Rhodri thought of the old man, Miles le Gallois: Miles ap Heulwen uerch Owain of the line of Hwyel Dda. There was Welsh blood there, as good as or better than his own. He had grown fond of the old man during the months of his confinement, perhaps more than was wise. Miles had been perceptive and tolerant, compassionate without pitying, for he understood Welsh ways having been born to them himself, and despite the plentiful opportunity had never mocked or belittled Rhodri. He deserved better than he had received. Rhodri wiped at his eyes and swore because he was moved to grief for a man by tradition his enemy. Then he touched his cut lip, and glowering at his brother’s broad back, kicked the horse and cantered to join him.


It was late afternoon when Adam and his men came upon the remains of the Welsh raid. The jingle of their harness, the snorting of their mounts and the creak of men shifting uneasily in their saddles broke the silence of the grave, sending small animals scuttling for cover and birds winging with calls of alarm.

One of Adam’s Angevins leaped down from his destrier and examined a soldier’s sprawled corpse. His leather hauberk had been stripped and a pale band of skin upon one of his fingers showed where a ring had recently been worn. Stony-faced, Adam nudged Vaillantif forward through the wet grass. There were no weapons beside the bodies. Swords, axes, lances, shields, all had been taken, including the harness from the dead horses.

‘The bastards,’ Sweyn muttered at Adam’s shoulder. ‘I wish I had been leading this escort.’

‘Be thankful you were not,’ Adam said shortly, and dismounted to prowl across the devastation to the overturned cart. Miles’s destrier was there, belly-up. Adam stepped over its corpse and squatted beside the stripped body of Gervase de Cadenet. He did not try to press the eyelids shut, for he could see that the body was well into the stiffening stage. A wild, dark rage against the perpetrators of this outrage filled him. He made the sign of the cross over the young knight and murmured a short prayer, then beckoned to Austin and another knight to bring a pack pony.

They loaded the bodies on to the animals they had brought and draped them with blankets, then moved slowly back up the march.

‘I will write to Lord Guyon as soon as we reach Thornford,’ Adam said to Sweyn as they splashed through a shallow, swiftly running stream. His mouth tightened bleakly. ‘God knows how he will take this news.’

‘Lord Miles isn’t strong enough to bear rough treatment, ’ Sweyn said. ‘I saw the way you helped him on the stairs the other night. He’s failing swiftly.’

Adam grimaced. ‘Was I as obvious as all that? I thought I did it with subtlety.’

‘You did, sir, but it is not your way to put your arm across a man’s shoulders in conversation, even when you are fond of him and have the right.’

‘Now I know why Jerold calls you my watchdog!’ Adam said with rueful humour.

‘And you can’t teach an old dog new tricks,’ Sweyn retorted, his fierceness masking deep affection. ‘I’ve had my eye on you since you were a puling babe!’

‘And I haven’t changed, don’t tell me!’ Adam rolled Sweyn a sarcastic look and slapped the reins across Vaillantif ’s neck, increasing the pace.

They cut across the woodland using the carriers’ well-worn track, and with the dusk hard upon them reached the common grazing land that Thornford shared with a neighbouring village — and there encountered the Welsh, riding out of the damp twilight mist in the direction of the border.

A mutual moment of shock held both groups immobilised, and then Adam issued several sharp commands to his own men, delegated Austin and an older knight to take care of the burdened pack ponies, and grouped the rest into a tight phalanx of iron and horse. His lance swung smoothly to the horizontal. The Welsh saw what was happening and tried to break and run, but got no further than the first splintering before the fury of the Norman charge engulfed them. Adam had singled out his man as Vaillantif galloped down upon the Welsh, marking the place to strike as clearly as he always marked the four nailheads on the quintain shield.

Davydd ap Tewdr’s bodyguard was carried from the saddle by the impact of the honed battle lance and died as he hit the ground. Adam pivoted Vaillantif, drew his sword and engaged the man on his right. Behind him, swearing, Sweyn hacked and manoeuvred to stay with him.

