Medieval III - Sword of Liberty

by Kevin Ashman

  ‘That was my father’s name,’ said Garyn quietly.

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Gerald. ‘Of course, the boy has since grown up and is now a young man of fourteen years, however, it is unlikely he will see his fifteenth as he is also imprisoned along with the woman and the same fate hangs over him. If you refuse to return and the Abbot dies, you will have the death of your son on your hands. So, are you coming with me or not?’

  ‘You know, I will,’ said Garyn eventually, ‘but first I will bury my comrade.’

  ‘An hour or so I can spare,’ said Gerald, ‘but we will be gone by the morning sun. Make sure you are ready.’

  ----

  Two hours later, Garyn place the last of the river stones over the body of his friend and drove Derwyn’s sword into the ground at one end, forming a makeshift cross.

  ‘Sleep well, my friend,’ he said, ‘and I swear on your grave this day will be avenged.’

  ‘Are you ready?’ called Gerald from the horses.

  ‘I’m ready,’ said Garyn turning away from the grave. He mounted his horse and rode alongside Gerald who seemed to be waiting for something.

  ‘What?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘The sword of Macsen,’ said Gerald, ‘I will take it from here.’

  Garyn paused but realised he had no option. He passed over the package and watched as Gerald strapped it to his rolled blanket before him.

  ‘Right,’ said Gerald, ‘let’s get going,’ and all three men spurred their horses southward, Garyn Ap Thomas, Gerald of Essex and Hywel Ap Rhys, Liegeman of the Sheriff of Builth.

  ----

  Chapter Twenty One

  Caernarvon Town

  The Welsh siege army stood in silence before the walls of Caernarfon Castle. Behind them, the town lay in ruins as did the docks and hardly any buildings were left standing within the town perimeter. Prisoners were hard at work, piling their dead into funerary pyres, just as keen as their captors to avoid the disease that such devastation brought.

  The Welsh lines lay hundreds deep and though they were narrow in width, there was no need for a wider front as the target was narrow before them. The imposing north wall loomed high but right in the middle, the unfinished section was protected by no more than a wooden palisade where the building work had come to a halt years earlier.

  All along the walls, defenders watched the army below, nervously awaiting the assault. The English were heavily outnumbered and whilst this would not normally have been a problem when defending a castle such as this, the unfinished walls meant the outcome was uncertain. Privately many had shared the possibility that surrender was the better option but the Castellan was away and his second in command was a stubborn man who still felt they could withstand the Welsh attack.

  ‘Did you send them terms of surrender?’ asked Madog.

  ‘I did,’ answered Geraint, ‘and they were returned with scorn heaped upon us.’

  Madog shook his head.

  ‘Why are such decisions put in the hands of ignorant men,’ he asked. ‘The Castellan has seen what our engines did to the city walls, how can he expect a mere wooden barricade to withstand a similar barrage?’

  ‘Apparently the Castellan is not present and the decision lays with a young Knight desperate for honour.’

  ‘Then it is a worse situation than I envisaged. Men will die needlessly on both sides over the next few hours, a situation that could easily have been avoided.’

  ‘Such are the ways of war,’ said Geraint.

  Madog grunted and walked over to the engineer in charge of his Mangonels.

  ‘Magister, are you ready?’

  ‘We are, Sire,’ he answered, ‘the palisade will be removed from your path before midday.’

  ‘Then do what you have to do,’ said Madog and walked away to join Geraint.

  ‘Mangonels ready,’ shouted the Magister.

  ‘Ready,’ answered the teams of operators.

  ‘You know what you have to do,’ shouted the Magister, ‘I want that wall blasted into kindling within hours. Check your aim and target the timber. Upon my command, steady…Release.’

  The machines bucked from the sudden released energy and six boulders flew the short distance to the timber palisade. Five of the rocks hit true and wood flew everywhere as the planks shattered under the impact. Defenders unlucky enough to be in the line of fire fell to the courtyard below while their comrades ran for cover, there was little they could do to defend the wooden walls.

