Medieval III - Sword of Liberty

by Kevin Ashman

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  Chapter Twenty Two

  Brycheniog

  For three days Garyn and his captors rode hard and finally arrived at Brecon castle late at night. As they rode through the gates, a servant ran to take his master’s horse and Gerald dismounted to greet the castle steward. For several minutes the two men talked quietly until finally Gerald returned across the courtyard.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ asked Hywel, when the Englishman returned.

  ‘Not so much a problem,’ said Gerald, ‘though there have been unexpected developments.’

  ‘What developments?’ asked Hywel, ‘I hope the Abbot is not trying to recant our agreement, I have his signature on a legal document.’

  ‘Fret not about the reward, Hywel,’ said Gerald, ‘your money is safe.’

  ‘Is my son harmed,’ said Garyn quietly, ‘for if he is I swear I will take my revenge on every soul within this castle.’

  ‘Brave yet meaningless words,’ said Gerald, ‘and I am too tired to engage in verbal jousting. The boy is alive but for how long, I can’t say.’

  ‘Why not? Surely my return is the price for his and his mother’s freedom?’

  ‘That was my understanding,’ said Gerald, ‘but it all depended on the health of the Abbot. If he lived, they were to be set free upon your return. If he died, or if you did not return then their lives were forfeit.’

  ‘So is he dead or not?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘He is neither dead nor alive,’ said Gerald, ‘it would seem he is between both worlds and has been for some time.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He lies unconscious in a permanent sleep. His skin burns to the touch and though he has been well bled, the apothecary says he could fall either side. Only time will tell.’

  ‘I don’t see why you can’t just let us all go,’ said Garyn, ‘or at least the woman and her son. What gain is there to be had by carrying out this unjust act?’

  ‘Every gain,’ said Gerald, ‘you see, a castle is a very busy place and gossip flies faster than an arrow in such a place. Despite our best intentions to keep certain things confidential, it seems walls have ears and soon everyone knows everyone else’s business.’

  ‘Why is that relevant?’

  ‘Because when men such as I hold positions of power they oft have to make threats of justice and should any indiscretion be carried out then it is essential the threat is taken to its conclusion. What message would it send my people if I was to just cancel the proclamation by the Abbot? It would surely undermine my authority and the peasants would expect such mercies all the time. No, I’m sorry but the deal stays. All you can do is hope he regains consciousness and thereby enables their release.’

  ‘But that could take weeks.’

  ‘It could and during that time you will be held as the outlaw you are. I will tell you now, Garyn Ap Thomas, your stay will not be pleasant and the longer the Abbot clings to life, the more you will pray for your own death.’

  Your heart is as black as his,’ said Garyn.

  ‘A matter of perspective,’ said the Knight and turned to two nearby guards.

  ‘Seize him,’ he said, ‘and throw him into the dungeon.’ He turned and stared up at Garyn with a sickly smile before adding, ‘and there’s no need to be gentle.’

  The two soldiers pulled Garyn from his horse and laid into him with fists and boots. Gerald and Hywel looked on in silence before Gerald called a halt.

  ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘Take him away and serve him not with bread or water until tomorrow night.’ He knelt down beside Garyn’s body and whispered into his ear. ‘You belong to me now, Welshman, welcome home.’

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  As the soldiers dragged Garyn’s beaten body away, Gerald turned to Hywel.

  ‘You have served us well,’ he said, ‘and have earned your reward. Will you stay the night and rest from the quest?’

  ‘With respect, Sire I would be gone as soon as possible. There is a tavern on the road back and I will take my rest there so if it is all right with you, I will just take what’s owed.’

  ‘Remind me of the amount,’ said Gerald.

  ‘Three hundred gold coins,’ said Hywel.

  ‘And you make no claim on the Roman Sword?’

  ‘I do not, for though it seems it kindles a fire within your breast, I have no interest in such baubles or indeed the legends that raise it above its station.’

  ‘Such legends can conquer Kingdoms,’ said Gerald.

  ‘Perhaps so, but this one is a mere tale for the bedsides of children.’

