by Kevin Ashman
Medieval III
Sword of Liberty
by
K. M. Ashman
Published by
Silverback Books
More Books by K. M. Ashman
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The Treasures of Suleiman
The Mummies of the Reich
The Tomb Builders
The Roman Chronicles
Roman I – The Fall of Britannia
Roman II – The Rise of Caratacus
Roman III – The Wrath of Boudicca
Roman IV – Boudicca’s Daughters – (Coming Soon)
The Medieval Saga
Medieval I – Blood of the Cross
Medieval II – In Shadows of Kings
Medieval III – Sword of Liberty
Medieval IV – Ring of Steel
Novels
Savage Eden
The Last Citadel
Vampire
Audio Books
Medieval – Blood of the Cross
The Last Citadel
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Medieval III
Sword of Liberty
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.
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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
Foreword
Prologue
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
Foreword
‘Medieval III – Sword of Liberty is the third book in the Medieval Series and though it can be read as a standalone novel, it is recommended that you first read the other two books, Medieval I – Blood of the Cross and Medieval II – In Shadows of Kings 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.
I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Best regards
Prologue
In 1274, Edward the First, also known as Longshanks, ruled England having inherited the crown from his father, Henry the Third. Across the border to the west, the smaller country of Wales was ruled by Prince Llewellyn Ap Gruffydd, a direct descendant of Llewellyn the Great.
Tensions were strained between the two countries and minor conflicts were commonplace between the lesser nobles but when Edward found out about Llewellyn’s proposed marriage to Eleanor du Montfort, the daughter of his deceased father’s greatest enemy, he was incensed and in 1275 arranged for her ship to be intercepted as she travelled from France to be with the Welsh Prince. Eleanor was imprisoned causing the relationship between Edward and Llewellyn to deteriorate even further and in 1276, war broke out between the two countries.
In 1277, Edward led a huge army into Wales and captured the Welsh harvest on the island of Ynys Mon, forcing the Welsh Prince to surrender before any major battle was fought. Later that year, the two men signed the treaty of Aberconway where Llewellyn surrendered control of most of the country in return for keeping the lands of Gwynedd and the title, Prince of Wales. Edward was satisfied and released Eleanor from prison to fulfil her marriage vows to Llewellyn and for the next few years, an uneasy peace existed between the two monarchs.
Despite the treaty, the people of Wales were still unhappy being ruled by an English monarch and especially the construction of English castles at Flint, Rhuddlan, Builth Wells and Aberystwyth. Subsequently an undercurrent of resistance steadily grew until in 1282, a full scale rebellion against Edward’s rule forced the English King to invade Wales once more, only this time with full scale conquest as a goal.
Despite some initial setbacks, Edward’s army was ultimately victorious and after several battles throughout Wales, Prince Llewellyn was killed at the battle of Orewen Bridge. Edward finally realised the threat the Welsh posed and embarked on an unprecedented building programme in the north of the country, constructing enormous castles at Caernarfon, Conway and Harlech, not just as bastions of military strength but also as a signal to the Welsh about the futility of opposing his might.
These castles formed the backbone of his defences in Wales, an unassailable system of fortresses, each designed to support each other against any threat from the Welsh.
They were a symbol of his might, a system of invincible fortifications and in effect an impregnable ring of steel unassailable by any living man.
…or so he thought…
Chapter One
The Village of Mynydd-Du
Mid Wales - 1294
The windowless back room of the ramshackle tavern was bitterly cold and smelled of damp dogs. The darkness was broken by a dozen flickering candles spread around the walls, each fighting its own battle against the howling gale outside as it sent its icy fingers through the gaps in the aged stone walls.
Three men sat around a rough table, each nursing a tankard of sweet tasting ale and though they were there for the same reason, nobody spoke, they just sat in the gloom alone with their thoughts.
The Pilgrim’s Rest was a small tavern in the village of Mynydd Du and well known amongst all Welsh nationalists as a haunt for men of a certain ilk, patriots who held one cause close to their hearts, the defeat of King Edward’s army and the return of self-governance to the land of their fathers.
Until the death of Llewellyn twelve years earlier, the tavern was also a well-known recruiting house for any man wishing to join the Prince in his cause but after he died, the subsequent occupation of the country by Edward’s forces meant it had become a more subdued establishment where men planned unlikely revolts over tankards of cheap ale, only to forget their drunken plans when they woke the following morn. Most nights, frustrations were shared between men quick with plans but light of resolve and many years passed without change, but tonight was different for tonight, rebellion was in the air.
