by K. M. Ashman
The soldier looked at the castellan in confusion but did as he was told.
Gerald turned and without warning, threw the sword over to the young man.
Geraint reached out and caught the sword without thinking as Gerald drew his own weapon.
‘Defend yourself,’ snapped Gerald and stepped forward into the attack.
Geraint had no time to think and lifted his sword to deflect the castellan’s assault. The blows came quickly but each time he managed to block them with moves of his own. Eventually the castellan stepped back and stared at the boy but this time there was malice in his eyes.
‘Did you see that, Sergeant?’ he asked over his shoulder.
‘Aye, my lord, I did. The boy handles a sword like no farm labourer I ever knew.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Gerald. ‘He has had training of sorts and that says to me that he is not who he says he is.’
Geraint gulped and knew he had been out manoeuvred. He looked around the clearing, frantically seeking an escape route but saw it was useless. He was surrounded by armed men.
‘Drop the sword,’ said Gerald quietly, ‘and I might yet let you live.’
‘You don’t understand,’ said the young man. ‘I have had some training, I admit, but it was from my father.’
‘Drop the sword,’ said Gerald again.
The boy’s face showed panic and he stepped towards Gerald.
‘Archers,’ roared the sergeant and six bows strained back, each aimed at Geraint’s heart.
‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ said Gerald. ‘Now, for the last time, drop the sword and we will talk.’
The boy’s hand opened and the weapon dropped to the floor.
‘Soldier, retrieve your weapon,’ said Gerald.
The soldier walked over to pick up the sword but as he bent over, the captive grabbed him and spun him around as a human shield against the archers. Before anyone could react, he drew the soldier’s own knife from his belt and held it against his prisoner’s throat.
‘Stand back,’ he roared, ‘or I swear I’ll cut his throat.’
For a few seconds there was silence and everyone stared at the young man, knowing he had nowhere to run. Geraint started to walk backward, dragging his hostage with him.
‘Don’t be stupid, boy,’ said Gerald. ‘How far do you think you will get?’
‘Far enough,’ said Geraint. ‘Don’t try anything or this man dies.’
Again there was silence but seconds later it was broken by the unmistakable sound of a heavy blade being drawn from its sheath. Everyone turned to see the sergeant-at-arms walking forward with his sword hanging loosely from his fist.
‘Stand back,’ shouted Geraint again. ‘Or this man dies.’
‘Go ahead,’ said the sergeant coldly without breaking his stride. ‘He is one man and matters not to me. You, on the other hand, are not going anywhere.’
Geraint panicked and in his moment of hesitation, his hostage broke free, leaving him isolated in the centre of the clearing. Knowing he had been bettered, Geraint threw away his knife and dropped to his knees. ‘Please, my lord,’ he said, ‘have mercy. I swear I am no spy but acted only through fear.’
The sergeant placed his sword under the young man’s chin and lifted his head.
‘You are very close to dying, boy,’ snarled the soldier, ‘unless you tell me the truth, right here, right now. Who are you and where are you from?’
‘My name is not Geraint, my lord,’ gasped the young man as the point of the blade nicked the skin on his throat. ‘It’s Morgan ap Carwyn and I am the son of the steward of Llandeilo Manor.’
The Cantref Mawr
December 15th, AD 1135
Carwyn and Maelgwyn sat at their campfire deep in the centre of the Cantref Mawr. Behind them, their horses were tethered to a tree, both draped in heavy blankets against the cold. Each animal had a nosebag and a leather bucket of water lay between them.
The past few days had been hard going for Carwyn and Maelgwyn, and they had been forced to seek shelter in a crofter’s shack until the remnants of the storm blew itself out, but at last the worst had passed and with a clear sky above they had finally made some good ground.
Carwyn leaned over and stirred the embers before nodding towards Maelgwyn, the unspoken signal that the fire was ready. Maelgwyn lifted the small cooking-pot containing the melted snow and the diced salt-pork and placed it over the flames, suspending it safely from the iron tripod they had brought along with them.
