The Warrior Princess

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘I was thinking more of travesty.’

  ‘Are you not happy?’

  ‘It is common knowledge the crown was promised to Henry’s daughter,’ said Nesta. ‘It was witnessed by many barons.’

  ‘Yes, but there is another witness who swore that he recanted that promise on his death bed.’

  ‘You talk of Hugh Bigod?’

  ‘You know I do.’

  ‘Yet he is a known ally of Stephen de Blois and stands to profit greatly from this appointment. Don’t you think that in itself is a coincidence too many?’

  ‘Perhaps, but it is not for the likes of you and me to second-guess the bishops. I, for one, welcome his appointment for he is known to be in favour of allowing the recognised local authorities to administer justice as they see fit without constant recourse to the Crown.’

  ‘And that will suit you no end,’ said Nesta.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Salisbury, ‘it certainly will. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a celebration to attend.’

  Nesta nodded and left the room. Behind her, another knight walked over to stand at the constable’s side. ‘A fascinating development,’ he said quietly, ‘and one which you should exploit to the full.’

  ‘Oh, I intend to,’ said Salisbury, still staring at the departing figure of Nesta. ‘Tell me, what is the latest news about the second assassin, the one that escaped?’

  ‘I sent word to Kidwelly Castle that as the trail led into Pembroke, we would take over the hunt,’ said the knight. ‘In honesty, I think that Maurice was secretly relieved to have the burden taken from his hands. To have such an important guest murdered in view of your castle is one thing but to have one of the assassins escape is even more embarrassing.’

  ‘And there is no chance of him being found?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said the knight. ‘I was very careful.’

  Salisbury smiled. Walter de Calais was nothing if not thorough and he knew there would be no loose ends leading any suspicion of Gerald’s death to his door.

  ‘Good,’ he said eventually. ‘In that case, tell the grooms to prepare the horses. Tomorrow we ride to London.’

  Pembroke Harbour

  January 1st, AD 1136

  The dock was busy, as it was on most days, but today the taverns were particularly full. Three ships had already been unloaded and another lay at anchor offshore waiting for space at the wharf. Labourers scurried down the gangplanks, their backs bent under the weight of provisions, and a line of covered wagons lay waiting along the dock, ready to take the much-needed provisions up to the castle. Well-wrapped whores prowled the shadows, keen to do business with the sailors, always a good source of easily obtained coin. To one side, a group of soldiers stood around a brazier talking quietly about the recent news regarding the new king. Though their role at the dock was one of protection, the day had been long and there was no sign of their relief. Consequently, they were hungry and tired, and their attention to what was going on around them waned as the day progressed.

  ‘This is getting ridiculous,’ said one, blowing on his hands again. ‘We should have been relieved hours ago, and when we get back I’m going to make someone pay, you see if I don’t.’

  ‘What are you going to do, Gilbert?’ laughed his comrade. ‘Strike an officer or a sergeant? That will at least lose you your hands if not your life. Besides, you could do with missing a few meals.’

  The rest of the men laughed and stared at the tight hauberk already stretched over the soldier’s enormous gut.

  ‘I’m a big man,’ said Gilbert, ‘and need my food.’

  ‘It looks like we won’t be here much longer,’ said another of the guards. ‘There are just two carts left empty. Anything left after they have been loaded will have to wait until tomorrow.’

  ‘I can’t wait that long,’ replied Gilbert. ‘I’m going to get myself some food.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ warned one of his comrades. ‘If any of the sergeants come back you’ll be charged with leaving your post.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Gilbert, leaning his pike up against the wall. ‘You just look after this. I’ll be back before you know it.’

  Despite his comrade’s warnings, the obese soldier walked across the dock towards the nearest tavern. Moments later he was inside and pushing his way through the many drunken sailors towards the bench holding two open barrels of ale.

  As he entered, the noise level dropped and many eyes turned to stare at him, but this didn’t put him off; he was used to the bad feeling in the town and he knew that if any man raised even a hand against one of the king’s men, then they would be hunted down like wild pigs and hanged before the rest of the town.

