‘I wish with all my heart you would stay behind and keep to the settlement,’ he said.
‘And you know I cannot. I must go where I can be most useful. I am needed in the fight. After all,’ she added, putting her hand over his, ‘it is because of me de Chapelle comes.’
‘And it is because of you these villagers yet live.’ He leaned forward and kissed her.
Rhiannon fought the desire to fall into that kiss, to melt into his embrace. Instead she put her hands on his chest, both touching him and holding him a little away.
‘We must keep our minds and our hearts on what waits for us down the mountain,’ she said. Before he could answer she stepped from his arms and touched the bough of a small blackthorn tree that grew in the shade of the barn wall. She closed her eyes briefly and muttered an incantation that was now as familiar to her as breathing. Instantly, a small green shoot appeared at the base of the tree. And then another, and another. The verdant plant twisted its way up and around the trunk and then branches of the low tree, leaves sprouting as it did so. Once it had all but covered half the tree, bright orange and cream blooms burst forth, cheerful and pretty, filling the morning air with their distinctive honeysuckle scent. She turned to see Tudor smiling at the glamour, no longer startled by her magic, but loving it as part of her. Part of the woman he adored. She picked a shoot of the plant and stepped back to Tudor, tucking it into the neck of his tabard, securing its stem into the chain mail he wore.
‘So that you may have something of the light on a dark day,’ she told him.
He leaned forwards and kissed her again and when she pulled away and took his hand his face was clouded with a mixture of desire and fear. It was not fear for himself, but for her, and they both knew it.
‘Come,’ she said, leading him towards the barn. ‘It is time.’
There were no farewells, Rhiannon saw to that. Although most of the children were orphans, the whole community had become an family, and it was hard for the women to watch those they loved go off to fight. If she could have done without them, she would have, but she knew success depended on a swift, surprise, decisive attack. And that required all the arrows, all the spears, all the swords and axes, they could muster. Even Brynach was determined to fight, despite his weakened state. He convinced Tudor - who was in charge of the detail of the plan, being the most experienced fighting man among them - that he could be of use taking a position on the high rocks. When Rhiannon had argued against him being included, Tudor had overruled her. All who wanted to help must be allowed to do so. A well shot arrow could mean the difference between victory and defeat. And Rhiannon knew that defeat would, in all likelihood, mean the end for all the villagers.
The curious war party set off in silence, as if on a hunt, knowing that to lose the element of surprise would be to lose the battle. Within the hour they were all in position. The rocks did indeed provide the perfect vantage point. From where Rhiannon lay on her stomach she had a clear view of the narrow sheep track below. She could also see what the approaching soldiers would not be able to see Tudor, Dai, Euan and Dafydd waiting around the corner a little further along the path. She had Brynach to her right, Taran behind her, and the children spread out to her left. She saw how pale Brynach looked and worried anew that the fight would prove too much for him. She felt rather than heard Glyn’s breath, slightly ragged, as he lay flat and ready, three freshly whittled spears by his side. How had it come to this? That a child must risk his life in such a way? She felt a fresh anger at de Chapelle well up inside her and clung to it, making it a hard point of strength to fight with.
They did not have long to wait.
All those waiting on the rock heard the faint jingle of bridles and became aware of the thud of hooves vibrating through the dry earth, echoes of those vibrations shuddering through the ancient rocks and throughout their own bodies. Moments later they could see the riders winding their way up the hill along the path.Rhiannon counted thirteen horsemen, strung out in a long line, one behind the other as the terrain dictated. She was not surprised to see the Baron riding at the very front. He was arrogant enough to dismiss the idea that they would meet resistance of any significance from the villagers. Although wearing helmet, breastplate and mail as if for battle, he rode with one hand resting on his thigh, looking about him across the valley at the expansive vista, for all the world as if he were on a ride for pleasure, nothing more. She shuddered as she remembered how he had embedded her own knife in her stomach. She could still feel the shock of that injury. She thought of how he had been responsible for the death of her parents, as well as so many good people. If she failed now, how many more would he go on to kill?
Ifan fidgeted, looking to her for the signal. She held her hand low, meaning he should wait. Meanwhile, Brynach whistled, alerting Tudor to the imminent arrival of the soldiers. Rhiannon could feel her heart thudding in her chest and knew the children would be experiencing the same mixture of fear and excitement. She kept her hand low. They must wait until the riders were directly below them, on the very narrowest part of the path where it became little more than a ledge. There would be no chance of turning the horses there.Another long minute passed. And then, the moment had arrive.
‘Now!’ she whispered.
Her brave little warriors needed no further telling. Sian, and Ifan stood up, pulled the strings of their bows back, lowered their arms until their aim was true, and loosed their arrows. At the same time, Glyn got to his feet, drew back his arm, and flung one of his spears. Tudor had told the children they must aim at the horses which provided easier targets and would either fall or run, taking the soldiers with them. Rhiannon had known in her heart they would not be able to do this. The first the Norman soldiers knew of the attack was when Sian’s arrow found its mark in the sword arm of the largest of them. Shouts of anger and alarm cut through the quiet of the morning. Orders were barked, horses reined in, swords drawn. Rhiannon stood and drew the string on her own bow, her arrow slicing downwards but missing its target. She gasped, silently admonishing herself for hurrying the shot. Glyn’s first spear had fallen short. He tried with the second, striking the saddle of one rider at such an angle that it struck only a glancing blow, but had the effect of spooking the horse, which tried to run up the steep shale. Its rider slid from its back, cursing and the horse scrambled along the loose, rubbly stone before reachingthe end of the line and picking up the path, bolting for home. De Chapelle screamed at his men to fire back. Another soldier gave the order to dismount. As one soldier did so, Brynach fired an arrow that pierced the shoulder of his horse. The animal screamed and twisted, falling off the path. It knocked the soldier over as it went, so that the two rolled over and over, a flailing of limbs and hooves and dislodged stones, tumbling down the impossibly steep bank into the valley below.
