by K. M. Ashman
‘See for yourself,’ he replied, pointing over the ridge to a distant plume of black smoke.
‘Where is that?’ asked Gwenllian, dreading the answer.
‘My lady, it’s Llandeilo.’
‘Oh, sweet Jesus, my boys,’ gasped Gwenllian. Before anyone could respond, she turned and ran back to her horse.
‘My lady,’ shouted Robert, running behind her. ‘Wait!’ He grabbed her horse by the bridle and held tight.
Gwenllian was already in the saddle and looking down at her comrade in disdain. ‘Wait?’ she said. ‘For what? For those animals to have even more time to find and kill my sons? I think not, Robert. Now get out of my way.’
‘Gerald’s men could still be there,’ said Robert. ‘And we are no match for a column of English knights.’
‘I don’t care if there are twelve knights or a hundred,’ said Gwenllian. ‘I will not stay here while my sons are at risk. Now let go or I swear I will ride you down.’
Robert shook his head, knowing that in this mood there was no talking to her. ‘At least wait a moment,’ he said. ‘I will come with you.’
‘Do what you will, Robert,’ said Gwenllian. ‘I am beyond caring.’ Before he could answer, she dug her heels into the flanks of her exhausted horse, forcing it into a gallop along the rough track.
‘What are we going to do?’ asked one of the men. ‘What if the English are still there? She can’t fight them alone.’
‘No, she can’t,’ said Robert, mounting his horse. ‘That is why we have to go after her.’
‘And ride against trained knights?’
‘Did you pledge allegiance or did you not?’ said Robert, and he turned to face the rest of the men. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? You swore fealty to that woman and now more than ever she needs you at her side. It is time to show your mettle or turn away for good. The choice is yours.’
He spurred his own horse to gallop after Gwenllian and, within moments, the rest of the men followed.
The sight facing Gwenllian as she rode down to the manor made her feel sick to her stomach. All the outbuildings were ablaze and the roof of the manor had already collapsed into the building. Smoke billowed into the sky and bodies lay everywhere, men and beasts alike. Four men hung from one of the trees, their bodies swinging like macabre puppets. She rode into the heart of the manor courtyard and jumped from her horse, closely followed by Robert.
‘Where were they?’ he shouted, running through the smoke.
‘In the house,’ replied Gwenllian. ‘Quickly, the roof is on fire.’
Robert turned to the men now arriving in the courtyard behind him. ‘Half of you form a perimeter around the manor,’ he shouted. ‘Let us know if anyone comes within a hundred paces. The rest of you, dismount and search the buildings for survivors. Move!’
As the men raced to their tasks, Robert ran after Gwenllian to the burning house. The door had already been kicked in and they stumbled into the dark interior, their hands over their mouths to filter the smoke. The floor was covered with charred timber and Gwenllian pulled away what she could, searching for bodies yet terrified of what she might find.
‘It’s no good,’ shouted Robert, looking nervously up at the roof rafters. ‘We have to get out of here.’
‘I’m not going until I find them,’ shouted Gwenllian.
‘They may not even be in here,’ replied Robert. ‘Think about it. The English obviously knew who they were looking for so if they found your boys, they would more than likely have taken them hostage. They are worth far more alive to them than dead.’
‘And what if they didn’t?’ said Gwenllian. ‘What if they are still in here somewhere, under all this? They may be still alive, Robert, just waiting to be pulled out. I cannot simply hope that they are elsewhere.’
‘We will search every corner of this place,’ said Robert, ‘I swear by almighty God, but you have to get out of here before the roof caves in.’ As he spoke, one of the burning rafters above snapped, sending showers of sparks down upon her head. Robert grabbed her arm.
‘There may well be a chance they are still alive but you will be no good to them if you are dead. Use your head, Gwenllian, we have to get out of here.’
Gwenllian nodded and allowed herself to be dragged from the building just as the roof collapsed. Clouds of smoke and ash billowed out through the door and they both ran spluttering to one side.
