by K. M. Ashman
‘Fear not, my lady,’ said Emma through her tears. ‘The blood is not mine but there are two injured men in the stables. Their wounds are grievous and I fear one won’t survive this day.’
‘What do you mean injured men?’ asked Gerald. ‘Who are they?’
‘They suffer the wounds of warfare, my lord, received defending one of your caravans from brigands. One is the son of James the Taylor. He grew up here as a boy but left to seek employ in the ranks of the garrison at Carmarthen.’
Gerald’s face fell and he turned to face Nesta.
‘Go,’ she said, before he had time to speak, ‘and do whatever it is that needs to be done. I will look after Emma.’
Gerald pushed past the maid and ran down the wooden stairs. ‘You two,’ he shouted as he passed the guardroom, ‘come with me.’ The two men inside jumped to their feet and retrieved their coifs from the table. By the time they had grabbed their swords Gerald was already down in the bailey and making his way to the stables. He strode inside, passing two grooms attending an exhausted horse. Inside he saw a group of people standing around two men lying on blankets, one of whom was being attended by the garrison priest.
The priest looked up as he approached, shaking his head gently as their eyes met. Gerald walked on and looked down at the second wounded man. Two of the castle ladies were busy washing and sewing a large wound on his torso.
‘Is this the son of James the Taylor?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said one of the women. ‘Do you know him?’
‘I knew his father well,’ replied Gerald. ‘Do we know what happened to him yet? Has he said anything?’
‘Not yet, he is under the influence of the poppy milk and unable to answer. His arm is broken and he was in so much pain it was the only thing we could think of.’
‘It looks like you are doing a fine job,’ said Gerald. ‘Make him as comfortable as you can. Have you sent someone for the surgeon?’
‘Yes, there is a messenger riding to the village as we speak.’
Gerald nodded and beckoned one of the other women to step to one side so his next question would not be overheard. ‘Tell me truthfully,’ he said quietly, ‘do you think this man will live?’
‘Possibly, if infection doesn’t set in but, alas, his comrade is beyond help.’
Gerald looked back at the other man who was being administered the last rights by the priest. He watched as the man succumbed to his injuries, before continuing. ‘Listen, it is important to keep this one alive for as long as possible. I need to find out what happened and if he is the only survivor then there is no other possibility of finding out who did this. Do you understand?’
‘We will try our best, my lord,’ said the woman. ‘Once the surgeon comes, he can set his bones properly.’
‘Good, but no more poppy milk until then. I need him able to talk.’
‘But . . .’
‘Just do as I say,’ said Gerald. ‘I need him conscious.’
‘Understood,’ said the woman.
Gerald turned to the guard at his side. ‘Have you seen the constable?’
‘Not for hours, my lord.’
‘Send someone to find him immediately.’ He turned to speak to the second guard. ‘Alert the garrison and secure the gates. I don’t know if there is some sort of attack planned on the castle but I’m not taking any risks. I want every able man fully armed and manning the ramparts.’
‘Aye, my lord,’ said the guard, and he ran out of the stable towards the barracks.
Back in the bedchamber, Emma was sitting in Nesta’s chair sipping a glass of honeyed water. Nesta knelt at her feet, holding the maid’s free hand between her own.
‘I know I’m being foolish, my lady,’ sobbed Emma, ‘for I have seen death in all its forms, but to see young Master Taylor fall from his horse with blood pouring from his wounds just caught me unawares. I was good friends with his mother and held the boy on my knee many an evening when he was a child.’
‘You’re not being foolish at all,’ said Nesta. ‘These things always hurt more when the victim is someone we know. Take your time and when you have calmed down, perhaps we will go and see how he is. Does that suit you?’
‘Thank you, my lady,’ said Emma. ‘I’ll be fine in just a few moments.’
Nesta stood and walked over to the pegs on the wall to select one of her cloaks.
‘First the king,’ she said quietly, ‘and now this. What other horrors does this day hold?’
