A Wounded Realm

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘So how do we go about stopping his bile?’ asked Gwladus, already knowing the answer.

  ‘He has to be killed, my lady, there is no other option.’

  ‘You talk of murder,’ said Gwladus.

  ‘I talk of justice,’ said Dylan, ‘a suitable punishment for raping a queen and seeking to undermine a nation. I suggest you assemble a squad of armed men as soon as possible and send them to administer justice on your behalf.’

  ‘No,’ replied Gwladus sharply, ‘we cannot involve anyone else. You and I are still the only ones who know about his crime and that is the way it must stay. Sending men to kill someone without trial will raise too many questions and the truth may come out. For Tarw’s sake, I cannot allow that to happen. Whatever we decide to do, we must do it alone.’

  ‘Then I am at a loss as to what we can do.’

  Gwladus thought for a few moments before speaking again.

  ‘Where does he lay his head at night?’

  ‘Alas, he dwells within a nest of vipers but is oft seen amongst the taverns of Kidwelly. He is known for his formidable temper and most step out of his path when he nears.’

  ‘Can he be bettered?’

  ‘By a younger man, perhaps, someone trained at arms. If I thought I could emerge the victor then I would gladly challenge him on your behalf but my bones are now weak and my eyes weaker still.’

  ‘I appreciate your offer,’ she said, ‘but know not what you can do to help.’

  ‘My lady,’ said Dylan, ‘the night is yet young, our bellies are full and there is a fire in the hearth. I’m sure that between us, we can think of something before this night is through.’

  ‘Will not your wife be worried for you?’ asked Gwladus.

  ‘Alas, she died a while back.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that, Master Dylan. And what about your farm?’

  ‘It became too much for me to manage. I now live in lodgings near Kidwelly and look after a few pigs to make a living.’

  ‘Will they not need your attention?’

  ‘I have made arrangements, my queen, so have a few days. If there is anything I can do, then my arm is yours.’

  ‘So be it,’ said Gwladus. ‘Let us scour our minds to see if there is a path to be trod, otherwise I fear the Tewdwr dynasty may come to a sad end.’

  For the following few hours, queen and farmer – two people who would never normally have had a conversation – exchanged ideas, as equals, about what they could do to stop the damaging rumours. Finally, they agreed on a plan and though it was dangerous, it was the best they could do.

  ‘That’s it, then,’ said Gwladus as she stood up to leave. ‘I will retire to my bed and then start making the necessary preparations on the morrow. Give me five days from now and then set the plan in motion.’ She picked up a bell on the table and rang it gently. ‘Emma will make up a bed for you in one of the side chambers and we will speak again in the morning. Good night, Master Dylan, and you have my eternal gratitude for bringing this situation to my attention.’

  ‘There is no pleasure in such a task, my lady,’ said Dylan, ‘but you will always be my queen.’

  Gwladus smiled and left the hall as Emma appeared with an armful of furs.

  ‘There is a spare bed through that far door,’ she said, ‘will these suffice?’

  ‘They will be fine,’ said Dylan, ‘just leave them here.’

  ‘If there is nothing else, then I too will retire,’ said Emma. ‘Have a good night, Master Dylan.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Dylan.

  ‘Oh, there is one more thing,’ said Emma turning to face the farmer. ‘The queen asked me to return this to you. She said it belongs to your family.’

  Dylan looked at the necklace in the servant’s hand. With a tight-lipped smile, he picked up the priceless jewellery and held it up to the light of a nearby candle.

  ‘For now,’ he said, ‘but soon I hope to gift it back to its rightful owner,’ and with a grim smile, he placed the necklace into his pocket.

  Back in Chester, two weeks had passed before Beatty’s son arrived. The resemblance was striking and though Cynwrig had never met the boy before, it was obvious as soon as he entered the tavern.

  ‘Guy,’ said Beatty placing a tray of used tankards back on a table as the boy entered the room, ‘welcome home.’

  ‘Father,’ said Guy, ‘I regret the lateness of the hour but alas the river has washed away the bridge and I had to come the way of Longman’s ford.’