‘I’ll gather the rest of the men,’ gasped Robert as soon as he could breathe. ‘You point out where they should look. Don’t worry, Gwenllian, if they are here, we will find them.’
For the next hour or so, all the men searched the ruins but to no avail. Finally, one of the men came over to speak to Robert. ‘My lord, we have searched everywhere. The children are not here, dead or alive.’
‘Thank you,’ said Robert. ‘Tell the men to grab what rest they can. I suspect we will be riding out soon.’ He looked around at the devastated manor buildings. ‘Have they left anything here to eat?’
‘Not that I can see, my lord. All the stores have been removed and what little was left has been destroyed in the fire.’
‘Take another look,’ said Robert. ‘We are short on food and the men need to eat.’ He walked over to Gwenllian who was standing in the gateway with her back to the destroyed manor.
‘They must have captured them,’ she said quietly as he stood beside her. ‘The English have my children and I have to go after them.’
‘Do not decide such things in haste, Gwenllian,’ said Robert. ‘There is no sign of Bevan amongst the bodies. Perhaps it is he who carried them away. We have to wait and see.’
‘No, Robert, you don’t understand. Every moment I linger is an extra moment they are nearer Pembroke and once they are there, there will be little, if any, chance of freeing them. I have to ride after them and hope an opportunity arises to rescue them.’
‘At least wait and have some food,’ said Robert. ‘Your horse needs rest and if your belly is full, you will be stronger for what lies ahead.’
Gwenllian looked at him and he could see the marks of tears amongst the soot on her face.
‘We will find your sons, my lady,’ he said. ‘I promise.’
‘We have to, Robert,’ she said. ‘I am nothing without them.’
As they turned to walk back into the manor courtyard a voice echoed through the ruins. ‘My lord, I think we’ve found something.’
Gwenllian looked up at Robert before they both ran to the furthest part of the wrecked palisade.
‘Over here,’ shouted the voice and they could see two men near the pigsty. Gwenllian and Robert ran across to peer over the wall of the pen. At first, all Gwenllian could see was an enormous dead pig lying on its side, but then she noticed something red amongst the mud.
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
‘I think it’s a headscarf, my lady. It looks like someone dropped it as they crawled inside.’
‘Then what are you waiting for?’ snapped Robert. ‘Get them out.’
One of the men dropped to his knees and crawled through the filth into the darkness of the stone sty.
‘There’s someone here,’ he shouted from inside. ‘Help me.’
The second man dropped to his knees and reached inside. Robert joined him and taking an arm each, they dragged the body of a young woman out of the sty and into the light.
Gwenllian gasped as she recognised Gwyneth, the house servant from the manor. Her dress was soaked with blood and Gwenllian could see a snapped arrow in her side where the girl had bled out. For a few seconds she just stared in horror, her mind not comprehending what had happened but she was suddenly brought back to reality by the sound of a child’s cry from inside the sty.
‘Rhydian,’ she gasped, recognising the sound, and she jumped over the wall just as the soldier inside passed a small boy out to Robert.
‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ whispered Gwenllian, taking her five-year-old son into her arms and hugging him as tightly as she could.
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Her son clung on to her, his body wracked with sobs. He was covered with pig filth and stank to high heaven but he seemed to be uninjured. Despite her joy, Gwenllian held back any further emotion and looked back down to the sty, praying for more good news from inside.
‘Is anyone else there?’ shouted Robert.
For a few moments there was no answer and Robert was about to go in himself when the head of the soldier appeared in the low doorway. He straightened up and they could see he was holding something in his arms.
‘Aye,’ said the soldier with a smile. ‘I found this little man asleep on a cloak.’
Gwenllian broke into tears of joy and ran forward to take her youngest son from the soldier.
‘It is a miracle,’ said one of the men as Gwenllian held her sons tightly.
‘If it is,’ said Robert, looking down at the body of the dead girl, ‘it was one administered by this poor soul. It seems that though she was wounded, she managed to grab the children and hide them out here away from the English. Take her back to the manor and we will see she has a proper burial. My lady, we should head back to shelter and get the children warmed up as soon as we can. Let me help you.’
