by K. M. Ashman
‘What?’ gasped Nesta.
‘Go ahead,’ said Salisbury. ‘Read it. It is genuine enough.’
‘I don’t care if he hand-wrote it in his own blood,’ gasped Nesta. ‘He has no right to dictate who I marry.’
‘I think you will find he does,’ said Salisbury, removing a stopper from a jug to smell the contents. ‘You see, the political situation here in Deheubarth is very fragile and, as you know, the union between you and Gerald went a long way to contain any potential upset. Now Gerald has gone, but there is no need to lose your influence, so it was suggested we simply replace one castellan with another while keeping our pretty Welsh princess in place so the peasants are appeased.’
‘That’s not going to happen,’ she said. ‘I would rather die first.’
‘I’m sure you would,’ said Salisbury. ‘But I think you wouldn’t want the same fate to happen to any of your children.’
‘What?’ gasped Nesta again.
‘Accidents happen around here,’ said Salisbury pouring some wine into a goblet, ‘and it would be such a shame if one or more of your children, say, got stuck in a burning building, or accidentally drowned in the river. Now wouldn’t that be tragic?’
Nesta stared in horror at the implied threat.
‘Of course,’ he continued, ‘none of that is likely to happen if you just do what the king has commanded. What is one more marriage of convenience to you, anyway? The last one was exactly the same.’
‘Do not compare yourself to Gerald,’ said Nesta. ‘You were never fit to clean his boots.’
‘Whatever you say,’ said Salisbury. ‘Think about it and I will talk to you in the next few days. You can mourn for exactly three months from the date of Gerald’s burial. After that we can be wed within weeks.’ He walked over to the doorway before stopping and turning around. ‘Oh, I forgot to say: your youngest son has gone fishing with one of my men, but I’m sure he will be fine.’
The angry look on Nesta’s face turned to horror at the veiled threat.
‘Can I take this with me?’ he said holding up the goblet. ‘I have to say it is the most excellent wine.’
Without waiting for an answer, he left the room and closed the door, leaving a dumbstruck and horrified Nesta staring after him.
The Outskirts of Pembroke Town
February 2nd, AD 1136
Gwenllian stood back amongst the trees overlooking the town in the distance. Her husband was beside her and they were relatively quiet as they waited for Robert to return from his task.
Two ships lay at anchor outside the dock in the distance, a tempting but unreachable target. Since her audacious attack the previous month, security had been heavily increased whenever a ship docked to unload stores. The English were taking no chances.
‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Gwenllian.
‘Absolutely,’ said Tarw. ‘There were two candles in the tower window last night, and that was the agreed signal.’
‘I hope you are right,’ said Gwenllian. ‘The men are chomping at the bit to take the fight to the English and if we don’t feed their blades soon we risk dulling their spirit.’
‘We’ll soon find out,’ said Tarw, ‘but we are wasting time here. Robert will find us when he is done.’
They both retreated from the tree line to find their horses and return to the temporary camp back in the forest.
Down in the market, Emma walked through the busy street pausing to look at the wares on each stall. Sometimes she picked up a piece of cloth or a utensil to check the quality and the price but invariably put them back. As she went, she bought some small things for herself and when she came to the pie and bread stall, her mouth watered at the wonderful aromas blowing towards her in the morning breeze.
‘Emma,’ said the lady on the stall, ‘how are you this frosty morning?’
‘Cold,’ said Emma, ‘but nothing that a hot pie won’t cure.’
‘Then let me get you one of my best,’ said the seller. ‘It has extra fat so it tastes wonderful.’
Emma smiled. Sian was a lifelong friend and, though she had a reputation as the best pie maker in Pembroke, her great belly and poor clothing suggested she ate far more than she sold.
‘Have you been busy?’ asked Emma as Sian retrieved a pie from the clay oven built into the wall of the house behind her.
The seller paused momentarily to carefully phrase her answer. ‘No more than usual,’ she said eventually.
‘What about yesterday?’ asked Emma.
