The Warrior Princess

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘Then if not mine or yours, whose?’

  ‘Mine,’ said a gentle voice and he turned to see a beautiful woman emerging from the darker shadows.

  ‘Branwen,’ he gasped and he stepped forward to embrace his wife. For a few seconds they held each other tightly before Tarw kissed her lovingly on the lips.

  For a few moments there was an awkward silence, broken only when one of the men spoke quietly. ‘Who in hell is Branwen?’

  Tarw and his wife pulled apart amongst the ensuing laughter. ‘Branwen and Carwyn are the names we adopted to keep our true identities secret,’ explained Tarw, looking over at the young man. ‘That way it was easier to evade the English spies.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the soldier quietly. ‘So how do you wish to be addressed?’

  Tarw turned to his wife. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think we have worn the cloaks of anonymity for far too long,’ she replied, ‘and I long to return to my birth name.’

  ‘Then that is what we will do. Comrades, allow me to reintroduce my wife, Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd, daughter of King Gruffydd ap Cynan and scourge of the English.’

  ‘My lady,’ mumbled the men, all nodding their heads in acknowledgement. Some had served under Gwenllian many years earlier but most had only heard of her exploits in the struggle for freedom.

  ‘And you?’ asked Robert. ‘Am I reduced to now using your formal name after all these years at your side?’

  ‘Tarw is fine,’ laughed the prince, ‘and, in truth, it is a weight from my shoulders.’

  Robert withdrew his sword from its scabbard and embedded it in the ground before him. ‘Then let me be the first to pledge my allegiance to the returned true heir of Deheubarth, my lord Tarw, and his first lady, Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd.’ He dropped to one knee, and with both hands on the hilt of his sword, lowered his head in a sign of allegiance.

  The rest of the men followed suit and Tarw glanced at Gwenllian. ‘You do know there will be no turning back from this?’ he said.

  ‘I do,’ she replied, ‘but, like you, I feel as if I am released from a darkened cell. Who knows where this may lead but I think we should embrace it with all our hearts.’

  Tarw nodded and turned to face the kneeling men. ‘We accept your allegiance, and are humbled to do so.’

  The men got to their feet and crowded around the prince and his wife, talking excitedly. Finally, they returned to the fire and sought the hot ale boiling quietly in the suspended pot.

  Tarw turned to Gwenllian. ‘What I still don’t understand is how you came to be here?’

  ‘To try to save Morgan of course.’

  ‘But how did you know he was in trouble?’

  ‘While you were away from Llandeilo, Lord Bevan had a dispatch from Gerald saying he was about to hang the steward’s son and invited representation. Bevan replied but his appeals were declined so Robert and I came with the intention of releasing Morgan, by force if necessary. On the way we called into villages known to still be loyal to the house of Tewdwr and recruited these men to our cause. We had no idea that you had also been captured but, luckily for us, Brynmore had set out upon your rescue and we found him already embarked upon his plan. We helped in the withdrawal after the attack, and the rest you know. We headed to the Cantref Mawr but when we found out you had returned to Pembroke I insisted on accompanying Robert there. Upon his persuasion, I agreed to stay here amongst the trees while he sought you out. In his words, it would have been unforgivable if we were both to be caught by the English.’

  ‘Understandable,’ said Tarw. ‘And for a while I really thought my days had come to an end. Still, that threat has been dealt with so all we can do now is decide where we go from here.’

  ‘First of all, I think we should take the boys to the safety of my father’s house in Aberffraw. At least they will be safe there.’

  ‘Where are Rhydian and Rhys now?’ asked Tarw.

  ‘Still in Llandeilo. They are safe there.’

  ‘No, they’re not,’ said Tarw quickly, his heart racing.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Gwenllian.

  ‘I mean the English know my real identity. I was tricked into revealing it to Salisbury in an effort to save Morgan and, if they know that, it won’t take them long to realise Lord Bevan was in on the subterfuge. If I was Gerald, I would have a column of men galloping to Llandeilo as we speak.’

