The Brothers of Gwynedd

by Edith Pargeter

  We who were mounted made a stay near the old place of the Romans by Glany-Morfa, to let the foot soldiers overtake us and get an hour of rest. Then we went on towards the great thrusting head of Craig-y-Garn, towering above Dolbenmaen. Here we had the lower, rolling hills of Lleyn on our left hand, and on our right, beyond this sheer crag, the higher peaks and lofty moors stretching away for miles towards the north, bare rock above, heather and bracken and peat-moss below. Here the mountains are not so high as round Snowdon itself, yet high and bare and bleak enough, and in the uplands between the peaks the black marshes fester, and the dark-brown peat-holes reflect the sun from within their circling reeds like longlashed eyes, the colour of my lord's. The strong, steel-bright bones of his face always called to my mind the rocks of Snowdon, and his eyes those silent lakes between.

  Our road avoided the lower ground here, and kept upon the shoulder of the mountain, circling Craig-y-Garn, and crossing brook after brook that came tumbling down from the ridge on our right hand. Thus we climbed towards the watershed, and into the scrub woods that grow in the sheltered places of the pass of Bryn Derwin. And there we took our stand, with our forward look-outs keeping watch down towards Arfon, and the body of our host drawn back in two small cavalry bands flanking the woods, and arrayed where they had the advantage of the slope on either side the way, and passable ground for their advance. The lancers were drawn up in the pass, where it was somewhat sheltered on either hand by low trees and bushes. And the archers climbed in four small groups among the rocks, two to the left, two to the right, and on either side one group higher than the other. There was broken cover there to hide them, and dun as we were, lacking the show of banners and armour, we melted well into that landscape, without even motion to make us visible at any distance.

  That was the first time that I had ever worn mail corselet or sword in earnest, though I had some years since taken to exercising at play with Ifor ap Heilyn, who was the best swordsman about the llys at Carnarvon, and he thought fairly well of me for one coming late to the game, and a clerk into the bargain. I was well-grown and strong and had at least a quick and accurate eye, if not the true dexterity of wrist to match it. Nor was I afraid, though I do not know why. Neither in play against my betters, who could bruise if they wished, nor now in the pass of Bryn Derwin was I afraid, but for a corner of my mind that dreaded, against my conviction of blessing, for the issue, and for Llewelyn.

  He kept me at his side, with the knights on the right flank, and I was glad. For where he was, was where I willed to be, for good or ill. Nor did he ever send me away from him at any trial or danger, for he read my mind plainly, and held me so in his grace that I might have what most I wanted.

  We waited until past noon, before the fore-runners sent back the signal that Owen's army was in sight below the pass. We had not taken the extreme forward position possible to us, commanding the entire downward slope against them. And I think that Llewelyn had avoided this error, and sacrificed its advantages, to prevent their seeing us too soon, assessing the odds too cautiously, and abandoning, with some plausible pretext, the offered combat. For though he had not provoked nor sought this trial, now with all his heart he desired it, and intended it to come to an issue this day, and not to continue hanging over him for more long years, before he was set free to pursue his purpose and his fate.

  Then we saw them rise out of the trough beyond, in the gentle bowl of the enclosing hills, first their plumed heads, for they were prouder and more Norman than we, and had exulted in the array of their knighthood, though neither of them was then knight. The long frontal line rose slowly out of the ground, marching in close order, the horsemen first, with that dancing gait horses have on a gradual climb, first their bowing, maned heads coming into view, then the rippling shoulders, and the horsemen sitting erect and swaying to the movement. I have heard music like this motion. And behind the riders we saw the bright heads of the lances splinter in the sunlight, and the faint golden dust like a gilded mist hanging about the foot soldiers.

  They saw us, and knew us, across some extended bow-shot of rock, gravel and turf. The long line checked and hung still, staring. Not in surprise, for we might well have cropped up at any point of this onward journey, though perhaps they had not looked to meet us so soon. They stared like hawks fixing before the stoop, measuring mass and distance. And even I saw that they were more in numbers than we, perhaps by thirty to forty men.

