The Warrior Princess

by K. M. Ashman

  Salisbury inwardly flinched at the admonishment but kept his counsel. Now was not the time nor the place for argument. ‘I am,’ he replied, ‘and I have just heard there is a patrol on the way back with the body of a suspect. If he is found guilty we will hang him for the birds.’

  ‘The body? Is this man already dead?’

  ‘It seems that during his flight from the scene of the ambush, his horse stumbled and threw him. My men found him lying on the path with a broken neck.’

  ‘Then how do you know he was the one responsible?’

  ‘The arrows within his quiver were the same and my men were already on his trail. He will be tried for murder upon his return.’

  ‘Hanging a dead man hardly seems suitable punishment,’ said Nesta.

  ‘On the contrary, an uninterred body rotting in full view of the people is denied access to heaven and there is no fate worse.’

  Nesta nodded and turned away.

  ‘My lady,’ said Salisbury, before she had gone a few steps, ‘are you well?’

  ‘In the circumstances, I am hardly well,’ said Nesta, turning back. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because your husband lies dead before you yet you show not the slightest sign of upset. A more uninformed man may think you were not concerned.’

  ‘Any concern or upset is between Gerald, me and God,’ said Nesta coldly, ‘and not for the consumption of anyone else in what is nothing more than a contrived outpouring of false sympathy.’

  ‘I know not what you mean,’ said Salisbury.

  ‘Oh, come now, Constable,’ said Nesta. ‘Do you really think that the whole population of Pembroke would spontaneously burst into such outpourings of sympathy had it not been for the threats of your henchmen. No, of course not. Gerald was a good man at heart but let us not forget he was an extension of Henry’s arm in an occupied country. He was my husband and I loved him but he was never, nor ever could be the natural leader of these people. Most of the tears shed down in the town were as a result of threats, not respect. Now if you don’t mind, I will retire and prepare my husband for burial.’ Nesta turned away and made her way up the motte steps, followed by her maid. Behind her, two of the soldiers walked over to replace the casket lid.

  ‘Wait,’ said Salisbury as he walked closer to look down on the man whose life he had coveted for so long. Fully aware that many eyes were upon him, he was careful not to show any sign of satisfaction yet inside he was elated. For too long the castellan had kept him in his place and imposed boundaries upon the constable’s role but, now he was out of the way, Salisbury knew that at last this was his opportunity and it was one that he intended to embrace with every fibre of his being.

  He reached in as if to touch the forehead of the castellan but unseen by anyone else, his fingers lingered on the dry blood encrusted upon the knight’s face.

  ‘Goodbye, Gerald,’ he said under his breath, ‘and good riddance.’ With the slightest of sneers, he stepped back and turned to the captain.

  ‘Take the casket to the lesser hall.’

  ‘My lord,’ said the captain, ‘many want to pay their last respects to the castellan. Should we allow them to approach?’

  ‘No,’ said Salisbury, ‘not yet. After he has been prepared properly, we will allow the people to attend him but until then, they should return to work. Oh, and, Captain . . .’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘From now on, you will not refer to him as the castellan, he is Gerald of Windsor, knight of Henry.’

  ‘But I thought . . .’

  ‘Then you thought wrong. Yesterday he was the castellan but today he is dead and that honour is passed on to the next man in seniority. That man is me, Captain, and with immediate effect, I am the castellan of Pembroke castle. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said the captain and he turned away to make the preparations.

  Salisbury watched the soldiers carry the casket up the steps, his heart racing at the opportunity now facing him.

  ‘Don’t worry, Gerald,’ he said under his breath, ‘your legacy is in good hands’ – he paused and stared up at the windows on the highest level of the keep as he rolled the knight’s dried blood between his fingers, before adding – ‘as indeed is your wife.’

  Up in her quarters, Nesta lay face down on her bed, sobbing uncontrollably.

  The Cantref Mawr

  December 27th, AD 1135

  The early morning mist was still on the ground when Gwenllian and her men rode into the Cantref Mawr. They had ridden for almost two days via the hidden routes of the forest to avoid English patrols and were exhausted.

