by Kevin Ashman
Dafydd smiled weakly and his eyes half closed.
‘Sir Dafydd of Brycheniog,’ he whispered weakly, ‘It would have been a wonderful title.’
‘It would.’ whispered Garyn with tears in his eyes and as Dafydd slipped away, he laid his old friend down on the abbey slabs.
----
A few weeks later, Garyn broke his fast with Bethan one last time as they sat together outside her home enjoying the weak morning sun. A page brought Garyn’s saddled horse around from the stable and waited patiently as the young man said his goodbyes.
‘So what happens now?’ asked Bethan.
‘I will return to the Blaidd,’ he said, ‘and seek a life with Goddeff’s men.’
‘But why can’t you stay here with me? The Abbott awaits trial and father has arranged the cross to be taken to Llewellyn for safe keeping. Surely your name is now clear and you can live in peace?’
‘Alas no, Bethan for I have admitted taking the fragment from the true cross in Acre and in the eyes of the church, I will always be a condemned man. The Blaidd pour scorn on such indiscretions and within their number, I will have a life of relative freedom.’
‘Will we ever see you again?’
‘Possibly, for who knows where dwells the man with the higher price?’
‘Then travel well, Garyn and one day I hope you find the peace you seek.’
Garyn stood up.
‘There will never be peace for me, Bethan, not while a certain Abbot in the south draws breath. But I swear before God, before I die there will be a reckoning.’
Bethan kissed him on the cheek and watched as he walked his horse toward the distant hills and the uncertain life of a mercenary.
----
Chapter Twenty Four
The Village of Dolwyddelan
North Wales - 1280
Two men ducked under the low lintel of a tavern doorway and paused to take in the welcome smell of ale and Cawl, an aroma they hadn’t smelled for many years. Both wore beards down to their chests and their hair was tied back out of their eyes, eyes that spoke of hardship and pain. Some of the men in the tavern stared at the unkempt strangers but soon turned away when their gaze was returned with a cold stare. For the last eighteen months Tarian and Geraint had travelled from the new world in their last remaining ship along with fifty of the original crew. The rest had elected to stay with the Mandan.
The need for provisions and repairs had delayed them longer than they had wanted but finally the Dragon had sailed from the lands of the Mandan and though the cruel seas had pounded the battered ship relentlessly, it had finally grounded on the shores of Ireland and many of the remaining crew had cried at the feel of solid ground beneath their feet. On the way home they had lost many to disease including Sir Robert of Shrewsbury, Spider and Logger while others had taken the first opportunity to head in different directions, keen to see their families and forget the ill-fated quest in search of Madoc.
Tarian and Geraint had spent a long time together on the Dragon and had become close friends despite the difference in station. In addition they shared a fascination for Madoc and by the time they landed, made a pact to bring the story of the Prince full circle.
‘What can I get you?’ asked the inn keeper.
‘Four tankards of ale,’ said Tarian.
The innkeeper looked over the shoulder of the two men to see if there were any other customers behind them.
‘Four?’ he asked.
‘You heard him,’ said Geraint, ‘and two large bowls of the Cawl in that pot.’
The innkeeper scuttled away and the two men sat on a bench in the corner to wait for their meal.
‘Breath it in, Geraint,’ said Tarian, looking around the busy tavern. ‘I have dreamed of this day for many years.’
‘It has to be said, there is no comparison to a Mandan sweat lodge,’ answered Geraint.
The ale was brought over and the innkeeper was told to keep them coming. The Cawl soon followed but despite their best efforts, they failed to finish the meal and the bowls were left half full, a consequence of shrunken stomachs from the tiny rations on the trip home.
The innkeeper took away the remnants and poured it back into the pot. As the ale flowed, Tarian opened his purse and fished out his last silver coin.
‘Innkeeper,’ he said, ‘this is the last coin I own in this world. We have been away a long time so what will it get a man in these troubled times?’
‘What is it you want?’ asked the innkeeper.
‘A couple of horses perhaps and two warm beds for the night.’
‘Is it real silver?’ asked the innkeeper.
‘Check it,’ said Tarian and tossed it over.
The innkeeper and another man inspected it closely and then looked over in agreement.
‘I will give you two horses,’ said the second man, ‘and my barn is good for a dry night’s sleep.’
‘What about a couple of women?’ asked Tarian.
‘You push the value,’ said the man, ‘but I will give you a copper coin back. At least that way you will eat tomorrow.’
‘It was worth a try,’ laughed Tarian, ‘include two more ales and we have an agreement.’
Two more tankards landed on the table and the innkeeper placed a copper coin alongside them.
‘The horses will be outside in an hour,’ he said, ‘and I will have a boy show you the way to the barn.’
As he walked away, Tarian drank half his tankard in one draught and wiped the froth from his beard before turning to face Geraint.
‘A couple of horses, a good night’s sleep and an aching head,’ he said, ‘tomorrow should be a good day. What say you, Geraint?’
Geraint didn’t answer but slowly reached out and picked up the copper coin.
‘Geraint, you fall silent on me,’ said Tarian, ‘has the ale muddled your brain already?’