  ‘Oh, sweet Jesus, we have to do something!’ gasped Gwenllian. She called out across the clearing. ‘Robert, saddle the horses quickly. We are returning to Llandeilo.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’ asked Robert, his leather jack halfway to his mouth.

  ‘Yes. The boys are in danger and we need to get back as soon as we can. Muster twenty of the men and be ready to ride as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Tarw as Robert turned to carry out the command.

  ‘No, you go on to the Cantref Mawr,’ said Gwenllian with urgency in her voice. ‘Find Morgan and Maelgwyn. Wait there for us and, God willing, we will return within a couple of days.’

  Tarw stared at Gwenllian, recognising the steely resolve in her voice, a trait that had been the cause of so much fear amongst the English for so many years. Finally, he nodded, knowing it made total sense not to ride together in the face of so much danger. At least this way, even if things went wrong, half the family would be guaranteed freedom.

  ‘Gwenllian,’ said Tarw as his wife strode over to the men, ‘when you get there warn Lord Bevan his involvement has been discovered and it is in his interests to evacuate the manor. Do not waste any time retrieving anything of value. Just collect the boys and return with all haste. Drag them from their beds if necessary; there is no time to spare.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me,’ said Gwenllian. ‘I will be fine.’

  ‘Don’t forget you haven’t wielded a blade in anger for many years,’ said Tarw. ‘Avoid conflict wherever possible.’

  ‘I have Robert at my side,’ said Gwenllian, placing her own saddle upon her horse, ‘and the strength of suppressed freedom in my heart. You just look after Morgan and Maelgwyn.’

  Minutes later, Gwenllian leaned over from astride her horse and kissed her husband goodbye, not knowing if it would be the last time she would ever see him.

  ‘We’ll see you in a few days,’ she said before turning her horse and riding out of the copse.

  ‘Be safe, my love,’ said Tarw quietly as she disappeared from sight.

  ‘My lord, are we to camp here?’ said one of the remaining men.

  ‘No,’ said Tarw over his shoulder. ‘Saddle your horses. There will be no rest for anyone this night.’

  Maelgwyn sat outside one of the huts deep inside the forested valley that hid the rebel camp. A bowl of half-eaten chicken stew lay on the ground beside him and he watched the frenetic activity throughout the valley as people came and went in a place as busy as any village.

  Since arriving the previous day, he had been left to himself. Maelgwyn was frustrated; not least because his father had still not explained more about the situation.

  Behind him in the hut, his brother slept soundly, having had his wounds treated by one of the camp women, and if it hadn’t been for him, Maelgwyn would have considered taking his chances out in the forest and returning to Llandeilo Manor.

  ‘Have you finished with that?’ asked a voice to his side and he turned to see Bethan, the young woman who had dressed his brother’s wounds, pointing at the bowl of stew.

  ‘Aye,’ said Maelgwyn. ‘You can give it to the dogs.’

  ‘Bones are for the dogs,’ said the girl, carefully picking up the bowl, ‘as are the rotten carcasses of anything found dead upon the road, but uneaten stew goes straight back in the pots.’

  ‘Really?’ said Maelgwyn. ‘That sounds disgusting.’

  ‘Says the voice of privilege,’ said the girl. ‘You may have been able to waste food back in Llandeilo Manor but out here, every mouthful counts.’

  ‘How do you
know I am from Llandeilo?’ asked Maelgwyn.

  ‘Everyone knows,’ said Bethan. ‘That’s another thing about living here in the camp, everyone knows everyone else’s business.’

  ‘So do you know about my father?’

  ‘Aye, I do. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I seem to be the only one around here who doesn’t know him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Until yesterday, I always thought that he was just plain old Carwyn of Llandeilo, the steward of the manor. We had a nice house, a good life and the respect of everyone in the village, but today, it seems he is someone else completely. A rebel, no less, and even perhaps the greatest rebel of them all, Tarw of Wales.’

  ‘There is no perhaps about it,’ said Bethan. ‘He is who you say he is and I am shocked that you did not know.’

  ‘No more shocked than I,’ said Maelgwyn. ‘It seems my brother knew, but apart from him it was a secret well kept. I’m not sure how my mother is going to take all this.’

