by K. M. Ashman
‘What is this?’ asked Morgan quietly. ‘What are they doing?’
Before Tarw could answer, Taliesin’s voice echoed around the hidden valley. ‘Gruffydd ap Rhys, Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd. You have been accused of leaving the rebellion at a critical time. In a council of your peers you have been found guilty as charged and will be sentenced forthwith.’
Morgan’s hand went to his blade but again it was his father who reached out to stay his arm. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Let’s hear him out.’
‘You have given your reasons,’ continued Taliesin, ‘and some find them adequate but there are others who struggle to find merit in your actions. Consequently, the views differ widely amongst the people of this valley.’ He paused and looked around before returning his gaze to the three on the slope. ‘However, we all agree that what is done is done and there is no going back. We have an opportunity before us that needs to be grasped but to do that, we need a leader, someone who can rally the whole of Deheubarth behind them.’ He paused again and took a deep breath. ‘That person cannot be me.’
Tarw’s eyes widened in surprise and he guessed what was coming next.
‘I have done what I can,’ said Taliesin, ‘and have led to the best of my ability but my time as leader cannot continue while there is even one person left alive with the blood of Hywel Dda running through their veins. Tarw, you have stated that you cannot and will not break your word and that is an admirable trait in any man so we turn to you, Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd. You are the daughter of a king and he too is descended from the great Hywel Dda. This means that though you are not a direct descendant of the house of Tewdwr, your pedigree is just as strong. It is you we turn to, Gwenllian, and charge you with leading these people out of the dark of servitude and fear, into the light of laughter and freedom.’ He paused to stare deep into her eyes. ‘This is your sentence, Gwenllian, this is the will of the people. Do you accept your penance?’
Gwenllian swallowed hard, looking around the large gathering and realising each and every one held hope in their hearts, dreams that she may or may not be able to deliver.
‘And is this the will of you all?’ she asked.
For a few seconds, nobody moved until finally Taliesin drew his sword and plunged it into the ground before him. ‘It is mine,’ he said as he dropped to one knee in a show of allegiance.
Behind him another man drew his sword and followed the example of his leader. ‘And mine,’ he shouted.
‘I too pledge my fealty,’ shouted another.
Within seconds, everyone started pledging allegiance and soon almost everyone was on their knees, man and woman alike. One man, however, was still on his feet, staring at the princess. Gwenllian returned his gaze with a steeliness of her own.
‘What about you, Tomas Scar?’ she said eventually. ‘Do you still contest my right to lead?’
For a few seconds there was silence until the warrior slowly withdrew his knife and walked up the slope towards her. Everyone held their breath as the warrior and princess stood toe to toe. Finally, Tomas Scar spun the knife in the air and caught it by the blade before offering it to the princess, hilt first.
‘Aye, I will ride with you,’ he said, ‘but know this, the moment you leave us standing alone, or I see you flee in the face of the enemy, it will be this blade that brings you down, not some lance born by an English mercenary. Is that understood?’
‘Understood,’ said Gwenllian with a smile.
‘In that case,’ said Tomas Scar, dropping to both knees, ‘I too swear fealty.’
Gwenllian returned the warrior’s knife and looked at the camp of rebels before her. She was about to speak when Tarw’s arm shot out and grabbed her own. ‘Look,’ he said and Gwenllian turned to see a familiar young man walking towards her.
‘Maelgwyn,’ she said quietly, her voice almost breaking, ‘I have missed you.’
‘And I you,’ said Maelgwyn, ‘but the time for such sentiment is over. The mother I have known all my life has long gone, I realise that now, but in her place stands another. Someone who I now realise holds the best interests of not only me and my brothers at heart but a whole nation. I have wronged you and the rest of my family by doubting your intentions but the fog has lifted from my mind and the way is clear. If you will have me back, I too pledge my lifelong fealty as a son, a brother and as a warrior, until the day I draw my last breath.’ Like the others he drove his sword into the ground and bowed his head.
