by Jean Gill
Dragonetz had asked the brothers for the names of their enemies but Maredudd’s reply had been ‘Franks and Flemings,’ and a shrug.
‘It’s our land, our inheritance,’ Rhys told Dragonetz. ‘If you ride with us, that’s all you need to know.’
‘Do you ride with us?’ Maredudd asked, at the same time as Rhys posed the question Dragonetz had been waiting for.
‘Why do you ride with us?’
‘I serve Aquitaine,’ replied Dragonetz, ‘and King Henri is my Lord, as he is yours.’ He took the fact that he’d not been put in a sack as encouragement to continue. ‘Marcher Lords who set themselves up as kings in Gwalia are no friend to King Henri. If you win back your lands, your inheritance, you could hold Deheubarth strong for the king, keep the Marcher Lords within bounds, make peace.’
It was the truth but whether the brothers would know the truth when they heard it, he doubted. Talharcant would need to win their trust first.
‘Your way of oaths and allegiance, vassal and Liege, is not our way,’ Maredudd told him curtly. ‘The men of Deheubarth do not serve anybody.’
Rhys exchanged glances with his brother and nodded. ‘You ride with us,’ he said. Whether this was a judgement or permission was not clear. ‘And you should not call our land Gwalia. This is the word used by outsiders, so we consider it an insult. Deheubarth is a realm of Cymru. You can tell us more about your politics when we go home to Dinefwr. Now is not the time for thinking. Now, we take Tenby!’
As far as Dragonetz could ascertain, ‘taking Tenby’ was to be achieved by riding hard and then hitting the Frankish stone keep there with their combined might. It did not seem like much of a plan and Dragonetz thought wistfully of engineers, siege weapons and soldiers who wore boots. How in God’s name had the Welshmen taken back Caerfyrddin and Llansteffan? Sheer bloody-mindedness? Trickery?
Even though they rode through backwoods and byways, they could not avoid being seen by an occasional merchant. As they neared the coastal destination, the brothers’ instructions were clear. Nobody lived to tell of the encounter; not the shepherd whose flock scattered in panic, turning as one to stare from a safe distance at the Deheubarth men; not the merchant whose bolts of fine wool unrolled from his pack, one on top of the other, as he fled on foot, brought down by an arrow in the back. Dragonetz noted the skill and speed of the aim, even as he queried the need to kill.
‘Flemish,’ Wyn told him and spat. ‘Little England this is, since they brought their foreign ways here. You’ll hear more English than Welsh when we sack the castle, and good riddance!’
They trampled heedless over the ells of wool, fit for a queen, but they took the merchant’s pony onward with them.
A day’s ride took them close enough to Tenby to see the castle on its promontory, like a mailed fist against the sky. It was smaller than Dragonetz had expected, barely the size of the old tower in the Aljaferia. Built in the old style, with a wooden stockade rather than walled citadel, the stronghold was little more than a fortified watchtower but its position made it difficult to approach. If only they could get inside the stronghold, it was unlikely that there were many men there for them to overcome. If they should succeed, it would be easy enough to hold the castle, once they’d taken it.
Like Llansteffan Castle, Tenby castle dominated a headland, protected by sea. But whereas Llansteffan had an easy approach land-side, this one was on an isthmus, almost completely enclosed by cliffs, water and beach. The defenders would see them coming and retreat to the tower.
Deheubarth reinforcements were due from the north, so that Llansteffan would be strengthened while they were away, and some men would arrive here the following day, at the earliest. That would give them even greater strength in numbers but if they waited for reinforcements, there was more chance of them being discovered and reported to the Franks. Then they would face a castle prepared for attack.
In Dragonetz’ experience that meant months of siege or failure, and high casualties. Even in a small tower like this, the occupants would have the defensive advantage. Unless, of course, they were not prepared; unless the Welshmen managed to find and kill every unfortunate who spotted them.
These woodlands were the best terrain for a halt that they’d found, after crossing moors and marshes. Each terrain had its hidden dangers, although Dragonetz was more concerned at the way the bogland sucked at the ponies’ legs than at Wyn’s tales of Yr Afanc. If the demon dwarf did appear, whether in his form as crocodile or giant beaver, he would take down one man and one horse. If the party stumbled onto sinking mud, they could all go down.