  In the camp, Taliesin sat at a fire outside his hut alongside Dog, keen to witness the arrival of the woman he had heard so much about, while down in the valley, almost a hundred people hung around the early morning fires, waiting in expectation for the arrival of the fabled princess of Gwynedd.

  On the opposite side of the valley, Tarw was already awake and tending his own fire when Robert’s messengers arrived and told him his children were safe. Relieved, he went to wake his oldest sons and tell them the good news but, aware that they were both exhausted, decided to let them rest a little while longer.

  Returning to the fire, he placed a few handfuls of kindling on the embers and blew the flames back to life. He added some dried wood from the pile at the back of the hut and waited for the fire to catch fully before adding the pot containing dried fruit and water. He added a few handfuls of oats and sat back to watch it boil, taking the opportunity to reflect on everything that had happened over the past few days.

  As a younger man, he had sought the path of a warrior and, when he had met and fallen in love with Gwenllian, she had joined him in his life of rebellion, fighting alongside him as well as any man. Her prowess in battle had become renowned and, if truth be told, it was her story that had caught the imagination of so many people of Deheubarth, far more than anything he had done in many years of fighting. The sight of her riding against the English with her golden hair blowing in the wind behind her had inspired many tales, not all of which were true, but, as is the nature of such things, it wasn’t long before her exploits had become legendary across the kingdom. It had been her idea to redistribute the wealth of the many captured English caravans amongst the poor and, though they often lived with little money themselves, the loyalty amongst the people of Deheubarth knew no bounds and they were never short of food or shelter whenever they were requested.

  But that had been many years ago and, despite Taliesin’s hints that they could regain that path, Tarw suspected that their swords had been sheathed too long to regain even the smallest share of the respect they once had. On top of that, despite his explanations to the rebel leader, Tarw knew that Tomas Scar had voiced a valid point and also enjoyed the respect of his fellow warriors. When all was said and done, Tarw and Gwenllian had once walked away leaving the rebels without a leader. That was possibly an obstacle too difficult to surmount and whatever happened in the next few hours, their fates would be decided one way or the other.

  He stirred the pot and walked over to the cot where his two sons still slept. He looked down, reluctant to wake them up. Both had been through so much over the last few days, he knew that they needed to recover. Morgan’s physical wounds in particular were bad, but it seemed there was no infection and he would make a full recovery. Maelgwyn, however, had wounds of a different variety and bore no visible scars. He had joined the single men in the warriors’ shelters at the end of the valley, drinking ale and listening to stories of exaggerated bravado and battles of kings long dead. By the time he had returned to the hut, he was heavily drunk and, though Tarw was waiting, it was obvious that it would be pointless talking to him in such a state. Consequently, the prince had let his son fall upon the cot and there he had stayed, hardly moving the whole night through.

  ‘Morgan,’ he said, shaking his eldest son by the shoulder, ‘time to awaken. There is food on the table.’

  Morgan yawned and sat up.
He looked across at his sleeping brother.

  ‘When did he return?’ he asked.

  ‘Just before dawn,’ said Tarw, ‘and he was full of ale. I suspect he will regret it when he awakes.’

  ‘I am already awake,’ mumbled Maelgwyn, ‘and I regret not a single moment.’ He sat up and placed his feet on the floor before standing up and walking over to the table, taking one of the sheepskin covers with him, still wrapped around his shoulders.

  ‘It’s cold,’ he said, sitting at the table.

  ‘Aye, the fire was almost out,’ said Tarw as he and Morgan joined him. ‘I’ll bank it up shortly but eat first and get dressed. There are matters to attend.’

  ‘What matters?’ said Morgan as he peered into the pot and stirred it with the ladle.

  ‘Your mother and younger brothers will be here shortly,’ said Tarw, ‘and I want to be there to greet them.’

  ‘They are safe?’ asked Maelgwyn, looking up for the first time.

  ‘Aye, and are being escorted here as we speak by Robert. I understand that Llandeilo Manor has been burned to the ground by Gerald’s forces and they were lucky to escape with their lives.’