  ‘So be it,’ said Gerald and summoned the steward.

  ‘Go to my treasury and secure three hundred gold coins. Place them in a satchel and return them to this man before he leaves.’

  ‘Yes, Sire,’ said the steward and walked away toward one of the towers.

  ‘I will not see you again,’ said Gerald, ‘and trust you will keep our dealings these past few weeks amongst ourselves.’

  ‘I will,’ said Hywel, ‘for the whole thing leaves a sour taste in my mouth.’

  ‘Then be gone, Hywel of Builth,’ said Gerald, ‘and spend my coins wisely.’

  ‘I will,’ said Hywel and watched as the Knight disappeared into the shadows.

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  Half an hour later, Hywel rode back through the gates and headed north toward his home town. Though it would be too far to travel in one night he knew he could rest at the Black Boar tavern on the way. He rode for an hour through the darkness and was about to cross a bridge when a man called out in the dark.

  ‘Hold there, traveller,’ said the voice, ‘we would know your name and your business.’

  Hywel’s hand sought his sword hilt, as he strained to see who addressed him.

  ‘My name is Hywel of Builth,’ he said, ‘and if you are brigands, I can assure you that by robbing me you will bring down the wrath of the Sheriff himself upon your heads. There will be no hiding place.’

  ‘We are not brigands,’ said the voice, ‘on the contrary, we serve Edward.’

  Hywel breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘Then we are comrades in arms,’ he said. ‘Who is your liege?’

  A man stepped into the moonlight and Hywel could see he was dressed in the manner of a paid soldier.

  ‘Our master is familiar to you,’ said the soldier, ‘and goes by the name of Gerald of Essex.’

  Hywel’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘I have left his presence not two hours since,’ he said. ‘Are you on his business?’

  ‘We are,’ said the soldier, ‘the business of retrieving the gold you stole from him.’

  Hywel breathed deeply, knowing he had been tricked.

  ‘I stole nothing,’ he growled, ‘and any monies on my person were well earned and the subject of a legal document.’

  ‘That may be the case,’ sighed the soldier, ‘but such things are for my betters to decide. Now, hand over that satchel.’

  ‘Never,’ said Hywel drawing his sword, ‘I would die first.’

  ‘Your decision,’ said the soldier and gave a signal with his hand. Seconds later, two crossbow bolts flew through the darkness and thudded into Hywel’s chest. Hywel cried out and fell backward from his horse, smashing his head into the wooden handrail before plummeting to the river below.

  ‘After him,’ shouted the soldier, ‘and make sure he is dead.’

  Four other soldiers clambered down the bank and into the river, each with knife drawn to finish the Liegeman off.

  ‘Where is he?’ shouted one.

  ‘He must be here somewhere,’ came the answer in the darkness.

  Up above, the first soldier retrieved the satchel of gold coins and tied the victim’s horse to his own. After several minutes his comrades returned.

  ‘Was the deed done?’ he asked.

  ‘He was nowhere to be found,’ said one of the men, ‘but the strikes were good and there was no way he could have survived.’

  ‘I agree,’ said the firs
t man, ‘but if anyone asks, you found him and slit his throat, agreed?’

  ‘Agreed,’ said the men and remounted their horses.

  ‘Let’s get back,’ said the first soldier, ‘for this is indeed a night for foul deeds.’ He spurred his horse back the way he had come, closely followed by the other four riders.

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  A hundred yards downstream, Hywel groaned and dragged himself through the mud, gasping with pain as the bolts lodged in his torso ripped against his flesh. He managed to crawl a few yards before finally collapsing once more, knowing full well he was dying.

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  The following morning, the sun had hardly cleared the horizon when a young girl tasked with collecting water for her family came across the body and cried out in fear. John the miller heard his daughter’s scream and ran toward her.

  ‘What is it, girl?’ he asked.

  ‘Look,’ she said, pointing at the body, ‘there is a dead man in our field.’

  John dropped his tools and ran to kneel beside the body. Carefully he turned it over and was shocked to see the eyes flickering open.

