by Kevin Ashman
‘That is not just,’ said Gwion, ‘we always pay the King’s taxes in full without default. I accept that your need is great but even the Crown accepts that fees must be paid and people fed. Do not these villagers come under the protection of the King’s reach?’
‘An interesting question and one that is yet to be resolved,’ said Godfrey. ‘However, I accept your protest and invite you to take your complaint to the court of Edward for recompense. In the meantime, we will take the supplies we need, with or without your blessing.’
‘And if we do not accept?’
‘Then we will take them by force and that, my friend is something you do not want to countenance.’
‘You are free with your threats, Sire yet I see no sign of strength.’
‘Trust me, Sir,’ answered Godfrey, ‘as we speak there is overwhelming force just a moment away. Indeed, there are over a dozen crossbows aimed at your heart as we speak.’
Silence fell between the men until finally Gwion turned to Robert.
‘Blacksmith, I suggest you give this man what he desires.’
‘But Sire…’
‘Do as I say, Robert and I will replenish what I can from the Manor’s stores. Rest assured I will take this disgraceful behaviour to the court of Edward himself and seek compensation.’
‘A sensible resolution,’ said Godfrey. ‘I will return at noon to collect the stores and make sure there is no trickery for if there is, this village and everyone in it will pay the price.’ Godfrey climbed back into the saddle and without another word, rode back out of the village.
----
The rest of the morning saw the villages collecting the supplies and by the time Godfrey returned, two carts lay full of goods including hams, sides of beef and barrels of dried fruit. Another two were piled up with hay. Gwion was also there and as two of Godfrey’s men climbed aboard the carts, he once more faced the Knight.
‘You have left this village destitute, Sir Knight. Since when has that been in the honourable code?’
‘Chivalry has its place,’ said Godfrey, ‘but in this case it lies second to fealty. My pledge is to my King and my God. Sometimes there are casualties along the way and if some of these people die as a result of this campaign, then so be it.’
‘A harsh judgement on those less fortunate than ourselves, I suggest.’
‘It is no different to losing one of my men in battle, Sir. Now, let us end this verbal joust and get on with the task in hand.’ He turned around to call to his men. ‘Sergeant Bister, are we ready?’
‘We are, Sire,’ answered Bister but before he could say another word, his head jerked back as an arrow thudded into his eye, smashing open the back of his skull in an explosion of bone and brains.
For a moment nobody moved until suddenly, Godfrey stood up in his stirrups and drew his sword.
‘Treachery,’ he roared, ‘to arms.’
‘Wait,’ shouted Gwion, ‘I did not order this, it is not of our making.’
‘Liar,’ shouted Godfrey and swung his sword at the standing Knight, cutting deep into the man’s throat. Behind him, a horn sounded the alarm as the men at arms ran forward with their pikes. Within moments, screaming peasants tried desperately to escape the armed men and panic ensued as villagers ran everywhere to escape the killing. The sound of horses thundering across the bridge heralded the approach of the rest of the lancers and from the trees around the village, a hundred more men at arms poured forth to join the slaughter.
‘Stop,’ screamed Robert, grabbing the reins of the Knight’s horse, ‘call them off I beseech thee. ‘Take what you want but spare our lives.’
‘Too late for that, peasant,’ shouted Godfrey, ‘you spoke of compromise but had betrayal in your heart.’ He spurred his horse forward knocking the blacksmith to the ground. Robert got to his knees but before he could say anything else, a crossbow bolt thudded into his back. He fell forward into the dirt choking on his own frothy blood as the village filled with Fermbaud’s men.
‘Kill them all,’ shouted Godfrey, ‘and when you are done, burn this treacherous village to the ground.’
----
Up at the edge of the forest, Fermbaud sat astride his horse watching the events unfold. Alongside him was Orland astride his own charger.
‘Well, it looks like you were correct, Orland,’ said Fermbaud, ‘it would seem these Welshmen cannot be called trustworthy.’
