by K. M. Ashman
‘Your gratitude is not needed, my lord, for I go forth of my own free will.’
‘I know, but there is a home here for you for as long as you need.’
‘I appreciate that, my lord but recently my mind has been awash with which path my life should take. Now you are settled in Aberffraw I feel it is time to decide my future. Whether it is here at your side or elsewhere, I don’t know but by seeking my own company, I feel the right path will be revealed.’
‘Is your heart truly set?’
‘It is.’
‘Then I will not hold you back.’ Gruffydd held out a leather purse. ‘Take this,’ he said, ‘it will make your journey easier.’
‘Thank you,’ said Cynwrig. ‘I will take my leave now but if God is by my side, I will be back within a year.’
‘Make sure you are,’ said Gruffydd, ‘for I saw the way Adele was looking at you over our meal last night and I suspect there were not a few glances returned in similar vein.’
Cynwrig smiled.
‘And that is why I must go now,’ he said, ‘for if matters of the heart were to delay me then I fear I would never go.’
‘Be safe, Cynwrig the Tall,’ said Gruffydd, as he watched the man who had saved his life ride to an almost certain death.
The following few months were busy ones at Aberffraw as the work on rebuilding the palace continued apace. Angharad grew into her role as queen as her pregnancy advanced and as the pressures of war eased away, the people across North Wales settled down to repair their own homes and concentrate on rebuilding their lives. Winter was surprisingly mild and Gruffydd shared his time between running his affairs at Aberffraw and visiting neighbouring nobles in a never-ending circle of treaties and agreements, each designed to mutually protect every participant from any future aggression from the English.
The frost was still upon the ground when Gruffydd sent a message to all the landowners in Gwynedd asking them to attend him at the hall in Aberffraw. Over the period of two days, more than a hundred nobles turned up, each being housed in the new manor hall or in the temporary village of tents in the palace grounds.
‘Honoured guests,’ said Gruffydd after the meal had ended, ‘first of all, can I again extend my gratitude for your attendance this day. I know you have much to do but thought it only reasonable that I speak to each of you face to face.’
The hall fell quiet as he continued.
‘These past few years have been hard for all of us and there is not one man here that has not lost men or property in the fight against the English. I know that all those present strongly resent the fact they are now poorer after the attentions of the Marcher lords but I say this. If every man here had put up the resistance of Cadwgan ap Bleddyn and his sons, then perhaps this war would not have lasted as long as it did.’
A murmur of dissent rippled around the room.
‘I feel the wind of annoyance at my words,’ said Gruffydd, ‘it would seem that perhaps they strike too close to home for comfort.’
‘What are you saying?’ asked a voice.
‘What I am saying,’ said Gruffydd, ‘is that it is time for truth. I invited you here today as the king of Gwynedd. For many years I have held this station, but during that time I was either incarcerated in an English dungeon or sailing between my home and Ireland, often fighting the invaders with minimal resources. Much of that, as well as many of your own hardships, could have been avoided if we had stuck together.’ He looked around the room. ‘It pains me to say,’ he continued, ‘but while most men here focussed on looking after their own interests, some even making private agreements with the English to ease their winters, others were suffering the cold and hunger whilst taking the fight to the enemy. It is those men who should be feted by our minstrels and bards, for their struggles have brought this peace about, not favourable agreements signed behind closed doors.’
‘My lord,’ said a voice sounding from the rear as a man stood. ‘As you are aware, I have already offered you my support and indeed, as Prince Cadwgan can attest, many of my kinsmen died at the siege of Pembroke Castle.’
Prince Cadwgan nodded in acknowledgement of Goronwy’s assault.
‘However,’ continued Goronwy, ‘that conflict was on the other side of the country and undertaken under the veil of secrecy. The families of those men live deep in the shadow of the English Marchers and if news of even the slightest transgression fell upon English ears, it would result in an armed force seeking retribution.’
