Madoc

by Bernard Knight

  Madoc’s apathy and sorrow vanished in the splitting of a second.

  ‘Murder! … It is murder!’ he yelled. He glared wildly around the circle surrounding him and his eye fell on Dafydd, lurking well in the background.

  Every drop of Viking blood in his body congealed into the makings of a berserker. A film redder than the fire dropped before his eyes as he screamed at the top of his voice.

  ‘Dafydd – Dafydd the murderer!’

  As the words left his mouth, he leapt, eyes staring like a madman. Both Einion and the burly Penteulu tried to block his path, but he swept them aside like chaff before the winnow and charged straight at the cringing figure of Dafydd, who, though no physical coward, was momentarily terrified by this crazed blond figure, red eyes glaring in a soot-blackened face, who was tearing at him like an enraged bull.

  The crowd automatically parted and in an instant the normally placid, gentle Madoc was on him, tearing at his throat. They fell to the ground and with incoherent yells, Madoc was squeezing Dafydd’s throat with one hand and punching him frenziedly with the other.

  Owain Gwynedd himself was the first to regain his presence of mind.

  ‘Stop them … pull them apart for the sake of Christ, orhe’ll kill him.’

  The authority in the voice galvanised the onlookers into action. Several leapt upon the fanatical, thrashing body that was tearing at Dafydd and dragged him upright. Still flailing his arms and almost foaming at the mouth, Madoc was babbling incoherently, eyes staring like someone in a fit.

  ‘See to him … get him away,’ roared Owain, pointing his stick as the tattered form of Dafydd tried to crawl away on his hands and knees.

  Several of his retainers helped him to stagger to his feet. His right eye was closed, blood streamed from his nose and around his neck were bruises and scratches where Madoc’s fingers had narrowly missed throttling him.

  Owain groaned. ‘Oh God, what have I done, to have my declining years so plagued!’ he muttered.

  * * *

  12A type of mead.

  CHAPTER TEN

  April 1170

  Dawn was not long past when solemn men left their dwellings inside the palace of Aberffraw and made their way to the great hall, past the blackened shell of the burnt hut, a wisp of smoke still rising from its centre.

  They converged on the central building, where Owain Gwynedd already sat with his chief officers and the two score men of his personal fighting retinue.

  When they were all assembled, he stood up and looked sadly down at the faces of his people. Then he sought out one particular face.

  ‘Madoc … come near.’

  Madoc walked up to stand in front of his father, his feet moving as if they were made of lead. A few paces behind came Einion, unasked but as faithful to his elder brother in adversity as he was in triumph. Madoc wore his best clothes and his face was clean and shaven, the smoke of the previous night gone, though his eyebrows and some of his hair still showed singeing from the fire.

  ‘Dafydd … come here.’

  Owain spoke straight in front of him, though the other son was standing a few paces to one side. Sullenly, Dafydd moved across and stood at his father’s side, glowering at Madoc, who made no sign of recognition.

  ‘Madoc, last night you attacked your brother Dafydd and would have killed him had we not stopped you.’

  Madoc remained silent, but his eyes rose until they rested on Dafydd’s face. There was no fury or malice in them, just a blankness that reflected the emptiness and weariness of his soul.

  The prince turned to Dafydd.

  ‘Dafydd, your brother attacked you because he believed that you were responsible for the fire that burned his dwelling and killed his wife Annesta. What say you to that?’

  Dafydd was tornbetween sneers and indignation.

  ‘Why should I soil my hands with petty arson? What need have Ito meddle in the affairs of a half-brother, who is of no consequence in this land, apart from being a messenger and a shipmaster?’

  Owain glared at him. ‘I asked you for an answer, not for a speech. Tell me again, did you fire or cause to have fired the hut which Annesta occupied? And in which Madoc should have been but that he went walking in the night?’

  Dafydd’s face went red with sudden rage.

  ‘I did not, sire! I am Dafydd, Lord of Tegeingl and Rhuddlan, not some poacher to be accused of petty crimes. I have better things to do than to soil my fingers and waste my time with … with landless peasants such as he.’