Gwenllian swallowed hard, and placed her hand on his shoulder, knowing it would not be good to cry in front of so many people. ‘Stand up, Maelgwyn,’ she said, ‘and take your place alongside your brother. You too, Tomas Scar, you are a respected warrior amongst these men and should bow to no one.’ Scar got to his feet and stepped to one side as Gwenllian walked forward to address the rebel camp.
‘I am honoured that you have gifted us a second chance,’ she called loudly, ‘and make no mistake, if we are to do this then there will be many hardships along the way. Some of us will die on the journey but the destination of freedom is a glorious one and something our fathers could only dream of since William the Bastard first stormed these shores.’ She looked around again. ‘So,’ she called, her voice rising to be heard at the far side of the valley, ‘before I accept your charge, I ask you this. Will you follow me through the dark days before us, even though they may lead to your graves?’
‘Aye,’ they roared in unison.
‘Then get to your feet,’ she shouted. ‘For from this day hence, no person Welsh born will take a knee in subservience before me. I may bear the title, but it is all of us who carry freedom in our hearts.’ She drew her own sword and held it high. ‘In the name of Hywel Dda the lawmaker, I hereby decree that we will not stop until we have driven out every invader from these sacred lands. Tyranny ends here, today. Tomorrow we take the first steps to freedom.’
‘Freedom,’ roared every voice in agreement and as her family looked on, the crowd surged forward to engulf their new leader.
Tarw and Morgan were joined by Maelgwyn and both men embraced him, knowing that no words of explanation were needed.
‘I have never seen mother looking so glorious,’ said Morgan eventually.
‘Oh, you have seen nothing yet,’ said Tarw, placing his arms around the shoulders of his two sons. ‘This is the woman I fell in love with and, trust me, this is just the beginning.’
Pembroke Castle
December 28th, AD 1135
Nesta sat on a chair at the end of her husband’s sealed coffin in the castle’s chapel. All around the walls, Gerald’s favoured men stood silently, waiting for the priest to finish his prayers over the casket. The windowless chapel was lit by hundreds of candles and incense burners hung in each corner, adding to the already oppressive atmosphere caused by so many people in such a confined space. Behind the casket, the floor slabs had been removed and a grave dug for the internment.
Nesta had decided that, though the body would be buried within the chapel itself, it should have no formal markings in case the castle was ever taken in conflict and the aggressors sought to take any vengeance on Gerald’s remains. Consequently, everyone present had been sworn to secrecy and they had already buried an empty coffin in the castle graveyard the previous day in an effort to mislead any prying eyes as to the location of the castellan’s grave.
Nesta stared at the coffin, her eyes cold and dry. Since her husband’s body had been brought back from Kidwelly, she had done her mourning in private and now she was all out of tears.
She looked up as the priest approached to give her a simple wooden cross. After saying a silent prayer, she kissed the cross and placed it on the coffin lid, knowing that everyone present was waiting for her to say something.
‘Goodbye, my love,’ she said eventually, deciding to keep it simple. ‘I shall see you one day in the house of the Lord.’
As she backed away from the coffin, four knights approached and lifted it from the trestle to pass it down to two mor
e men already waiting in the grave. Carefully, they laid the casket down before climbing out and joining their comrades. The priest sprinkled a handful of soil down into the grave and, stepping aside, allowed the rest of the men to do the same. Each man in turn walked past the grave to repeat the gesture but, as they did, Nesta started to sweat and she knew that she had to get out.
‘Master Salisbury,’ she said to the constable, ‘I regret I have to leave. The air in this room is becoming heavy and I fear I will faint.’
‘Your husband is being buried, my lady,’ he said quietly. ‘You should stay until the coffin is covered.’
‘I have said my goodbyes,’ said Nesta. ‘There is nothing more for me to say. Besides, that is not Gerald in that box – it is an empty vessel that once held his soul, nothing more. Now if you don’t mind, I am leaving.’
Much to his disdain, Nesta brushed past the constable and walked along the corridor towards the keep doors. Behind her the knights waited until the coffin was covered before leaving the chapel and heading up to the grand hall to feast in their comrade’s name.