‘I can manage, Robert,’ said Gwenllian. ‘Thank you.’ Holding both her sons, Gwenllian made her way back to the manor, walking past the rest of the men who had gathered at the wall.
‘Someone find a cauldron,’ shouted Robert, following her back through the palisade. ‘There must be one around here somewhere. I want hot water and plenty of it. The rest of you, set up camp, we will stay here tonight. Bring in that pig and get it butchered.’
‘What about the dead?’ asked one of the men.
‘We will bury them on the morrow,’ said Robert. ‘In the meantime, pile them behind that wall out of sight. There’s nothing we can do for them tonight.’ He turned to Gwenllian. ‘My lady, one of the guardrooms is still intact. Take the boys there and I will have someone come over to build a fire. Get yourselves clean and I will see if we can find anything for you to wear while we wash that filth from your clothes.’
‘Thank you, Robert,’ said Gwenllian. ‘I am in your debt.’
‘The fact that the boys are safe is repayment enough,’ said Robert. ‘After all, one of them may be a future king of Deheubarth.’
Gwenllian smiled and walked away to find the guardroom.
The following afternoon, all the men who had ridden with Gwenllian to Llandeilo lined up on their horses outside the burned-out manor. To one side, the mound of soil covering the large communal grave lay raw and silent, a testament to the slaughter that had happened there the previous day. Next to the communal grave, a smaller mound complete with a wooden cross and a surrounding circle of small stones marked the grave of Gwyneth.
‘Where is she?’ asked one of the men, referring to the absence of Gwenllian.
‘She will be along shortly,’ said Robert. ‘She said she had something to do.’
Moments later, Gwenllian appeared from the nearby trees holding a wreath made from holly. She walked over to the grave and knelt down, placing it gently on the disturbed soil.
‘I’m sorry it’s not flowers, Gwyneth,’ she said quietly, brushing her hands over the earth, ‘but I promise that I will return in the spring to place a garland in your memory and, for as long as I live, I will return every year to pray for your soul and thank you for the lives of my sons.’ She got to her feet and, after kissing her own fingers, placed them on the top of the cross.
The men watched in silence, respecting the moment. Finally Gwenllian turned back to face Robert.
‘Are the boys in the cart?’ she asked.
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘The youngest is sleeping and his brother is playing with a wooden horse one of the men carved last night. Are you ready?’
‘No,’ said Gwenllian. ‘There is one more thing I must do. Wait for me here.’
She turned away and walked back into the manor courtyard, making her way to the house where she used to live. The fires were out and she picked her way over the debris to the far wall that held the fireplace. Under some rubble, she found what she was looking for, the chest where she and Tarw had kept the few items of value they possessed. She reached in and, delving past the valuable books and personal items, she retrieved a pile of leather clothing from the bottom. With a deep sigh she stood up and started to undress.
Ten minutes later the men were standing around in a circle talking amongst themselves, each impatient to be leaving. One was boasting of a recent sexual conquest when suddenly he fell silent and stared towards the manor gates. All eyes followed his and they watched in awe as Gwenllian approached.
The woman of yesterday, who had cried at the thought of her sons being captured, was nowhere to be seen. The soot-covered face was now spotlessly clean and the hair that had been tied back with a dirty rag now hung loose about her shoulders, a waterfall of summer gold.
Instead of the dirty red dress she had worn earlier, she was now wearing black leather armour, reinforced with row after row of metal studs along the seams. The shoulders were heavily padded and the whole thing was pulled tight by two diagonal belts reaching from each shoulder down to the opposite hip. A high collar protected the back of her neck and a sheathed dagger hung from a wide belt around her waist.
Every man watched in silence as Gwenllian walked up to Robert, her golden hair blowing in the breeze.
‘Now are you ready?’ he asked.