Five leagues away, a column of desperate men ran as quickly as they could through the forest, each weighed down with sacks of salted pork. Behind them, the smoke from the burning carts rose into the air, buffeted by the remnants of the storm winds. Snow, freshly laid less than a few hours earlier, now lay muddied and reddened with human blood while all around the road, victims and assailants lay side by side, each equal in death’s embrace. Most of the corpses had been stripped of anything valuable, including weapons, clothing and any coin or jewellery they happened to have, and the two women who had been riding in one of the carts, lay naked in the mud, the subjects of multiple rapes and a brutal death. No one had been left alive, not even those who may have survived their wounds. There was no place for prisoners amongst the brigands, for winter was a hard mistress and they already had too many mouths to feed.
Taliesin ap John waited on the ridge, counting his men as they passed. His beard was white with frost and his wolf-skin cloak fought hard to keep out the worst of the winter winds.
Five had been killed in the ambush, including one he counted as an old friend. For a few seconds his thoughts were clouded with regret but as the last of his hungry and exhausted men struggled over the ridge, he came back to reality. Times were hard and every man operating out of the Cantref Mawr had a price on his head. This may not have been the life they would have chosen but it was better than the hangman’s noose or the executioner’s blade. Those outside the law had little option but to resort to desperate measures and this was such a time. Finally, the last of the column crested the ridge, and as one of the few mounted men rode past, Taliesin bid him stop.
‘Tomas,’ he said. ‘I hear you fought well today.’
‘My hungry son means there is no other way to be,’ said Tomas Scar, a man named for the wound across his face.
‘I understand,’ said Taliesin. ‘And I know you want to get back to him but first there is a task I would have you do. I will see you are well rewarded.’
Tomas nodded. Any way of earning extra food or money was always welcome. ‘Name it,’ he said.
‘I want you to ride to the sheepfold on the hill above the Drover’s Rest and leave a sack of salt-pork behind the southernmost wall.’ He reached inside his cloak and retrieved a leather purse of coins, tossing it over to the other rider. ‘Put this beneath the sack. It is the price agreed for the information regarding the caravan.’
Tomas weighed the purse in his hand before tucking it inside his own jerkin. ‘It feels like a pretty price to pay for information,’ he said.
‘Coins I can steal,’ replied Taliesin, ‘but when hunger claws at our bellies, food is much more difficult to find. This haul will last us the best part of a month and, if truth be told, that information was worth ten times the purse agreed. Just make sure he gets every penny. I am known as a man who pays his debts and the day that reputation ends, is the day our own people turn upon us.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No, that is it, but take care, for Gerald will not take this attack lightly and there will likely be patrols along the road as soon as he receives the news.’
‘Aye,’ said Tomas.
‘The rest of you,’ said Taliesin, turning to the other riders, ‘continue back to camp with the rest of the men. ‘I will be back in two days and will ensure the share-out is equal amongst all.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Tomas.
‘I have business to attend to. Now, be gone and make sure you are not followed.’
Back in th
e castle, John Salisbury paced the floor of his own quarters. The door was locked and his mind was racing.
Since the rebellion had ended, the constable had become a powerful man in his own right and his cruelty was feared across Deheubarth. He knew that, given the opportunity and resources, he was more than able to crush any lingering Welsh defiance once and for all but his ambition was constantly tempered with the castellan’s tendency for so-called fairness and justice, a trait that Salisbury saw as nothing more than weakness.
Up until now there was little he could do, but with the death of the king the rules of the game had been drastically changed. The changes in the politics of London would be seismic and, with a bit of manoeuvring, a clever man could climb the ladder of royal favour quicker than at any other time.
The opportunities were there, they had to be. Any new king would distrust old allegiances and be open to new. All he had to do was work out a way.
