Medieval IV - Ring of Steel

by Kevin Ashman

  ‘So be it,’ said Emrys and returned to bandaging the arm of a wounded pike man.

  ----

  Several hours later, dozens of men crept along the river outside the town of Denbigh, keeping their heads lower than the bank. Each pair carried one end of a siege ladder and they moved slowly so as not to alert any nearby dogs. Soon they were as close to the town as they were able to get and within the hour, almost fifty ladders were ready to be carried to the perimeter walls. Behind the ladder bearers came a thousand lightly armed soldiers, all dressed and equipped to move fast. Heavy battle wasn’t anticipated and it was essential to inflict as great a surprise as possible upon the town folk if the assault was to be successful.

  Hidden amongst the trees of a copse on the slope of a nearby hill was Robert Byrd along with another fifty horsemen. These however were heavily armed for theirs was a task that would face the most danger. The taking and defence of the castle’s well.

  Cynan crouched low behind the riverbank alongside his men. Though they were getting impatient, the warlord waited, looking to the cloudy skies as he hoping for the conditions that would aid the assault. Finally the skies darkened and Cynan felt the first drop of rain land on his upturned face.

  ‘Pass the word,’ he whispered to the man at his side, ‘get ready, we go within minutes.’

  The message was passed down the river bank and the nervous army said their final prayers in case they were about to meet their maker.

  Within minutes the heavens opened and rain poured down upon the town of Denbigh. Cynan hesitated a few moments more, knowing that even the keenest of sentries would probably seek out a drier position upon the walls or even leave to find a cape. Whatever the thinking, he knew this was the time to make any move.

  He tapped the man’s shoulder in front of him.

  ‘This is it, soldier,’ he said, ‘lead us in.’

  The two ladder bearers climbed up over the bank, and crouching low, ran as fast as they could toward the looming wall. As soon as they moved, the next two knew the signal had been given and followed their comrades out of the river channel. Within seconds, over a hundred ladders were being carried silently through the storm, closely followed by a thousand Welsh men at arms.

  Cynan was amongst them and as he reached the wall, he looked around, pleased to see there were already hundreds of men scaling the ladders as far as the darkness would allow him to see.

  ‘Let me through,’ whispered Cynan and quickly climbed the ladder before him, reaching the battlements without incident.

  As he landed on the walkway behind the wall, he crouched low to avoid making a profile, happy to see that all the other men already inside had adopted the same tactic. They had been trained well. Cynan could hardly believe his luck that they had got this far without being noticed but he knew the bigger test was to come.

  ‘Over here,’ hissed a voice and Cynan joined his men as they ran to a nearby tower in the defensive wall. As they ducked inside he passed the body of a sentry with his throat freshly opened. Cynan glanced at the man responsible.

  ‘Sleeping on duty,’ whispered the soldier, ‘his mistake, our gain.’

  Cynan slapped the man gently on the back as a sign of his appreciation before descending the stairs and emerging onto the town road below. Several men knelt in a circle facing outward, each wielding a sword or an axe.

  Cynan crouched to get his bearings.

  ‘We have been fortunate beyond belief,’ he whispered, ‘but I feel now it will get harder.’ He looked toward the gatehouse and could see the glow of a fire beneath a shelter where the night guards would take it in turn to rest.

  ‘No easy way to do this, comrades,’ said Cynan drawing his short sword, ‘so let’s just get it over with.’

  ----

  The Welsh commander crouched and ran as fast as he could across the open space, closely followed by a dozen men. As they neared the gate an alert guard saw them and called the alarm but before he could draw his sword, Cynan’s bladed smashed across his face, cutting his skull in two. All around the gate defenders took to arms but it was too late and as Cynan’s men charged amongst them, dozens more Welshmen started dropping from the town walls having breached the defences with little effort.

  ‘Open the gates,’ shouted Cynan as the last of the defenders fell to his blade, ‘send the signal’. As many hands lifted the heavy bars across the enormous town gates, the leader looked up to see a flaming arrow pierce the stormy sky.

