Swordland

by Edward Ruadh Butler

  ‘Why did you do this?’ the boy asked him. ‘You were my friend.’

  Robert could not answer, but remembered Einion ab Anarawd’s curse. Another horn blast sounded, much closer than the first, and he leapt into the saddle.

  ‘When they catch you,’ Ieuan stiffened with pain, ‘they will kill you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ FitzStephen murmured and dragged his courser’s head eastwards. The race was on.

  Colour came at FitzStephen from all sides through the darkness and snowfall. The two Welshmen must have been freezing as they waited for him in the mountains and they looked like old men, their beards sprinkled with a mixture of freezing breath and snow. Night was falling quickly but Rhys and his men had caught up with FitzStephen more rapidly than he thought possible.

  He had crossed the Tywi and raced eastwards away from Rhys’ vengeance, but somewhere in his haste he had gone astray, allowing the Welshmen to catch up with him and his tired horse in the Crychan Forest. His target, the Norman garrison of Brecon, was still at least twelve miles away. The two men who now attacked him must have got in front of him as he wandered listlessly across the freezing hills looking for a mountain pass of which he had heard Hywel the steward speak months before. FitzStephen kicked his horse into a sprint and was away from the two warriors in a matter of seconds. Another horn sounded behind him from the wretched gloom.

  He desperately urged his horse onwards. Over his shoulder he could see Rhys and the rest of his companions surging over the brow of the snowy hill and down through the sparse conifers. FitzStephen’s horse was one of the best that Llandovery had to offer, apart from Rhys’ own, but she had been running all day and was beginning to tire.

  A familiar twang followed by a whistle sent an arrow past FitzStephen’s head and buried itself in bush just a few paces to his left. He ignored two more shafts that punched through the murky light, and pointed his horse away from the danger and towards a bight in the trees downhill to the south. The wood curled down into the valley for a mile, blocking his course east. More arrows followed him, but Rhys’ men were still at the extreme end of their range. FitzStephen was aware that the gradient of the terrain was dangerous but he was too good a horseman to be afraid of the peril. Another arrow went close to his back with a sharp gasp of air and he chanced a look over his shoulder. He was getting away! He dug his heels into his tired horse’s sides and she responded once more, white spittle foaming at her mouth.

  ‘Good girl,’ he whispered into the horse’s ear, having not the breath for anything more encouraging. He chastised himself for not learning the courser’s name from an esquire back in Llandovery. The mare, which in his mind FitzStephen now named Fleetfoot, pulled him into the heavy trees which provided him some safety from the aerial threat of the arrows. However, he was forced to slow down because of the heavy foliage which came from all sides. Cursing he took out Ieuan’s sword and began hacking at the branches which obstructed his path.

  ‘Keep going, Fleetfoot,’ he begged the mare. She shook her head as the branches snagged her face, but still wanted to please her master and kicked forward, using her weight to push aside the soaking vegetation. FitzStephen could hear voices closing in behind him and he again urged the courser forward with his heels. A few seconds later they broke through the undergrowth and they struggled forward from the trees at a canter, FitzStephen eyeing a piece of open terrain ahead, just beyond the treeline.

  ‘Robert!’ Rhys’ voice rebounded around the wood, but FitzStephen was not going to stop now. He pushed through into the narrow strip of open land which, just ahead, merged with another piece of wooded land. A look over his shoulder told him that the Welshmen had forced their way into the trees behind him but he knew it would take them some time to stumble through the tangle into the clearing. His horse stumbled on the uneven clumps of mountain grass but kept going forward at a canter.

  Abruptly, an arrow arched out of the dusk and slammed into FitzStephen’s calf. He cried out in shock, but with no armour covering his limb, the missile thumped right through his leg and poked the horse’s side through his saddle. It had been a lucky shot, from the edge of the wood where he could still see a young man climbing back into the saddle to pursue him, but it had finished FitzStephen’s hopes. Not that he had time to consider this as his startled horse set off in a panicked flight downhill away from the safety of the tree line. Foam and spittle scattered from her mouth and she shook her head angrily at her rider and the sudden pain of the bolt. FitzStephen let his spear fall to the ground as he tried to find purchase with his heels and tug on the reins, but she began bucking irately. Agony scoured through him as the bolt bent and strained inside his leg. Somehow he kept his seat as his tired mount attempted to shy away from the pain in her side. One final body flip shook him free of the saddle and the arrow in his calf splintered as he impacted with the frozen and uneven ground. He screamed in pain and grasped at the wound, his face buried in drifting snow, freezing melt-water chilling the gaps between his gritted teeth.

