Chapter 11
Alex sat atop Azor next to Sir Nigel watching the thousands of mail-clad knights and men-at-arms coming toward them from the south.
They swarmed over the land like locusts, their silvered helms reflecting the afternoon sun.
Impatient to be about the king’s business, Alex was pleased William’s army had finally arrived.
Without turning, he said to Sir Nigel, “Now, at last, we can pursue the Scots.”
As the army drew closer, Alex saw the king and his brother, Robert, riding ahead of the barons and the army.
Behind the king to one side walked his archers, hundreds strong.
Their green and brown clothing was not unlike the bowman’s garb Merewyn wore, but not one rode a horse.
Merewyn would love to have seen it. His chest tightened as he imagined her smiling at him from her Welsh pony, her bow slung over her shoulder.
She was brave enough to ride with William’s army, he had no doubt.
The sooner they dealt with the Scots, the sooner he could go home—and return to Merewyn.
The king rode forward to meet them, on his head a conical helm circled by a golden crown. Beneath his helm, Alex could see William’s red beard, now trimmed. His long blond hair was splayed out on his mail-clad shoulders.
Alex bowed from his saddle. Sir Nigel did the same.
“Sir Nigel, Sir Alex,” said the king, “I am glad you ride together. What news of the Scots?”
“Malcolm’s army fled north as we arrived, My Lord,” said Sir Nigel.
“Fie!” The king’s face grew flushed with anger and the bejeweled fingers of his right hand clenched around the pommel of his saddle.
“By the holy face of Lucca, we shall pursue the rabble to the very door of Malcolm’s pile of stones in Dun Edin.
I will have an end to his excursions into Northumbria! ”
The king’s chestnut stallion stamped his hoof and snorted, no doubt sensing his master’s anger. William’s moods were not unknown to his men. Alex had seen his anger flare before, often just as he ordered some torture for a defiant prisoner.
“We expected no less, My Lord,” said Sir Nigel.
Alex wanted to deflect the king’s attention to other, more urgent needs. “Sire, would you have the army camp here tonight or go on?”
The king looked across at his brother. “What say you, Robert? Do we camp?”
Alex did not have to wonder what the answer would be.
Robert, who had always been tenderhearted to suppliants, turned to survey the king’s barons and senior knights, their weariness apparent.
Robert fitzHaimo, baron of Gloucester, the ponderous Earl of Chester, Roger Bigot, Sheriff of Norfolk, Ranulf Flambard, the king’s advisor, and Sir Duncan were among them.
“Aye,” said Duke Robert, “ ’tis been a long day and the men and horses need rest. We would not get very far else we do. ”
William appeared to accept the answer. “Have you sufficient food?” he asked Sir Nigel.
“My men have taken deer and game, My Lord, but you may need more for the army.”
“Parfait,” said William. “We have some provisions and the men and archers can hunt. It will serve until we meet my ships on the Tyne. What of Durham?”
“From what we can tell, My Lord,” said Alex, “the people have fled to the woods or are now behind the city’s closed doors. There are no villeins to be seen in the fields.”
“The city was caught between Malcolm’s army and the men I brought with me,” added Sir Nigel.
The king’s brows drew together. “We have no time to deal with the Northumbrians. They can remain behind their city walls for now. On the morrow, we will chase the Scots north.”
The men made camp, erecting a tent for the king. The horses were watered and allowed to forage. And soon, cook fires dotted the countryside as the men prepared their supper before bedding down for the night.
Alex returned to his men. After a meal of roast venison, he and his companions shared a conversation around the fire, speculating about the fight to come.
“ ’Tis unseasonably cold,” said Guy, clenching his cloak to his chest, “and we have yet to enter Scotland.”
“Aye,” said Rory, “These are not the pastures of Normandy.”
Alex, too, felt the damp cold seep into his cloak and was glad for their fire.
At least it had not rained. He laid his pallet on the ground and stretched out to stare up at the stars, remembering the conversation he’d had with Merewyn as they had looked up at the radiant circle of stars the night he’d first kissed her.
He would never again see the stars without thinking of her.
* * *
“I wonder where she learned to do it.” Jamie muttered under his breath as he watched Merewyn fire another shot from her pony to hit the target’s center.
He had counseled her against riding in the weeks since he’d learned she was with child but she insisted both she and her babe enjoyed it.
