by K. M. Ashman
‘Why not just simply relieve these errant farmers of whatever goods they have before they can give them to the rebels?’
‘I fear it will come to that,’ said Gerald. ‘But the day it does we will lose the goodwill of the people and that is a hornet’s nest we should not poke.’
Maurice fell quiet and stared at Gerald for a few moments, his mind racing with the news. As far as he was concerned, Gerald was by far the strongest in Deheubarth and for him to voice his concerns over the threat of the Welsh meant it was a problem that must be taken seriously.
‘Even so,’ he said eventually, ‘there remains the possibility that none of this may come to pass. Tarw could actually be dead and the rebel groups you speak of are nothing more than starving criminals spreading rumours. Hardly the makings of a credible army.’
‘I agree,’ said Gerald, ‘and believe me when I say that I have thought long and hard about my concerns before coming here, but there is one more thing that forced my hand.’
‘And that is?’
‘The fact that Hywel ap Maredudd has already mustered an army to his banner.’
‘I had heard the rumours but gave them little credence. Even if true, he will be given short shrift by the king.’
‘The king is dead,’ said Gerald. ‘Remember?’
‘Forgive me,’ said Maurice, ‘it was a shameful oversight but the sentiment still stands. Any Welsh noble raising an army is subject to the full weight of English law, and no matter who takes the throne, you can rest assured they will wipe out this threat within weeks.’
‘Maurice, my spies say he already has over five hundred men-at-arms and is marching south as we speak. It will take weeks for the new monarch to settle in and by then it could be too late. Add this to the potential resurgence of Tarw and we have a serious problem on our hands. Now, I don’t know about you but my garrison is nowhere near strong enough to fight a full-scale war.’
‘Mine neither,’ said Maurice quietly. ‘Henry’s castles all across Wales were depleted when he needed men for his war in France and I have fewer than a hundred at my disposal, including those in outlying fortifications.’
‘My numbers are even smaller,’ said Gerald, ‘and that is why I am here. I believe you are going to London to pay respect to the king and to attend his successor’s coronation?’
‘Aye,’ said Maurice. ‘I leave tomorrow.’
‘Then I have a boon to ask. When you are there I want you to press the court for extra men to be deployed in Deheubarth. Explain to them the danger we face and seek support to bolster our defences. With the death of the king and the challenges to the succession, we are facing the possibility of an all-out revolt while our attentions are focussed elsewhere. I cannot overstate the seriousness of this situation, and not a day goes by without our spies reporting another attack on the king’s roads. Eventually these minor skirmishes will grow and when they do, we need to be ready.’
Maurice again looked thoughtfully at the man opposite him. Gerald was one of the most respected knights serving the king, yet for Gerald to seek aid from the Crown at such a tragic time meant exposing himself to ridicule from the barons who made up the court. However, to deny the request could possibly place the whole of the south at risk should the Welsh revolt.
‘Gerald,’ he said eventually, ‘you ask a great deal and I am doubtful whether we will receive a supportive answer, especially at this time.’
‘I realise that,’ said Gerald, ‘but they have to be made aware of the threat. That way, should the worst happen and we send for help, at least it will already be in their minds and perhaps they will afford it the urgency any such request deserves. I also have a document that you can take with you, signed by all the local castellans listing their concerns. This is very serious, Maurice, and I trust no one better than you to carry out this task. Our futures may be in your hands. So, will you do it?’
Maurice returned Gerald’s intense stare before draining his goblet and placing it on the table. ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘I will. Of course, I will need more detail before you leave and it would help if one of your seconds came along to relay your fears first-hand. Other than that, you have my word that I will do whatever I can.’
‘Excellent,’ said Gerald sitting back in his chair. ‘I cannot ask for more.’ He lifted his own goblet and drank it dry. ‘Now,’ he said, wiping some ale from the side of his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘who else is coming to tonight’s banquet?’
Ten leagues away a servant ran through the silent corridor and up the stairs to Nesta’s quarters. As she approached the room, the guard stationed at the top of the stair stepped forward with his hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘Stop right there,’ he said. ‘What’s the rush?’
‘I have an urgent message for the lady Nesta,’ said the servant.
‘She had a sleepless night,’ said the guard, ‘and is not to be disturbed. Give me the message and I will see she gets it.’
The servant looked around, not sure what to do. She had been instructed to give the castellan’s wife the message herself but this was obviously not possible.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘spit it out or be gone. Either way is good for me.’
‘I will leave it with you,’ said the girl. ‘Tell her that the archer who killed mistress Catrin is no longer in his cell.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked the guard. ‘Where is he?’
‘Nobody knows,’ said the servant. ‘He has escaped!’
Kidwelly
December 24th, AD 1135
Colin of Monmouth sat against a gravestone in an overgrown cemetery, his dirty face lined with the tracks of his tears. Since being freed from his cell back in Pembroke castle, he had ridden hard with his rescuer, an English knight called Walter de Calais, and now found himself faced with a task that almost made him wish he was still there and facing the justice of Gerald.