  Thus these two armies stood confronting each other in the sunlit afternoon, motionless and at gaze, just out of reach one of the other. And Llewelyn said, ranging the line of horsemen ahead for the figures best known to him: "I will not draw on my brothers without due challenge given. Hold your shots, archers, but cover me close." And he rode forward some twenty paces before his front rank, and sitting his horse there alone, shouted before him in a great voice:

  "You are looking for me, Llewelyn ap Griffith? Who comes here in arms against me, and for what purpose? Peace or war? Speak now, or strike now!"

  I saw the light flicker of movement in the still ranks ahead, and cried out a warning he did not need, for he had as good a judgment of the range of the short bow as any man in North Wales. The men of the north were by nature lancers and throwers of the javelin, and our archery as yet felt more at home with the short bow than with the great long-bows the southern men used, drawn to the ear. This arrow loosed at my lord fell a dozen paces short, and struck humming in the turf. He never gave a glance at it, but he laughed, and cried powerfully towards his brother and elder, there in the centre of the foremost rank fronting him:

  "I accept your answer, Owen! Come on, then! I am waiting for you!"

  He wheeled his horse, turning his back fully on them, and as he moved back to us and to his chosen place, so did they move forward, breaking into the fast and fierce rush the Welsh always used, even against horsemen and fully-armed knights, trusting in agility and speed to strike a first damaging blow, and if forced to draw off in flight, able by reason of their lightness to outdistance pursuit, and find time even to harry it, seizing every chance to turn again and do more devastation. Llewelyn well knew they were hot on his heels, but he had time to order all before they struck, opening his ranks at the impact to take in such as penetrated, and make sure they never drew off again, and signalling the alert to his archers, in cover up the slopes on either side.

  Our lancers formed close, butts braced into the ground, the first rank kneeling, the second standing. Owen's horse-men, too ill-disciplined to temper their speed to the footmen's pace—though some clung to their stirrups and were carried with them—struck that wall of lances, and did no more than make its centre shake for a moment. Then the rushing spearmen struck after them, and foot by foot our centre gave slowly back to draw the whole mêlée inward, and it became a hand-to-hand struggle there, edging always a little back towards the east.

  We with the two small companies of horsemen remained drawn aside on either hand, a little up the sloping ground, and the rush of the attack was so wild and single that it crashed full into the centre between us like a hammer-blow, leaving us stranded on the flanks. Above us the archers shot a first volley, and a second, into the mass, wounding several horses, and churning the whole into a threshing confusion. Then Llewelyn gave the sign, and we charged down from either side into the shouting, bellowing tangle of horses and men, crushing it between our two matched thrusts.

  The battle at Bryn Derwin lasted but one hour in all, from the first clash to the breaking and flight of the remainder of Owen's army. As for me, all I saw of it after the first attack was a turmoil of hand-to-hand fighting, almost too close for damage, where I was flung hither and thither by the swaying of the battle, and glimpsed now one enemy fronting me, now another, without, I think, doing harm to any beyond a scratch or two. But I kept close at Llewelyn's quarter, covering his flank as best I might. I know he singled out Owen's plumed helmet as he led our downhill charge, and drove straight at it. His lance struck his brother's raised shield
full, almost sweeping Owen out of his saddle, if the shaft had not shivered and left him still force enough to regain his seat. Then they had swords out at each other, but Owen's horse, slashed by a chance blow, and shrieking, reared and wheeled, plunging away from the fight. And other riders came between, loyal to their prince, to fend us off.

  This mêlée was brief. The foot soldiers knew defeat first, and drew off as they could, and scattered. Then a few of the horsemen also fled, some were already unhorsed and wounded, some yielded. Only a handful, at the very moment of our downhill charge, had wheeled to meet the attack on the other flank, driving vehemently up the slope to clash with Goronwy's detachment. And these continued fighting tooth and nail when all else was over, even when they knew their fellows had broken and run, and there was nothing to be gained.

