The Bristling Wood - Katharine Kerr [41]
Although there had been a farming village on the site for centuries, only twenty years before had the gwerbret in Elrydd decided that the kingdom needed a proper town at the joining of the rivers. Since the war with Pyrdon could flare up at any time, he wanted a staging ground for troops and a properly defensible set of walls around it. Finding colonists was no problem, because there were plenty of younger sons of noble lords willing to risk a move to gain land of their own, and plenty of bondsmen willing to go with them since they became free men once they left their bound land. When Caradoc’s troop rode into Camynwaen, they found a decent town of a thousand round houses behind high stone walls, turreted with watchtowers.
About a mile away was the stone dun of Tieryn Maenoic, and there Caradoc found the kind of hire he’d been looking for. Although Maenoic received maintenance from the gwerbret to the south, there was a shortage of fighting men in his vast demesne, and he had a private war on his hands. Since the authority of his clan was fairly new, he was always plagued with rebellions. For years now the chief troublemaker had been a certain Lord Pagwyl.
“And he’s gathered together a lot of bastards like himself,” Maenoic said. “And they claim they’ll ask the gwerbret to give them a tieryn of their own and not submit to me. I can’t stand for it.”
He couldn’t, truly, because standing for it would not only take half his land away but also make him the laughingstock of every man in Eldidd. A stout hard-muscled man, with a thick streak of gray in his raven-dark hair, Maenoic was steaming with fury as he strode back and forth, looking over the troop, who were sitting on their horses outside the gates to Maenoic’s dun. Caradoc and Maddyn followed a respectful distance behind while the lord judged the troop’s horses and gear with a shrewd eye.
“Very well, Captain. A silver piece per week per man, your maintenance, and of course I’ll replace any horses that you lose.”
“Most generous, my lord,” Caradoc said. “For peacetime.” Maenoic turned to scowl at him.
“Another silver piece per man for every battle we fight,” Caradoc went on. “And that’s paid for every man who dies, too.”
“Far too much.”
“As it pleases your lordship. Me and my men can just ride on.”
And over to your enemies, perhaps—the thought hung unspoken between them for a long moment. Finally Maenoic swore under his breath.
“Done, then. A second silver piece per man for every scrap.”
With an open and innocent smile, Caradoc bowed to him.
Maenoic’s new-built dun was large enough to have two sets of barracks and stables built into the walls—a blessing, because the mercenaries could be well separated from Maenoic’s contemptuous warband. At meals, though, they shared the same set of tables, and the warband made barely tolerable comments about men who fought for money and quite intolerable comments about the parentage and character of such who did so. Between them Caradoc and Maenoic broke up seven different fistfights in two days before the army was at last ready to ride out.
After he called in all his loyal allies, Maenoic had over two hundred and fifty men to lead west against his rebels. In the line of march, Caradoc’s troop came at the very end, behind even the supply wagons, and ate dust all day long. At night they made camp by themselves a little way off from the warbands of the noble-born. Caradoc, however, was summoned when the lords held a council of war. He came back to the troop with solid news and gathered them around him to hear it.
“Tomorrow we’ll see the first scrap. Here’s how things stand, lads. We’re coming to a river, and there’s a bridge there. Maenoic claims the taxes on it, but Pagwyl’s holding