Queen Sacrifice

by Tony Riches

  Padrig whirled round and yelled for his commanders. ‘Stand to men, we have a chance to win this war if we can be quick!’

  Within the hour Sir Padrig and his men were on their way to find the Du warriors who had massacred the Caerphilly garrison. Padrig was riding his new battle horse and wearing his brilliant white breastplate with a flowing white cape. He may not have been born to be a knight of the Gwyn but he knew how to make sure he looked the part. Behind him was the entire surviving army of the Gwyn, men he had trained personally and could rely on in a fight. He knew of the valley the wounded soldier had described as the scene of the garrison’s last battle. The Du army had suffered a lot of wounded men, so they were likely to be taking refuge somewhere in the hills above the valley.

  They arrived in the late afternoon with the autumn sun dazzlingly low in the western sky. They had approached the valley from the north and luck was with them, as they could see the thin columns of grey smoke of camp fires rising into the still air ahead. If the Du were on the opposite side of the valley it would have been much harder for Padrig’s men and if they had gone to Abertawe it may have been impossible to find them. He silently thanked the brave survivor of the battle being able to alert them in time. The Du did not seem to be expecting a counter attack and probably thought they now had full control of the area.

  Sir Padrig called his commanders to the front. He would lead the main group in a frontal attack on the Du camp, while the two commanders would each take a group of men to the flanks. Although Padrig was normally jovial and made light of even the most challenging situations, his men could see he was stern faced and serious about this battle. The Du had invaded their homeland and murdered their friends and comrades, so this was more than just another battle. They would kill or be killed.

  He turned to face the waiting men. ‘For the King and for the Gwyn!’

  They charged towards the smoking fires, covering the ground so quickly that the Du lookouts saw them too late to warn the warriors. Sir Padrig swung his heavy sword viciously left and right, killing a man with each blow, then rode hard into a third who was about to throw a spear. The iron shod hooves of Padrig’s powerful white horse smashed into the warrior’s chest and he was trampled before he knew what had happened.

  One of the men behind Padrig shouted a warning and he ducked as a sharp Du spear flew past, grazing his shoulder. Shouting his thanks for the warning he stayed low in the saddle and rode hard at the man who had thrown the spear, slashing with his sword and cutting deep into the man’s neck. Even as the warrior fell dead Padrig was attacking the next, oblivious to the swords and spears all around him as the Du tried to defend themselves against the sudden and violent attack.

  As Padrig had ordered, his commanders rode in with their men attacking on both flanks, trapping the Du warriors, as their only escape was the treacherously steep side of the valley. One of the commanders yelled out in surprise and pain as a Du arrow struck him in the ribs but even though badly wounded he continued leading his men into the mass of fighting warriors. The mounted soldiers of the Gwyn were slashing down on the men on the ground and showing no mercy.

  Sir Padrig had chosen his own group of men in the centre from the toughest and most experienced fighters and they were spurred on by the knowledge that the Du were trying to take their lands. They charged a group of warriors who were ready with swords and the air rang with the bright clash of metal as men fought for their lives. Several of Padrig’s men fell victim to spear throws, suffering terrible wounds that were likely to be beyond the ability of any healer, but the rest continued to fight on undaunted.

  Suddenly a group of warriors targeted Sir Padrig and pulled him roughly from his horse. He fell heavily but although he was quickly back on his feet, sword in his hand but completely surrounded by the Du warriors. One tried to disarm him by grabbing his sword but instantly regretted it as Padrig thrust forward, stabbing him in the throat. He turned just in time to parry a second warrior’s sword then reversed his swing and chopped into the head of a third warrior. His horse was well trained and remained close, despite the noise of battle, so Padrig managed to climb back into the saddle and swung his blade in a wide and deadly circle, killing one man and wounding another.

  The battle was soon over, as the Du warriors were tired and many of them had lost their spears or had wounds and injuries from their fight with the garrison. They began to retreat from the relentless onslaught and were being driven closer to the edge of the valley. Sir Padrig’s man pressed forward again, killing and maiming until every single warrior who had left Flint castle on the great march lay dead.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Bishop Emrys had carefully written a long letter, explaining in as much detail as he could recall the circumstances of the accident that led to Archbishop Renfrew’s tragic death. He found writing down the traumatic events of that night also helped him come to terms with it, as he had been wondering if he could have stopped the archbishop returning into the building. Emrys included a simply drawn map showing where Renfrew had been buried and signed it, satisfied with the result. His problem was where to send the letter and how. He knew the archbishop lived in the village of Llandaff but did not feel inclined to travel to the territory of the Gwyn while there was a war being fought.

  He decided the letter would keep for now and headed back in the direction of his home, stopping at a remote old chapel in the wilderness on the way to pray for Renfrew’s soul. He had lost the few possessions he had brought on the journey in the fire but found some comfort in living the simple life of a pilgrim. He was in no hurry to return to his home in the north and was content with travelling from one chapel to the next, relying on the charity of the local priests and parishioners.

