by Kevin Ashman
Medieval II
In Shadows of Kings
by
K. M. Ashman
Published by
Silverback Books
More Books by K. M. Ashman
The India Sommers Mysteries
The Dead Virgins
The Treasures of Suleiman
The Mummies of the Reich
The Roman Trilogy
Roman I – The Fall of Britannia
Roman II – The Rise of Caratacus
Roman III – The Wrath of Boudicca
The Medieval Saga
Medieval I – Blood of the Cross
Medieval II – In Shadows of Kings
Medieval III – Ring of Steel
Novels
Savage Eden
The Last Citadel
Vampire
Follow Kevin’s blog at:
WWW.Silverbackbooks.co.uk
or contact him direct at:
[email protected]
Medieval II
In Shadows of Kings
Copyright K M Ashman 2014
All rights are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the copyright owner.
----
All characters depicted within this publication other than the obvious historical figures are fictitious and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Foreward
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Author’s Notes
Foreward
‘Medieval II – In Shadows of Kings’ is the second book in the Medieval Series and though it can be read as a standalone novel, it is recommended that you read, ‘Medieval I – Blood of the Cross’ first to get a feel for the back story of the main characters.
The storyline is obviously a work of fiction but like all my books, it is set against the backdrop of real events at the time.
However, this novel takes a direction you will not expect. It follows the story of something reputed to have happened in the twelfth century and whilst there are those who claim it didn’t happen, there is growing evidence that some of the things you are about to read are a historical reality. Further justification can be found at the back of the book but I would strongly suggest you read the novel first so the storyline isn’t compromised.
So sit back, relax, suspend reality for a while and be prepared to go somewhere you would never expect a Medieval book to take you.
----
Chapter One
Wales 1274
Deep in the hills of Mid Wales, a cloaked rider approached a sprawling village spread around the base of a hill. Perched high above, a castle loomed menacingly against the darkening sky and the rider waited until the daylight was almost gone before gently urging his horse forward through the claustrophobic streets. The candlelight escaping from the slats of the shutters cast shimmering shadows as his horse plodded through the stinking mud and sounds of merriment filtered from a distant tavern in one of the back lanes. His attention was briefly caught by a young man pulling a giggling woman into a side alley to claim the pleasure his hard earned coins had earned him. As the peasant’s hands lifted the whore’s skirts, he scowled up at the rider.
‘What are you staring at, stranger? This is no business of yours.’
‘Oh I don’t know,’ said the girl looking up at the rider with a hopeful gleam in her eye. ‘He looks like he may have a heavy purse about him. Perhaps he is a nobleman who fancies a bit of commoner. Is that it stranger? Fancy a bit of real woman instead of those lace covered cadavers that chill the noble’s beds?’
She cackled at her own joke before being pulled further into the shadows by the needy farm worker and as the rider continued on his way, the sounds of her laughter echoed through the narrow streets around him.
A few minutes later he approached the castle at the top of the winding path and stopped before the drawbridge covering the defensive ditch. It was unusual that any drawbridge was down at this time of night but he knew he was expected, as indeed were several others of equal importance. A yeoman with lowered pike stepped forward out of the darkness.
‘Make yourself known, stranger,’ he said quietly.
‘My name is of no consequence,’ said the rider. ‘Be it known I am expected by the master of this house.’
‘Let me see your seal,’ said the yeoman.
The rider took off his ring and handed it down. The yeoman walked over to the light of a burning brazier and compared the ring to a vellum document showing the twelve seals of the expected guests. Though he could not read the words alongside each mark, the picture of a thrice speared boar was clearly visible.
‘There,’ said his comrade, pointing at the matching design. ‘The seal is true.’
The yeoman walked to the rider and returned the ring.
‘Proceed, my Lord,’ he said, ‘once inside the castle you will be met by a page who will see to your further needs.’ He looked down the hill. ‘Do you not have courtiers?’
‘I travel alone,’ said the man.
‘A risk in these troubled times,’ said the Yeoman.
‘A business for me to worry about, not you,’ said the rider replacing the ring. ‘Now stand aside for I have been detained long enough.’
The yeoman turned and called across the drawbridge.
‘Raise the gate, we have another.’
‘Aye,’ came a muffled reply and within moments the clank of chains signalled the portcullis was being raised within the deep castle walls.
The rider entered the castle and handed his horse to a boy. Outside the two guards returned to the warmth of the brazier.
‘Who was that one?’ asked the first soldier
‘I know not,’ came the reply. ‘Again he kept his name to himself, one of seven so far this evening. Whatever is going on, they seem desperate to keep their identities secret.’
‘A strange business but not something for us to fret over.’
