The Wind From Hastings

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “But Griffith … !”

  He gave me a mighty shove that sent me stumbling away from the pool. “Don’t argue now, woman, of all times! Those are not friends; they are traitors who left us as far away as Caerhun! We are betrayed!” With a despairing cry he grabbed for the sword which never lay far from his hand. I raced up into the rocks, my bare feet cut and bleeding and caring not, and at last I found Gwladys and the children in a thicket where they had gone hunting birds’ eggs.

  The sounds of battle came clearly up to us as we crouched in the brush. Some Welsh voices we heard, but many more spoke the Saxon tongue. And the cries of pain began straightway.

  “God-a-mercy, what will happen to us if the Prince is killed?” Gwladys whispered to me. Unlike Emma, she was a Celt and did not always look on the bright side of possibilities. Hearing her, Rhodri began to whimper, and we had much ado to quiet him.

  The commotion of battle lessened. With pounding heart I wriggled my way forward on my belly until I could look between two saplings directly down to the area of our campsite. There I saw the one thing in all the world I could not bear to see.

  My Griffith stood, erect and proud and still barefoot, in a ring of Saxon soldiers. Around him on the ground, dead and dying, were the bleeding remnants of our little band. Closest to his Prince lay faithful Madog, with the arm that still carried his sword hacked clean from his body and lying by itself in a crimson pool.

  A Saxon with a sneer of victory on his face stood before Griffith, and in his shadow lurked the cowards who had betrayed their Prince and led Godwine’s men to this old hawking place of his.

  “Griffith of Gwynedd?” the Saxon intoned mockingly. “I have an invitation for you. Harold Godwine requests your attendance at his supper table tomorrow.”

  “I would sooner dine with the pigs!” Griffith flung back his head and glared at his captor.

  “Ah, you misunderstand. You are not invited to dine. You are, let us say, to provide the entertainment.”

  “I will provide no sport for the Godwine! You cannot frighten me with torture!”

  “I have no instructions to torture you,” said the Saxon coolly. And with a sudden, savage swing, he raised his hideous battle-ax and cleaved Griffith’s head from his body.

  The man caught it by its auburn hair, even before it hit the dirt, and he held it up at arm’s length for the cheering men.

  “The centerpiece for Harold Godwine’s table!” he cried.

  HAROLD

  SOMETIMES IT IS possible to be hurt so badly that you don’t feel anything at all. It was like that for me for a little while. I was fully aware that the sun was still high in the sky, birds twittered in the trees and the rocky ground on which I lay hurt my ribs. But an unseen blanket was wrapped around me; no grief or agony passed through. My eyes saw Griffith die; my soul did not feel it. For a little while.

  There was so much blood! I had not believed there was that much blood in a human body! I lay there whispering “Jesus and Mary, Jesus and Mary” to myself, I don’t know why, watching the blood spout from my husband’s body and feeling only a sense of relief that the children could not see it from where they crouched, hidden with Gwladys.

  Then all at once something snapped in me. I have no memory of getting up or scrambling down the hillside. I was aware of nothing until I staggered into the center of that murderous band and began hitting blindly at everyone in sight. Screams of hate and rage tore from my throat. I felt possessed of a thousand devils. Nothing could hurt me, nothing could stop me! I knew only that I must punish them, tear and rend them with my teeth and nails until the thing was undone somehow and my Griffith was alive again! It had to be!

  I was seized around the waist from behind by that same Saxon housecarle whose ax had just slain my lord. I kicked—it gave me some satisfaction to feel my heels striking his shins—but even in my madness my strength was no match for his. Oh, my Griffith, I was not strong enough to be the warrior queen you deserved, but I did my best, my love!

  “What’s this!” I heard his voice exclaim. “A Welsh wildcat come to kill us all!”

  The men around him laughed, making mock of me, but I did not care.

  “Murderers, murderers!” I screamed at them.

  “Not murderers, lady!” exclaimed one of the Saxons, putting on an offended voice even though he laughed at me. “This is an honorable act of war. We have slain the troublemaker Griffith and restored the land to peace.”

