The Warrior Princess

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘I can see no reason whatsoever that would encourage me to do such a thing.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Carwyn. ‘I haven’t finished. Obviously there would be conditions otherwise it would indeed make no sense. What I was thinking is this: he gets to stay on his land for as long as he lives but only if he signs a document saying that on the day of his death, the ownership of his farm and all its associated holdings, including the land, tools, stock and indentured servants, transfer to your estate. In the meantime, he works the farm on your behalf for a fair price with all profits coming to your own treasury. That way, he need not worry about his debt, feeding his family or his children’s future and your estate benefits from the expansion you desire.’

  ‘And what about his heirs?’

  ‘He has no sons, my lord, only daughters.’

  ‘At the moment.’

  ‘Perhaps, but we can build that eventuality into the agreement. Promise him that any future sons will benefit from a position here in the manor, or something similar, and he should see reason.’

  Bevan thought for a few moments, contemplating the proposal. ‘I still can’t see how this benefits me,’ he said. ‘Only property I own can be entered against the value of my estate. By doing this, Master Jonas will still legally own the farm until the day he dies.’

  ‘True, but ask yourself this: why are you growing your estate each year even though you cannot take it with you when you die?’

  ‘Because it will be my legacy for future generations of my family.’

  ‘And therein lies my point. It could take years or even decades for Master Jonas to die but in the end your estate and your sons will benefit. Time is not the issue here; your legacy is. Buying the farm would cost ten times as much as settling his debts so, by doing so, you not only save an enormous amount of money but also invest in the future while pocketing any profits the farm makes. In addition, you will be seen as a kindly landlord who has helped a fellow man in need, irrespective of his position.’

  ‘And you think he will do this?’

  ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘How?’ said Bevan slowly, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

  ‘Um, because I have already floated the suggestion,’ said Carwyn.

  ‘And his response?’

  ‘He is mulling it over.’

  For a few seconds, Bevan stared at Carwyn, then he suddenly sat back and burst into laughter.

  ‘Master Steward,’ he said, ‘you have the cheek of the devil himself yet I admire your audacity.’

  ‘That’s why you hired me, my lord,’ said Carwyn with a smile.

  ‘Well,’ said Bevan, his laughter abating, ‘that’s one of the reasons.’

  ‘Indeed, but let us not dwell on such things. Those days have long gone.’ He took a swig of his wine before continuing. ‘So, shall I pursue the deal?’

  ‘If that is your recommendation then I will leave the details in your hands. I trust you with my life, Master Steward, so please proceed accordingly.’ Both men raised their tankards and drained them dry.

  ‘Another?’ said Bevan.

  ‘No, my lord. I promised my wife I would dine with her and our sons this evening and I am already late. If you don’t mind, I will be away.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Bevan, standing up. ‘Give my regards to your lovely lady and keep me updated as to how goes the transaction.’

  ‘I will,’ said Carwyn, bowing slightly.

  ‘I’ve told you before,’ said Bevan. ‘Please don’t do that. It makes me uncomfortable.’

  ‘I know,’ said Carwyn with a wink. ‘Why do you think I do it?’

  ‘Be gone, varlet,’ laughed Bevan, ‘before I head over to your lady’s bedchamber myself.’

  Carwyn smiled and donned his cloak before leaving the hall. The day had been long and he was exhausted, yet the satisfaction of achieving a fair outcome to the benefit of all parties made every sodden minute worthwhile. They were living in strange and dangerous times so every victory, no matter how small, was to be celebrated.

  Back in the hall, Bevan stood at the window sipping his wine as he watched the steward walking across the courtyard, leaning into the vicious storm. His relationship with Carwyn was one of mutual respect, and there was hardly a day went by when the steward’s intelligence, loyalty and ability didn’t make life in the manor as easy as it could be and he knew that if circumstances were different, Carwyn was capable of being so much more.

  A few minutes later, Carwyn walked into a small house situated within the courtyard of the manor. His wife was on her knees, adding a log to the fire, and she turned to smile as she heard him enter.

  ‘Carwyn,’ she gasped, scrambling to her feet. ‘Thank the lord.’ She ran across the room and embraced her husband, holding him tightly.