‘I understand you face the greater risk,’ said Gruffydd, ‘and your exploits in Pembroke have not gone unnoticed. However, you are the exception and there are others here who make no contribution to the struggle against the English. That, my friend, has to be addressed.’
‘Some of us can barely feed our cantrefs,’ called a voice. ‘How can we be expected to raise an army?’
‘I ask no man to take on an unfair burden,’ replied Gruffydd, ‘but there are other ways to support those on the front line. A bag of oats would feed a horse for a week; a chicken would feed two men for a day. All I am saying is that in such times, those who take the fight to the enemy should be able to rely on the support of their fellow countrymen.’
‘Your comments are noted, my lord,’ said Goronwy, ‘but with respect, the war is now over, so short of administering a very public admonishment to those of us who live in the gaze of the English, what exactly is your point?’
‘My point is this, Lord Goronwy. It is no secret that the English Crown covets our lands and seeks any opportunity to push westward. For many years they have pressed all those along the border, your lands included, and what do we do? We fight amongst ourselves like children while the English pick us off one by one. How many of our men have survived English arrows only to eventually fall at the end of one fired by a Welshman? For too long we have fought each other while the English look on, ready to step in if opportunity beckons. If we had only united under one banner, we could probably have matched them on the field.’
‘We can never match the strength of the English army head on,’ said Goronwy.
‘Not on an open battlefield, perhaps, but there are other things to consider – advantages that bring us to more than their equal.’
‘What things?’
‘Our landscape for one,’ said Gruffydd, ‘the mountains and the forests. The grain fields of Ynys Mon and the hidden farms in the countless valleys across the country. Put these alongside our weather and it is a fortress as formidable as any castle.’
‘Mountains do not win wars,’ said Goronwy.
‘No, people do, and that is why I asked you here. I propose to maintain an army big enough to withstand any of the Marcher lords’ garrisons should they decide to march westward. This force, upon confirmation, will immediately ride to the aid of any manor needing their help within days. They will be well trained, well horsed and a match for anything the English have.’
‘How many?’ asked Goronwy.
‘The numbers can be agreed but I anticipate about a hundred.’
‘A hundred horsemen against ten thousand Englishmen will be as effective as a single fly against a horse.’
‘Against the whole English army, I agree,’ said Gruffydd, ‘but that is not how things are going to happen.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because I have agreed terms with Henry.’
The reaction among the men was immediate.
‘What terms?’ shouted a number of men. ‘We knew nothing of this!’
‘He has agreed to grant me recognised kingship over the whole of Gwynedd and Meirionnydd. In return, I have assured him that we will withhold any unprovoked attacks on the Marcher lords or any English column going about their business in the south.’
‘You had no right to agree terms on our behalf,’ shouted another dissenter.
‘I had every right,’ roared Gruffydd. ‘For I am king of Gwynedd and saw no other man lifting a finger to sort out this mess.’
He looked a
round at the shocked men.
‘While many of you were asleep in your beds, Cadwgan, Goronwy and I fought the English, often outnumbered and with hunger in our bellies. Our victories were few but what we earned was the enemy’s respect and that respect was what I brought to the table with Henry. For the first time in years, we have peace in North Wales and a chance to let our children grow without fear of injury.’
‘If that is the case, then why do you want this mobile force?’ asked Goronwy.
‘Because the Marcher lords, believe it or not, are not legally beholden to promises made to Henry.’
‘Not beholden to their king?’ asked a voice. ‘How can that be?
‘Because Henry’s father, William the Bastard, gave them freedom of rule along their western borders and it is written into their own laws that the Marcher lords are free to engage the Welsh as they see fit. I asked Henry to repeal that law but he is unable to do so. Therefore, although we are safe from Henry’s army, the Marcher lords still present a risk.’
The men in the room talked amongst themselves for a while until finally, Goronwy spoke again.
‘Assuming we decide to support you in this venture, what do you want from us?’
‘The burden is light,’ said Gruffydd. ‘Each lord is to supply one man and one horse along with all the supplies needed to sustain them for one year – this agreement to be renewed on an annual basis.’
