Elizabeth Chadwick - The Leopard Unleashed

It was not a full charge which would have been suicidal down a haphazard rocky slope in darkness, but Renard took the men down as swiftly as he dared. There were no guards to cry warning of the new assault because they were already caught up in the chaos of the first battle. Awareness only came as Renard hit the outskirts of the fighting.

A soldier attacked Gorvenal with a lighted brand plucked from one of the fires. The stallion shied. Renard altered his grip on the reins and brought the horse under control and round in a semicircle. The soldier fell beneath the vicious lash of the studded ball on the end of the flail. Renard rode over him, leaning over Gorvenal’s withers to take up the brand himself and set fire to the nearest tent. A coughing soldier bolted out of it and Renard struck him down. More tents flared, blossoming the night with fire. Illuminated smoke billowed away towards Wales. A cluster of pitch barrels caught fire and exploded, scattering mayhem. Supplies were trampled, wains overturned and horse lines cut. Men panicked, broke and fled. Those who did not run fast enough or mistook their direction, died. Hamo and Lucas were not among them. Both had sufficient experience of saving their own skins to make the correct decisions rapidly.

Panting, Renard drew rein. Gorvenal sidled and half bucked, a raw patch on his rump where a fragment of molten pitch had burned the hair away. Another knight rode up alongside on a handsome liver chestnut, its hide shining red with the reflection of the fires. William, his face smoke-streaked and ablaze with a triumph as high as the flames, slapped Renard’s mail-clad sleeve. ‘ Cadno! ’ He used the Welsh word they had agreed upon to determine friend from foe in the thick of the fighting. ‘They’re running like coneys from a fox.’ His eyes gleamed with humour at the joke, for cadno was the Welsh word for fox.

Renard coughed, his throat rough with smoke. ‘What took you so long? I was expecting you by last week at the latest!’

‘Business elsewhere.’ William gave a maddening shrug. ‘Earl Ranulf ’s not among this rout, you know.’

‘It had not escaped my attention.’ Renard’s glance focused hard. ‘That was no idle remark. You know where he is, don’t you?’

William glowered. ‘I can’t keep anything from you, can I?’

‘Well?’

‘He’s up the border and across it, meeting with Prince Owain.’

‘Is he now?’

‘One of my men has a brother in the Prince’s service, so I receive regular reports, the most recent only a few hours old. Ranulf asked the Welsh to combine with him in attacking Caermoel.’ He flicked at his horse’s mane, drawing the moment out.

‘All right, have your revenge,’ Renard said impatiently. ‘Just don’t make me wait all night. What did Prince Owain say?’

Grinning William told him.

The forest was a pale green froth of tender new leaves spotted and rayed with sunlight. It was late April and hot enough to be a full month later. Ranulf of Chester was cooking inside his armour. His destrier’s hide was patched with sweat and plodding along with its head carried low. The jingle of harness was loud, the atmosphere somnolent, almost oppressive, as if a thunderstorm was about to break.

Ranulf ’s shoulder blades itched, and not just because of the sweat trickling between them. He knew that the Welsh were in the vicinity and it made him uneasy. Even the most civilised of them were as unpredictable as the boar and wolves with which they shared the forest.

Colour flickered between and behind the trunks. Ranulf set his hand on his sword hilt. Welsh soldiers were riding parallel with him and his men. They made no move to approach, but nevertheless ensured that they were seen. Ranulf clenched his teeth and swallowed the urge to bellow at them to come out and fight, aware that they would only laugh and he was tired of being laughed at.

It had begun on the day he arrived at Caermoel when he first inspected the new stone defences. His spies had informed him that Renard was building the site up, but he had not expected to see so much and so professionally accomplished. It was a nasty shock. Renard had always been a wild one at old King Henry’s court, unable to settle at anything for long.

Revising the time it would take to capture Caermoel and the coin he would have to spend, Ranulf had begun his preparations. Trees had been cut and siege machines fashioned — night sorties by the garrison had twice razed these to the ground and wrought havoc among Ranulf ’s camped troops. When he finally did manage to get the rams and ballistas constructed and brought up to the walls, they had been destroyed by Greek fire, along with the soldiers manning them. Ranulf had started to realise, with extreme annoyance, that without heavy expenditure in terms of silver, men and time, he was not going to take Caermoel.

Leaving Hamo le Grande seeking the source of the keep’s water with a view to poisoning it, and soaking the latest battering ram and pick in vinegar in the hopes of proofing them against the dreaded Greek fire, he had come to this meeting with Owain Gwynedd. After that, he was bound for the Empress’s court in Gloucester. Stupid, sullen bitch. He almost thought he preferred Stephen, whom at least he could run rings around while fleecing him of lands and titles.

An increasing number of Welsh flanked him and his men as the trees began to thin out. The sense of oppression eased, although not the tickling sensation between his shoulder blades or the feeling of anticipation.

Beyond the forest stretched a broad, green meadow, usually sheep-grazed to judge by the closeness of the grass and the crumbly evidence of old droppings. Waiting for him in the middle of the meadow, seated upon a carved stool that was set upon a sheepskin rug, was a wiry young man. He was brown-haired and brown-eyed and robed in rich garments, dyed a deep madder-red and embroidered with silver thread.

Rising unhurriedly, he advanced to greet Ranulf as he dismounted. Ranulf returned the greeting warily. The lack of height and the boyish good looks were traps. There were lines of experience around his eyes and the full, brown moustache was lightly scattered with grey. Compared to Owain Gwynedd, Prince of North Wales, Matilda and Stephen were political innocents.

They talked and ate sweet young mutton and white bread washed down by mead and accompanied by the gentle, unobtrusive music of a Welsh harp. The flies were a nuisance and the sun was hot, but Prince Owain was better at pretending not to notice such things and thus gained an immediate advantage.

Towards the end of the meal, Ranulf raised the subject of Caermoel and enquired whether Prince Owain would be interested in helping him take it.

The Welshman widened his eyes. ‘You mean you are unable to do so by yourself?’

Ranulf cleared his throat and scowled. ‘It is taking too long, that is all. Your aid would bring it to a swifter conclusion.’

‘I see.’ Owain stroked his moustache and pretended to think. ‘And if I gave it, what then?’

‘We could share the spoils and you would be free to raid down into the Ravenstow lands.’

Owain was unimpressed. ‘Until you re-garrisoned,’ he pointed out. ‘It would suit me better if Caermoel were torn down, stone by stone.’

‘You talk of the impossible. Its position is too strategic — ally valuable.’

‘Then you have my answer, my lord.’ The Prince spread his hands and stood up, indicating that as far as he was concerned, the meeting was at an end.

‘Ravenstow is rich in herds and flocks,’ Ranulf said persuasively. ‘The finest destrier stud in England, and sheep by the thousand. Think of the wealth grazed on lands that were once Welsh.’