Chapter One

The race was on and the captain from Striguil was in no mood to come in second as he led his conrois up the slick valley beside the Afon Wysg. Down in the lowlands it had been easy for the Norman horsemen to follow the raiders’ progress; dead men, burnt out homesteads, and the sorrowing wail of women and children had led the horsemen northwards towards Gwent Uwchcoed where Seisyll ap Dyfnwal was lord. Their pursuit had led them into disputed territory.

It was almost midday when the captain called a halt. The ten men from Striguil had exited the wooded valley moments before and come into a bright meadow bounded by evergreen trees on all sides. Close by was a small group of hovels, obviously Welsh  for no sane Norman would live this far from Usk Castle without a palisade to protect his home.

‘We are certainly in Seisyll’s lands now, Raymond,’ tall Denis d’Auton told his captain.

Raymond de Carew gave no indication that he had heard the miles. Instead he leant downwards to investigate hoof marks on the ground. His chainmail hood shimmered as it tumbled across his wide shoulders. Like a hound confused by the scent of a wounded hind, Raymond’s blond head bobbed from side to side as he scrutinised the marks. He then sat straight to survey the horizon, a large hand over his eyes to shield them from the hot sun.

His manner caused Denis to tense and like his captain he began to scan the hilly landscape for possible threats. A large number of sheep and cattle had been grazing between the valley mouth and the Welsh houses, but, as Denis watched, they fled eastwards away from the Normans of Striguil who had stopped behind their captain.

‘That’s a large number of animals for such a small farmstead,’ Raymond said, pointing his lance at the grazing animals. ‘So where are the stockmen?’ The beasts were the most valuable commodity on the March and should have been protected by a number of herdsmen. ‘The hoof marks are wider-spaced than before,’ he said as he turned his horse and pointed at the ground where the grass was flattened. ‘They broke into a gallop here and made off towards those buildings. Something is not right.’

‘I don’t think there is anything to fear,’ Denis replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.

It was an unfortunate statement to make because at that moment, with little more than a whinny and the solid thump of hooves on the heavy ground, fifteen horsemen emerged into view from between the Welsh hovels. Inscribed upon their red and blue surcoats were the three golden wheat sheaves of the Braose family. Their leader marshalled his force forty feet from Raymond’s men.

‘Abergavenny men,’ Gilbert Borard, Raymond’s most trusted lieutenant, whispered loudly in his captain’s ear as he joined him from the back of the conrois. ‘I reckon it must’ve been them who were thieving from Earl Strongbow’s lands, not Seisyll and the Welsh. It might be a good time for us to leave.’ Borard stopped talking when the leader of the Abergavenny men detached from his troop and trotted forward, his red and blue pennant fluttering from his long lance.

‘What in seven hells does he want?’ Borard muttered from behind his heavy black beard to Raymond.

‘I’ve heard this is how they start a fight in England,’ Raymond replied. ‘He’ll ask for our surrender, I will refuse and then he will set the rules. We’ll have a scrap, but we aren’t allowed to kill anybody.’

Borard sniffed a laugh and shook his head to show his disbelief at the unusual conventions of the nobility. In the March of Wales such frivolities were rare. Here, on the frontier, ambush was favoured and murder common. On the edge of the kingdom men scratched out a living from cold earth under constant fear of attack. You killed or feared repercussions. Life made men hard, women suspicious and warriors merciless. It was a place where the King of England’s law did not reach.

Raymond clipped his heels to his courser’s sides and walked his horse forward to meet his fellow Norman.

‘I am Sir William de Braose, Lord of Abergavenny,’ the armoured man dipped his head in greeting as Raymond and Borard approached. Two warriors flanked the young man in the red and blue surcoat. ‘To whom am I speaking?’

Before answering, Raymond hungrily admired the newcomer’s armour which covered everything except his young, red-cheeked face. His chainmail was a hard fish skin of shining steel circlets and not only wrapped his torso but also his forearms and shins. The nobleman even had long chainmail gloves and socks to protect those extremities. By comparison Raymond’s hauberk was thin, with gaps between the links, and only stretched to his elbows. It was dented and had been mended in a hundred places, but it had saved his life numerous times. The skirts on his armour divided at his waist, covering only his thighs but allowing him to ride a horse comfortably, something Raymond doubted that Sir William could claim. But even still, the nobleman’s mail was impressive. Below the hauberk Raymond knew that the knight would have a thick gambeson made of padded leather and stuffed tightly with wool for extra protection and comfort. On top of it all was the surcoat of his family, of the brightest reds, blues, and golds. Of course Sir William had a new-fangled great helm hanging from his expensive Spanish-made saddle.

Raymond’s dented spangenhelm, cone-shaped and complete with bent nasal guard, would not have looked out of place amongst the warriors who had fought at Hastings a hundred years before. Likewise his shabby bucket saddle, which had belonged to his father, and his long leaf-shaped shield which bore no device. Sir William’s lance was standard, but his sword’s handle was inlaid with gold and wrapped in red cord to cushion the reverberations when it came together with another weapon. It matched his rich red leather scabbard and cushioned saddle. William de Braose looked every inch the Christian warrior, but he was out of place on the March of Wales. Apart from the few like Raymond who wore a surcoat bearing Strongbow’s arms, most warriors in Gwent wore dull colours, greys and greens, so that they could mix in with the countryside. Few men of the March could afford the rich gaudiness of the English and French courts.

Even from five paces away Raymond could see the strength and power of Sir William’s charger, which danced from hoof to hoof aggressively. The stallion was huge and was hidden beneath a long red rug bearing his master’s famous family arms. It covered the whole beast, including its face, to the knees. Raymond rode a smaller, more manoeuvrable courser without any garish devices.

‘My name is Raymond de Carew,’ the captain finally answered Sir William de Braose’s question, ‘and I serve the Earl Strongbow of Striguil.’

If he recognised either name, Sir William did not show any interest. ‘I am lord of these lands,’ he stated simply, ‘and you are either lost or trespassing. The second reason gives me the right to kill you and your men.’

Raymond raised his eyebrows at the sudden declaration, and chuckled. ‘I believe you are new to the March, Sir William, so it is my duty to inform you that you are the one who is lost. These lands belong to Seisyll ap Dyfnwal of Castle Arnallt.’

William de Braose snorted. ‘That Welshman is a rebel, and I will catch up with him soon. Then the raiding will stop.’

‘It is funny that you would mention raiding – we were tracking a party about twenty strong who attacked one of Strongbow’s manors above Usk. Have you heard anything about them?’ He asked the question as innocently as he possibly could. ‘They passed through this way extremely recently.’

