Rhuddlan (6 page)

Hugh stepped outside, alone, for a breath of
fresh air. The hall, crammed with trestle tables and benches to
accommodate his extensive bodyguard as well as the dozen-odd
residents of Oakby, had grown stifling hot and loud by the time
supper had ended. The temperature took a decided drop on the other
side of the massive door and the noise abated abruptly. Hugh
breathed deeply. The chill of the damp April air cooled his
face.

He glanced uninterestedly down into the
little ward below. It was empty and unkempt; symptomatic, he
thought, of the master of Oakby. Sir Thomas was a spare man, like
his son, of medium height. His hair, which must have shimmered
golden in his youth as Robert’s, had thinned and dulled with age,
as had the zeal and fire which had driven him to fight on the side
of Empress Maud. It was almost as if having achieved the prize to
which all knights aspired—land—he was content to sit back and
permit the world to go on without him. He had paid the shield tax
to the king instead of personally serving in the garrison until
Robert had been old enough to perform this duty in his place. He
rarely left Oakby, preferring to pass the time discussing the
status of his estate or playing chess with his steward or reading
in the alcove adjacent to his bedchamber, but all the while looking
forward to the day his son might return for a visit.

Robert had told Hugh this enroute to Oakby,
laughingly, as if it were a joke. Hugh did not have the feeling
that Robert cared very much for his father; he simply exploited Sir
Thomas’ infatuation. It made, Hugh thought, the older man appear
faintly ridiculous.

Hugh’s estimation of Thomas Bolsover was
reinforced at supper. Sir Thomas hung obviously on Robert’s every
word, encouraged his stories and laughed louder than anyone at his
jokes. He poured Robert’s wine himself and offered him the tastiest
bits of meat from his own plate. Whenever Robert leaned over to
speak to Hugh, Sir Thomas’ lips pursed together in annoyance until
he was able to gain his son’s attention again. And when supper
ended, Sir Thomas swept Robert away for a private discussion with
barely a word of apology to his guest. Hugh had been angered by
such rudeness but Robert’s exaggerated wink as his father had
dragged him away had mollified him tremendously.

That was when he had gone outside for a
breath of air. He’d meant to stroll the perimeter of the grounds
until Robert joined him, as he was certain would happen, but the
ward was small and he suspected that the shadows along the wall
were clumps of animal waste no one had bothered to rake up.

He heard loud, sudden footsteps behind him,
recognized them immediately and didn’t bother turning around. “My
lord,” a voice said at his ear. “Could I talk to you?”

“What is it, Roger?”

“How long do you mean for us to remain here,
my lord?”

“I don’t know.”

“But surely, my lord, you can’t mean to stay
more than one or two nights,” Haworth protested. “There’s no
room—”

“I have business here, Roger,” Hugh
interrupted. “If it takes one, two or ten nights, that’s how long
we will remain.”

“Business with Robert Bolsover?” Haworth
asked cuttingly.

Hugh whirled around. “Is that a problem?” he
inquired.

Haworth’s glare faltered. “No, my lord.”

“Good. Because you know if you have problems
with any of my decisions, you’re free to leave my service. I don’t
own you, Roger. You’re a free man.” He spoke sharply because he was
angry at Haworth’s jealous interference. He almost wished he’d told
his captain to ride ahead to Chester.

“You know I don’t want to leave you,” Haworth
said. His dark eyes burned so intensely that Hugh felt his face
grow hot. Suddenly he couldn’t stand Haworth’s anguish. He looked
away.

“Sir Thomas and I have to set a date for the
wedding,” he said, relenting. “And his steward has persuaded him to
get me to pay off the abbey since he was content to leave the girl
there. I’ll wrangle a bit over that but I’ll probably pay it. I’m
not particularly comfortable staying here, either.”

“It will be good to get home again,” Haworth
said with feeling.

“Yes…Six months away from Chester is five and
half months too long.” He added casually, “I’m looking forward to
showing it to Robert.”

Haworth was stunned. “Bolsover is coming with
us?”

