by K. M. Ashman
‘You have me at a disadvantage,’ he said eventually, ‘for my need is great, I will take a third.’
‘Good,’ said Merriweather, ‘meet me here mid-morning on the morrow but let me warn you, if this is trickery, then your throat will feel my blade before you have time to blink. Understood?’
‘Understood,’ said Dylan and he watched the brigand disappear into the night.
Chester Castle
May 21st, AD 1101
A few days after he had met Cynwrig for the first time, Guy Beatty sat astride one of two horses pulling a cart towards the palisade. As usual, a tired-looking soldier stepped out to block the path as they neared the gate.
‘Hold there,’ said the guard, his spear held level in a half-hearted gesture of defiance. ‘Who are you and what business are you about?’
‘Your eyes are getting old, my friend,’ said Guy quietly. ‘I have been gone only a few days and yet you do not recognise the source of the extra ale when such things are rationed.’
The soldier approached the cart quickly.
‘Keep your voice down,’ he hissed, looking around nervously, ‘you never know who is listening.’
‘Worry not,’ said Guy with a quiet laugh, ‘I suspect the sergeants are all still drunk in their beds and as for D’Avranches, he doesn’t see daylight these days until the sun is already high.’
‘That may be the case,’ said the soldier, ‘but people have a way of finding out such things. Anyway, what are you doing here so early?’
‘I have a delivery for the castle on behalf of my father. He suffers an illness and asked me to deliver this cart on his behalf.’
‘What goods do you have?’ asked the soldier, his neck stretching to peer over the sides.
‘Twelve casks of ale and ten sacks of grain.’
‘I was expecting no such cart on my watch.’
‘No, it was due in a few days. But like I said, my father is ill and won’t be able to deliver it himself. As I was due back today I said I would bring it.’
‘I should check with the cook,’ said the soldier.
‘Fine,’ said Guy, ‘but stand well back for he is a berserker when aroused from his sleep. Trust me, I have been on the receiving end of his wrath more than once.’
‘I have heard such things,’ said the soldier as he climbed up on the cart wheel to peer at the goods. As Guy had said, there were twelve casks of ale and towards the front, ten sacks of grain stacked on top of the first six barrels.
‘If you prefer, I could take them back,’ said Guy, ‘but that will make me late for the baking and I don’t know when my father will be able to bring the ale, such is his illness.’
‘No,’ decided the soldier, ‘go on through, but it will cost you an extra pastry from that oven of yours.’
‘Ha, thinking of your belly as usual,’ said Guy. ‘Leave it to me, my friend, I will leave one in the usual place at sundown.’
The soldier smiled in anticipation and stepped aside as Guy urged the horses forward. Within moments, Guy was in the bailey and after tethering the horses to a hitching rail, climbed aboard the back of the cart to move one cask to one side.
‘Hurry,’ he said quietly as the hidden passenger looked up at him from beneath the sacks of grain.
Cynwrig jumped down and pulled his cloak about him.
‘What now?’ he hissed.
‘I’ll pass the word to the servants in the kitchens and then we will all return here to empty the cart. When we do, pick up a sack and join the back of the group.’
‘Won’t they realise there is an extra pair of hands?’
‘Cynwrig, the world of a kitchen servant consists of beatings and the occasional meal. They have no interest in who works alongside them, for the faces change almost on a daily basis. They are more worried about surviving than checking who is helping them in the dark.’
‘So how are you allowed out?’
‘I am a master baker,’ said Guy, ‘and as such enjoy certain privileges. Anyway, enough chatter. Lose yourself in the shadows, I will return shortly.’
It was over an hour before Guy returned along with eight other servants, freshly roused from their beds. Voices mumbled quietly as they unloaded the carts and before long, the men split into twos to carry the casks up to the keep. Cynwrig took his chance and stepped into the line behind Guy, lifting a sack of grain onto his shoulder. Moments later he was climbing the steps toward the tower atop the central mound and looked at the ground as he passed the guards on the reinforced door. He followed the rest of the servants into the store room and dropped the sack alongside the others before heading back to the doorway but before he stepped out, Guy grabbed his shoulder and directed him into a side room.
