A Wounded Realm

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘No, thank you,’ said the guard, retrieving the water skin, ‘my master wouldn’t like that.’

  ‘So what?’ snapped Meirion. ‘You will be a rich man and can be hundreds of miles away in days.’

  ‘I’d rather stay poor and honest than rich and treacherous,’ said the man.

  ‘Then you are a stupid man,’ said Meirion, ‘you could live the life of a lord but instead seek the life of a brigand.’

  ‘Brigand?’ said the man, his eyes widening with interest. ‘Is that what Osian told you?’

  Meirion stared at the guard, his own eyes narrowing in confusion.

  ‘Actually, he didn’t but I assumed—’

  ‘Then you assumed wrong,’ said a strong voice behind him and Meirion spun around to face a man wearing an ornate cloak.

  ‘You,’ he gasped in dismay.

  ‘Hello, Meirion Goch,’ replied Gruffydd ap Cynan. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  The riders were almost halfway back to Ynys Mon when they finally stopped to make camp for the night. Gruffydd was confident they hadn’t been followed but still posted a circle of guards to prevent any surprise attack in the night. Soon there were several campfires burning in the darkness and men talked quietly amongst themselves as they huddled around the flames boiling water for the broth that made up the staple diets of men on campaign.

  Meirion Goch sat tied to a tree, shivering in the cold when Gruffydd approached and squatted in front of his prisoner.

  ‘What do you want?’ spat Meirion. ‘For if you expect me to beg for my life then you are sadly mistaken.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to beg,’ said Gruffydd, taking a bite from a piece of bread he had brought with him. ‘I did enough begging from the bottom of that well for both of us. Though little good did it do me.’

  ‘You survived, didn’t you? It couldn’t have been that bad.’

  ‘Oh trust me, it was,’ said Gruffydd.

  ‘Yet still you lived.’

  ‘I did, for though I stayed in that shaft for many years, soaked in my own filth amongst the rotting flesh of those I once called comrades, one thing kept me alive – the thought that I would one day see your scheming face again.’

  ‘You won’t get away with this, Gruffydd. King you may be but not even a monarch can murder a noble without inviting retribution. Once word of this gets out Goronwy will petition all the other lords to rise against you.’

  ‘Against me? What possible cause could he have to ride against the house of Gwynedd?’

  Meirion stared at Gruffydd, knowing the king was right. At no time did any of the men back in the ambush reveal any colours. The tale that would be carried back to Goronwy would be one of a band of brigands and any effort made by Goronwy to find Meirion would be spent on a fruitless quest. Nobody would suspect a fellow king almost fifty leagues away.

  ‘So you’ve thought of it all,’ said Meirion. ‘You must be very proud of yourself.’

  ‘Oh, I am,’ said Gruffydd, ‘though I haven’t quite decided how to get rid of you yet.’

  ‘Just get it over with,’ snarled Meirion.

  ‘Don’t tempt me, Meirion, for I would like nothing more than to plunge my blade into your black heart right now. But that is too good a death for someone as treacherous as you. I need to think of something more appropriate and I have all the time in the world.’

  Two weeks later, Meirion Goch hung in fetters from a wall in the basement of a manor house on Ynys Mon. He had been there for several days and despite his chains, he had been treated fairly well, receiving both food and water in ample amounts.

  The situation gave Meirion hope that there was a chance he would still live, for why treat a prisoner so well if you only meant to kill him? It was a waste of rations.

  Finally, the door at the top of the stairway opened and he heard two men descending into his temporary prison. The jailer lit torches in the holders on the walls and Meirion squinted to recognise the second person with the jailer.

  ‘Gruffydd,’ he said at last, ‘you have come in person.’

  For a few moments both men stared at each other, but it was Meirion who broke the silence.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘what is it to be, Gruffydd, the noose or do you have the mettle to bloody your own hands?’

  ‘Oh, I have no problem sticking you like a pig,’ said Gruffydd, ‘so don’t tempt me.’

  ‘You could let me go,’ suggested Meirion.

  ‘And why in God’s name would I do that?’

