A Wounded Realm

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘Now you listen here,’ said Murcat. ‘The responsibilities of kingship are vast, something you will learn in time, and to place one of his sons in a place of safety was not something your father would have undertaken lightly. It was his duty to ensure the Tewdwr line goes on and to do that he had to ensure one of his sons lived long enough to marry. The fact that you have spent so long away from your family is indeed regrettable but as long as the wars in your country continue to spill royal blood, the safest place for you is here with me. He knew it, I know it and in your heart, you know it.’

  ‘I just wish I could have spent more time with him.’

  ‘It is a great shame, for he was a good man. I knew him for most of my life, Tarw, and though the matters of kingship kept us apart for many seasons, when we shared ale it was as if we were the closest of brothers.’

  ‘One day,’ growled Tarw, ‘I will return to Deheubarth and wrest what was once ours from the grip of the English, if necessary by force of steel.’

  ‘It is a future I thought you would seek once you come of age but that day is many years away. For now you should concentrate on becoming the best man you can be. Bide your time, Tarw and learn the ways of the warrior. When you are ready, I will allow you to return to Wales with my blessing, but I would be dishonouring your father’s name to let you go sooner. Pay heed to your instructors and when the time is right, I promise you will return to Deheubarth a match for any man in the use of arms.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Tarw, grasping the king’s wrists, ‘and you have my gratitude.’

  ‘Then you had better get back to your training. There is a long path ahead of you, Tarw, a path that does not get easier but one day you will wear your father’s crown, of that I am certain.’

  Hen Domen Castle

  A hundred leagues away, across the Irish Sea on the border between Wales and England, Hen Domen Castle echoed with the sound of a garrison practising their skills at arms. All around the bailey, men paired off and fought with training swords, carrying out the drills that could well keep them alive in the godforsaken country that hated their very presence. Archers manned the palisade, firing arrow after arrow at straw-filled dummies arranged like a besieging army before the castle walls while dozens of servants ran back and forth, retrieving the arrows and transporting them by the basketful back up to the palisade. In the distance, lancers charged targets placed at either end of the cleared ground before the castle and local farmers had been brought in to clear and burn any new undergrowth that had started to reoccupy the important open approaches.

  Steel clashed on steel and as sergeants shouted their commands, a scruffy urchin scurried up to the kitchen carrying a wooden slop bucket. The small kitchen smelled of roast pork, wood smoke and sweat as two cooks worked hard to prepare the one hot meal a day the castellan demanded for his garrison of fifty men.

  Sir Broadwick, an English knight in the service of Hugh Montgomery, was known as a hard taskmaster, and was very aware that a well-fed garrison meant strong soldiers when it came to conflict. To that end, the kitchens were tasked with preparing a daily cauldron of meaty soup to be dispensed at noon every day, straight after the training sessions. This meant that the afternoons were usually quiet and though a midday assault from any Welsh rebels was unlikely, the lookouts were doubled during such times and the gates locked. Broadwick was nothing if not a cautious man.

  The boy waited patiently at the door, knowing that any interruption risked the ire of the cooks and that was something he didn’t want.

  ‘Are we ready?’ roared a voice from across the kitchen.

  ‘Aye,’ replied another, ‘send it out.’

  Four servants walked quickly over to the cauldron each carrying two wooden buckets. One of the cooks used a giant ladle suspended by a chain to scoop out the potage and fill the two buckets of the first man.

  ‘Next,’ snapped the cook, impatiently, as he wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his tunic, ‘come on, I have more work to do.’

  The first two buckets were quickly replaced with two more and as the servants carried the hot food out of the door and down the steps to the bailey, another followed with a basket of freshly baked bread.

  ‘One bowl each,’ shouted the cook as the kitchen emptied, ‘and no more. Any left can go back into the pot for tomorrow.’

  For a few moments the kitchen fell silent and the cook sat on a stone bench to catch his breath, for although the worst was over, he knew his work was still not done.

  ‘How long for the pork?’ asked a voice from across the kitchen.

