by K. M. Ashman
Nesta gasped in horror and her hand flew to her mouth. If that was what was happening, then the besieged Welsh lines had no hope.
‘Ah,’ said a male voice from behind them. ‘I see you have heard the news.’
The women turned to see John Salisbury striding across from the door. ‘Keep watching, ladies,’ he continued, ‘for I suspect you are about to witness the ending of the so-called rebellion right before your very eyes.’
The women moved back to the castellated walls, pulling their cloaks tighter around them. Nesta stayed back, staring out into space.
‘Are you not joining us, Lady Nesta?’ said Salisbury with a knowing sneer. ‘Surely you were anticipating this as eagerly as I?’
Nesta stared back, not knowing how to react. The way he was behaving it was almost as if he knew this was going to happen, which was impossible, unless . . .
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she replied with a stutter.
‘Oh, come on,’ said Salisbury. ‘Do you take me for a fool? I have long known about your rekindled allegiance to the rebel cause for my spies reach into every corner across Deheubarth. Even as far as market places where bakers pass secret messages hidden in loaves of bread.’
Nesta stared in horror. The arrangements with the market woman had obviously been uncovered.
‘Oh don’t look so surprised,’ said Salisbury. ‘There is hardly a conversation that goes on between anyone of note without it being eventually reported to me. It has been a long time in its development, Nesta, almost a lifetime, but a network of informers is often more powerful than the strongest army.’
‘You are mistaken,’ started Nesta.
‘Save your arguments,’ snapped Salisbury. ‘The baker talked and is already hanging from a gibbet. As I have stated, I have long known about your treachery but have allowed you your little victories in pursuit of a bigger goal’ – he nodded towards the battlefield – ‘the crushing of the rebellion once and for all.’
‘That’s impossible,’ she said. ‘There’s no way you could have known about . . .’ She stopped suddenly, realising she had been about to incriminate herself.
‘About what?’ asked Salisbury. ‘About you reading the note in my cloak back in my quarters in Pembroke?’
Again Nesta was rocked at the revelation. Unless Emma had been caught or had betrayed her, he could not have possibly known.
‘Enough of the games,’ growled Salisbury. ‘I had my suspicions and used that letter as bait. You took it like a starving fox.’
Nesta was horrified. If he was telling the truth then the terrible situation unfolding out on the battlefield was all down to her. She had not only fed Gwenllian with inaccurate information, but actually lured them into an ambush of Salisbury’s making.
‘Come,’ said Salisbury, and grabbing her arm, he dragged her over to throw her against the wall. ‘Take a good look,’ he snarled, grabbing her jaw and forcing her to stare towards the slaughter a few hundred paces away. ‘This is of your making, Nesta. Those men are dying because of your stupidity.’
Nesta stood pressed against the wooden wall, numb with fear and self-loathing. As she watched, the sound of the gates opening in the bailey below echoed through the air and over a hundred horsemen thundered across the drawbridge and out onto the field of battle.
Over on the burial mound, Taliesin stared towards the road, momentarily unaware of what was happening back at the castle.
‘Stand to,’ he roared as the lines of foot soldiers descended onto the field. ‘Here they come.’
The Welsh sprang to their feet and lined up behind the few dozen shields they had remaining, but as they did, Taliesin could see Gwenllian staring towards the castle.
With a sinking feeling in his gut he turned and saw the column of horsemen galloping along the castle road and heading for the bridge across the river.
‘Oh no,’ he said quietly. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘I’ll tell you what we are going to do,’ said Gwenllian. ‘We are going to take the fight back to them. Prepare to advance,’ she shouted. ‘Drop everything except your shields and swords.’
‘What are you doing?’ gasped Taliesin. ‘There is nowhere to go.’
‘I’m not going to stay out here and be cut down like summer hay,’ she said. ‘We have a few minutes, no more. In that time, if God is on our side, we can reach the trees.’
‘But you have to go through them,’ said Taliesin, pointing towards the advancing Flemish foot soldiers.
