The Warrior Princess

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘It may be nothing, but I have recently received worrying news. It seems that Hywel ap Maredudd has issued a call to arms to all citizens of Brycheniog.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Branwen. ‘Is he under threat?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but rumours abound that there is unrest about whom Henry named as heir to his throne.’

  ‘Matilda?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well it was always going to be a contentious issue but I thought Henry made his court swear an oath of loyalty to his daughter?’

  ‘He did, but it seems the barons have rejected the pledge and seek a male to occupy the throne.’

  ‘Why does this involve Hywel ap Maredudd? Surely he does not see himself fighting for anyone involved in the dispute?’

  ‘No, on the contrary, he suspects that there will be a civil war between the interested parties and he gathers his forces about him to ensure the security of Brycheniog should such a thing take place.’

  ‘Surely that is a good thing?’

  ‘Perhaps, but there is more. There is also a whisper that if such a thing comes to pass, he may be emboldened to march against the occupying forces in the south while the Crown is divided.’

  Branwen sat back in silence as she absorbed everything Bevan had just said. What he was suggesting was that one of the few remaining Welsh leaders in the south was not only planning a possible rebellion, but doing so on a scale previously unheard of – complete with a strong, well-trained army.

  ‘And it doesn’t end there,’ said Bevan, dropping into his own chair. ‘He has recently sent communication to all the local manors, including mine, requesting pledges of support should the time come.’

  ‘And that is what worries you?’

  ‘No. The request is fair enough, and you know where my loyalties lie in such matters, but the thing is, the letters of communication included the names of everyone he sent them to – everyone whom he suspected he could rely on if it comes to war.’

  ‘What?’ gasped Branwen, lowering her glass in astonishment.

  ‘I know,’ replied Bevan. ‘All it takes is for one of those letters to fall into the wrong hands and everyone named will immediately be considered a potential enemy to the English crown.’

  ‘How could he have been so stupid?’

  ‘All I can think is that it was written on his behalf by a scribe without knowledge of the fragility of the political situation.’

  ‘Still, it has the potential for serious damage.’

  ‘Aye it does and the thing is, as steward of my estate, Carwyn will be implicated in any perceived plot. By now that letter could well be in English hands and if your husband should come into contact with anyone already in possession of this knowledge, he is in danger of being arrested and tried as a conspirator.’

  The Cantref Mawr

  December 16th, AD 1135

  Deep in the Cantref Mawr, Carwyn and Maelgwyn rode along the narrow trails, paths known only to those who had trodden them many times before. Since leaving the site of the mass execution, Carwyn had pushed the pace, contrary to everything he had ever taught his sons, and though Maelgwyn had asked his father several times, the boy still had no idea where they were going. He looked around nervously. The trees loomed high above him and, apart from the path, the ground was a tangle of undergrowth, impossible to ride through. The forest became more claustrophobic the further they went and soon it blocked the weak winter sun, leaving them in silent, foreboding gloom, and he knew that if they were attacked now, there was nowhere to go.

  ‘I thought you said it was dangerous to ride hard through the forests,’ mumbled Maelgwyn at his father’s back.

  ‘It is,’ said Carwyn, ‘but this is different. Morgan is still missing and I just thank God he was not amongst those poor souls we found slaughtered. To kill so many without trial means something big is happening and we have to find out what is going on.’

  ‘We should have buried them,’ said Maelgwyn. ‘If the wolves take their bodies their souls will never reach the gates of heaven.’

  ‘You’ve been listening to too many old women,’ said Carwyn. ‘God will receive a good man’s soul no matter what happens to his earthly remains.’

  ‘So where are we headed?’ asked Maelgwyn again.

  ‘To see someone who may know what is going on.’

  Maelgwyn was about to respond when a voice echoed from within the trees.

  ‘Hold right there, strangers. Raise your hands above your heads where I can see them.’

  Carwyn reined in his horse and did as he was bid.

  ‘Do as he says,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘and make no sudden moves. There are probably a dozen arrows aimed at our hearts as we speak.’