  ‘Because I am far too valuable an asset to ignore.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I know everything there is to know about Goronwy’s treasury and with my help, you could get your hands on it without a single drop of blood being spilled. What’s more, we could do it in a way so he would never suspect your involvement.’

  ‘Goronwy is penniless,’ said Gruffydd, ‘and even struggles to pay the men who defend his walls.’

  ‘He thinks he is,’ said Meirion Goch, ‘but I have secreted away a vast part of his fortune without him knowing.’

  ‘And how did you manage that?’

  ‘By increasing the tax burden on the commoners but only paying the normal amount into Goronwy’s treasury. It is amazing how quickly it builds up. Now, after almost ten years the hidden pile is bigger than his total worth.’

  ‘So, you are saying that not only have you tricked the man who has given you food and shelter since you left the employ of Huw the Fat, but you also took the bread from the peoples’ mouths, your fellow countrymen who often don’t know where the next meal is coming from?’

  ‘Times are hard, Gruffydd, and every man must do what he can to survive. Some farm sheep, others rent out their sword arms. Me, I use my wits and live off the stupidity of others. This is the gift God granted me and who am I to deny him his vision?’

  ‘Don’t bring God into this conversation,’ growled Gruffydd, ‘for I believe your master is no less than Satan himself.’

  ‘No, you’re wrong,’ said Meirion. ‘I was given this ability so I could help others in need, people like yourself.’

  ‘I need nothing that you have to offer,’ said Gruffydd.

  ‘Really?’ asked Meirion. ‘What king does not need a healthy treasury?’

  ‘I need a treasury born of honest taxation, not from denying children the most basic of food.’

  ‘Then you are a weak king,’ snarled Meirion, ‘and will lose your crown quicker than you regained it. No wonder you were so easy to trick all those years ago – you do not have the sense that God gave you. Stop being a weakling, Gruffydd, and embrace the opportunity I offer. With me at your side you can be a powerful ruler, as was Trahern all those years ago.’

  ‘Trahern is now dead,’ said Gruffydd. ‘I defeated him at the battle of Mynydd Carn.’

  ‘Defeated by you?’ Meirion laughed. ‘Whose hand was it that administered the poison on that last night? It wasn’t you who killed Trahern, Gruffydd, but me. I am the strong one, and I am the killer of kings.’

  Both men fell silent as Meirion’s last words sunk in.

  ‘And therein lies the problem,’ said Gruffydd eventually. ‘You killed Trahern, betrayed me to Huw the Fat and now offer me Lord Goronwy’s treasury behind his back. You are more poisonous than any potion, Meirion Goch, and there is no place for you in this world.’

  ‘You count yourself as higher than other men,’ snarled Meirion, ‘yet are no better than the lowest serf.’

  ‘I have never claimed moral superiority,’ said Gruffydd, ‘but do what I can to be honourable in all of my actions.’

  ‘Honour,’ sneered Meirion, ‘you have no understanding of the word. Where was the honour when Rhys ap Tewdwr fell at Brycheniog? Did you not swear after Mynydd Carn to always be there for the man who came to your aid?’

  ‘What has that to do with this?’ asked Gruffydd.

  ‘Tewdwr and his men were helpless at Brycheniog, and slaughtered for the want of a hundred men or so from fellow Welshmen. Whe
re was your honour then, Gruffydd, when the one man responsible for you being alive today needed your help?’

  ‘You know where I was,’ growled Gruffydd, ‘at the bottom of that stinking hole in Chester, praying to God I would see another day.’

  ‘You think that excuses you? What about your estate, your comrades, your family? They surely knew about your oath and yet they too stayed away. The responsibility rests on your shoulders.’

  ‘There was nothing I could do,’ said Gruffydd, ‘I did not learn of Tewdwr’s fate until I was freed by Cynwrig the Tall.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Meirion, ‘but the stain on your family’s name is still there and will never be forgotten. Unless, of course, you let me live.’

  Gruffydd turned to stare at Meirion, his eyes narrowing in mistrust.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What if I was to give you something worth more than Goronwy’s treasury, something which could restore your family’s honour?’

  ‘I’m listening,’ said Gruffydd.

  ‘What was the one thing Tewdwr wanted more than anything else in this world, the one thing that was to elude him even unto death?’