  ‘This will take no time at all,’ said Madog as the second volley flew through the air, ‘ready the men, Geraint, I feel their skills will be needed sooner than we thought.’ Within the hour, the palisade was levelled to the ground and through the breach, Madog could see enemy lines waiting for them.

  ‘More than I expected,’ said Geraint, ‘it would seem your spy’s information was incorrect.’

  ‘A patrol arrived two days ago,’ said Madog, ‘and boosted the garrison by a hundred but it matters not, our numbers are overwhelming.’

  ‘And you decided not to share this with us?’

  ‘There was little need for our numbers are still superior. Anyway, the news could have sent pangs of fear through our ranks, a situation I could not countenance on the eve of battle.’

  Geraint nodded silently. The news was frustrating but he had to acknowledge the decision was one of a leader. The boy was coming of age.

  ‘Then let’s get this done,’ said Geraint.

  Madog turned to the Engineer.

  ‘Magister, change the load, I want fire pots reined upon the buildings inside. Raise your aim and provide smoke to cover our approach. I want any archers stationed behind the arrow loops to be denied clear fields of fire.’

  ‘Yes Sire,’ shouted the engineer and within minutes, clay pots of burning oil smashed against the castle walls, spreading black acrid smoke around the courtyard.

  ‘Geraint,’ called Madog, ‘bring the archers forward.’

  A hundred archers armed with longbows stepped up to pre marked positions and loaded their strings with weighted arrows.

  ‘I want fifty arrows from each man,’ shouted Madog to Geraint above the sound of the straining Mangonels, ‘target the waiting English lines. As we advance, change your aim to the defenders on the walls. The chance of a kill may be slight but at least we can keep their heads down while we advance.’

  Geraint shouted the commands to the archers and within seconds, the air was full of arrows as volley after volley flew through the breach toward the defending lines.

  ‘Tarian,’ shouted Madog, ‘you will lead the cavalry. As soon as the gate is taken, lead them in and mop up any continuing skirmishes.’

  ‘Sire, if I am to lead the cavalry, who is to head the assault through the palisade?’

  ‘I will take that role,’ said Madog drawing his sword. ‘I have led from the back for long enough, today is the day I earn my claim.’

  ‘But Sire…’

  ‘Hold your words, Tarian, my mind is set.’ He turned to Geraint. ‘Ready to take a castle, friend?’ he shouted.

  ‘That I am, Sire,’ shouted Geraint.

  ‘Then let’s show the English what we are made of.’ Madog turned to face his army and raised his sword in the air.

  ‘Men of Wales,’ he roared, ‘for country and freedom, advaaance.’

  Hundreds of men armed with pikes, swords and lances marched forward beneath the umbrella of arrows. At their head, Madog strode with sword drawn and shield wielded in the defensive position. As they came within range of the defenders on the walls, crossbow bolts flew toward them, embedding themselves deep into the soil or the shields of the advancing army. Some got through and though men fell screaming to the floor, their comrades stepped over them knowing full well that success relied on maintaining the impetus of any assault.

  Madog flinched as a crossbow bolt pierced his shield and turned to shout toward Geraint.

  ‘The pace is too slow,’ he screamed, ‘they will pick us off lik
e fish in a barrel. Increase the pace.’

  ‘Trumpeter, sound the charge,’ screamed Geraint and as the sounds of a horn bounced off the castle walls, the Welsh attackers broke into a run, their guttural screams of aggression striking fear into the defenders.

  Missiles of all sorts rained down upon the men as they reached the breach, ranging from boulders to boiling water. Lines of crossbow men fired as quickly as they could into the throng and for a while, every bolt found a target. Spears hurled from the towers above added to the carnage but despite the heavy losses, the attackers’ numbers were too great and the first lines of Welshmen cleared the breach.

  Those in front immediately knelt and took shelter beneath their shields as their comrades arrived, knowing it would be useless attacking a formed defensive line individually. Madog was amongst them and as they waited he turned to see Geraint taking cover behind some fallen masonry.

