The Falcon and the Flower Read Free

of Chepstow on the border between England and Wales, yet he hadn’t enjoyed the comforts of sleeping in his own bed for over a week. A hundred tentshad been set up in one of his meadows along the Severn River to accommodate the barons who had any holdings in Wales. Lord Llewelyn, self-styled King of Wales, had agitated an uprising, and once again the land was aflame with rebellion.
    William Marshal, the Earl of Pembroke, was the greatest landholder in Wales and held the county of Pembroke, which stretched from Saint Bride’s Bay to Carmarthen. But he was by no means the only one with vast interests in Wales. William Longsword, the Earl of Salisbury, had brought his knights and men-at-arms to the war conference, and his tents were set up next to those of Hubert de Burgh, Keeper of the Welsh Marches.
    One of the scouts they had sent out had just returned, and the leaders hurried to the large war tent they were using as headquarters. The scout, disguised as a Welshman with long mustaches, leather tunic, and bare arms with gold bracelets clasped above his biceps, threw off his sodden, mud-spattered, scarlet cloak and gratefully quaffed a tankard of ale that a quick-witted young squire had poured for him. “My lords,” he said, gasping, as he set the empty vessel down on the large map table, “the army Llewelyn has amassed is larger than we suspected. They have several castles under siege in the southwest.” He looked at William Marshal as he said this, for the southwest was his. “Others dotted throughout the southeast have already fallen. One at Bridgend and one at Mountain Ash, and one—”
    “By the breath of God, Mountain Ash is mine!” thundered Falcon de Burgh, his fierce eyes burning holes into the tired messenger. “De Burgh, to me!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. The family name was used as a rallying battle cry and his knights responded immediately, running to attend their commander’s call for aid. He quit the tent instantly, waiting to hear no more. He had earned the nickname Prince of Darkness, for whenseen in the madness of battle this dark young man resembled the devil himself.
    At the sudden departure William Longsword raised his brows and William Marshal answered his unasked question. Chuckling, he said, “By the bones of Christ, our enemy picked on the wrong man to steal from this time. De Burgh has only one castle, and if I know aught he will hold what is his.”
    Hubert de Burgh spoke up. “Horses sink exhausted beneath him; when his men beg leave to rest he leaves them in his dust with a snort of contempt. He is a truly stark Norman lord with fire in his belly.”
    The Earl of Salisbury, who had only daughters, said to Hubert, “You must be exceeding proud of such a son.”
    Hubert shook his head regretfully. “I am not his sire, milord, merely his uncle.”
    The war council dragged on until late into the night. One plan of action after another was examined and discarded because of its flaws. The next day saw some agreement among the barons and a plan of action was decided upon. The third day saw the order to strike camp, but not until day four did the large assembly of soldiers put out their last campfires.
    The Earl of Salisbury was just about to mount his great destrier when he saw a young knight he thought he recognized. “Aren’t you one of Falcon de Burgh’s men?” he asked, puzzled.
    Normand Gervase was amazed that the king’s half brother had just spoken to him. “Aye, milord earl,” he answered guardedly, wondering why he had been singled out.
    “Did you not accompany him to Mountain Ash? He rode out of here like the Angel of Death to retake his castle.”
    “We are back, milord earl,” Gervase said simply.
    “But what of Mountain Ash?” he probed.
    “He retook the castle. Discovered treachery from within. The castellan’s head now decorates the portcullis.”
    “But there was no time for a siege! How did he retake it?”
    “He scaled the walls, milord earl,”