  Bethan stared at Maelgwyn, a look of surprise upon her face. ‘You really have no idea what is going on, do you?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he replied, ‘and to be honest, I am getting very angry about the whole thing. So tell me, what else do you know about my father?’

  Bethan sat down on a log on the opposite side of the fire. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Anything – everything. Whatever you can tell me.’

  ‘Well there’s not a lot,’ said Bethan, ‘for I am only repeating what I have been told these past few days. It seems that a long time ago your father was one of the most feared rebel leaders ever to ride these lands. For many years he and his wife led a rebel army based right here in the Cantref Mawr and attacked the English throughout Deheubarth. Every caravan that dared to venture between the English castles had to be accompanied by an armed column to ensure they were not ravaged by the rebels. Even then they were not safe, and after Tarw turned down the offer of amnesty in return for stopping his attacks, the king offered a huge reward, payable to any man willing to betray his whereabouts to the Crown.’

  ‘And did that work?’

  ‘No, he and his wife were very popular throughout Deheubarth. They shared whatever wealth they liberated from the English caravans and made sure the poor had enough food throughout the winters.’

  ‘He was married?’

  ‘Indeed, to a very beautiful woman called Gwenllian, the warrior daughter of the king of Gwynedd. Together they were the scourge of every Englishman from Ceredigion to Gwent.’

  ‘What happened to them?’ asked Maelgwyn.

  ‘Well, therein lies the mystery. One day they were heralded as the greatest freedom fighters ever to raise a sword against the English crown, the next they had both disappeared. A few days later, the criers announced Tarw’s body had been found shattered at the base of a cliff and his corpse would be hanged for treason. Of course, now it appears all that was false and he has been in hiding all these years. Many call him a coward but those still loyal to the house of Tewdwr hope he has returned to stoke the fires of rebellion that still smoulder amongst the backstreets of Deheubarth.’

  ‘My father is no coward,’ growled Maelgwyn. ‘Just yesterday he offered his own life in return for that of my brother.’

  ‘I did not say he was, but there are some who think differently.’

  ‘So what about his wife?’

  ‘She disappeared just after his death. Everyone assumed she was killed by the English for nothing more was ever heard of her, but if Carwyn is indeed Tarw then your mother must be Gwenllian, the daughter of a king and a true hero throughout the south. She was as beautiful as a sunrise yet could match any man in trials of arms. If the rumours are true, then both she and your father turned away from the life of the freedom fighter and sought obscurity, leaving a fractured rebel cause behind them. Nobody knows why but I suspect we will soon find out. I just hope the reasons were justified, for cowardice is given short shrift around here.’

  ‘I told you,’ growled Maelgwyn. ‘My father is no coward and in my eyes my mother is no princess. She is just the daughter of a farmer in Llandeilo.’

  ‘Well,’ said Bethan, staring over Maelgwyn’s shoulder, ‘whichever one of us is right, we are about to find out.’

  Maelgwyn turned and saw a column of horses riding into the camp, headed by his father. People started to emerge from their tents and huts, keen to see the man they had heard so much about, and soon a crowd had gathered in the central clearing.

  ‘Are you he?’ shouted one of the crowd. ‘Is it truly you?’

  ‘Are you the prince?’ shouted another. ‘Where have you been?’

  The questions came thick and fast but before he could answer, a voice echoed out from the trees just above the camp.

  ‘Enough,’ roared Taliesin, commanding instant silence and respect. ‘Give them some space and make sure they are well tended.’ He turned to the unkempt warrior at his side. ‘Dog, see that they are fed and watered.’

  The warrior nodded and, as the rebel leader disappeared back into his hut, he descended the slope to stand before Tarw. The crowd started to talk amongst themselves again and several young boys came forward to take the riders’ horses. Some of the women came over to offer food and hot ale to the weary travellers, leaving Tarw standing alone, staring at the man before him.

  Dog looked him up and down, chewing on the edge of a stripped twig. Tarw remained silent, knowing the inspection would soon end and Dog would address him eventually.

  ‘So,’ said Dog, ‘when we met a few days ago you claimed to be naught but a steward. Now you claim to be a prince. Which is it to be, stranger?’

