Medieval III - Sword of Liberty

by Kevin Ashman

  ‘That part is easy,’ said Madog, ‘and it has already been arranged.’ He stared at the two men again and saw the fire in their eyes. For the next half an hour he outlined the plans which had been months in the making. Finally he looked up and asked them the question they knew would be coming.

  ‘So, gentlemen, such is the road I have chosen. I am committed to my fate and there will be no turning back. Do I have your support or am I on my own?’

  Geraint looked at the Prince, no longer seeing a boy but a leader worthy of following.

  ‘Sire,’ he said, ‘I have waited half a lifetime for this day, you have my heart and my sword.’ He slammed the palm of his sword arm on the map.

  ‘As you do mine,’ said Tarian and slammed his open palm on top of Geraint’s. After a pause of a few seconds, Madog’s hand landed last of all.

  ‘Then so be it,’ said Madog, ‘in two days we will break the biggest link in Edward’s ring of steel and take it for ourselves. Gentlemen, let the liberation commence.’

  ----

  Chapter Fourteen

  Castell du Bere

  Fitzwalter sat behind a table, clutching a roast leg of goose in one hand and a tankard of wine in the other. Globules of fat shone upon his chin and a linen cloth was draped around his chest to catch any that fell to his ceremonial robes. He chewed on the meat while staring at John, the head steward who had interrupted his meal. Finally he let out a belch and pushed the meat filled trencher away from him.

  ‘Enough,’ he said, ‘remove this and let the kitchens know the bird was tough, I will not countenance such a mistake again.’ He stood up and threw the cloth to one side as the servants scrabbled to clear the remains of the meal. ‘So John,’ he continued, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘who is this man who seeks audience?’

  ‘He is but a commoner,’ said John, ‘but insists he has a message for your ears alone, a message that will not wait.’

  Fitzwalter yawned.

  ‘I will humour him,’ he said, ‘but it had better have the importance he claims. Bring him in.’

  The steward bowed and left the room. Fitzwalter turned to another nearby servant. ‘Have my bed prepared,’ he said, ‘the food has brought a tiredness upon me.’ The servant scurried away leaving Fitzwalter alone in the room. Two minutes later the door banged open and the steward led in a bedraggled man, his garb still dusty from the road.

  ‘Declare yourself,’ said Fitzwalter, walking across the room to peer out of the window into the valley below.

  ‘Sire, my name is Justin Brewer, and I am here on behalf of Cynan Ap Maredudd.’

  Fitzwalter paused momentarily before turning to walk back across the room, regaining his seat at the table. His eyes fixed on the visitor for what seemed an age and his fingers played out a random beat as they tapped nervously on the table surface. Finally the Castellan spoke again.

  ‘This man called Cynan,’ he said, ‘is he the same one who claims Lordship of the central Cantrefs.’

  ‘He is that man, Sire and his claim is just. The titles are a birth right acknowledged by Longshanks himself.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ said Fitzwalter, ‘but such acknowledgement is only valid while the incumbent pays fealty to the Crown.’

  ‘We would beg to differ, Sire, birth right is absolute, irrespective of counterclaim or conquest.’

  ‘Your words taste of treason, stranger,’ said Fitzwalter, ‘and I suggest you choose them well. Now, pass me this message before I have you beaten for your insolence.’

  Despite the strong words the man did not break his stare.

  ‘Sire, the message is simple. Castell du Bere was built by the hands of men born within the shadows of these hills. It sits upon a sacred place where many generations of our people were buried and was a place of pilgrimage before the forebears of Longshanks stole it for their own use. These walls belonged to our ancestors and we would have them back where they belong, amongst the people of Wales.’

  Fitzwalter’s eyes opened wide and his mouth dropped in astonishment.

  ‘What?’ he gasped.

  ‘Sire, my Lord Cynan claims ownership of this castle,’ continued Justin, ‘and indeed the lands upon which it sits. He thanks you for your tenancy but regrets to inform you that your presence is no longer required and he expects you gone by dawn.’

