful presumption is surely displeasing to the Almighty.”

The others did not doubt that the English king was not in God’s Favor, for soon after crossing into Wales, his soldiers had plundered and burned several churches. But they did not have Owain’s apparent faith in divine retribution, not with the English army soon to be within striking distance of the Welsh heartland. Owain saw their skepticism and laughed softly.

“Oh, ye of little faith,” he said mockingly. “You want proof of the Almighty’s Intent, do you?” Wetting his forefinger, he held it up. “The wind has shifted-from the northwest to the northeast. Need I tell you what that means?”

He did not, for these were men who, of necessity, had long ago learned to read the skies and cloud patterns as a monk might study the Holy Word. That wind change signaled a coming storm.

For days, the sky had been heavy with clouds, the air muggy and uncomfortably close. Passing birds were flying much lower to the ground than usual. The last visible sunset had turned the sky a dull red. There were Englishmen as adept as the Welsh in interpreting nature’s portents, and so Henry’s army had fair warning that unsettled weather was on the way.

They were not men to be disheartened by a few summer showers, though. Rain was an occupational hazard of the soldier, particularly in a land as wet as Wales. As long as they no longer had to shy at shadows and fear that there was a Welsh bowman lurking behind every tree, they were willing to slog through a little mud. That seemed a fair trade for being able to sleep again at night. Morale had soared with each felled tree, each trampled bush. It was slow going, but what of it? Once they got to the Berwyns, they’d make better time, for its slopes were not as deeply wooded as the valley. Their Welsh guides would lead them across the barren heaths and bogs and over the mountain pass toward a reckoning with the Welsh army at Corwen. After that, they could go home, for few doubted that they would prevail once the two forces met on the battlefield.

There was still an hour or so of daylight remaining when the English at last reached the foothills of the Berwyn range. But the wind had picked up and the clouds to the west looked like billowing black anvils. Henry was pleased with the progress they’d made and decided to reward the men by making camp instead of pushing on till dusk. They hastily set up their tents, laid out their bedrolls, and braced themselves to ride out the breaking storm.

Soon after dark, the rains began. It was immediately apparent that this was no mere summer soaker. The winds were shrieking through the camp, collapsing tents and terrifying the horses. Men who left their shelter were drenched within moments, half drowned in the downpour. Just before midnight, hail mixed with the rain, ice pellets the size of coins pelting the ground and stinging every inch of exposed skin on the unfortunate sentries. Sleep was the first casualty of the storm and, for all, it was a wakeful, nerve-racking night.

Although his command tent had withstood the tempest, Henry had gotten no more rest than his soldiers, listening to the howling of the wind and the occasional shouts when another tent was blown down. Daylight brought no respite from the gale. If anything, it seemed to intensify, and Henry had no choice but to order them to remain in camp until the storm passed. The day was torture for so impatient a soul as Henry’s. He might be drier than most of his men, but he was no less miserable, trapped in his tent as the hours dragged by and his frustration festered. The night was easier, for he finally fell into an exhausted sleep. But upon awakening, he discovered that the wind still raged and the rain continued to fall in torrents.

When Henry announced that they would break camp and head out, his audience looked at him as if he’d lost his senses. Watching as his men struggled to take down their tents and load the wagons and packhorses, he soon realized they were right. The meadow had become a quagmire and men slipped and lurched and sank to their knees in the muck. The wind hindered them as much as the mud, tearing at the tent stakes and blowing over one of the supply wagons. As sacks of flour split open and a keg rolled down the hillside, spewing out a spray of ale in its wake, Henry hastily countermanded himself, and his sodden, shivering soldiers gratefully pitched their tents again, seeking what small comfort they could find under wet blankets and dripping mantles.

For the rest of his days, Henry was to refer to the squall upon the Berwyns with the very worst of the obscenities he had at his considerable command. Never had he encountered a storm so savage, or so long-lasting. Ironically, the English would have fared better had they still been down in the Ceiriog Forest they’d been so eager to leave behind. Here upon the unsheltered moors, they were at the mercy of the elements. Fires could not be set as kindling was saturated, the ground soaked. The only food available was what could be eaten uncooked or raw, and men were soon sickening, stricken by chills, fever, and the feared bloody flux. Henry was far less superstitious than most of his contemporaries, with a skeptical streak that few besides Eleanor either understood or appreciated. But even he began to wonder if such foul weather could be dismissed as mere happenchance.