‘Really?’ answered the first soldier. ‘When men of means make plans in secret, you can wager it is men at arms who pay the price. No, whatever they are up to, no good will come of it that much is certain.’ A cough from further down the hill echoed through the darkness, returning their attention to the task in hand. ‘Back to it, comrade,’ said the soldier, ‘it seems another approaches. This could be a long night.’
----
Fifty miles away in the hills above Brycheniog, the abbey kitchens were a frenzy of activity. Usually the buildings were silent as night fell with only the quiet echoes of evening prayers whispering through the stark passages between the chapels. Tonight however, a rider had arrived with momentous news. A caravan approached which had been on the road for two days without rest. The occupants were hungry and were desperately looking forward to the sanctuary the abbey would afford. Brother John issued his instructions quietly, knowing full well they would be carried out efficiently and with minimum fuss
‘Is everything ready?’ he asked.
> ‘There is cold meat laid out with warmed wine and loaves of bread,’ said one of the other Monks. ‘It is the best we could do with such short notice.’
‘It will be enough,’ said Brother John. ‘I’m sure he will want to give thanks for his safe journey first so we have some time. Prepare his rooms and place a clean cover at his disposal. Stoke the ovens and warm a pot of water so he can wash the dust of the road from his skin.’
‘Immediately,’ said the second Monk and disappeared to his duties. Brother John summoned the rest of the Monks and lined them up on either side of the corridor leading into the cloisters.
‘They are here,’ said a voice and Brother John walked toward the door, subconsciously straightening his habit as he went. The sound of voices outside the walls mingled with the unmistakeable clatter of a tail gate falling open from the back of a wagon. Moments later the gate opened and a man ducked under the low lintel before straightening up to face the two rows of Monks. As one, each lowered himself to his knees, folding his hands in prayer at the unexpected arrival of the man wrapped within a warm travelling cloak. Brother John stepped forward and took the hands of the Abbot.
‘Father, it is good to see you again,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Brother,’ said Father Williams, ‘it is good to be back.’
----
Chapter Two
Dolwyddelan Castle
July 1274
Sir Robert of Shrewsbury stood at the far end of the hall, admiring the tapestries showing hunting scenes from across the centuries. In his hand he held a silver goblet of warmed ale. The last of the summer days were clinging on desperately and the chill in the evening air meant the harvests had been collected and many beasts slaughtered and salted ready for the coming winter months.
Overall it had been a fair summer and though colder months always claimed their victims, there seemed no need for anyone to go unduly hungry this winter, always assuming they had made sensible provision. Those peasants who had frittered away the few coins they had earned tilling the manor’s fields would find stern faces and often be on the end of a beating stick should they beg as a result of their poor planning. At such times many would turn to family and friends but those who were alone in the world often found only death’s deadly sickle at the end of a cold night.
Luckily these were not issues Sir Robert need worry himself about for as a landed Knight, he had ample provision for all his family and indeed the many servants in his fortified manor house in the Welsh Marches. He even maintained a small corps of men at arms within the manor as a security measure, an expensive necessity yet so needed in these turbulent times.
‘Sir Robert,’ said a voice behind him, ‘good to see you could make it.’
Sir Robert turned and saw Lord Idwal of Ruthin standing a few paces away.
‘Idwal,’ he said holding out his arm, ‘it has been a long time. Well met.’
Idwal took the arm in friendship and summoned a page to refill Sir Robert’s goblet.
‘Too long,’ he replied. ‘How is that wonderful wife is yours?’
‘Just as beautiful,’ said Sir Robert, ‘and I am now the proud father of a two year old son.’
‘So I heard,’ said Idwal, ‘allow me to drink to his health.’ He lifted his goblet and sipped at the wine though never taking his eyes from those of the Knight before him.
‘So,’ he said eventually looking around. ‘Why do you think we have been summoned here?’
‘I think summoned is too strong a word,’ said Sir Robert, ‘there are many in this room who would respond to no summons except from Llewellyn himself.’
‘I agree,’ laughed Idwal. ‘Pride is a severe master and many in here bow to its demands. Let’s use the word invited, far more congenial to gentlemen such as these.’
The conversation was interrupted by the sound of doors crashing open and people striding purposely into the room. Sir Robert turned to see the Castellan head straight to a side table, pushing a page out of the way to access an ale jug. Rather than fill one of the many goblets he drank straight from the jug before wiping the foam from his beard. Letting out a belch he turned to face the gathered men before him.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, as he removed his leather gauntlets, ‘apologies for the lateness of my arrival but there was a situation that needed my personal attention. It took a little longer than I thought but suffice to say, the matter has been resolved to my complete satisfaction.’ He threw the gauntlets toward a waiting page who dropped one in his nervousness. Sir Robert bent and picked it up, noticing the stains across the studded knuckles, still sticky from the blood of some unfortunate recipient. Sir Robert handed the glove to the page and looked over to the man who had administered the justice.