Adam’s opponent had no shield, and the grating shriek of steel on steel as the Welshman parried made Adam’s bones shudder. The second blow shattered the inferior Welsh steel, leaving the man a broken hilt for defence. Adam swept it aside and concluded the matter, moving on like a reaper through ripe wheat.

The shield that was butted forward in protection by his next adversary was a Norman one, raided from Miles’s escort, good and solid, but its new owner wore no armour, only an ill-fitting helm to guard his skull. In the split second before Adam struck him down to hell, he recognised the horrified young face partially concealed behind the helmet’s broad nasal, and with an explosive oath changed his grip on the hilt: with a rapid flick of the wrist he sent Rhodri’s blade spinning from his hand.

‘In the name of Christ’s ten fingers, what are you doing here?’ Adam roared, saw the dark eyes widen, heard Sweyn’s choked warning, instinctively crouched behind his shield and commanded Vaillantif sideways. The blow came in hard from the left, clipping the top of his shield and jarring his left arm to the bone as he strove to hold against it. He brought his right arm over in a solid retaliation and had the satisfaction of hearing his enemy grunt with pain, but the retort was fast and determined, and the short Welsh blade ripped open Adam’s surcoat and splayed a diagonal line through the rivets of his mail.

He pricked Vaillantif with his spurs and the destrier reared up against the Welshman’s mount, forehooves slashing. Adam swung his sword backhanded from shoulder height. Trained from infancy, there was so much power behind his blow that it almost severed the Welshman’s head. The body crumpled from the saddle and the Welsh pony bolted, stirrups hammering against its belly.

Breathing rapidly, Adam looked around. The Welsh were in retreat now, fleeing for the safety of the forest. ‘Where’s the lad?’ he demanded.

‘He ran for the woods, sire,’ replied Sweyn. ‘And the others with him.’

Adam scowled in the direction of the trees. Behind them, the sky was as grey as steel.

‘If the lad’s loose, and they were coming from Thornford. ’ Sweyn began.

‘Then the exchange must have already taken place,’ Adam finished, a knowledge that had been with him since the first impact of the charge. His chest expanded on a deep breath. ‘They didn’t waste much time, did they?’

‘Do we go after them, my lord?’

Adam shook his head. ‘No. They’ll split up the moment they hit the forest and it is their own ground. We’d be picked off one by one that way. Anyone hurt? Go and find out, will you?’

‘What about the Welsh?’ asked Jerold. ‘The bodies, I mean. What shall we do with them?’

Adam glanced down. His last victim returned his look balefully from his muddy bier, blood crawling from severed flesh and sinew. ‘Leave them. They’ll be claimed when all is quiet.’ He wiped his sword on his thigh and sheathed it, looked up and said tersely to the man who had come to ask instructions of Jerold, ‘What are you staring at?’

‘My lord, that is Davydd ap Tewdr, I would swear an oath on it. I saw him at a fair in Shrewsbury last year, and quite close to. I was going into an alehouse as he was coming out with some of his people…He was laughing.’ His eyes flickered with unwilling fascination over the hanging jaw, the stained teeth exposed in the eternal grin of death that threatens the living with their own, inevitable fate. Shuddering, he crossed himself.

Adam gestured the man away. ‘I was wondering to Heulwen how it would be without ap Tewdr breathing down my neck,’ he said to Jerold. ‘It seems as if I’m about to find out. Go on, muster the men. There are still three miles ahead of us and it’s nearly dark.’


On first sight of her husband, Heulwen almost fainted, for as he stepped into the torchlit hall, the brownish-red colour of drying blood almost obliterated the rich blue of his torn surcoat. His face too was liberally spattered in the areas where it had not been protected by helmet and ventail.

‘Holy Christ!’ she cried, and stopped short of running into his arms. ‘Adam, what happened? How badly are you hurt?’

