A key was inserted into the lock and the door creaked open to admit one of the guards. The man clearly disapproved of the duty which he had been given.
‘You have visitors,’ he grunted.
Not understanding, Gruffydd darted forward involuntarily.
‘Get back, you Welsh rogue!’ said the guard, pushing him in the chest. ‘If it was left to me, you would be allowed to see nobody.
I would simply lock you in here and throw the key away. Now be quiet and do as you are told.’
The Welshman resisted the urge to spring at him.
‘Are you ready?’ called a voice from the passageway.
‘Bring them in!’ ordered the guard before pointing an admonitory finger at the prisoner. ‘Behave yourself, do you hear? Or the visitors will be hauled straight out again.’
Gruffydd watched sullenly from his position against the wall but his resentment fell away when Idwal came into the cell and greeted him in Welsh. It was the first time in months that he had heard his own language spoken. Gervase Bret followed the archdeacon in and coughed as the stench hit him. The door was locked on all three of them.
‘Who are you?’ asked Gruffydd warily, not certain whether they were friends or interrogators. ‘What do you want?’
‘To talk to you, my lord,’ said Idwal.
‘What about?’
‘Peace.’
Idwal introduced himself then explained why Gervase was there with him. Gruffydd took time to be convinced of their sincerity but his reservations gradually faded. If nothing else, he could use them as a means of learning about what was happening in the outside world. Questions burst out of him.
‘One at the time, my lord,’ said Idwal, holding up a restraining palm. ‘We will tell you everything you wish to know. But we must speak more slowly. Gervase Bret will not understand either of us if we gabble and it is important that he hears every word that we say.’
‘I accept that, Archdeacon Idwal.’
‘Then what is your first question?’
Gruffydd ap Cynan had it ready for them. He reminded himself that he was still a Prince of Gwynedd and no amount of degradation could alter that fact. Straightening his back, he lifted his chin with pride. His voice was accusatory.
‘Why are they treating me with such disrespect?’
Robert of Rhuddlan spent the whole morning on the battlements.
An eerie silence had settled on the castle as if it was waiting for some terrible blow to fall. The captain of the guard was as conscious of it as Robert. Looking out at the road to the east, he ran a ruminative hand across his chin.
‘I do not like it, my lord,’ he said.
‘No more do I. This quiet is unsettling.’
‘There is nothing to be seen but I am certain that they are out there somewhere. Watching and waiting.’
‘I, too, feel their eyes upon us.’
‘How can we fight an invisible enemy?’
‘It is impossible.’
Robert forced himself to leave the ramparts in order to ease the discomfort he was feeling inside. It was bad for the morale of his men to see their commander subject to any fear or doubt.
His soldiers needed to draw confidence from him and they would not do that if he patrolled the battlements with such anxiety.
Preparing his garrison to resist any attack was a more immediate priority.
But he had no time to put it into effect.
‘My lord!’ called a guard on the rampart.
‘Yes?’
‘Someone is approaching.’
‘Soldiers?’
‘No, my lord. A waggon.’
Robert went quickly back up the wooden steps with the captain of the guard at his heels. They joined the man who had raised the alarm and saw why he had done so. A waggon was heading towards them along the road from the border. It was being driven with such speed that it was swerving crazily from side to side. A whip was being used to coax even more effort out of the carthorses.
As it got closer, they could see that it was being driven by a man in the armour of a Welsh warrior. Standing up and brandishing his whip, he seemed to be relishing his work and they soon began to catch the sound of his triumphant song on the wind. Robert of Rhuddlan was baffled. Was the lone warrior intending to attack the castle on his own?
When it got within half a mile, the waggon suddenly described a semicircle and came to a juddering halt, enabling the watching party to see what the vehicle was carrying. A group of men were trussed up in the rear of the waggon. Robert noted that there were twelve helms and he shuddered.
