A Wounded Realm

by K. M. Ashman

  Two kitchen servants picked up the trays and followed Master Lewis out of the kitchen but as the last one ducked out of the doorway, Guy stuck out a foot and tripped him up, sending the bread and wine flying across the floor.

  Everyone in the kitchen turned to see the commotion. For a few seconds, Cynwrig was just as shocked as the others but suddenly realised this was the opportunity he and Guy had discussed. Quickly, he retrieved another goblet and while everyone’s attention was diverted, poured in the contents of the poison vial.

  ‘What’s going on?’ roared the cook, waddling over from the far part of the kitchen.

  Guy turned to face the intimidating man with a look of horror on his face.

  ‘Master Cook,’ he said, ‘my apologies, I was in too much haste to return to the ovens. He fell over my feet. Here, let me help.’ He crouched to help the dazed servant but the cook lashed out in exasperation.

  ‘Leave him,’ he shouted, ‘just get me some fresh bread and wine and quick about it.’

  ‘I’ll do it myself,’ said the manservant in anger, striding to the table to pick up a loaf and without a second thought, accepted the fresh goblet of wine from Cynwrig. The cook arranged the replaced items on the tray and without wasting any more time, sent the three servants on their way.

  ‘Back to work,’ he roared, ‘and as for you, Master Baker, I’ll deal with you later.’

  The kitchen returned to normal and Cynwrig returned to the sluices. Within moments, Guy entered and spoke under his breath.

  ‘Did you do it?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Cynwrig, ‘as soon as he drinks his wine, he’ll be dead within moments.’

  ‘Then we have to get you out of here,’ said Guy. ‘The first thing they will think of is poison and you are the obvious suspect. Finish that rack and make your way outside. Wait in the stables near the gate towers, I can get you through the gate but after that, you’re on your own.’

  Minutes later Cynwrig was heading for the door when one of the women called after him.

  ‘And where do you think you are going, young man? There’s yet plenty of work to do.’

  ‘Latrine,’ said Cynwrig, ‘all that ale at the spit needs a new home.’

  ‘Then make haste for there are rabbits to gut when you get back.’

  Cynwrig left the kitchens and made his way to the door of the keep, passing the guards with no problem. They were more concerned with people getting in than getting out.

  Huw the Fat sat in his favourite chair by the window, looking out across the bailey and over the palisade toward the distant roofs of Chester town. His manservant entered the room followed by the two kitchen hands bearing the trays of food. They placed the trays on the larger table against the wall before leaving again without acknowledgement.

  ‘My lord, the food is here,’ said the manservant.

  ‘Bring it over,’ said Huw without taking his eyes from the courtyard.

  The servant brought a plate of pork and some bread along with the goblet of wine, placing it on the smaller table alongside the earl.

  ‘Lewis,’ said Huw, placing a handful of meat into his mouth, ‘who is that man there? I have never seen him before.’

  Lewis peered over the Earl’s shoulder, watching a stranger cross the bailey and disappearing into the stables.

  ‘I think it is the new servant, my lord. I saw him in the kitchens just a few moments ago.’

  ‘And who hired him?’ asked Huw, through a mouthful of pork.

  ‘I would assume the cook,’ said Lewis, ‘for no one is engaged without his say.’

  ‘Ordinarily yes, but I saw the cook this very morning and he did not say anything about new staff.’

  ‘Perhaps he forgot.’

  ‘Hmm,’ acknowledged Huw as he took a bite of the bread. Lewis turned away but was stopped by the earl. ‘Even so,’ he continued as he swallowed a chunk of meat, ‘why is he allowed to wander so freely and what business does he have in the stables?’

  ‘A very good question, my lord,’ said Lewis, ‘new starters are usually confined to the kitchens for the first few months. Even then they are not allowed to wander the castle at will.’

  Huw stared at the back of the retreating man for a few more seconds before turning his attention to the drink on the table. He picked up the goblet and placed it to his lips before pausing and looking up to the servant.

  ‘Do you think he had any access to my meal?’

  ‘Unlikely, my lord. It is usually prepared by the cook himself.’