  ‘A wonderful welcome indeed,’ said Carwyn, returning his wife’s embrace. ‘What causes such emotion?’

  ‘You are late,’ said Branwen, stepping back to look up at her husband. ‘And the storm is fierce. I thought you may have been caught in the midst of it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Branwen, but the journey was far harder than I anticipated, and if truth be told, there was a while when I too thought we would have to camp.’

  ‘Well you are here now,’ she replied, ‘but you look exhausted.’ She looked into his eyes with concern. ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘As a wolf,’ said Carwyn.

  ‘Then come,’ she said, taking his hand. ‘I have two venison steaks waiting to be cooked and bread still hot from the oven. The boys have already eaten so there is plenty to fill your belly.’

  ‘Venison!’ exclaimed Carwyn as he removed his heavy cloak. ‘I am in danger of being spoilt.’

  ‘A gift from Lord Bevan’s kitchens,’ said Branwen. ‘And, anyway, you deserve it after working so hard. Take a seat while I bring the griddle.’

  ‘In a moment,’ said Carwyn. ‘First I would see the boys. Are they awake?’

  ‘Rhys is fast asleep but Rhydian may be awake.’

  ‘I’ll have a quick look,’ said Carwyn, and he crept up the stairs to peep through the door of his children’s bedchamber.

  As the lord of the manor’s steward, Carwyn enjoyed a position of privilege and was lucky to have a very generous house within the manor walls. The main living area on the ground floor had direct access to its own stockroom at the rear, as well as a cold store and a latrine. Upstairs consisted of two more rooms, each used as bedchambers, one for Carwyn and his wife and the other for three of their four sons – Maelgwyn aged sixteen, Rhydian aged five and, the youngest of them all, Rhys aged two. The fourth and oldest son was Morgan, a nineteen-year-old, hot-headed young man who lived in the soldiers’ quarters above the stables along with the half-dozen men-at-arms tasked with guarding the manor’s interests.

  To any outsider, Carwyn’s life was the model of perfection. He had a beautiful wife, a position of status and a family of four healthy boys, each assured a position within the manor as they grew older, yet his mind was troubled. As part of his duties he often travelled the breadth of his master’s lands on business, and the more he talked to people, the more aware he became of the rebellious undercurrent flowing beneath the surface of those suffering hardship under the control of the English. As a passionate Welshman his heart ached at the suffering of his countrymen yet he knew there was little anyone could do – the English were far too strong and the days of conflict in the past.

  In the middle of the boys’ room was the enormous bed that Carwyn had made with his own hands almost ten years earlier, and on the table stood a burning candle, a comfort oft demanded by Rhys before he went to sleep. At the table, Maelgwyn sat reading a document in the small circle of light. Carwyn gently placed another heavy blanket over his youngest two children, fast asleep in the bed, before walking over to peer over his older son’s shoulder.

  ‘Father, you’re back,’ said the boy quietly.

  ‘Aye,’ said Carwyn, placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder, ‘it was a toug
h journey, sure enough, but it is done. Woe betide any man stuck out in that storm tonight.’

  ‘Have you tended to your horse?’ replied Maelgwyn, sitting up. ‘I can do that for you, if you like.’

  ‘No, you stay there. Robert has it in hand. Anyway, it’s horrible out there. Tell me, what are you reading, the Bible?’

  ‘No. It’s a very rare document – an account of the life of Hywel Dda. I was given it by Lord Bevan this very afternoon.’

  ‘Were you indeed?’ said Carwyn. ‘Well, I’m happy you are taking such interest in the life of the lawmaker but be aware that many of his decrees no longer hold sway in these lands and we are bound by English law. Henry and his predecessors have seen to that.’

  ‘I know,’ said Maelgwyn, ‘but it seems so unfair. Why can we not rule our own lands, Father? Surely we should be free to walk our own hills without being beholden to the whims of a foreign king?’

  For a few moments, Carwyn looked at his second-eldest son and his eyes glazed over. Deep inside he felt the familiar pangs of patriotic fervour threatening to come to the surface, but the feelings were quickly quashed as his self-imposed discipline refused to let such thoughts colour his thinking. The road of resistance was for other men; his path consisted of doing whatever he could to protect his family.

