A Wounded Realm

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘I don’t know if you tell the truth, sir,’ said the boy, ‘but the tale is good in the telling.’ He stepped forward and dropped another handful of oats into Gruffydd’s lap. ‘I have to go but if I can steal some bread, perhaps I will return before the night is done.’

  ‘Then you will be surely blessed by God,’ said Gruffydd and he watched the boy disappear into the tavern before scooping the oats into his mouth.

  Inside the tavern, men sat around trestle tables drinking frothing ale from leather jacks. Some had trenchers of food, ranging from bowls of meaty stew to plain bread and roasted turnip while the more affluent enjoyed fatty chunks of pork from the innkeeper’s own herd of pigs.

  To the rear, one man sat alone, keeping his own counsel as he mopped the last of the gravy from his bowl with a chunk of bread. Cynwrig the Tall was a trader from over the border, a tall and ungainly looking man, whose wiriness belied his natural strength. A wispy beard covered the lower half of his gaunt face while his greasy hair fell loose about the shoulders of his black leather jerkin.

  Cynwrig looked up nervously. His family had traded in Chester for many years and though they were accepted by most, he knew that the fact he was Welsh made him a likely target for insults and attack from English soldiers.

  The past few days had been good to Cynwrig and his purse was full of coins from the horses he had sold at market. His belly was full of cawl and eventually, he sat back to sup his ale, idly listening to the boastful talk of the men in the tavern.

  ‘Innkeeper, more bread,’ shouted one of the soldiers, ‘and make sure it is served by a pretty wench, not the hog who served us earlier.’

  The soldiers burst out laughing and the innkeeper’s wife placed a hand on her husband’s arm to stop him from responding.

  ‘Leave it,’ she said, ‘we want no trouble.’

  ‘I will not stand by and see you insulted so.’

  ‘It matters not, their bellies are full of beer and if we raise the ire of the earl’s men who knows what retribution they may seek. Leave them be for they will soon be abed.’

  The innkeeper shook his head in anger but maintained his silence, knowing his wife was right. The ale was served as requested and the innkeeper came over to clear the remains of Cynwrig’s meal.

  ‘They are in high spirits,’ said Cynwrig.

  ‘That they are,’ came the reply, ‘but I worry, for in my experience, high spirits mixed with ale and a sense of one’s own importance often turns into aggression.’

  ‘They seem harmless enough,’ said Cynwrig.

  ‘Tell that to your countryman,’ said the innkeeper, ‘I doubt he would share your view.’

  ‘My countryman?’

  ‘Aye, they have a Welshman in fetters at the front. I suspect he could persuade you these men are not of a gentle nature.’

  ‘And this man is a prisoner?’ said Cynwrig, his brow raising with interest.

  ‘Aye, I am assured he is a brigand of the highest order. Still, no man deserves to be treated so.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He is but skin and bone and sits amongst the filth as the rain pours upon his head,’ he said, shaking his head in disgust. ‘My pigs are treated better.’

  The innkeeper walked away to clear more tables as Cynwrig used his eating knife to prise some meat from between his teeth. To hear of a man in fetters was not unusual in Chester but the fact he was escorted by four guards suggested he was someone of importance. Huw the Fat, whose hatred of the Welsh was well known, rarely kept Welsh prisoners for long. They normally hung at the end of a rope a few hours after being caught. Cynwrig wondered what made this one different, a story he had once heard skirting around the edges of his memory.

  ‘Do you want more ale?’ asked a voice and Cynwrig looked up to see Tom holding a bucket and a ladle.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cynwrig and he placed a copper coin on the table as the boy ladled frothing ale into his wooden tankard.

  ‘You are wet,’ said Cynwrig.

  ‘The rain still falls,’ said the boy, ‘and I have had horses to sort out.’

  ‘Those of the soldiers?’

  Tom nodded.

  ‘Did you see their prisoner?’

  ‘I did. He is tethered to the hitching rail.’

  ‘Tell me, Tom,’ said Cynwrig, leaning forward, ‘what did you make of this man?’

  ‘He is a vagabond,’ said Tom, ‘and he scares me.’

  ‘Why do you say this? Did he threaten you?’

  ‘No, my lord, but he lays amongst the filth like a stuck pig.’