“Of course,” Hugh laughed. “It will suit him.
It’s simply amazing, isn’t it, how a place like this and a father
like his managed to produce so fine a man as Robert Bolsover.”

Chapter 4

April, 1172

St. David’s, Deheubarth, Wales

William Longsword dropped to
his knees, crossed himself and muttered a short, earnest prayer of
gratitude that he had once more made it safely to solid ground. It
made no difference that the brief voyage had been smooth; he had,
as his father had one time laughingly accused, an unnatural fear of
the sea for a man of Norman blood. “It’s actually reassuring to
know that there
is
something you fear, Will,” Richard Delamere had told him
cheerfully. “A little weakness makes you seem human.”

The king and his court had just returned from
a six-month stay in Ireland. Several years earlier, a small band of
Norman adventurers had invaded the island and in September 1171,
Henry had heard rumors that their lord, Richard de Clare, was
styling himself king of Leinster. Henry didn’t object to his
knights conquering new lands to the greater glory of his empire, as
long as it was understood that he was the king and they no more
than his vassals. He sailed for Ireland in October, confronted de
Clare and demanded his submission which he received without a
fight, with that of a few of the Irish kings voluntarily thrown in
for good measure.

Longsword wasn’t impressed with Ireland, but
at least it had been terra firma. They had planned to leave for
Britain soon after Christmas, but the winter winds had been
contrary and had prevented departure. Longsword had been the only
one relieved with the frustrating delay, even though he knew it
just prolonged the inevitable. In February, a messenger had managed
to get across to the king with the news that papal legates had
arrived in Normandy to negotiate his absolution of the murder of
Becket. It was important that Henry return to bargain with the
legates and restore himself to the fold of the Church. Rome was a
powerful force, and if it were to decide against him and give its
full backing to his adversaries, such as King Louis VII, the empire
he had so painstakingly created could very well fall down around
him.

Longsword rose. The capricious wind, so
gentle the last few days, was beginning to blow harder. The sky
overhead was fast filling with ominous purple and black clouds.
From behind him, a horse whinnied shrilly and he turned in its
direction, back to the quay. The sight of the choppy water made him
shudder. He shifted his eyes instead to the boatload of horses
being unloaded with efficient skill. One animal, however, was
impatient, perhaps aggrieved with the sudden rocking of the ship.
It snorted and thrashed within the confines of its leather bonds
and caused the boat to sway even more precariously. Someone shouted
to cut its straps before the vessel was capsized, and a young man,
a squire by his dress, jumped forward with a dagger in his hand. He
grabbed the horse’s bridle with one hand and slashed at the bonds
with his other. By this time the animal was hysterical, and once it
was free the boy, his footing unsteady on the swaying bottom of the
boat, was unable to keep hold of the bridle. Unfettered, the animal
somehow stumbled over the edge of the ship and into the shallow
water, and up onto the beach, bounding away at a furious pace and
scattering all in its path.

“That’s Bolsover’s, isn’t
it?” said Delamere, who was also watching. The big black
disappeared up the beach. He corrected himself. “I mean,
was
Bolsover’s?”

Longsword smirked. “Yes.”

Bolsover’s squire ran after Avranches with
deadly urgency.

“He shouldn’t bother,” commented Delamere.
“He’ll never catch that one. Remember how impressed the Irish
chiefs were when Bolsover showed them how fast his precious horse
could fly?”

“Serves him right for being so smug,”
Longsword said. He craned his neck. “I’d love to see his face right
now. Where is he?”

Delamere didn’t know. “Perhaps we should help
the boy. Bolsover isn’t going to be too happy with him.”

“If we help him, we might find the animal,”
Longsword retorted. “And I’d rather not, seeing as he stole it from
me in the first place.”

Delamere shrugged indifferently. He knew from
long experience that his friend’s sense of grievance, whether
justified or not, was unshakeable.