  ‘What are you staring at?’ he sneered at a man standing in his way. ‘Do you want some broken teeth?’

  ‘Sorry, my lord,’ said the man, meekly backing away.

  ‘So you should be,’ said Gilbert and he turned to seek the landlord.

  ‘You there,’ he shouted at a man wearing a leather apron and ladling ale into some tankards from a bucket. ‘Do you have hot food in here, preferably some meat or pasties?’

  ‘Aye, we have pies and bread, freshly baked,’ said the landlord, finishing his task. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Both,’ said the soldier. ‘Half a loaf and two pies. Quick about it and none of your rubbish. I only pay for good food.’

  ‘My food is the best on the dock,’ said the barman. He turned to one of the serving girls. ‘There are pies on a shelf in one of the ovens. Bring two and a whole loaf – our friend here is a big man and needs feeding.’

  Gilbert’s eyes lit up but then narrowed again in suspicion. ‘I’m only paying for half a loaf. That was agreed.’

  ‘Of course. The other half is free as a gesture towards the great work you and your friends do around here.’

  A confused smile played around Gilbert’s mouth for it was rare any native of Pembroke paid an English soldier a compliment, let alone gave them something for nothing.

  ‘How long will she be?’ he asked.

  ‘A few minutes only,’ said the landlord.

  The soldier looked around nervously. The tavern had grown strangely quiet, and whereas that was quite common, the way many of the men met his gaze wasn’t and he started to feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Where is she?’ he snapped. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘A little while longer,’ said the landlord. ‘You asked for them hot, did you not?’

  ‘Aye, I did, but you said they were already in the oven. I think you are jesting with me.’ Without warning, Gilbert walked past the ale table and out towards the back room.

  ‘Wait,’ shouted the landlord as he went. ‘You can’t go in there.’

  ‘I can go where I want,’ said Gilbert and he continued through the door. As soon as he entered, he stopped in shock. Instead of a single girl tending an oven, what he found was a scene of carnage. Eight armed men, sweating and bloodied, turned to face him as he entered, but what made him gasp in shock were the six bodies lying dead upon the floor, each covered in blood and each wearing the uniform of an English foot soldier. For a few seconds nobody moved, and with horror, Gilbert realised this was the reason the relief had not come – they had been murdered en route and their bodies hidden in the back room of the tavern.

  Despite his size, he turned and bolted for the door, knocking aside the landlord as he went.

  ‘Stop him,’ roared a voice but it was too late – he managed to make it into the tavern, barging aside both men and women as he fled for his life.

  ‘Stop him,’ the voice roared again and two men drinking ale at the door tried to bring him down but to no avail. His strength and size meant he managed to get out of the doorway and call the alarm to his comrades on the far side of the dock.

  ‘Stand to,’ he roared as he ran. ‘We are under attack,’ but within seconds, he stopped dead in his tracks as he stared at the devastating scene before him. All around the brazier lay the bodies of his five comrades, one s
till on fire where he had fallen into the flames. Others moaned as they died and one looked up in false hope, desperate for the help that could never come. The dozens of arrows sticking out of their bodies paid witness to the terrible events that had happened only moments earlier. It was clear they had stood no chance against their attackers. Frantically Gilbert looked around, his stomach churning with fear. Many of those who moments earlier had seemed nothing more than interested bystanders now stood in defiance of him, many with swords or knives in their hands. Others bore the bows responsible for the deaths of his comrades and it was clear he was trapped.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he stuttered. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  Nobody answered but one man stepped out from the crowd before drawing a blade from the sheath on his belt. Gilbert recognised him as the one who had backed meekly away when he had first entered the tavern.

  ‘No,’ said the soldier, looking around in panic, ‘you can’t do this. Stay away from me.’ He drew his sword and turned on the spot, brandishing his weapon towards any who came close. ‘I’ll kill you,’ he shouted, his voice shaking in fear. ‘I swear I will.’

