by Tony Riches
The archbishop had simple tastes and was uncomfortable with the obvious display of wealth. His one exception was a gold crucifix with a large ruby set in the centre, which he wore on a chain round his neck. It had been given to him by the king and showed remarkable craftsmanship in the engraving. He was unaware that the crucifix, with its precious stone, marked him as a target. More than one ruthless thief would be waiting for an unguarded moment.
The golden crucifix was not his most treasured possession, however. The archbishop was also the proud owner of a Vetus Latina, the ancient priceless Bible of antiquity. Older than the Vulgate Bible of Saint Jerome and painstakingly hand written in Latin calligraphy, Renfrew’s copy had been illuminated in gold leaf and magnificent colours. He had never told anyone how he came by it and saw himself as a custodian of the work, rather than the owner of it, dedicating his life to its study and safe keeping.
Renfrew was liked by all who knew him and had the dark eyes of the Welsh that shone engagingly as he spoke. He was not old but his once jet black hair and beard were turning grey, giving him an air of authority he found increasingly useful. Fluent in many languages, he was a favourite advisor to the king and had introduced him to the young Queen Elvina. The power that came with his duties also brought responsibility. He had brokered the truce with their former enemies through the marriage, which had worked out better than he could possibly have hoped. Although the Welsh Church was outside the jurisdiction of the English Bishops, Archbishop Renfrew was well connected. He knew the Anglo Saxon King Athelstan faced opposition from Owain of Strathclyde and needed an alliance with the Welsh kings.
Athelstan had made a treaty with Viking leader Sithric, King of York, sealed by the marriage of his sister, Edith, to the Danish king. When Renfrew discovered that Athelstan had four other sisters, an idea formed in his mind. He found out that the youngest of the English princess was unmarried. King Gwayne could have had his pick of the eligible Welsh nobility, so it was fortunate that the king found Athelstan’s sister Elvina attractive. She had her brother’s striking blond hair and was well educated in matters of the royal court. It had not been easy to arrange the introduction but God was willing, and the Saxon Bishops had seen advantage in supporting him.
Allegiance with the House of Wessex was their best defence against the endless border struggles and the threat from Viking invaders. The problem of the northern tribes of Wales was quite a different matter. One which he feared would only be settled by bloodshed. Renfrew was a man of peace and had slept badly for several nights, concerned about rumours of warriors rallying at Flint Castle. The king would surely be sending for him before long but he was at a loss to see how war could be avoided. He decided to write to the Bishops of the north. They were loyal to a different king but shared the same religion.
Chapter Two
Queen Rhiannon of the Du held her strong baby close and wondered what the future would hold for him. She felt overwhelming relief to have given her husband the son he longed for. She silently thanked God the birth had been without problems as she knew good women who died screaming in agony when babies could not be brought safely into the world. That was not her destiny. Not this time.
The king smiled at his wife and child. ‘We will name him Evan, after my Grandfather.’ King Gethin was a striking figure, one of the strongest and best educated ever to rule over the Du. In the tradition of his people, his hair was long and dark. He wore the tribal tattoos and a heavy gold ear ring, but it was his eyes that people remembered. They had an intensity that marked him as a natural leader of men.
Rhiannon looked into her new son’s big dark eyes. ‘Evan is a good name for a Prince.’ She had dreamed of this day when she was a young girl, growing up by the sea at the hill fort in Conwy. Her parents were long dead, killed by the devastating plague that swept through the land more than ten years before. Her older sister, Ceinwen, had looked after her for as long as she could remember, teaching her the ways of a Welsh Princess. She looked very similar to Rhiannon, tall and athletic, with the same raven black hair worn free flowing and long. They both turned heads wherever they went, but for different reasons. Rhiannon’s dark eyes saw deep into a man’s soul and left him enchanted, captivated. Ceinwen’s good humoured approach to life made her eyes twinkle attractively although she seemed unaware of the effect of this on the men she met.
The queen called for her sister now. She had been helping her throughout the birth and looked tired but happy. ‘Ceinwen, thank you. You have been so good to me. Let it be known that the new prince is to be called Evan.’