He looked out of his window at the castle courtyard. It was all a game to him, each person a real-life chess piece and all sacrificial in his quest for power. Power was everything to him and he wanted it all. The position, the castle, the wealth and the woman, all were there for the taking. Ah, yes, Nesta, the most beautiful yet unreachable woman he had ever set eyes on. Warm yet aloof; endearing yet majestic. Each night he dreamed of the day she would warm his bed and though he knew she thought little of him, he also knew that, one day, whether she liked it or not, it would be he that she called master, not the weakling Gerald.
Mentally exhausted, Salisbury sat down and reached for the wine jug on his table. Foregoing the tankard, he drank straight from the jug and the more he thought, the clearer his mind became. The death of King Henry was not the disaster that everyone made out, at least not for him. Indeed, it was an opportunity to be exploited and the opportunities were many and varied. He could wait for the politics to play out and make an early representation to the new monarch promoting his own skills and loyalty, but that relied on whoever was crowned holding bad feeling towards Gerald and there was no guarantee of that. No, there had to be a way to make the dice fall in his favour so that when he did make the representation, the new king would have no option but to see the sense of his argument.
Over and over he played out the different scenarios in his mind, each time coming to the conclusion that every outcome was too uncertain and each time returning to the one situation with the best hope of success.
Finally, he allowed himself to face the thought that he had avoided for the past hour. As constable, he was the natural successor to Gerald but he could never achieve that role until either the castellan was posted elsewhere or he died, leaving the position vacant.
He replaced the wine jug on the table but cursed as he knocked it over and the contents spilled across the floor. He reached down to retrieve the jug but paused as the scarlet liquid flowed across the stone slabs, as if mimicking the flow of blood from a fatally wounded enemy.
At that exact moment, Salisbury knew for certain what he must do. Gerald had to die, that much was certain, but rather than wait for events or nature to take their natural course, there was only one way to ensure the outcome was final. It needed his involvement.
Decision made, he picked up the jug and walked over to the window again. Down in the courtyard he could see the man who stood in his way. Gerald stood with one of the officers and, though Salisbury knew the castellan couldn’t hear or see him, he spoke to him directly.
‘Enjoy it while you can, Gerald,’ he said quietly. ‘Your days are coming to an end.’
Lifting the jug to his lips he drained the last of the dregs before tossing it into the fireplace to smash against the stone hearth.
There was no more time for drinking; he had plans to make.
Pembroke Castle
December 8th, AD 1135
Nesta stood alongside her husband’s horse, holding the reins while he adjusted his saddle. All around the bailey, armed men carried out similar tasks as they prepared to ride from the castle in search of the brigands who had devastated the supply caravan. The smell of the animals was strong and many pawed the ground, impatient to be gone.
‘Are you sure you really need to do this?’ asked Nesta. ‘I don’t think we have seen the worst of that storm yet and you don’t want to be caught in its wrath.’
‘We have to,’ said Gerald, tightening the girth strap, ‘or the trail will be cold. This assault was the worst in years and if we don’t react with the full force of the Crown’s might then others may be encouraged to attack our columns. Before we know it we could be back to the days when no man could ride the road without fear of being attacked.’
‘But you don’t even know who they are.’
‘Perhaps not, but the tailor’s son told me only a few were mounted so that means they can’t have got far, especially laden with their ill-gotten goods. We will ride back to the site of the attack and then hopefully track them from there. If God is with us, we can hunt them down, retrieve our goods and be back before this storm has chance to regather its strength.’
‘I hope you are right, Gerald,’ said Nesta. ‘It has been a long time since any of you faced a skirmish of any kind and these rebels may be desperate.’
‘They are rebels in name only, Nesta,’ said Gerald, ‘and are no more than thugs and murderers.’
‘My brother was no murderer,’ said Nesta.
‘I did not say that,’ said Gerald. ‘I am referring to this current lot that hide away like frightened rabbits. Your brother, despite his unfortunate choice to oppose the Crown, was a gentleman and a fierce warrior. If he had just embraced the king’s offer of amnesty, then I would gladly have ridden alongside him as a comrade knowing my back was secure.’