  Maelgwyn raised his arms and strained to see any sign of life amongst the trees.

  ‘State your names and your business,’ shouted the voice.

  ‘My name is Carwyn of Llandeilo and this is my son, Maelgwyn. We seek the man known as Brynmore ap Owen.’

  For a few seconds there was silence until the voice spoke again.

  ‘Even if there was someone of that name, how do I know you are not a spy or an assassin sent here by the English to slit our throats in our sleep?’

  ‘Just tell him that the steward of Llandeilo Manor is here and he will vouch for me.’

  A man stepped out from the undergrowth and walked towards the father and son.

  ‘Dismount,’ he said. ‘Sit over there against that rock. See to your horses but leave your weapons here.’

  Carwyn nodded and lowered his hands.

  ‘Do as he says, Maelgwyn,’ he said, ‘and remove your sword belt.’

  Maelgwyn’s heart was racing. The warrior making the demands was wrapped in a heavy wolf-skin and across his arms, cradled like a newborn babe, lay a gleaming curved scimitar, ready for instant use. His hair fell matted around his shoulders, merging seamlessly with his tangled beard, and his weather-beaten face was testament to a life of hard living.

  ‘See anything that interests you, boy?’ asked the man coldly.

  ‘Sorry,’ stuttered Maelgwyn. ‘I was only . . .’

  ‘Just do as you are told and my blade here will go thirsty for yet another day, but cause me the slightest of doubt and she will taste your blood before you have time to think. Understood?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Maelgwyn with a gulp and he followed his father over to the rock. ‘Who is he?’ he whispered as they both turned and looked at the rest of the men now appearing from the trees.’

  ‘If I’m not mistaken, he is called Dog,’ said Carwyn. ‘A more vicious killer never walked these lands.’

  ‘Where is he from?’

  ‘Nobody knows, but he spent a long time in the Holy Land as a mercenary and they say he left half his mind there.’

  ‘Does he fight on the side of the Welsh?’

  ‘He fights for whoever pays the best purse. He is loyal to his paymasters but his brutality is second to none. Do not cross him under any circumstances.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Maelgwyn. ‘And besides, he stinks to high heaven.’

  ‘You don’t smell too sweet yourself,’ said Carwyn. ‘And that is after just a few days in the saddle. These men live like this permanently.’

  ‘Are we near the rebel camp?’

  ‘Near? We are deep in the heart of it and have been for several hours.’

  Both father and son fell silent as Dog disappeared into the trees leaving several guards to watch over them.

  ‘So, who is this man we seek?’ said Maelgwyn after a while.

  ‘Brynmore ap Owen was a close friend,’ said Carwyn. ‘We fought alongside each other many times in my younger days. I have not seen him for many years but knew he still lived amongst the rebels. He is one of the few men I know I can still trust. If Morgan has indeed come this way, then Brynmore will know where he is. All we can do now is wait.’

  Maelgwyn sat back with a sigh and closed his eyes. After what seemed like hours, his father nudged him in
the ribs. ‘Here we go,’ he said. ‘Something is happening.’

  Maelgwyn looked up and saw Dog emerging from the forest again. He talked to one of the guards before pointing at Maelgwyn.

  ‘You, stay here,’ he said before turning to Carwyn. ‘You will come with me.’

  ‘I am going with my father,’ said Maelgwyn, jumping up.

  ‘Maelgwyn, sit down,’ said Carwyn. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  ‘Do as he says, boy,’ smiled Dog, revealing the few rotten and broken teeth still in his head, ‘and you might just get out of here alive.’

  Maelgwyn sat back down and watched his father and Dog head into the forest. For the next hour or so he waited in silence, watching the men still positioned around the clearing. They all looked like they lived a hard life and he wouldn’t fancy his chances against any one of them. Eventually it started to get dark but in the gloom he saw his father emerge from the trees along with Dog and another man he hadn’t seen before. Though Maelgwyn couldn’t hear their conversation it was obvious that his father and the third man knew each other well and as they parted, both grasped each other’s wrists in a sign of friendship.

