The Warrior Princess

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘I suppose you are here to plead on behalf of your son?’

  ‘You know one of the prisoners is my son?’ asked Carwyn, surprised.

  ‘Indeed I do. And you are correct when you say Lord Bevan would vouch for your son, for I have a letter in my possession doing just that. Received this very morning.’

  ‘You do?’ asked Carwyn, caught off guard by the revelation. ‘How did he know he had been arrested?’

  ‘Because we are not barbarians, Master Carwyn. When your son finally declared his true identity, we wrote to Lord Bevan and gave him the chance to explain why one of his staff was spying for the rebels. We also invited him to speak on behalf of your son.’

  Carwyn’s mind was in turmoil. If this was true, then Branwen would also know about Morgan’s plight and she would be beside herself with fear and worry.

  ‘If you have a letter from Lord Bevan, surely he speaks glowingly on behalf of my son?’

  ‘He does and indeed is full of praise for the boy’s character. Alas, that does not give your son amnesty from paying the price demanded when convicted of rebellion. All such criminals are equal in the eyes of the law, irrespective of station or birthright, and I’m sure these people would have it no other way.’

  A murmur rippled around the crowd in support of the constable. He was not a popular man but if there were hangings to be done, then all should be treated the same with no favour for station.

  ‘I understand that,’ said Carwyn, ‘but my son is no rebel. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘He was in the Cantref Mawr not three leagues away from a known brigand camp. In fact, it was these very people who robbed a caravan with meat intended for Pembroke and killed all those innocents some of whom were coming home to visit loved ones.’ Again a murmur of anger rippled around the crowd and Salisbury knew his approach was winning them over. ‘I am sorry, Master Carwyn,’ continued Salisbury, ‘but your son is responsible for his own actions and even if he was not actually a rebel than it seems highly likely that he was seeking the rebel camp to become one himself. These good people suffer almost daily as a result of brigandry and it is their safety that spurs our need for justice. The decision has been made and the sentence stands. Your son will be hanged.’ He turned away to return to the far end of the platform.

  ‘Wait,’ called Carwyn. ‘There is more.’

  ‘I have allowed your petition, Master Carwyn,’ said Salisbury, as he walked away, ‘and this conversation is over. Executioner, proceed.’

  Another man was pushed from the scaffold and Carwyn knew he was running out of time. He pushed his way along the crowd until he was nearer to the constable and looked up at his son at the end of the line. Morgan’s face was hugely swollen and one eye completely closed. His naked torso bore the blisters of dozens of burns and the ends of his fingers were a bloody mess where his fingernails had been torn away.

  Carwyn swallowed hard. Every fibre of his body demanded he jump up onto the platform and cut away the ropes, fighting if he had to, but he knew it was pointless. There were far too many guards.

  ‘Father,’ mumbled Morgan through his bloody lips. ‘Take Maelgwyn away. Don’t let him see me die like this.’

  ‘You are not going to die,’ snarled Carwyn. ‘I swear it.’

  ‘It’s too late,’ said Morgan. ‘There is nothing you can do.’

  ‘Oh yes there is,’ said Carwyn as another two men fell to their deaths. He turned to look up at the constable.

  ‘John of Salisbury,’ he said calmly, yet loud enough for the constable to hear. ‘What you are about to do here is injustice of the highest order but if you won’t listen to reason, then I will offer you a price for my son’s life.’

  Salisbury looked down with a sneer. ‘Do you really think I would take a few measly shillings in return for the life of a rebel? The people would never allow it.’

  ‘I don’t offer money,’ said Carwyn. ‘I offer something far more valuable than you could ever imagine, something that would make your name renowned across England as the man who did what no other could ever do, knight or king.’

  Salisbury looked down, his interest raised. ‘And you are in possession of such a gift?’

  ‘Aye, I am,’ said Carwyn, ‘but first I want you to swear that in return you will release my son.’

  Morgan looked down at his father, realising what he was about to do. ‘Father, no,’ he gasped. ‘Don’t do this.’

  ‘What about it, Salisbury?’ continued Carwyn, ignoring his son. ‘How would you like to go down in the history books as one of the most influential men of our age?’