  ‘Come on,’ he gasped and punched the ground. ‘On!’

  He hauled himself to his feet and managed to stumble a few steps before he lost his balance and had to grab at a small, sodden tree to keep upright. He gnashed his teeth as he drew the two halves of the arrow from his leg, thankful that the break in the bolt was clean and no wood had been left to fester in the wound. He threw the two pieces aside and looked for his mare but she was cantering towards Rhys’ horsemen, already halfway across the clearing, urged on by the sight of their quarry’s fall. FitzStephen crashed between trees only to collapse on his shoulder on the hard, bare, frozen earth, riddled with tree roots. He knew he was ensnared and cursed his luck and the choices which brought him to this end. Picking himself off the ground with a massive effort, he hobbled further into the woods. His last throw of dice was the hope that he could evade capture until night or the weather inhibited the Welsh pursuit. But as he turned to hobble on he heard the thump of hooves as two of Rhys’ horsemen entered the wood. Unarmed and injured he did not stand a chance of fighting two men who urged their horses towards him.

  ‘You murdering Norman bastard,’ shouted the first warrior. Without waiting for the rest of his band of hunters, he clipped his heels to his horse’s flanks and jabbed his spear at FitzStephen as he backtracked.

  The Norman waited for his adversary to overextend his reach and grabbed the ash shaft and heaved the man forward. The Welshman let go of the weapon and put his hands out to cushion his fall as he slipped out of the saddle. As he hit the ground FitzStephen took two steps towards him and stamped on the back of his head, an unhealthy crunch of bone and snow was accompanied by a mere gasp of surprise from the fallen man. FitzStephen immediately cringed as pain seared up his injured limb, but he steadied himself quickly using the stolen spear and hopped around the stump of a broken tree to evade the other horseman. Seconds later Rhys and his other warriors crashed through the foliage.

  ‘Robert FitzStephen!’ he thundered.

  Although now armed with a lance FitzStephen did not feel confident enough to take on one warrior, never mind eight and using the spear as a crutch he hobbled off into the heavy trees, blood dripping onto the snow behind him. The Norman knight knew he was caught. He felt the panic grow in his chest, mortal terror. He was being hunted. He knew that the horsemen were coming before he saw them. Snow was scattered from the branches of evergreens as the trotting men followed him. They did not hurry, but came deliberately, stalking the man like they would stalk a wounded beast. And like any animal he was ready to defend himself to the death.

  Exhausted, FitzStephen thumped his back into a tree and tried to stand tall. He knew he could go no further and so he turned, ready to fight, and hoping that the first Welshman would pin him to the trunk with his spear through his heart. He was exhausted and the cold air cut his throat painfully as he breathed deeply.

  ‘Come on!’ he bayed, urging them to attack.

  Gethin ap Hywel was the first to approach
and he dismounted, walked up to FitzStephen with a determined look in his eyes and an arrow notched on his bowstring. Slowly he lifted the weapon and pointed it at the Norman’s forehead. He was Ieuan’s elder brother and he was deathly silent as he watched FitzStephen.

  ‘I should kill you here and now,’ Rhys spat the words in his direction as he dismounted and walked between Gethin’s bow and FitzStephen, forcing the Welsh baron to lower his aim. ‘I should have killed you back at Aberteifi.’

  FitzStephen said nothing. He knew then that he was damned, probably from his ill-fated birth to this his unlucky end. His parents’ sin had infected him and without God’s love he was nothing but a listless spirit ready for damnation. But he knew that he could still choose hell over purgatory. He had already lived a life of captivity and would rather be damned through eternity than caged. In Rhys’ fortress he had become a hawk with clipped wings, a lion without teeth. He was a warrior denied a sword.

  ‘Will you submit?’ Rhys demanded of him. ‘I will not give you another opportunity.’

  FitzStephen shook his head and charged directly at Rhys, screaming with rage and desperation, pain surging from his thigh. Gethin’s arrow slammed into his heavily muscled shoulder like a hammer blow, spinning him around and sending him crashing into the floor. His spear disappeared into the snow. FitzStephen screamed in pain, his hand gripping the arrow shaft buried in his flesh. He wished for death, yet he knew that he would live and he cursed and pulled himself to his feet to try to lift the spear. His right hand was numb and the weapon slid from between his fingers and back amongst the snow.

  FitzStephen forgot the weapon and turned his tongue on the prince. ‘Come on then, you whoreson. Finish it, you damned Welsh bastard.’

  ‘Take him,’ Rhys commanded his men.