  ‘I am Tarw,’ came the reply, ‘and I know you are known as Dog, the mercenary my brother put so much faith in when he sought vengeance for his mutilation.’

  ‘Ah, Diafol,’ said Dog. ‘He had my respect. A man that ignored the niceties of mercy and compassion as I recall.’

  ‘He had good reason, so I will not judge his methods.’ said Tarw.

  ‘Alas, he is gone now,’ said Dog. ‘But perhaps his spirit lives on in you?’

  ‘I seek freedom, not revenge,’ said Tarw. He looked up towards the hut on the hill.

  ‘Was that Taliesin?’

  ‘Aye, and he will see you in his own good time. In the meantime, you will eat with me. Come.’

  ‘I want to see my sons.’

  ‘Eat first, then I will take you to them. Fret not, they are safe and well fed.’ Dog led Tarw over to a waxed-linen canopy, stretched between the trees. Beneath the leaking shelter, several men sat at a rough log table eating stew served from a communal pot, casting nervous and judgemental glances in his direction.

  ‘You are in luck,’ said Dog, retrieving two used wooden bowls from one end of the table. ‘Our traps secured a couple of squirrels this very morning.’

  ‘Anything will do,’ said Tarw. ‘I haven’t eaten since yesterday.’

  Dog threw him a bowl before dipping his own into the rodent-flavoured potage. ‘Eat while you can,’ he said. ‘Sometimes we go without.’

  ‘Do you not hold stores?’

  ‘Aye, but there are many mouths to feed and often the pots are empty.’

  ‘Surely you can get food elsewhere.’

  ‘Taliesin will not raid the farms,’ said Dog with a shrug. ‘A noble gesture but one beyond my understanding. He would rather see his own people go hungry.’

  ‘What about the supply wagons of the English?’

  ‘You saw with your own eyes what happened to our men the last time we attacked a supply caravan.’

  Tarw thought back to the deathly scene he had stumbled across several days earlier. ‘I did,’ he replied. ‘But surely that was through bad execution?’

  ‘Aye. The raiding party got careless and thought Gerald would not follow due to the bad weather. They found out the hard way, and deservedly so, but now we hunger because of their stupidity.’

  ‘It sounds like ti
mes are hard for those loyal to the Welsh kings.’

  ‘I’ve seen worse times,’ said Dog, ‘but they need to organise before Gerald wipes them all out once and for all. Now eat before someone takes it from you.’

  Tarw dipped his own bowl into the potage before turning to look around the camp. People wandered aimlessly, wrapped against the cold. The sound of coughing filled the air and many were obviously sick.

  ‘Where are the men?’ asked Tarw.

  ‘Apart from those responsible for your release,’ replied Dog through a mouthful of food, ‘these few are about all there are. The others are dead through battle or the other challenges faced by desperate men. It seems that even if they avoid being killed by the English, the Welsh are intent on killing each other.’

  ‘And thus it always was,’ sighed Tarw before putting the first spoon of foul-tasting potage in his mouth.

  Pembroke Castle

  December 22nd, AD 1135

  The first fingers of light were just creeping into the sky and the castle slowly stirring into daily life when the alarm first came. It wasn’t the furious echoing of a sentry’s horn signalling an attack that woke the garrison, but a blood-curdling scream of someone discovering something straight from one of her nightmares.

  In the guardroom alongside the gates, two men sat up straight and stared at each other for a few seconds, their minds still foggy from the slumber they had stolen before the flames of the fire.

  ‘What was that?’ gasped one of the soldiers.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said his comrade. ‘Come on, grab your weapon.’

  Both men left the guardroom and stood outside, wondering where the scream had come from.

  ‘Over there,’ shouted a voice from up on the palisade and another guard pointed towards the stables.

  They ran over and as they approached, collided with a young girl running from behind the stables.

  ‘Whoa,’ said one of the guards, grabbing her as she tried to run away. ‘What’s going on here? Are you hurt?’

  ‘No,’ gasped the girl through her sobs, ‘but there’s someone there, in the goose hut . . . she’s . . . dead!’