‘What exactly are you implying, Sir Raymond?’

‘It is simply Raymond, Sir William,’ the captain replied, ‘I am no knight, only one of Strongbow’s humble warriors. But in answer to your question, I am implying that you Abergavenny bastards were in my lord’s territory; that you burned his manor house, and attempted to mask your skulduggery by leaving a trail that led into the lands of the Welsh. I am telling you that I am here to beat you bloody so that you will remember not to stray into Earl Strongbow’s domains again.’

Sir William de Braose’s response surprised Raymond: he laughed, dramatically and long. ‘I will give your cheap sword to my son to use until I buy him a proper one when he becomes an esquire. Your little pony will be my daughter’s pet. Your meagre ransom I will keep for myself.’ Noting Raymond’s confusion at the statement Sir William nodded back towards the valley mouth. ‘You can surrender to my sergeant now, Master Raymond de Carew, while I take care of a little business in those houses,’ he said and nonchalantly shifted his reins to direct his stallion towards the Welsh farmstead.

Raymond swung around in his saddle to see at what his opponent was indicating. What he saw shocked him for, at the mouth of the valley, were ten more mounted men in the same surcoats as Sir William de Braose. They blocked his escape route home.

He had been outmanoeuvred, Raymond realised. He was outnumbered and he was surrounded.

Sir William de Braose’s men had indeed attacked Strongbow’s uplands manors. They had stolen all they could carry and had then fled back over the hills towards Abergavenny. But somewhere along the way they had discovered that they were being followed and their leader had prepared a trap for his pursuer. And Raymond the Fat had bumbled straight into it.

All this Raymond understood in a moment and already he had decided what to do: he launched his lance into the chest of the nearest rider. The man, who had accompanied the smug and smiling William de Braose to the parley, tumbled from his saddle and dragged down his frightened horse with him. Luckily for Sir William his spooked mount swept him out of range or he would have been next to be attacked. His other warrior was not so lucky. Instead of fleeing, the Abergavenny man raised his sword and slashed at Raymond. But his blow never fell. Borard’s spearpoint punched through the air to strike his midriff. A good-looking man of thirty with long black hair, Borard smiled behind his beard as he dragged the weapon from the dead man’s stomach.

‘Brainless bastard,’ he said, sending a toothy grin in his captain’s direction.

‘We attack those men,’ Raymond said. His horse skittered excitedly in small twists in front of his warriors who had quickly surrounded their leader. He pointed towards Sir William’s men who gathered in front of the Welsh homestead. Sir William was already halfway to them and Raymond knew that speed was all if the men from Striguil were to survive a fight in the hills against the superior force. ‘We kill them all and then turn around and deal with those bastards over by the valley.’ He hoped that without Sir William’s leadership the smaller number of men in the distance would not react as quickly to the change of events and that the Striguil men could take advantage by attacking the larger group.

‘No ransoms,’ Raymond commanded, knowing that some would be tempted to take prisoners. If they did that then they would be out of the fight and he could little afford to lose any of them. ‘Then let’s go,’ he shouted as he hauled his courser, Dreigiau, around to look at the farmstead. The swift courser fought against the bridle for a second before he spotted the Abergavenny men in the distance. He then understood what his master desired and Raymond let the reins slacken so that the horse could take the lead. His legs still gripped Dreigiau’s flanks, urging him onwards with a squeeze. As he rode Raymond realised that he had not recovered his lance from the man he had killed and so he drew his mace from his belt.

His milites fell in behind him, gnashing their teeth as they thundered towards the enemy. Wind whipped at their surcoats and, as they hoisted their weapons to strike, their crimson and gold pennants flickered like dragons’ tongues. Some couched the eight-feet long lances under their armpits, but most held them over-arm, ready to stab down into the faces, chests and horses of their enemies.

The staccato crash as the two sets of horsemen collided was stupendous and frightened the sheep and cattle into a hurried flight. Raymond’s line of horsemen strafed across the front of the static Abergavenny men, prodding and provoking, stabbing, always moving as they defended their flanks from counters with their leaf-shaped shields. Spinning their horses, they retreated out of range before returning to send more warriors tumbling to the cold ground with gaping wounds.

‘St Maurice!’ Raymond bellowed his family’s war cry as he barrelled through the centre of the enemy riders at full pace. Immediately he was lost in the tight throng as four Abergavenny horsemen surrounded him, and it looked like there was no way he could possibly escape unscathed from the circling mass of men, colourful shields and sweaty, grunting horses. But the men in Abergavenny blue and red began tumbling from their saddles to leave Raymond alone on horseback, looking for more targets. A smile was plastered across his face.

It was at this moment that Sir William de Braose collided with Raymond, throwing the Striguil captain from the saddle and onto the ground. His ringing lance had struck Raymond’s shield plum on the boss, but it was the bone-crunching impact with the ground which ripped away Raymond’s leather chin strap and sent his helmet skittering away.

‘Raymond, you bastard,’ the Lord of Abergavenny shouted as he circled his horse around and tapped his spurs to the flanks of his destrier. Raymond pulled himself to his feet, eighty pounds of chainmail and weaponry jangling loudly as his enemy thundered towards him. He was winded but unhurt and threw himself across the face of the horse at the last second to avoid the lance tip as it slashed past him. Sir William thundered away, sending clods of earth in the air as Raymond tumbled onto his shoulders and to his feet in one supple movement. He let his enemy go and sprinted towards Walter de Bloet, who was sheltering below his shield as another of the Abergavenny warriors pounded at him manically with stroke after stroke of his sword. The man cried out joyfully as every blow fell upon Walter’s shield while his horse snapped and butted at his legs. Raymond let his shield swing onto his back by the guige, and dropped his mace so that it dangled from his arm as he ran. He pushed into the circling fracas of horses and grabbed the Abergavenny horseman by the ankle, using his strength to hoist him out of his saddle and onto the ground before he even knew that Raymond was there. He brought his mace down once to finish the enemy warrior.

Raymond had barely time to turn as Walter shouted a warning: ‘Beware right!’

Another unseated man ran at him, screaming incoherently with his sword held over his head and blood streaming from beneath his wide-brimmed helmet. Raymond calmly swung his shield from his back and onto his left, sliding his arm into the tight enarmes on its rear. Crouched behind the leaf-shaped defence Raymond was protected from his eyes to his ankle. He took the first ringing blow on the steel boss in the middle of the shield. It was like striking a ton of wet sand and Raymond grunted as he shoved the Abergavenny warrior backwards a few steps with his shoulder before bringing the heavy shield up to horizontal and jabbing the man in the face with the pointed end. The man yelped at the unanticipated move and slashed wildly in his foe’s direction. Raymond was ready and he danced out of its way, smashing the iron and steel mace straight into the man’s face as his opponent’s momentum took him forwards. The swordsman was unconscious before he slammed into the ground.