  He swung away and walked a few steps, before turning and giving his father a cursory salute. ‘You will excuse me, Lord Prince, but I have business with my brother Rhodri and the hour gets late.’

  Jerking a finger at his minions he threw his cloak over his shoulder and walked out.

  Llywarch, the bard, started to go after him, then thought better of it after seeing the expression on the face of Owain Gwynedd.

  The prince recovered control of himself with difficulty after this high-handed insult from his arrogant son. He turned back to Madoc, who had stood with a bowed head all through the tirade from Dafydd.

  ‘Madoc, the officers have made all possible inquiries through the night. There is nothing … I repeat, nothing at all … to link anyone with a deliberate act of fire-raising. True, there was that brand found near the hut, but it was a brand such as is used daily for carrying fire from one hearth to another and may have been there for some time.’

  He waited for Madoc to answer, but the blond head did not rise an inch.

  Owain sighed. ‘I have no alternative, both for your own safety when Dafydd returns and for the attack you made upon him with clear intention of murder, but to send you from the court for the time being.’

  Madoc lifted his head at last. ‘Sire, you need not send me. I was going to leave as soon as I had your leave.’

  Owain nodded.

  ‘It is well. I wish you to go to your brother Riryd, Lord of Clochran in Ireland, a place you know so well. You have done much good work for me lately; you could do withsome ease, especially now that you have sorrow to defeat.’

  Madoc nodded wearily. ‘I shall have to take my wife to her home for burial,’ he muttered. ‘Her mother now lives in Dinas Dinlle, a village near Aberseiont.’13

  Owain laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Do that, Madoc, then take ship from Aberseiont straight to Dublin. I want you away from here as soon as possible. Take Llywarch, bard of the court with you, I want news from him that you left these shores safely.’

  ‘I can take the Gwennan Gorn, Lord Owain,’ answered Madoc, but his father shook his head emphatically.

  ‘You go by the quickest and straightest route. I want you out of Wales by today.’

  So was Madoc’s banishment announced. It was partly for Madoc’s safety, as the prince knew full well that Dafydd was behind the campaign of violence. But he wished to stifle any vendetta, not favour a new claimant. The easiest thing was to separate the contestants and also to confirm the rule that the strongest and most legitimate must continue the royal line. He feared for what would happen in Gwynedd when his own heart stopped beating, but at least he could try to reduce the number of combatants in the future struggle.Madoc, innocent Madoc, had to be sacrificed, at least until things had cooled down.

  But Madoc had other ideas. As soon as the congress in the great hall was over, he whispered some instructions to Einion, who found hishorse and the four men who always rode with him. They slid away into the morning light, leaving Madoc to say farewell to little Gwenllian. She was being left in the guardianship of Llowarch, Lord of Menai, and his amiable wife.

  Then came the sadness of lashing on to a pack horse the long wicker basket that contained the white-shrouded body of Annesta. With two priests, four men-at-arms and Llywarch, Poet of the Pigs, the sad cavalcade left the palace of Aberffraw.

  They went south to the ferry over the Menai Straits and by afternoon were standing at a hastily dug grave outside the little wattle church where Ann
esta had been christened twenty-four years earlier. Her father was dead and her mother, who Madoc had met twice before, took the sudden tragic death with the fortitude of one who knows long life as the exception, rather than the rule.

  The priests had their say and the grave was filled in, as Madoc stood by and thought again of the days and nights when his woman had loved him, comforted him and sometimes fought with him.Llywarch, whose cunning was matched by his perception and intelligence, said all the right things for such an occasion.

  As they walked away from the church, Madoc felt a total revulsion with all things connected with this place, this land and these people. He thought he had loved this land, yet it was not only that which offended him. Ireland was no answer. Owain had banished him there and he now felt that he could no more face life in Ireland than he could in Gwynedd.

  They reached their horses and swung into the saddles.

  ‘The priests and the other men are returning to the ferry,’ said Llywarch. ‘We ride alone now, to Aberseiont, as your father has charged me to see you safely aboard a vessel for Dublin.’