The woods offered shelter and a fast stream. Places that sheltered men also sheltered beasts but the party was large enough for safety. They were more likely to be pestered to death by midges enjoying a last blood-fest before winter came. Maredudd gave the order to break camp. The men saw to ponies, fetched water, stretched muscles weary from riding. The brothers drew apart, presumably to plan.
Dragonetz risked joining them, and listened. They knew he’d been a commander, they’d seen the quality of his sword and helm. They would ask his opinion if they wanted it. And if he knew their plans he might be able to intervene to prevent the bloodbath he predicted.
‘We will wait here till the extra men arrive so we can storm the tower in one movement,’ Maredudd told him.
‘If they come tomorrow, they will be too late in the day to launch an attack,’ Dragonetz thought aloud.
‘Yes.’
Two days hiding a hundred and fifty men in the forest. The Welshmen would make their meagre rations last so that was no problem. One of their strengths as soldiers was their hardiness. They’d had no food all day and seemed not to notice. Dragonetz’ stomach rumbled at the thought. Their survival would not be a problem for any length of time. They could always scavenge for food. Camping would even be pleasant, given the mild weather – and dry for a change! The full moon and cloudless sky the night before had made night like day.
‘And then?’ Dragonetz asked. ‘When reinforcements arrive, what are we going to do.’
Rhys looked puzzled. ‘Attack,’ he replied.
‘How will we approach the castle?’ They looked down at the narrow approach, where a party with donkeys was moving through the huddle of dwellings to the fence and then past that to the gate of the keep. The guards on the tower could see anybody coming for miles.
‘Fast,’ said Rhys, grimly.
‘Supposing we get our men near to the keep, is there a weak spot?’ asked Dragonetz, patiently.
‘I have no idea.’
‘How do you breach the walls, usually?’
Rhys’ eyes lit up with understanding. ‘We fire arrows, rush in under cover and fire more, so that we kill the guards on the battlements and many inside. We retreat, give pause, then repeat the action. They’re frightened, they run for cover, we destroy the gates and set fire to any wooden parts. If we catch anyone who matters to the Franks inside, we make an example of them until those inside the castle surrender.’
He shrugged. ‘This is only a tenth of the size of the other castles we’ve taken back, no battlements and no outer walls, so one wave of attack should be enough.’
‘How fast can the men fire arrows?’ asked Dragonetz, curious and avoiding the question of how examples were made. He knew of many methods; they all shared the disadvantage of alienating the townspeople with whom the conquerors would have to co-habit after winning. That, and the unnecessary mutilation of fellow-humans. The Deheubarth brothers gave no impression they balked at such acts.
Aliénor and her king ought to know just how dangerous the Welsh were with their longbows. He must remember to put it in his report when he went home.
Rhys smiled. ‘Fast enough. One every six heartbeats.’
Very dangerous was the answer. That fast was impressive and Rhys knew it.
‘Do your methods always work?’ Dragonetz asked,
‘We need a bit of luck,’ Maredudd said. They had the over-confidence
of youths who’d known success in battle.
Dragonetz was not so young. He asked the question that every leader had to consider. ‘How many men are you willing to lose?’
Rhys’ smile faded. ‘As many as it takes,’ he said, and Maredudd nodded, eyes like slate.
It was the wrong answer. Even such a small stronghold would take Welsh lives, needlessly, if it was prepared for defence. What would Ramon Berenguer have done? Dragonetz felt a rush of regret and longing. Was this hiraeth, this wish for the Comte de Barcelone beside him as leader, with his unique combination of strength and restraint, his experience and his compassion? More even than siege weapons, he missed Ramon and Malik.
‘What would you do?’ asked Rhys, and the silence hung.
Dragonetz’ chance of binding them to him had come. Ramon was not here but he was, and he’d learned many years ago that winning people was more important than winning battles. The brothers needed to think of this plan for themselves and it had to include all that was expected by the Welshmen. If they did not sack the castle, every man, woman and child in the surrounding area would pay.