  For a few seconds, Fitzwalter was dumbstruck but eventually he found his voice once more.

  ‘Let me tell you something, little man,’ gasped the Castellan, ‘I don’t know what game you or your master play but my temper is frayed to the point of being lost. I will give you one more chance to explain for it is surely a misguided jest.’

  ‘It is no jest, Sire,’ said Justin. ‘My Lord Cynan demands you leave this place by dawn, complete with your garrison and whatever chattels each man can carry without the aid of carts. Do this and you will be granted safe passage to the Welsh border.’

  Fitzwalter shook his head slowly in disbelief.

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Then this castle will be taken by force and all who resist will perish by the sword,’ said the man.’

  Fitzwalter stifled a laugh.

  ‘I don’t know what astonishes me more,’ he said, ‘your arrogance, your impertinence or the stupidity that makes you think that any man alive is able to take this castle. I have guards on every road for ten leagues in all directions and if there was any hint of an army anywhere near, then I would have known about it within hours.’

  ‘Your preparations are to be commended, Sire but alas were of no use. Our army is already within arrowshot of these walls.’

  Fitzwalter fought the temptation to run to the window.

  ‘I was in the village just this very morn,’ he growled and saw no such army. ‘Do you take me for a fool?’

  ‘No Sire, but perhaps you were so taken by the merrymaking you did not see how busy the market was, or the fact that every tavern was full, or that every bed space in the sanctuary has been occupied these five days past.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked Fitzwalter, ‘his eyes narrowing, this village is on a well-travelled path and the numbers coming in are no greater than normal.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but I think it would have been better for you to count those leaving, or rather, those who didn’t leave. As we speak, my Lord Cynan has an army a thousand strong being fed and watered by those who live within your shadow. If you do not accept his terms, then these same men will lay siege to your castle with the aim of returning it to Welsh hands.’

  Fitzwalter managed to restrain himself a few moments later before calling over his shoulder.

  ‘John, call the duty sergeant and pass word to secure the main gates.’

  The steward ran out of the room leaving the two men staring at each other.

  ‘You intrigue me, Justin Brewer,’ said Fitzwalter, ‘your arrogance is of one who knows no fear. Surely you know that your death is a very probable outcome here.’

  ‘I do not fear death, Sire for death is preferable to the continued servitude of an entire nation.’

  ‘You certainly have the courage to match your convictions,’ said Fitzwalter, ‘but let me assure you, that is not enough. I do not know if your words ring true or if they are falsehoods born of madness, nevertheless I am a careful man and will take precautions until your true nature is uncovered. If you are indeed a messenger of Cynan then you will be imprisoned until such time as this is resolved and then hung for treason. If you turn out to be a madman, then you will be a plaything for my torturers. Either way, your impertinence today will not go unpunished.’

  A door opened and a soldier carrying a spear entered the room. His Tabard bore the emblem of Longshanks, worn over a chain mail shirt that hung down to mid-thigh level. On his legs he wore linen stockings and calf length leather boots. A sword lay within a scabbard attached to his belt and on his head was an open faced helm.

  ‘Sire, you summoned me,’ said the soldier.

  ‘I did,’ said t
he Castellan. ‘Stand-to the garrison. I want every man on alert and the gates secured. Lower the portcullis.’

  ‘Are we at threat, Sire?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet but will take no chances.’

  ‘Yes, Sire,’ said the soldier and left the room.

  ‘Come with me,’ said Fitzwalter and led Justin and the steward up a winding stairway and out onto the castellated outer wall. They walked along the fortifications and into a tower overlooking the valley. Within minutes they were at the highest point and could see clearly into the village below the hill. All around them the castle was bursting into life as soldiers ran to their posts and the rattling of chains echoed around the courtyard as the portcullis dropped into position. Eventually the sergeant joined them on top of the tower.

  ‘Sire,’ he said, ‘the castle is secure but we see no threat.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Fitzwalter, ‘but perchance we are blind and this man can make us see.’ He turned to Justin. ‘You have enjoyed a minor victory for you have managed to get an entire fortress to jump to your tune but now that is done, why don’t you show me where this army is you speak of.’