Amid the blood and carnage of the battle, Raymond began to laugh. He held his mace above his head in salute to the glory of the fight. His bare forearm already shone red and all around him men gaped at him as he whooped like a wolf at the sky.

Two more Abergavenny men came at Raymond. Pushing the mace into his belt, he drew his sword and attacked, his strokes a blur of grey steel that drove back both men. It looked odd that Raymond, short and stout, could perform such flawless swordsmanship against the two taller men who faced him, but his frame disguised his formidable fighting skills. He was twenty-four years old, a warrior and a captain. Those who did not know the portly Norman thought him too young to be captain of Strongbow’s household warriors, too inexperienced to command. They saw him laughing and drinking with his milites and believed him to be a fool, too familiar with the men he was meant to be commanding. They dismissed him as insignificant and called him Raymond le Gros. But beneath the friendly exterior was a hard and skilful warrior of great renown on the March of Wales.

The two men struggled to hold off his attack as they backtracked. Their chainmail hauberks stopped Raymond’s blows from puncturing the skin but could not prevent the power and weight of his sword causing severe bruising. Sir William’s men fell back before Raymond’s offensive.

‘Come back,’ he shouted as the two men finally fled his onslaught. ‘You can’t run away from Raymond the Fat.’ He tilted his head back and laughed long and hard. ‘Alright, maybe you can,’ he shouted at the duo’s backs as they sprinted away with the remainder of William de Braose’s warriors. He watched as they made their way to regroup with the other horsemen at the mouth to the valley.

His courser was watching the fight from nearby, his ears twitching nervously. Raymond walked over and soothed Dreigiau’s nose. Horses whose riders had been unseated wandered listlessly around Dreigiau, as if awaiting his guidance.

‘Good boy,’ Raymond told his courser. The conrois’ only casualty was Harald of Wallingford. He was pale, suffering from a vicious cut to his groin which was spouting blood that would not stop. Raymond knew that his miles would probably not survive, but he bound the wound tightly and then lifted Harald onto the back of a nearby horse on his stomach, stuffing his good leg into a stirrup.

Raymond then jumped up onto Dreigiau’s back and looked across the grassy expanse at Sir William’s men. He counted eighteen on horseback, almost double the number at his disposal, and they still blocked his path home through the valley to Striguil.

‘What are we going to do?’ Bertram d’Alton asked as he pulled up alongside his commander. ‘Find a way back to Usk through the mountains?’

Raymond considered the question and studied the landscape for any advantage that he could use against Sir William de Braose. ‘We ride hard and fast...’ he began, but his warriors never heard the end of their captain’s order. A new, distinctive sound interrupted his words and every head turned towards the valley mouth to the south.

Suddenly everything had changed.

The noise was like the wings of a hundred birds hurrying to the air. It was the twang of bowstrings, Welsh bowstrings, and it was Sir William de Braose’s men who were the target of the arrow shafts. By the time that Sir William’s men had even realised that they were under attack, the Welshmen each had two more arrows in the air and a fourth being nocked onto their bowstrings. Thirty of the best marksmen the March of Wales could offer had approached the Normans through the forest to the west and their arrows were tearing apart the Abergavenny horsemen.

And worse, Sir William hesitated.

The Lord of Abergavenny had learned to fight in England and France against well-ordered cavalry and infantry. Archers were an entirely different proposition to anything he had ever encountered before. Unsure of whether to advance or retreat further into the trees, he dithered as around him his men fell to the deadly arrow storm.

‘The Welsh will deal with them,’ the esquire, William de Vale, told Raymond with a happy glint in his eyes. ‘And then we can escape!’ Some others joined the mirth at their enemy’s misfortune until Borard told them to shut up. He saw the look on his commander’s face and it was not delight which he perceived. Raymond watched the attack on the men of Abergavenny in grave silence.

‘New plan,’ Raymond stated so that all his warriors could hear him. ‘First, we get to those houses.’ He indicated towards the thatched, squat rooftops of the Welsh homestead from which William de Braose had appeared before their fight. ‘Dismount, stay low and go fast,’ he commanded. A jangle of chainmail and weaponry accompanied the motion as the men leapt down from horseback. They crouched, shields swung onto shoulders, and turned their spears upside down so that the sun did not reflect off their bright blades and give away their position to the sharp-eyed Welsh archers. Raymond led them at a jog slightly north and westwards before looping south towards the Welsh wattle-and-mud buildings.

‘Shut up,’ he whispered loudly at William de Vale who had begun talking again. ‘And don’t you lose those spurs,’ he warned the youngster. William, an esquire on the verge of ending his apprenticeship, had been given a set of cheap spurs and told not to misplace them or face a forfeit. Of course the other horsemen had spent the rest of the journey from Usk trying to steal them from him, dreaming up ever worsening punishments when he found that they had taken.

It was only a few hundred paces to the houses and Raymond went quickly. There was no time to scout ahead, not if he was going to stop the Welsh from wiping out all of Sir William de Braose’s raiders. Instead Raymond gripped his lance tightly and kept an eye firmly on the buildings as he approached. In the long grass he stumbled over the first body. It was a young Welsh boy.

‘God’s teeth,’ William de Vale exclaimed. There was a gaping wound across the boy’s face. Hoof marks dotted the ground around his prone body. One of the Abergavenny horsemen had cut him down as he ran for his life.

‘Keep moving,’ Borard hissed. He grabbed William by the shoulder as he stopped to stare at the body, and shoved him in the direction of the low, thatched houses which loomed a short distance ahead.

As they approached the first building, Raymond indicated that his warriors should stop and allow him to go forward alone. He handed his reins to Borard and hefted a crossbow in both hands, darting between two of the houses. The walls were made of twisted branches and cut turf which had been recently repaired with mud, smeared thick. Weeds grew tall in the crammed space. Flies careered around his head. The upland farmstead had probably been used for generations by the same family, visited only in the summer months to allow their winter pastures in the lowlands to recover.

It would never be used again, he quickly understood.

Still hidden between the buildings, Raymond stared into the small communal area in the middle of the group of buildings. His shallow breath stopped dead as he gazed between the upturned wicker baskets and forgotten cooking fires. He had feared ambush in the village, but he knew now that there would be none for the trap had already closed. It had claimed the lives of the Welsh family.