Sian paused again, her heart racing at the agreed code. ‘The same as always,’ she said, turning around to place the pie on the table.
‘Good,’ said Emma and she held out her hand to make the payment.
‘Thank you,’ said Sian, taking the penny while staring knowingly at her lifelong friend. ‘And a very good day to you.’
‘And to you,’ said Emma and she scurried away, her focus on a stall selling leather straps further down the road.
For a few moments, Sian watched her go, her heart racing as she felt the hidden folded message in her fist. Quickly she placed it into the pocket of her apron but soon her attention returned to the steady stream of customers treating themselves to her well-known delicacies. Five minutes later, a man she had never seen before approached and greeted her with a big smile.
‘Good day,’ he said.
‘And to you,’ she replied. ‘What can I get you, a nice hot pie perhaps?’
‘No, I am about to go out on a hunt so I would prefer some of that warm bread.’
‘Of course,’ said Sian and she turned to the basket of bread sitting on a table to one side.
‘Have you been busy?’ asked the stranger, causing the woman to stop dead in her tracks again.
‘No more than usual,’ she said slowly, repeating the words she had used with Emma just a few minutes earlier.
‘What about yesterday?’ asked the man. Sian swallowed hard. This was the man she had been told to expect. Without turning around, she retrieved the folded note Emma had given her and pushed it deep beneath the crust of the bread.
‘The same as always,’ she said as she turned back around. She placed the bread on the table and looked up at the man. ‘Anything else?’
‘No, that will be fine.’
‘Then you owe me a penny if you please,’ she said, ‘and I hope it is all you wish for.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ said the man as he placed two pennies into her hand. ‘For your trouble,’ he said.
Sian felt the two coins in her fist but said nothing. Instead, she moved on to the next customer as if Robert didn’t exist. ‘So, what can I get you, young sir,’ she said to the boy. ‘You look like you need fattening up.’
Robert walked away quickly, his bread already in the food pouch about his waist. With the transaction completed as planned, he made his way back to his horse and rode out of the town to meet up with Gwenllian and Tarw.
Twenty minutes later, they all stood together amongst the trees and Gwenllian waited in expectation as Tarw broke apart the bread to reveal the hidden message. Hurriedly he unfolded the parchment and read the contents to himself.
‘Well,’ said Gwenllian. ‘Is it what we wanted?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Tarw, his voice heavy with anticipation. ‘That and a whole lot more.’
‘Let me see,’ said his wife and she took the parchment from her husband. As she read the details, Robert turned to Tarw.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what’s happening?’
‘What is happening, Robert,’ replied Tarw, ‘is in five days’ time, we take the fight to the English.’
The Road Between Pembroke and Kidwelly
February 7th, AD 1136
Gwenllian rode calmly at the head of sixty handpicked horsemen along a shallow but steep-sided ravine carved out by the actions of a relentless stream over many millennia. For the past few days, she and the rest of the rebel leaders had used the information sent from Nesta to plan an attack that would leave the
garrison at Pembroke reeling. When everything had been confirmed, all those involved were deployed to various areas on the Kidwelly road, each fully briefed as to what was expected of them, and at last, the target was confirmed. A heavily laden and valuable caravan heading from Pembroke to Kidwelly.
Gwenllian’s role in the attack was simple: to lead a full frontal attack on the well-guarded caravan and, with the help of reinforcements, inflict a devastating defeat on the English that would take an age to recover from.
For over a day they had lain low, hidden away from prying eyes amongst the trees, waiting for the caravan to appear on the road and at last, when her scouts had confirmed it was no more than a league away, she had urged her men into action and led her column along the ravine towards the selected ambush site. All she had to do now was wait.
Wilhelm Berman, a Flemish knight in the employ of the English, rode along the coastal path at the head of twenty men on horseback. Behind him came a caravan of four carts, each heavily laden with stores for the garrison at Kidwelly castle. Behind the carts came sixty foot-soldiers and finally another twenty heavily armed horsemen.