Rhiannon knew their first advantage was over; that of surprise. The enemy no longer presented themselves as a neat row of slowly moving targets. Now they were a tumultuous, frenetic knot of terrified horses and trapped men. She also knew that every animal is at its most dangerous when it is trapped.
‘Stay low!’ she shouted to the children. She saw de Chapelle turn then. He heard her voice, and he turned towards it and he saw her, standing above him, bow in her hand, knife in her belt. The very knife that had so ruined him.
He gave a roar of rage. ‘Take her! Up there, you fools! Get up there!’ he commanded, waving his sword in fury. He was the only one still mounted, and his horse wheeled about, using the unstable bank to do so, sending rocks skittering and bouncing down thehillside. The Baron paid them no heed. He had his quarry in his sights now, and nothing else mattered.
Which was why this was the moment Rhiannon gave the signal to Tudor to attack. She stepped up onto the highest rock so that he could clearly see her and waved her bow. He signalled back and then he and the three men with him sprinted along the path.
They rounded the corner to meet most of de Chapelle’s soldiers still trying to send their horses back along the path without knocking anyone off whilst also trying to avoid the arrows that were being sent down upon them. Dai was the youngest of the group and charged forwards, felling the nearest man with a practiced swing of his sword. He had not, however, reckoned with the speed at which his victim’s fellow soldiers would retaliate. With Tudor’s warning shouts ringing in his ears he tried to defend the two who sprang at him, but his battle was to be short lived, his head cleaved in two with a single blow, his body kicked from the path to slide down the mountainside.
Rhiannon watched with mounting horror. There remained ten fighting Normans still, and they were battle-hardened and skilled. She saw two more rush forwards to protect their commander, putting themselves between his horse and the three men who sought to kill him. Rhiannon loosed another arrow. This onestruck one of the Baron’s protectors in the back, bringing him wailing to his knees. Another leapt forwards to take his place. To her horror she saw that four of the others were attempting to run up the hill towards their position on the rocks. She turned her aim to them, loading and firing as swiftly as she was able, shouting at Sian and Ifan to do the same. She noticed Glyn lift his last spear and saw that he was aiming at de Chapelle, who presented a difficult target as he wheeled his skidding and skittering horse about.
Brynach saw this too.
‘Glyn, aim for the horse. The horse, boy!’
Glyn hesitated. A fine, beautiful horse was not a wild boar he might feed the village with. Nor was it a bloodthirsty Norman who would see his family dead. It was that tender-heartedness, that hesitation, that was to cost him dearly. For in it, Stew-face had time to scramble up the hill a few clumsy strides more, just enough to reach out and grab the boy’s ankle.
Glyn cried out as his foot was pulled from beneath him, his spear dropping, useless, from his hand, and he tumbled down the hill with his attacker, the pair coming to a stop on the path.
‘No!’ Rhiannon shouted, about to start down after him when Brynach jumped past her.
‘Stay, my Lady! I have him!’ he called back as he half ran half fell down the hill to join boy and man in a tangle of thrashing bodies. While he fought with Stew-face at close quarters, Rhiannon did not dare loose another arrow for fear of which one she might hit.
Two more soldiers had nearly reached the flat rocks. The children showed their mettle, standing their ground, continuing to load and loose arrow after arrow as best they could. Not only were the soldiers, swords in hands, almost upon them, but two Norman archers were now firing their powerful cross-bows up from the path below. As she turned, Rhiannon glimpsed Tudor engaging the baron in a sword fight, the Norman still on his horse, even though it had been wounded and its dappled grey neck was stained red with its own blood. Two other soldiers had engaged Dafydd and Euan in a desperate skirmish. Euan had some talent with the sword, but Dafydd was no soldier and was in danger of being quickly out manoeuvred. She could do nothing to help them or Brynach, as the children’s need for her was greater.
She turned her bow on the archers and quickly despatched one. As she continued to fire, Taran leapt from behind her, meeting the first of the soldiers who had managed to reach the flat rock. The man screamed as the great hound knocked him off balance and pinnedhim to the ground. The close proximity and weight of the dog meant he could not swing the long sword he had sought to use on the children. He was too slow to reposition the heavy weapon. Taran’s fearsome jaws bit into his neck, bringing from him a gargling scream that was to be the last sound he would ever make.
Rhiannon dropped her bow, took out her knife, and fell to her knees. Now she was below the children, so that they could continue to fire, but she was ready for the next solider who succeeded in scrambling up the escarpment. As the young Norman tried to stand, breathless and staggering from the climb, she did not hesitate. With a determined sweep of her arm, she sliced her dagger through the air and through their assailant’s neck, so that he fell, silently, the life ebbing from him on the grey, dusty ground.