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The door to the back room opened and a figure bent to enter before taking his place at the end the table. Meirion Ap Rees was a land owner from north Wales and though he made a modest living, was better known as a fixer, a man who knew everyone and carried secret messages between the nobles of Wales, coordinating the resistance against the English.
Meirion undid the leather ties of his cloak and looked around the room, judging the reliability of the men should their support be counted upon. Within moments he knew he worried needlessly for two of the men had proven themselves time and time again against the forces of Edward. Though the days of battle had long gone, each had made the English King pay for his occupation on a daily basis, harassing his supply lines and causing disruption whenever they had the chance.
On one side was Cynan Ap Maredudd, a welsh noble who once held huge swathes of land throughout Mid Wales. The defeat of Llewellyn meant much of his land was forfeited to Edward and though he still held sway over three full Cantrefs, his grudge against Longshanks was huge and he dreamed of the day when the King’s men would once more be on the receiving end of Welsh steel.
Opposite him sat another well-known figure, Morgan Ap Maredudd, a Welsh Lord from Glamorgan in the south and though his motives were not as noble as his title, his ambition and patriotism made him a valued ally in the continued struggle against the English.
Finally at the far end of the table sat a man with the hood of his cloak still raised, hiding his face from the others. Though it was disconcerting, Meirion knew it was a man who could be trusted. He had no title and owned not a square yard of land. His dwelling place was unknown and his only ambition lay in obtaining the next purse for himself and his comrades. This was a member of the Blaidd, the roaming band of mercenaries that had gained notoriety throughout the country for their ruthless skills in battle and fierce loyalty to any man who paid their price. The Blaidd were named after the wolves that once roamed the forests of Mid Wales and were made up of any man, outlawed or not who had proved themselves in conflict and though not brigands to their own people, they were wanted by the crown for their constant raids on English interests.
‘Gentlemen,’ said Meirion taking his seat, ‘thank you for coming. My apologies for the poorness of the location but Edward’s men have been particularly active these past few weeks and it is the best I could do.’
‘The location matters not,’ said Cynan, ‘the business of the day outweighs minor discomfort.’
‘Agreed,’ said Meirion, ‘then we will begin.’
‘Wait,’ said Morgan, ‘first I would know the name of the stranger.’
All eyes turned to the man at the end of the table.
‘All you need to know is that I am here on behalf of the Blaidd?’ said the man.
‘Are you the leader?’ asked Morgan.
‘He is not,’ interrupted Cynan, ‘the leader is a man called Goddeff. I have had opportunity to share ale with him on many occasion.’
‘Goddeff is dead,’ said the man, ‘and I have taken his place.’
‘Dead,’ gasped Cynan, ‘surely he was not bettered by any man?’
‘He was not. He snapped a leg while hunting boar and the infection killed him. It was not a good death.’
‘So you say you are the new leader?’ said Meirion. ‘How do we know this is true?’
‘You don’t,’ said the man, ‘but if you doubt my word, I am happy to leave you to your business.’
‘No,’ said Meirion eventually. ‘If what I have to say comes to pass, we will need the Blaidd riding alongside us as brothers.’ He looked at the other two men. ‘Are you content we continue?’
Both men nodded before Cynan spoke up.
‘I suppose we have no choice,’ he said, ‘but at least do us the courtesy of introducing yourself, stranger for if we are to do business, I would at least know the name of the man who lightens my purse.’
The man removed his hood and stared down the table.
‘I am indeed the leader of the Blaidd,’ he said, ‘and my name is Garyn Ap Thomas.’
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Chapter Two
The Island of Ynys Mon
1294
The bearded swordsman looked down at the man at his feet. His victim stared defiantly back, looking past the sword resting upon his throat as if daring his assailant to press home the killing thrust. A trickle of sweat ran down the fallen man’s forehead and silence reigned, broken only by the sound of both men straining to re-gather their breath.
The conflict had been hard fought and for a while the outcome could have gone either way but the experience of the older man had proved too much and he pressed home an unexpected advantage before tripping his assailant and pressing his sword against his victim’s throat.
They stared at each other before the fallen man spoke.
‘Well?’
The victor paused before finally moving his sword to one side and extending his free arm. The fallen man grabbed the offered hand and pulled himself to his feet.
‘You were lucky this time,’ said Madog, ‘I slipped on the wet floor.’
‘Perhaps so,’ said Geraint, ‘but wet floors are commonplace on all battlefields and have to be taken into account.’
‘Fair point,’ said Madog bending to retrieve his sword.