When the rain finally eased up two days later, the English army resumed its march, only to discover that the mountain road was washed away in places, the streams swollen with runoff water, and the moorlands pitted with newly formed bogs. Still, they pressed on, driven by the sheer force of Henry’s implacable will. By now some of the ailing men had begun to die. They were buried with indecent haste, left to molder in an alien, hostile land, and the army straggled on. They had a new concern now-their dwindling supplies, for some of their provisions had been lost or ruined during the storm. But when they sent out a hunting party to search for game, it did not come back. Hungry and dispirited, the soldiers trudged on, cursing the Welsh aloud and Henry under their breaths.

They were higher up now and the air held a surprising chill for August. Henry had dismounted and was wrapping a blindfold around his stallion’s eyes, for there was a narrow stretch of road ahead and English horses were not as accustomed to these heights as the surefooted animals the Welsh rode. The wind was still pursuing them, shrieking at night like the souls of the damned, chasing away sleep and catching their words in midsentence, so that men had to shout to make themselves heard. Now a sudden gust ripped the blindfold from Henry’s hand and sent it flying. He was turning to get another strip of cloth when the screams began.

One of the Flemish sergeants lay bleeding in the road, struck by a large rock that had come plummeting from the heights above them. Before anyone could reach the injured man, other rocks began to roll down the slope, and 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 him-fighting in the bloody civil war to oust Stephen, offering wry advice and affection that was more paternal than avuncular. Henry’s own father had died when he was eighteen, and although Ranulf and Geoffrey could not have been more different, his bond with Ranulf had helped to ease his feelings of loss. This sudden threatened rupture in their relationship disturbed him more than he wanted to admit.

He’d hoped to get word that day about the projected arrival of his fleet. It did not come. Surely they must have sailed from Dublin by now? It was September already, and as much as he wanted to quell this Welsh rising here and now, he was not so sorely crazed as to attempt a winter campaign. Welsh weather was vile enough under the best of circumstances.

After dispatching a courier with a letter to Eleanor at Angers, where she awaited the birth of another child, he found an excuse to confer with his other uncle, Rainald of Cornwall. Rainald was not usually his choice of confidants. Despite the fondness between them, Henry had never shared any secrets of his soul with Rainald, not as he had with Ranulf and Thomas Becket. Rainald was a companion for good times, a practical jokester whose bluff heartiness hid sorrows that few suspected: a mad wife, a sickly heir, and a dearly loved bastard son who would never inherit his earldom. But Rainald was the one most likely to know the state of Ranulf’s mind on this morning after their quarrel.

Henry wasted no time in coming to the point. “Have you talked with Ranulf yet?”

Rainald shook his head. “I thought it best to give his temper time to cool. Now your mother and my sister, God love her, can hold a grudge until her last mortal breath, but that is not Ranulf’s way. He’s always been quick to flare up, no less quick to forgive. That is not to say he is not still hurting, Harry. He has a soft spot where the Welsh are concerned, for certes, but in fairness, how can we fault him for it? Not only did he have a Welsh mother, but he positively dotes upon that blind Welsh wife of his.”

“I’ve always liked Rhiannon,” Henry said, and Rainald looked at him in surprise.

“Well, I like the lass, too, Harry. But that does not change the fact that she is bat blind, now does it? What I’m trying to say is that a man with a blind wife is going to feel more pity than most for hostages about to lose their sight.”

“I had not thought of that aspect of it,” Henry conceded. “That does explain why he took it so personally.” After a pensive silence, he gave his uncle an inquiring look. “You think I ought to talk to him?”

Rainald, who could occasionally be more subtle than others realized, concealed a smile. “I think that is a good idea,” he said solemnly. “Shall I fetch him for you?”

“Yes,” Henry said and, as usual, once he made up his mind, he wanted to act upon it straightaway. “Go get him, Uncle.”

But Rainald was gone a surprisingly long time and when he eventually returned to Henry’s chamber, his demeanor was so subdued that Henry immediately knew something was amiss. “Well? Where is he?”

Rainald hesitated. “I searched the camp over, Harry,” he said at last. “But he is gone.”

“Gone where?” Henry said tautly, even though he already knew the answer.

“He rode out last night after your quarrel. By now I fear he is well on his way into Wales.”