  ‘I heard about the bridge,’ said Beatty, ‘but don’t fret about things outside your control, you are here now and that is what’s important. Do you hunger?’

  ‘No, but my thirst is great.’

  ‘When do you have to be back at the castle?’

  ‘On the morrow.’

  ‘Then take a seat and remove your cloak. I have a barrel freshly brewed and crying out for sampling. This is my friend, Cynwrig. You two get to know each other while I sort out the drinks.’

  Guy sat opposite Cynwrig and nodded in greeting.

  ‘Good to meet you, Master Guy,’ said Cynwrig, ‘your father has told me much about you these past two days.’

  ‘You are staying here at the tavern?’

  ‘I am,’ said Cynwrig, ‘for I have business to attend; business, I may add, that I hope you will help me bring to fruition.’

  ‘I am intrigued,’ said Guy, ‘but unless the venture includes preparing a meal then I fear perhaps you may have the wrong man.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Cynwrig, ‘from what your father says, I suspect you will do very well. At least, that is, if you want to become a wealthy man.’

  Guy stared at Cynwrig with interest. ‘Why do I suspect that whatever it is you have in mind, there may be danger involved?’

  ‘Life is dangerous in general,’ said Cynwrig, ‘but your father returns with the ale, let us settle into the evening and all will be revealed.’

  For the next hour or so the three men relaxed beside the fire, drinking ale and telling stories. As the evening progressed, Cynwrig got to like the young man and felt that he could be trusted. Finally, he leaned forward and spoke in hushed tones.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘to business. From the flavour of your conversation I understand you are not loyal to the earl.’

  ‘Loyal,’ scoffed Guy. ‘On the contrary, my heart is as cold to him as to the wolves in the forest. Indeed, I trust the wolves more.’

  ‘So if I was to offer you a chance to steal something from him, would you be agreeable?’

  ‘It depends,’ said Guy.

  ‘On what.’

  ‘How much would be the pay for such a venture for a start?’

  ‘That’s easy,’ said Cynwrig and he withdrew the leather purse from within his tunic, placing it on the table before them.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Guy without losing eye contact.

  ‘Silver coins,’ said Cynwrig, ‘more than an honest man could earn in half a lifetime. Upon completion of the task, this purse they are yours to do with as you wish, half for you and half for your father.’

  Guy glanced at Beatty.

  ‘You are aware of this?’

  ‘I am,’ said Beatty, ‘and am happy to continue on those terms. However, as you are the one who will carry most of the risk, I am happy to accept one third and only do that so I can provide your sister with a dowry. The rest is yours to set yourself up in business somewhere else, somewhere safe.’

  ‘What about you?’ asked Guy.

  Beatty glanced at Cynwrig before turning back to his son.

  ‘I will be fine here,’ he said.

  ‘Beatty,’ said Cynwrig quietly, ‘tell him. Your son is a man and needs to know the truth.’

  ‘What are you not telling me?’ asked Guy.

  Beatty hesitated again before taking a drink from his tankard and looking his son in the eye.

  ‘Guy,’ he said, ‘I am dying and probably will not see the next full moon.’

  Guy sat back i
n his chair in silence. Over the next few minutes, his father explained about his illness and his worries for the future for both his daughter and Guy. Finally, he too sat back and looked at his son.

  ‘So that’s it,’ said Beatty. ‘As you can see, my part in this carries no risk at all as whatever happens, I will be dead in weeks. You, however, have all your life before you and can turn down this offer with no comeback. You can carry on in the kitchens if you so require but should the task be acceptable to you, then you will be a rich man and your sister’s future will be assured.’

  Guy looked between Beatty and Cynwrig.

  ‘The prize is indeed a great one,’ he said eventually, ‘and my heart aches at the thought of losing you, Father. But if it is your time to go to the Lord, and if I accept the challenge, then I could use some of the money for a proper headstone.’

  ‘Worry not about a stone, Guy,’ said Beatty, ‘for once I am gone I will have no use for such adornments. No, I will rest easier knowing you and your sister have a future. All we need is for you to say yes to the task.’