Without answering, Gwenllian walked past her horse and over to the cart where the men had collected the weapons of the fallen. She lifted several swords, swinging them back and forth before finding one with a balance she liked. She fastened the scabbard to the side of her belt and walked back over to stand before Robert.
‘Now I am ready,’ she said, her face fixed in a stare of steely resolve. ‘Take me back to the Cantref Mawr, Robert. There is work to be done.’
Pembroke
December 26th, AD 1135
Every person in the town stood silently on the sides of the road, waiting for the caravan to arrive. News of Gerald’s death had travelled swiftly, and though his body was to be taken to the castle, it was being brought through the town square for the population to pay their last respects. Gerald had been a firm yet fair governor but some attended with a grudge in their heart, resentful that after so many years Deheubarth was still under English control.
In the distance, the first riders appeared, a double column of English knights bedecked in their best finery and carrying Gerald’s colours atop their upright lances. Behind them came the cart bearing the castellan’s coffin, pulled by a team of four horses and manned by two cart masters aboard the plate.
As the cortege passed, every person removed any headgear and bowed deeply, paying their respects, closely monitored by Salisbury’s spies to ensure compliance until it left the town behind and wound its way up the short hill to the castle where the garrison was waiting.
All along the palisades, the remaining men-at-arms stood upright in respect while, down in the bailey, the staff and any remaining civilians stood in a semi-circle with many of the women crying quietly as they waited.
Eventually, the caravan entered through the palisade gates and the riders peeled off to either side to form a channel. A group of soldiers approached the tailgate of the cart and dragged the coffin off to place it on a nearby trestle. The castle priest walked over and said a prayer before stepping aside. Everyone stood still, waiting in silence for the appearance of the castellan’s wife until, eventually, several minutes later, at the top of the motte Nesta appeared out of the keep doors accompanied by John of Salisbury. Together they walked down the steps and over to the coffin.
‘It is closed,’ said Nesta, her voice cold and emotionless.
‘My lady,’ said the captain of the guard, ‘the castellan suffered terrible injuries to his face and we thought it would be better to spare you from the horror.’
‘My husband suffered the ultimate horror,’ she said qui
etly, ‘and it would be remiss of me to fear the features of the man who shared my life, no matter how bad the state. Open the casket.’
The captain looked at the constable who nodded gently in agreement.
Two soldiers stepped forward and lifted the lid, carrying it back over to the cart.
Nesta stepped forward and looked down at the body of her murdered husband. For a second she caught her breath at the smell for, despite the cold temperature, the sealed coffin had allowed a build-up of the fumes associated with the rotting process as well as the faeces the body had vented at the moment of death. When she had gathered herself, she lifted her hand and softly touched her husband’s hair, brushing it gently back into place as she looked at the face she had known for so long. The damage was substantial as the arrow had caught him high on the cheek, smashing the bone inward before bursting out of the back of his skull. On the cloak beneath, which made up his temporary shroud, she could still see the pools of congealed blood and brain that had leaked after he had been placed in the coffin and she turned to the captain with a look of concern on her face.
‘He has not been washed or prepared for burial,’ she said.
‘No, my lady, we thought we should bring him home immediately. If we had returned to Kidwelly, we would either have had to bury him there or strip the meat from his bones to transport him in a barrel of salt. We thought you would want him home in one piece to say your goodbyes.’
Nesta nodded in understanding. ‘Take him to the keep,’ she said, ‘and summon the castle ladies. We will wash him and dress him appropriately for a man of his stature.’
‘Of course,’ said the captain and he turned to give the orders.
‘My lady,’ said the constable, ‘do you not think it appropriate that he is buried in consecrated ground?’
‘Master Salisbury,’ replied Nesta, ‘my husband has been the castellan here since it was no more than a simple wooden palisade, a mere symbol of the English Crown’s ambition. Over the years he has made it what it is and a lesser man would have failed where he has succeeded. As far as I am concerned, his place is here within his castle. The responsibility of burying my husband lies with me, you just concentrate on finding the man who did this.’