  Two warriors approached the Norman gingerly. FitzStephen threw a pathetic punch at one, who swatted the attempt aside and smacked the Norman in his face with his fist. The Norman collapsed to his knees in the snow. Blood flowed freely from his mouth and he said nothing, could say nothing as his hands were tied behind his back by Gethin. He cringed as his weight rolled onto his damaged leg, but that was all.

  ‘The arrow,’ he heard Rhys say and then intense agony issued from his shoulder as Gethin grabbed the wooden shaft at his back and gave it several tugs to loosen the sucking flesh before dragging it straight through the wound. The goose feathers scratched the inside of his shoulder like the fires of hell scorched damned souls.

  ‘Did you dislike Llandovery so much?’ Rhys stood over him.

  ‘I was a warrior,’ FitzStephen replied through closed teeth, picturing Tewdwr’s departure southwards that morning. He shook his head, knowing that Rhys, a prince but no soldier, would never understand. ‘You turned me into a house pet.’

  ‘You have killed one of my friend’s sons. You have probably killed Dafydd,’ he indicated to the stricken man who was being tended a little way off. ‘Now you will find out how little you are truly worth,’ Rhys said and shook his head in disbelief. ‘Take that prisoner with us,’ he said as he turned to his men with a last contemptuous look at FitzStephen.

  They took him back down the mountain, each step wringing another splash of pain from FitzStephen’s open wounds. They had not given him a horse and he was forced to walk on the treacherous ground until he had passed out with the pain and had fallen into a snow drift. Then they had thrown him across a horse like a dead man and had walked the last few miles down the valley towards the fortified castle. Ieuan’s body had been placed on another horse, wrapped up in his heavy winter cloak, and had made the journey alongside FitzStephen’s mount. Grim faces stared balefully at the shivering Norman the whole way down the valley. The snow had turned into hail and it stung the faces of the warriors as the weather whipped across the sad group of men who descended from the heights in the darkness. Eventually they were challenged at the edge of the village which lay under the shadow of the fortress. The guards displayed thorough relief at Rhys’ return and sent messengers ahead to the castle. Many noticed the body strapped to the horse, and each looked with growing interest at their lord’s cousin, a former enemy, tied up, bleeding, and under guard in the middle of the group.

  Stone houses marked out the richer villagers but the vast majority of buildings were made of wood, wattle, and thatch. FitzStephen had his eyes fixed firmly on the tall white-washed stone structure on the hill. They trudged through the small settlement, some of the hunters peeling off towards their homes. One led away Ieuan’s body in the direction of the church just outside the town for the rites and burial.

  As they traipsed the last few yards towards the castle walls Rhys leaned in to talk to two of his senior warriors. FitzStephen could not hear what they were saying even though he desperately strained his ears to do so. They were discussing what was to be done with him, he knew for sure. But what was Rhys’ decision? Would he try him for murder and have him executed? Would he throw him in the deepest corner of the castle and leave him there to rot? Blinding or disfigurations were also common enough punishments but what was to be FitzStephen’s fate?

  ‘Kill me or free me, you Welsh bastards,’ he shouted through chattering teeth. But no-one even looked in his direction, never mind answer him.

  In the castle bailey he was dragged from his horse and for a second he thought that they were indeed going to kill him there and then. He again braced himself for death, determined that he would meet his maker with his head held high. However, they pulled him to his feet and up the steep slope to the door of the fore-building. FitzStephen tried to climb but his leg failed him and he hopped the final few yards painfully.

  Rhys awaited him inside the stone building and ordered a servant to strip his prisoner of his cloak. Once this was done the prince removed his own garment slowly, his gambeson cap and fox fur gloves, all of which he handed to the servant.

  ‘Robert,’ Rhys started before shaking his head. ‘I cannot kill you today…’ he tailed off, closing his eyes. ‘You have betrayed me. Every chance that I have given you,’ he paused and shook his head. ‘I wanted you for a friend … yet again you have proven your untrustworthiness, and that of your entire race.’ He looked long into FitzStephen’s face but found no regret only anger. ‘Put the Norman into the hole.’ The last statement was directed towards his two men. Immediately the prince turned on his heel and went further into the donjon.

  ‘Rhys,’ FitzStephen bellowed. He knew where he was going and hated the thought of it. ‘Rhys, don’t do this,’ he appealed, suddenly alarmed. Llandovery itself had been a prison for the Norman but where he was going was worse than a death sentence. He dug in his heels as they went under the portcullis and into the donjon proper.

