Braose, and I have been given the commot of Elfael.” He thrust his hand into his shirt and brought out a square of parchment. “This I have received in grant from the hand of King William himself.”
“Liar!” roared Brychan, drawing his sword. All thirty-five of his warband likewise unsheathed their blades.
“You have a choice,” the Norman lord informed them imperiously. “Give over your weapons and swear fealty to me . . .”
“Or?” sneered Brychan, glaring contempt at the five Ffreinc warriors before him.
“Or die like the very dogs you are,” replied the young man simply.
“Hie! Up!” shouted the British king, slapping the rump of his horse with the flat of his sword. The horse bolted forward. “Take them!”
Iwan lofted his sword and circled it twice around his head to signal the warriors, and the entire warband spurred their horses to attack. The Normans held their ground for two or three heartbeats and then turned as one and fled back along the road, disappearing around the bend at the base of the bluff.
King Brychan was first to reach the place. He rounded the bend at a gallop, flying headlong into an armed warhost of more than three hundred Norman marchogi, both footmen and knights, waiting with weapons at the ready.
Throwing the reins to the side, the king wheeled his mount and headed for the riverbank. “Ambush! Ambush!” he cried to those thundering up behind him. “It’s a trap!”
The oncoming Cymry, seeing their king flee for the water with a score of marchogi behind him, raced to cut them off. They reached the enemy flank and careered into it at full gallop, spears couched.
Horses reared and plunged as they went over; riders fell and were trampled. The British charge punched a hole in the Norman flank and carried them deep into the ranks. Using spears and swords, they proceeded to cut a swathe through the dense thicket of enemy troops.
Iwan, leading the charge, sliced the air with his spear, thrusting again and again, carving a crimson pathway through horseflesh and manflesh alike. With deadly efficiency, he took the fight to the better-armed and better-protected marchogi and soon outdistanced his own comrades.
Twisting in the saddle, he saw that the attack had bogged down behind him. The Norman knights, having absorbed the initial shock of the charge, were now surrounding the smaller Cymry force. It was time to break off lest the war-band become engulfed.
With a flick of the reins, Iwan started back over the bodies of those he had cut down. He had almost reached the main force of struggling Cymry when two massive Norman knights astride huge destriers closed the path before him. Swords raised, they swooped down on him.
Iwan thrust his spear at the one on the right, only to have the shaft splintered by the one on the left. Throwing the ragged end into the Norman’s face, he drew his sword and, pulling back hard on the reins, turned his mount and slipped aside as the two closed within striking distance. One of the knights lunged at him, swinging wildly. Iwan felt the blade tip rake his upper back, then he was away.
King Brychan, meanwhile, reached the river and turned to face his attackers—four marchogi coming in hard behind levelled spears. Lashing out with his sword, Brychan struck at the first rider, catching him a rattling blow along the top of the shield. He then swung on the second, slashing at the man’s exposed leg. The warrior gave out a yelp and threw his shield into Brychan’s face. The king smashed it aside with the pommel of his sword. The shield swung away and down, revealing the point of a spear.
Brychan heaved himself back to avoid the thrust, but the spear caught him in the lower gut, just below his wide belt. The blade burned as it pierced his body. He loosed a savage roar and hacked wildly with his sword. The shaft of the spear sheared away, taking a few of the soldier’s fingers with it.
Raising his blade again, the king turned to meet the next attacker . . . but too late. Even as his elbow swung up, an enemy blade thrust in. He felt a cold sting, and pain rippled up his arm. His hand lost its grip. The sword spun from his fingers as he swayed in the saddle, recoiling from the blow.
Iwan, fighting free of the clash, raced to his lord’s aid. He saw the king’s blade fall to the water as Brychan reeled and