Medieval III - Sword of Liberty

by Kevin Ashman

  ‘But if I accept?’

  ‘Then there are people you should meet. Your lineage needs to be unveiled before the nobles of Wales and your banner recognised as the true successor to Llewellyn and his line. Take your time, Madog for if you take this path you must do so with all your heart even unto death. Anything less will be an insult to yourself and your country.’

  Madog turned and signalled the page to bring up his horse. Geraint helped him up and waited as the young man stared into the distance. Finally Madog looked down at the man who had brought him up since childhood.

  ‘As usual your counsel is wise and balanced. I thank you for this but your worry is unfounded. I need no time, Geraint my path is clear to me. Arrange the meetings with the nobles, my friend, our country waits for us and freedom is a hard earned right.’

  ‘Then you will lead us?’ asked Geraint.

  ‘Was it ever in doubt?’ asked Madog.

  ‘I suppose not,’ said Geraint, ‘but there is one more thing to be discussed.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘If we are to unveil your claim to the throne then you will have to publicly lay claim to the title of Prince of Wales.’

  ‘Is that really necessary?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Then so be it. Make the arrangements, Geraint. If God wills it and the people of Wales see the strength to my claim then we will free this nation together.’

  ----

  Fifty miles away, a lone rider made his way along narrow trails through one of the densest forests of Mid Wales. His cloak was closed against the cold and the furred hood drawn tight against the snow laden branches clawing at his face. The forest was silent except for the heavy breathing of the horse but despite this, the man knew he was being watched every step of the way. Finally he emerged onto the brow of a path leading down into a deep ravine. For a moment he paused and removed his hood long enough for any watchers to see his face before urging his horse forward to descend the tricky slope.

  Half an hour later he rounded a corner in the ravine and smiled as he saw the place he had called home for the last few winters. At first glance it looked no different to any other stretch of the river but he knew that behind the trees along the base of the jagged cliff face lay a labyrinth of hollows and caves where water had eaten away the limestone over countless years. At the front of each, the inhabitants had created wooden palisades to keep the weather at bay and form warm shelters that could house dozens of men and their horses for many weeks if need be. Garyn knew that despite his notoriety as an outlaw, he was safe from harm here as this was the winter home of the Blaidd, the mercenaries who harassed the supply lines of the English in return for money from the Welsh Lords.

  ‘Garyn,’ called a voice, ‘you have returned. Stable your horse for we have a deer’s haunch still dripping fat into the flames. For a coin I will carve a small slice in your name.’

  Garyn peered up to the crag, seeking the owner of the familiar voice. For a few moments the man was hidden from his gaze but as he stood up, the movement gave away his position. The defender was swathed in the grey furs of a wolf, not only as protection from the cold but as an effective camouflage against unwelcome eyes. This was Derwyn, the second in command of the Blaidd in Garyn’s absence and one who had become a close friend. He was a giant of a man and the owner of a magnificent beard, complimenting the mass of black hair that hung down past his shoulder.

  ‘Derwyn,’ answered Garyn, ‘judging by your girth I suspect there is nothing left worth eating.’

  Derwyn laughed and descended the crag to meet his friend. Garyn climbed the slope and grasped his friend’s arm in greeting.

  ‘It has been a while, Garyn,’ said Derwyn, ‘we thought you may be dead.’

  ‘And leave you in charge? The world is not ready for such a thing, my friend.’

  ‘Perhaps not. Come, I was not jesting regarding that haunch. Your timing is perfect.’

  The two men walked around the carefully placed bushes and ducked into the cavern that formed the main hall of their group.

  ‘Garyn,’ called out a few voices, ‘welcome back.’

  Garyn acknowledged his comrades and made his way to the fire at the centre of the cavern. One of the women took his wet cloak and waited until he had stripped to the waist before handing him a sheepskin.

  ‘Here,’ said another, ‘sit. I shall bring you warm wine.’