The driver jumped nimbly into the back of the vehicle and hurled his cargo roughly out, one man at a time. Bound hand and foot, unable to resist the rude treatment, the soldiers groaned in pain as they hit the solid earth and rolled over.
The driver worked fast and his entire load was soon squirming in agony on the ground. Still singing at the top of his voice, the driver leaped back on to the driver’s seat and whipped the horses into action. The waggon rattled off in the direction from which it came.
Robert of Rhuddlan descended the steps again and mounted a horse to lead a troop of men out to the stricken soldiers. When they reached them, they saw that their iron helms were the only things they had been allowed to keep. The twelve men who had been dispatched to Chester had been sent back stark naked.
Their bodies were covered with bruises and lacerations.
Robert was bewildered. Why had their lives been spared when the men could so easily have been killed by their captors? What game were the Welsh playing this time?
Gervase Bret was both impressed and unsettled by Gruffydd ap Cynan. The man had a presence and authority which was enhanced in the confined space and, after ridding himself of bitter recriminations, he showed great composure. At the same time, there was a deviousness about him which made Gervase watch him very closely. More than once, when he felt that he was deliberately being misled, Gervase asked for clarification of the words that had been spoken by the Prince of Gwynedd.
Archdeacon Idwal was in his element. Honoured with what he saw as a key role in the negotiations between two nations, he behaved with scrupulous fairness. Though his heart was clearly on one side of the border, he strove to be as detached and objective as possible.
‘This war must be stopped,’ he insisted. ‘Otherwise, my lord, countless lives will be needlessly lost.’
‘What can I do?’ asked Gruffydd.
‘That is what we have come to discuss.’
‘I have no power to alter the course of events.’
‘You can hardly condone it, my lord.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it puts your own life in question.’
‘I would gladly sacrifice it for my country.’
‘Bold words,’ said Idwal approvingly, ‘but you would not be helping the people of Gwynedd by surrendering your own life.
You are their prince. They look to you for leadership.’
‘It is difficult to lead anyone from a castle dungeon.’
‘Messages can be sent. Signed by you.’
‘They would be suspect, Archdeacon Idwal. My people would think that they had been extracted from me by force.’
‘Not if I delivered them myself.’
‘Well, no,’ he agreed thoughtfully, warming to Idwal. ‘That might indeed make a difference.’
‘Besides,’ said Idwal with a smile of admiration, ‘you are renowned for your bravery. Nobody could compel you to write something against your will.’
‘That is true.’
‘Your followers realise that, my lord. They would recognise your true voice. A letter from you would have the power of an edict.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘What do you mean?’
Gruffydd did not answer and Gervase once again had a feeling that he was dissembling slightly. He kept the prince under even closer scrutiny when Idwal took up his argument again. A new thought dawned on Gervase. The hesitation
and evasiveness of Gruffydd ap Cynan might not arise from a natural craftiness at all. The man was in a quiet panic. Events were moving too far and too fast. Things over which he patently had no control were being done in his name and throwing his own life into jeopardy.
It was time for Gervase himself to join the conversation.
‘Do you have any rivals, my lord?’ he asked.
‘Rivals?’
‘People who would take advantage of your imprisonment to advance their own claims to the throne.’
Gruffydd was insulted. ‘My position is unchallenged.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Nobody would dare to supplant me!’
‘How can you know that when you are locked down here?’
‘I am the Prince of Gwynedd.’
‘In that case,’ said Gervase, ‘you must approve of all the action that has been taken for your people have, in a sense, only been carrying out your orders. Is that not so?’
‘I will not discuss my policy with a Norman.’
‘I come from Breton and Saxon stock, my lord.’
‘You are not Welsh,’ said the other dismissively.
‘No,’ said Gervase, ‘but if I were, I would swear my fealty to my prince and look to him for leadership. Earl Hugh holds you hostage in order to subdue Gwynedd yet it is now massing for battle.
Why? Your people are either obeying some plan devised by you or acting on their own accord. If you are not leading them, my lord, who is?’