‘Wait here,’ he hissed, and Cynwrig hid himself behind a crate in a darkened corner.
For the next hour or so the activity increased as the castle’s kitchens came alive. Fires were stoked and water placed in giant pots to boil ready for the garrison’s meals. The sounds of unsuspecting chickens in their cages filled the air, unaware of the fate about to befall them while two servants dragged a squealing piglet to the butcher’s table in another room.
Cynwrig stayed hidden until Guy returned and, taking advantage of the activity, the baker led him through the kitchen to another side room.
‘Just do as the others do,’ he whispered, leading Cynwrig to a large oaken table.
‘This is Bryn,’ announced Guy to the two flour-covered women in the room, ‘he has been taken on for a few days’ work. Show him what to do.’
‘I knew nothing of this,’ said the older woman.
‘You said you wanted help,’ replied Guy, ‘here it is. Do you want him to stay or not? For there is always plenty of other work that needs doing.’
‘No, he can stay,’ said the woman and pointed to a pile of iron bread tins. ‘Take those to the sluice and wash them out. Make sure they are clean, mind, or you will feel the sharp end of my tongue.’
Cynwrig glanced at Guy before doing what he was told.
‘Work hard,’ snapped Guy, ‘and there may be some cawl for you at midday. But if I have reports of laziness, you will be thrown out quicker than you came in.’
Cynwrig threw Guy a sarcastic smile as the baker left before returning to his task.
Back in Deheubarth, both Dylan and Merriweather had met up as agreed and rode through the afternoon before finally reaching their destination in the early evening. Dylan reined in his horse and stared towards the sea before them.
‘So, where is this chapel?’ asked Merriweather, seeing no buildings on the cliff edge dropping away from him.
‘Down that path, built into the face of the cliff,’ replied Dylan.
‘Lead the way,’ said Merriweather.
Dylan stepped onto the worn path leading down to the rocky beach. Within minutes they turned a corner and saw Saint Govan’s Chapel nestling against the rocks.
‘Interesting,’ said Merriweather, ‘is it not used?’
‘No. In the past monks used it as a retreat but it was soon forgotten and fell into the state you see before you. Now only birds and goats use it as a shelter.’
‘And the treasures are in there?’
‘They are. It was the safest place I could think of.’
‘A good choice,’ said Merriweather. He looked down at the sand at his feet. ‘It seems you may be telling the truth for there is no sign of anyone else passing this way recently.’
‘Come on,’ said Dylan, ‘let’s get this over with.’ He led the way over to the chapel and pushed the door open. Merriweather followed him into the gloom and looked around with interest.
‘The roof seems sound,’ he said, ‘and there is fresh water. This could make a good hideout.’
‘It may be remote,’ said Dylan, ‘but it is still a place of worship. God would frown upon this place being used by brigands.’
‘Let me worry about what God thinks,’ said Merriweather. ‘Now, where are the baubles?’
‘Over here,’ said Dylan and he made his way into the darkest corner. He lifted a slab and reaching beneath, retrieved a small casket still dirty from the earth.
‘Open it,’ said Merriweather excitedly.
Dylan lifted the lid and reached in.
‘Here it is,’ he said and with a sudden movement threw the contents into Merriweather’s face.
At first, Merriweather just took a step backward in shock as his face was covered with a white powder, but he quickly recovered his senses and glared at the farmer now cowering in the furthest shadows.
‘I warned you not to try to fool me,’ roared Merriweather. Drawing his knife, he stepped towards Dylan. He hadn’t gone even a few steps when he suddenly stopped and his hands flew to his face in agony.
‘Aaarggh!’ he screamed. ‘My eyes! What have you done?’
With his fingers clawing at his face, Merriweather stumbled around the darkened room, falling against the walls as he screamed in agony.
‘Water! For the love of God, get me water,’ he shouted.