Raymond could see at least twelve bodies. The men had obviously attempted to put up a fight, but farmers could not hope to win against armoured warriors. Three women lay in disturbing, contorted positions. It was obvious what had happened. The men of Abergavenny had ridden north, away from Strongbow’s sacked manors, when they had discovered that they were being tracked. Half the force had hidden downwind to the east while the larger group had taken up position amongst the houses. They had laid a snare for Raymond. To aid the deception, and to make sure that those who pursued them were not alerted to the trap, Sir William had silenced every voice in the village.

Raymond stepped out from beneath the shadow of the building, his crossbow still raised. There was not a sound within the farmstead, but he could still hear the shouts of the battle going on between Seisyll’s Welshmen and Sir William de Braose’s horsemen. For a moment he considered abandoning his plan to assist the lordly creature who had ordered the massacre.

‘I should let Seisyll exact justice,’ he muttered, his jaw set in anger as he looked down on the body of another child.

Movement to his right caused him to swing around, his considerations swept away by a surge of fear. A woman was tied by her arms to a spear staked deep in ground and had been muffled by a red and blue pennant. She kicked in a last, desperate effort to free her hands, her eyes frantic and locked on Raymond’s crossbow.

‘It’s alright,’ he told the girl in stuttering Welsh. ‘I will not hurt you.’ She was not the only person who still lived. Tied to the same stake, beaten bloody and purple with bruises, was a young man. The only reason that Raymond knew he was living was because he too was bound. The boy did not even need to be gagged, such were the extent of his injuries. The captain wondered who the girl was and why she and the unconscious boy alone had been spared death.

‘The Devil take them,’ said a shocked Borard as he came to Raymond’s side and caught sight of the bodies. He produced a dagger from his belt and moved to cut the girl’s bonds.

‘Leave her,’ Raymond told him, ‘for now. This way.’ The captain waved for Borard to follow him back outside the village where his dismounted milites awaited his orders. He took a deep breath before turning towards the bearded Borard. ‘This is what we are going to do. Get each of our men to go into the village and find a body – tell them to do it quietly! They must bring one back and then get them up on a separate courser. They must be sitting straight up, not strung across on their bellies.’ He raised his arm to vertical in front of him to emphasise his point.

‘How will they stay upright?’ Borard looked confused at Raymond’s odd commands, but knew better than to question them; his captain had a plan and he was willing to trust that it was one that would bring the Striguil men victory.

‘Slide a lance down through the neck of their shirts and then through their trouser leg,’ he suggested. ‘Then tie their feet under the coursers’ bellies and their hands to the pommels. Bind the end of each lance to one of the stirrups so that it cannot fall out.’ Borard nodded in answer and dashed off to complete his task.

Raymond watched his warriors’ reaction as Borard delivered his orders. Most swapped confused glances with their fellows, shifting their weight from foot to foot as they attempted to comprehend. After a few seconds, the first few broke away and cantered towards the Welsh houses to carry out his instructions. The older men followed more soberly, still questioning Borard about Raymond’s plan as they disappeared between the buildings. Raymond did not follow. Instead he grabbed the bridle of the horse carrying Harald of Wallingford. The injured warrior whimpered and bit down on his lip to mask his pain. Blood dribbled freely from his right foot to the ground.

‘Harald, I need one last favour of you today,’ Raymond said as the first of men, Nicholas de Lyvet, returned dragging a dead Welshman towards the horses. Within seconds more of his men had passed by and begun their work.

‘I am leaving you with our coursers,’ Raymond told Harald. The injured man looked pained and pale but he nodded his head aggressively, his eyes screwed shut to mask the hurt. ‘I want you to walk them northwards. The rest of the horses will be nervous, but they will flock behind you,’ Raymond continued. ‘Lead them north,’ he repeated, ‘and make sure the Welsh see you. Make them think we are retreating.’ Raymond squeezed his friend’s shoulder. ‘Go north for five minutes and then circle back. Five minutes then wait for us to get back to the farmstead.’

‘I can do that,’ Harald replied.

Raymond smiled and squeezed Harald’s forearm. He turned to find that his milites had accomplished his orders far more easily than he had imagined. Each of their nine horses had a body tied to their saddles. From close up they looked like the company of corpse-warriors from the nightmares of children, but Raymond knew that from this distance and in the fading light, the Welsh would only see tired Norman warriors, spear pennants fluttering above them, as they retreated in the face of an overwhelming show of force.

With a final glance towards the heavens, he slapped Harald’s courser on the flank and watched as the Englishman rode away from the farmstead. Nine ill-at-ease coursers with dead Welsh villagers strapped securely to their saddles followed him.

‘Christ on his cross, Raymond,’ hissed Walter de Bloet as he watched the coursers follow, ‘you are sending them away with bloody Harald? He’s half dead! How will we get away from the Welsh if they scatter?’

Raymond felt the all too familiar frustration rising in his throat. Not a day had gone by since his advancement to command of Strongbow’s conrois ahead of Walter that he had not been the recipient of one of his snide comments. He had questioned every order. Every slip-up was reported.

‘The captain knows what he is doing,’ Borard answered sternly before raising a hopeful eyebrow at Raymond.

‘I promise you that we will make it home,’ Raymond whispered to his men who collected around him. ‘I swear it to St Maurice,’ he stated confidently. ‘Shields, crossbows and sidearms,’ he stated, giving his own crossbow a small shake. Each man nodded back to indicate that they were armed and ready. ‘Follow me then,’ Raymond said and gestured for his men to follow him back into the farmstead. ‘Stay quiet,’ he added. Despite the order his men were loud as they jogged through the buildings to the far end of the village. Chainmail rattled and weapons clattered off benches and walls. Wooden shields rang as they bumped together and one man cursed loudly as he caught his armoured knee on a cooking pot hung beside an open fire.

‘Quiet, damn you,’ Borard angered under his breath and forced the man onwards past the two people, still gagged and tied to the post.

Raymond reached the edge of the village first. There, he watched the fight going on between the Abergavenny men and the Welsh. It was, to Raymond’s eye, less a battle than it was a bloodbath. Without crossbows or archers, Sir William de Braose’s horsemen could not fight back. The English lord had finally moved his men back under the shelter of the forest, but Raymond knew that the horsemen would still be taking damage from the arrows as they punched through the treetops and rebounded off trunks. Had it been he in Sir William’s position he would’ve fled from the field as fast as he could, for the Welsh could not hope to keep up with the Normans on horseback. However, he suspected that the Lord of Abergavenny would think it dishonourable to follow that course of action.

