Medieval IV - Ring of Steel

by Kevin Ashman

----

  In the north the siege had been in place for three weeks and Madog knew the castle garrison must be on its last legs. Over the past few days they had witnessed several ships try to land supplies at the castle quay but of the many sent, only one had managed to dock, the rest being blown away by the ever present storms. One had even crashed upon the rocks and the whole of Madog’s army cheered wildly as the ship broke apart sending men and supplies to the bottom of the river.

  Despite this, Madog was growing impatient and had sent word to Criccieth to send the Trebuchets but just as he thought the castle was about to surrender, a rider was escorted into his campaign tent with devastating news.

  ----

  ‘Sire,’ said the rider, ‘a well-armed column of English cavalry ride hard toward us as we speak. It seems they crossed the river yesterday and have lost no time in riding north to relieve the castle.’

  ‘What is their strength?’ asked Madog.

  ‘About a thousand or more and warriors to a man. I am told that behind them, an infantry force twice their number escort a supply column taking the same route.’

  ‘And you are sure about the number?’

  ‘I am, Sire.’

  Madog turned to face Meirion.

  ‘What do you think?’’

  ‘If we stay here we will be cornered as were the English.’

  ‘We could defend the town walls, they are only cavalry and will have no idea about siege tactics.’

  ‘Perhaps, but don’t forget there is an infantry force a day or so behind them. On top of that we have another English army within the castle. If we were to engage those attacking the town, what’s to stop Edward opening the gates and falling upon our rear? No, if this man’s news is accurate, we have no other option than to abandon the siege.’

  Madog stared at Meirion, knowing his friend was correct yet loathe to admit defeat. Finally he sent the messenger on his way and after strapping on his sword belt, walked out of the tent.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Merion.

  ‘To see the prize one more time, my friend,’ he said, ‘to get a lasting memory in my mind of how close we came to killing the King of England.’

  ----

  Hours later a knight knocked on the door of the chapel in one of Conway’s towers and burst in on the king as he knelt in prayer alongside the castle priest.

  ‘Who dares to interrupt the king’s worship,’ shouted Edward over his shoulder.

  ‘Sire, you told me to keep you informed about any changes in the Welsh army.’

  ‘What about them?’ replied Edward.

  ‘They’ve gone, Sire, the town is empty.’

  ----

  Edward climbed to the top of the tower and gazed out over the town below him. Sure enough the streets seemed empty and in the distance he could see the last of the Welsh column as it snaked over the hill. The news was true, the Welsh had called off the siege.

  ‘Thank god,’ he whispered to himself, ‘thank god.’

  ----

  Chapter Twenty

  The Southern Road

  March 1295

  Geraint rode his horse slowly on the southern road. Behind him, Fletcher drove a small cart in the back of which lay Garyn on a bed of hay. It had been over a month since Garyn had been injured and though the fever had broken, the wound still hadn’t healed properly. Finally, due to the increased presence of the English across the north, they had taken the difficult decision to move Garyn as soon as he was strong enough, to avoid the consequences they may face once their nationality was discovered.

  The news across North Wales wasn’t good. Longshanks had survived a siege by Madog at Conway and the castles at Denbigh and Criccieth re-taken from Welsh hands. Edward’s armies now dominated the northern quarter of the country and the brothers had to take the lesser known paths to avoid capture. The going was slow but eventually they approached Builth and set up camp within a copse. As Fletcher set the fire, Geraint fed Garyn some soup on the back of the cart before raising a waterproof cape above him. When his brother finally slept, he returned to Fletcher by the fire.

  ‘He needs an apothecary,’ he said quietly, ‘the wound has reopened and I fear there is infection deep within.’

  ‘It is another two days before we reach Brycheniog,’ said Fletcher, ‘can he wait that long?’

  ‘I fear not, he already burns with fever’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘I am going to ride into Builth and seek aid. Hopefully it still lays in Welsh hands but if not, I am just going to have to take my chances.’