  Justin held the Castellan’s gaze for a few moments before answering. ‘Sire, the army is amongst the people and of the people. Every person you see in the village below is a soldier of Cynan. Even those who have wielded neither sword nor lance are the bringers of your downfall. We will no longer countenance your unjust hand and once again I offer terms on Cynan’s behalf.’

  ‘You listen to me, stranger,’ snarled Fitzwalter, ‘you have come into my castle with nothing but threats and tales for children. At no time have you offered me anything of substance and I tire of your game. I will give you one more chance before I have you hurled from these walls. Show me something that adds credence to your claims or suffer the consequences.’

  Again Justin paused before nodding gently and turning to face the slopes approaching the castle entrance. He raised one hand into the air and waved it back and fore before turning to face the Castellan. For a few seconds there was silence before John the steward started to speak.

  ‘Sire, there is movement amongst the bushes at the side of the approach path…’

  Before he could say anything else, a steel tipped bolt thudded into his chest, throwing him backward off the parapet and hurtling into the courtyard below. The Castellan instantly ducked behind the wall as did the sergeant while Justin stayed upright, staring down at the hiding men.

  ‘To arms,’ screamed Fitzwalter, ‘man the battlements.’

  The Sergeant crouched and ran along the parapet, calling out his commands as he went.

  Fitzwalter looked up at Justin.

  ‘I will see you hung for this,’ he shouted.

  ‘Perhaps so,’ said Justin, ‘and I am willing to suffer that fate. But know this. If I do not return to Cynan with your answer, he has sworn that when the castle falls, as it will, then he will roast your family alive over a slow fire, ensuring it takes days for them to die.’

  Fitzwalter glared up at Justin. His wife and ten year old son had recently joined him in Du Bere and though he paid them little attention, the thought of them meeting such a disagreeable end turned his stomach.

  ‘You dare to threaten my family?’ he growled.

  ‘The terms are these,’ said Justin, ‘cede the castle and walk away unharmed. Resist and all men above the age of ten will be hung when the castle falls. Kill me and every soul will be lost, man woman or child. There will be no negotiation.’

  ‘These walls will not fall as easily as you think, stranger,’ said Fitzwalter. ‘I have a hundred cavalry stationed within half a day’s ride of here and when they find out the castle is besieged, they will ride you and your peasant revolt into the mud.’

  ‘Sire, you had a hundred men, a hundred and seven to be exact. But by nightfall last night, there were a hundred and seven horses being led back to Cynan’s army,’ he paused for effect, ‘past one hundred and seven corpses. Now, I must be gone with your answer or my Lord Cynan will assume you have taken my life.’

  Fitzwalter turned away and descended the steps built into the castle’s outer wall before stopping before the gates. Justin followed him down.

  ‘You go back to your master,’ said Fitzwalter when they reached the gate, ‘but tell him this. Before this matter is ended I will have him hung drawn and quartered as a rebel. So gather your so called army but expect no ceding from this man. Castle Du Bere is English and if you want it, you will have to wrest it from my cold dead hands.’

  Justin’s head tilted slightly in acknowledgement.

  ‘So be it,’ he said and walked toward the gate tower.

  ‘Open the gate,’ called Fitzwalter, ‘let him out.’

  ‘But Sire…’ started the sergeant at arms.

  ‘You heard me,’ said the Castellan,’ let the peasant go. He is not worth dirtying a blade.’

  The guards opened the gates just enough for the man to go before slamming them shut again and sliding the huge timber bars into the holes in the gate walls, locking them securely in place. Fitzwalter turned to the Sergeant.

  ‘Open the armouries,’ he said, ‘and distribute what is needed. I want a full report of our situation before the sun sets, supplies, arrows, water, and cattle, everything you can think of. In the meantime, make sure the castle walls are manned day and night.’

  ‘What about him?’ asked the sergeant, nodding toward the dead manservant, ‘shall we bury him?’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Fitzwalter, ‘throw him from the castle walls.’