  ‘Father,’ said Maelgwyn, staring at the blank look on Carwyn’s face. ‘Is there something wrong?’

  Carwyn took a deep breath and looked down at his son. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Everything is fine. Just be careful what you say, Maelgwyn, for such words are likely to get you in the stocks if they reach the wrong ears.’

  ‘I know,’ said Maelgwyn, ‘but I only voice such things within these walls and, besides, Morgan said—’

  ‘You have been talking to Morgan?’ interrupted Carwyn. ‘I should have guessed.’

  ‘Father, you don’t understand,’ replied Maelgwyn. ‘He only reinforced what I already believe to be true in my own heart – that we should be free to govern our own fate.’

  ‘Your brother is an angry young man, Maelgwyn, and needs to curb his tongue else we could all get in trouble. Now, your mother is about to put a couple of venison steaks on the griddle and I’m not sure I can eat them both. Perhaps you can help?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Maelgwyn, closing the book. ‘It has been a while since I tasted venison.’

  ‘Then come,’ said Carwyn, ‘before we waken the boys.’

  Together, father and son descended the stair. Branwen was crouched near the fireplace, turning the sizzling steaks over on the flat-iron griddle amongst the flames.

  ‘Still awake?’ she asked over her shoulder.

  ‘Aye,’ said Maelgwyn, ‘and Father said there may be a venison steak going spare.’

  ‘There is,’ she laughed, ‘but where you put it all, I’ll never know. You’ve already emptied the stew pot.’ She looked over to her husband. ‘Carwyn, could you pass me some more wood, please?’

  ‘He’s a growing boy,’ said Carwyn, walking over to the woodpile in the corner, ‘and will need all the meat we can spare.’

  Maelgwyn grabbed two tankards and filled them from a flask of ale before sitting at the table.

  ‘Father,’ he said eventually, ‘I was with Morgan and his comrades earlier and they were talking about a prince who once rode in these parts as a brigand. Tarw, they called him. Did you know of such a man?’

  Carwyn paused and stared at the log in his hand for a moment, recalling memories still raw in his mind despite the passing years.

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Carwyn, resuming his task, ‘I knew of him. Why do you ask?’

  ‘One of Morgan’s fellows said you may have once ridden alongside him as a rebel. Is that true?’

  Branwen looked over and saw her husband turn to stare at his son, a hint of anger in his eyes. She stood up and quickly walked over to the table with the two steaks hanging from the blade of a knife. Carwyn lifted the tankard and took a long draft, deliberately ignoring his son’s question.

  ‘Aye,’ intervened Branwen as Carwyn drank, ‘there is an element of truth in the tale but we don’t speak of that man around here anymore. He is long gone.’ She placed a steak on each trencher and pushed one across the table to her son. ‘Here, eat up while it’s hot. I’ll get you some bread.’ She turned away but stopped in her tracks as her son continued the unwelcome line of questioning.

  ‘So where did he go – this man called Tarw?’ asked Maelgwyn, his mouth full of meat. ‘Was he captured by the English?’

  ‘He is dead!’ shouted Carwyn, slamming his tankard down hard onto the table. ‘And that’s all you need to know.’

  Maelgwyn stared at his father in shock. Rarely did Carwyn raise his voice but when he did it was better not to risk further admonishment.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Maelgwyn. ‘I was just interested.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ snapped Carwyn. ‘That man’s name is not welcome around here, at any time. Now eat up and go to bed. Your mother and I have things to discuss.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Maelgwyn. ‘My apologies.’

  Ten minutes later, Maelgwyn was back in his bedchamber while his father was still downstairs, sitting in the chair before the fire. His venison lay untouched upon the table.

  ‘Don’t be too hard on him,’ said his wife, rubbing away the tenseness in the back of his neck. ‘He knows not of what he speaks.’

  ‘Aye,’ sighed Carwyn, ‘I know, and I was out of order to react so. I’ll make it good with him on the morrow. It’s just that this whole situation is so frustrating.’