  ‘I think not,’ said the man and before Gilbert could answer, he felt a thud in his back and he fell to his knees in pain, knowing he had been struck by an arrow. All around him, more men emerged from the crowd, each carrying weapons and each keen to end the fat man’s life.

  ‘Wait,’ called a voice and the crowd parted to let a dozen riders through. At their head was a beautiful woman and within seconds a name rippled around the crowd like a gentle wind. Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd. The people formed a circle to watch as the woman dismounted to stand before the severely wounded man.

  ‘What is your name?’ she asked coldly.

  ‘Gilbert Bones,’ he gasped with tears in his eyes. ‘I am a respected man and the castellan will pay well for my return.’

  ‘We have no need of gifted English coins,’ said Gwenllian. ‘We take what we need.’

  ‘Then just let me go,’ gasped Gilbert. ‘I will tell no one what happened here, I swear.’

  ‘A futile gesture,’ said Gwenllian. ‘For the quicker your people know I am back the better. Until then we will send them the only message they understand.’ She pushed back her wolf-skin cape and drew her sword from its scabbard.

  ‘No,’ he cried with tears running down his face. ‘Don’t do this I beg of you.’

  ‘I suspect a poor girl named Gwyneth once begged for mercy at Llandeilo,’ said Gwenllian, ‘and all she got in return was to be raped before being used as target practise and left to die amongst the filth. Tell me why you are more deserving than her.’

  ‘I was not at Llandeilo,’ gasped the soldier, sensing the slightest of hope. ‘I was on duty at the castle.’

  ‘Wrong,’ said Gwenllian. ‘You may not have been there personally but those animals who took it upon themselves to rape, torture and kill so many innocents did so beneath the same colours that you wear on your gambeson. By doing so, they represented you and anyone else who serves alongside you. You may have not wielded the bow that killed her, Gilbert Bones, but your black heart was there in spirit. Now I seek vengeance on her behalf.’

  Gilbert shook his head and closed his eyes as he sobbed. ‘Please don’t do this,’ he begged again. ‘Show mercy I beg of you.’

  ‘I have none to show,’ said Gwenllian and with an arcing swing of her sword, she decapitated Gilbert with a single blow.

  Such was the sharpness of the blade and the force of the strike, the body stayed where it was as the head thudded onto the floor and rolled against Gwenllian’s feet. Blood spurted skyward from the arteries in the body’s neck and as it slowly toppled over, Gwenllian bent over to pick up the soldier’s head by the hair before holding it up for all to see.

  ‘Let it be known,’ she shouted, ‘my name is Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd and I demand the English leave Deheubarth while they still can.’ She turned slowly on the spot so everyone could see. ‘This is just the first of many,’ she continued, ‘and before this year is out, I swear this town will be adorned with many heads such as this.’

  A gasp of astonishment rippled around the crowd.

  ‘The time is here, my friends,’ she shouted. ‘The English are there for the taking but we need your help. Let every man, boy or woman who can wield a blade come to the Cantref Mawr and join us in the fight. You will be trained and fed but better than this, you will be free. We need cooks to feed the hungry and nurses to tend our wounded. The stores on these wagons will see us through a few months but we need more. If you have had enough of the English yoke, bring what you can and join the struggle. Weapons, clothes, food, tools, anything you have will be greatly received. Horses in particular are in short supply and we will buy any offered of good stock. Also, any livestock will earn good coin and though our coffers are currently bare, I give my word you will be paid in full before this month is out.’

  ‘Where do we go to join, Gwenllian?’ asked a young man, caught up in the fervour.

  ‘Just ride northward on the main road through the Cantref Mawr,’ replied Gwenllian. ‘Worry not about finding us for we will find you. This is the first day of the year, my friends, let it also be the day that signals our freedom.’ To a roar of approval, she walked to the dockside and hurled the decapitated head as far as she could into the water.

  Some of the armed men climbed aboard the carts and drove them from the dock, heading for the Cantref Mawr, knowing they had only a few hours before the castle realised their soldiers were missing.