‘How long will this take?’ asked Maelgwyn.
‘A couple of hours,’ said Carwyn, throwing in a handful of salt.
‘A couple of hours? I’ll be dead of hunger by then.’
Carwyn smiled and added in a chopped beet along with a large onion.
‘Trust me,’ he said, ‘it will be worth it. In an hour or so, remind me to add some oats, it’ll thicken the stew.’ He picked up his blade and gently stirred the pot before retreating to sit on his blanket beneath a tree.
‘Father,’ said Maelgwyn, dropping onto his own blanket, ‘there are still a few hours of daylight left, shouldn’t we press on?’
‘Pushing too hard kills many men,’ said Carwyn. ‘Especially in this weather. A few hours’ rest and a hot meal in our bellies will ensure we will travel well tomorrow. We wouldn’t get much further today anyway. I recognise this place and the path gets much harder once we are over this hill.’
‘You have been here before?’
‘I have.’
‘When?’
‘In my younger days,’ said Carwyn. ‘It is a time I would rather forget.’
Maelgwyn stared at him. On occasion, he had overheard his father and mother talking quietly between themselves and had often heard vague references to their early lives together, but whenever he or any of his brothers had enquired further, they had been given short shrift and the conversation was always changed. Despite this, it had become clear that his parents had a past they would rather remained secret and though it was never discussed openly, the brothers reckoned that their parents had once been involved with the rebels. Maelgwyn looked across at Carwyn, frustrated that his father felt he could not trust his own sons. In a moment of madness, he decided he would push his luck.
‘Do you think we are close?’ he asked.
‘To where?’
‘To the rebel camp.’
Carwyn stared at his son.
‘What makes you think we are going to the rebel camp?’
‘Oh, come on, Father,’ said Maelgwyn. ‘Can we not end this pretence? Why is it I am deemed man enough to accompany you in the pursuit of my brother yet when it comes to the detail, I am treated no better than an untrustworthy child? It is obvious we are seeking the rebel camp, for where else could Morgan possibly go to join them? What interests me is how you know where to look?’
‘There are things better left unknown,’ said Carwyn.
‘But why? What is it you have done that is so bad? Is it because you were once a rebel yourself or is it because perhaps you have killed men? Either way, why do you keep it to yourself, for neither I nor my brothers will judge you? On the contrary, our respect would increase manyfold if such was the case.’
‘Causing the death of any man can never increase respect,’ said Carwyn. ‘No matter what the reason.’
‘Even if caused when fighting for the freedom of a people?’
Carwyn remained silent.
‘Father,’ continued Maelgwyn, determined to press the point, ‘I am a man in a man’s world. If you respect me, surely I should know the truth.’
Carwyn sighed and looked up at his son. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually, ‘you should. There are things that are better left unsaid but at least you should know about my past. The truth is, I did ride with the rebels for many years, as did your mother.’
‘My mother was a rebel?’ gasped Maelgwyn.
‘She was,’ said Carwyn, ‘as were many women. We did not differentiate and as long as someone
could fight and ride they were welcome and our group was feared from Ceredigion to Brycheniog.’
‘What happened?’ asked Maelgwyn, leaning forward.
‘The rebellion died away,’ said Carwyn. ‘After they found Tarw’s body at the base of a cliff, his wife disappeared and the heart was ripped from those who had followed her without question. Without Gwenllian at their head, the rebels were nothing. The English started fighting back, and with our children at risk, your mother and I fled the Cantref Mawr to find somewhere safe to raise our family. Through our family’s links, I found work with the Lord of Llandeilo. I worked hard on his estate and a few years later managed to achieve the position I now hold. There, now you know.’
Maelgwyn sat back thoughtfully. ‘I seem to recall a lot of different homes when I was a boy and many times when you were away for long periods of time.’
‘Yes, we had to be on the move constantly and often you and your brothers were left in safe houses. That is no way to bring up a family so we made the decision to stop.’