‘Another bout?’ asked Geraint.
‘Not this time,’ said Madog, ‘I have guests to host at the Manor. Edward has sent messengers with documents that need signing. Perhaps you would like to join us?’
‘You have my thanks but I must decline,’ said Geraint. ‘I respect your duties as a host but would find the company less than engaging. Please accept my apologies.’
‘No need to apologise,’ said Madog, sheathing his sword, ‘your view of the English is no secret and though I share your worries, politics demand I treat my visitors with courtesy.’
‘Granted,’ said Geraint, ‘I just ache for the day when the men of Wales unite to return our land to the people.’
‘Well, when that day comes, perhaps we will stand side by side with swords drawn but for now, I will leave you to enjoy your minor victory.’
Both men laughed and Geraint watched his friend walk back across the field to the doors of his manor.
Geraint had been born in Brycheniog in the south, many years earlier and after a life of service as a soldier, fate had seen him come north to fulfil a promise and see through a commitment to his country.
Following a quest to find a man of royal lineage to unite the warring factions of Wales, fortune had revealed a boy of ten years old called Madog Ap Llewellyn of Ynys Mon. Madog was the proven grandson of Madoc Ap Gruffydd and thus enjoyed direct lineage from both Owain Gwynedd, King of Wales and Henry the first, William the Conqueror’s son, thus having both a Welsh and English route to the throne.
Despite this royal lineage, Geraint had been astonished to find that the boy was unaware of his unique place in Welsh nobility as his mother had kept the identity of his grandfather to herself in an effort to keep him away from the lethal politics that wracked the country at the time.
When Geraint had confronted her with the knowledge ten years ago, she had made him swear he would not tell the boy until he was at least twenty one years old and able to defend himself against any would be assassin. Geraint had accepted on condition he was appointed the boy’s protector to see him safe unto manhood. Subsequently, for the past ten years Geraint had held a position in the household’s guard and was tasked with the personal safety of the young Prince as he watched the boy turn into a respected young man.
Subsequently it fell to Geraint to teach Madog the art of conflict and all things military and though the boy’s skills were as good as any man, he was yet to face an opponent in real combat, a weakness that worried Geraint on a daily basis.
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Madog disappeared into the house and Geraint made his way over toward the annexe that housed the estate’s men at arms but before he reached the door, a page ran up to him.
‘Sire, there is a visitor to see you in the eating hall.’
‘Thank you,’ said Geraint, ‘does this visitor have a name?’
‘Not really,’ started the boy, ‘but I’m not sure.’
‘What do you mean, not sure? Did he give you his name or not?’
‘All he said, Sire was the shield of the poor demands audience.’
Geraint’s face split into a wide grin and after almost knocking the boy to the floor with an encouraging slap to the back, he strode purposely toward the eating hall. He burst into the room and stared at the back of a man with white hair hanging down his back.
‘Tarian,’ he shouted, ‘you old devil, can it be true?’
The man answered without turning.
‘Geraint Ap Thomas,
I knew it was you before you spoke. Only you would make such a common entrance.’ He stood up and turned to face Geraint and for a few moments, both men stared at each other without speaking. Finally Geraint strode over gave his old mentor a manly hug.
‘Careful,’ groaned Tarian, ‘my bones are not what they used to be.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Geraint releasing him, ‘they are yet as strong as Mandan Ironwood.’
‘Perhaps a few years ago,’ laughed Tarian ‘but alas no more.’
Geraint looked at the man the people once called the Shield of the Poor. The once giant of a man was slightly stooped and the hair that once fell jet black below his shoulders was no less long but now whiter than the driven snow.
‘My appearance has caught you off guard,’ said Tarian.
‘I admit it has,’ said Geraint, ‘but I still sense the spirit that once led us into the unknown.’
‘The spirit is as strong as ever, Geraint but alas the body is tired and aches for eternal rest.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Geraint. ‘Come, we will sit in the warmth of the kitchens and threaten a venison steak out of the estate’s cook.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Tarian and walked alongside Geraint through into the kitchens.
Within half an hour they were seated at a small table in the corner of the busy kitchen, eating choice venison steaks and a side plate of roasted vegetables fresh from the cook’s ovens. A large jug of ale stood half empty before them and they talked freely, reliving the adventures they had shared many years ago on Tarian’s ambitious quest. Eventually the laughter eased, the stories tailed off and silence fell between them. Geraint filled up the tankards once more and stared at his old friend.
‘So, Tarian,’ he said, ‘as good as it is to have you here, I suspect this is not a trip for reminiscence.’