‘What if they are killed?’
‘Men often die in the defence of their country,’ said Gruffydd, ‘that is the nature of things. Ask only for volunteers and ensure they are not wed. I also recommend they are of sound mind and can ride a horse.’
‘And this is your plan to defend Wales against the attentions of the English?’
‘Not long-term, it has to be said, but it will give us time to rebuild our kingdom whilst free from the attentions of the Marcher lords.’
Conversation broke out amongst the men again as each discussed the merits of the plan. Finally, a man stood and waited for silence before he spoke.
‘My lord, you have been a wonderful host and last night’s reception was, shall we say, interesting.’ Many men laughed at the memory of the ale-fuelled revelries but fell quiet again as the well-respected man continued. ‘However, I have business to attend back on my lands and cannot afford to wait around here any longer. You have made your request clear and if we go down the path of examining every minute detail then I fear we will still be here next winter. Therefore, I will pledge my support for this plan and will ensure you have a worthy man, strong and true, before this month is out. Now, if you will forgive me, I will take my leave.’
‘Thank you, Lord Green,’ said Gruffydd, and the nobleman left the hall.
‘As you know, I will match Lord Green’s commitments,’ said Cadwgan standing up, ‘and offer my services as well as four experienced sergeants-in-arms to lead the force.’
‘A generous offer,’ said Gruffydd, ‘and one well received.’
‘I will send a man,’ shouted another voice.
‘As will I,’ called another.
Soon, the majority of the lords present had met the commitment and, happy that agreement had been reached, Gruffydd called the assembly to a close, saying his goodbyes as each man left the hall to head back to their own lands. Finally, Gruffydd returned into the hall to find one man remaining.
‘Lord Goronwy,’ said Gruffydd, picking up an ale jug, ‘I did not see a commitment from you?’
‘That is because I did not make one,’ said Goronwy, ‘and cannot until I return to my manor.’
‘Why not?’ asked Gruffydd.
‘I lost a lot of men at Pembroke, my lord,’ said Goronwy, ‘and it is all I can manage to keep starvation from the doors of the village. One man can make all the difference if we are to enjoy a successful planting.’
‘Agreed, but why not pledge the value instead? Surely you have sufficient coin left in your treasury?’
‘A little,’ said Goronwy, ‘but I will have to check with my steward before I can commit to your noble cause.’
‘You surprise me, Lord Goronwy,’ said Gruffydd, ‘for I thought every noble would be abreast of his own financial circumstances.’
‘Ordinarily that would indeed be the case,’ said Goronwy, ‘but these last few years I have had a man in my employ who has a way with money second to none. In his hands it seems to stretch further than you would have thought possible and I now leave all matters of finance to him.’
‘He sounds like a valuable asset,’ said Gruffydd.
‘He is indeed and I am lucky to have found him.’
‘Where does he hail from?’
‘Funnily enough, he is a Gwynedd man; you may know of him. His name is Meirion Goch.’
Gruffydd’s tankard stopped halfway to his mouth and he turned to stare at the noble.
‘Do you know of him?’ asked Goronwy.
Gruffydd thought furiously. Meirion Goch was the man who had betrayed him to Huw the Fat all those years earlier. Despite many discreet enquiries across the country, Gruffydd had failed to find out his whereabouts. But now he had resurfaced, it was better to feign indifference lest he disappeared again before the king had chance to exact his revenge.
‘I think I may have heard the name,’ said Gruffydd casually, ‘but can’t say I know the man. Anyway,’ he said quickly, seizing the opportunity to change the subject, ‘we digress. I understand your problem, Lord Goronwy, so can I suggest three months’ leave to settle your affairs? After that time, perhaps we can meet again.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Goronwy with a slight bow, ‘your understanding is welcome. Until we meet again.’
‘Travel safely, Lord Goronwy,’ said Gruffydd as he watched the man leave the hall. But though his demeanour was calm, Gruffydd’s heart raced within his chest. At last, after twenty years, it seemed that the man responsible for his incarceration was within his reach.