‘Wait,’ said Maelgwyn. ‘If I remember such things then surely Morgan has more recollection than I?’
‘Morgan is fully aware of our history,’ said Carwyn. ‘And that is why he feels so much affinity with the rebel cause. It is as if he feels there is unfinished business.’
‘He knows you were once rebels?’
‘He does.’
‘He never once revealed that information,’ said Maelgwyn quietly, ‘but carried it as his own secret.’
‘I would say, more like an unwanted burden,’ said Carwyn. ‘That’s why he had to move out into the soldiers’ quarters, he was always so opinionated and critical of why we abandoned the cause.’
‘Do you regret leaving the rebels?’ asked Maelgwyn.
Carwyn remained silent, just staring over at the flames of the fire.
‘You do, don’t you?’ said Maelgwyn. ‘You were fighting for something you believed in yet had to give it up for the safety of your sons. No wonder you hold a grudge.’
Carwyn’s head spun around to face Maelgwyn. ‘No,’ he snapped. ‘Don’t you ever think I hold a grudge against you and your brothers. The truth is I would give up anything for you, even my life. Yes, I feel there are still things we should do to stop the English from devouring our lands but until all my sons reach the age to make their own decisions, I will do nothing to risk our family. A life of rebellion is harder than you could ever imagine and, with the English now spread across Deheubarth like a bloody stain, there is no way we could ever regain the strength and power we need to make a difference. That’s why we must find your brother as soon as possible. He chases a dream, Maelgwyn, those days are over.’
Silence fell again. Maelgwyn walked over to the fire and stirred the pot, his mind deep in thought.
‘So, did you know him?’ he said eventually.
‘Know who?’
‘Tarw, the rebel prince.’
‘Aye,’ said Carwyn. ‘I knew him.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Opinionated. Passionate about his country’s freedom, yet deeply flawed.’
‘In what way?’
‘He thought he could do it all,’ said Carwyn, ‘and often wouldn’t listen to those who knew better until the day it cost him the life of his brother.’
‘I didn’t know he had a brother?’
‘Aye, a man called Hywel and he hated the English more than any man I ever met.’
Maelgwyn returned to his place on his sleeping blanket. ‘Why did he hate them so much?’
‘Because he had been their prisoner since a little boy, suffering brutality and mutilation at their hands. When he was finally freed he took it upon himself to pay back the horrors with interest. No man English born was safe.’
‘So what happened?’
‘The Prince sent him to his death, that’s what happened.’
‘How?’
‘By not listening to his peers. He sent him on a mission deep into the heart of English territory against the advice of men who knew better. Three days later they found his head atop a spike at Poor-man’s bridge. Anyway, enough talk. Go and collect some more wood for the fire.’
Maelgwyn stared at his father again. The way he had brought the conversation to an abrupt end signalled that he would talk no more. Still, Maelgwyn was satisfied for it was more detail than his father had ever shared before about his past. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. He got to his feet and pulled his cloak tighter about him before walking into the trees.
‘Don’t go too far,’ called Carwyn, ‘and make sure the wood is as dry as you can.’
Maelgwyn grunted a reply and looked up the small slope. The trees looked thicker there and any deadfall should be better protected from the weather. Quickly he walked up the hill until it flattened out at the top. He walked further into the trees, tossing whatever wood he could find into small piles for collection on the way back but hadn’t gone far when something caught his eye through the trees.
Carefully he walked forward, coming to a halt and staring in horror as the terrible sight became clear. Hanging from the trees were the bodies of dozens of men and women, each with their hands tied behind their back. Some were stripped naked and bore the evidence of having been beaten before they were hanged while others dangled above bloodstained snow, their wounds frozen open in a graphic display of brutality.