  So intent was I on this tight whirlpool of motion on the slope opposite that I never saw the moment when Owen Goch was pulled from his horse, half-dazed, and pinned down in the turf under the weight of three or four of our spearmen. Two more led aside and quieted the maddened, trembling horse. But we watched the small, obstinate battle on the hillside, reduced now to two enemy horsemen, of whom one was gradually hedged off from his fellow and surrounded. The other spurred his beast obdurately higher up the slope, clear of immediate reach, and instead of attempting flight, whirled again to drive at us who moved below him. He circled and wove as he came, whirling his sword about him on all sides to fend off attack. Young and tall he was, and slender, but steely, and he drove his horse with hand and spur and knee straight at Llewelyn. And his visor was raised, and I saw that it was David.

  His face I could see from eyebrows to mouth, brow and jaw being cased by his helmet. So I saw the smear of blood along one cheek, and the gleam of sweat outlining his bright, lean bones, and the black of his lashes like a soiled frame for two eyes so fixed and pale in their blueness that they looked tranced or mad. Straight at Llewelyn he drove, and leaned in the saddle, and swung a round, mangling stroke at him with his sword.

  Llewelyn never reined aside or lifted his own weapon, but stooped under the blow, took David about the body in his left arm as the horse hurtled by, hoisted the boy violently out of saddle and stirrups, with a jerk that spilled one long-toed riding shoe, and flung him down, not gently, into the turf, where he lay sprawled and winded, the sword wrenched out of his hand and lighting far out of reach. There he lay, panting for breath, his chest heaving under the fine chain-mail and the soiled white surcoat, his wide-open eyes reflecting the blanched summer sky.

  "Do off his helm," said Llewelyn, gazing down at him with a hard face and veiled eyes. And when it was done, and the black hair matted with sweat spilled into the grass, he lighted down from his horse and took the boy by the chin, and turned his face roughly up to the light, searching right cheek and left for the gash that bled, and sustaining without acknowledgement the blue, blank stare that clung all the time with wonder and rage upon his own face.

  "Are you hurt?" he said, plucking his hand away and standing back a pace or two.

  Still heaving at breath, David said: "No!" He said nothing more, but turned his face haughtily away from being so watched and inspected. And in a moment more he braced his fists into the turf and raised himself, and turning a little lamely on to his knees, thrust himself unsteadily to his feet, and stood with reared head and empty hands before his brother and conqueror. He stood very close. And I, who also had drawn close into my place at my lord's left hand, saw his lips move, and heard the thread of breath through them, as I swear none other there did, except Llewelyn.

  "Kill me!" entreated David. "You were wise!"

  His eyes rolled up into their lids, and his knees gave under him. Down he went in a sprawl of long limbs into the grass from which he had prised himself, and lay still, angular and sad, like a fallen and broken bird.

  "Take him up," said Llewelyn to the captain of his guard, "and have his hurts seen to. Look well to him! Bring him as soon as you may to join us at Beddgelert. But gently! I look to you to deliver him whole and well."

  We took up our wounded, none of them in desperate case, and our dead, of whom there were, God be thanked, but few, and also made disposition for the care of those wounded and killed upon the other pan, for from this moment Llewelyn was sole and unquestioned prince of Gwynedd, as he had always meant to be, and ruled alone, and those who had been loyal to his brothers as their lords had but done their true part, and deserved no blame, but rather commendation. They were now his men, and he wanted no waste and no vengeance, but rather that their truth to him should be as it had been to Owen and David. Why harass or maim what in the future you will need to lean on? So all those who were willing to abide the verdict of the day and give their troth to Griffith's son were despatched freely back to their trefs, and sent about their daily business without hindrance or penalty. And doubtless that word went round also to any who had fled and remained in hiding, so that they came back to their homes and took up daily living as before. There was no killing after Bryn Derwin. But at Beddgelert, where the good brothers of the settlement, saints after the old pattern as at Aberdaron, cared for the hurts of the living and said devout offices for the dead, there was a thanksgiving, subdued and solemn. Llewelyn had said truly, there was no vaunting after victory. The matter was too great for that.