But Dylan just stared in horror. He knew the powder would burn the brigand – that was the whole point – but he wasn’t expecting such agony. Silently, he watched as the quicklime burned into Merriweather’s eyeballs, dissolving the soft tissue in a maelstrom of unlimited pain.
The brigand found the trickle of water that ran through a hole in the wall and scooped it as fast as he could onto his face, but to no effect – the damage was done. His eyes were dissolving in their sockets.
In desperation, Merriweather stumbled around the room, swinging wildly with his blade while still screaming in agony. Crashing into the door, he realised where he was but rather than running out, he slammed the door into place and turned around to face blindly into the room.
Despite the darkness, the limited light seeping through the narrow window openings meant Dylan could just about see his desperate victim. Blood and mucus ran down Merriweather’s face and saliva hung from his frothing mouth as he stared unseeingly into the darkness.
‘You may have tricked me, old man,’ gasped Merriweather, ‘but I swear I’ll kill you, eyes or no eyes.’
Staggering forward with both arms outstretched, he started making his way around the wall. Dylan pushed himself further into the alcove but the noise from the movement gave away his position. Merriweather’s head spun to face the noise and he moved quickly to ensure he blocked any route to the door behind him.
‘There you are,’ hissed Merriweather, tightening the grip on his knife. He stepped forward again and Dylan kicked out, making contact with his attacker’s knee but despite the roar of pain, the brigand fell forward onto the old man. Even in his wounded state Merriweather was more than a match for Dylan and though he had lost the knife in the fall, his hands reached out to close around the old man’s throat.
His grip tightened and despite his struggles, Dylan started to lose consciousness, knowing that this was it, he was dying.
Suddenly, the pressure eased and Dylan opened his eyes to stare up at the surprised look on Merriweather’s face. Below his attacker’s chin he could see the glint of cold steel, bloodied but still visible in the gloom where a blade had emerged from his throat. Behind Merriweather, Dylan could see the contorted face of Gwladus, still holding the hilt of the knife with both hands and as he watched, Gwladus pulled the knife back out before plunging it immediately between Merriweather’s shoulder blades. Even as he fell to the floor, Gwladus repeated the action, driving the blade over and over again into the brigand’s corpse. Finally, it seemed that all the strength left her and she broke down, sobbing uncontrollably as she released the shame she had carried since the day Merriweather had raped her twenty years earlier.
Several hours later, Gwladus and Dylan stood on the cliff above the chapel watching the waves splashing against Merriweather’s discarded corpse. They were both quiet as they wrestled with their own demons, but finally, Dylan broke the silence.
‘My lady,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid I do not have your necklace. He must have used it on one of his whores last night.’
‘It matters not,’ said Gwladus, ‘it is a small price to pay.’ She turned to look towards the horses several hundred paces away, being looked after by Emma. ‘The girl has no knowledge of what happened down there,’ she continued, ‘and I must ask that this is yet another secret we keep between us.’
‘My lips are for ever sealed, my queen,’ he replied.
‘To the grave?’
‘To the grave,’ he confirmed.
‘One more thing,’ said Gwladus, ‘never let this become a burden on your soul. Your conscience is clear. It was my hand that took that man’s life, not yours.’
‘There was no murder carried out this day,’ said Dylan, ‘but justice. I believe that man to have been responsible for more evil than we will ever know.’
Gwladus nodded silently but still stared down at the disappearing corpse.
‘Then it is over,’ she said eventually. ‘Let us put it from our minds and never again speak of this day. Where does your path lead, Master Dylan?’
‘I have no path, my lady,’ said Dylan, ‘and simply survive from day to day as I wait to join my wife in heaven.’
‘Then you must return to Dinefwr with me. There is always a place for an honest and trustworthy man.’
‘I’d like that,’ said Dylan.
‘Then it is agreed,’ said Gwladus. ‘Come, it is time to go home.’