Geraint stared at the coin without answering before standing up and marching over to the innkeeper. He grabbed the man’s arm and spun him around.
‘Where did you get this?’ he asked.
‘What?’ asked the man.
‘This coin,’ said Geraint, ‘where did you get it from?’
‘Unhand me, Sir, ‘shouted the innkeeper,’ it was a fair deal and that coin is genuine.’
‘I don’t care if it is genuine or not,’ snapped Geraint, ‘where did you get it from?’
Two men stood up from their table and walked over to aid the innkeeper. Tarian intercepted them with his hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘Stay where you are, gentlemen,’ he warned, ‘I am as perplexed as you but we will see how this unfolds.’
‘I do not mean you any harm,’ said Geraint to the innkeeper, ‘I just want to know where it is from.’
‘I’m not sure,’ said the man, ‘many coins pass through these walls, it could be from anywhere.’
‘This mark on the back,’ said Geraint, ’who makes such a coin.’
‘I don’t know,’ shouted the man, ‘now unhand me.’
‘It is the mark of Dolwyddelan,’ said the horse seller as he slammed a matching coin on the table. ‘It is nothing special, stranger now leave him be.’
Geraint let the innkeeper go and the tense atmosphere visible eased.
‘Happy now?’ asked Tarian.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Geraint.
‘Why?’ asked Tarian, ‘We have nowhere to go and I haven’t finished my ale yet.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Geraint, ‘our destination is clear to me.’
‘And where would that be?’
‘Look at the mark on the coin, Tarian.’
Tarian stared at the strange symbol and shrugged his shoulders.
‘It means nothing to me.’
‘It does to me,’ said Geraint and withdrew the stone pendant from beneath his shirt. ‘Look at the etching on this. Does it look familiar?’
‘They have the same designs,’ said Tarian quietly.
‘They do,
’ said Geraint, ‘and what interests me is why does a small welsh village mint coins with a Mandan mark upon them.’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Perhaps they were influenced by someone many years ago, someone who must have lived amongst the Mandan.’
‘Madoc?’ said Tarian.
‘Exactly.’
‘Then you are right, Geraint, let’s get our horses.’
----
The following day they rode through the outskirts of a village and paused at a crossroads. One path led up to the castle while the other wound down to the thatched houses. Geraint looked up at the castle.
‘It all makes sense,’ he said, ‘Madoc was born in that castle and would have returned to die there.’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Tarian, ‘I have had reason to visit that castle many times in the past and even prayed in the chapel but never have I seen any tomb of Madoc. Surely a Prince such as he would have had a tomb there?’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Geraint, ‘remember when he left, his brothers were divided and fought amongst themselves for his father’s legacy. Perhaps the victor did not welcome him back so he sought a more humble resting place, yet close to the place he grew up.’
‘Such as?’
Geraint stared over Tarian’s shoulders.
‘Perhaps a place such as this.’
Tarian followed his gaze and saw a small stone church down a nearby foot path.
‘It is worth looking,’ said Tarian and together they rode down the track and dismounted before the entrance. The door was open and they walked in to find the quiet space empty except for a solitary priest, praying before the altar. At the sound of their approach the priest turned and his face fell at their appearance.
‘Bring peace, brothers,’ he said, ‘we are a humble church with nothing worth stealing.’
‘We are not brigands, Father,’ said Tarian, ‘and seek only information.’
‘Then I hope I can help,’ answered the priest. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘We wondered if your church held the tombs of any Princes,’ said Tarian.
‘This little church?’ said the priest, ‘unfortunately not. All nobility lie in the grounds of the castle.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Tarian.
‘I know all the named tombs,’ said the priest, ‘and all the names on the headstones in the graveyard. The rest are all paupers in unmarked graves.’
‘I’m sorry, father,’ said Geraint, ‘we must have been mistaken.’
‘Of course, there is one strange stone,’ said the priest suddenly remembering, ‘it lays in the corner of the graveyard but is unnamed.’
‘Can we see it?’
‘Of course,’ said the priest, ‘but don’t expect much. No nobility lie there and it is visited once a year only by his descendants to pay their respects.’ He led them out and pointed over to the far corner.
‘Thank you,’ said Geraint and they walked over. The grave was unkempt and the stone was covered with moss. Geraint knelt down and scraped away the growth before getting back up to stand alongside Tarian. For two minutes, neither said a word until Tarian said what was on both their minds.
‘A lot of men have given their lives to find this man,’ he said quietly, ‘and he was within an arrow’s flight of where this quest was first proposed.’
Geraint stared at the stone. No name was engraved within its weathered surface, instead there was a simple symbol. The one given to Madoc by the Mandans.
----
An hour later, the priest left the church and was surprised to see Geraint and Tarian still sitting alongside the unmarked grave. He walked over to address them.
‘Still here, gentlemen?’
‘We had a lot of talking to do,’ said Tarian standing up.
‘Do you know who he was?’ asked the Priest, indicating the grave.