Avranches did not reappear. Alan d’Arques had
chased him as far as he could over unfamiliar land without getting
lost, but he finally returned alone to the camp as the call to
mount up was being passed along. Robert Bolsover lashed into him
with angry words, even though Delamere came to the boy’s defense,
protesting that the horse had been crazed and that only an arrow
might have managed to stop it. Bolsover would not go horseless
despite the loss; the earl of Chester had given him three
magnificent stallions on the occasion of his marriage to the
knight’s young sister last September. But Avranches had been a
particular favorite of his, a reminder of the time he had set out
to woo Hugh Fitz Ranulf.

Bolsover was well pleased with the fruits of
his endeavors. He didn’t love Hugh as Hugh loved him—he was
oblivious to that emotion with regard to either sex—but he was
willing to provide the earl with the comforts he needed as long as
the earl continued to reciprocate with expensive gifts of land and
horses. Arranging the marriage to his sister had ensured there
would be perpetual contact between himself and the earl, and so,
greater opportunity to obtain whatever he wanted. Robert genuinely
liked Hugh; the earl was intelligent and good-looking, although
quiet. His humor tended to the sardonic, and they had had many
laughs together at the expense of the king’s household. He didn’t
know his appeal to Hugh, but he suspected the earl had few, if any,
intimates and that he enjoyed the company of someone who wasn’t in
awe of his power and wealth.

With the manors Hugh had granted him, Sir
Robert was now a modestly wealthy man of property. There was no
longer any reason for him to serve as a member of the king’s
assembly except when he was called for his annual guard duty, and
even then he could simply hire a knight to go in his place or pay,
as his father had done for many years, the shield tax. But despite
Hugh’s entreaties to remain with him at Chester through Christmas,
Bolsover had instead decided to accompany Henry to Ireland. His
reason, which he didn’t share with the earl, was a vain one: he
wanted to wear his new riches among the landless knights of the
king’s company, the group to which he had formerly belonged. Hugh,
who had been born heir to enormous riches, wouldn’t have understood
Bolsover’s flashy need to show off.

Unlike Longsword, Robert Bolsover had enjoyed
Ireland. The Normans who had gone there at the request of a petty
king in 1167 had carved out neat dominions for themselves. The
native Irish were overwhelmed by the military tactics and arms of
the Normans, and large numbers of them were easily defeated by
relatively small bands of mounted knights. When Henry made a small
circuit of the eastern coast, local chiefs came to him to
voluntarily offer their submission. Such displays were not lost on
Bolsover. He saw quite clearly the effects of wealth and power. If
he had been the kind of man who thrived on violence and brute
force, he might have been tempted to stay behind and try his own
luck in winning himself a lordship. But he returned with the king’s
entourage because he knew there was a much easier—and less
risky—way to make a fortune.

It was Henry’s plan to get to Normandy as
quickly as possible, which meant getting through Wales and into
England without delay. Unfortunately, the prince of Deheubarth,
Rhys, sent messengers to the king with an invitation to encamp at
Cardigan, where he had just completed a fortress to replace the
Norman one he’d demolished six years earlier. Since Rhys had been
his implacable enemy until only a few years ago, it was politically
impossible for Henry to refuse even though it meant a detour of
some thirty miles in the wrong direction.

Longsword disliked Wales almost as much as
he’d hated Ireland. “I’ve finally figured out your problem, you
know,” Delamere commented to him as they rode in their places in
the long line wending its way north to Cardigan. “It’s language.
You just can’t tolerate strange languages.”

“And strange customs, strange clothing,
strange manners, and the strange things the men do to their hair,
not to mention their strange drinks,” Longsword said. “Why do you
consider that a problem?”

“Because your dismissive attitude is
offensive. It’s not these peoples’ fault they weren’t born Norman,
Will.”

“Nor mine that I was born a bastard, but it’s
still the cross I must bear,” he retorted.

His friend’s illegitimate birth was another
subject which Delamere never sought to pursue. As far as he could
tell, it only prevented Longsword, the firstborn, from succeeding
his father to the throne. In all other affairs, he was treated with
the proper respect accorded to any of the king’s offspring.
Delamere had no doubt that in due course Henry would find William a
rich heiress to marry and invest him with an earldom. Despite such
prospects, Longsword brooded continually and bitterly over what he
considered his less than perfect birth.