  ‘Yet you easily cast judgement.’

  ‘He has a silver tongue, my lord, and tried to tell me he was once the king of Gwynedd, but he fooled me not. Is there anything else?’

  Cynwrig shook his head and sat back, his mind racing at the boy’s words. The tale he had once heard flashed to the front of his mind – the story of a Welsh king who had disappeared into captivity after the battle of Mynydd Carn, a king named Gruffydd Ap Cynan. Surely, even if there was the faintest chance the prisoner was he, no matter how slight the likelihood, then Cynwrig owed it to his own conscience and to his country to find out.

  Quietly he sipped his ale, contemplating the possibility. Years earlier, Cynwrig’s father had fought against Gruffydd at Mynydd Carn under the command of Meilyr ap Rhiwallon and had been taken captive by Gruffydd’s army. Meilyr was subsequently proved to be a coward when he offered the lives of his fellow prisoners in return for his own life but had been killed in disgust by one of his own men, Edward Axe-hand. Many of the Powys prisoners, including Cynwrig’s father, were spared the blade and changed sides to fight on behalf of Gruffydd before being allowed to go home as free men. An unexpected gift Cynwrig’s family had never forgotten.

  Cynwrig quickly drained the remains of the beer in his tankard and pocketed what was left of his bread before donning his waxed cloak, and pulling the drawstring tight around his shoulders.

  ‘Leaving so early?’ asked the innkeeper, walking over to retrieve the tankard.

  ‘Aye,’ replied Cynwrig quietly. ‘I thought I should take my leave before they find out my nationality.’ He nodded towards the English soldiers who were well on their way to getting drunk.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said the innkeeper. ‘Until next time.’

  Cynwrig nodded and ducked out of the door.

  Outside, the rain was getting heavier, and the wind bit at Cynwrig as he hunched his shoulders and walked quickly towards the stable at the back of the tavern. Turning a corner he spotted the pathetic prisoner huddled against the wall, seeking whatever respite he could from the weather. Cynwrig looked around nervously before squatting on his haunches and shaking the man’s shoulder.

  Gruffydd jumped and uncurled himself from his protective ball.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Gruffydd.

  ‘My name is not important,’ said Cynwrig, ‘let’s just say I am a fellow countryman. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Always,’ said Gruffydd.

  Cynwrig handed over the bread and waited patiently as the man devoured it as quickly as he could.

  ‘Do you have ale?’ mumbled Gruffydd through a mouthful of bread.

  ‘Alas no, but I have water sweetened with honey.’

  Gruffydd nodded his thanks and took the leather flask to drink deeply. When he was done he handed back the flask and stared up at the stranger.

  ‘I don’t know who you are, friend, but you have my gratitude. My life is spent between such kindnesses and these days they are all too few.’

  ‘By your state I would venture you have spent many years imprisoned,’ said Cynwrig, ‘and I am curious why they have you outside of a dungeon.’

  ‘I am being transported from Bristol to Flint,’ said Gruffydd, ‘and suspect that once there I will finish my life at the end of a rope.’

  ‘Why take you there when they could just as easily hang you here?’

  ‘For in Flint it would be before the eyes of my fellow
countrymen and as such, my death will be used as an example of what happens to those who defy the rule of William Rufus.’

  ‘What people did you rule?’

  ‘Those of Gwynedd, for I am Gruffydd ap Cynan, once king of those lands.’

  Cynwrig stared at the pathetic man before him. It was hard to imagine him as anything else than a beggar.

  ‘A fine tale for one so destitute,’ he said eventually, ‘but perchance the ramblings of a madman.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Gruffydd, ‘and I cannot prove otherwise but look into my eyes, friend. Does my soul seem darkened by idiocy?’

  Silence fell between them until finally, Cynwrig drew a blade and leaned towards the captive.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Gruffydd, recoiling.

  ‘I am going to free you,’ said Cynwrig, quickly sawing at the leather ties. ‘I don’t know whether you be a king or a knave but what I do know is that we share a common heritage and you seem like a sane man. Be you a brigand then I will pay the price when I meet my maker, but if you speak true, then I am repaying a debt.’

  ‘What debt?’