  ‘Child, fetch help,’ shouted the Miller, ‘he is still alive.’

  The girl ran back toward a nearby village and John tried to make Hywel as comfortable as possible.

  ‘Hang on stranger,’ said John, ‘the girl will get help and we can get you to a physician. Perhaps he can help you.’

  ‘Too late,’ gasped Hywel, ‘I need to tell you something.’

  ‘Save your strength, man,’ said John, ‘it may make a difference.’

  ‘No,’ gasped Hywel, ‘I can feel myself going. Listen to me, this is important. I want you to take a message. Will you do that?’

  ‘What sort of message?’ asked John.

  ‘It matters not, only that this is my dying wish. Will you honour it?’

  John paused before answering.

  ‘Aye I will,’ he said, ‘tell me the message stranger and I swear it will be delivered.’

  As Hywel gasped out the last words of his life, John listened carefully, his eyes widening at the implications. Finally Hywel gasped his last breath and his body slumped in John’s arms.

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  ‘Father, the men are getting a cart,’ came a shout, ‘they will be here momentarily.’

  ‘It is too late,’ said John standing up. ‘He has gone.’

  The girl’s hand flew to her mouth and stared at the corpse as John walked past her and headed back toward his house. For a few moments he stayed inside before reappearing carrying a saddle and a bag of rations.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked the girl, ‘mother has gone to market.’

  ‘Aye, I am aware of that,’ said John, ‘but I have an errand to run. Tell your mother I will be back in a few days.’

  ‘But can’t you tell her yourself? She will be back before noon.’

  ‘No, child. I have a message to deliver that will not wait.’

  Ten minutes later he rode to the gate with nothing more than a waxed cape, a bag of bread, and a sack of oats for the horse.

  ‘Where shall I say you are going?’ asked the girl.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said John, ‘just tell her I have gone north. More than that, I do not know myself. Fare well, Child.’ He bent down to kiss her before spurring his horse to gallop over the bridge.

  ‘Fare ye well, father,’ said the girl quietly and waved at his retreating back, ‘travel safely.’

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  Chapter Twenty Three

  The Hills of North Wales

  Madog, Tarian and Geraint sat silently astride their horses, their fur lined capes pulled tightly around their necks against the biting autumn winds. Behind them, over five thousand men at arms held their capes just as tight, each wondering whether they would be alive by the time night fell.

  On the other side of the valley, an army of similar size faced Madog, each just as nervous as the morning mist burned away and they could see the forces before them.

  ‘There he is,’ said Madog, ‘let’s get this done.’

  It had been ten days since the capture of Caernarfon and in that time the Welsh had buried their dead, sent the wounded to nearby villages to recover and rebuilt the palisades against any counter attack. What had been unexpected was the increased influx of men from all over north Wales who had flocked to his banner as word of the victory spread.

  Eventually his army stood ten thousand strong and whilst half were stationed in and around Caernarfon, the rest were backing him up as he faced down another threat to his claim.

  Madog urged his horse forward and both armies walked slowly toward each other, halting when there were only twenty five paces between them.

  ‘Hwyl, Cynan,’ said Madog, ‘well met.’

  ‘Madog Ap Llewellyn,’ said Cynan, ‘I have heard a lot about you. It is good to put a face to a name.’

  ‘Your successes precede you,’ said Madog, ‘and I hear you have laid waste to many English properties, as well as Castle du Bere. An impressive haul.’

  ‘Not as great as Caernarfon,’ said Cynan, ‘but just as satisfying.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Madog and lifted his gaze to stare toward the army at Cynan’s back.

  ‘You field a strong force,’ he said, ‘and any man would think you are expecting trouble.’

  ‘I always expect trouble,’ said Cynan, ‘that is why I have lived so long.’

  ‘Enough of the jousting, Cynan,’ said Madog, ‘why have you brought your army northward into lands under my jurisdiction.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Cynan, ‘but I was not aware that Gwyneth was now under the control of a minor Lord, and one so young at that.’

  ‘You know of my claim, Cynan,’ said Madog with an edge in his voice, ‘I can prove lineage back to Llewellyn himself and as such, lay claim to his crown.’