  ‘“Unlikely” is not a very strong assurance.’

  ‘I cannot guarantee it, my lord. There was a commotion in the kitchens just before we picked up the meal. Some had to be replaced.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Huw.

  ‘One of the servants tripped and dropped his tray. We had to get fresh meat and pour fresh wine.’

  Huw placed the goblet slowly back down on the table.

  ‘Who poured the wine?’ he asked coldly.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ stuttered the servant, ‘it all happened so quickly.’

  Huw’s attention turned back to the goblet and picking it up, he handed it over to the servant.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘you drink it.’

  ‘My lord?’ started Lewis.

  ‘Drink it,’ ordered Huw, ‘all of it.’

  Nervously, the servant picked up the goblet and after the slightest of pauses, drank the vessel dry.

  Silence fell and Huw’s eyes narrowed as he stared intently at the servant.

  ‘See,’ said Lewis, ‘your worries were in vain.’

  ‘I had to be certain,’ said Huw. ‘Now go and get me fresh wine but oversee it yourself. While you are there, bring me more information on the new servant. I don’t like unknown staff within these walls.’

  ‘As you wish, my lord,’ said the servant, and he left the room to descend to the kitchens.

  Over half an hour had passed before Huw grew impatient and summoned the guard outside his door. The day outside had become dark and the lanterns needed lighting.

  ‘Where is that fool Lewis?’ he demanded. ‘I have a great thirst about me.’

  ‘My lord,’ replied the guard, ‘I have terrible news. Lewis fell down the stairs and is now dead.’

  Huw stared at the guard in shock.

  ‘Do you want me to bring you fresh wine?’ asked the guard.

  ‘No,’ said Huw, ‘I will go myself. Where is Lewis’s body now?’

  ‘In the basement.’

  Huw struggled to his feet and walked towards the door.

  ‘Show me where he fell,’ he said and followed the soldier down the stairs.

  ‘We found him here, my lord,’ said the soldier and pointed to where a maid was scrubbing the floor.

  ‘Blood?’ asked Huw.

  ‘No, my lord, puke. He was seen to be retching as he descended and then emptied the contents of his stomach onto the stairs before falling.’

  ‘Take me to him.’

  They made their way over to the stair leading to the basement and descended the few steps into the candlelit room. A priest was praying over the body and a few of the other servants knelt in prayer beside him.

  ‘Out of the way,’ barked Huw. He approached the body. ‘Where’re his clothes?’

  ‘Over here, my lord,’ stuttered one of the girls, indicating a basket. ‘I will wash them and have him redressed for his burial.’

  Huw picked up the jerkin, noting it was still wet with blood and puke. He lifted it up to his nose and breathed deeply before handing it over to the priest.

  ‘What does that smell of to you?’

  The priest sniffed nervously before looking at the earl.

  ‘I’m not sure, my lord, perhaps vermin?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Huw, ‘dead mice to be exact. Do you know what that is?’

  The priest shook his head.

  ‘Hemlock,’ said Huw. ‘This man was poisoned by the wine intended for me.’ He turned to the guard at his
side. ‘Lock down the castle, we have an assassin amongst us.’

  Throughout the night, guards searched everywhere for Cynwrig and it was only when dawn was breaking when they found his escape route. A message was sent to Huw the Fat and within the hour, he made his way down the steps of the motte and walked across the bailey. On the way he met Alan Beauchamp, the knight who controlled the castle on Huw’s behalf.

  ‘So he has escaped,’ snapped Huw.

  ‘It would seem so, my lord,’ said Beauchamp.

  ‘Show me,’ said Huw, following the knight up the slope to the top of the palisade.

  ‘Here,’ said the knight, pointing at one of the sharpened logs that made the outer defences. Huw looked over the wall and saw a chain of leather bridles fastened together to make a semblance of a ladder. Down below, the filth-filled moat sent its stench heavenward and Huw stepped back quickly.

  ‘He must have stolen the bridles last night,’ said the knight, ‘and in the confusion, managed to get up here unseen. After that it was just a case of climbing down and wading through the filth.’