‘Treachery abides in the breast of all men, Sire,’ said Orland, ‘but in some it is deeper seated than others.’
‘So what now?’
‘Now we carry out the task before us. To wipe out a community is a terrible thing but the signal it will send to those who plot against the King will be immense. The next village we encounter will drop to their knees in fear.’
‘Perhaps they will fight first?’
‘Then they will also die. Now, if you excuse me Sire, I will join those below. It has been a while since my blade felt the resistance of living flesh.’
Fermbaud watched the man ride away and scowled in disgust. He disliked this man from the very beginning but every day that passed meant his hatred deepened.
----
Chapter Six
Castell du Bere
Dysynni Valley
Castell du Bere stood proudly on the Spur of a rocky hill overlooking Dysynni Valley. For many years it had lain in the hands of the Welsh but since the conquest by Edward ten years earlier, it had been occupied by the English and had become a strategic post of vital importance.
Its position meant it oversaw the main route from the south and though there were other paths leading through the mountains, they were difficult to navigate and drew the attention of brigands. This route lay in the shadow of du Bere and it enjoyed the protection of the garrison within.
The strength of the fortress lay in the location. It was protected on three sides by sheer cliffs, unassailable by any siege engines or cavalry and the high stone walls built directly onto bedrock meant that tunnelling was impossible.
The only approach was via a winding road which led to the base of the hill through lands cleared of trees. This meant that the Castle would have plenty of warning of any approaching enemy and could pull up its drawbridge long before anyone came within bowshot of the castle walls and the occupants slept safe in the knowledge that their Castle was impregnable.
Deep in the valley at the base of the castle, Dysynni village was waking to another day. Barrows were wheeled to the market square and farmers herded flocks of geese from their holdings amongst the slopes of the nearby hills.
Within an hour of the dawn, the village was alive with the sounds of livestock and the chatter of people as they prepared for the day ahead. New flames were lit in old fire pits to warm pots of ale and cook the cawl, the meaty broth that was a staple food in the area and a favourite of the many visitors to the market.
As the people went about their business, at the edge of the village the inhabitants of a large stone building were also stirring into life. The hall was a sanctuary, a place of shelter offered to travellers who could ill afford the prices of the boarding houses and taverns. Inside, a lone figure rose quietly from one of the cots and walked into the outer hall where he was greeted by the warm smile of a well fed Monk.
‘Welcome to another wonderful morning, my son. My name is Brother Simon. Pray be seated and you can break your fast shortly.’
‘Thank you,’ said Garyn, ‘I am thankful to have found such a place, my arrival last night was late and I feared I would once more be sleeping with only my cape and the stars as a blanket.’
‘God’s heavens are indeed a spectacular cover but alas offer no physical warmth to us mere sinners.’
‘Your refuge is certainly well placed to help the weary traveller, that much is true.’
‘Oh there are several taverns that offer lodgings,’ said the monk, ‘but all have a price and some do not offer suitable surroundings for men of piety. Can I assume you are such a man?’
‘You will find our hospitality simple yet honest,’ said the Monk, ‘and if you are able to leave a coin or two when you leave then we will see it goes to feeding others with similar need. If not, then please go with our blessing and we pray that God sees fit to lighten your load.’
‘A coin I can manage, Brother, thank you.’
‘Then I will leave you in peace,’ said the monk and disappeared through a nearby door.
Garyn looked around the hall. It was empty except for one other man, staring into a half empty tankard. Within moments another monk appeared carrying a pot of Maize porridge and a tankard of watered wine. This man was dressed in a coarser habit, obviously too big for his frame and his stature was frail. He placed the fare on the table before Garyn.
‘Thank you, Brother,’ said Garyn once more.
‘Oh, please don’t refer to me as Brother,’ said the man, ‘I am not worthy of such an honour and only serve those better than me.’
‘My apologies,’ said Garyn, ‘your attire suggested otherwise.’
