Horses neighed and bucked in the stables at the sight of fire, but it was soon brought under control. A second flight of arrows followed the first and with more effect. One man fell from the battlements as his eye was pierced. Two others were burned to death as the skin of oil beside them was set instantly alight and exploded with rage. More roofs blazed and one of the storehouses began to smoulder. Once again, however, water was on hand to douse the worst of the anticipated attack.
The taunting figure of Maurice Damville appeared again.
“Thank you,” he shouted in the direction of Cadwgan. “Now that you have warmed our hands for us, let us warm your arses for you.”
He let his arm fall. “Fire!”
Archers on the battlements sent volleys in reply. The Welsh bowmen turned to run out of range, but a number of them were wounded or maimed. Damville shook with laughter. Battle had been engaged and blood drawn on both sides. He was confident of success. The advantage of Welsh numbers was outweighed by the strength of his defences.
Soldiers in light armour were vulnerable targets from the battlements.
Without siege engines and scaling ladders, the men of Powys were no match for him.
His laughter soon died as a new factor entered the fray. Riding north along the border road came another army of Welsh warriors, no more than a hundred strong this time, but with a weapon that made Damville take their threat far more seriously. Four carts had been commandeered from nearby farms and lashed together in a line. Keen axes had felled a massive oak and sharpened one end to a gleaming white point. Resting on the four carts, it was towed by a dozen horses and pushed along from behind by the willing hands of Welsh peasants. Word of the ambush had at last reached Angharad’s father. He had come in search of his daughter.
Cadwgan ap Bleddyn rode to meet the newcomers and friendly greetings were exchanged. The prince of Powys recalled his men from around the castle so that they stood on a ridge with their backs to Wales. Maurice Damville was allowed to see the full power of the force that threatened him. Six hundred men with a battering ram of such size were a different proposition. The soldiers along his battlements grew uneasy and loud muttering began. Damville bullied them into silence with yells and threats then looked out at his enemy.
A stillness had fallen on the attackers as well. They were drawn up in a long line to await the signal to attack. Cadwgan conversed quietly with Angharad’s father, then he pointed towards the castle.
The messenger rode out again and stopped within hailing distance.
“Is Angharad within your castle?” he called.
“No!” shouted Damville.
As his defiant bellow faded away, it was replaced by a more haunting and melodious sound, faint at first, but growing in volume and intensity as it wafted through a window in the tower. Behind the song was the plaintive note of the harp and every Welshmen on the ridge knew who was playing it.
“Omri Dall!” said Cadwgan. “They are inside!”
Goronwy was manic. “He holds Angharad prisoner!”
“We have heard enough.”
The prince of Powys gave the command and six hundred men came trotting down from the ridge towards the castle in a menacing line with the battering ram pulled along behind. It was a daunting sight and even Maurice Damville felt the icy touch of apprehension. It was ironic. They were attacking his castle to release someone who was not even in there. Ready to provoke their ire before, he now wished that he had calmed it.
Discomfort ran along the battlements, but he enforced discipline at once, marching along with a sword in his hand and ordering his archers to have their arrows ready. The oncoming surge rolled ever closer and the battering ram slowly gathered speed. Goronwy was at the head of the charge with his temples throbbing violently and a vision of his bride before his eyes. It seemed as if nothing could stop a savage battle that would bring hideous casualties on both sides.
Then she came. Dressed in white and escorted by four men, Angharad came riding around the angle of the castle. She was an arresting sight. She wore a white gown with elbow-length sleeves over a white chemise. Her mantle was edged with gold braid and a gold belt hung at her waist. Her head was uncovered so that her face could be seen by all. Angharad held herself like a true princess- proud, dignified, and unafraid.
She and her companions drew to a halt between the castle and the Welsh battle line. Archers on the battlements lowered their bows.
The cavalry reined in their horses. The battering ram was slowed and stopped. An eerie stillness fell. All eyes were on Angharad. She did not look like a helpless prisoner now. Her father burst into tears with relief. Goronwy stared at her with his heart on fire.
Ralph Delchard and Gervase Bret waited on one flank. Richard Orbec and Idwal the Archdeacon on the other. She said nothing, but held the two sides at bay with the sheer magic of her presence.
Angharad gestured her spokesman forward. His cadences rolled towards his countrymen.
“I am Idwal of Llandaff,” he chanted. “A man of your own nation with your own values and ambitions. I speak as an envoy of peace.
Lay down your weapons. There is no longer any reason to fight.
Angharad is safe, as you see. She is here with us of her own free will. She was ambushed and held in captivity, but she was rescued by this man.” He pointed to Gervase. “He risked his life to save hers.
She was brought to the Golden Valley and taken in by this man.” He indicated Orbec. “He fed her and clothed her even though one of your number murdered his reeve. His name is Richard Orbec and he makes one demand through me.”
Idwal was not allowed to make it. As soon as Orbec was identified, Goronwy broke from the line and galloped towards him with his sword flailing. Too much hatred was boiling inside the Welshman to be dispersed by a few conciliatory words from the archdeacon. The name of Orbec was lodged in his mind like a spike. Killing the man was the only way to pluck it out. It was also the only way to claim his bride.
With a blood-curdling cry, Goronwy closed on his quarry. Concerned for her safety, Gervase took the reins of Angharad’s horse and led her a little distance away. Idwal bombarded the oncoming rider with warnings of eternal damnation, but they bounced harmlessly off. Ralph Delchard held his ground, but drew his sword as a precaution.
Richard Orbec also had his weapon out of its scabbard. He nudged his mount forward and kept it prancing on its toes. Orbec and Goronwy were starkly contrasted, the one a dignified figure in full armour on a huge destrier, the other a reckless warrior in light armour on a much smaller horse.
Power confronted passion. Ambition faced revenge. As the two men clashed, it seemed as if the conquest of Wales was about to be played out in miniature. Goronwy’s wild assault was easily rebuffed. Orbec simply deflected the blows from the Welshman’s scything sword and swung his horse in a quick loop to confuse his assailant. Goronwy roared with fury and came in again, but every slash of his sword was parried with expert ease.
The Welsh horde was strangely silent, admiring Goronwy’s courage in launching the attack, but disapproving of his folly in riding within range of the archers on the battlements. Those in the castle or in front of it also watched without a murmur. As the swords met time and again, only the clang of metal echoed across the grass.
Goronwy’s frenzy robbed him of all control. He simply hacked away repeatedly with his weapon. Richard Orbec was a more complete soldier. He had greater strength and vastly better technique. It was clear to all that he could knock his man from the saddle at will, yet he chose not to do this. Orbec contented himself with a defensive role, letting Goronwy expend his energy in a series of futile attacks.