Rhodri ap Gruffydd was a man of immense stature. He was at least a head taller than any man present and his barrel of a chest was complimented with muscular arms, formed by constant sword practice since he was a boy, twenty five years earlier.
Overall his appearance was one of a brawler and his manners certainly didn’t reflect his ancestry from one of the greatest Princes of Wales but despite this, he held the respect of every man present. He was a strict master to all who lived on his lands and administered swift justice to any brigand, cheat or varlet who carried out their less than honest trade within his jurisdiction. However, it was also said that those who worked hard and showed fealty to his name were rewarded by his protection and nobody went cold or hungry when times were hard. By doing this he had amassed many informants throughout the country and every man present had benefitted from his wealth at some time or another. Eventually he had been given the name that he now bore as proudly as his coat of arms, Tarian, shield of the poor.
‘Tarian,’ called a voice, ‘I see age has not been kind. You are even fatter than I remember.’
The man glared toward the rear of the room and focused on the speaker.
‘Idwal, my friend,’ he said loudly. ‘Alas you speak the truth. My girth does indeed expand beyond my sword belt but it is only because every time I bed your wife, she feeds me sweet pastries.’
The room erupted into laughter at the riposte and Idwal crossed the hall to grasp Tarian’s sword arm in friendship.
‘Good to see you, friend,’ he said.
‘And you, Idwal. Come, be seated for though there are matters to be discussed, I would see you fed first.’
The twelve men each took a seat around the long oaken table and waited as the servants filled their tankards with frothing ale.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Tarian standing up, ‘thank you for coming tonight. I am sure you all have a thousand questions and all will be revealed in the fullness of the evening but before I fill your heads with words I will fill your bellies with food.’ A side door opened and a column of serving girls carried trays of roasted pork into the room along with bowls of stewed pheasant in red wine. Loaves of bread were spread down the table and the ale jugs topped up. As soon as the servants had gone, he turned to the table and lifted his tankard.
‘First, a toast,’ he said, ‘to the recently deceased King Henry of England,’ he paused and looked at the expectant faces around the table. ‘May his corpse rot in the fires of hell.’ He lifted his tankard and drained the contents to the supportive cheers of his guests. He slammed his tankard down on the table and clapped his hands for the entertainment to begin. A Jovial tune floated through the air and a troop of flute players entered the room followed by an old man beating out the rhythm on a hand held Tabor.
----
Sir Robert enjoyed the entertainment provided by his host and the company of similarly minded folk, however, despite the light hearted mood, he noted that like him, all present were careful how many times their tankards were refilled, knowing full well that serious matters were afoot. He looked around, mentally naming each of the men around the table and realized the deceased King would have paid a handsome price for the heads of most present. These were the minor Lords of South Wales and the Marches, the men
who gave the crown many sleepless nights with their constant problems and demands.
Even though their notoriety was common knowledge, Sir Robert took comfort in their presence for these were men of similar ilk, fellow nobles who could be trusted to share his extreme political views without fear of contradiction. Over the years many men such as he had become disillusioned with the monarchy holding court from London and whilst this in itself was no great shock, the dangerous undercurrent of all men present was that they were also disrespectful about their own monarch, Prince Llewellyn of Wales.
Once the meal was over, the talk dwindled as the servants cleared the tables and once the last of the musicians had left, Tarian himself went to the three doors of the hall and barred them from the inside. At this the room fell silent for it was obvious the business of the evening was about to start and the Castellan had ensured they would not be overheard or interrupted.
He regained his seat and took another draft of ale before slowly looking around the table, pausing to stare each man in the eyes for several seconds. When they alighted on him, Sir Robert felt his head had been pierced with blazing pokers.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Tarian at last, ‘to business. I have asked you to come here tonight not as Lords or Knights, but as trusted friends whose love for this country is as passionate as my own. I know that every man around this table bears a heart that aches for the times of our grandfathers when our country stood proud alongside the English, strong in its own identity and honoured our own heritage.’
A couple of mugs were tapped gently on the table in acknowledgement.
‘As you know,’ continued Tarian, ‘Henry is long dead and we await the return of Longshanks from the holy-land with trepidation for make no mistake, no matter what you thought of Henry, Longshanks will make his father’s brutality seem like a mere shepherds scold.’
Again there were murmurs of agreement around the room. Prince Edward was famed for his brutality and his hatred of the Welsh was well known.