  ‘The life of my father,’ said Cynwrig sawing at the tethers, ‘but we have little time and I will explain as we go.’

  Gruffydd gasped in disbelief.

  ‘Do you have horses?’ he asked as Cynwrig pulled him to his feet.

  ‘I do, but outside of the town. Can you run?’

  ‘Alas, my feet are but shreds of skin.’

  ‘Then I will carry you,’ said Cynwrig. He bent over and lifted Gruffydd onto his shoulder, surprised at how little the man weighed. Within moments Cynwrig the Tall was running through the darkness, carrying the King of Gwynedd to freedom.

  Ireland

  November 13th, AD 1094

  Though only thirteen years old, Gruffydd ap Rhys was already maturing into a strong fighter, as was to be expected of the son of a king. He took to his training each day with renewed vigour and as he struck the wooden dummies with all his might, he thought of his father, Rhys ap Tewdwr, taking strength from his memory, for though the training often tired him to the core, he was determined to become the best warrior he could be in order to avenge his father’s death.

  As long as he could remember, the ways of the warrior had been a daily lesson within the wards of his family’s castle but since the terrible events of the previous year, the security of his life had been shattered. The Normans had taken his father’s head at the battle of Brycheniog, along with those of his two half-brothers.

  Knowing her youngest son was probably destined to share a similar fate, his mother petitioned King Murcat of Dublin to take Rhys into his protection and though Murcat gladly agreed, Nesta, his older sister, stayed with their mother in Deheubarth.

  Since he had been in Ireland, Gruffydd ap Rhys, or Tarw as he was more commonly known, had been schooled in the arts of warfare by the warriors of Murcat’s army as well as in the ways of court etiquette by those closer to the king. Subsequently, he was growing into a fine young man, already bearing a hidden passion to return to Wales and free his father’s people from tyranny.

  One afternoon, during a particularly tiring bout of training, Tarw was interrupted by a servant calling out for him.

  ‘My lord, King Murcat wishes to see you.’

  Tarw paused at his work before wiping the sweat from his half-naked body, donning a tunic and running to the Irish king’s quarters. He knocked on the door before peering inside and seeing the king standing with his back to the fire.

  ‘Tarw, come in,’ said red-faced Murcat.

  The boy approached and knelt before the man who had treated him like a son.

  ‘Stand, boy,’ said Murcat, ‘such gestures are for the eyes of the court, between us there will always be equality as befits two kings.’

  ‘I am no king, my lord.’

  ‘Not yet, perhaps, but the rights are yours by birth and one day you will ride across Deheubarth at the head of an army ten thousand strong. Perhaps, on that day, I will kneel before you.’

  ‘No matter what my fate, my lord, I will always be proud to bend my knee before you.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Murcat, ‘come, share a flask of ale with me and tell me how went your day.’

  ‘The training goes well,’ said Tarw, ‘though truth be told, I find the larger shield cumbersome in the fight. I prefer the smaller round version.’

  ‘Ultimately you will use what makes you comfortable,’ said Murcat, ‘but in your training it is important you experience all weapons from broadsword to mace, for who knows what you will find in your hands upon the field of battle?’

  ‘I understand,’ said Tarw. He took a sip of ale and stared at the king, wondering why he had been summoned.

  ‘Tarw,’ said Murcat with a heavy sigh, ‘I have today received dispatches from your country and I bid you steel yourself for some upsetting news.’

  ‘My heart is already hardened from the deaths of my brothers and father,’ said Tarw, ‘so issue the news, my lord, you can wound me no more than I am now.’

  ‘Tarw,’ responded the king, ‘I have been informed that your sister has been taken into custody by William Rufus and sent to London as a ward of his court.’

  ‘What would the English king want of my sister?’ asked Tarw, bewildered by the news.

  ‘Who knows the mind of an English king?’ said Murcat. ‘Since William the Bastard died and Rufus ascended to the throne, his decisions have been as wild and varied as the wind. Perhaps he sees her as a threat?’

  ‘I don’t see why, my sister has no inclination towards regaining the throne of my father, and besides, I am the heir to the Tewdwr dynasty, not her.’

