A Wounded Realm

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘I miss them, Nesta,’ sobbed Gwladus eventually. ‘I miss them all so much.’

  Nesta knew that nothing she could say would make it better so both women just held each other tightly, waiting for the pain to go away.

  Several hours later, Nesta stood at the fire, watching her mother gather her things.

  ‘Do you have lodgings tonight?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, the local bishop has kindly offered me rooms at his house and Henry’s men will ensure I get there safely. Tomorrow I join a column heading into Wales but will part company with them in Powys. Don’t worry about me, Nesta, in Wales your father’s name still carries some weight and the house of Tewdwr is still revered by many nobles.’

  ‘I will miss you,’ said Nesta as her mother donned her cloak.

  ‘And I will miss you,’ said Gwladus, hugging her daughter tightly, ‘but I’m sure that before this year is out the war will be over and we can once more walk arm in arm through the fields of Deheubarth.’

  Nesta smiled and kissed her mother before leading her out of the keep and down to the gate.

  ‘Be strong, Nesta,’ said Gwladus as they paused before the palisade. ‘I will think of you every day until next we meet but until then, you have my love and my blessings.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mother,’ said Nesta as Gwladus passed through the gate. ‘I love you.’

  Gwladus waved and disappeared into the night along with the four soldiers appointed as her bodyguard.

  ‘See you soon,’ said Nesta quietly, more for her own comfort than anything else. But she was wrong, for it would be a very, very long time before she once more set eyes upon her mother.

  The Village of Dinefwr

  May 26th, AD 1096

  The innkeeper walked around the tavern, using a broom to sweep any spilled ale into a trough that ran along one wall of the room. A few men remained, nursing their tankards despite the dawn being already upon them. The innkeeper sighed as he negotiated their feet. He would have thrown them out had they not been some of his best customers. Times were hard and he needed all the trade he could get. One man, lying along a bench near the fire, was unknown to him but had spent a pretty penny getting gloriously drunk the previous evening.

  The innkeeper paused and looked down on the sleeping man. By the look on the outsider’s face, he was certainly no stranger to hardship. His face was weathered and haggard while a set of three deep scars ran down one cheek, each standing out clearly against the man’s yellowing skin. His hair was thinning and what was left was tangled in a mess that had seen neither comb nor soap for many a year.

  The innkeeper wrinkled his nose at the man’s stench, for though the tavern was the haunt of strong men, the smell of honest sweat was distinctly different from the stench of neglect. He knew he would have to wake him up and ask him to leave – the stranger had caused some petty arguments the previous evening, and he couldn’t leave his daughter, Bethan, to deal with such a man on her own.

  ‘Wake up, stranger,’ he said, shaking the man’s shoulder, ‘it is time to leave.’

  ‘Leave me alone,’ mumbled the man as he rolled over to face the back of the bench, pulling his cape closer around him.

  ‘The tavern is closing,’ said the innkeeper, ‘and you must take your leave.’ When there was no response, the landlord shook his shoulder again.

  ‘Do you hear me, stranger? The tavern is closed, you have to go.’

  Without warning the man shot up and pushed the innkeeper back against the wall.

  ‘I told you to leave me alone,’ he hissed, ‘I paid good coin for ale and a bench so why don’t you keep your side of the bargain and let me sleep?’

  ‘I have,’ said the innkeeper, staring into the dangerous man’s eyes, ‘but dawn is upon us and we have to sort out the inn. Now, why don’t you just leave quietly before you are hurt?’

  The stranger produced a knife and held it against the landlord’s throat. ‘And what makes you think there is any chance that I may get hurt?’

  ‘This does,’ said a voice behind him and the stranger felt the press of cold steel against the back of his neck. He froze, knowing he had been bettered and slowly lowered his blade.

  ‘What is your name, stranger?’ asked the voice.

  ‘Merriweather,’ came the strained reply.

  ‘Well, Master Merriweather, I suggest you drop your blade or die where you stand.’

  For a few seconds there was no movement but when the pressure increased on the blade, the knife clattered to the floor.

