by Kevin Ashman
‘Listen to me,’ he shouted, ‘a cart has lost its wheel on the road before us. Its position makes it difficult to repair before dark so we will go firm here tonight. See to your animals and secure your carts, we will move out at dawn.’
‘What about the supplies?’ asked Walter, ‘doesn’t Edward need them for his own men?’
‘They will manage for one night,’ said the rider, ‘for they each carry field rations, besides, even if we could move we couldn’t catch them up. I hear they have made good ground and are almost three leagues ahead.’ The rider rode on to pass on the message and Huw guided the oxen team off the road to what little shelter the nearby trees offered.
‘You get them some water,’ said Walter, ‘I’ll see about getting a fire started.’
Huw looked up at the sky.
‘Better raise a shelter as well,’ he said, ‘that sky looks full of rain.’
‘Hey,’ said Walter looking around him furtively, ‘do you think we could sneak a piece of dried fish from one of those barrels? I’ve noticed the lid is loose.’
‘If we are caught, we’d be put to the lash,’ said Huw.
‘I know but I’m fed up with the water they call soup. One piece of fish to add taste won’t be missed, besides, most of the guards are up at the broken cart. Nobody will be the wiser.’
‘Alright but be quick and if you’re caught, you’re on your own.’
Five minutes later Walter returned and opened his jerkin, revealing the two pieces of salted fish beneath.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ hissed Huw, ‘hide them over there before you are seen. Once we get the soup bubbling we’ll drop them in.’
‘Why can’t we roast them?’ asked Walter.
‘Because the smell will bring the guards,’ said Huw, ‘now come on, it’s almost dark.’
‘Soup time,’ called a soldier, walking along the path with a sack of root vegetables. As he passed each wagon, he handed over two large onions and a small loaf of bread.
‘No meat again?’ whined Huw.
‘Meat is for the fighting men,’ came the reply, ‘just be grateful for what you’ve got.’
‘Wait till he goes back the way he came,’ said Huw, ‘and then drop the fish in the pot. I’ll get these onions chopped.’
----
An hour later the entire coast was in darkness except for the hundreds of small fires along the length of the supply column. Men talked quietly amongst themselves, most bemoaning the hardship of the campaign and the awful weather but while most of the civilians could see no further than their own discomfort, the more experienced guards looked nervously toward the hills, painfully aware that being so far behind the main column meant they were dangerously exposed to attack.
The night drew close to midnight and though most men were fast asleep, Huw and Walter sat in their small tent stirring the thick broth of onions and fish. They had added some of the bread and waited patiently as the liquid thickened nicely.
‘Almost ready,’ said Huw, sipping some off a spoon, ‘it’s a meal fit for Longshanks himself, that is.’
‘It’ll do for me,’ said Walter, handing over his wooden bowl, ‘get some in there for I can wait no longer.’
Huw dipped the ladle into the pot but before he could pour any into Walter’s bowl, he looked up in alarm as the flap was throw open and an unknown man stepped into the tent. His face was blackened beneath a hooded cloak and he grinned menacingly at the two men.
‘Who are you?’ started Huw but before he could finish, the man thrust a lance through Huw’s chest, bursting through his back in a mess of flesh and bone.
Walter turned in panic and started to call out before a mace caved in his skull, splattering his brains over the inside of the tent. As the fire went out, doused by the long awaited fish soup, the forests along the path echoed with the sounds of screaming men as two thousand Welsh men at arms descended from the forest to unleash their fury on the undefended supply column.
----
Without substantial numbers of soldiers to defend the column, the result was slaughter. Many were killed as they slept and those who managed to escape the initial assault were chased down in the darkness and put to the sword. People begged for mercy but the blood lust was high and the massacre went unabated until everyone travelling with the carts were either dead or had escaped into the night.