  Derwyn carved a slab of venison from the carcass above the flames and placed it on a trencher before handing it to Garyn. A small crowd gathered around their leader as he ate his meal, but kept the talk to minor things out of courtesy. Finally he threw the trencher to one side and drained the wooden tankard before letting out a satisfying belch and looking around at the people he had come to call family.

  As he picked the meat from between his teeth he contemplated the events that had led him here. Ten years previously he had been swindled out of his father’s lands by a crooked Abbot and having been wrongly outlawed, had fled to join the armies of Llewellyn in the north. En route he had encountered Goddeff, the leader of the Blaidd, a band of mercenaries who had struggled to settle after returning from crusade so plied their trade fighting for whatever Lord paid the heaviest purse.

  The Blaidd had quickly become notorious for their battle skills as well as their loyalty to whatever master they served at the time but though this meant they often fought against other Welshmen; they never took English coin against their own countrymen. When Goddeff had found out the Garyn’s father had been a fellow Knight, he took the young man under his wing and Garyn joined the Blaidd. Goddeff taught the young man the skills needed to survive in the harsh political landscape and Garyn had soon become a valued and skilful member of the feared band. Since then, as the original members fell to death’s call either by blade, arrow, age or disease, he had risen through the mercenary ranks until finally he stood alongside Goddeff as an equal. Finally, when the leader died through an infected injury, Garyn had stepped seamlessly into the role of leader and was respected by every man and woman who called the Blaidd their brethren.

  Garyn had at first continued their role of mercenaries but as time went on and resistance against the English occupation grew, the barons of Wales joined forces to pay the price of the Blaidd and commissioned the outlaws to harass the supply lines of Longshanks, a task they were notoriously successful in administering. Despite this, Garyn was growing tired of hiding away amongst the valleys of Wales and craved the opportunity to fight in the open against the English, so when he received news of a possible uprising against the occupiers he lost no time in offering the services of the Blaidd to the cause. He had attended many secretive meetings across Wales since then, culminating in the one at the Pilgrim’s Rest Tavern. At these many meetings, deals were made and promises of support pledged as final plans were laid to raise the resistance against the English.

  ‘Garyn,’ called a voice, interrupting his reverie, ‘what news of war?’

  Garyn looked up at the blunt question and saw dozens of eyes peering at him in expectation.

  ‘Phillip,’ interrupted Derwyn, ‘let the man rest; he has been on the road for many weeks and will answer in his own time.’

  ‘Let him be, Derwyn,’ said Garyn quietly, ‘it is a fair question.’ He looked around at the men he had fought alongside for so long.

  ‘The news is this,’ he continued. ‘The will is strong amongst the villages across the country and even as we speak, blacksmiths sharpen pikes and fletchers increase production of arrows for the longbows. The Lords Cynan and Morgan have garnered the support of most of the minor Barons and many Englishmen sleep nervously behind their fortifications knowing any movement after dark invites an arrow between their shoulders.’

  ‘So is there an agreed date?’ asked Derwyn.

  ‘Alas no,’ said Garyn, ‘at least not yet. Despite their willingness to fight, as usual the Baron’s eyes are already on the greater prize before a sword has been drawn. They quarrel about who’s flag we
will fight under for all crave the glory success will bring.’

  ‘In the name of Christ,’ shouted Derwyn, ‘what is wrong with these people? Every minute they bicker like children, more stones are added to English fortifications. Conway is already impregnable and the word is that work on Caernarfon’s walls has doubled in intensity. It will be finished within the year and once done there will be little chance of getting a foothold in the north.’

  ‘All this was discussed,’ said Garyn, ‘and they are fully aware of the situation but there has been a significant development. There is a rumour of a man in the north with a legitimate claim to the throne of Wales, a noble with direct lineage to Llewellyn himself. If this is true then we could have a leader who cuts through all the argument and a figurehead to lead us against Longshanks.’

  A gasp whispered from the gathered men.

  ‘I know of no such man,’ said Derwyn, ‘surely such a claim would be common knowledge?’

  ‘You would think so but it is said this man’s heritage has been kept from him all his life to protect him from an assassin’s blade. It would seem that he is now of age and willing to take up the mantle.’