  ‘I’m going to step back now,’ said the voice, ‘and let you leave, but don’t even think about trying something stupid, there are another three blades at your back.’

  The pressure eased and Merriweather turned to stare at the others still in the tavern. Each had a blade of some sort in his hand and the attacker knew there was nothing he could do.

  ‘Get out,’ said the nearest man, ‘and don’t ever come to this place again.’

  ‘No man has the right to tell me where I can or cannot go,’ growled Merriweather.

  ‘Perhaps not, but if your ugly face is seen here again, then we can’t be held responsible for your safety. These are troubled times, Master Merriweather, and oft men disappear without trace. It would be such a shame if the same fate happened to you.’

  ‘I paid for ale, a bed and a morning meal,’ growled Merriweather, ‘and my coin is as good as any.’

  ‘Ale you’ve had aplenty, the bench was your bed and –’ the man picked up a crust of stale bread left over from the previous evening – ‘here is your meal. Now get out, for my temper wears thin.’

  ‘What about my knife?’

  ‘Consider it compensation for threatening the life of our landlord. Now, I won’t tell you again, get out!’

  Outside the tavern, Merriweather pulled his cape tighter around him and wandered towards the village square. People from all around the area were already busy setting up carts and stalls for the weekly market and he knew he could probably get some hot potage from one of the vendors, or if he was lucky, some warmed ale. As he went he passed a wagon carrying a mountain of woollen fleeces, returning the stare from an old man driving the horse team.

  ‘Do you have a problem?’ sneered Merriweather.

  ‘No,’ said the old man slowly, ‘my apologies, I thought I knew you for a moment.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know you,’ said Merriweather, ‘so I suggest you keep your own business and I will be getting on with mine.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the old man, ‘my apologies.’

  Merriweather cleared his throat before spitting on the ground and after one more threatening glance, continued his walk towards the market.

  ‘Who was that, Dylan?’ asked the old man’s wife beside him.

  ‘Just someone I thought I knew,’ he replied, ‘but it seems I am mistaken. Come, we should make haste.’ He flicked the horses’ reins and continued along the road, glancing only briefly back at the man.

  The rest of the morning saw the market in full swing as people came from miles around to barter their wares. Farmers sold live animals to butchers and each other, while bakers filled trestle tables with loaves and pastries. Brewers sold flasks of ale to man and woman alike – a popular drink due to the risk of drinking contaminated water – and dressmakers sat upon blankets, carefully sewing unfinished garments of plain linen. Pie makers were always popular, especially when the pies were still hot from the stone ovens, and already a few men stood waiting patiently at a table, anticipating the delivery of the first batch.

  ‘Cerys,’ said the old man, once their fleeces had been unloaded, ‘why don’t you go and get something for us to break our fast. My belly is in need of a gift and if rumour is correct, the pie maker of Dinefwr stands alongside the best in the region.’

  ‘You and your pies!’ His wife laughed. ‘I sometimes wonder which you love more – pastries or me.’

  ‘Don’t risk an answer from me, woman.’ replied Dylan with a smile, ‘for
you may not like the judgement given!’

  Cerys laughed again and flicked her shawl at him before making her way through the growing crowd.

  Half an hour later, Dylan sat on a wall eating his pie as he waited for the auction to start. Cerys swept the back of their cart in preparation for the supplies she anticipated buying with the money earned from the sale of the fleeces.

  ‘There he is again,’ said Dylan, between mouthfuls.

  ‘Who?’ asked Cerys from behind.

  ‘That man from the tavern earlier; I’m sure I know him from somewhere.’

  Cerys stared over at the man, now skulking between stalls with a mug of ale in his fist.

  ‘I don’t know him,’ said Cerys. ‘Anyway, why are you so concerned?’

  ‘I’m not, it’s just that I have a nagging feeling of unease, as if he has wronged me in the past.’

  ‘If he had, I’m sure you would have told me,’ replied Cerys.