Within half an hour, the only sign of life was the Welsh army swarming amongst the wagons, taking everything they could carry back up into the hills. Over and over again they did the trip until finally, as dawn broke, anything left was torched or damaged beyond repair. Oxen were slaughtered as well as any horses not deemed fit enough to use as mounts and by the time the sun had cleared the horizon, the west road was a scene of desolation, filled with smoke and the smell of death. Up on a nearby ridge, Madog looked down with quiet satisfaction. He had taken the king’s supply column and he knew that without it, Longshanks was vulnerable. An unexpected opportunity had presented itself and the prince knew he held the upper hand. Edward Longshanks, King of England was at his mercy.
----
Chapter Sixteen
The Northern Coast
‘Where has he gone?’ shouted Garyn, reining in his horse and staring down into the lowlands. All three men scanned the valley, looking for the fleeing knight.
‘I don’t know,’ said Geraint, ‘but he heads eastward. I think he knows he can’t run all the way back to Brycheniog so I suspect he’ll seek refuge at the nearest English stronghold. Conway lies ten leagues in that direction but even he won’t be able to continue this pace through the night. Come on, I know a short cut through the mountains and if we ride the night through we may just cut him off.’ He turned his horse and headed toward the nearby hills.’
----
The following morning they crouched amongst some rocks near the road and looked westward. Fletcher handed around some dried beef and they each gnawed on it gratefully, glad to get something after their slow but difficult ride through the mountains. The morning was half gone when suddenly Geraint’s arm shot out and shook Garyn by the shoulder, waking him up from his exhausted sleep.
‘Someone’s coming,’ he hissed and Garyn climbed up beside his brother to stare up the road.
‘That’s Gerald of Essex,’ he said eventually, ‘though he has two comrades only. The wounded man must have died in the night.’ He turned to Fletcher. ‘How many arrows do you have left?’
‘Four,’ he replied, ‘but they will need to be a lot closer to guarantee success.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Garyn, ‘I don’t intend to slay them from the shadows, we are not brigands but I do intend to try and reason with him. If he does not agree I suspect it will come to blows.’ He turned to Geraint. ‘Brother, if he demands close combat, you are to let the fight take its course, even unto my death. This is personal and though the remains of Macsen are a prize, the grudge goes far deeper.’
‘I will not let him kill you, Garyn.’
‘If that is my fate then I will gladly accept it. I have caused too much pain and this is my chance to put it right or pay the price, either way is acceptable to me.’
‘But Garyn…’
‘Geraint, you must trust me on this. If he betters me in fair combat and you intervene, I will never forgive myself or indeed you. The path has been long but one way or another, at least one destiny will end today. Will you promise that you will allow this to be the way I say?’
Geraint paused before nodding.
‘You have my word,’ he said, ‘but I swear if there is any sign of treachery from him or his men then my promise is cancelled and I will add my arm to yours.’
‘Agreed,’ said Garyn. ‘Fletcher, you stay here amongst the rocks and watch the riders like a hawk. They may chance their arm irrespective of Gerald’s orders. If they do, drop them as you would a deer.’
‘It will give me great pleasure,’ said Fletcher.
‘Right,’ said Garyn, ‘let’s get
this done.’ He and Geraint mounted their horses and rode out onto the road before stopping a hundred paces before the approaching Gerald of Essex.
----
Gerald slowed the pace of his horse and eventually stopped, staring at the two men before him.
‘This is getting annoying, Welshman,’ he growled, ‘and my patience is about to run out, Cede the path or suffer my anger.’
‘I will not give you the path, Essex but I have something to offer.’
‘What could you possibly have that holds any interest to me?’
‘What about my head?’
Gerald sat upright and stared at Garyn in confusion.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said, ‘what are you saying?’
‘I am offering you the chance to claim your prize,’ said Garyn, ‘to meet me man against man on the field of conflict. Isn’t that what you knights train for, the opportunity to battle an equal without quarter?’