  Maelgwyn got to his feet as his father strode across the clearing and it was obvious something weighed heavy on his mind.

  ‘Have the horses been fed?’ asked Carwyn as he neared.

  ‘Yes, Father. I loosened their tack and they are well rested. Was that Brynmore?’

  ‘Aye, it was, but sort out your horse. We have to ride right now.’

  ‘But it’s getting dark.’

  ‘We have no choice. I’ve just found out your brother has been captured by the English and taken to Pembroke Castle for questioning.’

  ‘What?’ gasped Maelgwyn. ‘But why?’

  ‘I’ll explain as we go,’ said Carwyn. ‘Now mount up. We have to go.’

  Back in Pembroke Castle, the patrol had returned from their foray into the Cantref Mawr and as the grooms ran out to look after the horses, John of Salisbury walked across to greet the castellan. Outwardly his smile offered a warm welcome but. inside, he was deeply disappointed the castellan hadn’t been injured or worse.

  ‘My lord,’ said Salisbury, taking Gerald’s horse’s reins while the castellan loosened the saddle. ‘I hear the campaign was a total success.’

  ‘Aye, it could not have gone better,’ said Gerald. ‘We took the enemy camp by surprise and over half did not wake from their sleep. Many are now pleading their case before God or Satan, depending on the trueness of their souls.’

  ‘What about the rest?’

  ‘Most were tried and hanged for brigandry but there are some prisoners in one of the carts. I brought them back for questioning.’

  ‘About the ambush?’

  ‘No. For a while my spies have relayed tales that the rebel strength is growing in the Cantref Mawr and though I have not paid them much heed thus far, this latest affront to our rule in Deheubarth makes me think that perhaps I should be more concerned. Hand the prisoners over to the torturer and see what he can learn.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Salisbury.

  ‘Oh, there is one exception,’ said Gerald, handing his saddle over to his groom. ‘One of them is the son of the steward of Llandeilo Manor.’

  ‘Really?’ said Salisbury, his eyes widening with surprise. ‘I thought Lord Bevan was an ally.’

  ‘Aye, it disappoints me too but that is the fact of the matter and we need to make an example of him. Send him a message and tell him that we found one of his staff following us in the Cantref Mawr. Inform him that unless he is able to provide any good reason to the contrary, the boy will be hanged as a spy.’

  ‘Understood—’ said Salisbury, but before he could continue, Gerald started to talk to one of his armourers. Inside, Salisbury seethed at the dismissal and watched the castellan walk away laughing with the other men. The past few days in charge of the castle had whetted the constable’s appetite for more power, and with his resolve hardening he knew there was only one way to achieve the outcome he craved; he would have to take matters into his own hands. He sighed and turned to two of the guards standing near the gates.

  ‘You men,’ he said, ‘bring the prisoners to the guardhouse and summon Master Chirond. Let’s see how brave they are when faced with someone gifted in the art of administering pain.’

  Pembroke Castle

  December 17th, AD 1135

  Gerald sat at a table in his quarters, taking the opportunity to catch up on any dispatches he had missed during his time away. A knock came on the door and his wife entered followed by one of the kitchen servants, bearing a tray.

  ‘Nesta,’ said Gerald looking up. ‘Didn’t I say I was not to be disturbed?’

  ‘You did,’ said Nesta. ‘But that was this morning. You have gone the whole day without eating so I have brought something up. I will hear no argument, Gerald. You need a break from matters of the state.’ She turned to the servant and nodded towards a side table by the window. ‘Please put the tray there,’ she said, ‘and close the door on the way out.’

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ said the boy and he soon disappeared back down to the kitchens.

  Gerald rubbed his eyes before standing up and stretching. ‘Actually, I am rather hungry,’ he said. ‘And I’ve lost track of time.’ He walked over to the table and looked at the selection of cold meats and hot soup.

  ‘Are you joining me?’ he asked as he took a seat.

  ‘I will sit with you,’ said Nesta, ‘but I’ve already eaten.’

  Gerald picked up a chicken leg and dipped it in the soup.