  I struggled to reach behind me and rip the ears off my captor, but two other men grabbed my flailing hands and held them fast. To my horror, I saw that one of the men was Rhyderch, a former member of our own household guard. In my contempt I spat in his face.

  “You do not call this murder, Rhyderch? You who have betrayed your Prince with the foulest treason, do you not think that makes you his murderer?”

  Rhyderch stuck out his weak little chin obstinately and tried to look as if he were a man. “Not murder, my lady! I have aided our Saxon friends in the destruction of the Welsh tyrant, and I am proud to take credit for it.”

  There were no words for the fury I felt, so I screamed without words. My mind searched the Welsh vocabulary I had learned so diligently and found no name foul enough to call Rhyderch and his kind. But the Saxon tongue abounded in them.

  “Maggot in dog dung!” I shrieked at him in the language of my childhood. “Ball-less abortion of a humpbacked whore!”

  “What’s this! The Welsh wildcat is a Saxon!” The man holding me shifted his grip and spun me around to face him, that I might see the light of triumph in his eyes. “We have caught ourselves Griffith’s wife, the Lady Edyth! Is that not so, Rhyderch?”

  “Aye, for what it’s worth,” responded Rhyderch. His Saxon was as poor as my Welsh was good, but the housecarle understood him well enough. “The daughter of a twice-convicted traitor and herself a traitor to King Edward, she’s not such a prize.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk of traitors!” I exploded.

  “Yes, shut your mouth, Rhyderch,” the Saxon said. “You enrage this witch much more and I may not be able to hold her. In fact, I may let her loose at you!” They all laughed at that. He gave me over to be held by his men and stepped back to get a good look at me.

  The strength of my madness was draining from me, leaving my stomach heaving and my knees weak as water. A roaring came into my ears like the distant voice of the sea, heard from the towers of Rhuddlan. I tried to fight it off, but a swirling mist enveloped me and they all went away, Saxon and Welsh alike. I sank into a darkness where there was no Griffith.

  The world came back to me very slowly. I lay on a rough blanket on the ground, face down, and my ankles and wrists were bound with something that scratched my skin. I wanted to vomit, but my belly was empty, and I would have swallowed my own tongue rather than give those men the satisfaction of seeing me shamed.

  There were voices above and behind me.

  “What shall we do with the body, sir?”

  “Dig a hole yonder and bury it; I have no orders concerning its disposal. Bury it deep so that you need build no rock cairn to protect it. I want no one to find his remains!”

  His remains! It was my Griffith’s body they were putting into the ground, in an unmarked grave in the mountain fastness of Snowdonia. There was something right about that. It was not a royal burial—the Cymry funeral rites would not be done—but at least my lord would sleep undisturbed in a place he loved.

  Then I remembered. He would not sleep entire. My body convulsed with pain, and I wept bitter tears onto the Saxon blanket.

  “She’s awake, I think.”

  “Let her be.” It was the voice of the captain, he who wielded the ax. There was compassion in it. “There is no comfort for her in this day. The best thing we can do is to leave her alone to mourn her dead.”

  “What will be done with her, sir?”

  “She will go with us to Tremadoc Bay, where we rendevous with Godwine’s flagship. My Lord Harold will be muc
h impressed with the tropies we bring him.”

  “The head is not a trophy!” exclaimed a Welshaccented voice. “You gave your word, Gareth!”

  “So I did. Very well, it shall be a sign from your people that they wish to make peace and will submit to the King.”

  I shuddered. How my Griffith would have hated having the head of his body used for that vile purpose! Griffith, who never submitted: Griffith, who had fought so long and gallantly to unite his people as the independent Welsh.

  The children!

  It came on me like a blow. With Griffith’s death every other thing had gone out of my mind; it was as if nothing existed but him and the loss of him. Then they were back again, all that was left of our love, and I knew that they were nearby and in danger. I twisted around on my blanket and tried to see what was going on.