‘The chivalric code is not for the likes of you, Welshman so don’t deem to understand the ways of your betters. First let me say this, we are not equals nor ever will be. I am a landed knight of King Edward while you are the serf son of a blacksmith. To grant your request would be to justify your claim and I see no reason to do so, especially as you lay outnumbered.’
‘You forget about my archer in the rocks,’ said Garyn.
‘Ah, a typical Welsh trick,’ sneered Gerald, ‘fight from the shadows where there is little chance of injury.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Garyn, ‘he has been instructed to hold back unless there is trickery on your part, as has my brother.’
‘Your brother,’ said Gerald in surprise, ‘so I have both sons of Thomas Ruthin before me. I suspect the Abbot may dig up the graves with his own hands were I to return both your heads.’
‘Dig up graves?’ repeated Garyn, ‘your words have no meaning.’
‘Perhaps not to you,’ said Gerald. He paused, still staring at Garyn. ‘So tell me,’ he said eventually, ‘why should I lower my standards and fight you as an equal, what is in it for you?’
‘If you win,’ said Garyn, ‘you will be allowed to take my head but my brother will take my body to be buried amongst the trees.’
‘And if by some twist of fate you are the victor?’
‘Then you will return the body of Macsen to me, as well as the sword.’
‘What makes you think I have the sword with me?’
‘Because you stated that it is intended for the hands of Longshanks and I don’t believe you would have ridden the length of Wales without it.’
‘Very astute of you,’ said Gerald, ‘and quite correct, it lays in my saddle pack but you will never witness the new form it takes, Welshman because I accept your challenge and will take great pleasure in removing your head.’ He slid from his saddle and removed his cape before withdrawing his double handed sword from the scabbard attached to his saddle.
Garyn did the same and though he held a similar sized sword, his armour was no more than chain mail compared to the plate that adorned his opponent. Both men walked toward each other and stopped ten paces apart.
‘I take it you require no terms for quarter?’ said Gerald.
‘None,’ said Garyn, ‘we fight to the death by whatever means necessary.’
‘So be it, Welshman, look to your weapons and be on your guard for today you join your family in hell.’
----
Without further warning, Gerald swung his sword toward Garyn, catching his opponent by surprise and Garyn had to throw himself backward to avoid an early wound. Gerald followed up the impetus with swift and skilful swings, each administered so fast that Garyn had no time to counter with blows of his own. The assault was furious and testament to the skill and fitness of the English knight but despite his ferocity, the continued exertion and weight of the armour took its toll and he soon paused to gather his breath.
‘I thought you were here to fight, peasant,’ gasped Gerald, ‘or is this the way of all Welshmen, to run and hide when faced with an uncertain outcome?’
‘There is more than one way to fight, Essex,’ said Garyn, ‘and sometimes discretion has its place.’
‘Some would call that cowardice.’
‘Only the stupid,’ snarled Garyn and launched a counterattack toward the knight. This time the impetus was with the Welshman, and though the few blows to land were easily deflected by the heavy plate armour, within moments they both stood apart once more, drawing deep breaths of cold morning air. Over and over again, each man took the initiative, both struggling to find an opening in his opponent’s defence.
Geraint watched with concern as the fight ebbed back and fore and though Garyn landed fewer blows, he could see the English knight grew increasingly weary, weighed down by his armour and fatigued by the constant manoeuvring of the lightly adorned Welshman.
‘You tire, Sir Knight,’ shouted Garyn between deep breaths, ‘and your armour becomes a burden. I suggest such finery is more suited to the tournament fields of London rather than the tilled fields of common men. Cast it off and fight as equals.’
‘Like I said before,’ gasped Gerald, ‘you are not my equal.’ He stepped forward again with surprising speed and though Garyn had anticipated the move, he tripped over a rock and fell backward to the floor. The knight also fell, getting entangled in Garyn’s flailing legs and as they grappled in the mud, the momentum took them over the bank to roll down the slope to the marshland below.