  Dylan took another bite of his pie before washing it down with a swig of water from his leather flask. Despite his wife’s assurances Dylan still felt uneasy and he watched closely as the man negotiated the market. It was obvious the scoundrel was up to no good, and Dylan wasn’t surprised when he picked up a leg of cooked chicken when a stallholder was looking elsewhere. Dylan was about to call out and alert the stallholder when a dog leapt from beneath the table and went for the leg of the thief.

  Merriweather jumped back and kicked out at the chained dog before turning and facing the angry stallholder.

  ‘I assume you are going to pay for that meat,’ said the owner.

  Merriweather made a show of inspecting the chicken leg before handing it over.

  ‘Nah, looks a bit rotten to me,’ he said, ‘you can keep it.’ He turned and walked away, giving the dog a wide berth as the stall owner returned the chicken leg to the table.

  Dylan stared at the back of the would-be thief, the light of recognition dawning in his eyes.

  ‘It can’t be,’ he said quietly, ‘after all these years . . .’

  ‘What was that, dear?’ asked Cerys.

  Dylan looked up at his wife on the cart, remembering an oath of silence he had taken many years earlier.

  ‘Nothing to worry about, my love, it’s just that I recognise that man from years ago, just a good-for-nothing wastrel from my past.’

  ‘Then steer away from him,’ said Cerys climbing down from the cart, ‘we don’t need any trouble.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dylan, placing the last of his pie in his mouth. But although his wife was content with his answer, he knew he couldn’t let it go – there was something he had to do.

  The day went well for Cerys and Dylan. Their fleeces all sold and they filled their cart with sacks of grain and seed for the new planting. Cerys bought a roll of linen to make them both some new clothes and Dylan had an axe head repaired at the blacksmith. Midday came and went and as the stallholders started to pack away their wares, Dylan led the horses and the cart back through Dinefwr. As they neared the edge of the village, he stopped outside the tavern and tied the reins to a hitching post.

  ‘Dylan, since when have you frequented taverns?’ asked Cerys from her seat upon the cart.

  ‘I’m not going to drink, my love, I just need to find out something.’

  ‘Find out what?’ asked Cerys. But it was too late – Dylan had already ducked inside.

  The tavern was warm and lively and though it was quite dark inside, enough light was provided by the fire and dozens of candles around the walls. Men sat on benches on either side of long trestle tables, quaffing their foaming tankards while others picked at platters of meat and cheese or slurped from wooden bowls of hot, nourishing cawl.

  Dylan made his way to an empty seat in the corner and caught the eye of a serving woman.

  ‘Can I get you something, stranger?’ she asked, wiping the dregs of spilled ale from the upturned cask serving as a table.

  ‘I’ll have one of those,’ said Dylan pointing at the drink on a nearby table.

  ‘That will be a copper coin,’ said the girl, holding out her hand. Dylan fished out his purse and pressed a coin into her hand.

  ‘I wonder if you could perhaps help me,’ he said, ‘I am looking for a man.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ She laughed with a screech.

  ‘No,’ corrected the farmer, looking around nervously, ‘there was a man in here this very morn and I was wondering if you knew where he was?’

  ‘Many men come in here, dear,’ said the girl, ‘but they all look the same to me after a while.’

  ‘Not this one,’ said Dylan, ‘he looks very shifty and has three marks running from here to here.’ He dragged his own fingers down his face, indicating the location of the man’s scars.

  The girl’s smile faded and she straightened up.

  ‘Oh, him,’ she said, ‘yes, he was here and a more unpleasant soul you could never wish to meet.’

  ‘What makes him so vile?’ asked Dylan.

  ‘Well, for one thing he stank,’ said the girl, ‘and after several ales, tried it on with most of the girls in here. Now I am no shrinking flower, my friend, but even I have my standards and no amount of money would encourage me to lift my skirts to someone like him. Besides, by the end of the night he was blind drunk and claimed some stuff that had most of our customers seething with anger.’

  ‘What was that?’ Dylan asked quickly.

  ‘Well,’ said the woman leaning forward so as not to be overheard, ‘he claimed to have bedded our exiled queen, Gwladus ferch Rhiwallon.’