  Before the archbishop was buried, Emrys had removed his valuable gold crucifix with the ruby at its centre. This decision troubled his recurring dreams, where he replayed the events of the fateful night over and over in his mind. He held the gold crucifix before him and could clearly recall the voice of Renfrew explaining how the church had to play its part in ending the war. The archbishop was right but there were many ways to achieve that end. Bishop Emrys was a man of the north and could help to end the war by making sure his people won. He would do what he could to see that King Gwayne was treated fairly in defeat.

  *

  Padrig led his exhausted but victorious men back to the relative safety of their camp in the hills. He had seen to the proper burial of his dead and his men had done what they could for those who had been wounded. Some of his soldiers were so badly injured that he sent them home, unfit to fight again, to be cared for by their families. Others had their wounds carefully stitched up and wooden splints bound over any broken bones, but they would need some time before they would be ready for a battle against the warriors of the warlord Vorath.

  The greatest risk to them now was that their wounds would fail to heal and turn bad. Padrig feared little but had seen the bravest of men in tears, begging for someone to end their misery as a sword cut slowly turned blue, then black, a sure sign of a slow and lingering death through poisoning of the blood. His physicians knew a great deal about the use of herbs and the importance of cleaning the wound of soil but they always had more failures than successes. Padrig had never been a particularly religious man but now he prayed for the quick recovery of his men.

  Sir Padrig had luckily managed to escape serious injury to himself in the battle but he was badly bruised across his ribs by the fall from his horse. He wondered if one of them was broken, as he felt a stabbing pain and could no longer sleep on one side. He would have liked to visit the king in person but instead decided he should stay with his men, in case Vorath attacked. He decided to send one of his riders to the king with news of their victory and told him to watch out for ambush by Vorath’s men.

  It was clear that there could be no peace until he had tracked down the warlord Vorath and found a way to defeat him, before it was too late. Instead of celebrating their victory over th
e Du, Padrig ordered all the uninjured men to organise a search of the area, checking with the remote farms and smallholders for any news of the location of Vorath’s men. They knew the area well and soon located the Du camp just south of their own and dangerously close.

  His rider returned the next day with important news from King Gwayne. Padrig was relieved to see him and greeted the man warmly.

  ‘Good to see you back safely! How is the king?’

  ‘The king is pleased with your victory, sir,’ said the rider. ‘He has a spy in Vorath’s camp. The warlord is preparing to move north to the border, so he asks that you have your men ready.’

  ‘We found the Du. Their camp is very near here.’

  The rider nodded. ‘I was nearly caught by them but spotted their lookout just in time.’

  ‘I knew you were the right man to send,’ grinned Padrig. ‘Our wounded are recovering well so we will hold this position.’

  As the rider left to tend to his horse Padrig secretly wondered if it would really be so easy. From what he had heard, Vorath had luck on his side, so far.

  *

  Lord Vorath was sitting with his men enjoying a drink of dark ale by the fire when one of his warriors rode in to camp and asked to see him,

  ‘I have bad news to tell you, lord Vorath. The warriors of Flint have been defeated by the Gwyn.’

  Vorath felt suddenly saddened. He had known many of the good men from Flint all his life. ‘What happened?’

  ‘My brother was at the Du encampment…’ The warrior struggled to find the words. ‘They are all dead, Lord Vorath.’ He was carrying a Du spear and showed it to the warlord.

  Vorath examined the thick wooden shaft. It had been cleanly cut through by a sharp blade. ‘This can only have been the knight Padrig. We knew he was somewhere close. We were going to find him but if he can defeat the men of Flint…’

  He put his hand on the warrior’s shoulder. ‘I am sure your brother died a brave warrior’s death.’

  Vorath had been relying on the reinforcements of the warriors from Flint castle to help him with the final stage of his plan to take Caerphilly and the king of the Gwyn. Now he would need a different plan, and time to think. He suddenly realised that they were in great danger and turned to his warriors, who had been gathering round listening to the news of the battle.

  ‘This Padrig will have his men looking for us. He is not like the other Gwyn soldiers and he can’t be far away.’

  One of his warriors stood. ‘I will double the guards and warn them to be extra vigilant.’

  Vorath agreed. ‘We must move north, while we can.’

  The Du were skilled at quickly breaking camp and before the dawn had moved to a new location closer to their own border, avoiding any contact with the Gwyn. It angered Vorath that certain victory had been snatched from him so suddenly. He had sworn that he would never return to his homeland until he had forced the king of the Gwyn to surrender but he was a patient man and knew his time would come.

  *

  Ceinwen’s house on the coast was comfortable with room for them all and Elvina was learning a lot about the king from Ceinwen, who was still unhappy but seemed to have become resigned to her capture.

  ‘Do you think he will try to rescue the prince?’ she asked.

  Ceinwen nodded. ‘I am certain of it. He won’t have taken kindly to the letter.’

  ‘We need to move. There must be somewhere not too far from here?’

  ‘I could see if there is somewhere we could rent,’ suggested Bethan, ‘You still have the Saxon coins.’

  Elvina agreed. ‘Take two of the guards with you but remember the location of it must be kept secret or we may as well stay here.’

  Ceinwen saw a problem with their idea. ‘How will you know if there is a reply from the king?’