  I think he spent all that night in the church. For once I was dismissed. There was no man with my lord that night of the twenty-fourth of June. But doubtless God was with him, who had moved a hand and set him up in the estate he had so greatly desired, and not all for his own glory, but for that dream that went with him night and day, of a Wales single and splendid, free upon its own soil, equal with its neighbours, unthreatened and unafraid.

  He had always about him this piercing, childlike humility, that walked hand in hand with his vast ambition. For the more he succeeded in exalting the dream, in whose pursuit he was strong, ruthless and resolute, and seemed a demon of pride, the more he marvelled and was grateful within him that he, all fallible and mere man as he was, should be made the instrument of a wonder. And I do know, who was his teacher many years in English and Latin, how eagerly and earnestly he studied to improve, how poorly he thought of his own powers, and how he chafed at his progress, but humbly, expecting no better. And I believe I tell truth, saying that when he came out to me from the church of Beddgelert on the morning after Bryn Derwin his eyes were innocent of sleep, but not of weeping.

  After the practical matters had been taken care of, the weapons refurbished, the horses tended, the men rested, then we came to the question of the defeated.

  They brought in Owen first and alone before my lord, according to the wish of both of them, for Owen had much to say in his own cause, and Llewelyn was ready to listen. Though I think his mind was already made up, for though some among his own council afterwards blamed him somewhat for his hard usage of Owen upon one offence, they did not know what cause he already had to distrust his elder, and hold him guilty not once, but twice, of the intent of fratricide. Nor did he ever tell that story in his own justification, and since he willed it, neither did I. But when those two spoke together, they understood each other.

  Owen came in between his guards, limping and defiant. He had brought away from Bryn Derwin nothing worse than bruises, but his harness was dashed, and his surcoat soiled and torn. He was not bound, but sword and dagger had been taken from him, and even in desperation he could do no harm.

  "We were two, somewhat ill-matched I grant you, who had worked in a yoke together many years," said Llewelyn, looking him steadily in the face, "and if you have chafed at it often, that I can understand, for so have I. But I did not take up arms, and come against you as against an enemy. Why have you done so to me?"

  Owen looked him over from head to foot with a smouldering stare from under his fell of red hair. "I came to you in good faith," he said, "asking for justice for our brothers, and you would not hear me, or join in what I proposed. Truly I bore with you for years, bu
t with our peace undisturbed for so long, and unthreatened now, I thought it a great wrong to hold Gwynedd together thus by force, on the plea of King Henry's enmity. I urged what I thought right, and you refused me. I put it to the issue of arms, wanting another way."

  "There was another way," Llewelyn said. "I myself told you that you were heartily welcome to take the matter to our council, and ask them for a judgment. You preferred the judgment of the sword. Have you any complaint of the answer the sword gave you?"

  Complaint, perhaps, he had, but his sheer unsuccess he could hardly urge against Llewelyn, and he did not think to blurt out what I had half expected, the direct accusation against David. For such a man as Owen Goch can never perceive, much less admit to others, that his aims and actions have been directed, persuasively and derisively, by another person, and that person his junior, and still looked upon almost as a child. So he was voluble about the unselfishness of his intentions, and his generous indignation against Llewelyn's unreasonable obduracy, but never said: "It was not my idea, the boy worked on me!"

  In the end he began to draw in his horns, and if not to plead, at least to offer a measure of submission.

  "I have done nothing of which I am ashamed. Yet any man, the truest of men, may be in error. I don't ask to be readmitted to the old equality. If I was wrong to resort to arms, let me pay for that fault, but in reason. My life may still be of service to you as it is dear to me…"