“If I had,” Henry explained, “that would have set all those Marcher noses out of joint. Just as Cadwaladr would have been sorely vexed if I’d brought Clifford along. Better to send the lot of them by the coast road with Fitz Alan’s archers. I said I had need of you to talk truce terms with Owain, but that glib tongue of yours might be called into service sooner-to make peace midst our own men.”
“I’ll leave that to your chancellor,” Ranulf said and Henry grinned.
“You’re right. I daresay Thomas could talk a nun out of her habit. Not that he would. Even after two years in my constant company, he remains remarkably indifferent to the sins of the flesh.”
Ranulf laughed. “Well, he is an archdeacon, Harry. And the last I heard, the Church took a rather negative view of sins of the flesh.”
“A man can be virtuous without being a zealot about it.” Henry laughed, too, reaching up under the nose guard of his helmet to rub his chafed skin. “Thomas claims I do enough sinning for the both of us.”
They could see a pool of sunlight up ahead as the trail widened, dappled brightness briefly dispelling some of the deeper shadows. A small woodland creature darted across the path, too swiftly to be identified. As they rode on, there was a sudden flurry and a flock of chittering birds burst from a nearby tree, a shower of feathered arrows aiming at the sky. Ranulf gazed upward, following their soaring flight with the beginning of a smile. But then he saw Tegid, one of their guides. The young Welshman was staring up at the fleeing birds, too, and on his face was an expression of dawning horror.
“Rhagod!” Only Ranulf understood that hoarse cry, a warning of ambush come too late. The urgency in the guide’s voice needed no translation, though. Henry checked his stallion, starting to draw his sword from its scabbard. Tegid’s second shout was choked off as he was slammed backward, knocked from his saddle by the force of the spear protruding from his chest.
An arrow thudded into a tree trunk above Ranulf’s head. Another shaft found a target in flesh, and a knight slumped across his stallion’s neck, sliding to the ground as the horse reared up in fright. Then the killing began in earnest. With savage-sounding yells, the Welsh, charging from the woods on both sides of the road, sought to drag the English from their horses. The English in turn slashed and thrust with deadly effect in such close quarters, and blood splattered the combatants, the trampled grass, even the leaves of low-hanging branches.
Ranulf had passed some sleepless hours in recent weeks, envisioning a battle in which he found himself fighting against the Welsh. What if he saw someone he knew amongst them? Celyn, his brother-by-marriage? Hywel? Now that the dreaded moment was here, he had no time to spare for such fears. His only concern was defending himself against men set upon killing him, and when a Welsh soldier grabbed his arm, jerking to pull him from the saddle, he spurred his stallion into rearing up. His attacker lost his balance, falling in front of those flailing hooves.
A few feet away, Eustace Fitz John was not as lucky. His horse had bolted and a tree branch caught him in the throat. He crashed heavily to the ground and before he could regain his feet, a Welshman was astride him, plunging a spear downward. Ranulf tore his gaze away from the constable’s body, seeking his nephew. Henry was struggling to control his panicked stallion, while fending off a swarthy Welshman wielding a mace. His sword was already bloody, and as Ranulf watched, an arrow scorched past his face, almost grazing his cheek.
Before Ranulf could go to Henry’s assistance, he was again under attack himself. When at last he looked back at Henry, the young king was still holding his own. But then he saw the royal standard dip, disappear into the dust churned up by the thrashing horses.
The impact was immediate and devastating. “The king is dead!” The cry went up from a dozen throats, and Ranulf knew what would happen next. Believing that Henry was slain, his men would lose heart, think only of flight. Ranulf raced his horse across the clearing, leaned recklessly from the saddle and snatched up the fallen standard. Some of the English had already bolted, but the reassuring sight of that red and gold banner steadied the others, forestalling a rout.
“Sound the retreat!” Ranulf thanked God that his nephew had a voice made for shouting. Henry’s command rose above the din of battle, followed by the blare of trumpets. Bunching together, the English began an agonizingly slow-paced withdrawal, keeping their horses under tight rein though they yearned to spur into a wild gallop, knowing that such a flight would doom them all.
Ranulf had been in running battles before, but this one was night marish, for they were walled in by the dense woods, trapped on a winding trail that made speed impossible, and under unrelenting attack by the pursuing Welsh. They had to abandon their dead, even their wounded. But after several harrowing miles, they succeeded in fighting their way free.
The danger had eased, but not ended. Henry was too tempting a target for Welsh bowmen; they’d be back, and in greater numbers. The English rode on, pushing their horses, relieved but still wary once they left the woods behind. They’d not yet counted their dead. Ranulf knew that the toll would be a high one. But it could have been worse, Christ Jesus, so much worse. Glancing from time to time at his nephew, he wondered if Harry realized just how close he’d come to dying.
Henry did. He could still feel the hot rush of air on his skin as that Welsh arrow whistled past his ear. He was no novice to battle-he’d bloodied his sword for the first time at sixteen-but this had been different. This time his luck had almost run out.
They were heading for the coast road, hoping to catch up with the rest of their army before the Welsh could rally for another attack. But they’d only covered a few miles before they saw dust up ahead. Drawing their swords, they waited, and soon were cheering, for the riders galloping toward them were friends, not foes.
A scout on a lathered horse reached them first, explaining that a few of the English fugitives from the battle had overtaken the rearguard, claiming that the king had been slain, the rest lost. “But your uncle the earl would not believe it, my liege,” the scout told Henry. “Nor would the chancellor.” His begrimed, sweat-streaked face lit up in a wide grin. “The sight of you is going to gladden their eyes, and that’s God’s Blessed Truth!”
Rainald began to whoop as soon as he was in recognition range. “I knew those fools were wrong, by God, I did!”
Thomas Becket was more restrained in his greeting, but his jubilation burned no less brightly than Rainald’s, just at a lower flame. “Do you realize what you almost put me through, Harry?” He shook his head in mock reproach. “I’d have had to be the one to tell your queen that you got yourself killed in some godforsaken corner of Wales!”
“That was foremost in my mind. Whilst I was fighting for my life, I kept thinking, ‘I cannot do this to Thomas!’ ”
“You think telling Eleanor would have been rough? God pity the man who’d have had to tell my sister Maude!” Rainald’s grimace was partly for effect, partly quite genuine. “So… tell us. How bad was it, truly?”
“Well, I’ve passed more pleasant afternoons,” Henry allowed, and they all grinned. But as his gaze met Ranulf’s, there was no levity, no laughter in either man’s eyes, only a haunted awareness of what might have been.
After Henry’s escape from the Welsh ambush, Owain withdrew his forces before the advance of the much larger English army, and Henry continued along the coast to Rhuddlan Castle, awaiting the arrival of his fleet. But when word came, it was not good. Acting against orders, the English ships had anchored at Tal Moelfre on the island of Mon and the sailors had gone ashore, plundering and looting and burning the churches of Llanbedr Goch and Llanfair Mathafarn Eithaf. The island residents were so outraged that they staged a counterattack, led by Owain’s son Hywel. In the fighting that followed, the English took much the worst of it, suffering many casualties, including a half-brother to Ranulf and Rainald.