  ‘Really,’ she said with a critical look on her face, ‘is that how a man of your station now eats his meat?’

  Gerald smiled at her as he chewed the chicken. ‘We are not in company, my love, so please allow me my indiscretions.’

  ‘I dread to think what you are like on campaign,’ she replied. ‘Without me around you must live like an animal.’

  ‘We eat as soldiers,’ said Gerald, breaking off some bread. ‘No time for the niceties of court life on campaign.’

  ‘So what was it like?’ asked Nesta. ‘You haven’t said much since you returned.’

  ‘No different to any other patrol,’ said Gerald.

  ‘But you came back with prisoners. Was there a fight?’

  ‘Not exactly but some men did die, as is often the case in such things.’

  ‘I hear there are to be several executions next week.’

  ‘Aye, when the torturer has finished with them. They chose the path of brigandry so will pay the price such a life often brings.’

  ‘Brigands or rebels?’

  Gerald stared at his wife thoughtfully as he chewed a mouthful of soup-soaked bread. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, reaching for a piece of sliced pork.

  ‘Exactly what I said,’ said Nesta. ‘Are your prisoners brigands or rebels?’

  ‘I see no difference between the two,’ said Gerald. ‘As well you know. Both callings are punishable by death so why differentiate?’

  ‘Because, sometimes, the poor are drawn to live a life amongst those who preach rebellion yet have never raised a fist against anyone. There may be innocents amongst them and you wouldn’t want to be responsible for killing innocent men.’

  ‘Unfortunately, sometimes that has to be the way. Would I seek out one rat who eats my corn or kill the whole brood?’

  ‘A strange analogy,’ said Nesta.

  ‘Worry not,’ said Gerald, picking up a spoon to attack the soup. ‘If any innocents die as a result then God will forgive them and welcome them to his side.’

  ‘And what about those that are committed to their cause. Are they all as guilty as each other?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Gerald. ‘They will be given a fair trial, found guilty and hanged for their crimes.’

  ‘Do you not see the absurdity of such a statement?’ asked Nesta.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Is not the whole purpose of a trial to ascerta
in guilt or innocence?’

  ‘Ordinarily, but these men were taken from a rebel camp. They are as guilty as the devil himself so innocence is not an option.’

  Nesta sighed and looked at her husband. She had been with him for many years and had grown to love him over time but their relationship was always kept at arm’s length by their nationalities. He was English born and loyal to the Crown while she was the daughter of a Welsh king, the last true ruler of Deheubarth, and though it had been many years since her father had died, her feelings for her country were still as strong.

  ‘What is all this about, Nesta?’ asked Gerald, placing the spoon back into the bowl. ‘It looks like you have something on your mind.’

  ‘Not really – it’s just that after so much time, it seems that people seem to be getting killed again. It has been quiet for so many years.’

  ‘You can blame your brother for that,’ said Gerald.

  ‘My brother?’ said Nesta with surprise. ‘Tarw has been dead for ten years, Gerald. He shoulders no fault for what happens in Deheubarth or beyond.’

  ‘His flesh may be dead,’ said Gerald, ‘as is that of his wife, but their names are as alive as you and I. Do you know how many children are named after them, even now after all these years? Too many. It is a frustrating and dangerous situation for all involved.’

  ‘Why? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Because as long as the people of Pembroke continue to cling to their memories they will nurture false hope in the breasts of their own children and that can only lead to more heartbreak. Nobody wants that, Nesta, least of all I. I can understand how your brother and his wife became almost legendary in the people’s minds and hearts – they fought a good campaign – but those days have long gone. The people need to move on and accept the law of the English Crown, and the sooner the constable puts an end to such nonsense, the better.’

  Nesta fell quiet, knowing it was pointless pursuing the matter. When it came to matters of warfare or politics, Gerald was particularly focussed on administering justice, whether justified or not.

  ‘So, what has happened since I was away?’ he asked, reaching for his wine. ‘I hear you and Salisbury hosted a feast for the castle ladies and the remaining officers.’