  ‘Geraint,’ he screamed, ‘take your men up onto the battlements and deal with the crossbows, they are costing us heavy casualties. You men,’ continued Madog, shouting toward a unit of infantry freshly through the gap, ‘make the gates your target, I want them open as soon as possible.’

  Both detachments went their separate ways and Madog looked around to see his numbers vastly increased.

  ‘Sire, the English advance,’ shouted a voice.

  ‘We cannot wait any more,’ roared Madog, ‘or we will be overrun. Men of Wales, follow me.’ He stood upright and wielding his shield before him, charged to engage the oncoming defenders.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ screamed Geraint from above, ‘your Prince is isolated.’

  Seconds later the remaining men raced after Madog and both lines clashed in a maelstrom of blood and pain. The English lines held momentarily but within seconds the clash had broken into hundreds of individual battles, man against man in a fight to the death. Bodies fell everywhere as Welsh and English alike were cut apart by swords or impaled on the end of a lance. Pikes cleaved open skulls and faces were smashed in by heavy boots as the fallen were dealt with ruthlessly. Archers from both sides sought their targets but the moving sea of people offered little chance of accuracy.

  Up on the battlements, Geraint’s men faced the English archers who had cost the attackers so many lives but though their bolts continued to wreak havoc amongst the Welsh, the time needed to reload the crossbows meant Geraint’s men were soon amongst them and the threat was ruthlessly wiped out with no quarter considered.

  Down below, the smoke from the burning oil burnt at the eyes of everyone and control was difficult to maintain especially with the Welsh army who were little more than civilians with a few weeks training.

  Despite their smaller numbers the English fought well and Welshmen fell in their dozens at the hands of the trained soldiers. Geraint looked down in horror and realised the day did not go well. He could not see Madog and knew if the Prince had fallen, the army would lack leadership and the battle could be lost. Geraint considered returning to the courtyard but before he had chance to make any decisions, a cheer echoed around the castle and he heard the sound of horses galloping across the secured drawbridge.

  Tarian led his command under the captured portcullis and the cavalry jumped any dead defenders littering the way as they raced toward the fight raging in the upper ward. Within moments the battle turned and the defenders ran to seek whatever cover they could for infantry was no match against cavalry.

  Tarian dismounted and stormed through the fight, hacking at any defenders with his sword and using his shield to knock others to the floor.

  ‘Where’s the Prince?’ he roared, ‘has anyone seen Madog.’

  ‘He is there, Sire,’ came the reply and Tarian could see the young man locked in fierce combat with a huge man clad in full chain mail armour and a tabard emblazoned with the emblem of Edward.

  The English Knight swung his sword furiously, deflecting any counter with the ease of a man well practised and the Prince was being forced backward. Tarian could see that Madog was being overwhelmed by the strength and expertise of the larger man and it was obvious he would soon be overcome.

  ‘Who is that man?’ roared Tarian.

  ‘He is Stephan du Clerk,’ came an answer, ‘Knight of Edward and commander of this castle in the absence of the Castellan.’

  ‘Madog can’t beat an experienced Knight,’ shouted Tarian, ‘he is too inexperienced.’ With a terrifying roar, he tried to fight his way to the Prince but found his path blocked by defenders and burning carts. At risk of losing his own life, Tarian fought like a devil, smiting anyone in his path, friend or foe but his progress was slow and by the time he cleared the way, both men had disappeared. Madog was on his own.

  Smoke bellowed everywhere within the castle walls and men fought blindly, desperate to cling onto their lives but finally the defenders realised the day was lost and a horn echoed around the inner ward.

  The English soldiers backed off, gasping in exhaustion as they withdrew to safety. Those who could, reformed into a small but tightly defended position against a wall, their weapons levelled toward the Welsh. The attackers were no less tired and when they realised the English were giving ground, they reformed into lines, facing their opponents across the courtyard.

  ‘What are we waiting for,’ screamed a voice, ‘their race is run, kill them all, every last one.’

  ‘Hold your arms,’ roared Tarian, ‘that horn was their signal to withdraw. We will give them opportunity to surrender.’ Geraint appeared at the side of Tarian, his face blackened from the smoke and his side bleeding from a glancing blow from a crossbow bolt.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Geraint, ‘their numbers are decimated and one more assault will see them crushed.’