‘We have more cumbersome methods,’ he began, ‘with ladders, grappling hooks, wooden platforms. Once in, we rely on close fighting, in heavy armour.’ He shook his head. ‘None of that would work for you.’ Then he chose his words very carefully. ‘Like you, we wait for daybreak before attacking.’ Then he waited. And waited.
Maybe he’d misjudged the level of intelligence? Maybe he needed to nudge more?
Then he saw light dawning in Rhys’ eyes. Moonlight. ‘What if we attacked at night?’ Rhys asked, stuttering in excitement. ‘Caught them by surprise? Nobody ever attacks at night!’
‘How would we see to do so? We’d break our necks!’ Maredudd objected.
Dragonetz feigned caution. ‘If the skies stay clear, the moon would light us. It was bright as day last night and not yet full.’
‘So we reach the castle on foot. What then?’ Rhys’ enthusiasm wavered. ‘The castle will be locked for the night, nobody going in or out. If we shot at the guards all we’d do is maybe kill a couple and wake the whole castle up. We’d be worse off than in day-time, with no hostages.’
Dragonetz silently counted to ten before having his idea. ‘Maybe’ he said, ‘maybe we could break the door down? Then we could be inside while they’re still in bed!’ Axes he thought.
‘Axes!’ said Maredudd.
The details of the plan were quickly filled in. Then bemused men were informed that they needed to take what sleep they could for a few hours till the moon was high and the Franks asleep. Those who kept watch would remain with the ponies and provisions until word came back that the day – or rather the night – was won. Or until those left alive came back to make good their escape.
Dragonetz moved a couple of stones, stretched out on flattish ground, shut his eyes and obeyed the brothers’ orders to the letter.
THEIR FACES DARKENED with earth, the men of Deheubarth slung their weapons over their shoulders, or belted round their waists, and set out in the moonlight towards the castle.
A fanciful observer might have likened the black shape of Tenby on the promontory to a hunched Titan, forever rolling his punishment stone.
Long shadows turned trees to Tylwyth Teg, the fairy folk, their spindly limbs beckoning you in the breeze to a doom that appeared fair beyond your dreams. Whispered love words – cariad, sweetheart – stirred a man’s senses and the dark perfumes of night made promises to be kept in the shadows.
Should a young man follow these will o’the wisps, leave the path and his fellows, he would taste pleasures unknown and a hundred years would pass in but a day. As he would find to his cost, if he returned, stooped and white-haired, to the land and people he thought he’d left behind. In truth, they’d have left him behind, after living their human lives of work, families and – if they were lucky – growing old, before finding eternal peace.
There was no peace for a man taken by the Tylwyth Teg. Whosoever has tasted of fairyland can never be satisfied with less. A man’s dreams can be his undoing. Or so the stories warned.
A large party of warriors hell-bent on battle were immune to such fantasies but even they were quietened as much by the night transformation of the landscape as by the need to move with as much stealth as possible.
Night creatures made themselves known. A swoop of wings, a hoot of owl; rustling leaves and a scurrying through undergrowth or up a tree trunk; crashing of boar and sneaking of fox; and wolves howling.
‘There will be fine hunting in wolf month,’ observed Wyn. ‘Enough tongues for tribute and skins for our backs.’
Such a large party risked little from even the largest predators at this time of year, when bellies were full, but no man sought privacy to relieve himself, just in case. Jests about the size of a man’s private parts and squirrels were more predictable than meeting a bear would be. However slim the chance, this close to the settlement, nobody wanted to take a risk.
The moon was as bright as they’d hoped so they carried no torches. The way grew easier underfoot, flattened by carts and well-trodden, as they neared the huts that had sprung up outside the castle fences, a sign of confidence in their rulers. Over-confidence.
Although nobody spoke, the sounds made by the war party carried in the sleeping village, without the cover of trees and forest creatures. Metallic clinks from axes, belts, swords and the chainmail of those who wore hauberks; a sneeze, a cough, a stumble.