  ----

  ‘There’s the signal,’ roared Robert Byrd, ‘lancers advance.’

  The fifty riders dug their heels into their horses’ flanks and galloped from the copse toward the town walls. Within minutes the gate towers loomed above them and Robert could see the shapes of the houses through the archway.

  They thundered across the wooden bridge and though Robert glanced toward Cynan as he galloped past, they didn’t slow the pace but rode harder through the narrow streets, heading toward the slopes of the castle.

  After the last rider had disappeared into the gloom, the rest of the Welsh army came running through the gates to join those who had breached the walls. Cynan knew they had been fortunate and had to seize the moment.

  ‘Marshal,’ he called, ‘the town is awakening, send half of the men through the streets and suppress any acts of resistance. Spare not the blade for I would not have assassins in my shadow.’

  ‘Aye Sire.’ came the reply and within moments, hundreds of men deployed into the many tiny alleyways making up the town.

  ‘Sergeant,’ called Cynan, ‘take a hundred bowmen and man the walls to guard our rear, the rest of you, follow me, if we are to succeed in taking this castle, Robert Byrd will need reinforcements before this night is done.’

  ----

  Chapter Eight

  Brecon Castle

  ‘Fletcher, where are we going?’ hissed Tarian, as they clambered through the heavy undergrowth, ‘the path leads away from the castle walls.’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Fletcher, ‘the way is true though indeed treacherous at night.’

  Both men continued, accompanied by Geraint. They had waited until the hard working townsfolk were asleep and the revelries from the taverns fallen silent before making their way toward the castle but Fletcher had soon led them off the path and into the forest. Finally they arrived at a small door set deep into a stone wall and Fletcher paused before knocking on it gently with the hilt of his knife.

  ‘What is this?’ asked Tarian, ‘some sort of forest dwelling?’

  ‘No,’ said Fletcher, ‘it is hidden entrance for the castle. Few know of its existence and of those who do, only a handful know where it leads.’

  ‘A sally port,’ said Tarian, ‘if the castle is besieged, the defenders can use this to send out an armed force to circle around the attackers and fall upon them from behind.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit risky?’ asked Geraint, ‘surely if the enemy finds the Sally port, they have an easy route into the fortress itself.’

  ‘No,’ said Tarian, ‘these ways are often narrow and easily defended. They are usually filled with murder holes or blocked by many doors.’

  ‘In this case, none are needed,’ said Fletcher ‘for the tunnel lays below the level of the river and if the castellan felt the sally port was a risk, by the simple lifting of a sluice gate, the passages can be flooded within minutes.’

  ‘But it is dry now?’

  ‘It is and has been for many years. All we need is a sympathiser to open the locks.’ He turned to knock on the door again. Eventually they heard the sound of latches being drawn and the door creaked outward to reveal a young page peering out, a fearful look on his face.

  ‘Who goes there, stranger?’ he hissed into the darkness.

  ‘It is I,’ said Fletcher, ‘your mother’s brother.’

  The look on the boy’s face eased as he recognised his uncle and pushed the door wide to allow them in.

  ‘Come,’ he said, ‘or I will soon be missed.’


  The three men crouched low and walked into the tunnel. They waited for the boy to bolt the door before returning to lead the way up the low ceilinged passageway. His single candle did little to light the darkness but they could feel the dampness of the walls and Geraint couldn’t help but wonder about all that water being held back somewhere in the distance.

  ----

  Up in the tower, Garyn paced back and forth, his mind racing. Since receiving the letter he had heard nothing and he had no idea who was responsible, or in what form the attempted release would take. Finally he sat back on one of the chairs and waited as the long evening hours dragged themselves toward midnight. Finally he heard keys in the door and jumped up to face whoever it was coming through.

  ‘Oh,’ he said eventually, ‘it’s you.’

  ‘And who else did you expect?’ asked Gerald of Essex as he removed his gloves and sat upon a chair. Behind him stood two guards to ensure Garyn didn’t try anything stupid.