  ----

  Justin Brewer walked down the path from the castle, hardly daring to breathe. Though the threats would have been made good, it was still a relief to yet have his life and he still expected the searing pain of an arrow in his back at every step. Within a minute he reached the archer who had fired the lethal bolt into the steward just minutes earlier.

  ‘Richard Ash,’ he said, ‘you are, for once a welcoming sight.’

  ‘I have to admit,’ answered the archer, ‘I thought we would now be picking your broken body from the base of the battlements.’

  ‘I would suggest your part was fundamental in getting me out alive.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘The death of his manservant shocked the Castellan to the core and gave a message I could not convey. I think he has never seen such an accurate shot from so far a distance.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘Take credit where it is deserved, Richard, the three of us were as close as arrows in a fist yet your bolt picked your target out with unnerving accuracy.’

  ‘Your compliments are welcome, Justin,’ answered the Archer, ‘yet unwarranted. I was aiming for Fitzwalter.’

  Without another word he turned and walked away toward the village, leaving Justin wide mouthed behind him, the messenger realising how close he had come to death at the hands of a friend.

  ‘Richard, wait,’ he called running to catch the archer, ‘what do you mean?’

  As the two men walked away, the undergrowth around them came alive as Cynan’s forces revealed themselves from their hiding places and took up positions across the approach road to the castle. Within the hour, an army over a thousand strong lay between the castle gates and the village of Dysynni, each staring upward at the seemingly impregnable walls. Eventually an armoured knight rode through the lines and stopped in front of the besiegers.

  ‘Where is Justin Brewer?’ he asked, looking around.

  ‘I am here, Lord,’ said Justin, running over to Cynan’s side.

  ‘Did you give him my ultimatum?’

  ‘I did, Sire and he poured scorn upon it. He said the castle was impregnable.’

  ‘Against frontal attack it is indeed a formidable fortress,’ said Cynan, ‘but the walls are only as good as those who defend them and all men need to eat.’

  ----

  Up in the castle, Fitzwalter was shouting at the keeper of his kitchens.


  ‘What do you mean, no food?’ he screamed, ‘this is a castle with a fully armed garrison. The stores are always kept full in case of situations such as this.’

  ‘Sire,’ said the man wringing his hands, ‘the cold stores were full this very morn, I checked them myself when getting the meat for the afternoon meal but when I went back a few moments ago the hooks are empty. I fear there has been a traitor amongst us and he took the opportunity to sabotage our supplies.’

  ‘How can that be?’ demanded Fitzwalter, ‘nobody could carry that much meat through the gate, it would take many carts.’

  The cook glanced miserably at the man next to him before answering quietly.

  ‘Sire, it did not go through the gate, it went out of the window.’

  Fitzwalter stared at the cook in disbelief as the situation became clear. Whoever was responsible had entered the cold stores and pushed every side of beef, ham or leg of mutton they could find through the shuttered window to fall to the valley below.

  ‘How much is left?’ he asked menacingly.

  ‘None sire,’ said the cook, staring at his feet.

  ‘Who is responsible?’ asked Fitzwalter.

  ‘I suspect it is a man called Lloyd,’ said the cook, ‘he was engaged as a kitchen help this past month.’

  ‘A Welshman,’ said Fitzwalter in disgust, ‘working in my kitchen?’

  ‘He was a good worker, Sire,’ said the cook, ‘and came well recommended.’ His voice fell away as he realised the futility of his justification.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘He left the castle not four hours since,’ said the cook.

  ‘So he escaped?’

  ‘It would seem so.’

  ‘So how much food is there?’ asked Fitzwalter.

  ‘Sire it gets worse,’ mumbled the cook, ‘the grain stores are almost empty and we have been relying on getting our bread from the village ovens.’

  ‘Why is there no grain?’ shouted the Castellan.

  ‘With respect, Sire,’ said the sergeant at arms, ‘our supply lines have been under assault for weeks and very little grain has been forthcoming.’