The Warrior Princess

by K. M. Ashman

  The soldier glanced at his comrade. ‘You, step aside,’ he said to the girl. ‘Wait here. We’ll see what’s going on.’

  The two men placed their spears against a wall and drew their swords before walking slowly around to the goose pen. A flock of geese paraded at the far wall, necks extended as if waiting to see what unfolded next.

  ‘I see nothing,’ said the first guard.

  ‘The door is open. Look inside,’ said the second.

  ‘You look inside,’ came the retort. ‘I outrank you remember?’

  The first man grumbled but walked carefully over to the door. He pulled it fully open and peered inside. At first he could see nothing but as a sliver of light eased through a gap in the wall, he could see a body on the floor.

  ‘Can you see anything?’ asked his comrade behind him.

  ‘Aye, it looks like a young girl.’ He placed his sword in his scabbard and dropped to his knees.

  ‘Is she alive?’

  ‘No, her throat has been cut. It looks like she has been dead for hours.’

  ‘I know her,’ said his comrade peering over his shoulder. ‘Her name is Catrin and she collected the eggs for the kitchens every morning. Why would someone want to kill her?’

  ‘Why do you think?’ replied the first soldier and he moved to one side revealing the girl’s dress was up around her waist. ‘It looks like someone raped her before cutting her throat.’

  ‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ replied the second soldier. ‘You stay here. I’ll alert the constable.’

  As he left the hut, the first soldier got to his feet and looked around the room, suddenly aware that the perpetrator could still be there. Within seconds it was obvious he was alone but as he looked, the growing sunlight leaking into the goose shed reflected on something hidden beneath the straw upon the floor.

  ‘Hello,’ he said to himself. ‘What do we have here?’ He bent to move the straw and found the bloodied blade responsible for opening the girl’s throat hidden beneath. Picking it up he turned it over in his hand and saw an arrow carved into the handle. Behind him, the duty sergeant came into the hut alongside another guard.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘A servant from the keep,’ said the first soldier. ‘It looks like she’s been raped and murdered. Here, I found this.’ He handed over the knife and the sergeant examined the handle.

  ‘An archer’s knife; probably dropped by the man responsible.’

  ‘You think one of our own men did this?’ asked the soldier.

  ‘I don’t know but there’s one way to find out. Get this girl covered up. The constable is going to want to see what happened here but there’s no need to leave her exposed like that. Turn out the barracks. I want everyone formed up complete with their personal weapons.’

  ‘Aye, my lord,’ said the soldier at his back and he turned away to his task.

  Half an hour later, the entire garrison lay formed up in the bailey – over a hundred men each stamping their feet or blowing on their hands in a vain effort to keep warm. To one side, fifty archers lined up in a straight line at the command of the duty sergeant. In the centre of the bailey, the constable talked quietly with the steward, glancing over at the archers, and as they waited, two men carried a bundle over to place it at the constable’s feet. As the men fell silent, Salisbury reached down and removed the blanket, revealing the dead body of the scullery girl. A collective gasp rippled around the bailey. They had all seen a dead body before but the pretty girl was well known and popular amongst the men.

  ‘Settle down,’ ordered Salisbury and the men fell silent. ‘Sometime last night,’ he continued, ‘this girl was raped and brutally killed. Her murderer stands amongst us and we are here to find out the man responsible.’

  Another murmur rippled amongst the men.

  ‘Unluckily for him,’ said Salisbury, ‘it seems that in his rush to flee the scene he dropped his knife and consequently, we are able to identify him.’ He nodded at the duty sergeant.

  ‘Every man here, draw your knives and present them for inspection,’ roared the sergeant.

  Slowly the order sunk in and after a lot of shuffling each man held out their knives before them. Eventually, silence returned and the sergeant walked slowly amongst the ranks. Finally, he stopped before one of the archers.

  ‘Where’s your knife?’ he asked coldly.

  ‘I don’t know, my lord,’ stuttered the young man. ‘I had it last night. It must be somewhere in the barracks.’

  ‘Step forward,’ said the sergeant.