‘It’s either that or be killed here,’ said Gwenllian, ‘and I for one intend to go down fighting.’
For a few moments Taliesin stared at the princess realising she was deadly serious. Finally, he grinned and, drawing his own sword, he too turned to the remnants of their army.
‘You heard the woman,’ he shouted. ‘Prepare to advance. We are headed to the trees and will be stopping for nobody.’ He waited atop the burial mound as the rest of the men joined him. One by one they lined up, each with a sword in hand.
‘Ready?’ asked Gwenllian.
‘As ready as we’ll ever be,’ replied Taliesin.
‘Men of Deheubarth,’ roared Gwenllian. ‘Advance.’
Up on the keep, Nesta stared with horror as the two armies raced across the field towards each other. From her position she had an excellent view of the battlefield and, in the moments before they clashed, her heart seemed to stop and she felt physically sick. The sound of men roaring their challenges reached the tower on the breeze, and as they finally crashed into each other, she turned away in dismay but Salisbury grabbed her and dragged her back to the wall.
‘Oh no you don’t, Princess,’ he snarled. ‘This is all of your making and you will witness every last moment. Let it be a lesson to you that no one, no matter how highborn, gets away with treachery under my watch. Men will die screaming in pain today, Lady Nesta. More will take days if not months to die from their wounds. Their families will go hungry and children will cry night after night for lack of food in their bellies. This is your legacy and you will pay witness or by God I will cut you down where you stand.’
As the other women stared at the unfolding drama upon the keep, Salisbury grabbed Nesta’s chin and forced her head around to stare out over the battlefield. ‘Open your eyes,’ he shouted, ‘and witness the carnage you have caused.’
‘No,’ cried Nesta. ‘I can’t.’
‘Open your eyes, God damn you,’ roared Salisbury.
Nesta gasped as the castellan slammed her into the wooden wall surrounding the tower, and as the sobs began, she realised that the tears rolling down her face were not from the pain: they were tears of shame.
‘Keep moving,’ screamed Gwenllian as she fought her way forward. ‘Do not stop. Fight for your lives.’
‘It’s no use,’ shouted Taliesin. ‘They are too strong.’
Gwenllian glanced over to the road and realised the horsemen were far closer than she had thought. If they continued to fight, there was no way they could make it to the road before they arrived.
‘On me,’ she roared and the remaining Welsh made their way to her position. ‘Form a wedge,’ she cried, ‘and head for the trees. Do not stop for anything. Go!’
The remains of the Welsh army ran for their lives towards the road, with many breaking through the enemy lines. Gwenllian fought like a madwoman and men fell around her. Her mind became a blur and she screamed like a wounded animal every time her blade met flesh. Some of the Flemish soldiers hesitated to engage her, and for a few moments, it looked like she would make it to the road, but as she and her sons fought their way through, one of the enemy launched a spear at close range.
‘Look out,’ shouted Morgan, and he hurled himself at his mother to knock her out of the way.
Gwenllian was knocked to the floor, uncertain as to what had just happened. For a moment she was stunned but quickly regained her feet only to see Morgan lying on the ground with a spear sticking out of his chest. For a few seconds the prin
cess stared in shock, and then the reality hit her and she dropped to her knees beside him, oblivious to everything around her.
‘Morgan,’ she gasped. ‘Morgan, my son.’
She took his head in her hands and kissed him gently as her tears dropped to mingle with the blood on his face.
‘Protect the princess,’ someone roared, ‘at all costs.’
Taliesin and some of the men had reached the road, but when he heard the cry, he turned to see several men desperately defending Gwenllian as she sat on the floor nursing her wounded son.
‘You men carry on,’ he shouted. ‘Get yourselves into the trees and keep running.’
‘Where are you going?’ panted one of the men beside him.
‘I came here with a princess,’ said Taliesin, ‘and one way or another I am leaving with one.’
Without another word he raced back across the battlefield. As he did, he became aware that every other man who had managed to escape the carnage with him had followed him back, each determined to stay and fight alongside their comrades.