  ‘A bold statement,’ said Cynan, ‘but one which I cannot support.’

  ‘So do you ride here to confront me?’ asked Madog, ‘are we to see Welsh slay Welsh this day?’

  ‘I hope it won’t come to that,’ said Cynan, ‘but if that becomes the case, then so be it.’

  ‘We are on the verge of greatness, Cynan,’ said Madog, ‘and though I know you do indeed lead a formidable army, this is not the time for a challenge. Join with me and between us we can drive the English from these lands. When they are once again free, then we can discuss who it is that rules and who it is that serves.’

  ‘But if we are victorious,’ said Cynan, ‘the people will remember only one name, yours.’ He paused before continuing. ‘I am not a stupid man, Madog and indeed recognise your lineage but this is not a time for the heroics of a young man. A chance to make history lies on the horizon but it will take experience to lead us there. Entrust me with your armies and I will bring you the freedom we all crave. You can live the life of a Prince and hold courts to your heart’s content but I will rule this land as Lord Protector on the promise that when I die, my son will become Prince.’

  ‘I cannot allow that,’ said Madog, ‘my lineage is true and I will see it honoured.’

  Cynan shook his head.

  ‘You are a stubborn man, Madog and while we stand here arguing like washer women, Edward gathers his forces along the border and waits for an opportune moment to invade. Cast away your pride and cede control while we still have a chance.’

  ‘I will not,’ said Madog, ‘and all these men behind you know there is only one true Prince.’

  ‘Then prove it,’ shouted Cynan, ‘present the sword of Macsen and I will kneel before you and swear my fealty.’

  Madog stared at Cynan but did not respond.

  ‘Well?’ shouted Cynan, ‘where is the symbol of unity we all crave. Present it here before your fellow countrymen.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Madog quietly.

  ‘Sorry,’ shouted Cynan, ‘I didn’t hear that, speak up.’

  ‘I can’t present the sword,’ said Madog, ‘for I do not have it.’

  A murm
ur rippled through both armies.

  ‘I thought as much,’ said Cynan quietly, ‘and as you cannot provide a reason to join with you, then I guess we are against you.’ He turned to leave but Madog called out.

  ‘Wait,’ he said, ‘you are right.’

  Cynan turned to face him.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘I promised the sword,’ said Madog, ‘and have failed in that task. That much is true and the dream of Macsen has not been realised. But look behind me, Cynan, look at what was born from that dream. Ten thousand men have left their homes in search of freedom, each willing to lay down their lives in its pursuit. A castle lies in ruins not ten miles from here and English occupiers spur their horses toward the border, fearful for their lives. I may not have the sword once held by Macsen but we do not need it, it is already here.’

  ‘Where?’ shouted Cynan, looking around mockingly, ‘I see no sword of Liberty.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ asked Madog, ‘I do.’ He walked over to the front rank of his army and picked out an armoured soldier. ‘Give me your sword,’ said Madog and the soldier handed over his weapon. Madog turned and walked back a few paces toward Cynan before stopping.

  ‘You wanted a sword of Liberty, Cynan, well here it is.’ He drove the sword into the ground and paused before returning to his lines. This time he picked out a pike man and relieved him of his weapon.

  ‘This too is the liberty sword,’ he shouted, driving the haft of the pike into the earth. He reached back and took a pitchfork from the hands of a dishevelled old man. ‘And this,’ shouted Madog angrily, ‘you want a sign of unity, Cynan, then here they are, ten thousand of them and I for one would rather fight alongside the poorest man with nought but courage than alongside any man with a bejewelled sword and a false heart.’

  For a few moments there was silence and Cynan was about to respond when something happened that stopped him short. Further down Madog’s line, a soldier stepped forward and drove his sword into the ground.

  ‘I have a liberty sword,’ he shouted.

  ‘As do I,’ shouted another soldier stepping forward and copying the actions of his comrade. Within seconds, hundreds of men stepped forward to repeat the deed and those behind the front ranks raised their voices in support.