  ‘Another consequence of your uncovered secrets, I suppose,’ said Maelgwyn.

  Tarw stared at his son, concerned at the continued animosity hidden beneath his words.

  ‘Maelgwyn,’ he said, ‘I know I haven’t been truthful with you these past few days but . . .’

  ‘Days?’ said Maelgwyn, interrupting his father. ‘Surely you mean years?’

  ‘Maelgwyn, hold your tongue,’ said Morgan.

  ‘No,’ said Tarw, ‘he has a right to his thoughts.’ He turned back to Maelgwyn. ‘You are right; I have hidden the truth from you all of your life but it was for your own sake. The burden was already heavy enough for your mother and me so we wanted to shield you from it for as long as we could. We always intended to tell you the truth one day but it wasn’t the time. Unfortunately, events overtook us before we could carry out that task so here we are. Ask me whatever you will and I promise I will speak truthfully.’

  Maelgwyn spooned some potage into his mouth and chewed quietly, his eyes never leaving his bowl.

  ‘Maelgwyn,’ said Tarw, ‘for the past few days I have hardly seen you. For an age you held anger in your heart at my failure to tell you the truth yet now I am here, you avoid me like a leper. Ask whatever questions you want and I swear by almighty God I will be truthful with you.’

  ‘I have nothing to say,’ said Maelgwyn. He stood up to leave the table.

  ‘Sit down,’ said his brother. ‘Our father is talking.’

  ‘He is not my father,’ said Maelgwyn. ‘My father is the steward of Llandeilo Manor, not some liar who claims to be descended from Hywel Dda himself. I am done here.’ He turned to leave but Morgan jumped to his feet and grabbed his brother by the throat.

  ‘No!’ he shouted. ‘You are not done here. You will stay and discuss this like a man.’

  ‘Leave me be,’ growled Maelgwyn, ‘or I swear I will forget you are my brother and strike you dead.’

  ‘Strike me dead?’ laughed Morgan. ‘So now you are a man who speaks of killing when only a moment ago you were sulking like a beaten child.’ He released his brother’s throat, pushing him back towards the table. ‘Make your mind up, Maelgwyn,’ he continued. ‘What do you actually want? To be treated like a man and accept the burdens that title brings or return to the comfort of our mother’s skirts alongside Rhydian and Rhys?’

  ‘Don’t bring them into this,’ shouted Maelgwyn. ‘This is between me and him.’ He pointed at Tarw.

  ‘He is our father,’ shouted Morgan, ‘and will be treated with respect. Now grow up and act like a man or it is I who will be doing the beating.’

  ‘Enough,’ roared, Tarw. ‘Sit down, the both of you.’

  For a few moments the young men stared at each other before taking their seats again and waiting in silence.

  ‘This has to stop right now,’ said Tarw. ‘There are dangerous times before us and if we are to survive we need to stand alongside each other as family, not against each other as enemies.’ He turned to face his younger son. ‘Maelgwyn, you have my apologies for not telling you the truth but what’s done is done and there is no turning back. I will tell you everything you want to know but I will not pander to your hurt feelings like a nursemaid. I am Gruffydd ap Rhys, son of Rhys ap Tewdwr and true prince of Deheubarth. Your mother is Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd, daughter of Gruffydd ap Cynan, king of Gwynedd. That makes you royal born and a descendant of Hywel Dda. If that is too much of a burden, then feel free to ride away but your brother has made a good point. This should not be about you, me or even your mother, it is about your younger brothers, those two little boys who were almost killed at Llandeilo. The future is uncertain for all of us and even tomorrow is not promised. Do what you will but enough of your whining. Stand up with the rest of your family and be the man you are so desperate to become or be gone and never darken any doorway of ours again. The time for acting like a child is over, Maelgwyn, but the choice is yours.’ He stood up and fastened his sword belt before retrieving his cloak and heading towards the door. He left the hut leaving his sons shocked at the anger in his manner. Finally, Morgan got dressed and also headed towards the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Maelgwyn, looking up.

  ‘To meet the caravan from Llandeilo,’ said Morgan. ‘I have family upon it.’