  ‘Almost done, Master Steward,’ replied the cook, wiping more sweat from his brow, ‘it will be ready by the time the master returns.’

  ‘Make sure it is,’ said the steward, ‘for today his mood is most foul.’

  ‘I noticed,’ said the cook, ‘but why he can’t eat potage like everyone else is beyond me.’

  ‘Such is the life of the privileged,’ said the steward. ‘The common man is sustained by soup while the rich get steaks.’

  The cook stood up and walked over to the smaller fireplace where a young girl was religiously turning a spit.

  ‘I hope you’ve been basting this pig as you’ve been shown,’ growled the cook, ‘because if the master complains his meat is dry, I swear you’ll be on this spit instead of a pig come the morrow.’

  The girl nodded quickly, indicating the almost empty pot of goose fat.

  ‘Yes, Master Cook,’ she said, her eyes wide with fear at the prospect of being roasted alive.

  ‘Good,’ said the cook, ‘now get out of my way.’

  The girl got up from the stool and stood in a corner as the cook sliced a piece of flesh from the piglet.

  ‘It’s done,’ he shouted through a mouthful of pork, ‘you can set the master’s tray.’ He straightened up and turned around, but stopped short as he spied the boy in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘Who are you?’ he shouted, ‘and what are you doing in my kitchen?’

  The boy took a step backward in fear.

  ‘Well, speak up or I’ll have the skin off your back before sundown.’

  ‘Master Cook,’ stuttered the boy eventually, ‘My name is Simon. I have been taken on by the jailer not two days past and have been sent by Master Berian to beg slops from your kitchens. He says the prisoners haven’t eaten for two days.’

  ‘Slops!’ roared the cook. ‘There is no such thing as slops between these walls, boy. All food is used and little goes to waste so tell that useless master of yours that unless he learns some manners, his prisoners will have to go without. Now get out.’

  Simon took another step backward but the steward called out before he could leave.

  ‘Wait!’

  The boy looked at the second man, expecting another tirade but the steward was more reasonable.

  ‘When did you say they were last fed?’

  ‘The day before yesterday, my lord, and Master Berian has been tasked with using them to collect firewood on the morrow. He fears they will be too weak to work.’

  ‘Come in,’ said the steward, ‘we will see what we can find.’

  Simon followed the steward into the kitchen, his mouth watering at the wonderful aroma of roast pig. As he passed the cook, the man lunged towards him in a mock attack and laughed aloud as the boy fell into a table.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ said the steward, ‘he is just doing his job, no different to you or me.’

  ‘Bloody prisoners,’ mumbled the cook, returning to the piglet, ‘I’d let them starve if it was my decision, or better still, let them dance at the end of a rope.’

  ‘Well, luckily it’s not your decision,’ said the steward, ‘and besides, they do the work that others around here would fear to encounter.’ He walked to the furthest table followed by the boy. ‘Here,’ he said, pointing to a pile of turnip tops and cabbage cores, ‘fill your bucket with those and here’s something to add a bit of taste.’ He reached below the table and retrieved the bones
of two rabbits complete with heads. ‘There’s not much meat on them,’ he said, tossing the carcasses into the urchin’s bucket, ‘but the brains are still in the skulls and the bones should give a bit of flavour. It’s not much but it should keep them going for a day or two.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Simon, lifting the bucket with both hands. ‘My master will be very grateful.’

  ‘What about you?’ asked the steward. ‘What do you eat?’

  ‘I have what is left on my master’s plate after he has finished.’

  ‘I expect that is not much, seeing how much fat the jailer has about his waist. Are you hungry?’

  The boy nodded silently.

  The steward looked around and picked up half a loaf of bread.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘eat that while you are here.’ He looked across at the cook and called out. ‘Master Cook, cut me a slice of that pork and bring it over to the boy. I can see his bones through his skin.’

  ‘You are going to give a servant the master’s meat?’ gasped the cook, the astonishment clear in his voice. ‘He will have your hide from your back.’

  ‘Only if he finds out,’ said the steward, ‘and if he does, I will know where it came from. Besides, he won’t miss one more slice, you seem to be doing it some damage yourself.’

