by K. M. Ashman
‘It was hardly a feast,’ said Nesta. ‘We just shared our table with others whose partners were on campaign.’
‘It sounds good,’ said Gerald. ‘Did it go well?’
Nesta hesitated, wondering whether to tell her husband about the pass Salisbury had made at her when all the guests had left. She swallowed hard at the memory and subconsciously her hand went to her injured arm, the bruises still purple beneath her sleeve where the constable had forced her back against the wall. For a few moments that night she had feared she was going to be raped but Salisbury was anything but stupid and had eventually backed off, making it clear that if she reported his unwelcome advances to her husband, he would accuse her of making the first move. After her history with Owain ap Cadwgan years earlier, she knew there was no guarantee that Gerald would believe her version over Salisbury’s.
‘Yes,’ she said with a forced smile, ‘it was fine but I am glad you are back. It wasn’t the same without you at my side.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Gerald, looking over to the unopened messages still on the table. ‘Perhaps so, but I am beginning to wonder if it is less stressful hunting brigands.’
‘Why?’ asked Nesta, following his gaze. ‘Are you in receipt of bad news?’
‘Not bad news as such,’ said Gerald. ‘At least not yet.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just the politics of the Crown,’ said Gerald sitting back and wiping his mouth with a napkin. ‘As you know, a few years ago, Henry made his barons swear fealty to his daughter should he die without a male heir. At the time there were many grumbles but few opposed him. Now that very thing has come to pass, the barons are backtracking on their oaths and there is turmoil around the empty throne.’
‘I have already told you I believed there was never any chance that Matilda would be crowned once Henry died. The role is too great for any woman to hold alone.’
‘She wouldn’t have been alone,’ said Gerald. ‘Her husband, Geoffrey Plantagenet, would sit alongside her until their sons came of age. I think that is what has angered the barons so much. They want one of their own as king, especially as the Normans are pushing the case for Theobald de Blois.’
‘So what do you think is going to happen?’
‘Well that’s what is so worrying. It seems that Theobald’s brother, Stephen de Blois, has taken advantage of the confusion and landed with his army on the east coast. As we speak he is headed for London to press his case.’
‘And will he succeed?’
‘Who knows, but I will say this. If he does, Matilda will not take it lightly and I fear we will be forced to choose sides. Civil war is in the air, my love, and if it comes, it will not leave us unscathed.’
The following morning, the sun was high in the sky when Carwyn and Maelgwyn finally crested a hill overlooking Pembroke town. In the distance they could see the formidable wooden palisades of the castle and the sprawl of tightly packed houses below. Both men were exhausted but they knew they could waste no time if they were to help Morgan.
With a kick of their heels, they made their way down to the town and headed for the nearest tavern. Carwyn paid a boy to take their horses to a stable and booked two cots in the back room for two days.
‘You’re in luck,’ the landlord had said when Carwyn had first asked. ‘I have two cots left. The rest are all full. It’s always a good draw when there’s a hanging to be seen. Is that why you are here?’
‘A hanging?’ said Carwyn. ‘Who is the criminal?’
‘There are several,’ said the landlord. ‘All captured in the Cantref Mawr not a few days since. I like seeing no man die but it is good for business.’
Carwyn glanced at Maelgwyn and saw a look of fear in his son’s eyes. Both had realised that Morgan was probably amongst those condemned.
‘Tell me,’ said Carwyn, turning back to the landlord, ‘who is running the hanging?’
‘The constable of course, a man called John of Salisbury. A cruel man, true enough.’
‘Does he have rooms in the town?’
‘No, he is based in the castle. Why do you ask?’
‘I need to ask him something,’ said Carwyn. ‘How can I get in to see him?’
‘You can’t,’ said the landlord. ‘Unless you are summoned or working there, nobody gets in through the gates.’
‘Thank you,’ said Carwyn and he turned to Maelgwyn. ‘Come on, we have no time to waste.’
Ten minutes later they were in the town square watching a team of carpenters hard at work building a large wooden structure.