Nesta stood in the doorway looking out over Pembroke towards the distant hills. The air was cold upon her face but she breathed it in, clearing her lungs and mind of the despondency of the chapel. As she stared, she knew her life was about to change. She didn’t know what changes would come about but whatever they were, she suspected they may not be to her liking.
‘My lady,’ said a quiet voice and she turned to see Emma standing behind her.
‘Hello, Emma,’ said Nesta with a forced smile. ‘You should go back to your room; it is cold out here.’
‘Not as cold as it is in my heart,’ said Emma. ‘These are indeed dark days the devil has sent upon us.’
‘They are,’ said Nesta, turning to look out over the hills again. ‘Oh, I wish life could be simple once again.’
‘A wish we all share at times,’ said Emma, walking over to stand beside her mistress. ‘Are you well? Your face is pale.’
‘It’s just the chill and the upset of the past few days. Now Gerald has been buried, I can begin to look forward, though what the future holds is anyone’s guess.’ She turned to her maid. ‘But enough about me. You have your own burdens to bear. When is Catrin’s burial? I will attend on behalf of the garrison.’
‘She was buried two days ago, my lady – in a graveyard outside of the town.’
‘Oh no,’ said Nesta. ‘I am so sorry. Had I known . . .’
‘You had other things to attend to,’ said Emma. ‘The main thing is she is now at rest, as is your husband. All we can do now is pray for them.’
‘Indeed,’ said Nesta, ‘and also for the soul of the king.’
‘Henry?’
‘Yes. Don’t forget, Emma, he is the father of my eldest son and despite what he did to this beautiful country of ours, there was a time when I loved him more than life itself.’
‘It is a strange and complicated life that our Lord lays before us,’ said Emma.
‘Come,’ said Nesta, ‘let’s go in and sit before the fire.’ She turned to walk inside but Emma remained, staring down into the bailey. A man had just ridden through the gates and was talking frantically to one of the guards. As she watched, the guard pointed up the motte to the keep and the rider dismounted before running up the steps as fast as he could.
‘My lady,’ said Emma. ‘There is someone coming.’
Nesta turned back and waited for the young man to arrive.
The door guard stepped forward, presenting his pike, but Nesta held up her hand.
‘Let him approach,’ she said. ‘He is no more than a boy.’
The young man reached the last step and after a nervous glance at the scowling guard, turned to address Nesta. ‘My lady,’ he panted, still trying to catch his breath, ‘I have ridden direct from Worcester and have important news. I seek an urgent audience with Gerald of Windsor in the name of the king.’
Nesta swallowed hard. Obviously news of her husband’s death hadn’t reached Worcester yet.
‘My husband is dead,’ she said eventually. ‘Killed by an assassin’s arrow just a few days ago.’
The young man’s face dropped and he stared in disbelief. ‘Oh, sweet Lord,’ he gasped, crossing himself. ‘These are challenging days. May he rest in peace.’
‘What is your message?’ continued Nesta. ‘I will see it is passed on.’
‘I’m not sure I should give it to you,’ said the young man slowly. ‘It is of national importance and I was instructed to give it only to the castellan. Has a replacement been appointed?’
‘No,’ said Nesta calmly. ‘I doubt that news of Gerald’s death has even reached London yet but I am his wife, and until such time Westminster appoints a new castellan, I hold authority here. Now state your message or be gone for I have other matters to attend to.’
Again the young man hesitated and peered over her shoulder into the interior of the keep.
Nesta could feel herself losing her temper and turned to the guard. ‘This man is wasting my time,’ she said. ‘Throw him out.’
‘Wait!’ shouted the young man, delving into a pouch around his waist. ‘I cannot leave without passing the message on to someone.’ He retrieved a rolled-up parchment sealed with red wax and handed it over to Nesta. Without waiting, Nesta broke the seal and unfurled the parchment, reading it silently to herself. When she was done, she looked up at the young man and he could see she was visibly shocked.
‘Is this true?’ she asked. ‘For the seal is that of Worcestershire not Westminster.’