The Welshmen, meanwhile, were lost in the mechanical action of unleashing their bombardment upon the hated invader of their lands. The marksmen did not even require order from their leader, but nocked and loosed arrow after arrow wherever a target presented itself. Some had even emerged from the forest and had turned their backs on the buildings where Raymond’s men were hidden in order to get a better shot at Sir William’s men.

Raymond turned on his heels and looked beyond his warriors, huddled behind him, and back over the thatched roofs. On the low ridge a quarter of a mile away, he spied Harald and his macabre column moving slowly away. He knew that the Welsh leader – perhaps Lord Seisyll for all Raymond knew – would’ve posted men to keep an eye on the smaller group of Normans while he destroyed William de Braose. He urged the Welsh scouts to spot his feint and to respond to it in an aggressive manner.

‘Come on, see Harald. Move,’ he whispered towards the woods which hid the archers. Moments later Raymond smiled as the Welshmen did exactly what he had hoped: believing the threat of the cavalry to be gone, they ran out of the trees to take up a better position to finish off Sir William de Braose and the men of Abergavenny.

‘This is it lads,’ Raymond whispered to his troops. ‘We go forward quickly and quietly in two ranks. Do not stop or they will cut us down with their arrows.’ Each of his men nodded their assent, their fingers dancing on their crossbow triggers.

The fields stretched southwards for less than a half mile to where began the forested pass back to Striguil. Thirty long-haired Welshmen streamed out of the forest into the meadow and began to loose their arrows again. From amongst the trees, screams sounded, more frequent than they had before.

The Welsh were now between Raymond de Carew’s men and their home, but they had become completely distracted by their desire to destroy Sir William de Braose and were unaware that there were still Normans behind them; Normans who were now fast approaching their vulnerable backs. Raymond’s men advanced quickly, hidden behind their teardrop shields, weapons in hand and their thigh muscles burning due to the crouched stance which took them forward. Only fifty paces remained between the Striguil men and their targets.

‘Saesneg!’ shouted a Welsh archer in the rear rank of their number. Immediately twenty bows swung around to point at the men of Striguil.

‘Brace,’ Raymond shouted to his men, all subterfuge forgotten. ‘St Maurice will protect us!’

Behind him he heard men begin to inhale heavily in anticipation of what was to come. The first Welsh arrows flew in their direction with a sharp whistle of goose feathers. They smashed into the small Norman force.

‘Faster,’ he shouted, ‘keep tight.’ Raymond chanced a fleeting look over the rim of his shield but was forced to duck down when another arrow skimmed off his helmet. A grunt behind him told him that someone had sustained a wound from the glancing blow. The captain did not stop to check but dragged his men forward towards Seisyll’s arrows.

‘Hold your shape,’ he roared. Another flight whistled as they arced towards the Normans. At thirty yards, the arrows partially punched through the wooden shields. Two steel arrowheads poked through close to Raymond’s face, causing him a great deal of surprise. He knew that soon their shields would offer no shelter from the powerful Welsh longbows.

‘Halt,’ he shouted. All his men obeyed the order and then copied their captain, driving the pointed tip of their shields into the soft soil. ‘Prepare,’ Raymond commanded and watched as the men on either side removed their arms from the leather straps of their shield so that they could heft their crossbow in both hands.

‘Aim for their guts!’ he called and leaned over his shield. Dead ahead he saw a Welshman, his long brown shirt reaching to his bare knees as he stooped to pull an arrow from the ground. Raymond squeezed the trigger and felt the stock jump as the bolt disappeared and the bowstring snapped forward. All around him the staccato slap sounded as his men unleashed a volley of bolts towards the Welsh. Unlike the Normans, the enemy did not have shields and a clutch of men tumbled to the ground, including the man at whom Raymond had been aiming. Moments later their screams began to echo around the meadow.

‘Shields,’ Raymond called to his milites. He dropped his crossbow on the ground and drew his sword from his scabbard. ‘Quickly  we cannot allow them to reform.’ Almost immediately he felt a shield rim lock with his own and he turned to see Borard on his right, a hand axe ready. A second thump made him turn. Dependable Bertram d’Alton had taken up position on his left and beyond him Walter de Bloet, with a sullen look upon his face, made sure his shield overlapped that of his fellow miles.

‘Forward!’ Raymond commanded.

It was a tiny shieldwall, but it was strong and two ranks thick. Yet Raymond knew that he had to close the gap between his men and the Welsh or the next flight of arrows would cause casualties. He dared not raise his head to look at the enemy for fear that an enemy marksman pierce his eye with his sharpshooting. He knew that an archer could shoot an arrow every five seconds and he knew that if it was to come, the next flight would be soon. Raymond took a deep breath in anticipation and muttered a short prayer to the soldier’s saint.

But the enemy’s arrows never struck home. Instead a thunder of hooves and a cry of dread caused Raymond to call his conrois to a halt, earning him a questioning look from Borard. Gingerly, both men glanced over the rim of their shields.

A hoot of relief escaped Raymond’s lungs as he watched the Welsh dashing towards the woods. Sir William, nestling in the forest, had watched Raymond’s brave advance and, feeling the arrow storm lessen as the Welsh had turned to combat the more immediate threat from the men of Striguil, had charged the enemy position, scattering the bowmen. Few were quick enough to outpace Sir William’s vengeful horsemen and, as Raymond watched, a number were crushed beneath their charge.

‘Let’s get them,’ exclaimed Denis, pointing his lance at the fleeing Welsh.

‘No,’ Raymond countered. ‘Remain in order. We retreat back to the houses. And keep your eyes on them ‘uns from Abergavenny.’ He did not want to get caught in the open by the horsemen who, although fighting beside the men of Striguil now, would certainly ride them down if they saw that they had the opportunity. For the moment Sir William’s men were venting their aggression on the Welsh.

As his warriors edged backwards, Raymond watched the Abergavenny horsemen, so different to the style of his own milites. Strongbow’s warriors, like all men of the Welsh March, valued flexibility and speed whereas those led by Sir William put more stock in a knight’s ability to keep a secure seat, wield a heavy blade and crush his opponent. And what an adversary Sir William looked as he rode down the archers! A Welshman tumbled below his destrier and the young lord did not even break stride. After he had abandoned his twelve-foot lance in another bowman’s spine, Sir William drew his broadsword, cleaving a man’s head in two with a single sweep. After him came his milites and they tore into the scattered Welsh like bears.