‘What are they making?’ Maelgwyn asked to a man in the crowd.
‘A scaffold for the hanging,’ replied the man. ‘There are a dozen men to swing so the old one was too small.’
Maelgwyn glanced at his father. ‘What are we going to do?’ he asked.
‘First of all,’ said Carwyn, ‘we will try to do this the right way. Morgan is innocent of all charges and we will try to make representation to the constable.’
‘How?’
‘By asking,’ said Carwyn. ‘Come on.’ He led the way up to the castle gates but as they neared, the two guards stepped forward and presented their pikes.
‘Hold there, my friend,’ said one of the guards. ‘State your business.’
‘I need to speak to the constable,’ said Carwyn.
‘About what?’
‘About my son. He is being held within the castle and is falsely accused of being a rebel.’
‘Ah, another innocent,’ sneered the other guard. ‘If only I had a penny for every rebel who claims innocence as soon as he is faced with the scaffold.’
‘This is different,’ said Carwyn. ‘He was just travelling and was swept up with all the rest. If you allow me an audience with the constable, I can prove it.’
‘How?’
‘Because I am the steward of Llandeilo Manor and can send for letters of reference from the Lord of Llandeilo. If you execute this man, you will be making a terrible mistake.’
‘What do you think?’ asked the first soldier to the second.
‘Not going to happen,’ said the second soldier dismissively. ‘All representations for clemency or dispute resolutions are to be made on the last day of the month in an open court. Come back then and he will hear your case.’
‘But the hangings are in a few days,’ shouted Maelgwyn. ‘The end of the month is weeks away. Are you both stupid?’
Both soldiers lowered their pikes into a threatening position.
‘Watch your mouth, boy,’ said one of the men, ‘else you could be joining your brother on the scaffold.’
‘Enough, Maelgwyn,’ snapped Carwyn. ‘Come on, we will try something else.’ He led his son back down the timber ramp towards the town.
‘We have to rescue him, Father,’ said Maelgwyn as they went.
‘I know,’ said Carwyn, ‘but there’s no way to get inside that castle.’
‘You heard those men. The prisoners have already been found guilty. There’s no way the constable will listen to reason.’
‘Oh yes there is,’ said Carwyn, ‘because I have something he will accept in return for Morgan’s life.’
‘What?’ asked Maelgwyn.
‘You’ll see soon enough,’ said Carwyn, ‘but let us be gone before those soldiers decide to arrest us for your outburst.’
They walked back down to the town and made their way back to their lodgings. Carwyn’s mind was in a turmoil for he could see no resolution to the problem apart from the one he least wanted to do. However, deep inside he knew it had to be done if his eldest son was to survive. With a heavy heart he looked over at Maelgwyn. His hand reached out to his son’s shoulder and he squeezed it hard.
‘Whatever happens in the next few days, son,’ he said, ‘never forget I love you.’
Llandeilo Manor
December 20th, AD 1135
Branwen stood in the gateway of the manor walls, gazing out over the fields and slopes leading up to the nearby hills
. She still had no news as to the whereabouts of her husband or sons and every day that passed worried her more. She knew that Carwyn could more than look after himself but her sons had been brought up mainly within the confines of the manor walls and were unused to the trials of life in the saddle. She heard someone walking up behind her and turned to see Lord Bevan approaching, his face creased with worry. In his hand he held a letter and instinctively she knew it was bad news.
‘Lord Bevan,’ she said, ‘what is it?’
‘Branwen,’ he replied, ‘I have had correspondence from Pembroke and it is not good.’
‘Is it about Carwyn?’ she asked.
‘No, it is regarding Morgan. Apparently he has been arrested for spying on behalf of the rebels and has been sentenced to hang.’
‘Spying?’ gasped Branwen. ‘But he hasn’t been gone long enough to even find the rebels, let alone become one of their trusted men.’
‘I know, and there has obviously been a terrible mistake. Of course I will send a messenger to beg for mercy but I’m afraid my pleas may not carry much weight with the governor there.’