Gruffydd was momentarily perplexed. Idwal stepped in.
‘You can hardly expect him to divulge secret matters of state, Gervase,’ he scolded. ‘We are here to sue for peace, not to interrogate the Prince of Gwynedd for information which the most arduous torture would not extract. In common with other Welsh princes, Gryffydd ap Cynan rules by right and title. His court is constantly on the move around his domain. Unlike your king, he is a visible monarch.’
‘Not while I am buried down here!’ protested Gruffydd.
‘I am glad that you mention other Welsh princes,’ said Gervase as a new idea occurred to him. ‘Could it be the case that one of them is trying to seize power in Gwynedd?’
‘No!’shouted Gruffydd.
‘Cadwgan ap Bleddyn of Powys, for example?’
‘He would never dare!’
‘How could you stop him, my lord?’
‘This is irrelevant,’ said Idwal sternly. ‘May I remind you that you are supposed to observe, Gervase, and not to examine? I am trying to work towards a peaceful outcome of the present hostilities but I cannot do so if you keep interrupting us.’
‘I am sorry, Archdeacon Idwal,’ said Gervase deferentially, before turning to Gruffydd. ‘And I apologise for any offence I may inadvertently have caused. Ignore my wild guesses. They have no place in this discussion.’
‘No place at all,’ stressed Idwal.
‘Cadwgan would never supplant me!’ said Gruffydd, deeply hurt by the notion. ‘While I live, I rule in Gwynedd.’
Idwal smiled. ‘Then let us do all we can to protect that life, my lord. Peace will not only safeguard your own position, it will put Earl Hugh in a more generous frame of mind. You will be rewarded with privileges.’
‘My freedom is the only privilege I seek.’
‘That, too, will come in time.’
‘It will,’ vowed the other.
A look passed between them but Gervase was unable to translate it. For the first time since they had been in the dungeon, he began to suspect that Idwal might not be as impartial a negotiator as he pretended. Gervase was stung. He hated the thought that his affection for Idwal had blinded him to the man’s deeper purpose. Scrutinising the little archdeacon now, he found himself wondering if Idwal really was an honest mediator with a commitment to peace or an artful manipulator who was holding one conversation with Gruffydd while simultaneously passing messages to him by other means.
Idwal tried to move the prisoner towards a decision. ‘Will you help us, my lord?’ he cooed.
‘Us?’
‘The doves of peace.’
Gruffydd smiled for the first time. ‘You are an unlikely dove, archdeacon.’
‘I speak for the Church and it abhors warfare.’
‘Yet it condones holy crusades.’
‘That is not what we have here, my lord.’
‘I believe that it is,’ argued Gruffydd. ‘A crusade for freedom from Norman overlordship. Surely you should be giving your blessing to that instead of acting as the lackey of the Earl of Chester?’
‘I am nobody’s lackey!’ asserted Idwal indignantly.
‘Then what are you doing here?’
‘Searching for peace.’
‘What use is peace without freedom?’
‘What use is freedom without peace?’ countered Idwal. ‘A nation constantly at war is doomed to misery and hardship.’
‘Until they throw off the yoke.’
‘We all pray for that deliverance, my lord, but most of us would prefer to live quiet and useful lives in the meantime. And we cannot do that if we turn Wales into a battlefield once more.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Freedom can be achieved by other methods than force of arms.’
Another glance passed between them and Gervase was again puzzled by its meaning. There was a long silence. The two men seemed to be at once weighing each other up and haggling over the terms of some private contract.
‘I ask again,’ said Idwal at length. ‘Will you help us?’
Gruffydd erupted. ‘I will not help Hugh the Gross! That fat pig deserves to be put on a spit and roasted throughout eternity. He has been the scourge of my people. I will never help Earl Hugh.’
‘Help your own people through him,’ urged Idwal. ‘Stop bloodshed, save lives, ensure a future. I am not here at Earl Hugh’s bidding, as Gervase will testify. He refused to let me near you at first. I come in spite of him, my lord.’