Geraint ran to the edge and stared down as did the two English soldiers but as the struggle continued, he failed to notice the two Englishmen talking quietly between themselves, planning an intervention on behalf of their tired master.
Down in the Marsh, both men staggered to their feet, and stood knee deep in dirty water. Both blades had been lost and the knight retrieved a spiked mace from his belt. Garyn reached for his knife but was dismayed to find he had lost it in the fall. He turned to seek refuge and though there was no way out, there was a single boulder protruding from the bank no more than shoulder high.
Gerald staggered through the water, determined to end the fight once and for all. His armour was now covered in mud and tangles of weed hung from his closed helmet, obscuring his vision. He looked around quickly, the sound of his own heavy breathing echoing around the inside of his helm and failing to see his quarry, lifted his visor to get a better view.
For a few seconds he could see no one but looked up in alarm as Garyn jumped off the rock to send the knight sprawling backward. The impact knocked the breath from both men and they landed in a heap amongst the mud and water. Gerald tried to get to his feet but the cloying mud held him fast, clinging onto the heavy steel plate.
Exhausted, Garyn dragged himself on top of the knight’s body and for several moments, gasped for breath as he stared down in to the man’s eyes through the open visor.
‘So it ends, Essex,’ he panted, ‘your time in our country is done.’
‘Wait,’ gasped the knight, an edge of panic in his voice, ‘we can make a bargain. You let me go and I will make you the richest Welshman in the country. I have access to gold and jewels beyond compare.’
Garyn shook his head in disbelief.
‘You really have no idea do you,’ he said, ‘even now after all this you think you can buy our allegiance with petty baubles. Well, let this be your last thought in this life Gerald, all the gold in the world is but poison compared to the sweetness of liberty.’
Before Gerald could answer, Garyn’s hand shot up beneath his opponent’s helm and forced his head back into the mud.
For almost a minute the knight thrashed in panic, the mud and water splashing around the two men and it took all of Garyn’s remaining strength to keep him down but finally the struggle died away and the body lay silent beneath Garyn’s hands.
Gerald of Essex was dead, choked by the very mud of the country he once stalked with brutal arrogance.
----
Up above, Geraint sighed with rel
ief but as he was about to descend to help his brother climb up the bank, a shout echoed from the rocks and he turned to see one of the English descend upon him with drawn sword. Instantly he knew it was too late, there was no way he could defend himself but as he raised his chain mailed arm in a futile gesture of defence, an arrow flew through the air and thudded into the attacker’s chest. Despite the wound the English soldier staggered the last two paces and landed the blow but all strength had gone and the blade glanced harmlessly off Geraint’s arm. The man fell dying to the floor and Geraint turned to face the threat of the second soldier but the man remained where he was, by the horses, his attention totally focussed on Garyn below.
Even as Geraint called out a warning, the sickening thud of the crossbow bolt being released echoed down the road and the lethal arrow embedded itself deep into Garyn’s back.
‘No,’ screamed Geraint as Garyn fell forward into the mud, and as Fletcher’s second arrow flew through the air to strike down the bowman, Geraint bounded down the slope to reach his wounded brother below.
‘Garyn,’ he gasped, lifting him from the water and laying his brother’s head upon his own lap, ‘by the love of God, this is not just.’
‘What was it?’ gasped Garyn, ‘an arrow?’
Geraint nodded and lifted his brother higher to see the wound. The main force of the bolt had been absorbed by the chainmail but it still had enough force to pierce deep into the flesh beneath.
‘How bad is it?’ gasped Garyn.
‘It’s missed your lungs,’ said Geraint, ‘but I don’t know how deep it lies. We have to get you out of here, brother but I will not lie to you, this is going to hurt like the fires of hell.’
‘Just do it, Geraint,’ said Garyn with another gasp of pain, ‘I am done here.’
Geraint looked at the face of the dead knight peering coldly upward beneath the rapidly clearing water.
‘Yes,’ he said eventually, ‘I think you are.’