  ‘The men smell victory,’ said Tarian, ‘but the battle is won, I see no need for further bloodshed.’

  Across the courtyard, over thirty defenders stared defiantly over a wall of shields. Tarian could see their exhausted faces, each staring back at him with hatred, many smeared with blood from the brutal battle.

  ‘Sire, the men demand we end this once and for all,’ said a sergeant at arms, ‘too many of us have died to let even one of them live.’

  ‘I know the feeling of the men,’ said Tarian, ‘but there is nothing to be gained from their deaths.’

  ‘Finish them,’ screamed a voice from the ranks, ‘kill the English scum.’

  ‘Hold your tongues,’ roared Tarian, ‘this is a matter of honour.’

  ‘You are not our leader old man,’ came the answer, ‘let Madog decide.’

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Geraint quietly.

  ‘I fear he has fallen,’ said Tarian, ‘the last I saw he was being bettered by an armoured Knight. There is no way he could have prevailed.’

  ‘You underestimate him,’ said Geraint, ‘I have trained with him for years and the man is a terrier when cornered. Don’t write him off until you see his corpse.’

  All around the castle the individual battles had ended and shattered men stared at each other across the blood stained dirt.

  ‘Well,’ shouted the voice, ‘where is our leader?’

  All around them the men started chanting and within seconds, the chant became a roar.

  ‘Madog, Madog, Madog…’

  Geraint turned to Tarian.

  ‘We should go and find him, whatever his fate.’

  ‘There is no need,’ said Tarian quietly, ‘my fears were unfounded. It appears our young Prince is more than a match for even the best Edward can send.’ He looked over Geraint’s shoulder and his comrade turned to see Madog walking slowly through the smoke toward them. His left arm held across his chest, bleeding from an open wound while his other dragged his sword behind him. His helm was gone and Geraint could see the Prince was on the verge of collapse.

  ‘Madog,’ gasped Geraint quietly and stepped forward to help but Tarian grabbed his shoulder.

  ‘Leave him,’ he said, ‘the next few moments could be the making of the m
an.’

  Slowly the cheering subsided and silence fell as the Prince walked into the centre of the ward, passing his two friends without as much as eye contact. Finally he stood before his fellow men. He looked around slowly, making eye contact with as many as he could before turning to face the remnants of the English force.

  ‘What would you have us do, Sire?’ asked the sergeant who moments earlier had demanded their deaths.

  Madog limped forward and stood alone before the defending shield wall, exposed within easy reach of any well-aimed English spear.

  ‘Men of England,’ he said eventually, ‘you have fought well but your day is done. Lay down your arms and your lives will be granted. Resist further and I will not be able to control those who want you dead. Take heart in your defence for it was indeed admirable in the face of a superior army but let it end now. Surrender your weapons.’

  ‘How do we know you tell the truth, Welshman?’ shouted a man from behind a shield.

  ‘You have my word,’ said Madog, ‘and my word is my bond.’

  ‘And who’s word is so strong that it can hold the sword arm of so many?’

  ‘My name is Madog,’ came the reply, ‘Madog Ap Llewellyn,’ he paused and glanced back at his men before adding, ‘and I am the Prince of Wales.’

  The English soldier stared at the young man but moments later, stepped slowly forward through the shield wall and drew his sword. He looked around at his scared and exhausted comrades before turning the blade around and offering it to Madog, hilt first.

  ‘Our fight is done, Prince,’ he said eventually, ‘the castle is yours.’

  As the rest of the defenders’ weapons were thrown forward to land at Madog’s feet, the Welsh army erupted into celebration. The walls of Caernarfon Castle echoed with the sounds of cheering and Tarian had to shout into Geraint’s ear to make himself heard.

  ‘We did it, Geraint,’ he shouted, ‘we actually took a castle in Edward’s ring of steel.’

  ‘We achieved more than that, Tarian,’ answered Geraint, ‘today we helped turn a young man into a Prince and if God is on our side, one day he will make a fine King.’