  ‘I was thinking about that,’ said Elvina. ‘Your servant girl can stay here and keep this house in order. One of the guards can call each day to see if there are any messages.’

  Bethan left with two of the guards to find them a suitable hiding place a little further down the coast. It took all morning but she had a purse full of silver coins and was able to find a farmer who was happy to rent two slate roofed cottages. There was also a good sized stable for their horses. It was a little way off the main track but Bethan knew that would suit Elvina.

  The young servant girl seemed happy with the arrangement and asked no questions about where they were staying or for how long. They moved to the cottages that afternoon, Elvina allowing Ceinwen to carry the sleeping prince, escorted by four of the guards. They passed no one on the road, so there was little opportunity for Ceinwen to raise the alarm, even if she had been inclined to.

  *

  Lord Llewelyn’s loyal servant Bryn had become concerned when his new master Cadell failed to return. There were a number of possible reasons, as he could have easily met up with the warriors of Ynys Mon, or been drawn further south by his search for Queen Rhiannon. Bryn was worried because he thought he knew his master well enough to be fairly sure that he would have first reported back to Ceinwen the queen’s sister. He waited another week but it was quiet at the hill fort with all the men away and he felt he had a responsibility to the queen’s sister to follow the road his master had taken to the hunting lodge in the woods.

  Bryn took the last of the Welsh Cobs from the stables and packed as much as he could carry, as he had no idea how long he would be away. The road was now completely deserted and he realised that he must be one of the few men of the Du army not already in the south fighting the Gwyn.

  He reached the peaceful lodge by mid morning and could see that the shutters were on the window and the doors barred. Always resourceful, Bryn went round the back and tried the door to the kitchen, which opened easily when he put his shoulder to it. There was no food in the lodge but he could see that someone had been there recently, as there was a jug of fresh water on the table.

  A search of the rooms told him little, although he did find the remains of a black dress that had been cut up and it looked as if the beds had all been slept in. He rested in one of them for a while then went to check the stables and outbuildings. Bryn stood looking at the two freshly dug graves. They were unmarked but their purpose was clear. He wondered who had died there and if it meant his search was over or just beginning.

  *

  The lone soldier Afon continued his journey far north of his home at Caerphilly, glad to be safely out of the fighting or the endless guard duties at the castle. He had managed to catch a rabbit in one of the snares he set and roasted it over a fire the previous day. Now he was hungry again, so was glad to see the thatched roof of a small croft in the distance. There was a steady line of smoke coming from the chimney, so he knew there was someone inside.

  ‘Hello,’ he called. ‘Anyone there?’

  A man appeared at the doorway and studied him. ‘You a soldier of the Gwyn?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Afon, suddenly unsure of himself. He remembered the warning about the dangers of trusting the people who lived in the wilderness and his hand dropped involuntarily to the dagger he wore at his belt.

  ‘Watch out for the Du,’ warned the crofter. ‘They’re not far away. One of them stole from my neighbour.’

  Afon looked at the crofter’s house. He had been sleeping rough and was quickly running out of food. ‘I need a meal and a good night’s sleep,’ he called. ‘I will pay you?’

  The man looked at him for a moment, as if making up his mind, then waved him to come in. It was dark and cramped inside the croft and smoke from the fire made Afon’s eyes water, but the thick mutton soup was hot and tasty and he gratefully took a bed in the corner and fell quickly to sleep.

  He woke with a start, wondering where he was for a moment as he looked around the old stone croft. There was no sign of the man but his boots had dried out by the fire overnight and he felt much better than he had for some days. The sun was high overhead as it approached mid day. Afon was starting to enjoy
the wild countryside and wondering what he was going to do for lunch when he spotted movement in the distance. Quickly hiding behind one of the few trees, he watched carefully, his heart beating like a drum in his chest. This was no crofter. He could see it was a warrior, dressed in black and armed with a sword. The archer Kane had told him about this moment many times during practice at Caerphilly Castle. ‘Kill or be killed,’ he had said, his eyes dark with some memory of when that was what he had to do.

  *

  The man that Afon could see approaching was one of the few men who had not joined the long march from Flint castle. Dafydd had once considered himself a future warlord and Vorath’s successor, but the young favourite Tristan had put paid to that. Now he thought himself lucky that he had not been made to go to reinforce the army in the south. He would have been even more certain if he had known that his friends now lay dead.

  Dafydd had expected to be retained by the king to deliver messages and take his turn on the lookout duty bit instead had been ordered to the border as an advance guard. It would have been lonely work if it were not for the fact that the Saxon’s had built their defensive dyke along the line of much of his journey to the remote outpost, so he had company of a sort from the bored Saxon lookouts. The men seemed unsure of their role and were happy to have shouted conversations with the people of the Du. One of them even threw him a loaf of bread. It was a little stale but Dafydd was grateful as he needed all the supplies he could find.

  As he approached the border with the Gwyn he realised that he must have somehow missed the outpost, as the countryside was changing and he must have accidentally wandered into enemy territory. Dafydd had been wondering as he walked if some form of truce with the Gwyn would be such a bad thing. He had heard tales of how the southerners had become wealthy through trade with the English and thought perhaps it was time that the Du had the benefit of more modern thinking.