  Guy turned to face Cynwrig.

  ‘You say I have to steal something from the earl?’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘You do realise that the earl’s chambers are guarded with many men-at-arms?’

  ‘So I gather, but what I want from him can be accessed from the kitchens.’

  ‘The kitchens are open to many workers,’ said Guy, ‘what could I possibly steal there that would warrant your purse?’

  Cynwrig glanced at Beatty before producing another package, this time a small earthenware bottle. He placed it on the table beside the purse of silver.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Guy.

  ‘Hemlock,’ said Cynwrig eventually, ‘brewed to its most potent form.’ He looked up and gazed deep into Guy’s eyes. ‘What I want you to steal, Guy, is a life. I want you to help me kill Huw the Fat.’

  The Dock at Pembroke

  May 20th, AD 1101

  On the west coast of Wales, another tavern was busy with those men lucky enough to have freedom to drink ale. This one, however, was no place for boys, or those of a weak character. The Dead Dog Tavern was situated near the dock in the town of Pembroke and was nothing more than a drinking den frequented by sailors and thugs. The local sheriff often brought around his men-at-arms to find any brigands rumoured to frequent the tavern, but not before sending a subtle message to the landlord announcing his proposed visit. That way, his job was made easier as only the drunkest were available for arrest and the sheriff usually left with a prisoner or two, along with a nice pocketful of coins and a belly full of meat and ale. It was better that way for even though most of the ruffians escaped the sheriff’s reach, at least they were kept to one corner of the dock and did not wander into the taverns of the greater town.

  On this night, the tavern was particularly busy for two trading ships had just docked and as always, the sailors had coin to spend and lusts to fulfil. The tavern was full of men hoping to cut a deal or win at games of chance while outside, several women hung around in the gloom, waiting for the custom they knew would inevitably come their way.

  Inside, the noise was raucous as men argued and bartered over nothing. Tests of strength broke out between the crews of two ships while other men watched with interest as money changed hands freely. One such man sat quietly in the corner with his cloak still wrapped around him, minding his own business amongst the furore. Yet his eyes were alive, flicking back and forth, seeking the man he had come for.

  ‘Another ale?’ asked the landlord, making the stranger jump in alarm.

  ‘No, I am fine,’ said Dylan, placing his hand over his tankard.

  ‘I said, another ale,’ growled the landlord, ‘for you have been nursing that one longer than a mother does a baby. This is a business so if you’re not drinking, get out. There are many here to take your place.’

  Dylan removed his hand from over his tankard.

  ‘Another ale sounds fine,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I knew it would,’ said the landlord, pouring the ale from a jug. ‘That will be another penny. What are you anyway, some sort of priest?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dylan quickly, realising he had been unwittingly given a perfect cover story, ‘sort of. I am undergoing training and have come to the port to purchase cloth on behalf of the monks at the cathedral.’

  ‘Well you be careful, priest,’ said the landlord, ‘for this is no place for meek men. I suggest you drink up and then get lost before the fighting starts. Now, where’s that penny?’

  Dylan paid the price and sat back into the shadows, trying to make himself look as insignificant as possible. For what seemed an age he sipped on his ale until finally a man entered and walked over to an empty seat at an upturned barrel. Dylan tried not to stare but he had to be certain. For several minutes the newcomer talked to some other men before passing something over the table and standing to leave. As he turned, Dylan saw three vivid scars on the man’s face.

  Pulling his cloak tighter, Dylan followed the scarred man out of the tavern and through the dark streets towards the town but had not gone more than a few hundred paces before he lost sight of him in the darkness. He quickened his pace but it was no good, his quarry had disappeared. Dejected, he turned to leave, only to find himself face to face with the scarred man, holding a knife level with his face.

  ‘Who are you stranger?’ growled the man. ‘And why are you following me? Answer with haste or my blade will take your eyes.’

  ‘Please,’ gasped Dylan, ‘hold your anger, I offer no threat to you; indeed, I come bearing an opportunity to make you a rich man.’