  ‘This is nonsense,’ said Derwyn. ‘The lineage of every line is well known and you can be sure that even the slightest rumour of such a man would have brought Longshanks’ henchmen like a swarm of bees.’

  ‘You are right, my friend but my contact, a man called Merion Ap Rhys, has been told by someone called Tarian that such a man is currently being groomed for leadership.’

  ‘Someone who knows someone,’ sneered a voice. ‘It seems like a tale for babes to me.’

  ‘Meirion Ap Rhys is a respected man. He would not give false hope for the sake of rumour.’

  ‘He may well be a respected man but who is this Tarian you speak of?’

  ‘I do not know him directly but Meirion speaks highly of him. If he says this would be Prince exists then I for one believe him, as should you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For Tarian pays into the purse that fills our bellies.’

  ‘So who is this Prince?’ asked Derwyn, ‘and when will he declare himself?’

  Garyn paused.

  ‘I tell you this in confidence,’ said Garyn,’ and ask that until he is revealed, his name is not spoken outside of this cave. His name is Madog and he is a minor noble on the island of Ynys Mon. It seems his grandfather bore the same name and was the bastard son of Owain Gwynedd’

  ‘If this is true,’ said Derwyn, ‘then even I can see the strength of the lineage but surely the Barons will not accept this without proof?’

  ‘You are right,’ said Garyn, ‘as you can imagine, all the Barons were taken aback by this news and at first refused to accept his right. Despite this, the evidence provided by Tarian was overwhelming and caused many to doubt their own claims. Tarian and his comrades, men of like mind, have made it their mission to champion Madog’s claim. Most have now pledged allegiance but one has withheld his support until the claim is proved.’

  ‘Who is the dissenter?’

  ‘Cynan Ap Maredudd, the most powerful Warlord in Wales.’

  ‘Did you not just say he had given support?’

  ‘To the cause, yes but to Madog, no, at least not until this Prince carries out a holy task to prove his claim.’

  ‘And this task is?’

  Garyn looked around and paused.

  ‘Cynan Ap Maredudd has demanded Madog presents him with the Sword of Macsen.’

  Again a gasp rang out around the room.

  ‘The Sword of Macsen,’ said Derwyn slowly, the incredulity evident in his voice. ‘That is impossible.’

  ‘Perhaps so but that is the price demanded.’

  ‘Nobody knows if the sword even exists,’ said Iolo, a young man with a severely scarred face. ‘It is an impossible task.’

  ‘And I have no doubt that is why Cynan demanded it,’ said Garyn. ‘He knows that the sword is a myth and Madog will fail in his claim thus leading the way open for his own path to the crown.’

  ‘So we are no further forward,’ said Derwyn.

  ‘You would think so but there is one final piece of the puzzle that adds intrigue to the story. When the task became clear, Tarian sent word around Wales offering a reward for any information that may lead to the discovery of the sword and though many tried to claim with hearsay and rumour, there was one who seemed to have information that was valid.’

  ‘Who is this man?’

  ‘A troubadour who has travelled the country from coast to coast, his story is that he once met a man who claimed to have seen the Macsen Sword with his own eyes.’

  ‘And Tarian believed him?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘But why, surely this man plies his trade in the telling of tales?’

  ‘Because he made no claim to the reward, requesting only that should the sword be found then a prayer be made in his name.’

  ‘Nevertheless, a lead without much substance.’

  ‘Like I said, Tarian is a man of great intellect and he judged the minstrel to be telling the truth. If he thinks his tale was true, then it is good enough for me.’

  ‘So where is the man who claims to have seen the Liberty Sword?’

  ‘He is in Castell du Bere, an English fortress in the north.’

  ‘If his location is known,’ said Iolo, ‘why doesn’t Tarian send word for him to come forth and declare the location.’

  ‘He did but unfortunately the man is unable to do that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For he resides in the dungeons of the castle, a prisoner of the constable, Robert Fitzwalter

  ‘So where does that leave us?’ asked Derwyn.