‘A kindly jest made at my expense,’ said the servant. ‘The brothers allow me to dress so but alas I will never reach their level of holiness.’
‘Why not?’
‘I committed a heinous crime in my youth and begged sanctuary at the Monastery. The brothers sought leniency on my behalf and were granted custody of me for the rest of my life. My service is my penance, a gift for which I am eternally grateful.’
‘Will you never be a free man?’
‘I am free in the eyes of the law but not before God.’
‘A strange set of affairs,’ said Garyn, ‘will they never accept you into their order?’
‘It is not in their hands. I am well versed in the psalms and litanies but alas have never made a pilgrimage to Rome, nor ever will.’
‘Why not?’
‘I am a destitute, Sire and rely on the monks for my living. I could never afford passage nor sustenance for such a journey. Alas, my sentence is just and I settle for servitude.’
‘Elias, back to the kitchens with you,’ said Brother Simon coming back into the room. The servant bowed his head and scurried away.
‘My apologies, friend,’ said Brother Simon walking over to the table. ‘Elias is a kindly soul but of simple mind. How is your fare?’
‘A nourishing meal indeed,’ said Garyn, ‘you have my gratitude.’
‘Have you travelled far?’ asked the Monk.
‘From a place called Builth,’ said Garyn, ‘do you know it?’
‘I know of it but though I am well-travelled, I have never been there.’
‘You should, it is a very friendly place.’
‘Perhaps one day.’
‘So this Dysynni,’ said Garyn, ‘I have heard it is a prosperous village and a man can make a good living here.’
‘Indeed he can,’ said the Monk, ‘for the opportunities are equal. The safe road provided by Fitzwalter means that most travellers between north and south pass this way, many of whom take the opportunity to rest before continuing their journey.’
‘Fitzwalter?’
‘The Castellan of Du Bere and Constable of this village.’
‘I only saw the castle in the failing light last night, it seemed very impressive.’
‘Indeed it is,’ said the Monk, ‘and while the necessity of such fortresses is a sad indictment of our lives, until such time as all men can live in peace, then they are a necessary evil.’
‘Is the Castellan a fair master?’
‘He is not the worst I have seen, but let’s just say he often administers justice with a heavy hand.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Garyn.
‘I will give you an example,’ said the Monk. This morning there is to be a public flogging. A boy of no more than twelve years was found hidden in a wagon taking cargo from a ship in the north to Caerphilly Castle in the south. His crime was only to flee a brutal ship’s captain and seek freedom but he was caught and imprisoned in Du Bere. The Captain’s envoy arrived yesterday to reclaim the runaway and wants an example made before he takes him back to the ship, so the boy is to receive a flogging this very morn. Despite our protestations; Fitzwalter has quashed any hope of clemency and insists the punishment goes ahead.’
‘That seems a bit harsh for one so young.’
‘I agree, but it seems the Captain is angry his reputation is besmirched and I hear five silver pennies passed between the envoy and the Castellan to ensure an example was made.’
‘A steep price for a mere gesture, methinks.’
‘It is a sad day when the value of a Captain’s reputation far outweighs the life of a boy,’ agreed the Monk.
‘Such are the time we live in,’ said Garyn.
The monk proceeded about his business and left Garyn to his meal. As he ate, the other man in the room got up and walked to sit down opposite him. Garyn looked up and stared at the man.
‘Greetings, stranger,’ he said quietly, ‘are we known to each other?’
‘Strangely enough, this was to be my question to you,’ said the man. ‘My name is Hywel Ap Rees and I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with the Monk.’
‘Then I apologise for disturbing you,’ said Garyn, slowly lowering his spoon to the table.
‘No apologies needed,’ said the man, leaning back and picking at some pork stuck between his yellowed teeth, ‘though I am intrigued at your conversation.’
‘And why would that be?’