  ‘Keep talking,’ said the man.

  ‘Am I correct in saying you are the man known as Merriweather?’

  ‘How do you know my name?’ snapped the man, pushing Dylan against the wall.

  ‘Please,’ gasped Dylan again, ‘listen to me. I was given your name by a rogue in the tavern in Dinefwr a few months ago. I do not know his name but he said only you could help me with a situation I find myself in.’

  ‘What situation?’ asked Merriweather.

  ‘I am in possession of certain items of great value,’ said Dylan, ‘but they do not belong to me.’

  ‘What items?’

  ‘Jewellery, gold coins, that sort of thing. Items that have untold value yet cannot be sold at market without eyebrows being raised and awkward questions being asked.’

  ‘And you want to sell them to me?’

  ‘Perhaps, or I thought you would be able to sell them elsewhere and perhaps take a commission. If, of course, that’s the sort of thing you do.’

  Merriweather looked around the darkened street and moved in closer.

  ‘Perhaps I do, perhaps I don’t. It all depends on who’s asking.’

  ‘I am a simple farmer, sir,’ said Dylan, ‘but my stock died and my crops wither in the fields. I am taxed beyond my means and need money to survive. Selling these valuables are the only way I have to feed my family.’

  ‘What are these valuables exactly?’ asked Merriweather, ‘and how did they come to be in your possession?’

  ‘They are what’s left of a hoard hidden by one of the kings killed at Mynydd Carn. I came across them not far from here hidden in a copse. I didn’t know what to do with them so hid them in a safe place until I decided what to do.’

  ‘The battle of the five kings took place over twenty years ago.’

  ‘I know, but I came across it about ten years since. Like I said, my mind was shocked by so much wealth and I am ashamed to say, my greed got the better of me. Over the years I dipped into the hoard until all the pennies were gone. I even spent the silver pennies but I know that if I was to try and trade the jewels it would get me hanged.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Merriweather.

  ‘I can prove it,’ said Dylan.

  ‘How?’

  Dylan reached beneath his tunic and pulled out a leather wrap. He opened the folds and re
vealed the queen’s necklace he had shown to Gwladus days earlier. Merriweather’s eyes opened in surprise and he took the necklace from Dylan, holding it up towards the light of the moon.

  Dylan held his breath. This was probably the most dangerous part of the plan for if Merriweather recognised the necklace, he may realise it was a trap. He stared at the brigand as the necklace spun in the moonlight.

  ‘It looks, familiar,’ said Merriweather, ‘perchance I have seen one similar before. Tell me,’ he continued, looking up at Dylan, ‘what’s to stop me sticking you right now and just taking the necklace anyway?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Dylan, ‘but if you do, you will never know the location of the rest. There is much more where that came from including about a hundred gold coins. Kill me and they will lay for ever where they are hid, never to be found.’

  Merriweather stared at Dylan before placing the necklace within his own tunic.

  ‘Let’s just say I am interested,’ he said eventually, ‘who else knows of this hoard?’

  ‘Just you and me.’

  ‘And you say it is not far from here?’

  ‘If we leave in the morning we can be there by nightfall tomorrow.’

  ‘And what sort of deal do you want?’

  ‘A fair share,’ said Dylan. ‘I am not a greedy man and know you will incur risk in bartering the jewellery to those who can afford it so all I ask is half of what you get.’

  ‘Half,’ sneered Merriweather, his scarred face catching the moonlight. ‘Without me that stuff holds no more value than pretty glass. I will give you a third and no more. Agree to that and we have an agreement; any more and I leave right now and the deal is off.’

  ‘But what about my necklace?’

  ‘Call it incurred costs for the benefit of this audience.’

  Dylan gulped but hesitated before answering. He knew he had Merriweather interested but to agree too quickly may raise his suspicions.

  ‘The deal is harsh,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Take it or leave it,’ said Merriweather, ‘but make haste for there is a very pretty neck I intend to hang this trinket around before this night is done. One third, no more.’

  Dylan made a show of internal anguish before finally agreeing the deal.