  ‘You could be killed,’ said Fletcher.

  ‘We could be killed at any time,’ said Geraint, ‘such is the world in which we live but I will not stand idle and watch my brother die when help may be just a few leagues away.’

  ‘Do what you have to do, I will stay with your brother for as long as it takes.’

  ‘You have my gratitude but I suspect if I’m not back by tomorrow night, it will be too late anyway.’

  Geraint mounted his horse and rode out onto the road before spurring the animal and galloping toward the town of Builth.

  ----

  Two hours later, he tied his horse to a rail and entered a tavern knowing full well that when seeking information in a strange place, the tavern was always a good place to start. The single room was full of men but fell silent within moments as Geraint approached the innkeeper standing by an open cask of ale. Before he reached him, a large man stood to block his way.

  ‘Stop right there, stranger,’ said the man, ‘your face is unknown to us, state your name and your business.’

  ‘I am Geraint Ap Thomas of Brycheniog,’ came the reply, ‘and I come here seeking aid.’

  ‘Your accent is not of Brycheniog,’ said the man, ‘how do I know you are not an English spy?

  ‘I have lived these past ten years in the north but my family is Brycheniog born and my allegiance is to Madog.’

  ‘I hail from that town,’ said another man standing up, ‘and know most families. Name your kin and their trade so I can vouch for your claim.’

  ‘My father was Thomas Ruthin and he was the blacksmith in Brycheniog for many years before he was murdered at the behest of the Abbot Williams.’

  The man’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘I remember there was a blacksmith’s forge on the edge of town that burned down around that time. Is that the family you speak of?’

  ‘It is. My parents and sister were murdered that night though my brother survived.’

  ‘Yes, I remember now,’ said the man, ‘both sons left soon after but were thought long dead.’

  ‘We both still live, sir and when I get back to Brycheniog I can provide witnesses to support my claim but that is why I am here, my brother is wounded most grievously and needs the aid of an Apothecary lest he dies in the night. I implore you as a fellow Welshman, delay me no longer and direct me to the man I seek for every moment I waste is surely weighed against the balance of his life.’

  ‘I believe you stranger,’ said the man eventually, ‘but alas I know of no such physician hereabouts. Many have died these past few months and we count the medical men amongst them. Despite your need, there is nothing we can do.’

  ‘There must be someone,’ said Geraint in desperation, ‘a priest, a monk, anyone.’

  ‘There is one,’ said another man from the back of the room, ‘though it is unlikely he will attend your brother.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked another.

  ‘For he is in the close company of Cynan himself and has no time for commoners such as us.’

  ‘Your words lack worth,’ came the reply, ‘for if this man speaks true then his brother fell in the service of Wales and surely by Cynan’s own promises, every man of Welsh birth is equal.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but many have fallen in service and no matter how helpful the apothecary, he cannot attend them all.’ He turned to face Geraint. ‘I am sorry about your brother but I feel you have had a waste
d journey.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Geraint, ‘where can I find him, it has to be worth a try.’

  ‘He is at the manor in the top meadow,’ said the man, ‘but you will not get past Cynan’s guards.’

  ‘What if I pay?’

  The man sneered.

  ‘Cynan has accumulated and discarded more wealth in these past few months than any of us will see in a hundred lifetimes. What do you have that makes you think he will listen to you?’

  ‘Something he has craved for a long time,’ said Geraint, ‘the Sword of Macsen.’

  ----

  Geraint waited impatiently before being shown in through the large doors of the manor. Inside he expected to see the opulence and grandeur that such places usually contained but was shocked to find the place had been ransacked and much of the interior ravaged by fire. He was taken through the ruined hall and into an antechamber. Three men sat against the walls, sipping on flasks of ale while a pile of furniture burned in the centre, the smoke billowing out of the damaged shutters. The soldier turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  ‘So, you are the man who claims to know the whereabouts of the Macsen Sword,’ said a voice from the shadows.

  ‘I am, Sire, but seek a favour in return for giving up the knowledge.’