‘Then I must go myself,’ said Branwen, her eyes hardening. ‘I will not abandon him.’
‘Branwen, I know you could lose your son but he has chosen his own path. There is nothing you can do to change the situation.’
‘No,’ said Branwen. ‘Nothing is more important than a mother’s son. What will be, will be, Lord Bevan, but while he is still alive there is always hope. If I could entrust my two other children to the servants of the manor, I will be away within the hour.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Bevan. ‘For this whole mess could see everything you have built here fall apart. If they find out you once rode with the rebels they could still make you pay the ultimate price.’
‘It is a risk I have to take,’ said Branwen. ‘If Carwyn was here he would do the same. I cannot just stand back and let my son hang.’
Bevan stared at Branwen for a few seconds knowing that once she had set her mind on something there was no stopping her. With a sigh he took her hand. ‘If you do this,’ he said, ‘you know that your life will never be the same.’
‘I know,’ she said quietly, ‘but if not to save the life of my son, then what other reason could there ever be.’
Bevan nodded. ‘I will arrange an escort for you,’ he said, ‘trusted men who can be relied on if it comes to a fight.’
‘Thank you,’ said Branwen, ‘but there is no need. Robert will be at my side and there are others whom I can call upon if needed. All I ask is that my other two boys are well cared for in my absence.’
‘You know they will be,’ said Bevan.
‘Thank you,’ said Branwen. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get ready. I may already be too late.’
Back in Pembroke, Carwyn and Maelgwyn made their way through the crowd to the scaffold. The square was already full of people and the mood was ugly. Twelve ropes hung from the cross pole, blowing gently in the morning breeze. An armed soldier stood at each corner, protecting the platform from any sort of sabotage; in the distance, they could see a line of men being escorted down the hill from the castle gates. Each prisoner had his hands tied before him and they were fastened to each other by ropes around their necks. Many were hardly able to walk such were their injuries and it was obvious they had all suffered terribly at the hands of the castle torturer. Maelgwyn climbed up onto the sill of a window to try to see his brother.
‘There he is,’ he said. ‘The last man.’
‘I can’t see him from here,’ said Carwyn. ‘Is he hurt?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Maelgwyn. ‘It’s difficult to see from here.’
‘Come,’ replied Carwyn. ‘We have to get closer to the scaffold.’
Maelgwyn jumped down and they forced their way through the crowd. Soon they were at the front and they waited patiently as the prisoners and the guards drew near.
‘Look,’ said Maelgwyn, pointing up the path towards the castle, ‘that must be the constable.’
Carwyn followed his gaze and saw several mounted men following the prisoners down the hill.
‘Aye,’ said Carwyn quietly, ‘and he is exactly the man we need.’
The crowd parted to allow the condemned men and the guards through. They climbed up to the scaffold and the guards made each of the prisoners stand behind a noose. Behind them came the executioner, a squat man with a broad muscled chest. He was stripped to the waist and his torso was covered with hundreds of tiny tattoos, each forming the shape of a cross, one for each man he had sent to his death. The crowd fell silent as the constable eventually followed him up the steps.
Maelgwyn and his father stared up at the scaffold. All of the prisoners bore the marks of severe beatings and most had at least one broken or dislocated arm. In comparison, Morgan was relatively unharmed. His eyes were blackened and his face swollen but apart from that it seemed he was in far better condition than the others. Carwyn turned his attention to Salisbury, trying to judge the man’s mettle. The constable was well known across Deheubarth for his cruelty; but he was also known for his greed and thirst for power, and it was these traits that Carwyn hoped to exploit.
As he watched, the constable walked slowly behind each prisoner, pausing occasionally to twist an already dislocated shoulder or prod an open wound with the point of his blade, smiling as each victim cried out in pain. His narrow face was almost gaunt in comparison to other men and a wispy beard did nothing to hide the bony jawlines sweeping down from each side of his balding head.