  ‘That may be so, but don’t forget, she shares the same bloodline as you and is descended directly from Hywel Dda. She is already twenty-one yet still unwed. Should she marry and have a son, your kinsmen could see him as the true king of Wales and rally behind his name. By taking her into his custody, Rufus has denied the Welsh that possibility.’

  Tarw’s eyes widened with anger.

  ‘If he harms a single hair on her head I swear he will feel my blade between his shoulders, king or no king.’

  ‘Cool your anger, Tarw,’ responded Murcat, ‘your enemy is in London, not Ireland. Anyway, I doubt your sister is in danger for her death could raise the ire of your countrymen and Rufus can’t risk that. I suspect she will be trained in the ways of the English court and perhaps married off to a suitable English noble.’

  ‘She would never do that,’ growled Tarw, ‘she would spit in the face of any Englishman seeking her hand.’

  ‘And since when have women had any say in who they wed?’ asked Murcat.

  ‘You don’t know Nesta,’ said Tarw, recalling the many fights he and his sister had shared as children, ‘she looks like an angel and fights like a wildcat.’ He smiled wryly. Although he worried for his sister, of all the people he knew, she would be able to look after herself.

  ‘Perhaps so, but this is the king of England we are talking about, he will suffer no such tantrums. He would have her beaten unto a whisker of her life should she rebel. No, I suspect her life will now be planned out before her.’

  ‘To serve the English is a fate worse than the most awful death,’ said Tarw quietly.

  ‘Perhaps, but see the good that comes out of this, at least she is alive. The last thing you want is to lose another sibling, especially after the deaths of your brothers.’

  ‘I have another brother.’

  ‘Ah yes, the missing Hywel, but, my boy, nobody has seen him since the year you were born. Surely you do not think he is still alive? Do not set your heart upon ever seeing him again, for though it pains me to say, it is unlikely he has survived being held hostage for this long.’

  ‘I will not believe it until I hear someone say that they saw him killed,’ said Tarw, his voice trembling, ‘for many was the night I overheard my father recount rumours from travellers who told of a captured prince deep in the dungeons
of an English castle. He searched for years but though Hywel was never found, the stories persisted and one day, I swear on my father’s grave, I will find him.’

  Murcat sighed and stared at the boy.

  ‘You are a stubborn young man, Tarw,’ he said, ‘but I admire your spirit.’

  For a while, Tarw allowed his mind to slip back to the time when he was a young boy. The many days he spent hunting alongside his father in the forests of Deheubarth and the long winter evenings before the fire in the main hall, wrapped in the protective arms of his mother.

  ‘Tarw,’ interrupted Murcat, ‘you do understand what is happening here?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tarw, ‘but what news of my mother?’

  ‘She is to travel with Nesta as her chaperone. Your lands at both Carew and Dinefwr are to be stewarded by a man going by the name of Marcus Freeman. Do you know of him?’

  Tarw thought back, remembering the times the Welsh nobleman had rode alongside his father as his trusted man and had been responsible for bringing the reinforcements to the battle of Mynydd Carn just in time to avoid a disastrous defeat. Subsequently, he had gone on to fight alongside Tewdwr in many other conflicts until the king fell at the battle of Brycheniog.

  ‘Aye, I do,’ he said eventually. ‘He was a loyal kinsman to my father and has since proved a trustworthy steward to my mother.’

  ‘Then your family’s lands are in good hands until she returns.’

  Tarw nodded and silence fell between them.

  ‘There is something on your mind,’ said Murcat eventually. ‘Out with it.’

  ‘My lord,’ replied Tarw after a few moments, ‘I have spent much time recently thinking about my father. My heart is heavy and I yearn to avenge him.’

  ‘It is to be expected,’ said the king. ‘It is a terrible thing that he died, Tarw, but you can take comfort in the knowledge that his death was honourable. Knowing him the way I did, I am sure he was happy with the manner with which he met his fate. To die in the stirrups is a noble end for men such as us and if he was given the choice, I know he would have preferred that death, than go to his god an old man.’

  ‘I appreciate your words,’ said Tarw, ‘but I know his heart was heavy through not finding my brother and I cannot feel anything but guilt to think while my father spent every waking moment seeking Hywel, I was hidden away here like a frightened sheep, doing nothing to aid his quest.’