Walter de Calais had said little since leaving Pembroke, insisting instead they had to be as far away as possible before the alarm was raised. Colin had little option other than to obey the knight and flee, despite his innocence. Throughout the arduous journey, his mind raced, going over and over the situation they had left behind in the castle, and though he had not known where they were headed, he clung on to the faint hope that someone would realise there had been a terrible mistake and he could soon head home.
For the past few hours they had hidden amongst the trees of the graveyard, safe from prying eyes and the worst of the weather. His rescuer had given him food, water and warm clothing and he had gone on to explain that Colin had been released at the orders of the constable himself, John of Salisbury.
Colin looked around the graveyard. To one side were the ruins of a church, most of its walls long since removed for building materials on nearby farms and houses, and within the shadows of the one wall still standing the remains of the night’s fire smouldered silently. Just below the derelict church, a well-trodden path stretched southward and in the distance he could see a castle dominating the skyline.
‘Here they come,’ said a voice and Walter appeared from the shadows to stand before him. ‘You know what you have to do?’
‘Aye,’ said Colin, ‘but I still don’t understand.’
‘I have already told you,’ said Walter. ‘It was your blade found at the scene and the constable’s hands are tied in this matter. Whether you killed the girl or not, the fact is that you will be found guilty and be hanged should you be caught. That means your soul will rot in hell for eternity. However, do this one simple task and he has granted me permission to set you free. After that, you are on your own but we will not pursue you for seven full days. By then you can easily be in another kingdom and free to continue your life.’
‘But who is this man we target?’ asked Colin, looking towards the approaching column. ‘If he is guilty of a crime, why doesn’t the constable arrest him?’
‘Because our quarry is a cruel tyrant and has many allies,’ replied Walter. ‘The polit
ics involved are complicated but, suffice to say, he is a threat to the Crown and needs to be killed. At least this way his death will be blamed on brigands and our land will be rid of a tyrant. Do this and you will be a free man to live your life as you wish.’
‘But why me?’
‘Because it is well known that despite your age, you are one of the best archers in the garrison.’
He threw an unstrung bow at Colin’s feet. ‘The rumours are that you killed four men on Gerald’s last campaign.’
‘Five,’ said Colin.
‘Well, there you are, killing one more will be as nothing. Just think of your target as another rebel. After all, it wasn’t you who killed that poor girl was it?’
‘No,’ snapped Colin. ‘Whoever did it stole my knife to lay the blame at my feet.’
‘Perhaps so,’ said Walter. ‘But as I said, the Constable’s hands are tied in this matter. Do this one thing and you will be free again. Do you understand?’
Colin nodded and got to his feet.
‘Then come,’ said Walter, ‘you need to choose your place for the best shot.’
‘I have already done so,’ said Colin quietly. ‘It is from the bracken on the forward slope.’
‘Not from there?’ asked Walter, pointing to some nearby rocks.
‘No, it is too open to the wind. From the bracken the arrow will be protected and fly true. There is also a stream crossing the track at the base of the hill and the column will have to slow down to cross. It is there that the target will be most vulnerable.’
‘See,’ said Walter, ‘you are already thinking like a true soldier.’
‘What happens when the deed is done?’ asked Colin.
‘I will be waiting here with the horses,’ came the reply. ‘One arrow is probably all you will have time for; possibly two but no more. They will come after us but by the time they find our tracks we will be long gone. Now hurry or your neck will be stretched before the sun sets tomorrow.’
He handed over two arrows and watched as Colin made his way through the trees. The archer stuck them in the ground before him and strung his bow, the larger muscle in his right arm tensing under the strain. When he was ready he looked back at the man hidden amongst the trees behind him.
‘Don’t miss,’ warned Walter, as Colin turned to face the approaching column.
Slowly they drew nearer and the archer could see his target in the third rank, riding beside the standard-bearer. As expected, the column slowed as the horses picked their way through the stream and for a few moments, everyone came to a halt.
Knowing he would not get a better chance, Colin notched his arrow and stood up amongst the bracken. Without hesitation he drew back the bowstring and took aim. For a second he paused, something didn’t feel right.
‘Do it, damn you, or I swear I will hang you myself,’ hissed the man behind him.
With no other option, Colin calmed his breathing and pulled the bowstring to its furthest extent. Almost casually, he let the bowstring slip from his fingers and the released energy sent the arrow flying through the air to smash into the face of the victim. It was a perfect shot and the man was dead before he hit the ground.
For a few seconds, confusion reigned amongst the column down on the track, and expecting an imminent attack, each man quickly drew his sword as they all desperately scanned the landscape to find the assassin.
‘Does anyone see anything? ’ roared the captain from behind his raised shield.
‘No, my lord,’ came the reply from two dozen voices.
The captain looked over at the man lying on the ground with an arrow through his head. Some of the riders had dismounted and formed a shield wall to protect the victim but the officer already guessed it would be of no use. No man could survive such an injury.
For a few seconds he stared in horror. As captain of the guard it had been his duty to protect his master from all assaults and it was obvious he had failed. The blood drained from his face as the implications sank in and he turned to face the rest of his men.
‘Whoever is responsible for this,’ he shouted, ‘I want them brought to me before this day ends. Spread out and find him. A purse of silver to whoever brings me his head.’