  The Saxon captain, Gareth, stood close by, supervising the breaking of our camp and the packing up of booty. Little enough it was by then: our ragged clothes, our weapons, cooking utensils and the small chest of coin and jewels that was all we had left of the wealth of Gwynedd. I saw one of the Saxons gather up the violet silk which had been Griffith’s wedding gift to me and smooth it against his rough beard.

  “There are toys for a child here, sir,” one of the men reported. “And these are an infant’s clothes.”

  Gareth was on his knees by my side, bending down to peer into my face. “Where are they, my lady? What have you done with the children?”

  “They could not be here!” exclaimed someone. “Small children could not have made the trip to this desolate spot. They must have left them on the other side of Llanberis Pass!”

  I felt contempt for any man who might think the children of Griffith ap Llywelyn too weak for mountain climbing! But I knew better than to open my mouth and brag; let them think the children were elsewhere.

  Gareth kept his eyes on mine. “Where are they?” he said sternly.

  I glared at him and clamped my jaws shut.

  “Search!” he cried. “We will not leave this place until every rock is turned over and every crevice plumbed. I tell you Griffith’s whelps are here, and they must be found!”

  There was no way I could save them, nothing I could do but lie helpless and heartsick. I heard the Saxons scrambling about in the rocks, awkward and swearing, and I wished they might all fall and break their necks.

  Ill wishes do no one any good. They found the children eventually and brought them to Gareth, together with a trembling but defiant Gwladys. One of the Saxons had a rueful smile and a swiftly closing enpurpled eye. “She hit me with a rock, but I wrestled her down,” he reported cheerfully.

  “Good job. It is close upon sundown; we will camp here for the night and leave by daybreak; some of Griffith’s rebels may still be alive in these mountains. The sooner we get out of here the better I shall feel.”

  So they brought us down from the mountains, to the deep blue bay where Godwine’s Saxon ships rode at anchor. I cannot say we were treated unfairly. At Gareth’s order Gwladys was allowed to tend to my needs and dress the children; she bound up my hair for me and saw to it that my appearance did honor to my husband’s memory.

  Part of Griffith came with us also. In a wicker basket, strapped onto the back of a pony who carried no other burden. I tried never to see that pony.

  A landing party met us at the shore. Like Gareth and his men, they wore a body armor of boiled leather, replacing the links of mail I remembered from my childhood. Gareth had caught me eyeing it once and commented, “It is an invention of Harold Godwine, much lighter and easier for mountain warfare. He has many strings to his bow, our Harold,.”

  Our company was drawn up along the beach as the landing party set out from the foremost ship. The boat carried a gonfalon at its prow, a flag hanging from a crosspiece and bearing the golden emblem of the Fighting Man, which was Harold Godwine’s personal device. Beside his banner stood Harold himself, legs braced against the rolling of the boat, the first man to leap out and onto the conquered Welsh shore.

  In childhood I may have seen Harold Godwine at some feast day, though I do not remember. I had heard whispers that he was handsome above other men, but as he looked nothing like Griffith ap Llywelyn I found him ugly. He was of an age with Griffith, somewhere in his early forties, but there all resemblance ended.

  The brute stood a head taller than the tallest of his men, so that one could not look honestly into his eyes. His hair, cropped short for battle, was as gold as the Fighting Man; the face beneath it might have been chiseled from stone, so firm and unyielding it was.

  His eyes were blue, icy as the Irish Sea. The lashes and brows were gold like his hair, but so pale against his sunburned skin that he appeared to have none. He looked like what he was, half Saxon and half Dane, all arrogance. He returned his captain’s salute and listened gravely to his report, glancing once toward the pony who stood waiting with his dreadful wicker hamper. Then he nodded and strode briskly over to me.

  “Your servant, madam,” he said formally. His voice was not deep and rich like Griffith’s, it was roughened by too much shouting in battle.

  “God strike you dead,” I replied.

  “What a tender greeting! My man has told me you were not appreciative of being rescued from these savages.”

  “These savages, as you call them, are my people!”

  “How loyal of you!” he said dryly. “I like that. Loyalty is a quality in very short coin these days. Perhaps sometime you will tell me how Prince Griffith managed to win yours.”

