retreat and returned it full measure and Adam was the first to disengage. ‘What need indeed?’ he said, and turned to crunch across the snow and greet the horsemen.
‘Adam, thank Christ!’ Guyon said sharply as he dismounted. ‘What in hell’s name happened?’
Adam shrugged his shoulders. ‘What you would expect. The Welsh must have had their scouts out yesterday morning and seen me pass on the road to Ravenstow. We weren’t laden with travelling baggage, so it wouldn’t take a great intellect to deduce we’d probably be returning soon that same way.’ Gingerly he touched the clotted slash on his jaw. ‘They bit off more than they could chew, but we didn’t have it all our own way. I lost three good men and sixty marks’ worth of destrier, not to mention those wounded.’
‘Where’s Renard?’ Guyon stared anxiously round the bailey for his son. ‘Was he injured?’
‘No more than grazes,’ Adam reassured him as they turned towards the hall. ‘He danced too close for comfort with a Welsh spear, but Sweyn got to him in time. He’s still abed, but only because I sent him there last night with a flagon of the strongest cider we had, and a girl from the village. I don’t expect to see him this side of noon.’
‘You did what?’ De Mortimer looked at him in disgust.
‘Oh don’t go all pious on me, Warrin!’ Adam snapped. ‘The lad fought well - accounted for two of the bastards on his own and got himself clear of a gut-shot horse in the middle of a pitched battle - but it’s a violent baptism for a youngster raw from the tilt yard. He took sick afterwards. In the circumstances, I thought it best that he drown his dreams in drink and the comfort of a woman’s body, and Christ alone knows why I am justifying myself to you!’
‘Calm down, Adam.’ Guyon touched his rigid arm. ‘I’d probably have done the same with him. Just thank God you’re both safe. When I saw that horse in the road . . .’
‘I was going to send to you this morning, but I’ve not long risen myself.’
‘Did you take to drink and dalliance too?’ de Mortimer needled him.
Adam’s jaw tightened, making his wound hurt. He thought of several sarcastic replies but decided that to utter them was to play into Mortimer’s hands. ‘We took a prisoner,’ he said to Guyon, half turning his shoulder on the other’s galling presence. ‘He’s got a nasty head wound and a slashed thigh, and he’s still out of his wits. The village herb-wife had a look at him and says he’ll mend, but doesn’t know how long it will be before he recovers his senses.’
‘You had reason to make of him a prisoner then?’ Guyon prowled forward to the hearth. The snow on his boots became transparent and slowly melted into the rushes. A dog came to sniff at the cold air on his cloak.
‘He was wearing gilded boots and there were jewels in his sword-hilt. Someone of note among his people, I would say. If we had left him in the road he would have died.’
‘What’s one less Welshman except a blessing?’ de Mortimer said moodily and kicked at the dog as it came to snuffle him.
‘Not in this instance. It may be that we can barter him for peace.’
‘And we all know a Welshman’s notion of peace!’ de Mortimer scoffed. ‘If it had been me, I’d have left the whoreson to die!’
‘I know,’ Adam said tightly. ‘Either that, or helped him on his way. You’re good at that.’
It had been an insult flung like a wild blow in battle, but it certainly hit its mark. De Mortimer whitened and recoiled as if he had been physically struck. ‘You stand need to speak so when your own father . . .’
‘Christ on the cross let be!’ Guyon said sharply. ‘You’re like a pair of infants. For all the heed you’ve taken of the manners drilled into you at Ravenstow, I might as well have saved my breath!’
There was a difficult silence while the two antagonists glared at each other. Then Adam broke eye contact and cleared his throat.
‘Adam, thank Christ!’ Guyon said sharply as he dismounted. ‘What in hell’s name happened?’
Adam shrugged his shoulders. ‘What you would expect. The Welsh must have had their scouts out yesterday morning and seen me pass on the road to Ravenstow. We weren’t laden with travelling baggage, so it wouldn’t take a great intellect to deduce we’d probably be returning soon that same way.’ Gingerly he touched the clotted slash on his jaw. ‘They bit off more than they could chew, but we didn’t have it all our own way. I lost three good men and sixty marks’ worth of destrier, not to mention those wounded.’
‘Where’s Renard?’ Guyon stared anxiously round the bailey for his son. ‘Was he injured?’
‘No more than grazes,’ Adam reassured him as they turned towards the hall. ‘He danced too close for comfort with a Welsh spear, but Sweyn got to him in time. He’s still abed, but only because I sent him there last night with a flagon of the strongest cider we had, and a girl from the village. I don’t expect to see him this side of noon.’
‘You did what?’ De Mortimer looked at him in disgust.
‘Oh don’t go all pious on me, Warrin!’ Adam snapped. ‘The lad fought well - accounted for two of the bastards on his own and got himself clear of a gut-shot horse in the middle of a pitched battle - but it’s a violent baptism for a youngster raw from the tilt yard. He took sick afterwards. In the circumstances, I thought it best that he drown his dreams in drink and the comfort of a woman’s body, and Christ alone knows why I am justifying myself to you!’
‘Calm down, Adam.’ Guyon touched his rigid arm. ‘I’d probably have done the same with him. Just thank God you’re both safe. When I saw that horse in the road . . .’
‘I was going to send to you this morning, but I’ve not long risen myself.’
‘Did you take to drink and dalliance too?’ de Mortimer needled him.
Adam’s jaw tightened, making his wound hurt. He thought of several sarcastic replies but decided that to utter them was to play into Mortimer’s hands. ‘We took a prisoner,’ he said to Guyon, half turning his shoulder on the other’s galling presence. ‘He’s got a nasty head wound and a slashed thigh, and he’s still out of his wits. The village herb-wife had a look at him and says he’ll mend, but doesn’t know how long it will be before he recovers his senses.’
‘You had reason to make of him a prisoner then?’ Guyon prowled forward to the hearth. The snow on his boots became transparent and slowly melted into the rushes. A dog came to sniff at the cold air on his cloak.
‘He was wearing gilded boots and there were jewels in his sword-hilt. Someone of note among his people, I would say. If we had left him in the road he would have died.’
‘What’s one less Welshman except a blessing?’ de Mortimer said moodily and kicked at the dog as it came to snuffle him.
‘Not in this instance. It may be that we can barter him for peace.’
‘And we all know a Welshman’s notion of peace!’ de Mortimer scoffed. ‘If it had been me, I’d have left the whoreson to die!’
‘I know,’ Adam said tightly. ‘Either that, or helped him on his way. You’re good at that.’
It had been an insult flung like a wild blow in battle, but it certainly hit its mark. De Mortimer whitened and recoiled as if he had been physically struck. ‘You stand need to speak so when your own father . . .’
‘Christ on the cross let be!’ Guyon said sharply. ‘You’re like a pair of infants. For all the heed you’ve taken of the manners drilled into you at Ravenstow, I might as well have saved my breath!’
There was a difficult silence while the two antagonists glared at each other. Then Adam broke eye contact and cleared his throat.
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