  The cook grudgingly cut a slice of pork and threw it over to land on the table.

  ‘Don’t you go thinking this will be a regular thing, boy,’ he said, ‘we have no time for the likes of you around here.’

  The boy picked up the pork and ran to a corner before sitting down and stuffing the meat into his mouth.

  ‘Slow down,’ said the steward, ‘nobody is going to take it away from you.’

  Simon stared back silently and after the meat was gone, followed it with the bread and some ale from a mug given to him by the steward. Never had he dined so well and his stomach soon hurt from the quantity of food. Several minutes later he stood and picked up his bucket.

  ‘Finished?’ asked the steward from the table.

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Good, then you had better be going. Berian will be wondering where you are.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said the boy as he scurried across the kitchen, giving the cook a wide berth.

  ‘One more thing, Simon,’ said the steward before the boy left, ‘the meat is our secret, understood?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said Simon, ‘may the angels bless you.’

  ‘Be gone,’ shouted the cook and the boy ran from the kitchen with a smile on his face.

  ‘What did you get?’ snarled the duty guard a few minutes later.

  ‘Some vegetables and a couple of rabbit heads,’ said the boy, holding out the bucket. Berian glanced into the bucket but seeing nothing worth taking, nodded towards the pot hanging over the fire.

  ‘Chuck it in,’ he said, ‘and watch over it so the water don’t boil away. I’m gonna get some sleep. If anyone comes, tell them I’m up at the keep doing something.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘I don’t know, anything. Just make sure they don’t find me sleeping, understood?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said the boy and he watched the hunched man retire to the small room that served as his quarters. The boy carefully added all the ingredients to the pot and watched it boil, carefully stirring it occasionally to stop it from burning. By now, the food he had enjoyed in the kitchens was taking its toll, and warmed by the embers of the fire, Simon was soon fast asleep on the guardroom floor.

  ‘Wake up, you scoundrel!’ shouted Berian, kicking Simon hard in the small of his back. ‘How long have you been sleeping?’

  ‘Just a few moments,’ gasped the boy, pushing himself out of boot range.

  ‘A few moments,’ shouted Berian, ‘then how is the fire nearly out?’

  Simon looked in horror at the few remaining embers, knowing he must have been asleep for longer than he thought.

  ‘And this soup,’ continued Berian, ‘it’s burned.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s not as bad as it smells,’ stuttered Simon with panic in his voice.

  ‘Just get out of my way,’ snarled the guard and reached for the metal poker to rake the remaining embers back into life. ‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ he shouted again, ‘make yourself useful.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  The jailer glanced at the pot of spoiled soup.

  ‘Take that to the prisoners,’ he said, ‘and make sure you tell them it was you that burned it.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ gasped the boy and he lifted the handle of the pot before leaving the room.

  ‘And don’t think I’ll forget about this,’ shouted Berian as he left, ‘there’ll be a price to pay, I can assure you that.’

  Simon left the guardroom and crossed the bailey. He pushed open the door and saw another guard sat on a stool outside the prisoners’ cell.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked the guard.

  ‘I have food for the prisoners.’

  The guard stood up and looked into the pot, his nose wrinkling at the foul smell.

  ‘It stinks,’ he said, ‘what is it?’

  ‘Rabbit head stew, but it’s a bit burned.’

  ‘Still too good for the likes of them,’ said the guard, nodding towards the cell. He stood up and approached the doorway. ‘Follow me.’ He opened the door and the boy could see a barred gate on the inside. Beyond that, was a tiny room full of bedraggled prisoners, most huddled together to garner some warmth. The stench of human filth was horrendous and the boy’s hand flew to his nose in an effort to ease the stink. The guard’s head spun sideways in a similar effort and his face screwed up in disgust.

  ‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ he cursed, ‘what’s that stink?’

  One of the men looked up. He seemed much older than the rest. His eyes were sunk deep into his skull and his teeth were blackened like burned tree stumps.