  ‘No-one’ said Garyn, ‘but I thought perhaps there may have been some food sent up.’

  ‘You have been fed once today, Welshman, don’t push your luck.’

  ‘What do you want, Essex?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘I want your part of the bargain,’ said Gerald. ‘You do intend to honour our agreement I assume?’

  ‘I do,’ sighed Garyn, ‘even though the boy wasn’t my son.’

  ‘Hmm, that was an unfortunate outcome,’ said Gerald ‘and to be honest, I’m not convinced. Still, I upheld my part of the bargain. If you are a man of your word, it is time for you to do the same.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I want to know the importance of the Macsen sword,’ said Gerald. ‘Why it is so important to the Welsh and what would be its value. After that, you will tell me the exact location of the corpse of Macsen and don’t even think about lying or that woman and her family will suffer the full weight of my anger.’

  ‘So be it,’ sighed Garyn and leaned back in the chair. ‘The sword of Macsen is the sword of Macsen Wledig, a legendary leader of the Welsh and Britain in general. It is said he was a Roman Emperor who travelled from Rome to be with his dream bride, Helen of the Hosts. When they were together, he swore that as long as his sword was in the hands of a Welshman, then the country would be free. Any man who wields the sword will unite the country behind him.’

  ‘And is that why this Madog wants the sword, to add credence to his claim?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And what about the tomb of this Roman Emperor? Where lays his body?’

  ‘It is within a crypt below an old church near Caernarfon. The ruins are upon an old Roman fort known as Segontium. After the Romans left it seems the locals built a church which has now fallen into disrepair and little remains of it. Within the crypt you will find a stone coffin bearing his remains.’

  ‘And you are adamant there are no treasures there?’

  ‘None that I saw, though I did not unwrap his shroud and know little of the burial rituals of that strange people.’

  Gerald nodded but stayed silent. Finally he took a deep breath and stood up.

  ‘I will test this story of yours, Garyn and see if you speak the truth for even if there are no trinkets to attract my eye, I think the bones of a heralded Welsh leader will hold value of a different sort.’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘Who knows but if the whole Welsh nation worships the memory of this Macsen Wledig, then perhaps his body has a ransom value. Anyway, time will tell, in the meantime I suggest you make peace with god.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the Abbot has regained his strength and summons you to his presence. I wish I could be there to see the outcome but alas I will be gone.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘To Caernarfon of course,’ said Essex, ‘this is an opportunity too good to miss. The fighting is done and I have no doubt that Longshanks will soon ride into the north to re-impose his rule on those who have challenged him. When he does, he will find me waiting to present him with the bones of a Welsh legend and the famed sword of his enemies. If I’m not mistaken he will be impressed enough to grant me a seat at court or at least an Earlship.’

  ‘Is that all you’re interested in Essex, fortune and self-advancement?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the knight simply, ‘is that a problem?’

  ‘In your eyes I guess not but most men would settle for happiness and a family.’

  ‘Money makes me happy,’ said Gerald ‘and family is overrated. As long as there’s a wench between my covers then I go to sleep a happy man and let me tell you, Garyn, wenches are easily come by, whether willing or not’

  ‘You disgust me,’ said Garyn ‘and one day you will meet your match.’

  ‘Perhaps so but you won’t be there to witness it, Father Williams will see to that. Anyway, I waste time. Enjoy your last night of life, Garyn Ap Thomas, I have an appointment to keep.’ He stood up and left the room, locking the door tightly behind him.

  ----

  Down in the depths of the castle cellars a door creaked open no more than a hand’s width and a page peered through into the gloom.

  ‘All clear,’ he whispered and the three men followed him past the kitchens before following him up a stairway to emerge into the courtyard.

  ‘The prisoner is in that tower,’ said the boy pointing across the ward, ‘he is on the second level. A guard sits upon a chair at the base of the stairway in case someone tries to free him.’

  ‘And my daughter?’ asked Fletcher.

  ‘In the same tower but two levels higher.’