  The archer took several paces and stopped, acutely aware of every set of eyes focussed on him.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ he said, looking around. ‘I swear it.’

  The constable walked over and held the murder weapon before him. ‘Do you recognise this?’ he asked.

  ‘It is an archer’s knife, true enough,’ said the young man, ‘but it could be anyone’s.’

  ‘Really?’ said the constable. ‘Look closer. Do you not recognise the mark?’

  The archer’s eyes looked down and his heart sank as he recognised his own mark upon the hilt. ‘I don’t understand. Someone must have stolen it in the night.’

  ‘How convenient,’ sneered Salisbury.

  ‘I swear,’ gasped the young man, looking around in panic, ‘I was on duty on the palisade until midnight but after that I slept the night through.’

  ‘Keep your story for your trial,’ said the constable coldly. ‘Sergeant, take him into custody.’ The sergeant stepped forward and, as the young man started to protest his innocence again, punched him straight in the face with a chainmailed fist, knocking him to the ground.

  ‘Shut your mouth, you filthy murderer,’ he snarled, and he nodded to two waiting guards. Together they dragged the semi-conscious archer away as Salisbury addressed the garrison.

  ‘It may have been that man’s hand that murdered this girl,’ he announced, ‘but you men also share the blame. He is one of yours; a comrade, a brother. You allowed this to happen so will share the punishment. All leave is cancelled for ten days and there will be extra duties for all. There is no place in this castle for murderers.’ He turned to the man at his side. ‘Sir Walter, see to it that these men are worked hard today and get that girl buried.’

  ‘Aye, my lord,’ said the knight. ‘What about the archer?’

  ‘Detain him in the dungeons. Let him suffer for a while before we find him guilty. Death is too easy an escape.’

  As Walter de Calais turned to address the men, Salisbury allowed himself the luxury of the smallest of smiles. It was early days but already his plans were coming together.

  The Cantref Mawr

  December 23rd, AD 1135

  Dog squatted on his haunches outside the campaign tent. His ragged appearance meant he could walk through any village and be mistaken for a beggar but this was no carefully contrived image, it was who he was, a dirty and unkempt vagrant, who also happened to be the most talented killer in the south of the country.

  As a well-travelled mercenary who had seen battle from Scotland to the Holy Land and every place in between, his services were often in demand by noble men from all sides but for the past few years he had made his home amongst the rebels of the south. Though he knew he would never die a rich man, as long as he was fed and enjoyed freedom to come and go as he pleased, his price was modest.

  Below him, on the valley floor the camp laboured under a heightened level of excitement. The success of the rescue in Pembroke, the first such attack in many months, meant everyone was nervous, and extra guards had been posted on every approach to the camp for miles around. They knew that the attack would hurt the English and, though few men had died, the castellan would not let it go unpunished. Despite that, the mood was upbeat for though any strike against the enemy was good, the rumour that Tarw and Gwenllian had resurfaced after so many years lifted many hearts from the despondency they had suffered for so long.

  Inside the ten
t, Tarw sat on a chair to one side of the entrance, waiting for his audience with Taliesin. He had been waiting for over an hour but, despite his royal heritage, Tarw felt no animosity to the common-born leader for though he had once borne the mantle himself, he had given up any privilege associated with the role many years earlier.

  Opposite Tarw, half a dozen men-at-arms stood around a table, supping watered wine and talking amongst themselves. Tarw knew none of them and amongst the many looks of interest cast his way was the occasional grimace of distaste, for though they knew of his heritage, his disappearance from the struggle against the English so many years earlier left many questions unanswered. Despite his patience, Tarw felt his ire rising and he stood to confront the one man in particular who seemed to have a particular disliking for him.

  ‘My friend,’ said Tarw, returning the man’s stare. ‘Your manner suggests you may have swallowed something distasteful. Perhaps I can be of assistance.’

  ‘Cut your fancy words, steward,’ said the man, turning to face Tarw head on. ‘The only thing I find distasteful around here is the presence of a coward amongst true warriors.’