‘He was a proud prince of Deheubarth, Gerald, and could never have accepted the king’s coin. You know that.’
‘Well,’ said Gerald, ‘those days are far behind us now so let us move on. My men are well trained and more than a match for anyone operating out of the Cantref Mawr. Don’t worry, Nesta, we will be fine. Besides, I have to get back soon as I suspect we will be summoned to London for the coronation of the new monarch – whoever that may be.’
‘Just be careful, Gerald,’ sighed Nesta, and she tiptoed up to kiss him on the cheek.
Gerald mounted his horse and gave the signal to his captain of the guard to open the gate. The rest of the men mounted their own horses and as one of his lieutenants led the column out through the outer palisade, the castellan stopped below the gate towers and looked up at the constable, standing on the ramparts above.
‘The castle is in your hands until I return, Master Salisbury,’ he shouted. ‘I will hold you responsible for the safety of these walls and all who dwell within them.’
‘They are in good hands, my lord,’ replied Salisbury. ‘God’s speed and I hope you put this viper’s nest to the torch.’
‘Aye, we will,’ said Gerald as he kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks to urge her out of the castle.
‘Close the gates,’ called Salisbury as soon as the castellan was clear. ‘Captain of the guard, attend me in the lesser hall.’
‘Aye, my lord,’ replied the captain.
Nesta stayed where she was until the bolts were finally thrown across the gates, before walking back to the motte.
‘My lady,’ said a voice, and she turned to see Salisbury striding up behind her.
‘Master Salisbury, it seems my husband has placed a great responsibility upon your shoulders. I hope you are up to it.’
‘Worry not for your safety, my lady,’ said Salisbury. ‘The time of Gwenllian terrorising the roads from here to Ceredigion are long gone. These men who claim the title of rebels in her memory are no more than an irritation in comparison. Your husband is more than capable of dealing with their threat and, until he returns, I will personally ensure nothing untoward befalls your person.’
‘I am quite sure that eventuality is not going to come to pass,’ said Nesta. ‘I was thi
nking more of you keeping the rest of the garrison alert and engaged while the castellan is away.’
‘Such things are not for the minds of ladies,’ said Salisbury, ‘especially those as pretty as you, but if you are concerned as to my suitability, perhaps I could allay your fears over the evening meal tomorrow evening?’
‘Thank you, Master Salisbury, but I will be dining alone while my husband is away.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Salisbury. ‘It would be very rude of me to allow such a thing. So, as the host of this castle, I’m afraid I must insist.’
Nesta’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Master Salisbury, may I remind you that my husband is still castellan of this place and by implication that means that I, as his lady, am the official host here. If there are any feasts or celebrations of any kind to be arranged, then it is I who will be the one to instigate them.’
‘Ah,’ said Salisbury. ‘Ordinarily that would indeed be the case, but I think you will find that in times of conflict, military law overrides the quaint customs of courtesy, and outright command goes to the senior officer present. As your husband has now vacated the castle, that means I am now in charge.’ He gave a smile that sent chills deep into Nesta’s heart. ‘So,’ he continued, ‘I will arrange the evening meal to be served in the main hall tomorrow evening. You and the rest of the ladies will attend, and we will toast the health and life of your husband.’
Without waiting for an answer, Salisbury bounded up the steps, leaving Nesta staring at his back. His very presence made her skin crawl and she feared that the next few days were going to be particularly unpleasant.
Llandeilo Manor
December 9th, AD 1135
Carwyn and one of the manor grooms walked along a line of horses outside the stables, inspecting the teeth and hooves of each animal as they passed. The groom ran his hands along their sides and pressed his fingers into the muscle mass at the top of their legs, judging the strengths and weaknesses of each animal. Behind them followed a scribe, noting down any comments they made. To one side stood the selling merchant, waiting nervously to see how many of his animals would pass the stringent inspection. When he had finished, Carwyn, the groom and the scribe talked quietly amongst themselves before the steward finally walked over to the merchant.
