Three more knights appeared-charging in hard from the wood to the right. Their sudden appearance so surprised the Grellon that they were thrown into a momentary confusion. But as the foremost knight passed beneath the low-hanging branch of an oak one of the Grellon dropped onto the rear of the horse as it passed beneath him. Throwing his arms around the soldier's neck, the forest-dweller hurled himself from the horse, dragging his enemy with him. The horse careened on, and as the knight squirmed in the grasp of the Welshman, two more of the Grellon rushed to help subdue the armoured soldier.
Before the two remaining knights could rally to the aid of their fallen comrade, they too were under assault by screaming, sword-wielding Cymry. More horses were crashing through the wood-they had circled around and were attacking through the grove. Tuck, cursing the duplicity of the Norman race, ran to find Bran.
"Rhi Bran!" he shouted, making for the edge of the grove. "Rhi Bran!"
"Here, Tuck!" came the reply, and Bran appeared from behind a tree a few hundred paces away. "Over here!"
The priest scrambled to him fast as he could, his short legs stumbling over the uneven ground. "We're attacked!" he shouted, pointing with his staff. "They've come round to take us from behind."
"The devils!" shouted Bran, already running to head off the assault. "Iwan! Siarles! To me! The rest of you stay where you are and keep them busy. Make every arrow count!"
The three archers reached the glade to find five mounted knights in a deadly clash with four Grellon. The knights were stabbing with spears and slashing with swords, and the Cymry danced just out of reach, darting in quickly to deliver clout after clout with their makeshift staffs.
"Iwan-the two on the left," ordered Bran, nocking an arrow to the string. "Siarles-the one on the right. I'll take the two in the centre." He grasped the string in his two-fingered grip, pressing the belly of the longbow forward until it bent full and round. "Now!"
The word was hardly spoken when it was overtaken by a buzzing whine as Bran's arrow streaked across the shadow-dappled distance.
Before it had reached its mark, two more arrows were sizzling through the air. There was a sound like cloth ripping in the wind, and the knight in the centre of the swarm was thrown back over the cantle of his saddle and off the rear of his mount. Two more knights followed the first to the ground, and as the two remaining Ffreinc soldiers swerved to meet this new threat, they were set upon by the Cymry, who pulled them down from their horses and slew them with their own weapons.
More knights were pounding into the glade now, charging in force. They came crashing through the underbrush in twos and threes. Tuck held his breath and tightened his grip on his staff. It seemed that Bran and the others must surely be overwhelmed. But the three bows sang as one, sending flight after flight of arrows streaking through the glade. Horses screamed and reared, throwing their riders, who were then set upon by the Grellon. Other soldiers, pierced by multiple shafts, simply dropped from the saddle, dead before they reached the ground.
Four knights just coming into the grove were met by three others fleeing the slaughter. The four newcomers glimpsed the carnage, then wheeled their mounts and joined their comrades in quick retreat.
"Get the weapons!" shouted Bran, already racing back to rejoin those at the front line. "Iwan, stay here and give a shout if any come back."
But the Ffreinc did not return to the attack.
One long moment passed, and then another. No more knights entered the glade from behind, and none dared challenge the archers on the front line again. The lowering sun deepened the shadows in the grove and began to fill up the valleys, and still the attack did not come. The Grellon watched and waited, and asked themselves if they had beaten the enemy back. Finally, when it appeared the assault had foundered, Tuck joined Iwan and the two ran to find Bran at the edge of the grove.
"What do you reckon, my lord?" asked Iwan. "Have we turned them aside?"
"So it would appear," Bran concluded.
"I dearly hope so," sighed Tuck. "All this rushing about is hard on an old fat man like me."
"But they may be waiting for us to show ourselves," Bran suggested.
"Or for nightfall," Iwan said, "so they can take us under cover of darkness."
"Either way," said Bran, making up his mind, "they will not find us here. Get everyone up and ready to move on."
The Grellon assembled once more and, like ghosts drifting away on the vapours of night, faded silently into the depths of the wood. The men had stripped the weapons from the enemy soldiers-swords and lances mostly, but also daggers, helmets, belts, and shields. Arrows were retrieved, and three uninjured horses led away, leaving the heavy saddles and tack behind.
By the time the setting sun had turned the sky the colour of burnished bronze, the grove was abandoned to the dead, who lay still and quiet in the soft green grass.
"May God have mercy on their vile and wretched souls," Tuck whispered, hastening away, "and grant them the peace they have denied to others." Thinking better of this crabbed prayer, he added, "Welcome them into Your eternal kingdom-but not for my sake, Good Lord, no-but for the sake of Your own dear Son who always remembered to forgive His enemies. Amen."
CHAPTER 3
Hereford
Baron Bernard Neufmarche unexpectedly found himself in complete agreement with Lady Agnes, who was determined to make the wedding of her daughter Sybil splendid in every way possible. Much to his amazement and delight-for the baron had long ago resigned himself to a wife he considered little more than a frail ghost of a woman-the baroness was now a creature transformed. Gone were the headaches, vapours, and peculiar lingering maladies she had endured since coming to Britain. She was energetic and enthusiastic, tireless in her work at organizing the wedding. Major military campaigns received less attention, in his experience. What is more, the too-slender Agnes had gained weight; her previously skeletal figure had begun filling out to a more robust shape, and a wholesome glow of ruddy good health had replaced her customary sickly pallor.
This change in the woman he had known fully half his life was as surprising as it was welcome. He had never before seen anyone altered so utterly, and he revelled in it. Indeed, the renewal of his wife affected him far more deeply than he could have imagined. His own outlook had altered as well. Something like gratitude had come over him; he looked at the world around him with a warm and pleasant feeling of contentment. For the first time in a very long time he was happy.
For all this, and more, he had his Welsh minions to thank.
On reflection, the baron thought he knew almost to the precise moment when the change-no, the transformation-of Agnes began. It was in the churchyard of the little Welsh church where they had laid to rest the body of his vassal, King Cadwgan of Eiwas. Something had touched his wife at the funeral, and when the three days of observance drew to a close, the rebirth had begun.
Perhaps nowhere was the change more evident than in her view of the Welsh themselves. Where before Lady Agnes had considered them subhuman savages, a nation of brutish barbarians at best, now she viewed them more as unfortunates, as children who had survived an infancy of deprivation and neglect-which she was now intent on redressing.
Sybil's wedding was just the beginning; once she and Prince Garran-no, the young man was king now, it must be remembered-once the two young people were married, Lady Agnes planned nothing less than the rehabilitation of the entire realm and all its people. "They only want a town or two and markets," Agnes had informed him a few weeks ago, "some proper churches-good stone, mind-and a monastery, of course. Yes, and a better road. Then farms would flourish. I do believe it would be one of the finest cantrefs in the land."