Chester Castle
May 21st, AD 1101
Cynwrig had been kept busy in the bakery all day and his arms ached from the effort. He was no swordsman, preferring to spend time with the priests and the apothecaries, and subsequently the kneading of the dough drew on muscles rarely used. By the time the morning rush was over, his undershirt was drenched with sweat and the fat women laughed at his obvious discomfort.
‘Here,’ said one eventually, placing a bowl of broth and a hand of hot bread on one of the cluttered tables. ‘You’ve worked hard and need to keep up your strength.’
‘Thanks,’ said Cynwrig, sitting on one of the benches, ‘I never knew making bread was such hard work.’
‘You get used to it,’ said the woman, placing a jug of honeyed ale alongside the food. ‘Get it down you, there is plenty to do this afternoon. That pig needs to be roasted and I think you are going to be at the spit.’
‘At least I get to sit down.’
‘You do, but if you think you are hot now, wait until you’re near that fire.’ The other woman laughed at the crestfallen look on Cynwrig’s face.
‘Don’t you fret,’ said the first woman, ‘just keep a jug of ale at your side and you’ll be fine.’
Cynwrig finished his food, looking up as Guy joined him at the table with his own bowl.
‘It looks like you’ve had a busy morning,’ said Guy dipping his bread into the broth.
‘Those women know how to work,’ whispered Cynwrig. ‘I thought we had come here to kill Huw the Fat, not me. When do we make our move?’
‘Keep your voice down,’ hissed Guy, looking around the kitchen, ‘I’m waiting for the right opportunity. D’Avranches is a careful man and to rush it now would invite disaster.’
‘What do you propose?’
‘The earl loves his food and is fond of roast meat with bread when the day is on the wane.’
‘But that is hours away!’ said Cynwrig.
‘I know, but he has already eaten and until he summons his evening meal there is nothing we can do.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sometimes he favours chicken while other times he chooses pork. Until his platter is decided we cannot administer the poison. Even then it will be difficult as the cook personally prepares the meat and carries it to his room.’
‘We can pour it into his wine.’
‘That may be easier but it is not poured until the meal is ready.’
‘Can we not poison the jug?’
‘Others may drink from the
same vessel and these people are my friends. No, it has to be directly into his goblet.’
‘What do you propose?’
‘I’m not sure but if no other opportunity presents itself, I will create a diversion and you see if you can deliver the poison. That’s the best we can hope for at the moment, just stay alert and seize whatever opportunity arises.’
‘So be it,’ said Cynwrig as he finished mopping up the last of the broth from his bowl.
‘On your feet, young man,’ snapped the old woman coming back to the table, ‘there’s a pig to roast.’
‘Young man,’ said Cynwrig getting to his feet, ‘it’s been a few years since someone called me that.’ With a last glance towards Guy, Cynwrig followed the old woman to the fireplace and sat on the stool at one end of the spit.
‘Here’s your ale,’ said the woman, handing him a jug, ‘just call out when you need a refill, but don’t go getting so drunk that you can’t see the beast burning. There’s nothing the master hates more than burnt pig.’
For the next few hours, Cynwrig turned the spit, waiting for Guy to come back, his nerves building as he thought of what was to come. Once the meat was cooked he watched the cook set about it with a set of knives. The choicest slices were placed on a platter to one side and Cynwrig’s interest increased when he saw how carefully the trays were being set out, realising they were meant for Huw the Fat. A jug of cooled ale from the stone-lined pits in the basement was placed on one of the trays as a well-dressed servant entered the kitchen.
‘Is it ready?’ asked the newcomer.
‘Almost, Master Lewis,’ said the cook, addressing D’Avranches’ personal manservant, and turning to call out across the kitchen: ‘Where’s the bread?’
‘Coming,’ called a familiar voice and Guy appeared with a tray of three loaves. Carefully, the cook inspected and smelled all three before selecting the best and casting his eye over the platters for the last time.
‘Right,’ he said to the manservant, ‘take it up. The rest of you, back to your stations, we’ve got a hundred men to feed.’