  Tarw breathed deeply, knowing this was not something he could let slide. ‘If you are referring to me,’ he replied, ‘then you must know I cannot let that accusation pass.’

  The soldier spat on the floor and took a step nearer.

  ‘Tomas, leave it,’ said one of the other men quietly.

  ‘You are not amongst the skirts and servants of your castles now, Prince,’ said Tomas Scar, ignoring his comrade’s advice. ‘Say your piece or hold your tongue, unless you want me to hand it to you on the end of my blade.’ His hand went to the hilt of his knife and he took another step forward.

  Tarw looked around the tent. Behind him he had ten of his own men but he had not witnessed their ability in conflict and those before him were obviously battle hardened.

  ‘Well?’ said Tomas. ‘Do you have the mettle to back up your manner?’

  Voices were raised on both sides and the mood started to turn ugly before a voice cut through the noise like a knife. ‘What goes on here?’

  Everyone turned to see the rebel leader standing inside the flaps of the tent. He was head and shoulders above the rest and the wolf-skin cloak around his shoulders was matted and dirty. Underneath, the visible parts of the hauberk covering his muscular body were rusty and damaged, the sign of much wear and conflict.

  Gradually the commotion died down and the men parted to allow their leader through. Taliesin walked up to the table and drank straight from the jug before unfastening his cloak and throwing it onto a nearby bench. When done he turned around and faced the men in the tent, staring at each of them in turn.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Anyone care to explain?’

  ‘It was nothing, my lord, just a disagreement,’ said one of the men.

  ‘A disagreement with someone who is here at my personal invitation,’ said Taliesin.

  ‘No one was hurt,’ said the first man. ‘Heated words only.’

  Taliesin nodded and walked over to stand in front of Tarw. Tarw returned his gaze and waited patiently as the rebel leader walked around him, realising all this was for show in front of his own men.

  ‘So,’ said Taliesin eventually, walking away to get a drink, ‘you are the famous prince, Gruffydd ap Rhys, commonly known as Tarw.’

  ‘I am,’ said Tarw, ‘and you must be the famous Taliesin ap John, freedom fighter and leader of the rebels of the Cantref Mawr.’

  ‘You have heard of me?’ said Taliesin, pouring wine into two tankards. ‘That surprises me.’

  ‘Why? You are the leader of the southern rebellion. What man in Deheubarth does not know your name?’

  ‘Perhaps many,’ said Taliesin, turning around, ‘especially those who hide from their fellows in times of national need.’

  Tarw nodded gently at the ill-disguised jibe but kept his silence. Taliesin walked over and handed him one of the tankards.

  ‘I apologise for the hospitality shown so far,’ said Taliesin, glancing towards Tomas, ‘but my men have fought the English for many years. They are tired and battle weary so perhaps it is understandable their tempers are as frayed as a well-used bridle.’

  ‘Like your comrade said, there is no harm done,’ replied Tarw. ‘Perhaps we should start again.’

  ‘I agree. Please, join me at the table.’ He stood to one side to indicate the empty benches and waited as Tarw took his place.

  ‘Tomas, you will join us,’ said Taliesin, ‘as will your men.’ He turned to Tarw. ‘Feel free to invite your own to sit alongside you.’

  ‘Would you like some food, my lord,’ asked a young voice from the rear of the tent as the men sought their seats.

  ‘Aye, and bring fresh ale for I still have the mud of the road within my mouth.’ He waited as everyone settled down and finally spoke to Tarw again.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘I think we can safely assume you are who you say you are?’

  ‘Why would I lie?’ asked Tarw.

  ‘Who knows? Perhaps for personal gain, or perhaps you are a spy sent by the Crown.’

  ‘I can assure you I am neither,’ said Tarw.

  ‘And I believe you,’ said Taliesin eventually, ‘for there are many in this camp who have already vouched for you, especially those whom you left behind.’

  ‘I am honoured you take their word,’ said Tarw.

  ‘Oh, trust me, if I had any cause for doubt you would already be dead. However, that is but a small problem when compared with what comes next.’