Ceinwen laughed. ‘It means fortunate one,’ she said. ‘He is indeed fortunate!’
Rhiannon smiled. ‘We have all been fortunate, that we live to see this day.’ Ceinwen left to spread the news. Everyone in the kingdom would hear before the day was over.
King Gethin had never been happier but knew that dark clouds loomed over their future as a family. He had been sent worrying news that in the land to the south the people of the Gwyn were preparing for battle, training their men and readying defences. He had summoned his lords and warriors to talk about what they must do, but for now tried to put it out of his mind.
Rhiannon was too excited to notice the change in his mood. ‘We must have a royal feast. All the tribes should be invited.’
Gethin grinned. ‘The tribes are already here. They are waiting for me so I must go to the arena and start the celebrations.’ He left Rhiannon alone with the baby and she noticed her son was still staring at her, with his father’s intense, all-knowing gaze.
She held him to her swollen breast. ‘Little Evan, my prayers have been answered by you.’
The Palace of the Du was simply furnished, with sheep skins on the floor and a big stone hearth to keep them warm. The Du were nomadic, moving with the changing seasons, so it suited Rhiannon to have few possessions, apart from one she kept close wherever they travelled. It was a dark oak chest, with an ingenious iron lock. King Gethin thought it held her dresses and trinkets, which it did, but the old chest had another purpose for Rhiannon. To keep her precious papers safe.
She was the first Du queen to learn to read and write the Welsh language, thanks to the patience over many years of her teacher and mentor, Bishop Emrys. The king had made it clear they must follow the tradition of handing down the stories by word of mouth but secretly, when she could, Rhiannon was writing down the ways of her people. It had been a slow and laborious process, as the bishop lived in Bangor, so his lessons were limited to his visits when the king was away. More than once they had nearly been discovered but Rhiannon was ready to confess that she was simply learning the religious texts.
The key was always on a chain around her neck, so after making sure she was alone, she unlocked the chest and slid open a secret panel where her papers were safely hidden. One day she would share her writing with her son, Evan, who she would also teach to read and write the language of their people. She unrolled the parchment Bishop Emrys had provided and taking the sharpened quill began slowly writing about the birth of her son. The black ink dried slowly and her hand was a little unsteady but she knew in her heart the value of a written record of their times.
*
The men of the tribes assembled in the open arena. Unlike the Gwyn, who had united under a single flag, Du warlords were loyal to the king but ruled vast lands of many tribes. To the east, the tribal warlord Vorath kept the peace in the lands to the border with the English at the old Roman town of Chester. To the west, Lord Llewelyn did the same for the territories up to the furthest tip of the Isle of Ynys Môn. King Gethin had worked hard to bring them together as the people of the Du. It had not been easy to win the respect of all the tribes.
There was a hush as the king entered the arena. It was a clear autumn evening and he felt a gentle sea breeze. The sun was setting and the arena was lit by the flames of dozens of brightly burning torches. The king carried the sacred dagger, a finely crafted weapon with a handle of carved black obsidian and a
curved, savagely sharp silver blade. The king held it high, signifying his royal command. He could see there were more men gathered than usual. He looked around their faces, recognising many and bringing them to silence before he spoke. His strong voice resonated clearly across the arena. ‘Today is a special day. I have a son and have named him Prince Evan!’ A deep cheer of approval rang out into the night and Gethin felt an overwhelming pride in his people. It had been an emotional day. He had feared he could lose his beautiful wife or his precious son, or both, so it was with a huge sense of relief that he addressed the assembled tribes.
Warlord Vorath was seated to one side of the arena, surrounded by a group of young warriors. He was an impressive figure, with a dark beard and bare muscular arms, encircled with tattoos of sacred symbols from the old days. His father had died of wounds in a battle with the Gwyn and he harboured a need for vengeance that made him sometimes reckless. King Gethin noted that Vorath proudly wore his warriors black cape with his fighting sword and dagger at his belt. They had fought together many times, against the Vikings, the English, Irish raiders and, of course, the ruthless southerners, the Gwyn. He smiled at the memory of the stories they shared and realised there was no better man to have at his side.