Her body showed no signs of the child growing within her—Alex’s child, he reminded himself—and the sickness she had once displayed no longer troubled her.
“Iorwerth issued her a challenge and she accepted,” said a voice from behind him.
Jamie whipped around to see a tall young man wearing the brown and green clothing of a Welsh bowman, except that beneath his leather jerkin he wore mail. Not just any bowman, but a warrior.
The dark-haired man was nearly Jamie’s own height though younger by several years.
Added to the archer’s clothing were leather gauntlets and guards over his shins.
From his belt hung a wicked-looking axe and in his hand he carried a longbow.
Slung over his right shoulder was a quiver of arrows, the brown-tipped fletchings unlike any Jamie had ever seen.
Circling the top of the quiver was a band of metal with an ornate Celtic design.
“Who might you be?” Jamie asked, his hand itching to reach for his sword. The young Welshman was unknown to him, but the voice carried the same accent as Rhodri’s, the prince of Powys whose true name among his people was Iorwerth.
“I am Owain ap Cadwgan,” he said in his accented English, looking behind Jamie to where Merewyn was watching them from her pony. “I see she has not forgotten all she learned from me.”
“You knew Merewyn in Wales?”
“I did.”
He expected the Welshman to say more but he only dipped his head respectfully and walked around him, heading toward Merewyn. He had not even asked Jamie his name.
Jamie was suddenly anxious, yet he did not know the reason.
Since his conversation with Merewyn about her condition, he’d been very protective of her, for he knew Alex would expect it no matter that she spoke of leaving.
He did not like this new person coming to Talisand, a warrior bearing serious weapons who seemed to know much about her.
He had said he had taught her. What was he to her?
And with war threatening with Wales, why had he come to England now?
* * *
Merewyn watched Owain walking toward her, his dark brown eyes intense as he approached. Despite his serious demeanor, it cheered her immensely to see him again.
“Merry,” he said, drawing near, “fy golau.” “My light” was the name he had given her for her fair hair, unusual among the Welsh.
“Owain!” She dismounted and, with her bow and quiver slung over her shoulder, led Ceinder to meet him. “What brings you here?”
He took her hand and pressed a light kiss to her fingers, his lips warm on her skin.
Never before could she recall his acting so much the gallant.
“I had a desire to see this place you spoke of, this Talisand,” he said looking around.
Reaching out to stroke her pony’s neck, he added, “I see you and Ceinder are still a pair.”
“We do well together,” she said, wondering why Owain had come now at a time when his warrior skills were so needed by his people.
He continued to stroke the pony’s neck but his eyes stayed on her.
“It is wonderful to see you,” she said. In truth, she had missed her friends in Wales and had been thinking much of Rhodri and Fia as she contemplated returning. “You must share some wine with me in the hall and tell me about all that has happened since I left.”
“Nothing would please me more,” he said with a subtle smile.
Owain was a prince, Rhodri’s nephew. Still in his second decade, he was already a respected warrior among his people.
She knew he lived a turbulent life, raiding, plundering and defending his family.
Yet for all that, he spoke poetry around the hearth fire and he had taken the time to teach her to shoot from her pony.
Owain had been there for her transformation from a frightened girl to a woman secure in her ability to protect herself.
She walked beside him toward Talisand’s captain. “You met Sir Jamie?”
“Briefly.”
“Jamie,” she said, as they reached him, “a friend has come from Wales.”
Jamie inclined his head. “Owain introduced himself.”
Merewyn smiled at the two men, each studying the other like two roosters facing off with their hackles raised.
“You two should get to know each other. Owain is a prince of Powys,” she said for Jamie’s benefit, “and Rhodri’s nephew.
And Jamie is the captain of Talisand’s house knights,” she told Owain.
“Both of you are respected commanders of men.”
Jamie offered his hand and Owain took it. Merewyn was happy the two roosters had declared a truce. Together, the three of them walked from the archery field.
“Where is your horse?” she asked Owain.
“I left him with the stable boy.”
“He will be welltended,” said Jamie.
Unable to contain her curiosity any longer, she asked Owain, “How is Rhodri? And Fia? And the children? I have missed them.”
He grinned at her show of enthusiasm. “Rhodri and Fia and their children are all well. And, if I am included in the ones you have missed, it makes me glad to hear it.”