Raymond’s men retreated to the farmstead as the first Welsh survivors of Sir William’s charge made it to the relative safety of forest. Raymond was sure he saw Seisyll’s bearded face amongst those men, but he could not be sure. It would be a shame if the Welsh chieftain was dead, he thought. The few times they had met, Seisyll had proved a jovial companion, ready to make fun of one and all around him; a good man whether at wine or war.

‘What is our condition?’ he asked Borard as he entered the farmstead.

His friend didn’t answer at once, instead nodding towards the wall of one of the houses where Harald of Wallingford sat propped up, his chin on his chest and his hands limp and bloody on his lap.

‘He was dead by the time we made it back,’ Borard told his captain.

‘Well, at least he died a hero,’ Raymond said as he returned his sword to its scabbard. A Welsh archer lay on his back in the middle of the nameless farmstead, a crossbow bolt standing tall in his chest. The bowman, it seemed, had fled the slaughter of the battlefield and made his way to the village where he had been shot by Harald’s crossbow. ‘We will write a song about his brave end when we get back to Striguil.’

‘It wasn’t Harald who killed him,’ Borard said, lifting his chin towards the horses. Dead dead Welsh bodies still slumped upon their backs. Tending to the coursers was the girl who had been tied up in the village. Harald’s crossbow was strapped across her back. She was stroking the coursers’ muzzles and speaking to the frightened horses in soothing tones.

‘Seems Harald knew that he hadn’t much time left and that he couldn’t defend our horses. He cut the woman free when he saw the Welshman headed this way,’ Borard continued. ‘She shot him dead. We found her there, standing over the body laughing and trying to reload.’ He lowered his voice. ‘She is pretty, there is no doubt about it, but she is possessed of the Devil,’ he said with all the certainty of a bishop speaking of Christ’s miracles.

‘Madam,’ Raymond addressed the woman, ignoring Borard’s last comment. She immediately brought the crossbow up and pointed the weapon at his chest.

‘We didn’t mess with her,’ Borard whispered from behind him, ‘and neither should you.’

Raymond raised one hand in the air and smiled. For a long time he said nothing, but simply stared at the woman amongst the coursers. Eventually Dreigiau walked away from the conrois and nuzzled at his master’s hand, encouraging affection and Raymond to hand over a treat.

‘Who are you?’ the woman suddenly spoke. She did not lower the crossbow.

‘I am Raymond.’

‘Are you with Sir William?’ she asked, shoulder tightening on the crossbow stock. ‘If not then why did you help him?’

Raymond looked straight at her. ‘He is from England and they,’ he pointed a thumb in the direction of a scream which sounded behind him by the forest, ‘are Welsh. One is my enemy while the other is merely a rival. Thank you by the way,’ he added quickly.

‘Thank me for killing that cur?’ Her anger was vicious as she kicked the dead Welshman, still lying in the pathway. ‘I thought he was one of Sir William’s men. You all deserve worse than death.’

‘Well, you did me a great service,’ Raymond said with a smile so wide it matched her fury, ‘and I thank you. Our horses are more important to us than anything else.’ He rubbed Dreigiau’s back. He knew why the woman was angry. It was a common enough occurrence on both sides of the Welsh-Norman conflict. ‘And because of that service I will not stop until I have repaid my debt to you. Anything you ask of me, I will do.’ The crossbow dropped an inch as Raymond pushed Dreigiau in the woman’s direction. Obediently, his courser walked over to her and pushed his head into her shoulder, forcing her to set down the crossbow and stroke his face with both hands.

‘My name is Alice,’ she finally admitted, ‘and he,’ she indicated towards the insensible young man still staked to the ground, ‘is Geoffrey, my brother. We are from Abergavenny, but we can never go home while William de Braose is alive.’

More questions were raised in Raymond’s mind but he had more pressing matters than interrogating the woman. One thing he was sure of, though: she and her brother were the only people left alive in the village, and that meant that they were valuable to William de Braose and thus worth taking back to Strongbow.

‘You should see to your brother. But will you also keep my horses safe again for me, Alice of Abergavenny?’ he asked. She nodded blankly and watched suspiciously as he bowed before her and left her amongst the coursers.

William de Vale was complaining and that was a good sign in Raymond’s estimation. The esquire was propped up against the wall of a house on the far side of the compound. ‘It hurts, it hurts, its hurts. Don’t bloody touch it, you bastard,’ he shouted at Walter de Bloet who prodded at the arrow shaft which poked from his shoulder.

‘Stop bleating like a baby,’ Walter replied. ‘It was a deflection and it hasn’t hit anything major. I have cut off the barb so we may as well get it out now. Grit your teeth and I will give it a tug.’

‘You’ll do no such thing until I get a mug of mead in my belly,’ replied William.

‘How is he?’ Raymond asked Walter.

‘He won’t let me pull the arrow out, but you possess medical skills beyond mine,’ Walter said as he climbed to his feet and walked away. ‘So you can deal with it.’

Raymond ignored Walter’s ire and knelt down beside the esquire to examine the wound. ‘What’s today’s forfeit for losing the spurs?’

William’s face dropped as if he was threatened with another arrow to the shoulder. ‘Oh no,’ he said and began desperately searching his clothes with his uninjured hand.

‘Head shaved into a Benedictine tonsure, isn’t it? Bertram is a right bastard for suggesting that penalty,’ Raymond said as he produced the spurs from his own pocket. He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. ‘But I think that you can do without the forfeit this one time. It’ll be our secret.’ He held out the spurs to William. As the esquire leaned forward to take them Raymond shot his hand out and tugged the arrow shaft from his shoulder in one swift movement. William screeched and leant forward, holding his wound and cursing the woman who had given Raymond de Carew life.

‘Good lad,’ Raymond said, giggling at the esquire’s expletive tirade. ‘Get someone to clean it and bind it.’ He turned to Walter, standing a little way off and watching him. ‘Get those bodies down off the coursers. I suggest that you don’t annoy the woman,’ he warned, lifting his chin in the direction of Alice of Abergavenny.

‘Horseman approaching!’ The warning came from the edge of the settlement and it prevented Walter from arguing with his captain. Raymond walked slowly towards the rattle of hooves which came from beyond the farmstead’s limits. The noise slowed as the rider came close and, as he cleared the buildings, Raymond was able to see that it was an esquire in the livery of Abergavenny who approached the settlement. Three more men waited outside crossbow range for permission to approach. Raymond, chainmail hauberk hood down on his shoulders, stepped out and nodded to the youngster, letting him know that it was alright for his master to approach. The lightly-armed boy turned around and cantered back towards his comrades with his answer. Moments later, Raymond met Sir William de Braose for the second time that day.