‘Possibly, but we thought you would be able to tell us more,’ said Tarian.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the priest, ‘I know very little except this. Once a year, a woman comes to lay a posy on his grave. She doesn’t say much but I am aware she travels from Anglesey and I am pretty sure this man was her grandfather.’
‘Really? That is a dangerous trip for a woman in these trying times.’
‘It is,’ said the priest, ‘though she does travel with an armed guard. A sensible step, especially with a small child.’
‘She has a child?’ asked Tarian.
‘She does.’
‘And it is hers?’
‘I believe so. Is that important?’
‘It may be,’ said Geraint standing up beside Tarian. ‘Tell me, father, is this child a boy or a girl?’
‘A boy,’ said the priest and though they hail from Anglesey, coincidentally he is named after an old Prince that once lived in the castle.’
‘What’s his name?’ whispered Geraint, hardly daring to breath.
‘His name is Madog,’ said the priest, ‘Madog ap Llewellyn.’
For a few moments nobody spoke until Geraint finally turned to face Tarian.
‘He had a grandson,’ he said, ‘all this time, the man had a grandson under our very noses.’
‘Fret not the past, Geraint,’ said Tarian, ‘for the dream is now reborn.’
‘What dream?’ asked the priest.
‘But he is yet a boy,’ said Geraint, ignoring the priest, ‘and would be unprepared in the way of the world.’
‘Prepare who?’ asked the priest, ‘what is all this about?’
‘Then we should protect him until he is of an age to understand,’ said Tarian.
‘Agreed?
‘Agreed,’ said Geraint and both men walked back toward their horses.
‘Understand what?’ shouted the priest, running after them, ‘who are you talking about?’
The men ignored him again and mounted their horses.
‘Who lies in that grave?’ asked the priest standing beside them, ‘where are you going?’
‘We are going to Anglesey, father,’ said Geraint.
‘I don’t understand,’ said the priest, ‘to what end?’
‘To fulfil a quest,’ said Tarian, ‘and change the destiny of Wales.’
With that they turned their horses and galloped back the way they had come, their hearts filled with joy yet unaware that less than a hundred miles away, for the second time in four years, Edward Longshank’s army were gathering for an invasion and this time, they were coming to stay.
----
The End
Author’s Notes
Whilst the storyline is obviously fiction, during the research I came across many fascinating events or references claiming trade between Europe and America took place long before the arrival of Columbus. Whether they are true or not I will leave the reader to decide but whichever way your decision falls, I hope you find them as interesting as I did.
The True Cross
There was indeed a relic kept in the Abbey of Aberconway for many years that was known as the true cross. The Cross of Neith was said to have contained a fragment of the cross that held Christ at his crucifixion. It was brought to Wales by King Hywel Dda after his pilgrimage to Rome in 928 AD.
The Discovery of America
History would have us believe that Christopher Columbus discovered America in 1492 and whilst his four voyages were very historic in recording the new world, many experts now acknowledge that he was probably not the first. There is certainly proof that the Vikings founded a settlement in newfoundland long before that and some archaeologists are confident that it is only a matter of time before more southerly settlements will be found. Indeed, archaeological evidence suggests that the ancestors of the native Americans walked across the ice land bridge thousands of years earlier and if that is possible, others may also have made the journey.
Pre Columbus Trade
There is a strong argument from many quarters that not only did medieval ships reach America prior to Columbus but there is evidence of these vis
its across the eastern edge of the continent. Traditionalists scoff at this idea but the arguments are growing stronger by the day and those people not afraid to challenge conventional thinking work hard to prove their theories. Records are available that show graves have been found in the South East of North America containing ‘iron clad’ warriors in stone lined graves, a type of burial common in early medieval Europe. There are even suggestions emerging that trade existed long before that with Roman artefacts being found along the eastern coast and whilst these are commonly dismissed as ‘mislaid artefacts’ from careless collectors, it is interesting that no such carelessness exists along the west coast where no such artefacts have ever been found.
Prince Madoc
The stories of a Welsh Prince sailing to America in the eleventh century are well known, not only across Wales but across the world and especially in America. It is claimed that Prince Madoc sailed across the Atlantic on his flagship, The Gwennan Corn, not just once but returned for more settlers on two more occasions before leaving for the last time, never to return. The legend claims he landed in Mobile Bay in Alabama and made his way up the Missouri river, fighting battles with local tribes along the way. It is claimed that his descendants eventually merged with the Mandan Indians leaving stories of ‘white Indians’ with blue eyes and fair hair. In 1782, the first governor of Tennessee, John Sevier met with the chief of the Cherokee nation, Oconostota, and asked him about the many stone fortifications along the rivers. The chief told him that they had been built by a people from beyond the great water in great ships and were called ‘The Welsh.’ Sevier recorded this conversation in his writings in 1810. Oconostota also told of a story where many of these settlers died in a great battle with the indigenous tribes.
The Welsh Cave
In Desoto state park in Northeast Alabama there are a series of five caverns known locally as the Welsh caves. Nearby there are also the ruins of what seems to be a defensive structure, built using European techniques not known by the native Americans at the times. Above the cave entrance there is an ancient engraving of unknown origin similar to the diagram below.