‘The parchment was written in Worcestershire for redistribution,’ said the messenger, ‘but the news came straight from Westminster via carrier pigeon and the encryptions were authenticated by the clergy. The news is true and needs to be transmitted to all those in the service of the Crown as soon as possible. Criers will announce it to the people within days.’
‘Leave it to me,’ replied Nesta. She turned to her maid. ‘Emma, I have to go to the great hall. Please see this man gets a penny for his efforts.’
‘Of course,’ said Emma and she watched as Nesta went inside to climb the stairway.
Moments later, Nesta entered the hall and saw that all of Gerald’s knights were present, as well as his trusted sergeants and officers, each sharing their memories of Gerald, and all held a tankard of wine or ale, depending on their preference. Down the middle of the hall ran three lines of trestle tables complete with linen covers and adorned with the castle silverware. Silver candelabras decorated the tables and a band of minstrels played subdued music as servants scurried amongst the men, filling their tankards wherever needed.
Nesta looked around the hall. The civility of the proceedings was welcome but she knew it wouldn’t last. The whole point of the wake was for Gerald’s comrades-in-arms to remember their fellow warrior and that meant getting blind drunk as quickly as possible. Soon the hall would be filled with the sounds of drunken men loudly recalling distant deeds of valour – some real, some false, but all exaggerated. With a sigh she walked up to the top table where John of Salisbury was talking quietly to one of his trusted men.
‘My lady,’ said Salisbury turning in his seat to face her, ‘I am glad you have seen sense. Please, sit beside me and we will invite our guests to take their seats.’
‘I am not here to drink, Constable,’ said Nesta. ‘I have come to relay a message from Westminster to the garrison.’
‘A message,’ said Salisbury, his eyes opening in surprise.
‘It is addressed to my husband and, as such, I have taken possession of it,’ said Nesta.
Salisbury’s face hardened and he stared at Nesta with ill-disguised anger. ‘I have told you before,’ he said, ‘until Gerald’s successor is appointed, I am the senior man here and any messages should be relayed through me.’
‘It was addressed directly to him, and not his station,’ said Nesta coldly, ‘so if you don’t mind, please call the hall to order.’
Sa
lisbury stared again, but as several of the nearby knights had already overheard the conversation, he knew there was little he could do. Most had been fiercely loyal to Gerald and, indeed, Nesta.
‘Of course,’ he said eventually with a forced smile and he got to his feet.
‘Gentlemen,’ he called, banging his tankard on the table. ‘Quiet please.’ One of the knights signalled for the minstrels to stop playing and gradually the hall fell silent. ‘Thank you,’ said Salisbury. ‘If we can have your indulgence for just a few minutes, I promise the remembrance feast will start shortly but in the meantime, the Lady Nesta has something she wants to say.’
Nesta nodded her gratitude and walked to the centre of the hall. ‘Gentlemen,’ she said, ‘I am in receipt of a dispatch from Westminster and it is incumbent upon me to deliver it to you good men.’ She unfurled the scroll and took a deep breath before reading the contents aloud.
‘“To all men of the cloth, barons, lords, castellans and knights of the realm. Let it be known that on this day, the twenty-sixth of December in the year of our Lord eleven hundred and thirty-five, in the presence of their Excellencies, the bishops of Winchester and Salisbury, and witnessed by Lord Hugh Bigod, first earl of Norfolk, Stephen de Blois, first count of Boulogne, was crowned king of England by William of Corbeil, Archbishop of Canterbury. All subjects are to send declarations of fealty to the Crown upon return. Let all men bless the choice of the people and the judgement of the Lord.”’
Nesta looked up before reciting the last line.
‘“God save the king.”’
For a few seconds there was silence as the news sank in but then one of the knights raised his tankard and roared his allegiance. ‘God save the king!’
‘God save the king,’ responded the rest of the men in similar fashion, and picking up on the change of mood, the minstrels started up again, though this time with a celebratory tune.
‘Very interesting,’ said Salisbury, approaching Nesta as the noise continued.
‘Not a word that I would have chosen,’ said Nesta.
‘No? Then what would you call it?’