  Dylan caught his breath as he realised his suspicions had been correct. The dog attacking Merriweather in the market had brought his memories flooding back and Dylan had recalled how, many years earlier, his own dog had chased away a scoundrel after Dylan found him raping a woman. If this was the same man, then it was possible he would soon spread his story amongst the people of Dinefwr and the queen’s reputation would be in ruins.

  ‘Do you know his name?’ he asked.

  ‘Is he a friend of yours?’ replied the girl. ‘For if so, I would keep it to yourself. He made a few enemies while he was here.’

  ‘No,’ said Dylan, ‘he is no comrade of mine, but I need to know his name. Do you have it?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I do, for there was a fight this very morning and he said his name was Merriweather.’

  ‘Merriweather,’ repeated Dylan. ‘I don’t suppose you know where he is from?’

  ‘Alas I don’t,’ said the girl, ‘and nor do I want to. An unpleasant sort he was and I don’t want to see him back here. Now, let’s get you that ale.’

  She walked to the back of the room and handed the penny over to the landlord. The man stirred the open cask with his ladle before lifting it out and pouring the ale into a waiting wooden tankard. The girl returned to the table but was surprised to find it empty – the stranger had gone.

  Outside, Dylan flicked the reins and urged the horses forward.

  ‘Well,’ said Cerys, ‘did you find out what it was you wanted to know?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Dylan, ‘that I did.’

  The Forests of Gwynedd

  August 25th, AD 1096

  Three months later, a young boy peered around the flap of his father’s command tent deep in the mountains of North Wales.

  ‘Father,’ he said simply, ‘they have returned.’

  Cadwgan ap Bleddyn, Prince of Powys and leader of the Welsh rebellion, followed his son from the tent and over to where a group of men sat astride their steaming horses. Water skins were passed around and it was obvious they had ridden hard. As leader of the Welsh rebels, Cadwgan had located his command tent deep in the forests of Mid Wales, away from the scouts and spies of the English. But even though he was a rebel, he maintained the appearance of a prince and kept himself well groomed, as befitting of a royal position. His black hair was kept to shoulder length and his beard was well trimmed – unlike the men now before him who were unkempt from the wea
ther and many hard days’ riding.

  ‘Richard,’ said Cadwgan, addressing one of his lieutenants. ‘How went your journey?’

  ‘My lord,’ said Richard, wiping some honeyed water from his beard, ‘the passage was hard and I return with mixed news. Though Gruffydd ap Cynan is agreeable to your proposal and welcomes the opportunity to share the campaign, he is still struck down by the rigours caused by his captivity and reluctantly has to hold back until his strength is regained. I have a letter from him explaining the situation.’

  ‘A shame,’ said Cadwgan, ‘he would have made a valuable ally against Huw the Fat.’

  ‘I’m sure he will yet ride at your side,’ continued Richard, ‘but in the meantime, we have to manage with what men we have.’

  ‘We will see,’ said Cadwgan, ‘but while we wait there may be others to share our burden. Place your horses in the hands of the squires and join me in my tent. I will have meat and ale brought to soothe your bones.’

  ‘A prospect most welcome, my lord,’ said Richard, and he slid from the horse before handing over the reins to a nearby boy. He retrieved a leather bag from the saddle and followed Cadwgan through the trees towards his campaign tent.

  ‘Please,’ said Cadwgan, when every man was present, ‘make yourselves at home. My squires will tend to your armour.’

  Richard and his men discarded their cloaks followed by their chainmail. Several squires took the garments away for drying while the men stood near the fire to dry out their wet jerkins.

  Cadwgan waited patiently as they sorted themselves out, fully aware that the trip from Ireland was known for its danger and hardships, not least the sea crossing. Eventually, the messengers had dried enough to take their place at the table and Cadwgan joined them, embracing the familiar smell of damp riding leathers.

  Servants entered with trenchers of hot mutton, and soon Richard and his men were eating meat and quaffing ale from leather skins as if they were never to taste it again.

  ‘Your men have a thirst about them,’ said Cadwgan.