  ‘Very astute of you,’ growled Huw. ‘Who was on duty up here last night?’

  ‘Those men are being held in one of the halls,’ said Beauchamp. ‘I expect you want them punished.’

  ‘You expect right,’ said Huw. ‘I was nearly killed last night and because some of my own men were less than vigilant, the would-be assassin has escaped. Have the sergeant in charge whipped, fifty lashes. The rest of the men to receive twenty-five each.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said Beauchamp, and he turned to walk away.

  ‘Wait,’ said Huw, ‘I haven’t finished. I have lain awake for most of the night, fearful for my life. I am now going to my bed and expect no interruptions. Start those punishments immediately and let them know that if I hear even one of them cry out, I will place every one of them on the gallows. Understood?’

  ‘Understood,’ said the knight. He watched as Huw made his way back up to the keep. When the earl was out of earshot, he turned to call to one of the guards.

  ‘Sergeant!’

  ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘How many men are in detention?’

  ‘Six, my lord.’

  ‘Then bring them out immediately and prepare them for the lash. Make up six gags so their cries are muffled. Let’s not give this tyrant any more fuel for his temper than he already has.’

  Cynwrig lay perfectly still. For the last twenty hours, he had been in hiding, knowing full well that if he was found, there would be no mercy. He hoped fervently that the bridles he had left hanging over the palisade would be accepted as evidence of his successful escape, as at the last moment, he had scorned the opportunity, choosing instead to stay within the boundaries of the castle. The choice was not one taken lightly but he had overheard someone shouting that the earl’s manservant had been poisoned and that could mean only one thing: D’Avranches was still alive.

  Cynwrig knew that to stay probably meant certain death but he had set out to avenge the deaths of his family, and having come this far, could not turn back now.

  Quickly, he had abandoned his makeshift ladder on the palisade and taking advantage of the confusion, managed to return to the kitchens unseen before hiding in the garderobe. Eventually the commotion died down within the keep and he crept up the stairwell towards Huw’s quarters.

  The guard was absent due to the demands of the search in and around the stables so hardly believing his luck, Cynwrig crept into the earl’s bedchamber and hid himself away. All he needed now was Huw the Fat.

  Huw made his way back up the steps of the motte before stopping off in the kitchens.

  ‘My lord,’ said the cook, making his way over, ‘we were not expecting you.’

  ‘Obviously,’ said the earl, watching as all the servants doubled the effort each was putting into their tasks. ‘Now you take heed, Master Cook, I am going to my bed but tonight I want a large bowl of fresh potage and a jug of watered wine. Make it yourself and allow no other hands anywhere near it on pain of death.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said the cook.

  ‘In addition,’ said the earl, ‘it seems the assassin was given a position in these kitchens without my approval. I want the name of the person responsible. If you do not furnish me with a name by the time I wake up then I will pick one at random to be punished as an example to all the staff. That could be you, cook, so think well.’

  ‘As you wish, my lord,’ said the cook, and he watched the earl make his way to the stairs leading up to his quarters.

  Cynwrig’s eyes snapped open as he heard the door to the bedroom being opened. Silently he cursed himself for having fallen asleep while waiting. He held his breath, waiting for the shouts that would announce his capture, but all he could hear was the sound of a servant lighting candles around the room.

  ‘Is there anything else?’ asked a voice.

  Cynwrig almost gasped aloud when he heard the earl answer less than a few paces away from his hiding place.

  ‘No, that will be all.’

  ‘Then I will return to collect your platters when you have finished your meal this evening,’ said the unseen voice.

  Cynwrig breathed a silent sigh of relief when he heard the servant leave and the door close behind him. Better still was the satisfying turn of a key in a lock as D’Avranches locked himself in, no doubt still concerned about how close he had come to death.

  Cynwrig lay in the dusty darkness beneath the earl’s bed, waiting for the man he hated more than anything else in life to settle down. He heard the sound of the giant man discarding his clothes and saw some of the garments land on the floor within arm’s reach. Finally, the earl sat on the bed and Cynwrig flinched when the frame sagged under D’Avranches’s heavy weight, stopping just inches above his face. For the next few minutes, the earl tossed and turned as he tried to get comfortable, before finally settling down to sleep.

