Crown of Passion by Jocelyn Carew

Author:Jocelyn Carew [Carew, Jocelyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Endeavour Press
Published: 2017-01-12T00:00:00+00:00

3

The castle rose from its surroundings, dark and menacing. At their feet, as they stood on the edge of the forest, stretched a flower-dotted meadow. The river that lapped the walls of the castle made a great bend to the south. It was a fair site, for those on the watchtower could see in all directions, and no enemy could surprise them.

The fort had been built along the Western Marches ten years before by Roger de Lacy, at the order of William the Conqueror. William had licensed castles throughout his new realm, and only toward the end of his reign had he felt secure enough to have castles erected along the border. The Welsh by that time had made themselves felt, and William knew that the mountain folk must be subdued, or there would never be peace in England.

The castle seemed like a brooding beast, facing toward the west. Arrow slits looked out to the mountains, and Gwyn knew that watchful eyes constantly searched the hills for movement.

Erom this stronghold of the conquering Normans, so Rhys had said, emerged the raiding parties that set the Western Marches aflame in the night, the brigands that harried the mountain folk and drove away their stock, leaving the owners to starve.

Gwyn reflected, abruptly, that she was looking at a castle of the Normans, one her father might have built had he lived, through Welsh eyes, and seeing only the need to liberate the Marches from the oppressors.

The small Welsh army camped there, without a fire, along the edge of the forest, as the shadows began to lengthen across the meadows and dapple the stream with darkness.

Caerleon, often impulsive, cried, “Let’s storm it!”

Rhys said, without humor, “With what? Twenty men with leather jerkins?”

“Their bowmen cannot match ours,” Cledog pointed out, “for they set more store by hand-to-hand fighting.”

Caerleon said impatiently, “Let us pick off their sentries and show them we mean business.”

Ifan was a man of few words. But when he did speak, he usually made sense. Now he said, “But they don’t know what business we mean, unless we tell them.”

Rhys nodded approvingly. “We’ll send a herald and tell them we have the king’s writ.” He began to search the pack on the saddle of his lead pony. “I should like to sleep this night within walls, but perhaps it is better to wait till morning. I cannot find the writ!”

“The writ?” answered Caerleon. “The one that says you are to be executed without a trial?”

“Aye,” said Rhys absently, pulling the pack to the ground and unrolling it. “It is needful, if de Lacy cannot read the Latin in it — we agree on this.”

“I did not agree,” said Caerleon, a hard edge to his voice. “As a matter of fact, you will not find the writ.” Rhys stared at Caerleon and misliked what he saw. He kicked the pack to one side and took a step toward his captain. “You took the writ?”

Caerleon, hands on hips, smiled in triumph. “You will not find it.

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