‘Good people of Pembroke,’ announced the constable as he reached the end of the line, ‘you have been summoned here today to witness the execution of these twelve men for the crimes of brigandry and murder. Have no compassion for their pain, for each are murderers and are better off dead. Let this punishment send out a message to every man, woman or child who raises a fist against the Crown that such actions will be met with swift and unrelenting justice.’ He turned to face the condemned men.
‘As constable of Pembroke,’ he said loudly, ‘it falls upon me to send you to whatever fate awaits you. May God have mercy on your souls. Executioner, carry out the sentence.’
The broad man stepped forward and placed the noose around the first man’s neck. As he did, the victim started to shake and tears flowed from his eyes as he realised the moment of death was finally upon him.
‘Merciful Father,’ he whispered through his tears, ‘forgive me for my sins. Accept me into your house . . .’
Before he could finish, the executioner pushed him from the scaffold and the rope tightened as his descent came to a shuddering stop a few feet above the ground. The executioner looked over the edge and saw the victim’s neck hadn’t broken and the man was choking to death. The smell of faeces filled the air as the victim lost control of his bowels and he twisted and turned at the end of the rope, desperately fighting against the inevitable.
‘Move on,’ ordered the constable, and with a shrug the executioner moved across to the second man.
‘Father, we have to do something,’ said Maelgwyn, ‘before it’s too late.’
Carwyn’s mind worked furiously. It was obvious that any attempt at a physical rescue would only result in the injury or death of himself and perhaps Maelgwyn, and he was not about to risk a second son. Without warning he stepped forward to just in front of the line of guards surrounding the scaffold. The soldiers all stepped forward, each alert for any sign of interference.
‘Step back,’ growled one, ‘or I will drop you where you stand.’
Carwyn ignored him and looked up at the constable. ‘My lord,’ he shouted, ‘I bid you wait.’
Salisbury looked over, annoyed at the interruption, but said nothing. Instead he nodded towards the executioner and a second man fell to his death.
‘My lord,’ shouted Carwyn again, ‘please, hear my petition.’
‘The time for petitions is done,’ answered one of the guards. ‘Stand back.’
/> ‘What if I was to say at least one of these men is innocent?’ shouted Carwyn. ‘Surely you have a duty to hear me?’
‘These men have been tried before a court of the governor and found guilty,’ came the reply. ‘Now stand back or I will have you arrested for actions in support of a criminal.’
‘But I can vouch for the man’s innocence, as can the Lord of Llandeilo. Surely a noble’s word should carry some weight.’
‘Shut that man up,’ shouted the executioner as his third victim choked to death. ‘I am trying to do a job of work here.’
‘My lord, you cannot hang an innocent man,’ shouted Carwyn. ‘If you do, all these people will witness that your justice is tainted. How then can you morally demand that the people adhere to the laws when all along they know that fairness does not have a place in your judgement? I thought that Gerald was a better man than that.’
Two soldiers sprang forward and grabbed Carwyn. Maelgwyn was surprised when his father did not struggle and pushed forward to help.
‘Stand back,’ said Carwyn, making Maelgwyn stop in his tracks. ‘I know what I am doing.’
‘Wait,’ shouted a voice and everyone turned to see the constable staring at Carwyn from the far side of the scaffold. He slowly walked across the platform, holding up his hand towards the executioner as he passed to temporarily halt the hangings.
‘Release him,’ said Salisbury and he waited as the soldiers stepped back into line. He looked down, his cruel eyes narrowing, trying to remember where he had seen the man before. ‘Who are you?’ he asked eventually. ‘Your face is familiar to me.’
‘I am Carwyn, my lord,’ came the reply, ‘and I am the manor steward at Llandeilo. My master is Lord Bevan ap Maldwyn.’
‘Ah, so you are the steward,’ said Salisbury. ‘That explains your outburst. Indeed, it probably explains why you look familiar. Perhaps that is where I have seen you before?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Carwyn, knowing full well that it was not in Llandeilo where their paths had crossed in the past.