  ‘Stop this jousting, Meirion, and tell me what it is you have to say, or this conversation is over.’

  ‘His eldest son,’ said Meirion, staring deep into the king’s eyes. ‘Hywel ap Rhys was taken by Caradog when Gwent attacked Deheubarth, and despite every effort from Tewdwr and his allies, no sign of him was ever found.’

  ‘Hywel is probably long dead,’ said Gruffydd, ‘no man would survive over twenty years in captivity.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Meirion, ‘did you not survive twelve years yourself, and if you are to be believed, your conditions were probably far worse than any Tewdwr’s son would have endured.’

  ‘I still think it is unlikely.’

  ‘Well, think what you like but I know that he is alive and also where he is being kept.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Because I have had cause to talk to him on several occasions. If you let me live, I will reveal his whereabouts and you can do whatever it is you have to do to gain his freedom. Imagine that, Gruffydd, the chance to return a long-lost son and heir to the family of the man who was there when you needed him. Surely no man, whether serf or king, ever had a more noble cause.’

  ‘How do I know you are telling the truth?’ asked Gruffydd. ‘I have already fallen for your vile trickery once and there will not be a second time.’

  ‘If you swear before God that you will let me live should I be proved correct, then I am happy to stay in captivity until such time as you find out for yourself. Of course, these need to be removed,’ he glanced down at his manacles, ‘but apart from that all I need is your word as a king.’

  ‘And if you speak false?’

  ‘Then you can still have me killed without remorse. There’s nothing for you to lose, Gruffydd, except perhaps a few days of your time.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Gruffydd, ‘you are as slippery as an eel, Meirion, and the devil himself speaks through you.’

  ‘I see your reluctance,’ said Meirion, ‘but ask yourself this: what if I speak truly? Isn’t the chance to honour Tewdwr’s death too good to miss?’

  Gruffydd stared at his prisoner for an age while he considered his options. Finally, he took a deep breath and nodded.

  ‘Tell me what you know, Meirion Goch, and I swear before God that if your knowledge proves to be true then I will let you live.’

  Meirion looked over at the jailer who nodded silently, acknowledging that he was a witness to the oath.

  ‘So be it, Gruffydd,’ said Meirion, ‘in that case, listen very carefully.’

  The Island of Ynys Mon

  March 28th, AD 1103

  The last of the snow had already gone and the morning sun was warm upon the skin. Spring was in the air and all around the manor, birdsong filled the air. The manor had been rebuilt in stone, and Gwynedd was slowly returning to normal after so many years of warfare. Even the new English king, Henry, had sent missives of peace to Gruffydd and though there were still tensions between the English throne and Gruffydd, since the death of Huw the Fat, relationships had become far more civilised.

  Geoffrey Miller, the stable hand, had come to work at the manor when his father had died during the winter, leaving the fourteen-year-old boy an orphan. Gruffydd had found him curled up in a stable one morning and rather than have him beaten and sent away, had offered him food and a bed space amongst the hay in return for a fair day’s work. The offer had been gratefully accepted and Geoffrey had settled down to be a hard worker and a quick learner, soon becoming a valued member of the stable staff.

  It was on one warm spring evening when Geoffrey was exercising a lame horse that he looked up to see the lady of the manor running from the house.

  ‘Gwenllian,’ shouted Angharad as she ran. ‘Where are you?’

  When there was no reply, Angharad walked swiftly up to the stable hand.

  ‘Geoffrey,’ she said, ‘is Gwenllian in the stables?’

  ‘No, my lady,’ said the stable boy, ‘the last I saw of her she was fighting with Cadwallon.’

  ‘Oh, that girl will be the death of me,’ said Angharad as she turned back the way she had come.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked a voice and Angharad turned to see her husband trotting his horse through the courtyard gate.

  ‘Gruffydd,’ exclaimed Angharad, ‘I wasn’t expecting you for another day or so.’

  ‘Hmm, not quite the welcome I was expecting,’ said Gruffydd, ‘perhaps I should return whence I came and come back in a few days. The welcome may be a bit warmer.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Angharad, with a forced smile, ‘it’s just that Gwenllian has disappeared again, and it looks like she and Cadwallon have been fighting.’