From one of the huts, a dog barked the alert. As one man, the Welshmen stood still, waiting.
The barking ended in a yelp, and a human curse. Then nothing.
Then a baby’s hungry wail split the night, stopped, no doubt, by a full pap. Then nothing. Townspeople often knew when not to hear.
Rhys and Maredudd raised their arms and the signal passed down the line. The men waited.
Sword drawn, Dragonetz walked with the brothers, keeping to the shadows beside the rough dwellings, approaching the grassy mound across the ditch to the wicket-gate that gave access to the settlement inside the stockade, and the tower.
Over-confident indeed. Nobody manned the gate, which was hacked at the join, half-lifted, half-slid open, as quickly and quietly as three strong men could manage.
Once more a dog barked. This time it was Maredudd, giving the signal. Heedless of noise or light upon them, the Welshmen streamed up the hill across the bridge, past the huts and up again, to the oak door of the keep.
Dark round eyes in a small face watched them through a doorway, then disappeared as the child was pulled back by unseen hands.
Four of the Welshmen slipped into huts. Muffled sounds, followed; a groan. They returned with torches.
All subtlety was over and as many men with axes as could hack the door down at one time, did so. Dragonetz thought there might be a joke in this for John Halfpenny, later. If he were among those for whom there was a later. The little Englishman made no attempt to join those using brute strength on the door but was poised, eyes gleaming unnaturally in his mud-smeared face, waiting.
The last splintering crack as the door gave way was drowned in a roar.
‘Cofiwch Gwenllian,’ screamed Rhys and Maredudd, and the cry was taken up by their men. ‘Remember Gwenllian’. And remember a princess beheaded by these men now sleeping in their beds. Remember what mercy these Franks give and take revenge. Take back our kingdom. Take back our rightful inheritance.
Dragonetz crossed himself and unleashed the inner wolf.
The battle cry set fire to the men and they streamed into the tower, sweeping through the stores on the ground floor, rushing the stairs to reach the men in their beds above.
In the stockade outside, carts and goods caught light. Fire calls to fire, and what was started by the stolen torches continued in spurts of flame that danced from wood to sack, from boxes to clothes, and from there to unwary flesh.
The Welshmen sacked the castle and its settlement, from the hillside where
chickens zig-zagged in clucking terror to the upper level of the keep. The first men they reached were barely awake to know who killed them but some had been awoken by the noise and reached their weapons, fought back, protecting the man who must be their leader.
Where the Welshmen had the advantage of surprise, the Franks had swords and daggers, and were better prepared for close fighting with weapons. However, what the men of Deheubarth could do with axes, fists and feet, even bare feet, was a revelation to anyone trained as a knight.
Welsh leadership blazed red and white in the flames, ‘Cofiwch Gwenllian’ echoing from the stair. Maredudd was at once shouting orders from an arrow-slit and atop a burning pile of flour-sacks outside. Rhys’ sword dispatched a route towards a small cadre defending their leader.
Dragonetz kept pace with Rhys, protecting his rear, swinging Talharcant in a circle that let nobody near the Welsh lord as he fought ever closer to the castle’s lord. Until there were only Dragonetz and Rhys against the six Franks, sword against sword, tripping over bed palliasses.
One eruption of flame from below cast sudden light on the Franks huddled together, eyes wide and confused. Dragonetz picked up one of the straw mattresses, threw it at the men and Rhys moved in, knocking four down, reaching his target, hurling his war cry and delivering death. Naked or half-clothed, the Franks’ vulnerability told against them and neither sword nor dagger could work fast enough against the fierce onslaught.
Again and again Rhys whirled his sword, until he and Dragonetz stood, panting. There was the sort of pause that allowed a leader to think, to plan for an end to hell while still surrounded by its flames. Then Rhys was off, shouting ‘Maredudd!’ running to find his brother and assess what remained to be done.
More experienced, Dragonetz could have told Rhys what remained to be done but that was not his place. The castle was theirs, so the problem was already turning from taking the keep to preserving some morsel of it, along with any of its people. Men from the huts had either run away or grabbed farm tools to defend themselves and their families.