  Without another word he stormed out of the hut, leaving his younger brother alone at the table, staring into his potage. For a few moments, Maelgwyn glowered at the bowl before finally picking it up and hurling it across the hut to break against the door frame. His mind was in turmoil but he knew, he had a serious decision to make.

  Tarw walked down the hill to the valley floor. In the distance he could see Gwenllian’s column approaching. For a few moments, he stopped dead in his tracks, shocked at what he saw. At the head of the column rode his wife, sitting upright and proud in the saddle with an air of power and ability about her, an authoritative and almost arrogant presence that he had known and loved for so many years. Despite not losing any of the love for her during their time in anonymity, he suddenly realised he had missed this woman, the one who had commanded so much fear and respect from friend and foe alike. With a grin on his face he walked onto the path and waited for his wife to arrive.

  A few minutes later, Gwenllian reined in her horse and slid from the saddle to stand before her husband. Tarw looked her up and down, recalling the last time he had seen her in full armour, and for a few seconds there was silence as each looked deep into the other’s eyes, remembering the many campaigns they had embarked upon in the pursuit of freedom. Tarw’s heart was racing with love, desire and admiration. His princess, the one whom he had eloped with all those years previously, was once again standing before him, as large as life and ready to stand against any man who crossed her.

  ‘Well,’ she said eventually, ‘what do you think?’

  ‘I think,’ he said, after a few moments, ‘that you have never looked more beautiful, more regal or more damned scary in all the years I have known you.’

  As they embraced the population of the rebel camp gathered around, many remembering the couple from years earlier.

  ‘My lady,’ called a voice, ‘welcome back.’

  ‘Remember me?’ called another. ‘We rode together at Wetwall Bridge.’

  Gwenllian laughed as she disengaged from her husband’s embrace and turned to acknowledge all of the best wishes. A little girl came up and gave her a holly sprig complete with berries.

  ‘From my mother,’ she said sweetly, and Gwenllian turned to see one of the young women who had ridden alongside her all those years earlier, now an older mother with another child held tightly beneath her shawl.

  ‘Karin,’ shouted Gwenllian as the crowd gathered around her in excitement. ‘How are you?’

  ‘As well as I can be,’ replied the woman over the noise of th
e crowd. ‘Though these two keep me busy.’

  ‘My boys are the same,’ shouted Gwenllian as she was jostled by those eager to touch her. ‘Come and see me when all this has died down.’

  ‘I will,’ laughed Karin as Gwenllian was swept away by the crowd, ‘and give my love to your family.’

  For the next ten minutes or so, Gwenllian was kept busy saying hello to old friends and meeting others who had only heard stories about her exploits fighting the English all those years earlier. Finally, the crowd started to thin out and Gwenllian turned to see a rather frightening and dirty warrior standing before her.

  ‘Hello,’ she said slowly, ‘and you are?’

  ‘They call him Dog,’ said Tarw, walking up to join his wife, ‘and he is the voice of Taliesin. I assume the leader wants to meet you.’

  ‘He does,’ said Dog. ‘Be done with your reunions and when you are ready, he will be waiting for you in the campaign tent.’

  ‘We will,’ said Tarw and they watched as Dog turned away, leaving the prince and his wife alone.

  ‘Where are the boys?’ asked Gwenllian, looking around.

  ‘Here,’ said a voice and Gwenllian turned to see Morgan standing behind her. At first her face fell seeing the extent of his injuries but she was soon reassured when he stepped forward to embrace her warmly.

  ‘Is this the work of John Salisbury?’ she asked, stepping back to look at him again.

  ‘Him and his henchmen,’ said Morgan. ‘But that is a story for another time. Worry not, I will be fine.’

  ‘And what about Maelgwyn? Is he here?’

  ‘He is back at the hut,’ said Morgan. ‘Sulking like a spoilt child.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Gwenllian. ‘Is he hurt?’

  ‘Only his pride,’ said Tarw. ‘He thinks we have been lying to him and nurses a grudge.’

  ‘Then I must go to him and explain,’ said Gwenllian.