  ‘The situation is this,’ said Garyn. ‘The armies of Wales need unification if we are to have a chance of ridding our lands of the English yoke. To do this we need the army of Cynan Ap Maredudd but without the Sword of Macsen, he will not contemplate an alliance.’

  ‘And?’ said Derwyn slowly, realising where the conversation was going.

  ‘If it’s a sword he wants, a sword he will get,’ said Garyn.

  ‘How?’ asked Iolo, ‘even if the tale is true, the only man who knows where it is, is locked up.’

  ‘And therein lies our path,’ said Garyn. ‘The only way to find out is to ask him face to face.’

  ‘How do we do that?’ asked Iolo.

  ‘I have promised Tarian that the Blaidd will free this man from Castell du Bere.’

  ‘And how do you propose we do that?’

  ‘I haven’t thought that far ahead,’ said Garyn, ‘and seek your counsel, but after a few days here I aim to visit the castle to get the lay of the land. When that is done, we will make our plans accordingly.’

  ----

  In the north, Geraint strode amongst rows of men testing their pike drills against each other. In the distance, hundreds of archers fired volley after volley toward a line of straw filled sacks suspended from ash frames. He knew that all across Wales, similar scenes were being carried out in secret in preparation for the conflict to come. Despite this, he knew that though the numbers were impressive, they were still nowhere near ready to take on Edward’s army. They needed unity, luck and many, many more men.

  ‘The Prince!’ came a call and every man in earshot drew back from their training to watch the approach of Madog.

  Geraint also watched and noted how the boy he had tutored only month’s earlier was growing into the role. Already he was recognised as the true Prince by many in the north but some dissenters still needed encouragement to join his cause.

  Madog rode into the training camp flanked by the trusted men of his personal guard. As he passed, the men at arms cheered and he acknowledged them with a chain mailed fist. Geraint stepped out and took the reins of Madog’s horse as the young man dismounted.

  ‘My Lord, it has been many weeks,’ said Geraint.

  ‘Indeed it has,’ said Madog, ‘and I have news to share.’

  ‘As d
o I,’ said Geraint, ‘but first I have tents set up back amongst the trees and your retainers have prepared a meal.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Madog and walked alongside Geraint as they headed to the encampment. When they reached the tent he threw his gauntlets onto the cot and dismissed the servant waiting to divest him of his chainmail shirt. ‘It will be a sad day when I cannot don or discard my own armour,’ he said.

  ‘But you are now a Prince,’ said Geraint sarcastically, ‘surely such things are beneath you?’

  ‘Perhaps this is true of English Princes, but I am no less a man than I was before.’

  Geraint smiled. Madog was becoming a man after his own heart.

  ‘So, what news do you have, my friend?’ asked Madog.

  ‘Mine will wait, my Lord. Perhaps first you could share the result of your diplomacy.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Madog, ‘mixed results but overall, very good. I have dined with peers across the North and seven more have pledged men at arms. We are close to our aim and with a few more weeks, we should be able to field an army of ten thousand souls. Even Edward would balk when confronted with such a force, would he not?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Geraint, ‘but we should not get carried away with such thoughts for the support from Mid Wales is not yet secured.’

  ‘What do you mean? I thought your contacts had already extracted the required pledges.’

  ‘From most, yes but there is one ally upon which we wait, Cynan Ap Maredudd and without his support we are doomed to failure.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The south is dominated by those loyal to the English and Cynan is the only man with strength and allies enough to face them on the field of battle. Even if we are successful in the north, all that would happen is Edward would rally those loyal to the crown in the south and ride northward to meet us. This is a situation we cannot contemplate.’

  ‘Why not? Surely if we are successful with the first strike, our success will swell our numbers and we need fear no enemy.’

  ‘We cannot fight this war on many fronts,’ said Geraint. ‘Our numbers are yet small and too inexperienced. It is all or nothing and that means hitting at Edward with overwhelming force when he least expects it and to do that we need the forces of Cynan. This brings me on to my news. Sire, there is a man whose counsel I hold in great esteem.’