The increasing threat from the rebels meant most caravans were now escorted by experienced soldiers, and this one in particular enjoyed a very strong escort. While Wilhelm was certain they could defend against anything the Welsh could throw at them, just to be sure, they had left Pembroke while it was still dark and had since kept off the main tracks, away from the threat of ambush that the proximity of the forests often brought.
Despite the lack of cover, Wilhelm saw the openness as an ally, for it would afford him plenty of opportunity to deploy his men should they come under attack.
‘If the weather holds, we should be there by nightfall,’ said Wilhelm to Rowan, a fellow knight and his second in command, ‘and perhaps we can relieve them of some of that swill they call ale.’
‘That does not excite me,’ said Rowan. ‘It is like drinking straight from the sewer. Give me corn brew, anytime, or even some of their foul wine, but the ale makes my stomach drop out.’
‘We noticed,’ laughed Wilhelm. ‘Perhaps you are right – we will keep you away from that devil’s fluid, if only for our own sakes.’ Wilhelm laughed again but suddenly stopped as Rowan held up his hand and ordered the caravan to stop.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Wilhelm, all thoughts of laughter gone.
‘Over there,’ said Rowan, pointing forward. ‘I thought I saw a rider disappear beyond that slope.’
Wilhelm stared but could see nothing. ‘A lone rider worries me not,’ he said. ‘In fact, I am rather hoping some brigands chance their arm for I have not exercised my sword in many weeks.’
‘Be careful what you wish for, comrade,’ said Rowan, ‘for you may just get the chance.’ Again he nodded towards the path to his front and, this time, the Flemish knight could see that they did indeed have company.
Several hundred paces away, a column of riders emerged from behind a natural fold in the ground. At their head, one of the riders held a flag that blew defiantly in the sea breeze.
‘Who are they?’ asked Rowan.
‘I do not recognise the colours,’ said Wilhelm, ‘but whoever they are, they certainly do not represent the English Crown.’ He looked at the riders, counting them as they appeared, and despite the distance could see they were poorly armoured with only a few chainmail hauberks between them. The rest were protected by gambesons and leather armour.
‘I count sixty,’ he said, ‘and they are of poor stock. I see not a single knight amongst them.’
‘Brigands?’ suggested Rowan.
‘I know of no brigands who ride under colours,’ said Wilhelm. ‘Unless I am mistaken, these could be the rebels we have heard so much about. If truth be told, I see nothing to make me sweat.’
‘I’ll alert the men,’ said Rowan and he turned his horse to ride back along the caravan.
Gwenllian led her men out from the protection of the ravine and waited as they spread out across the field, blocking any further progression for the caravan. On their right was rocky ground, strewn with the waste from an old flint mine – impossible to pass with wagons and dangerous to any horse travelling at speed – while to their left the way past was bordered by the cliff dropping down into the sea. If the English wanted to pass, there was only one way and that was through her lines.
Though she remained calm, her heart was beating fast. Decapitating a wounded man was one thing but a full-scale battle with a tried and tested enemy was completely different and, though she had been training hard in the Cantref Mawr to hone her long unused fighting skills, it had been many years since she had swung a blade in anger. To either side of her were those warriors who had kept the fight going in the intervening years and though poorly equipped they were the most experienced men she had available and she knew they would not let her down. Besides, she had something else up her sleeve, hopefully something the English would never expect.
‘Their leader is approaching,’ said Taliesin by her side. ‘Do we pander to his request for parley?’
‘We will hear what he has to say,’ said Gwenllian. ‘If we can take this caravan without shedding Welsh blood then we will.’ With a kick of her heels, she urged her horse forward, leaving the line under the command of Taliesin. A hundred paces or so later, she reined in her horse and the Flemish knight did the same.
‘I am surprised,’ he said eventually, ‘that it is a mere woman who deems to deny me the king’s path.’
‘I am Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd,’ she replied, ‘and this path has belonged to the kings of Deheubarth since before the time of Hywel Dda.’