  ‘Fret not, my love,’ said Gruffydd with a smile, ‘she won’t have gone far.’

  ‘I know,’ said Angharad running her hand through her hair in frustration, ‘but it’s like this every day. If she’s not fighting her brothers she is off exploring the forests or riding her horse. Yesterday I found her swimming in the river.’

  ‘She is certainly a free spirit,’ said Gruffydd.

  ‘Free spirit?’ exclaimed Angharad. ‘The girl was naked and the boys from the village were spying from the bushes. She is a little girl, Gruffydd, and should be playing with a dolly in front of the hearth, not climbing trees and learning how to fire a bow.’

  ‘You go inside,’ said Gruffydd calmly, ‘I’ll go and see if I can find her.’

  Angharad gave her husband her most annoyed glare but turned to go back inside the house, secretly glad he had turned up. Gwenllian was certainly a handful, and though Angharad loved her dearly, her daughter was a daddy’s girl, responding to Gruffydd far better than she did her mother.

  As soon as Angharad had gone, Gruffydd turned to the stable hand.

  ‘Geoffrey, gather the rest of the staff and the dogs, it seems we are going on a hunt.’

  ‘Again?’ Geoffrey laughed.

  ‘It seems so,’ said Gruffydd, ‘and hopefully this time we can find her before it gets dark.’

  ‘As you wish, my lord,’ said the stable hand. As he walked away, Gruffydd’s youngest son came around the corner of the house, his nose swollen and signs of blood upon his jerkin.

  ‘Cadwallon,’ said Gruffydd, ‘have you seen your sister?’

  ‘She’s in the back paddock,’ snapped the boy as he brushed past his father without acknowledging it was the first time he had seen him in over a week.

  ‘What happened to your face?’ called Gruffydd.

  ‘I fell over,’ shouted Cadwallon as he disappeared into the house.

  Gruffydd gave Geoffrey a knowing smile.

  ‘Don’t bother with the search party,’ he said, ‘it seems she is safe.’

  ‘And in fine form,’ suggested Geoffrey.

  ‘Indeed.’ Gruffydd sighed, staring af
ter his injured son. ‘The truth is, I’m not sure if I am happy she is so independent, or worried that she often betters her brothers in matters of conflict.’

  ‘I’ll stable your horse,’ said Geoffrey, and he took the reins from the king.

  Gruffydd walked around the manor house and over to the rear paddock, expecting to see his daughter sitting in her favourite place. But he was surprised to find the bench beneath the oak empty. For a few seconds he looked around in concern but soon relaxed when he saw his daughter in the distance, riding a pony around the perimeter of the field at full gallop, her waist-length blonde hair billowing out behind her, matching the mane of the golden horse beneath.

  Gruffydd watched as she circled the field, waiting until she turned to return past the oak and he waved as she approached, indicating for her to stop.

  ‘Father,’ said Gwenllian breathlessly as the horse stopped alongside him.

  ‘My task proved easier than I thought,’ said Gruffydd, ‘so I made all haste to return to the place I am happiest.’

  Gwenllian slipped from the horse to run over to her father. Gruffydd knelt and embraced his daughter but breathed a deep sigh of disappointment as he looked at her horse over her shoulder.

  ‘Gwenllian,’ he said, ‘what have I told you about riding bareback?’

  ‘I know,’ said Gwenllian, her voice lowering at her father’s admonishment, ‘but it wasn’t planned as such. I came out here to sit on the bench and Honey just came over to see me. It was as if she was asking me to ride her so I did.’

  ‘And what about Cadwallon?’ he asked. ‘Do you know anything about what happened to his face?’

  ‘He fell over?’ suggested Gwenllian.

  ‘If you say so,’ said Gruffydd. He didn’t press for more detail. The one thing he loved above anything else about all his children was the way they each stuck up for each other and never betrayed their siblings to their parents, no matter who was at fault. Gruffydd secretly hoped that the loyalty displayed at this early age would remain as strong throughout their lives.

  ‘Come,’ he said, ‘let Honey go back out to pasture. Your mother is looking for you and is annoyed you have disappeared yet again.’