‘Sir William,’ Raymond reached up and took his destrier’s bridle in his hand as he acknowledged the knight. Two warriors were with the young lord, still with Welsh blood wet upon their weaponry.

‘Raymond,’ Sir William jumped down from his steed, ignoring the captain’s outstretched hand, staring instead into the heart of the farmstead. ‘I owe you thanks, I suppose, despite you being a callous breaker of the peace. Still, you did save us from Seisyll’s tricks,’ he said and finally greeted Raymond by shaking his hand. In spite of his smile, there was something in Sir William de Braose’s eyes that Raymond did not trust. He eyed the nobleman’s two men-at-arms who had remained in the saddle and shifted uncomfortably. Raymond wondered why they were so nervous. Sir William’s attempt to appear friendly was even more concerning, but he was not about to start another fight with the Abergavenny men, not unless it was unavoidable. He still needed a way back to Striguil.

‘Can I offer you some mutton?’ Raymond asked, inviting him to join him on a bench outside one of the buildings. ‘My men have rounded up the animals that belonged to this farmstead. I suspect that their former owners will no longer need them.’

‘Perfect. I’m famished. Killing Welshmen does build up a mighty hunger.’

Nodding despite his disgust, Raymond leant in close and whispered into Borard’s ear. The miles, who had followed him to the parley, then walked back into the farmstead to organise food while his captain offered Sir William a stool in the shade of the houses. ‘We had best sit outside the walls,’ he told his guest, ‘the stink in there is unimaginable.’ He indicated back towards the centre of the village where his men were removing the dead Welsh bodies from the back of their coursers. Sir William looked momentarily discomfited, but Raymond quickly changed tack. ‘So old Seisyll got away?’

‘He did,’ William de Braose replied. ‘If I had been able to lay my hands on him I would have been awfully popular with my mother.’

Raymond laughed politely. It was said that Seisyll had murdered William’s uncle, the former Lord of Abergavenny, Henry de Hereford, some years before and as Sir William reminded him of the story Raymond studied the young nobleman. A favourite of King Henry, Raymond remembered hearing, and heir to one of the most powerful barons in England. His mother had brought the powerful Welsh fiefs of Abergavenny and Brecon to her marriage bed and it seemed that her son had taken control of those lands in her name. What possible reason had brought William de Braose on this unimportant raid into Strongbow’s lands, Raymond could not imagine. He suspected that it involved Alice of Abergavenny and her brother, Geoffrey, but as yet he did not know how they fitted into that story.

‘Good, good,’ Sir William smiled at Borard who returned a little while later with bread and mutton in carved wooden bowls. As they ate, the two men swapped news from around Wales and England. The biggest gossip was that Prince Owain of Gwynedd had died and his son, Hywel, was facing rebellion by his stepmother and half-brothers.

‘I hear that Hywel has been forced to flee to Ireland by the savage woman and that she keeps her sons prisoner,’ Sir William told Raymond with a laugh. ‘Speaking of Ireland - what about that scoundrel Robert FitzStephen and decrepit old Maurice FitzGerald? I hear that they have done exceedingly well for themselves. They’ve managed to get their hands on a Norse town. I may put together an adventure of my own and get a bit of this land across the sea that seems so easy to take.’

Raymond nodded and smiled. It was obvious that Sir William did not realise that he was talking to the nephew of both men. He also knew that his reason for coming back to the farmstead was not to talk about mercenaries in distant Ireland. He waited for an opportune pause in conversation. ‘So what can I do for you, Sir William? You are free to leave, or track Seisyll at your leisure. I am sure that you don’t need my help for that.’ He lifted the bony remnants of lamb from his own dish and pointed at the forest. ‘But in case you do, he went that way.’

Sir William grimaced as he slowly finished his mouthful of oatcake and mutton. ‘I have an offer for you, Raymond,’ he said. ‘We left two alive amongst these houses. I will give you ten marks for them both.’

‘A lot of money,’ Raymond nodded. ‘So who are you getting for such a price?’

‘No one of importance,’ Sir William claimed. A nervous smile stretched across his face. ‘Escaped prisoners only.’

‘Expensive prisoners.’

Sir William’s cheeks flared pink. ‘I think you will find the toll to pass through the valley expensive also.’ He nodded southwards. Raymond could see a number of fires which gave away the position of the Abergavenny warriors. ‘Hand over my prisoners and I will let you go with my thanks and pocket full of silver.’

Raymond did not have the chance to answer. A scream behind them startled both men who jumped to their feet spilling their stew on the ground. Alice of Abergavenny burst from between the houses fumbling with her crossbow. In her haste she dropped the bolt and stooped to retrieve it. Behind her came young Geoffrey, her brother, heavily bruised but finally conscious and pleading with his sister to stop.

‘You!’ she yelled at Sir William, ignoring Geoffrey as the tears poured down her dirty face. Finally righting the crossbow, she brought it up and pointed it at the nobleman’s chest.

Sir William raised a hand as another smile spread across his face. ‘Alice, my love,’ he managed to mumble before she squeezed the crossbow’s release trigger. It was a point blank shot and he could not have done anything to stop the bolt. Not even a shield could stop a quarrel at that range, but in her anger Alice had not taken aim properly and the bolt seared through the surcoat and between his legs to become buried in the green grass at his rear. Not that Sir William realised immediately that he was not injured. He sprawled on the ground, only recognising that he was not hurt after a few seconds of searching his body for a wound.

‘Kill her,’ he commanded his two followers.

Alice was on her knees, crying and muttering incoherently. The boy, Geoffrey, stood over her, fists raised and fear evident on his bruised and swollen face. He tried to calm his sister and pulled the crossbow from her hands in an effort to defend her from the two advancing men-at-arms, but he did not have any crossbow shafts to shoot or the strength to load it.

In any event, Raymond stepped between William de Braose’s warriors and the two youngsters, his bulk as intimidating as any castle. ‘You will not touch her,’ he said, all trace of friendliness and humour gone as he pointed the leg of lamb at them as if it was a weapon. Both men had watched Raymond in action earlier in the day and had heard the many stories of his prowess in battle, but they seemed doubtful as they watched the stout man with the friendly face place his hand on Alice’s head. They may have been nervous but had been given a command by their lord and so they stalked forward tentatively, step by step, ready to strike.