As one, the line of riders started forward over the rough ground, their shields held before them, but unbeknownst to them, the threat had long gone. Colin of Monmouth and Walter de Calais were already on the far side of the hill and galloping as hard as they could away from the scene of the ambush.
‘We’ll stop here,’ called Walter less than an hour later.
‘Why?’ asked Colin. ‘They can’t be far behind us.’
‘The horses need water and there is a stream over there.’
‘But shouldn’t we press on?’
‘It makes no sense to ride our horses to death,’ said Walter, dismounting. ‘Fret not, our pursuers will also have to water their horses. We will take a few moments only and then continue.’
Colin rode over and dismounted before leading his horse down to the stream. When it had drunk its fill, he led it back to the track where Walter was waiting.
‘Ready?’ asked Walter.
‘Aye,’ said Colin. ‘We should move.’
‘Before we do, you should check your horse’s rear leg, it looks like he is lame,’ said Walter.
‘Oh, no,’ said Colin and he walked to the rear of his horse. Bending down, he checked the hoof before running both hands up the leg, checking for lumps or tears in the muscle.
‘I can’t see anything,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘You must be mistaken.’
‘Aye,’ said Walter, walking up behind him, ‘perhaps I was.’
Before Colin could stand, Walter pushed him forward into the mud and dropped onto his back, pinning the archer to the floor with his knees.
‘What are you doing?’ panted Colin, trying to break free.
‘I’m sorry, my friend, but if I let you live and they catch you, you could identify me and I cannot risk that happening.’
‘No,’ cried Colin as Walter’s huge hands grabbed him around the head. ‘Please, don’t do this. Master Salisbury said I could live.’
‘Salisbury?’ sneered Walter. ‘Who do you think ordered your death?’
‘But you said . . .’
‘Oh, I know what I said,’ said Walter, ‘but that was before you killed the castellan.’
‘What castellan?’ gasped Colin.
‘Gerald, of course,’ said Walter as he started to twist the archer’s neck. ‘You just murdered Henry’s favoured knight.’
As the pressure increased, Colin finally realised he had been tricked and screamed both in fear and in pain. Walter gave one last twist and heard the sound of his victim’s neck snap beneath his hands. Satisfied the boy was dead, he stood up and walked over to his own horse. He retrieved a bunch of bone-dry bracken from the saddlebag and, after tying it to the horse’s tail, set it alight with a flint and a piece of dried lamb’s wool. Within moments this had the desired effect and the horse lurched away from the flames, taking the attached flaming bundle with it.
Walter watched the terrified horse gallop away, satisfied that the ruse had achieved the desired effect. By the time the flames petered out, the horse would be a long way down the track, leaving an easy trail for the armed column to follow while he, in the meantime, would be leagues away in the opposite direction.
Quickly, he placed one end of Colin’s horse’s reins beneath the dead boy’s body before running up a nearby hill away from the scene, taking care to only tread on the rocks. On the other side, he made his way to another nearby copse to collect the fresh horse a comrade had left for him that morning and, satisfied his task was done, he rode hard back to Pembroke.
Gerald of Windsor was dead and as far as anyone would be concerned the murderer lay dead in the mud of the track behind him.
Llandeilo
December 24th, AD 1135
Gwenllian and Robert rode side by side along a hidden path towards Llandei
lo. They had pushed their horses to the limit and the journey had been hard going due to the need to avoid the main tracks frequented by the English and their allies. Behind them, the numbers of those accompanying them had swelled from twenty to almost fifty as word of her true identity had spread, and though some were inexperienced in the ways of war, the fact that their much beloved warrior princess was still alive made many swear allegiance there and then. At first she had tried to deny the rumours but it had soon become clear news of her return was spreading like wildfire, and eventually she succumbed to the inevitable.
Inside, her mind was in turmoil. Only days ago she had been enjoying a relatively peaceful life as the wife of a manor steward, yet here she was, days later, with an uncertain future before her and sitting astride a horse, riding to rescue her children from the clutches of an enemy she had long since stopped fighting. Her heart ached at the thought of the danger they might be in, but while she would rather the events of the past few days hadn’t happened, deep inside, the tiniest spark of excitement struggled to ignite a fire she had long thought extinguished for good.
‘Our numbers are increasing,’ said Robert, looking over his shoulder. ‘At this rate we will have an army to rival Hywel’s before the month is out.’
‘I desire no army, Robert, just a return to the days when the only conflict I saw was the daily fights between my sons.’
‘What you desire and what you get are often rare bedfellows,’ said Robert. ‘And even if that is possible, which I doubt, what do you intend to do with those who ride behind you?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Gwenllian. ‘At the moment, all I care about is securing the safety of my sons. Beyond that, who knows what is going to happen?’ Before she could continue, one of the two men riding a hundred paces before them reined in his horse and held up a hand, signalling a halt. Dismounting, he ran forward to a ridgeline ahead of him and lay down in the mud to peer over the top. Gwenllian and Robert also dismounted and, crouching low, ran forward to join him.
‘What is it?’ asked Gwenllian, dropping to the floor beside the lead rider.