  “I would not tell you if your beard were on fire!” I spat.

  “Then I must keep my beard away from the hot coals of your temper, my lady,” Harold said. He turned his back on me abruptly, with great rudeness, and began ordering the preparations for boarding ship.

  To my annoyance we were treated civilly enough on board. I would have preferred something I could fight, a reason to scream and struggle. Gwladys, the children and I all had to share one small cubbyhole, to be sure, as a warship is not equipped for family travel, but at least we had a private place to sleep and decent food was brought to us.

  The children and Gwladys, their stomachs used to Welsh fare, rebelled at the beef pies and stewed eels I remembered from Saxon tables. Then too, they all suffered much from the sea-belly. But that was never to bother me again; the first voyage to Ireland had cured me of that forever.

  What happened to the Welshmen who had led Harold’s soldiers to us I do not know. They did not accompany us aboard the Saxon ship, and I never saw them again, to my great relief. It was easier for me to forgive Gareth and his ax, or even the spirit of Harold Godwine that guided it, than to forgive those treacherous cowards who traded their Prince’s head for King Edward’s peace.

  We sailed south across the Cardigan Bay and past the westernmost tip of Wales, then turned toward the sun into the Bristol Channel. Harold was making for Gloucester, to meet with the members of the Witan and tell them personally of his triumph.

  On the night before landfall he sought me out, sending Gwladys and the children away that he might speak with me in private.

  “I have nothing to say to you, Godwinesson,” I told him contemptuously as soon as we were alone.

  He was not bothered. “There is no need for you to speak at all,” he said. “Women’s words have no weight with me. I inform you of my plans as a courtesy, nothing more. I assure you, madam, there is nothing you can do to thwart me!” His cold eyes flashed such a sudden, hot blue that I was startled. Was there some way I could thwart him, then? Was he warning me off? If I could find the way, how gladly would I see all Harold Godwine’s ambitions reduced to rubble about his ankles!

  “At Gloucester I will produce the … token … we carry with us, and sue for peace on behalf of all Griffith’s former subjects. Then, if you like, it will be given Christian burial.”

  My eyes threatened to fill with tears, but I dashed them away. I would not give this man the satisfaction of doing me a favor!
“Do what you like with it! It is Griffith no longer; nothing of him lives in that bloody relic you acquired with treachery! His soul is immortal, his spirit is safely housed in his children; you cannot use his empty shell to play games with my sympathy.”

  There was a certain grudging respect in Harold’s eyes. “You have a strong heart, madam. Do you throw sons as brave as yourself?” His eyes raked my body from breast to hip and back again. “Yes, indeed,” he murmured as if to himself, “Griffith chose well. Three children in a short span of years, and all alive and sturdy. Two sons, and a body to bear many more.”

  I stared at him in horror; his thoughts were too frankly writ upon his face. “You think I would bear you children! I would kill myself on the instant before I let you even touch me!”

  His smile was amused. “Oh come, Edyth. There is little you could do to prevent me if I chose to take you here and now. At a word from me, guards would be here to hold you for me, if that were necessary. Though it would not be; I have taken stronger wenches than you.”

  He leaned, perfectly relaxed, against the bulkhead of his ship. I could see that he was enjoying this crude play, and my hatred only spiced the pot. I determined to bite my tongue and give him nothing more.

  “You are of a noble house,” Harold commented idly, “for the line of your father is as old and honored as mine. You have kinsmen whose alliance would be of much value to me. You might be valuable as a wife.”

  I was as deeply shocked as I have ever been. Under the circumstances how dare he make such a vile suggestion! How could he hope to force me to share a marriage bed with him after killing my Griffith!

  Besides—my thoughts ranged back over the years—was he not already wed? In my girlhood I had heard something, surely, about a wife to Harold Godwine? And was there not a touch of scandal to the story? I struggled to remember.

  “What you speak of is not possible!” I lashed out at him. “You have a wife already. Would you add bigamy to all your many sins?”