Chester
May 2nd, AD 1101
Cynwrig the Tall walked his horse through the streets of Chester, surprised at the changes that had been made to the town in the last twenty years. New houses had been added and the population had increased beyond the town boundaries. In the distance he could see the walls of Chester Castle, now totally rebuilt in stone, and the flag above the keep told him that the castellan was in residence.
It was a sobering moment, realising Huw the Fat was almost in hailing distance. The earl had ordered the death of Cynwrig’s family six years earlier as retribution for his part in Gruffydd’s escape and since then, Cynwrig had dreamed of this moment.
The years since his parents, wife and children had been hanged in the market square of their village had been long for Cynwrig, but the pain was just as raw. At first he had berated himself repeatedly, blaming himself for their deaths, and if it hadn’t been for Gruffydd and his seconds, he would have sought revenge without thinking and probably died having got nowhere near the earl. However, the advice was to bide his time until his name was naught but a distant memory to Huw the Fat and the opportunities for retribution would thus be easier. Revenge was a dish better served cold.
Since leaving Gwynedd the previous autumn, Cynwrig had travelled the length of Wales, earning his keep as a farmhand before moving on as each job ended. During this time, his thoughts returned to the fate of his family at the hand of Huw the Fat and finally, as winter came to a close he decided the path he needed to take. Decision made, he crossed the border and headed south to the port of Bristol. Once there he had sought out contacts that he had gained years earlier as a trader and though many had already moved on or died, he finally found one man he recognised. Eventually, the man had finished work for the day and after carefully sounding the merchant out, Cynwrig had been supplied with the substance he required, costing him half of the purse given to him by Gruffydd. Once his business had been completed, he headed north once more and finally arrived in Chester.
He headed towards the castle but stopped outside a
tavern a few hundred paces from the perimeter wall.
‘Good day to you, stranger,’ said a man emptying a bucket into the road. ‘You are new around here. Can I be of assistance?’
‘Yes, I think you can,’ said Cynwrig. ‘I am looking for a room for a few nights. Do you take travellers?’
‘Of course,’ said the man, ‘and you are in luck. I have a room out the back for a very reasonable rate. It’s nothing fancy but it is dry and enjoys the warmth of the fireplace on the other side of the wall. You’ll find few better in these parts.’
‘It sounds good,’ said Cynwrig, ‘can I see it?’
‘Of course. Follow me.’
Ten minutes later, Cynwrig had stabled his horse and carried his pack into the inn. The room was basic but clean and more than adequate for his purposes. After he had unpacked his few things he made his way through to the public room, already being populated by workers from the local farms.
‘Ale?’ asked the landlord, Beatty, as Cynwrig entered.
‘Aye,’ said Cynwrig.
‘I will have the serving girl bring it over. Do you want something to eat?’
‘What is on offer?’
‘Workers’ fayre,’ said the landlord. ‘Simple but honest food. Take a seat and I will have it brought out.’
‘Thank you,’ said Cynwrig. He sat at a trestle table near the fire. His drink arrived in moments and soon he had a plate of hot pork with onions and turnips along with a pot of gravy made from pork fat and water.
‘A feast fit for a king,’ said Cynwrig as Beatty placed a hand of dark rye bread alongside his plate.
‘Ha, I’m not sure about that,’ said Beatty, ‘for as a young man I worked in the kitchens of the earl’s castle and if his meals are anything to go by, then this is a mere morsel compared to the tables of the rich.’
‘Perhaps so, but for a man with a hunger as great as mine, then this meal is as good as any feast.’
‘Then I will allow you to enjoy it in peace,’ said Beatty. ‘If you want more ale, just call out.’
‘Thank you, I will,’ said Cynwrig as he set about his food. When he was done, he sat back and downed the rest of his ale before holding up his hand to request another. Beatty acknowledged the gesture and after filling two tankards, came across to Cynwrig’s table.