  The man stood and walked across to stand before Geraint. His face was gaunt and smeared with blood, dirty from weeks of rough campaign. His hair was tangled and fell unkempt about his face and his deep set eyes reflected the weariness of fighting a cause long lost. He took another drink from the flask before speaking again.

  ‘Ah yes, the attendance of my physician, is that correct?’

  ‘It is, Sire’, said Geraint, ‘but my need is dire and he has to leave with me straight away.’

  ‘And where is this sword?’

  ‘I have it back at our camp in the forest and will gladly hand it over to your men as soon as we arrive.’

  ‘What makes you think I have need of it anymore? I don’t know if you realise but the resistance throughout Wales crumbles around our feet and I suspect such a bauble holds little worth to those now struggling just to stay alive.’

  ‘I realise this, Sire’, said Geraint, ‘but thought that should there be a reckoning before Longshanks then its possession may hold you in good stead.’

  ‘What makes you think this?’

  ‘It is well known that Longshanks enjoys the study of the mystical and especially the history of the Roman invaders many generations ago. Caernarfon itself was selected for its proximity to Segontium and the design of the fortress is taken from those in Constantinople, once the heart of the Roman Empire. To have such an artefact in his possession may just open his mind to negotiation.’

  Cynan considered the argument for several moments.

  ‘Your words have merit,’ he said. ‘Return to your horse and wait there. My apothecary will attend you soon. Once he has treated your brother, send him back with the sword. Be gone, Geraint of Brycheniog for I have ale to drink and victories to recall.’ He returned to the shadows and resumed his place against the base of the far wall, comforted by the dancing flames and flasks of strong ale.

  ----

  ‘Who’s there?’ hissed Fletcher, standing up and drawing his sword.

  ‘Ease your sword, Fletcher,’ replied Geraint, ‘it is me and I have brought a man of medicine.’

  Fletcher lowered his knife and lost no time in leading the apothecary to the cart where Garyn slept a fitful sleep.

  ‘Remove the bandages.’ said the Apothecary, ‘and let me see the wound.’

  They did as they were told and the physician leaned forward to smell the wound, recoiling quickly at the stench. Similarly he smelled Garyn’s shallow breath before reaching for a leather wrap and retrieving a sharp blade. Carefully he scraped the pus away from the wound before gently pulling the unhealed skin apart. Seeing the black flesh beneath he glanced up at Geraint and slowly shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘this man’s wound is riddled with the demons of infection. There is nothing I can do.’

  ‘No,’ said Geraint, ‘you are wrong. You are an apothecary and must have powders or potions to kill the rot.’

  ‘It is too late,’ came the reply, ‘if I had seen him a few days ago perhaps he would have a chance but he is too far gone, the poison is in his blood and he has the smell of death about him.’

  ‘There must be something you can do,’ snapped Geraint angrily, ‘anything.’

  ‘I can clean the wound and ease the pain but he is too weak to fight the fire in his veins. All I suggest you do now is make him comfortable until the time comes.’

  ‘How long has he got?’ asked Fletcher.

  ‘If I clean him up and ease the pain I reckon he could last a day or so, no more.’

  ‘Can we move him?’

  ‘No, the strain will finish him off. Set up a shelter and make him as comfortable as possible. Also, if he is a godly man, try and find him a priest.’

  Geraint looked down at his brother and fell to his knees, taking Garyn’s hand in his.

  ‘Brother,’ he said, ‘I am so, so sorry. After everything you did for me in my life, when you needed me I fell short. My life is cursed.’

  ‘Geraint,’ whispered Garyn, ‘do not fret, this is not your doing and truth be told, I outlived my given span many years ago. Be comforted that I will die a happy man knowing that you still live.’

  ‘Forgive me brother,’ said Geraint and placed his head on Garyn’s chest.

  Garyn raised his hand weakly and placed it on his brother’s head.

  ‘Nothing to forgive, Geraint, nothing to forgive.’