  ‘Tell me what is on offer, Carwyn, and perhaps we will talk.’

  ‘No,’ said Carwyn, starting to sweat. ‘Release my son first and then we will talk.’

  Salisbury nodded towards the executioner and victim number seven was pushed off the platform, his neck snapping like a winter branch.

  ‘You are in no position to make demands,’ said Salisbury, ‘and are running out of time. Now if you have nothing more, I have business to conclude.’ Another man was pushed from the scaffold, screaming in fear until the sudden jolt ended his cries.

  ‘Wait,’ said Carwyn. ‘Enough. I will tell you what you want to know.’

  Salisbury held up his hand to the executioner and walked over to stand above Carwyn. ‘Explain yourself.’

  ‘What if I was to say I can deliver the most wanted man in the kingdom into your hands. A man the king himself would pay a fortune to lay his hands on.’

  ‘And who would that man be?’

  Carwyn looked around at the crowd. Silence had fallen amongst those in earshot and he knew they were waiting on his every word.

  ‘Father,’ gasped Morgan again. ‘Don’t do this.’

  ‘The man I speak of,’ continued Carwyn, ‘is the one who was solely responsible for ravaging Deheubarth for years, causing the deaths of many loyal to the English Crown and untold strain on the Crown’s treasuries.’

  ‘There has not been such a man since Gruffydd ap Rhys and his whore of a wife decided to lead these lands into open rebellion,’ said Salisbury, ‘and he has long rotted in a pauper’s grave.’

  ‘Has he?’ asked Carwyn. ‘How do you know it was him?’

  ‘He was identified by one of the king’s own men after a pursuit,’ said Salisbury, ‘and we hung his corpse to rot in the summer sun.’

  ‘He was identified by a king’s man, I agree,’ said Carwyn, ‘but I know that the witness also had allegiances to his own Welsh heritage and was paid handsomely for the identification.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Salisbury. ‘Nought but the wishful thinking of a desperate man.’

  ‘Is it?’ replied Carwyn. ‘The pursuit was easily engineered as was the scene of the prince’s death. The dead man you found was the son of a farmer who had broken his neck in a fall from his horse. His resemblance to Tarw was uncanny and the plot was hatched to make the English think the prince was truly dead. In truth, he has been living a second life not far from here, right under your very noses.’

  Conversation rippled through the front rows of the crowd. If what this man was saying was true, there was a chance that Gruffydd ap Rhys, their last prince of Deheubarth, was alive and well.

  Salisbury stared at Carwyn, his mind working furiously. The thought of a wanted prince living as a commoner was ludicrous, yet such was this man’s conviction, there may be the slightest of chances that his tale might be true.

  ‘Even if I believe you,’ said the constable eventually, ‘are you saying you are willing and able to reveal his whereabouts to me?’

  ‘Aye, but only upon the release of my son.’

  ‘Father,’ moaned Morgan again, ‘don’t do this, please.’

  ‘Don’t betray the prince,’ shouted a lone voice from amongst the crowd.

  Salisbury looked around the crowd and saw the mood was changing. The Welsh prince and his warrior wife had been the scourge of the south for many years. Their band o
f brigands had been fearless and all the castles from Brycheniog to Ceredigion had feared for their supply lines. At one point, Henry himself had offered them an amnesty if they would stop their campaign but they had declined and continued their fight against the occupying forces. Many men died, on both sides, yet their hit-and-run offensive carried on relentlessly until, suddenly, it all came to a stop. The body of Tarw had been found mangled along with his horse at the bottom of a ravine and when it was positively identified as the prince, his wife also disappeared and peace returned to Deheubarth.

  Despite the hardships, they had been a popular couple, often redistributing their ill-gotten gains amongst the poor. Their generosity and unfaltering patriotism had garnered them many loyal supporters and Salisbury knew that if there was the slightest chance that this man’s outrageous claim might be true, he had a duty to explore it.

  He looked at the remaining four men on the scaffold. Each already had a noose around their necks and the executioner stood waiting to finish the job. Without warning, Salisbury walked behind the condemned men and pushed three off the scaffold in quick succession. Voices were raised in protest and all the soldiers presented their weapons against any surge of the angry crowd.

