"It could be you flatter yourself, my lady."
"You think they did all this for nothing?"
Ranulf shrugged. "If all they want is you, go to them. I'm not stopping you. You're not my prisoner."
She looked bewildered. "Then why am I here?"
He tore up a handful of ferns and commenced scrubbing the slime from his clothing. "Believe it or not, I brought you here with me for your own protection."
"What are you talking about?"
"If you hadn't been so busy plotting the death of Earl Corotocus and his household, you might have seen what was really happening back there."
"I'll lie for you," she said, backing towards the trees. "I'll tell them I fled the castle on my own. I'll pretend you are among the dead. It's the best I can do for you."
"Go ahead."
"They may want to know how I escaped."
"Through the garderobe sewer." He threw the filthied ferns away and grabbed up some more. "We used it before to launch a raid. The ropes were still in place. It was not difficult."
She nodded, but was unnerved by his oddly matter-of-fact attitude. "You should return to the English border quickly. It's the only hope you have."
"It's more hope than you have, if you're heading where I think you're heading."
"You're quite wrong about this." She tried to make her voice more confident than she suddenly felt. "I've seen what they are. I know it's hideous, an aberration. But I am Gwendolyn of Lyr. They will not harm me."
"Really? You don't sound too sure."
"My mother commands them."
Ranulf laughed, but it was a wry laugh, lacking humour. "Your mother is merely their figurehead. She can easily be replaced… and sooner rather than later she will need to be." He eyed her carefully. " You would suffice in that role as well, I suppose, until such time as you too needed replacing."
"This attempted trickery is unbecoming to a knight, even an English one."
"If you wish to go, go. I'm past caring." He turned and strode off eastward. "Fare you well."
Frustrated and frightened, Gwendolyn hurried through the trees after him.
"You can't expect me to go to England with you?" she said, having to trot just to stay level with him.
"I don't ask you to. The likelihood is that you wouldn't be safe there either. Not for long. None of us will."
"You just resent that the Welsh have found a way to fight back."
"The Welsh!" he hissed, suddenly rounding on her. "The Welsh no longer exist! Did you or did you not see that?"
Despite everything, she was taken aback by his ferocity. His eyes blazed; spittle seethed at his lips. It was as though some intense emotion that he'd been bottling up inside had suddenly burst free.
"T-that's… that's not true," she stammered. "My mother…"
"You mother has joined them!"
There was a long, dull silence, during which Gwendolyn's look of slow-dawning horror gave Ranulf no pleasure whatsoever.
"Probably against her will," he said, "though I doubt that's any consolation to you."
"What do you mean she's joined them?"
He strode on. "What do you think I mean?"
She ran after him again. "You're lying!"
"Go back and find out for yourself."
"Are you telling me my mother is dead?"
"I'm sorry to have delivered it so brutally."
"Sir knight, stop if you please! I command it, stop and talk to me!"
Reluctantly, he halted and swung around to face her.
"I asked…" She stumbled over the words, her lovely green eyes brimming with tears. "Did… did you actually see this?"
Ranulf didn't need to speak. His harrowed expression said it all. Gwendolyn wept for a moment, though, perhaps remembering her noble lineage, she managed to get hold of herself again with remarkable speed.
"What… what am I to do?" she finally asked.
"What are any of us to do?"
Tears ran freely down her cheeks again, but she shook her head defiantly. "I must still go to my people."
"Then come with me." He pointed towards England. "Like it or not, your people lie this way now."
A few days ago, she'd have endured unimaginable torture rather than admit such a thing. But since then she'd seen for herself the ghoul-like creatures that had brought death to the English interlopers. Though it was from on high, she'd witnessed the ferocity with which they'd beat and strangled and torn their enemies. She'd heard their inhuman groans, their demented screams. Above all, of course, she'd smelled them — the maggot-riddled carrion that passed for their flesh. Did she really wish to ride at the head of so hellish a horde? It was highly unlikely — nay, it was impossible to imagine — that her mother would be willing to do so, for all her rage and anguish at the crimes committed by the English.
When Ranulf walked on, Gwendolyn walked behind him. She had to struggle to control her sobs, which now bespoke pain and bewilderment as much as grief.
"And try not to cry too loudly," he said over his shoulder. "We don't know who's listening."
She glanced at the trees to either side; the only sound from them was the pattering of rain. And yet there were many dark places there.
"Are we not away from danger yet?" she asked.
"This rain is falling everywhere."
"Everywhere?"
"Near enough everywhere. Can you imagine what that means?"
Gwendolyn stopped in her tracks, and looked behind her. The springtime woods were a riot of green bud and pink blossom. Overhead, blue sky broke through fleecy cloud. Mellow warmth had settled on a landscape which only a few days ago had glittered with ice and frost. Somewhere in the woods, the voice of a cuckoo was heard. The season was in full bloom. There was an air of rebirth. And yet — he had said 'everywhere'.
This tainted rain was falling everywhere.
Chilled to her marrow, Gwendolyn of Lyr again ran to catch up with Ranulf FitzOsbern. She hardly dared think how many graveyards lay between here and safety. Or where safety, if such a thing existed, might actually be found in this new, nightmarish world.
EPILOGUE
Dead bodies would no longer be a feature of battlefields, Gwyddon reflected as he strolled through the precincts of Grogen Castle, while his army departed north.
Oh, the great stronghold was still a grim sight, its ramparts broken, many of its towers and inner buildings burned to blackened frameworks, its walls and walkways splashed with blood, strewn with arrows, spears, swords, smashed shields, severed limbs. There was scarcely a corner of it where evidence of horrific violence was not on full display. Though he was now completely alone here, if he stood still and listened, he fancied he could hear the harsh song of blade on blade, blade on shield, blade on mail, the cries of anger and pain, the thunder of collapsing masonry as catapulted missiles wrought cataclysmic destruction. The air was still rank. Dust, smoke and soot still hung in ghostly palls.
And yet there were no dead bodies anywhere.
Those slaughtered English who had not been caught in the morning's rain, those who lay inside perhaps or under parapets, had in due course been treated with the cauldron brew. Then they too had risen to their feet and marched north. It was now late afternoon, and apparently King Edward had reached Conway. But for all that he routinely sewed those lands he planned to conquer with spies and informers, he would not fully understand the nature of the enemy that was moving to meet him. Most likely he would not even believe the stories he was being told.
Gwyddon would not be part of this next clash, of course; nor would any of his priesthood. They had withdrawn to their sanctuary under the mountain, and shortly he would be joining them. He anticipated with some confidence that King Edward would be defeated. The king reportedly had fifty thousand men, but the army marching to halt him had already swollen to many times that number, and, as Earl Corotocus had discovered, it was invulnerable to most, if not all, earthly weapons.