He followed her eyes down. ‘It’s not mine, love,’ he reassured her. ‘It’s Davydd ap Tewdr’s. He’s dead.’ His voice was matter-of-fact, as if he was discussing a mundane, everyday occurrence. He kissed her awkwardly. ‘They told me at the gatehouse that Miles is here. Where is he?’

‘I had him carried up to our bedchamber. He’s very weak — barely conscious. He took a fall and I fear that perhaps a piece of broken rib has pierced his lung.’

‘Yes, we found his horse.’ His mouth tightened as he remembered the scene they had come upon. He decided not to tell Heulwen, and plucking at his surcoat grimaced and said, ‘Do you think you could organise a bathtub?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She snapped her fingers at a waiting maid and issued a brisk command.

Adam took the cup of wine that was given to him and, drinking it thirstily, made for the stairs.


‘Sir, can you hear me? It is Adam. Davydd ap Tewdr is dead. We met his war band coming away from here and there was a battle. Rhodri took to the woods with the survivors and I let him go…Sir, my lord?’

Miles struggled up through a floating, weightless darkness towards a burden of light and pain. There was a hand gripping his own, and the voice, although low-pitched, was anxious, almost pleading.

‘It’s no use!’ he heard his granddaughter say on a soft sob. ‘No use, Adam, he’s too far gone. Elswith, run and fetch Father Thomas.’

Miles forced his leaden lids to open. The candles burning on the coffer were a yellow blur; everything was a blur. His granddaughter’s hair merged with the candle flame, and link mail silvered his vision with shifting discs of light.

‘Adam?’ he breathed weakly, vaguely puzzled until he remembered. A faint smile. ‘Don’t go chasing your tail lest you catch it. My will lies in the dower chest at Ashdyke…Guyon knows.’

‘I am going to write to him this very night. He should be here within the next few days.’

Miles moved his head from right to left on the pillow. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’d rather die without a host of weeping relatives around my bed. Guyon knows that too…No great tragedy for me, I’m glad to go…I’ve stopped fighting it. ’

‘Grandpa, no!’ Heulwen let out the words with an involuntary cry, then pressed the back of her hand across her mouth.

‘Child, it is a blessing. You have your life before you…Do not grieve for me. I have lived mine to the full and beyond.’ He closed his eyes again, and seemed to sink down into the bed as if only his shell remained. His hand relaxed in Adam’s.

‘Adam?’ Heulwen’s voice was thin with fear. She clutched his mail-clad arm. ‘He’s not.?’

‘No, not yet.’ Adam removed his hand from the dead-leaf texture of the old man’s. The aftermath of hard battle was in his bones, making him feel as limp as a rag. ‘But it won’t be long — certainly before your father can get here. You have to accept it; he wants to die. Let him go.’ He took hold of her shoulders, kissed her forehead and became aware again, as she stood resisting in his embrace, of the state he was in. ‘Where have you lodged us for the nonce, Heulwen? I’m reeking in blood, and in no fit state to comfort my wife or let her comfort me.’

Heulwen stood a little back from him, his words dragging her from her grief to the realisation that there were things to be done; that she had a husband who needed her attention and her ministrations.

‘The wall room that was Rhodri’s.’

Adam paused at the door to let the priest enter and spoke to him for a moment before continuing on his way. He stopped again as he caught sight of his squire whispering to one of the maids, his hand in the act of curving around her waist. ‘Austin, go and fetch me parchment, ink and quills, and bring them to the wall chamber!’ he snapped. ‘You girl, about your duties!’

She blushed, and bobbing a curtsy fled, the empty bath pail banging against her skirts. Adam shook his head. ‘That boy!’ he muttered beneath his breath, but with more irritation than anger, and shoved aside the curtain to enter their temporary bedchamber. Another maid finished emptying her pail into the tub and flitted from the room. The steam from the bath was laden with the scent of bay and rosemary.