Gwenllian sat on the ground, cradling her son’s head in her lap. He clung to life but she knew he was dying. Blood oozed from his mouth as he coughed and he stared up at his mother with fear in his eyes.
‘Mother,’ he gasped, ‘leave me. Get away while you can.’
‘Never,’ said Gwenllian gently. ‘I will stay with you while you set out on the great journey. Fear not, my son, for God and the angels are waiting to take you into heaven.’
‘It hurts,’ said Morgan.
‘The pain will soon be gone, Morgan,’ said Gwenllian through her tears. ‘Be brave, my beautiful little boy.’
‘Form a circle,’ roared Taliesin beside her. ‘Backs to the princess.’
The remnants of the Welsh army stood shoulder to shoulder facing outwards to protect Gwenllian. As they did, they saw the column of riders racing towards them with lances lowered. Knowing there could be no defence against such force, Taliesin raised his sword and roared in defiance, his face contorted in rage. The men around him did the same, and as their battle cries echoed around the field, they faced their imminent deaths with a defiance born from generations of servitude.
The Flemish foot soldiers raced out of the cavalry’s path, and as Morgan passed into oblivion in his mother’s arms, the first of the horses smashed into the pathetic Welsh defensive lines.
Men screamed as they were knocked down by the armoured horses and many were run through with lances or struck down with heavy swords. Some threw themselves out of the way as the horses galloped past before jumping back to their feet and reforming in another, tighter circle.
Taliesin struggled to his feet with blood pouring from a deep wound in his shoulder and turned to stare at the cavalry less than a hundred paces away, already reformed and ready for the second charge.
‘Everyone close in,’ he shouted. ‘Those of you with swords, take the horses’ legs from beneath them as they ride through.’
‘My lord,’ shouted one of the men, ‘surely we should open up the lines. If we stay as we are, we present too easy a target.’
‘No,’ roared Taliesin. ‘I will not expose our princess to their blades. We will hold this line to the last man. We may be defeated but we will go down fighting as warriors. Now look to your weapons. Here they come again.’
Again the English cavalry smashed through the lines and again many men fell to the unrelenting assault. This time Taliesin was on his knees with a lance through his side and he knew his day was done.
‘My lady,’ he gasped as the cavalry formed up yet again, ‘forgive me. I have let you down.’
‘No,’ said Gwenllian, shaking her head, ‘it is I who bear that shame. The loyalty of you and your men has been more than anyone could ever dream of. Be proud, Taliesin, history will judge you as a great man.’
As she spoke Taliesin fell to one side and lay dead upon the ground. For a few moments she stared at him before looking up at the remaining men, each one again shuffling into position to protect her. Amongst them all she could see Maelgwyn, bloody and beaten but still alive.
‘Reform,’ roared Maelgwyn, realising that they had lost Taliesin. ‘Lances to the fore.’
Gwenllian’s heart almost burst with pride at the sound of her son’s voice. No more was it full of the joyous playfulness that she had heard for so many years; now it had the timbre and authoritative air of a grown man.
‘This time,’ he shouted while facing away from his mother, ‘we will not stand like sheep waiting to be slaughtered. When they are no more than twenty paces away, we will charge forward to meet them. They will not be expecting such a manoeuvre and we may find some of them wanting. Ready?’
‘No,’ said a quiet voice and he turned to see Gwenllian standing behind him.
‘Mother,’ he gasped. ‘How is Morgan?’
‘He has gone, Maelgwyn,’ said Gwenllian. ‘He has taken the same path as many such men before him in the pursuit of freedom.’
‘Then they will pay for this,’ shouted Maelgwyn with tears in his eyes. ‘I swear I will avenge my brother.’
‘No,’ said Gwenllian again. ‘Enough is enough. We cannot prevail against such numbers, and too many men have already died. I will seek a surrender and save who we can.’
‘No,’ gasped Maelgwyn. ‘We will fight on to the last man.’
‘There is no point,’ said Gwenllian. ‘The day is lost and the killing must come to an end. These men have families and I will seek their freedom.’