Maelgwyn looked at a pile of frozen bodies near a fallen tree trunk and was horrified to see each had been decapitated. He walked over and found the head of each corpse lying scattered on the other side of the log, their sightless eyes staring accusingly as if it was he who had wielded the blade. The scene was devastating and for several minutes, Maelgwyn looked around the site of the slaughter, his heart racing. At last, he started to retrace his steps back to his father and as he left the clearing, he began to run, all thoughts of firewood forgotten.
Back in Llandeilo Manor, Branwen sat at the table in her house, feeding the two youngest of her four sons. Despite them both being of an age where she needed eyes in the back of her head to keep them out of mischief, she couldn’t help but be distracted. Her husband had been gone for days, for as soon as he had found out about Morgan’s intentions he had immediately gone after him, knowing full well that the life of a rebel held only heartache and pain. Maelgwyn had insisted on joining his father, and it was only when he swore he would set out on his own if denied the chance that Carwyn had relented and allowed him to go. Since then there had been no word and with every day that passed, Branwen became more and more worried. Having once ridden as a rebel herself, she knew only too well the steeliness and commitment needed just to survive in the forests, and that was without the skills at arms needed if it came to a fight. She had seen many men die over the years and as most were far better with a sword than any of her sons, she couldn’t help but fear for their safety.
She finished feeding the youngest boy and placed him on the floor to play, when a knock came on the door and one of the manor servants walked in.
‘My lady,’ she said, with a bow of her head, ‘Lord Bevan wants to know if the steward has returned yet, and if so, could he attend him immediately?’
‘Master Carwyn is still away,’ said Branwen, wiping her hands on a linen cloth.
‘Is he due back anytime soon?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Branwen. ‘What is so urgent that demands his presence?’
‘I know not, my lady, but Lord Bevan paces the floor like an expectant father.’
Branwen stared at the servant, knowing it was unlike the lord to get so stressed without good cause, and it was even more rare for him to summon her husband at so short notice.
‘Could you look after the boys for a while, Gwyneth?’ said Branwen. ‘I will return as soon as possible.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked the servant.
‘To see Lord Bevan. Perhaps there is something I can do to ease his manner.’ She pulled a shawl around her shoulders and left the house
to run across the courtyard, entering the manor through a side door near the kitchens. Inside, one of the serving girls curtsied as she passed, her face red from worry.
‘Where is the master?’ asked Branwen.
‘In his chambers, my lady, but he is in no mood for visitors.’
‘Thank you,’ said Branwen, and she pressed on. Moments later she ran up a wide stairway and stood outside the door to the lord’s private rooms.
‘My lord,’ she said, knocking on the door, ‘it’s Branwen. Can I come in?’
For a few moments there was silence but then she heard someone walking across to open the door.
‘Branwen,’ said Bevan from across the room as a page opened the door, ‘come in. Is your husband with you?’
‘No,’ said Branwen, ‘but I heard you are of a troubled mind. Perhaps I can help.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Bevan with a sigh, ‘but your opinion is always welcome. Please, take a seat, I will get us a drink.’
Branwen walked into the room and was surprised how warm it was. She removed her shawl and sat on the offered chair.
‘It’s like a summer’s day in here,’ she said, looking at the roaring fire in the hearth.
‘Aye, but not as hot as my mood, you will find.’
‘So I have heard,’ said Branwen, glancing over to the page standing silently in the corner. ‘Is it something you wish to discuss?’
Bevan also looked over to the boy. ‘You,’ he said, ‘be gone and see that we are not disturbed.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said the boy. He ran from the room, closing the door behind him. Bevan locked the door and walked over to the table to pour two goblets of wine.
‘At least we can now talk openly,’ he said, handing her one of the drinks.
Branwen sipped her wine but noted he remained on his feet.
‘So where is your husband?’ continued Bevan.
‘Out looking for Morgan,’ she replied.
‘Still no word?’
‘None, and I am getting worried if truth be told.’
‘It pains me to say this, Branwen, but you may have good reason to be worried.’
‘Why?’ asked Branwen. ‘Is there something I should be aware of?’