  ‘And that is?’ asked Tarw.

  ‘To ascertain why exactly it is that you have returned to the Cantref Mawr after so many years. Is it perhaps that you see an opportunity to regain that which was once yours now the king is dead?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tarw asked.

  ‘Well, it is no secret that Henry’s only male heir died at sea and there will surely be a struggle amongst the English nobles to choose the next monarch. Those of a suspicious nature could think that you have reappeared to take advantage of that situation and seek the leadership of the rebel cause for your own ends.’

  ‘I can assure you, that was never my intention,’ said Tarw, accepting a tankard of ale from a serving boy. ‘As far as I was concerned, my rebel days were over a long time ago and it was only by unfortunate circumstance that I find myself back amongst these hills.’

  ‘You speak of your son?’

  ‘Aye, and that devil, John of Salisbury. He made me reveal my identity in return for my son’s life but reneged on the agreement as soon as he knew who I was. Now I am uncloaked, I cannot return to the life I have been living these past years.’

  ‘That still doesn’t explain what you are doing here.’

  ‘The reasoning is simple. I am here to collect my two sons only. If you are agreeable, I will also seek refuge while Morgan recovers from his wounds.’

  ‘And your wife, is she going to make an appearance?’

  ‘She is riding to Llandeilo as we speak. Our other two sons are in danger and if God is with us, she will return here in a few days. After that we will leave for Gwynedd as soon as we can.’

  Taliesin nodded with interest and supped on his ale as he stared at the man before him. ‘Tell me,’ he said eventually, ‘these men at your back. Are they seasoned warriors?’

  Tarw glanced to either side. ‘Some have seen battle before, but most are new to the saddle.’

  ‘So they are not your own men.’

  ‘I have maintained no army. My wife recruited them on the road from Llandeilo.’

  ‘Interesting. And how many do you have at your call?’

  ‘About thirty in total. A small force only yet each have sworn allegiance.’

  ‘I am impressed,’ said Taliesin.

  ‘With such small numbers?’

  ‘No, with the fact that you have managed to recruit as many men in just a few days. It takes us a year to find as many and often they are the dregs from the
barrel. These men, despite their inexperience, look healthy and ripe for instruction. Are there more where these came from?’

  Tarw paused, his drink halfway to his mouth. Slowly he replaced the tankard on the table, aware of where the conversation was leading. ‘Taliesin,’ he said. ‘You have lived this life for over ten years. You are better placed than I to judge the mood of the people and I have heard many good things about you as a leader. The English stranglehold over our country tightens by the day but, even though children are going hungry, a living father is far more likely to bring home some food than one already dead from fighting a dying cause.’

  ‘Profound words,’ said Taliesin. ‘Yet when you were at the head of like-minded men, they say your forces flocked like sheep upon the hills. Is this true?’

  ‘On occasion,’ said Tarw. ‘Our standing army numbered around a hundred but the strength swelled whenever we needed extra sword arms. Add to that the money we spent on mercenaries and we often reached five times that amount.’

  The tent flaps opened again and two serving boys brought in a large iron pot and a sack of wooden bowls. They placed the pot on the table and tipped out the sack before leaving the tent.

  ‘Mutton,’ said one of the men as he removed the lid. ‘A feast fit for a king.’

  ‘Or at least a returned prince,’ said Taliesin with a sideways glance at Tarw. ‘Dig in, my friend, you are our guest and will have the choicest cut.’

  Tarw retrieved his knife and delved into the thick stew before retrieving a slab of meat. He placed it in a bowl and used the iron tankard hanging from the side of the pot to scoop some of the thick gravy over the top. The rest of the men passed the pot around and soon each had a bowl of steaming food before them. Another boy appeared with a jug of ale and walked around the table filling each of the warriors’ leather jacks. For the next few minutes, everyone focussed on their food and the ale boy was kept busy.

  ‘So, what are your ultimate plans?’ said Taliesin as they ate.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Tarw. ‘I hope that the death of Henry will distract the English long enough for us to make our way to Gwynedd, but beyond that I cannot see.’