  ‘Wait,’ he stammered to the two men who dragged him onwards regardless. He shouted Rhys’ name three more times to no avail. ‘Kill me,’ he shouted. ‘Kill me, you damned Welsh coward!’ His prison loomed – barely three yards across, a metal grate which covered a chute leading to a room just eight yards wide: the oubliette. Whether the two men were strong or FitzStephen was weak from his injuries and exertions he did not know but despite his protestations he was moving inescapably towards the cell. As he was brought closer FitzStephen fought harder but he may as well have been shouting, like King Cnut, at the tide to turn. The two men threw him against the hard stone wall. One held him there as the other opened the heavy metal grate. He struggled to break free and the first man punched him full in the face, breaking his cheekbone and busting his nose. FitzStephen slumped into the man’s shoulder, despairingly tired and devoid of balance. The man pushed him back against the wall and examined his tunic.

  ‘You bastard, you got blood all over my surcoat!’ he said as he hit him in the torso twice, left and right, hard.

  FitzStephen collapsed to his knees above the gaping hole that was the oubliette. Another punch hit him in the stomach and he doubled over again. One of the two men grabbed him by his hair and forced him onto his hands, staring downwards into the
darkness. A smell of decay rose from the depths and engulfed him.

  ‘You see that?’ the Welshman shouted in his ear. Spittle lashed across his cheek. ‘That’s your tomb.’

  A foot struck FitzStephen on his back. He fell.

  Chapter Five

  Gwarthaf, Wales

  March 1169

  Diarmait Mac Murchada was happy. He knew it could not last of course, but for the moment he basked in his own contentedness and, for almost the first time since leaving Laighin, he wore a smile unforced upon his face. The sun shone high, warming his heavy cloaked back while the wandering wind lifted his long, greying beard to tickle lightly upon his chin. The horse beneath him felt comfortable and Diarmait felt dozy and satisfied as his small company walked through the valley beside the sparkling River Tywi.

  Though it was only springtime, it seemed as if the whole of Wales was locked in a beautiful, lazy summer. Butterflies drifted slowly from plant to plant and bees buzzed amongst the armoured men who passed through the forested glade. Just that morning, Diarmait had spotted his favourite bird, a kingfisher, down by the river as he had washed the sleep from his face. He had taken that to be a good omen and thanked all the saints for their favour. If his destination had not been so close and the mission so vital, Diarmait might have stopped and slumbered in the pleasant sunlit country. He had so rarely had the opportunity for peace in his long and difficult life. From his earliest days all he had known was war, grief and suffering. The Norman warriors who surrounded him on all sides reminded him of that fact. He tried in vain to ignore their foreign babble and coarse language by closing his eyes and enjoying the rhythmic bob of his head as his horse juggled his weight across its back. He was fifty-eight years old. Fifty-eight! Few men lived to such a great age, he thought, and few who did had such a daunting future ahead of them. Tilting his chin upwards, Diarmait inhaled long and pleasurably through his nose, imagining himself and his family free and able to enjoy a warm summer at peace in his homeland. The lovely land through which he rode seemed like a haven where one didn’t have to feel uneasy, guarded, and fearful of attack. Not that the Norman soldiers around him were unwary; to them this was enemy country and their presence in this beautiful woodland was as alien as an Ostman at a baby’s baptism. As Diarmait giggled at the mental image he wondered if that was that a faint whiff of the sea which he could smell on the breeze? Surely not this far inland, he thought, his brow creasing as he tried to identify the scent. No, he had not imagined it! Yet the sea was many miles to the west. He had crossed so many seas since his exile almost three years before that perhaps his clothes still stank of the salty sea spray of the western ocean. From Ireland to England to France and back again to England; Diarmait hoped that he would never have to travel in a boat again. But in his heart he knew that this was not to be his fate. He would make at least one more voyage on the oceans, the most important of his long life. It would be a voyage of revenge, reprisal and reclamation of that which was stolen. The thought of that storm of violence did not daunt Diarmait, but warmed his spirit more so even than the strong sunshine that fell upon his shoulders. A smile curled malevolently into the neck of his rough cloak as Diarmait imagined himself and his sons standing with spears at the neck of those who had hunted him across Laighin and chased him from his home: Ruaidhrí Ua Conchobair, Tigernán Ua Ruairc, Donnchadh Mac Giolla Phádraig, and Hasculv Mac Torcaill; all would die by his hand but only after they had been humiliated just as he had been. He pictured their forts in flames as their cattle were driven south by the victorious Uí Ceinnselaig. A hefty tribute would be imposed on the wretches’ successors, he promised, but only after their fathers had been forced to watch their peoples’ defeat. Only after his enemies had been maimed to prevent them from taking power again.