‘I know not of the man you speak,’ said Wilhelm, ‘nor do I care. However, I have heard your name mentioned over jugs of ale in the castle quarters and I have to admit that much mirth was expressed at the thought of a woman leading a rebellion. Tell me again why you think you have the right and strength to lead such a meaningless cause.’
‘I will justify myself to no man,’ replied Gwenllian, ‘least of all someone born in a different land. All you need to know is my name and that my claim is just.’
‘I have to admit you are a fair-looking woman, Gwenllian,’ he replied, ‘but if you seek the path of conflict in a man’s world then you will be treated like any other foe and I will keep this simple. Cede the path or suffer the consequences.’
‘Your threats do not sway me, stranger,’ she said, ‘but I will grant you the same courtesy and keep my stance easily understood. We will not cede this path and hereby reclaim it in the name of our fathers. However, you are welcome to pass on the payment of a toll.’
‘A toll?’ said Wilhelm with a smile. ‘Surely you jest with me.’
‘It is no jest,’ said Gwenllian. ‘If you pay the toll you may continue on your way unhindered.’
Again Wilhelm smiled and looked at the woman before him. She was slightly built and, though well protected in quality armour, he had no doubt he could easily better her in combat.
‘Tell me,’ he said eventually, ‘even if I was inclined to pay this toll, what would be the cost?’
‘Those carts,’ replied Gwenllian, ‘and everything they contain.’
This time the Flemish knight laughed aloud and Gwenllian waited until his mirth had subsided.
‘You are a funny woman, Gwenllian,’ he said eventually, ‘and in different circumstances I think I would like you very much. However, we have business to attend. You know as well as I do that I will not give up these carts so I suggest you return to those peasants you call men and prepare them to fight. Unless, of course, you are willing to withdraw.’
‘There will be no withdrawal,’ said Gwenllian, ‘neither will there be quarter shown. If you refuse my terms, then this is where it will end for one or both of us.’
‘So be it,’ said Wilhelm quietly. ‘Your renewed leadership of this so-called rebellion will be recounted by your countrymen as the shortest in history.’ Without waiting for a reply, he turned his ho
rse and rode back to his men.
Gwenllian returned to her own line and reined in her horse next to Taliesin.
‘Well,’ he asked, ‘did it work?’
‘No, it did not,’ said Gwenllian, ‘nor did I expect it to, but I wanted him riled up and determined to teach us a lesson. That way, he may forget our obvious low numbers and fail to consider it may be a ruse.’
‘Well, I think you succeeded,’ said Taliesin. ‘Look.’
Gwenllian looked back at the caravan. The rest of the enemy had all ridden forward to join their leader and, despite their slightly fewer numbers, it was obvious that everyone was well equipped and well trained. Behind those, Gwenllian could see another fifty or so foot soldiers forming up into a double line.
‘It is no more than I expected,’ said Gwenllian and she rode forward a few paces before turning to face her own men.
‘Fear not their numbers nor their manner,’ she called, ‘for you have been well briefed as to how this will develop. Let our people’s suffering strengthen your arm this day and with God’s help we will prevail, and if you should fall go to God in the knowledge that you have right on your side.’
With the sound of her men cheering in her ears, she returned to her place beside Taliesin and drew her sword from the scabbard.
‘Let it begin,’ she said, and with a click of her heels, she urged her horse forward, her sword laying across her lap.
‘Here they come,’ said Wilhelm to Rowan. ‘I will lead the first charge and we will ride straight through them. When they turn to defend themselves from the return assault, lead our foot soldiers against the rear of their lines.’
‘Aye, my lord,’ said Rowan.
‘Remember,’ said Wilhelm, ‘no prisoners and no quarter.’
‘Aye, my lord,’ said Rowan again, drawing his own sword. ‘Leave it to me.’
With his lancers impatient to start on either side of him, Wilhelm stood up in his stirrups. He removed his own steel-tipped lance from the leather socket attached to his saddle and held it up so the pennant could be seen right across the battlefield.