‘I wouldn’t bloody try it if I were you,’ a voice sounded behind the two men. It was Borard and he had Sir William on his knees, one hand gripping a bunch of the nobleman’s long hair at the nape of his neck. The other held a dagger across his throat. Sir William tried to struggle but Borard held him still in a powerful grip. ‘One move and he is dead.’ Borard smiled as he spoke. Glancing at each other, the Abergavenny men lowered their swords and waited while Raymond’s men, drawn out of the farmstead by the noise, gruffly took hold of their hauberks, throwing them to their knees in the dusty mud like their lord. Sir William grimaced at his warriors’ meek compliance.

‘I’ll ask again,’ Raymond rounded on Sir William. ‘Who are these two that you so badly want dead?’ The young lord licked his front teeth beneath his sweaty upper lip, but said nothing. A nod from Raymond brought a huge clout from Borard’s forearm across William’s head.

‘The Devil take you,’ Sir William shouted in shock. His two warriors frowned but could do nothing to assist their lord. After a few seconds of rubbing the back of his head, the Lord of Abergavenny finally acquiesced and told Raymond what he wanted to know: ‘They are the bastards of Henry de Hereford, my uncle,’ he said, aiming a murderous glance at Borard.

‘That’s a lie!’ the young man, Geoffrey, exclaimed and jumped to his feet. ‘Father Peter told you that our parents were married under the eyes of God.’ His was an educated voice, like that of a priest or clerk.

Sir William laughed sharply to show his disdain for Geoffrey’s opinion. ‘I tell all my whores that I will marry them if they spread their legs wide enough,’ he sneered and looked pointedly at Alice, who began bawling even more violently. Grinning, Sir William shifted his view back to Geoffrey. ‘And if you had stayed in the monastery like a good little boy you would have had a fine life for a bastard.’

‘Enough,’ Raymond told them. He already knew what had befallen, or could guess it; a rival claimant to a great castle had been discarded as illegitimate and hidden in a monastery. It was not the first time such a thing had occurred; however, there seemed to be much more to Alice’s story, a darker tale Raymond reckoned, and Sir William de Braose was central to it.

‘I imagine that you do not want to return to your Holy Order?’ Raymond addressed Geoffrey, but he looked to Alice to answer.

‘I am the rightful Lord of Abergavenny,’ Geoffrey stood slowly, bruises and blood covering his face, ‘as was my father, and I will no longer be an oblate at a monastery, but a warrior and a lord of a great citadel.’

Sir William laughed scathingly until Borard shook him to silence.

Raymond could see the tears glistening Geoffrey’s eyes in the effort of holding his gaze. Half of him wanted to chuckle at this frail youth who wanted to challenge the power of William de Braose for a barony in the Welsh mountains. The other part of Raymond pitied the desperate young man who obviously had spirit and bravery to match that of his sister.

‘If that is your wish then you have the protection of Raymond de Carew. You and the Lady Alice will travel with us back to Striguil where your case will be judged by Strongbow.’

Geoffrey allowed a long breath to release from his mouth while his sister bit her lip to hold back the tears.

‘Thank you,’ Geoffrey managed to say.

‘What will we do with him, Raymond?’ asked Borard as he gave Sir William a small kick. ‘We could get a big ransom for this one. Those two might fetch something too,’ he indicated towards the two men-at-arms who still stood in their midst.

Raymond considered the question. On the one hand it would make the journey a profitable enterprise, but he knew that it would not end there. William de Braose’s father, Lord Bramber, was rich and powerful and would surely seek vengeance on those who had brought about the ignominious fall of his heir. Doubtless that would mean a determined assault on the lands and castle at isolated Usk. Raymond did the calculation in his head and there was only one outcome that was beneficial to his master, Strongbow.

‘We will release Sir William and his men. Take their weapons, armour and saddles. Then take their oaths that in return for their release they will not attack us,’ Raymond told his subaltern. ‘Then to make sure of that, take their clothes and send them on their way.’ Within minutes Raymond’s men had chivvied the three naked warriors of Abergavenny towards their horses at spearpoint. As soon as he was free Sir William, furious at such treatment of a knight, began spewing venom on the men of Striguil.

‘You will be sorry for choosing a whore and a bastard over my friendship,’ he shouted at the captain as he spun his horse on the dusty ground a few metres away. ‘If we should cross swords again, Raymond the Fat, you will die painfully like the pig you are.’ With a final spin and glare of pure rancour, the naked knight was gone back towards his troops in the forest.

‘Well,’ Raymond turned towards his troops standing silently at his back, ‘that was dramatic.’ As they giggled, the captain knelt and delicately lifted Alice to her knees.

‘I am not a whore,’ she appealed to Raymond. ‘He is my cousin,’ she moaned, ‘and he said that he would help Geoffrey if I...’ she began to sob again, ‘but he lied.’

Raymond smiled and lifted her to her feet so that she could bury her head in his shoulder. He then gently hoisted her legs into his arms and carried her back into the farmstead. There, he laid her down on his cloak between the horses and the roaring fire and left her to whimper and to sleep. As he turned to leave she reached up and took hold of two of his fingers. She said nothing but looked deep into his eyes. He smiled and held her gaze. Alice let go as her brother approached and rolled up into Raymond’s cloak.

‘Thank you for helping us, my lord,’ Geoffrey said softly.

‘Call me Raymond, and you have no need to thank me,’ he smiled. ‘Thank your sister. She saved our horses and for that I will long be in her debt. I will take you back to Striguil with us, but do not expect a warm welcome from Earl Strongbow. Your presence could make the whole region unstable, especially if Sir William or his father gets King Henry involved.’ The boy looked at Raymond, trying to understand how his squabble with his cousin could possibly involve the King of England. The captain smiled. ‘Don’t worry, lad,’ he said, ‘take care of your sister now and I will protect you both. We leave tomorrow before first light.’

‘How will you get home if Sir William blockades the valley mouth?’

Raymond nodded the wall of the nearest house. Bows and bundles of Welsh arrows had been salvaged from the battlefield by his men. None had been left for the Abergavenny warriors to scavenge. ‘The same way that Seisyll did it,’ he described. ‘But with a little more success, I would suggest.’

With that Raymond went back to his men and made sure that they were all getting some much-needed rest and food. He then congratulated them on their great skills during the fight, recanting the story of William de Vale’s injury much to their delight. While they began their teasing of the esquire Raymond wandered towards the edge of the farmstead to take the first watch. There, alone with his thoughts for the first time that day, he passed the time planning the next day’s adventure which would take him back to Striguil and to Strongbow, his lord.

Raymond smiled as the sun sank behind the hills. Munching on a large piece of mutton, he reckoned that it was good to be a warlord on the March of Wales.