  ‘It’s him over there,’ said the old man, nodding to where a naked man lay curled up on the floor. ‘Died three nights ago, he did, and your comrades saw fit to leave him here.’

  ‘Where’re his clothes?’ whispered Simon.

  The old man didn’t answer, but his fingers unconsciously rubbed at the rotting jerkin about his own shoulders. In the corner, another prisoner sat alone, his head resting on his knees. Simon gasped as the prisoner slowly lifted his head and stared deep into his soul, his sunken eyes piercing like the sharpest knife.

  ‘Stand back,’ said the guard drawing his sword. ‘The boy’s got some food but if there’s any funny stuff when I open the gate, I swear you’ll all be dead before you reach the door.’ The men nearest the gate pushed themselves back towards the wall as the guard produced a key. ‘Now sit on your hands.’

  The prisoners did as they were told as Simon turned his gaze towards them. Never had he seen men in such a state. Their bodies were adorned by rotting rags and their limbs were almost as thin as the cadavers he often saw swinging from the hanging tree. Every one had a tangled beard reaching down past his chest and all were covered in the filth of captivity.

  The gate swung open and the guard pushed the pot through with his foot before slamming it shut and securing the lock. The boy expected a mad rush but was surprised when nobody moved.

  ‘There’s your food,’ he said, ‘don’t you want it?’

  ‘Of course we want it,’ said the old man looking over at him, ‘but if you think we are going to give you the satisfaction of fighting between ourselves for the sake of some slops, you are sadly mistaken.’

  A younger man struggled to his feet and walked across to pick up the pot before returning to the line of prisoners against the far wall. The first man nodded and the younger man scooped a handful of food in his own mouth before passing it on. When it reached the corner, the lone prisoner took his share before handing the pot back, all the time his eyes never leaving those of the young boy outside the bars.

  ‘Bring the pot over here,’ ordered the guard when the pot was e
mpty, ‘or there’ll be no water.’

  The young man placed the pot against the gate and waited as the guard ladled water from a nearby barrel through the bars.

  ‘Can you spare no more?’ asked the young prisoner. ‘Our mouths are like dust, such is our thirst.’

  ‘It’s all you’re getting, so stop your moaning,’ said the guard, and he turned to leave. ‘Come on, boy, let’s go.’

  Simon didn’t move, as he was transfixed by the stare from the lone prisoner in the corner.

  ‘I said, let’s go,’ snapped the guard, cuffing the boy around the head, causing him to fall away from the gate.

  ‘What about the dead man?’ asked Simon, getting to his feet. ‘Surely we have to bury him?’

  ‘We’ll sort him out tomorrow,’ said the guard, slamming the door, ‘he’s going nowhere.’

  ‘My lord,’ said Simon as they walked back to the guard room, ‘who was the man with the icy stare?’

  ‘The one in the corner?’

  ‘Aye, he said nothing the full time we were there, yet his eyes cut into me like a blade.’

  ‘Take no heed of him,’ said the guard, ‘he’s just a madman.’

  ‘Where is he from?’

  ‘I don’t know, he has been here far longer than anyone I know.’

  ‘Has anyone asked him?’

  ‘On many occasions.’

  ‘What does he say?’

  ‘He doesn’t say much but when he does, it’s something about being a prince of Deheubarth. Like I said, he’s nothing but a madman.’

  Simon followed the guard out of the cells, confused. He had heard many stories about madmen and they were all depicted as raving beasts. The last thing he would have expected was to see one who thought he was a prince, especially one with a tear running down his cheek.

  London

  June 11th, AD 1095

  Nesta ferch Rhys was a mere child of eight when her brother had disappeared during the war of the five kings, and she had seen more than her fair share of bloodshed. Though not many knew, she had even taken a man’s life before she had reached the age of nine when her beloved mother’s life had been in danger, and she knew that if necessary, she would do the same again. Since then she had suffered alongside her family during the endless searching for Hywel and watched hopelessly as the strain of the search eventually took its toll on her father’s health. When he had been killed at the battle of Brycheniog, she could not help but wonder whether the outcome would have been different had he been stronger in body and in mind.