  ‘Thank you, boy,’ said Tarian,’ now get away to safety, your work here is done.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the Page and he disappeared into the darkness.

  ‘So what now?’ asked Geraint.

  ‘We’ll stay in the shadows at the base of the walls,’ said Fletcher, ‘the guards are minimal but we don’t want to alert them so be careful.’

  They made their way around the courtyard until they reached the base of the curved tower. Tarian leaned slowly forward and peered through an arrow slit before whispering to his comrades.

  ‘He is asleep and his pike lays against the wall out of arm’s reach,’ said Tarian, ‘I’ll try the door and see if I can kill him before he wakes.’

  ‘No,’ said Geraint, ‘there must be no killing if we can avoid it, for it will be the villagers who pay the price. I will go and see if I can overcome him.’

  Tarian nodded and stood to one side.

  Geraint crouched as he went past the arrow slit and took a deep breath before turning the wrought iron handle. Luckily it opened and he pushed the door slowly inward, grimacing as it creaked upon its hinges.

  Tarian watched through the narrow arrow slit as Geraint crept slowly toward the sleeping guard and worked his way behind him. Finally he pulled his knife and rested it against the man’s throat while placing his other hand over his mouth.

  Instantly the guard was awake and his eyes widened in horror as he realised his predicament.

  ‘Careful, friend,’ hissed Geraint applying pressure on the knife, ‘hold your silence and you may just live, cry out and you will die right here. Understand?’

  The man nodded silently.

  ‘Good’ said Geraint looking up as Tarian and Fletcher entered the tower. Tarian drew his sword and placed the point over the man’s heart.

  ‘Right, listen to me,’ he said quietly, ‘I want some answers and if you value your life, you will answer truly. Trust me, I am not as compassionate as my friend here and will not hesitate to run you through. Do you understand me?’

  The man nodded, the look of fear still on his face.

  ‘Good,’ said Tarian, and looked at Geraint, ‘uncover his mouth.’

  ‘Don’t forget,’ continued Tarian, returning his attention to the prisoner, ‘apart from answering my questions, the slightest sound and my blade gets bloodied. So, first question, are there
any other guards in this tower?’

  ‘Not in here,’ said the man, ‘but the top level opens out onto the battlements. There is one sentry there and another sleeps in the guard room alongside.’

  ‘Good. Where are the prisoners kept?’

  ‘There are prisoners on every level,’ came the reply.

  ‘Who holds the keys?’

  The man didn’t answer but when Tarian applied pressure to the sword, he looked over to a niche in the wall where a candle flickered in the draft.

  ‘Over there,’ he said.

  Fletcher walked over and picked up the bunch of four keys.

  ‘Good,’ said Tarian. ‘Geraint, you go to the top of the tower and ensure we are not surprised from that direction, Fletcher, you release the prisoners while I stay with our friend here and watch our rear.’

  The two men ran up the stairs while Tarian sat on a small stool opposite the guard.

  Ten minutes later, Fletcher reappeared closely followed by Elspeth and her son. Other prisoners followed but when Geraint returned alone, Tarian realised something was wrong.

  ‘Where’s your brother?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Geraint, ‘he wasn’t there.’

  Tarian spun around and pinned the guard back against the wall, his knife pressed firmly against his throat.

  ‘Where is he?’ he snarled, ‘and no more messing about. Where is the prisoner known as Garyn Ap Thomas?’

  ‘He was taken by the castellan not an hour since,’ gasped the man, ‘I know not where.’

  ‘Not good enough,’ said Tarian and pressed the knife harder until a drop of blood ran down the terrified guard’s neck.

  ‘I don’t know, I swear,’ cried the guard and closed his eyes as he awaited the cut that would end his life.

  Tarian hesitated and then withdrew the knife.

  ‘We need to tie him up,’ he said, ‘perhaps he won’t be missed and it give us a little more time.’

  ‘Time for what?’ asked Geraint.

  ‘To find your brother of course,’ said Tarian ‘and from what I can gather about your past, there’s only one place Gerald has taken him.’