Vorath stood and faced the king. ‘We wish you well, my lord, and your son too.’ He paused while they cheered in agreement. ‘We pledge our support if there is trouble from the south.’ Another cheer went up. Vorath held up his hand for silence. ‘I pray that no more good men will have to die defending our land - but we are ready to do so!’ Men started rhythmically thumping the hard ground with ends of their spear shafts, an old tradition that warmed the heart of the king.
Next it was Lord Llewelyn who stood. Vorath sat down and waited to hear the legendary orator. The traditions of the Du passed from one generation to the next, so much importance was placed on oratory and there was no greater master. The king was surprised to realise that his old friend Llewelyn looked thin and frail. He was recovering from illness and carried a long fighting staff which he leaned on for support. Dressed entirely in black, as was the custom of his tribe, the elderly lord had counselled peace with the Gwyn.
Now he looked round at the torch-lit faces of his countrymen and shook his head dramatically. ‘Many of you think it is time to drive the Gwyn out of Wales.’ He paused for effect, waiting for a reaction to the question in his words. ‘Even those who advocated talks with the king of the Gwyn must admit he is now a puppet of the Saxons!’ Llewelyn enjoyed stressing the word puppet and was rewarded by a deep murmur of agreement. ‘Marriage to the foreigner’s sister had sullied the blood of Cymraig.’ At this the men all stood up and cheered.
Gethin was used to the posturing of his lords and waited for the noise to settle down. Once they were all seated, he addressed them again. ‘We have learnt that the people of the Gwyn are preparing for battle.’ He had their full attention now. ‘You say you are ready but we must also prepare, we must give them no advantage, spare them no quarter.’
The roar of approval echoing around the arena was interrupted by a loud and sudden bellow behind him. He turned to see two strong warriors, each with a firm hold on the horns of a large black bull. The king approached them, swiftly drew his dagger and with a deep and deadly stroke slashed the throat of the powerful animal, ending its life in a spurt of red blood across the hard packed earth of the arena. He paused, watching the reaction of the men. ‘The time for talking of peace is over,’ he said, holding his bloodied dagger in the air defiantly. ‘We will take the rich lands of the south and make them ours!’ This was the signal the men had been waiting for. Their king had not disappointed and the celebrations for the birth of his son turned into a celebration of a new beginning for the people of the Du.
*
Bishop Deniol slept badly and woke before daylight with an unhappy dilemma, his mind on the letter he had received from Archbishop Renfrew of Llandaff. As the Du king’s counsel and spiritual advisor he knew his duty, but as a man of the church he should not be talking of war. Deniol had few friends, partly due to his abrupt manner and tendency to lapse into long silences, lost in his own thoughts. He was, however, a gifted scholar and would have much preferred to see out his days reading in the library of Basingwerk.
He quickly dressed and went to his study to read the neatly written letter for the tenth time. He trusted Renfrew and had to acknowledge the archbishop’s skill at setting out a persuasive argument. He had heard the king speak about the Gwyn and knew it would be impossible to get him to agree publicly to any kind of truce. There was now a son, however, so there was more at stake. Deniol realised he was going to have to seek an audience with the king to discuss the letter. His duty was to at least present the archbishop’s idea before it was too late.
The bishop rang a bell to summon his servants and told them to make ready his carriage for a journey. Unable to ride a horse any distance, he had paid the village carpenter to modify a sturdy farm cart, with a cover to keep out the rain and a comfortable seat. He had been all the way to the Island of Ynys Mon in his cart and now he rarely travelled without it. He also told them to track down his bondsman Rhys to travel with him. As well as being experienced at taking the cart over the unreliable tracks of the northern coast, Rhys was company on a long journey.