  ‘Stop,’ shouted Carwyn as Salisbury grabbed Morgan. ‘I am telling the truth, I swear.’

  Salisbury pushed Morgan close to the edge of the platform and glared down at Carwyn. ‘I don’t know if you are wasting my time or are simply a madman,’ he spat, ‘but I will tell you this. I do not negotiate with anyone trying to hold me to ransom. If you are telling the truth and you know where this man is, you will spit it out right now or I swear you will hear your son’s neck snap by the time I count to ten. One, two, three . . .’

  ‘All right,’ shouted Carwyn in panic, ‘I will tell you. Pull him back!’

  Salisbury dragged Morgan back from the edge but held him by his hair.

  ‘Spit it out, Carwyn, where is the prince?’

  ‘Can I approach?’ asked Carwyn. ‘These words are for your ears only.’

  Salisbury didn’t answer but instead turned to speak to one of the soldiers by his side. The soldier walked down the steps with two of his comrades and searched Carwyn before dragging him up to the platform.

  ‘So,’ said Salisbury as Carwyn stood before him. ‘Tell me what you know.’

  ‘When you said you recognised my face earlier,’ said Carwyn quietly, ‘you were correct. We have met before, for we have talked many years ago, before I took the path of a freedom fighter. You know my face because I am the man we are talking about. I am Prince Gruffydd ap Rhys. I am the one known as Tarw!’

  For a few moments Salisbury’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Carwyn.

  ‘Listen to me,’ hissed Carwyn, meeting the constable’s gaze. ‘Look at my face, listen to my voice. You know I am telling the truth. We met inside this very castle many years ago. Nesta is my sister and she introduced me to you.’

  For a few seconds there was silence but, eventually, a thin sneer of recognition played about Salisbury’s mouth. ‘By Satan’s teeth,’ he said, ‘I do believe you are who you say you are.’

  ‘I am,’ said Carwyn, ‘and if you need proof, just present me before Gerald, for in the past he and I met on several occasions when he first wed my sister. He will vouch for who I am.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Salisbury, his face opening up into a smile, ‘this is not Gerald’s victory, this is all mine.’

  ‘Do what you will,’ said Carwyn, ‘but I have kept my side of the bargain. Release my son and I will walk freely up that hill and face whatever fate you have planned for me.’

  ‘I promise you will meet your fate,’ said Salisbury, ‘and it will be at the end of a rope but it won’t be in the castle, it will be right here, today, alongside your treacherous son.’

  ‘What?’ cried Carwyn as the soldiers seized him again. ‘But we had a bargain.’

  ‘You heard me earlier,’ said Salisbury. ‘I do not bargain with those who use blackmail as a weapon. You will hang today as payment for trying to free a lawfully convicted rebel under false pretences.’

  ‘You can’t do this,’ said Carwyn. ‘I am Gruffydd ap Rhys, prince of Deheubarth, and I demand a fair trial before a court of my peers.’

  ‘As far as I am aware,’ said Salisbury, ‘you are nothing more than an idiot with a ridiculous story made up to save the neck of your rebel son. For all I know you could be a rebel yourself.’

  ‘But you recognised me,’ gasped Carwyn. ‘I know you did.’

  ‘Possibly, but I am not willing to take the risk and, either way, I cannot lose. If you are lying then the world is less one more madman but if you tell the truth, then everyone already thinks you are dead so you will not be missed. Oh, this is good, Welshman. You have truly made me a very happy man.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ shouted Maelgwyn from down below. ‘Release him.’

  ‘Shut him up,’ snapped Salisbury and Maelgwyn was beaten to the ground by two soldiers.

  ‘Executioner,’ called Salisbury. ‘Find me a noose. This man is a lunatic and has just admitted riding with the rebels. We will hang father and son, side by side.’

  Carwyn stared at Salisbury in defiance. He may have failed in his task but he would not let this man have the satisfaction of seeing any regret or fear in his face.

  ‘Do your worst, Salisbury,’ he said, ‘and may your soul rot in hell.’