  Cynwrig waited in the darkness, not quite sure what to do next. If he tried to crawl out from beneath the bed, then the earl would possibly hear him and call for help before any damage could be done. So Cynwrig had to wait until his target was asleep. He didn’t have to wait long before the sounds of rhythmic snoring echoed gently around the room, and after waiting a few more minutes to be sure, Cynwrig inched his way from beneath the bed.

  Moments later he stood beside the sleeping form of Huw the Fat, and stared down with hatred in his heart. Slowly, he drew the knife secreted in his boot and leaned forward, holding the blade less than an inch above the sleeping man’s heart. But just as he lifted the knife, the earl opened his eyes.

  Cynwrig froze in fear and for a long moment the two men stared at each other in the candlelight. Huw reacted first, his eyes narrowing and his face contorting with anger.

  ‘Who are you?’ he growled. ‘And what are you doing in my chamber?’

  Before Cynwrig could answer, the earl spied the knife in his hand and threw back the covers. ‘Assassin,’ he wheezed as he struggled from his bed and Cynwrig knew he had no option but to attack. Without a second thought he launched himself at the obese earl, knocking him backward onto the bed, and though his target was twice his weight, his momentum and strength carried him forward. Huw struggled valiantly, using what was left of his skills from when he was a knight many years earlier but Cynwrig punched him hard in the mouth before placing his blade against his victim’s throat.

  Huw knew instantly he had been bettered and stopped struggling.

  ‘Who are you?’ he gasped. ‘What do you want?’

  Cynwrig didn’t answer, but just stared into the cold eyes of the man who had murdered his family.

  ‘If you are naught but an assassin,’ continued Huw, ‘then get on with it, for it is a lower trade than that of a swine herd and you will be judged before God.’

  ‘I am no assassin,’ said Cynwrig, ‘I am a mere man who seeks justice for a deed most foul, and you, Earl D’Avranches, take liberties with deciding who will and won’t be judge
d before our Lord.’

  ‘You talk in riddles, stranger,’ said Huw, ‘but if you don’t get off me right now, I swear my torturers will make you scream for a hundred days, begging for death.’

  ‘Death holds no fear for me, D’Avranches,’ said Cynwrig, ‘and if I am to die, it will not be in your torture chambers.’ He used his other hand to pull a vial from his pocket and held it up before the earl. ‘Do you see? Even if your soldiers come, it will be this that ends my life, not you.’

  ‘You are the man who tried to poison me,’ gasped Huw, ‘the one who hid in the stables.’

  ‘The very same,’ said Cynwrig, ‘and I am here to finish the task.’

  With a fierce thrust, Cynwrig’s blade cut deep into Huw the Fat’s voluminous flesh, sending fountains of blood spurting in all directions.

  ‘Goodbye, D’Avranches,’ said Cynwrig quietly, ‘I hope you rot in hell.’

  Several hours later, life had almost returned to normality in the castle. The whipped soldiers were being attended by an apothecary in their barracks and the usual patrols rode back and forth through the gates after their usual forays into the surrounding towns and villages, keeping control of the population. Guy had his father’s cart reloaded with empty ale barrels and rode out of the castle gates to return to the village.

  The sun was lowering in the west as the cook finally made his way up the stairs with the earl’s food and he knocked several times before opening the door and letting himself in.

  The room was quite dark with no candles lit so as he walked towards the table, he didn’t see the corpse of the earl at his feet and he tripped over the body, sending the tray and its contents across the chamber floor.

  ‘My lord,’ he shouted, seeing the shape in the darkness, ‘are you all right?’ He crawled to the body and reached out his hand before crying out in horror as it sunk into a pool of sticky blood. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ he gasped, getting to his feet. He ran quickly to the top of the stairs, calling wildly for the guards.

  Within moments, several soldiers came running into the room, one of them carrying a flaming torch.