  Madoc had other ideas, but he trotted alongside the bard until the right moment presented itself. The village where Annesta had been born and had been buried was Dinas Dinlle, on the sea coast where the old Roman road ended. From there, the ruinous track of a Roman causeway led northward the few miles to Aberseiont, which wise men said was the Roman fortress of Segontium and where the Roman Emperor Macsen Wledig14 came after his dream to claim his bride, Elen of the Mighty Host.

  Madoc planned a way to give Llywarch the slip. With the burial of Annesta, his mind had cleared of the confusing sorrows and hates of the past day. He was resigned, bitter but no longer bemused.

  After a mile or so, he began fidgeting with his reins, deliberately making his beast stumble and jerk. Llywarch looked at him enquiringly.

  ‘She feels lame. Stop a while,’Madoc told the bard.

  They both slid off their mounts and Madoc pretended to examine one of his horse’s hooves.

  ‘Look at this … stuck in the hoof! Here, give me your horse.’

  As soon as he had Llywarch’s horse and the bard was peering to study a non-existent flint in the hoof, Madoc gave the other stallion a stinging blow on the flank with the flat of his sword. The horse whinnied with pain and bolted wildly up the long grassy slope towards the inland hills to their right.

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ yelled Llywarch, jerking upright as if he had been stabbed.

  But there was no one to answer him, for Madoc had swung into the saddle of his own horse and galloped away up the same slope.

  Ignoring the pleas and then curses of Llywarch, he went at full tilt for a mile, when he reined briefly to look behind him. He could just see the tiny dot that was the bard, hopelessly struggling up the long slope in his impracticable robe, yelling at his horsewhich, by now, had stopped but was looking with suspicion from a distance.

  Madoc turned and galloped on, the hills getting nearer with every hoof-beat. Before Llywarch could persuade the horse to come to him again, he would be far beyond pursuit and by sunset he would be in the valleys that would take him through the mountains to the Conwy River. By morning he would be at Aber Cerrig Gwynion and the Gwennan Gorn, with Llywarch none the wiser as to where he had vanished.

  A month later, another royal inquest was held in the great hall at Aberffraw, but this time it was Llywarch Prydydd y Moch who was standing on the hot spot before the Prince of Gwynedd.

  Dafydd, Rhodri and Hywel, the poet prince were there. The chief complainant this time was Madoc’s full brother, Riryd, Lord of Clochran.

  The hall was full of other men, curious and indignant at the accusations and denials being bandied about.

  ‘Then where is he?’ cried Riryd, flushed and angry. ‘Our royal father gave orders that my brother Madoc should travel to my lands in Ireland that very day, to escape the plots and dangers that were set against him and which had already evilly killed his wife and made his child motherless !’

  ‘And so he did … who are you to put your accusations against us?’ shouted Dafydd.

  ‘How would you know … you were not even here,’ retorted Riryd. ‘You left in high dudgeon, before Madoc set off to bury his murdered wife.’

  Owain Gwynedd held up a hand. ‘Wait, Riryd. No one has said that Madoc’s wife was murdered. Dafydd was not involved in that … nor was he near when Madoc disappeared. We haveample witnesses to that.’

  Riryd was contemptuous of such proof. ‘Dafydd can command as many witnesses as folk who live in this part of Gwynedd. That means little.’

  Llywarch, fearful for his life as a scapegoat in this affair, earnestly broke into the argument. ‘Sire, I told the truth. Madoc tricked me, sent my horse bolting and rode off into the hills.’

  ‘A likely tale, Llywarch ap Llywelyn. Try telling it to your pigs,’ snapped Riryd sarcastically.

  Llywarch could see his neck in a rope noose or his chest spitted on a sword unless he convinced someone.

  ‘He did, Lord Riryd – he vanished like a shadow into Eryri. I swear it. Test me on the hot iron if you doubt me.’

  Riryd snorted. ‘I doubt it well enough. Your tongue is well used to making up legends and fairy tales, but it has never excelled more than it does now. You were put up to some trick, Llywarch, confess it.’

  ‘I was not! I swear it. I’ll take the hot iron on it!’