  When the last cart had left, Gwenllian turned to the rest of her foot soldiers. ‘Get rid of the English bodies,’ she said. ‘Leave them for the wolves in the forest. When you are done, we will meet back at the camp but make sure you are not followed.’

  ‘Aye, my lady,’ said one of the men and left to make the arrangements.

  ‘Well,’ said Gwenllian, turning to the rider at her side. ‘Now do you believe we can do this?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Gwenllian,’ said Taliesin, staring at the woman with intense respect. ‘For the first time in many years I actually believe we have a chance.’

  With a nod of her head and the sound of the people’s cheering still echoing around the dock, Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd dug her heels into the flank of her horse and rode back towards the Cantref Mawr having struck the first blow of the new rebellion.

  The Cantref Mawr

  January 2nd, AD 1136

  Five leagues away, Tarw and a force of thirty warriors lay hidden amongst the trees above a narrow forest path. Down below, a column of over fifty men rode slowly along the track, each watching the trees to either side, obviously wary of an ambush.

  ‘Who are they?’ whispered Robert.

  ‘I have no idea,’ replied Tarw, ‘but they might be mercenaries hired by the English to seek us out.’

  ‘They look like experienced warriors,’ replied Robert, ‘and more than a match for anything we can field.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Tarw. ‘At the moment all we can do is watch and ensure they do not pose a threat to the camp. Send a runner and warn Gwenllian to prepare the defences in case the need arises.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Robert, but before he could go, Tarw’s hand shot out to hold him back.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Something’s happening.’

  Down below the column had come to a halt and the lead rider dismounted. Leaving his horse behind, he walked towards the forest edge and climbed up on a rock. Even from so far away, Tarw could see the man was enormous, a size exaggerated by the heavy cloak around his shoulders.

  ‘I know you are there,’ the man shouted suddenly, ‘and you have been watching us since daybreak. Come out from hiding for I would parley with those in charge.’

  ‘He must have seen us moving,’ hissed Tarw.

  ‘Perhaps he was waiting for favourable ground before confronting us,’ said Robert.

  Tarw peered through the branches. ‘No,’ he said, ‘they are enclosed betw
een two forested slopes and the only way out is at both ends of the path. If these are mercenaries, they are poor ones.’

  They waited as the man below turned slowly on the rock, his arms outstretched.

  ‘Send a man down to meet me,’ shouted the warrior, ‘and I will discard my weapons. I just want to talk.’

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Tarw.

  ‘It may be a trap,’ said Robert. ‘We should stay where we are.’

  ‘Or we could take him at his word and see what he wants. If we just stay hidden, we will never know.’

  ‘You can’t go down there, Tarw. You could be killed.’

  ‘I have to,’ said Tarw, preparing to stand up. ‘I am intrigued as to his purpose.’

  ‘Then let me go,’ said Robert. ‘If it is a trick, at least you will be safe. We have already come far and cannot afford to lose you in an act of stupidity.’

  ‘I can’t let you risk your life for me,’ said Tarw.

  ‘Yes, you can. The forthcoming campaign is just too important to lose you now. If you want to see what this man wants, then you must let me be the one. Surely you can see that?’

  Tarw paused, staring at his comrade. Finally, he saw sense and nodded his agreement. ‘So be it,’ he said, ‘but take no risks. At the slightest sign of trouble, turn around and get out of there. We will cover your escape with archers from the trees but we are few and will have to withdraw before they can attack.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ said Robert. ‘Just make sure that if they do, you get away safely.’ Without waiting for a response, he got to his feet and turned to face the warrior down on the path. ‘I hear you, stranger,’ he shouted. ‘Tell your men to withdraw and I will join you.’

  The grizzled warrior nodded in silence to the rest of the men. The column turned and retreated several hundred paces before dismounting and taking the opportunity to feed their horses with handfuls of grain.

  Robert walked down the slope and onto the path as the warrior climbed down from the rock to wait for him. Soon they stood face-to-face and Robert stared at the biggest man he had ever seen.