‘That is true,’ corroborated Gervase.
‘The earl is a soldier. He relishes battle.’
‘He is an animal!’ said Gruffydd contemptuously.
‘Do you want to let him loose on your people once again?’
Gruffydd held back his reply and turned away to ponder. His expression was blank but Gervase sensed that his mind was in turmoil. The Prince of Gwynedd was being asked to make a crucial decision, based on incomplete information, about a situation that was not of his own making. He was lost in meditation for some time and Gervase wondered if his hesitation was prompted by the distant fear that, even if he did urge his followers to sue for peace, they might not obey him. Policy in Gwynedd was now being hatched by someone else.
Idwal’s patience gave way to muted irritation. ‘Well?’ he pressed.
‘Time is fast running out.’
Gruffydd turned to face him. ‘How do I know that you are telling me the truth?’
The archdeacon was appalled. ‘Would I lie to you?’
‘Probably.’
‘I come in good faith, my lord.’
‘On whose authority?’
‘The forces of reason.’
‘Earl Hugh is a force of reason?’ sneered the other.
‘We persuaded him to let me come here, my lord. I am grateful to him for that concession. Your choice is simple. You can either send word to your people and intercede before warfare breaks out again. Or,’ he added, raising his voice for emphasis, ‘you can stay down here like a rat in a trap while your people are being butchered. Yes, there will be losses on this side of the border as well, I know that. It will be a Pyrrhic victory. But your army will lose. Your men are fine warriors but they are greatly outnumbered and they lack their prince to lead them in battle. Do you want them to suffer another ignominious defeat?’
Gruffydd looked from one man to the other. ‘What guarantees will I have?’ he asked.
‘None,’ said Gervase honestly.
‘Then what do I stand to gain?’
‘Look at it the other way, my lord,’ suggested Idw
al.
‘Other way?’
‘If you do not help us, what do you stand to lose?’
There was another long, considered pause.
‘Very well,’ decided Gruffydd, fighting off doubts.
‘You will send a message?’ said Idwal hopefully.
‘Bring me pen and paper.’
Chapter Sixteen
Canon Hubert despised inactivity. It was wholly alien to his temperament. Behind the surface bluster was a diligent man with a probing mind and the tenacity of a terrier. After long hours spent poring over documents, he consulted with Brother Simon then took him to the castle in search of Ralph Delchard. Simon was mortified at the thought of visiting the abode of the egregious Hugh the Gross and he went through the main gates with the reluctant step of someone expecting to find a Bacchanalian orgy taking place in the courtyard. He was not reassured to see that the castle was instead alive with armed soldiers preparing for battle.
‘This is a fearful sight, Canon Hubert,’ he moaned.
‘War is always hideous, Brother Simon.’
‘Let us withdraw to the sanctuary of the cathedral.’
‘Not until we have spoken with the lord Ralph.’
‘Why do we have to come here?’ said Simon, almost jumping out of his skin as four horsemen rode by within inches of him.
‘Could we not send word for the lord Ralph to wait upon us?’
‘Our findings brook no delay.’
‘They are largely suppositions.’
‘Grounded in fact.’
‘But what relevance do they have?’
‘That is what we must find out,’ said Hubert, dodging a pile of horse dung as he led the way towards the keep. ‘We may be in possession of valuable intelligence. The lord Ralph must hear what it is.’
Simon trudged after him. ‘Will there be a battle?’ he said, nervously eyeing the show of military might. ‘Are the Welsh going to invade the city?’
‘I hope not.’
‘I am afeared, Canon Hubert.’
‘Call your faith to your aid.’
‘I travelled to Cheshire to act as the scribe to royal commissioners, not to be hacked to death in a Welsh rebellion.’
‘That will not happen,’ Hubert assured him. ‘Whoever else is the target for Welsh hostility, Brother Simon, it will not be you.
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