  ----

  Ten minutes later, Garyn had fallen into a pain filled sleep and Geraint rose quietly, realising Fletcher was nowhere to be seen. He heard a noise in the bushes and as he walked through to find the cause he saw Fletcher astride Garyn’s horse, about to ride out.

  ‘What are you doing?’ demanded Geraint, ‘you can’t leave now, my brother can’t be moved.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Fletcher, ‘but there is something I can do. Keep the apothecary here, Geraint and task him with keeping Garyn alive as long as possible. I will be back as soon as I can.’

  ‘Why, where are you going?’

  ‘I hesitate to tell you, my friend in case it raises a false hope, just keep him alive as long as possible.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘No time to explain,’ shouted Fletcher and spurred the horse to burst through the trees onto the southern road.

  ‘Where is he going?’ asked Geraint.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said the apothecary, ‘but wherever it is, I fear it will be a fool’s errand. Come, help me make your brother’s last days more comfortable.’

  ----

  Chapter Twenty One

  Montgomery

  4th March - 1215

  William De-Beauchamp was sitting at a table in his campaign tent when the news he had been waiting for finally arrived. For Weeks, the Earl of Warwick had chased shadows through the forests of mid wales, sending out patrols to seek Madog’s army but always the rumours had proved false and the Welsh prince always stayed one step ahead. De-Beauchamp had even engaged hundreds of farmers and woodsmen to lay waste to huge swathes of forests across the region, cutting down thousands of trees to deny the enemy shelter but despite this, Madog remained at large and rumours abounded that he intended to attack English interests along the border. This was a disturbing turn of events and the Earl had doubled his efforts to locate the prince before he could do any lasting damage. Finally the news he had been waiting for had arrived and two Welsh spies were ushered into the tent.

  ‘Welcome,’ said William, standing up, ‘I hear you have good news for me.’

  ‘We do, Sire. Madog and his army lay camped in a field a few leagues hence. They head south east and intend raiding into the Welsh Marches within days.’

  ‘Show me on the map,’ said William, walking to a
nother table.

  ‘Sire, he is here,’ said the man indicating a spot on the chart, ‘along with perhaps a thousand men.’

  ‘How can he still keep such a big army in the field?’ asked William, ‘his supply lines must be yet intact.’

  ‘His support column is indeed well stocked, Sire for he still enjoys the allegiance of many villages. They empty their food stores to feed his cause.’

  ‘A cause on its last legs,’ spat William, ‘yet one that clings to life with a stubbornness unparalleled. We will deal with these villagers’ misguided loyalty soon enough but in the meantime, our concentration must focus on the prince himself.’ He looked at the map again. ‘What is the name of this place?’

  ‘It is a valley called Y Fygin,’ said the man.

  ‘Is it suitable for a cavalry attack?’

  ‘It is.’

  And how long do you think it will take a column to reach Y Fygin?’

  ‘If you march through the night, you can be there by dawn.’

  ‘And you think he will still be there?’

  ‘He has been for several days and doesn’t look like moving anytime soon.’

  ‘Then that is our plan,’ said William and turned to his aid.

  ‘Sir Henry, muster the men, marching order only. I want to be on the road within the hour with our full command.’ He turned to the two men once again. ‘Do you know where he hides his supply column?’

  ‘We did not see it with our own eyes but I am reliably informed it lays in this wood, two leagues north of his camp.’

  ‘Then we will launch a two pronged attack,’ said William, ‘and deal with this man once and for all. If your information proves true, gentlemen then I will personally make you very rich men. In the meantime I want you each to accompany a column with my officers. One will take us to Y Fygin while the other will lead us to the forest that contains the support column.’

  ‘Aye sir,’ said the men.

  ‘One more question,’ said William, pointing at a name at the centre of the valley, ‘this place called Nant Moydoc, what does it mean?’

  ‘It mean’s Madoc’s stream,’ said the spy, ‘a coincidence only for it was named after a different man many years ago.’