‘But, Mother . . .’ started Maelgwyn, but Gwenllian had already pushed past him and begun walking alone towards the line of enemy cavalry.
As she walked, one of the riders detached and walked his horse forward to meet her.
‘Are you in command of these men?’ she asked.
‘Aye,’ he replied. ‘I am Maurice de Londres, castellan of Kidwelly Castle. I assume you are the witch.’
‘I am Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd,’ said Gwenllian, ‘but am aware that I have often been called such names by the English.’
‘What do you want, Gwenllian,’ asked Maurice, ‘for there is still blood to be spilled?’
‘I have come to seek a surrender on behalf of my men,’ she said, ‘and will submit to your custody if you let them go.’
‘Let them go?’ laughed Maurice. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because they have no guilt in all this. They are honest men who have followed their leader without question. I am the prize you seek, Maurice. Take me and allow them to return to their families.’
‘Another two attacks and they will all be dead anyway,’ said Maurice, looking over her head at the shattered defenders, ‘as will you. I see no reason to let them live to fight another day.’
‘They are soldiers just like you, Maurice, and have fought bravely. Surely they deserve your recognition as a fellow warrior.’
The knight nodded slowly as he considered her request. Finally he looked down at Gwenllian. ‘I have made my judgement,’ he said, ‘and your words have merit. These men are rebels and deserve death under the laws of England. However, there is one scenario where I will allow them to leave unharmed. Agree to my terms and I give my word we will set them free.’
‘What are these terms?’ asked Gwenllian.
‘You will not like them,’ replied Maurice.
‘Try me,’ she said. ‘For if it secures the freedom of these men, there is nothing I will not consider.’
‘Then listen carefully, witch queen,’ he said, and as he made his demands, Gwenllian’s heart sank with despair.
Across the field, Maelgwyn and his men watched his mother walk back towards them.
‘What’s happening?’ asked one of the men. ‘The English are withdrawing.’
Sure enough, the riders had turned their horses and were riding over to the burial mound at the centre of the plain.
‘Mother,’ shouted Maelgwyn, running over to her, ‘what’s happening? Were you successful?’
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sp; ‘I was,’ said Gwenllian quietly. ‘You are all free to leave but first there is a price to pay. Come, we must gather at the burial mound.’
‘But the enemy are heading over there,’ said Maelgwyn.
‘I have their commander’s word as a knight that this battle is over, Maelgwyn. There will be no treachery.’
‘And you believe him?’
‘I do. Say what you will about the English but their knights’ vows are as solid as the strongest steel.’
‘But why?’
‘All will be revealed, Maelgwyn. Now come, muster the men and help me meet our side of the bargain.’
‘What about Morgan?’ asked Maelgwyn.
Gwenllian looked over at her dead son. ‘He has gone, Maelgwyn,’ she said. ‘His soul is with God now.’ Without waiting for a reply, she turned to walk back across the field to the burial mound.
A few moments later, the remainder of her army discarded their weapons and followed her.
The battle was over.
Kidwelly Castle
February 17th, AD 1136
Fewer than fifty wounded and exhausted Welshmen gathered at the base of the ancient burial mound. To either side stood the Flemish and English warriors, each watching them carefully. Up on the mound stood Maurice de Londres and three of his men. Maurice had removed his helmet and coif and his bald head shone in the late afternoon sun.
‘You men have fought well,’ he said, ‘and by agreement with your princess, have earned the right to live. But there is a price to pay and you shall bear witness.’ He turned towards Gwenllian standing at the front of her men. ‘You know what you have to do, Gwenllian. Let’s not make it worse than it is.’
Gwenllian turned to her son and looked deep into his eyes. ‘Maelgwyn,’ she said gently, ‘you have turned into a fine man. Go forth into the world and make it know your name.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Maelgwyn. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Listen to me,’ she said, ‘for we have little time. Tell your father what happened here today. Tell him enough is enough and no more blood should be spilled. I love you, Maelgwyn, and always will. Never ever forget that.’ She tiptoed up and kissed her son on the cheek before turning and walking up the slope to the top of the mound.