Rhys was short and stocky, with a similarly secretive manner to the bishop, so gave little idea of how he felt about anything. He was quietly pleased when he was told he was going on a long journey with the bishop. As a bondsman he was little more than a servant, so had no choice but to obey the bishop’s command, but a visit to the king would mean he would hear all the latest news. His father had been a famous warrior, so Rhys should have inherited a good living, but he was the youngest son. When his father died his older brothers shared the land and money between them, leaving him to find his own way in life. They had sons of their own, so he was never going to inherit.
Rhys had a plan, however. He had seen a crossbow when some mercenaries from England visited Basingwerk and took an interest in how it worked. He was good with his hands but tried several times to copy the design, only to be disappointed. It was only when he used wood from a sacred yew that he achieved the results he wanted. Rhys took it as a sign and practised with the crossbow whenever he could, hiding it amongst his few possessions. At first, he had found it hard to draw, but he made a lever and a simple ratchet. The small bolts, made from old salvaged cut down arrows, now fired with deadly accuracy so fast that the eye could hardly follow them.
If there was a war, he now had a way out of spending the rest of his life as the bishop’s man. He would not be fighting hand to hand, with swords and daggers. With a crossbow he would become an unseen assassin, his victims only aware of the hiss of the bolt when it was too late. Rhys smiled to himself at the thought and remembered how firmly and deeply his crossbow bolts lodged into the trunk of a tree he used for practice. The cart was making good progress on the coastal track, as work had been done over the past year to widen it and fill the worst of the holes. Rhys wondered what had happened to make the bishop need to see the king so urgently. They were travelling light, so he knew it would be a short visit.
Bishop Deniol looked up at the sun, trying to judge the hour. ‘I need to get to the king before nightfall, if we can.’
The track was relatively straight and level, so Rhys encouraged the horse to break into a trot, saying nothing but casting a furtive look at the bishop, who looked tense and worried. When they arrived at the king’s encampment Bishop Deniol was fortunate, as the king agreed to see him straight away.
The king was alone in his meeting room. The only light was from candles of tallow, which smoked and cast long shadows as they flickered. The walls were decorated with a collection of finely made swords and spears, reminding any visitors that they were dealing with a warrior king.
Deniol had been in the king’s meeting room many times but still eyed the weapons nervously. ‘My Lord, you are blessed to have a son,’
‘Thank you Deniol, but I doubt you have come all this way…’
‘You are right lord. We need to discuss a letter from the archbishop of the Gwyn.’ He handed the letter to the king, who was well versed in Latin and studied it for some time before answering.
‘This could be a trick,’ he murmured to himself, deep in thought. He suddenly turned his penetrating gaze on the bishop. ‘Your counsel, Deniol?’
‘There is no deceit, my Lord, he replied, ‘The archbishop is a good man, I have known him for many years.
‘You know the Gwyn are readying for war?’
‘Yes. I fear they may have spies among us even now but you ask my counsel. I say we should talk. Many lives may be spared and you will be remembered as a man of peace.’
The king looked at him darkly. ‘Do you truly believe Athelstan will treat us as fairly as a king who is married to his own family?
‘No. I do not.’ The silence hung in the air and they both knew the truth. Bishop Deniol struggled with his conscience. ‘My lord, if war cannot be avoided, the Church has an obligation to ensure it is just.’
‘So, bishop, what would you have me do? Am I to stand by and watch as the Gwyn take our lands?
Deniol looked uncomfortable. ‘I have made a study of the writings of Marcus Cicero, my lord. He wrote that men owe each other obligations even in times of war, especially not to kill the innocent.’
The king up held his had to show he wanted to hear no more. ‘You are to reply to the letter, Deniol,’ said Gethin quietly. ‘Tell the archbishop we are also readying for battle. They will not take us by surprise!’
*
Bishop Emrys would also have been consulted on the reply but, as the queen’s personal cleric, had been with her throughout the birth and celebrations. He had now returned to his church in Bangor. An athletic man, he had risen to high office through his many gifts. Emrys was possibly the brightest of his generation and the youngest ever to reach the rank of bishop. He had learned to read and write in several languages, including Greek and the Nordic text of the Vikings, as well as absorbing the nuances of Latin and was an acknowledged master of the Welsh language.