‘I am from Builth myself and though I admit I can’t know everyone who hails from my birth town, I am surprised that your face is not familiar to me. We are of a similar age, you and I so this is an unusual state of affairs, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Perhaps. Builth is a big place.’
‘It is but your accent also confuses me for you see, I have a sister who wed a miller in Brycheniog. That Miller has a distinct accent and is oft teased by me for the way he says his words.’
‘What is your point stranger?’ asked Garyn, leaning back.
‘Oh, no point but if I was a gambling man, I would wager you hailed from Brycheniog, not Builth.’
‘And if I do?’
‘It matters not to me where any man calls home,’ said Hywel.
‘Then is the matter closed?’ asked Garyn.
‘Of course.’
Garyn picked up his spoon once more.
‘Except of course it does beg another question,’ continued the man unexpectedly as he leaned forward.
Garyn looked up once more.
‘Which is?’
‘Why would a simple traveller pretend to be from one place when he is clearly from another, especially when he is talking to a man of god? Indeed, it may lead a suspicious person to conclude that the man had something to hide wouldn’t you think?’
Garyn lowered the spoon again and pushed the bowl away from him.
‘State your business, stranger for you have already interrupted my meal uninvited.’
‘Again, you have my apologies,’ said the man, ‘but I will be honest with you. My name is indeed Hywel Ap Rees and I do hail from Builth, however I am no merchant trader, I am a Liegeman of the Sheriff of that town and earn my bread returning those with a price on their heads to justice.’
‘I see,’ said Garyn, ‘and I suppose you suspect me of being a brigand?’
‘Not necessarily though my calling does indeed make me a suspicious man. You never introduced yourself,’ said Hywel, ‘or indeed why you claimed to be from Builth. Perhaps you could ease my rude but suspicious nature.’
Garyn paused and considered ramming the bench against the man’s midriff but thought better of it. There was a greater prize at risk.
‘Hywel,’ he said with a smile, ‘you are correct and I have indeed been frugal with the truth. I am of course from Brycheniog and only used
Builth as a means to avoid revealing my true identity.’
‘And why would this be?’ asked Hywel.
‘My father owns a farm deep in the heart of the South Wales hills,’ lied Garyn, ‘and without my knowledge or consent, promised his friend I would marry the man’s daughter as soon as she was of age. Her birthday approaches and though I love my family dearly, an uglier girl you have never seen. On top of this she is a simpleton and though I know I am being dishonourable, I cannot live my life alongside such a beast so I ride north to seek my fortune on the ships that ply their trade from the north coast.
The Liegeman stared for moment then burst out laughing.
‘You ran away from an arranged marriage?’ he said.
‘I did, to my shame.’
‘Fret not, stranger,’ said the Liegeman, ‘I know of no law that forces marriage on any man.’
He stopped laughing suddenly.
‘She’s not with child, is she?’ he asked coldly, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.
‘Not unless she has rutted with a bear,’ said Garyn, ‘but I suspect even bears have standards.’
The Liegeman laughed again and stood up.
‘If this girl is as afflicted as you say, then I suspect I too would have chosen flight over matrimony. Thank you my friend, it is always good to start the day off with laughter. I wish you well in your future but will now leave you in peace.’ He turned to leave but stopped once more.
‘One last thing,’ he said, ‘you never introduced yourself.’
‘I didn’t,’ said Garyn.
‘So, can I have your name, you know, just for me to verify your story the next time I am in Brycheniog?’
Garyn was growing tired of the irritating man’s questioning and his hand crept to his sheathed dagger beneath the table.
‘My name is Garyn Ap Lloyd,’ he lied, ‘and my family farm lies in hills above a village called Y Bont. It lays just south of Brycheniog.’ He watched the man’s eyes carefully for any flicker of recognition or disbelief but there was none.
‘I know of Y Bont but have never been there. Have a blessed day, Garyn Ap Lloyd, it has been good talking to you.’ With that he left the sanctuary and headed into the town.