  ‘You were alone with Madoc, you confess that already. You took him unawares and slew him in some secret place.’

  ‘No, no, I did not. I swear it.’

  ‘At the behest of some other party … for whom we do not have to look far.’

  Riryd, the protector of Madoc in his younger years, was in a towering rage. He was a big, commanding man, like his father, and living in independence in Ireland felt little deference to other courts and princes.

  But Llywarch denied it again, almost weeping in his earnestness.

  ‘He ran away, lord, leaving me on foot. How can I convince you?’

  ‘Then where is he now? Both I and our Lord Prince have made enquiries in Aberseiont, Aberdaron,Conwy … not a sign of him!’

  Owain Gwynedd broke in. ‘But his ship … the Gwennan Gorn. Where is that?’

  Riryd shrugged. ‘It is in some small creek along the coast, being repaired after its sore damage.’

  ‘But Einion, his closest brother and friend. He also has vanished from the face of the earth. Maybe the ship has sailed, with Einion and Madoc upon it.’

  Riryd shook his head. ‘He was coming to Clochran … youordered it yourself. Three days it would have taken him … and now we are a month away and no Gwennan Gorn has been seen in the Liffey or anywhere near it.’

  He swung round again to face Dafydd and Llywarch. ‘It smells evil to me that Madoc, my brother, should have been attacked, abused, his dwelling burned to the ground, his wife killed … and now he vanishes! If that is coincidence, then I shall become a monk. You are the key to this, Llywarch Prydydd y Moch … you were the last to be with him alone.’

  The bard groaned and looked beseechingly at Owain Gwynedd. ‘Arglwydd, I swear I am innocent of any harm to Madoc. Find the Gwennan Gorn and you find Madoc ap Owain!’

  * * *

  13Caernarfon

  14Magnus Maximus

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  May 1170

  At the time when the distraught bard was trying to convince the Lord of Clochran, the ship in question was just taking up her anchor off the Fortunate Isles.

  Within four weeks of leaving Wales, the Gwennan Gorn had reached the strange islands where the primitive Guanches dwelled.

  They had filled their water barrels to the brim as well as some leather and skin containers of the precious liquid. The barter of some woollen cloth, together with a couple of silver coins, had added several goats to their provisions, also as much sweet fruits as they could pack away in the hold and under the two decks.

  Now they stood
off from the land, in the fairest of weather, with both a steady wind and a slow but definite current setting them in the one direction – the south-west.

  ‘God seems to will us to go that way, Madoc,’ said Einion.

  Madoc shrugged resignedly.

  ‘We have made our decision, Einion. Whether God wills it or not, I do not know. But it is better to go on to a possible heaven, than back to certain hell.’

  He was responsible for the decision, though it was democratically put to all the crew. As the prow of the little ship ploughed bravely into the Great Ocean and the last known land in the world fell over the horizon behind them, he thought back – not without some guilt – over the events of the last month, since Annesta had died.

  After he had given Llywarch the slip, he had ridden north to the Conwy river, fording it well away from the settlements near its mouth. He reached the little creek of Afon Ganol around noon and rode down to Aber Cerrig Gwynion at its mouth, where the Gwennan Gorn was berthed. Here, below the old church of Llandrillo, was a stone pier, pierced with low arches.

  There was no other ship there that day when Madoc rode up to see his precious vessel sitting on the mud alongside the quay.

  The tide was out and some of the crew were sitting on the deck, playing tawlbwrdd. The rest were in a small tavern amongst the few cottages on the slope.

  When Madoc strode across the stones of the quay, he was level with the after-deck and could see Einion kneeling at the edge of the hold, talking to someone below. He was overjoyed to find that the man in the hold was Svein.

  Einion had already told the crew the news of the sad happenings at Aberffraw, but he knew nothing of Madoc’s evasion of Llywarch the bard.

  Madoc related the whole story, the seamen and his friends clustering around to listen with renewed anger against the brothers who had perpetrated this crime.

  ‘What will you do about it?’ muttered Gwilym, the steersman, his face glowering with anger.

  Madoc shrugged. ‘I am banished by my father –gently and for my own good, but none the less banished.’