  Moments later, Carwyn and Morgan both stood at the edge of the platform waiting for their lives to end. Below them, Maelgwyn struggled frantically but some of the crowd held him back, knowing that if he interfered, there would be three members of the same family hanging from the gallows. Salisbury descended the steps and walked in front of the crowd before turning to face the scaffold above.

  ‘I have a better view from down here,’ he laughed, ‘and want to see your face as you realise it was all for naught. All the campaigns, all the manufactured heroism, it was all in vain and it all comes down to this, you dancing at the end of a rope at my behest. You may well be who you say you are but it is I, a man of common birth who has worked his way up, sweating blood and tears, who will bring your reign to an end.’

  ‘Don’t justify your life amongst honest men,’ spat Carwyn. ‘You have made your name through deceit, bribery and brutality. I go to my God with a clear conscience, a situation eternally denied to you and your like. Get it over with, Salisbury, being in your presence sickens my soul.’

  The constable’s face darkened and without removing his stare, he called out to the tattooed man waiting on the platform.

  ‘Executioner, in the name of King Henry and the people of England, I, John of Salisbury, Constable of Pembroke and representative of Sir Gerald of Windsor, hereby condemn this man to death, with execution to be carried out immediately. Deliver him unto the hands of the Lord and may God have mercy on their souls.’

  ‘Nooo,’ screamed Maelgwyn as the executioner stepped forward but he knew it was too late; his father and older brother were about to die before his very eyes.

  Pembroke

  December 20th, AD 1135

  The executioner raised his hands to push the men to their deaths, but before he could carry out his lethal task, the crowd heard a thud and he staggered backward, staring down at his chest in confusion. In amongst the multitude of tiny crosses was the fletched end of an arrow that had smashed into his body.

  The pain still hadn’t registered when two more arrows joined the first and he fell back against one of the scaffold supports, looking down at the constable as if seeking an explanation. For a few seconds, the crowd stared in confusion and it was only when the executioner fell to one side that reality kicked in. A woman screamed and everyone turned to see where the arrows had come from, just as the air filled with willow and steel.

  ‘To arms,’ roared one of the sergeants. ‘Sound the alarm, we are under attack—’ But before he could draw a sword, he too fell to the ground, clutching at an arrow through his throat. A h
orn echoed through the morning air, and up at the castle, the sentries atop the palisade relayed the alarm down into the bailey.

  In the square, panic ensued as men fell to all sides and dozens of archers on the nearby roofs released arrow after arrow towards the soldiers surrounding the platform. Carwyn quickly realised what was happening and shouted down to his son, his voice hardly audible above the screams and cries of the panicking crowd.

  ‘Maelgwyn, bring a knife, quickly.’

  Maelgwyn drew his blade and forced his way through the throng. He had no idea what was happening, but it was clear he had a chance to save his father and brother.

  Further along the square, several guards had managed to surround the constable, each with their shields facing outward. Arrows thudded amongst them but none made it through. Salisbury looked terrified, yet even as they retreated towards the safety of the buildings behind, he still barked out his orders.

  ‘Kill the men on the scaffold,’ he roared. ‘A fortune to any man who takes their lives.’

  One of the remaining guards ran towards the platform, his sword drawn. His shield was held above his head, and despite the heavy rain of missiles, he remained unscathed.

  ‘Maelgwyn, look out,’ shouted Carwyn, and though his son turned just in time to avoid the soldier’s swinging blade he was knocked to the ground by his attacker’s momentum. The soldier continued his run towards the scaffold steps, barging people out of his way, and was about to climb up when someone emerged from beneath the platform and plunged a knife deep into his back.

  ‘Brynmore,’ gasped Maelgwyn, recognising the man his father had met only days earlier. ‘What’s going on?’

  Without answering, Brynmore dragged his blade across the English soldier’s neck, slicing deep into his throat. Plumes of blood spurted out, much to Maelgwyn’s disgust, and he staggered backward as his face was covered in a fountain of crimson red. Brynmore ran up the steps and within moments had removed the nooses from both Carwyn’s and Morgan’s neck before slicing the rope from their wrists. All three men jumped from the scaffold and took shelter from the many arrows landing in the square. All around the crowd, people screamed as the attack continued and some of the civilians had been hit in the confusion.