  ‘Let it go, Carwyn,’ said Branwen. ‘Those days have long gone.’

  ‘Have they, Branwen?’ asked Carwyn. ‘Have they really or are they still wrapped around us like a great, unseen cloak? For I tell you this: something is stirring out there, something big, and if it is what I think it is, then I fear for the future of our sons.’

  Pembroke Castle

  December 7th, AD 1135

  Nesta ferch Rhys sat at the long table in the main hall alongside four of the castle ladies with whom she shared a close friendship. As the wife of Gerald of Windsor, the castellan of Pembroke castle, she enjoyed the privilege of sitting on the seat at the head of the trestle table while the other four ladies sat at the sides, though all in reach of the tapestry lying before them. To one side sat Emma, Nesta’s maid and closest confidante. Emma had been with Nesta for many years, and even though she still held the humble title of lady’s maid, she enjoyed privileges of which most servants could only dream. As the ladies chattered like the women of the markets, Emma busied herself sorting out the threads needed to feed their love of embroidery.

  Emma’s eyes were not what they used to be but, despite struggling to thread the needles, she persevered, not helped by the raucous gossip and laughter coming from those who, in her mind, should show more decorum.

  ‘I am telling the truth,’ said one of the ladies, particularly loudly to better the laughter from her friends. ‘Her husband came back early and Master Clive jumped from the window without a stitch of linen upon him.’

  ‘Naked?’ asked one of the ladies. ‘Surely not.’

  ‘As the day he was born. I know for I saw him with my own eyes.’

  ‘Lady Cerys!’ gasped one of the others. ‘Are you telling us that you did not avert your gaze?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Lady Cerys looking around her laughing friends. ‘I have heard that the stable master has been particularly blessed and I was inquisitive as to whether the stories are true.’ Again the women broke down in laughter as they pictured the scene.

  ‘And is he?’ gasped Nesta, wiping away her tears of mirth. ‘For we are all anxious to hear.’

  ‘Well, I am not one to tittle-tattle but let’s just say I now know why the Lady Delyth is so happy these days.’

  The women again collapsed in laughter as Nesta turned to address Emma.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said, trying to gather her sensibilities, ‘I
fear this tapestry will never be done. Emma, would you be so kind as to arrange a fresh flask of wine?’

  ‘Of course, my lady,’ said Emma, getting up from her seat. ‘I will send a boy straight away.’

  ‘Emma,’ continued Nesta, stopping the woman in her tracks, ‘why not bring another goblet and join us at the tapestry?’

  ‘I think not, my lady,’ said Emma with a smile. ‘You know what the master is like.’

  ‘Oh, you leave him to me,’ said Nesta. ‘Join us at the tapestry and rest for a while. You work too hard.’

  ‘If you will forgive me, my lady, I would not be comfortable and, besides, I have to see the stable master later on and if I hear any more secrets about him I swear I will swoon from embarrassment the very moment I see him.’

  All the women laughed again as Emma left the room and Nesta took a deep breath before returning her attentions to the tapestry.

  Emma walked down a narrow corridor towards the kitchen, frustrated that the page was nowhere to be seen. ‘I’ll box his ears when I see him next,’ she muttered, retrieving a flask of wine from a shelf in the cold store. On the way back, a door opened to one side and she paused to avoid walking into the constable. She kept quiet, hoping he wouldn’t notice her in the gloom. John Salisbury was a man of few redeeming features and the last thing she wanted to do was antagonise him. The constable locked the door and was about to walk away when he sensed someone was behind him and turned to face the maid.

  ‘Good evening, Master Salisbury,’ said Emma with a slight nod of the head.

  Salisbury took a few steps towards her, looming tall in the gloom.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he said, ‘if it isn’t Nesta’s favourite slave. What, no curtsey for your betters?’

  ‘Such salutations are reserved for Master Gerald and my lady,’ replied Emma. ‘As you well know.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Salisbury, placing two fingers under her chin to lift up her head. His cold eyes stared into hers for a moment before she looked away and he dropped his hand. ‘You are getting stubborn in your old age, woman,’ he said. ‘But you’re not so old that you won’t get a flogging if you keep treating me with such disdain.’