by Tony Riches
As he watched the tide slowly filling the harbour, he wondered when he would see his farm again. His life had changed so suddenly he had hardly had time to adjust. His hand fell subconsciously to the handle of the magnificent old sword. Not for the first time, he thought over his conversation of the previous day. He had never thought before of Bishop Cledwin having a father and, if he had done, would have imagined he came from a long line of clerics. Some time, thought Elfred, he would have to ask more about the man whose sword he now wore. It felt natural and gave him the look of an experienced soldier, which he was not.
As soon as it was afloat the ship cast off and the sailors expertly caught the breeze in the sails and headed out to sea. Elfred had been out with the small Porth Clais fishing boats many times and was familiar with their course, but had never been as far as the port of Pembroke.
‘A fair wind,’ he said to the captain.
The captain looked up at the brooding sky. ‘Just as well. The current favours us as well, so we should make good way before nightfall.’ He produced a loaf of rough bread from a locker and tore off a piece, which he handed to Elfred. ‘Do you know how to take the helm?’
Elfred shrugged. ‘Show me and I’ll learn.’
The captain smiled and gestured for him to take over the ships wheel. ‘Keep an eye on the sail, if it starts flapping, bear up like this,’ he said showing how lightly the boat handled. ‘Stay close to the coast and keep a bearing on that headland,’ he said, pointing to a shape on the horizon. He kept watch while Elfred manned the helm, occasionally giving advice but he seemed quietly impressed.
The sky darkened and Elfred noticed that the sea had white crests of foam on the top of the waves. He tasted the salt spray and started to enjoy his new life. At the same instant he felt sudden sadness and a sense of loss for the life he was leaving behind. He knew so much about how to get the best from the farms, but so little about the world. It had all seemed so clear, his life mapped out. A wife, some land of his own, a family and sons to pass his knowledge on to. Now he wondered if he would ever return to the life of a farmer.
The thought troubled him as they sailed through the night. The wind turned and the sea got choppy, so the passage through Jack Sound was thrilling and frightening in turns. Waves crashed alarmingly over the deck, drenching them all and more than once the boat was blown over to an impossible angle and struggled to right itself. Worst of all were the jagged black rocks looming out of the foaming water. He remembered a saying from the fishermen of Porth Clais who told him ‘It’s not the sea that’ll kill you, it’s the land!’ The captain knew his trade, however and they arrived safely in Pembroke by mid morning.
Elfred thanked the captain and continued his short journey on foot. He approached the garrison with mixed feelings. He was excited at the sight of so much activity as the town prepared for battle. The old wooden hill fort was being rebuilt with stone and was already being called Pembroke Castle. He looked up in amazement at the height of the walls and saw how the river made the north side almost impossible to attack. He could hear rhythmic cadence of stone mason’s chisels, mixing discordantly with the random clang of swordsmen training to fight somewhere within the grounds. The only entrance was through a tall tower with a lifting bridge over a deep defensive ditch. The wind changed direction and on the top of a tower the long white standard of the Gwyn flowed in the gentle breeze. Elfred saw it and suddenly felt a surge of pride in his country. He approached the tower with a new confidence.
‘Who goes there?’ called the guard at the entrance to the garrison.
‘A soldier of the Gwyn reporting for training,’ shouted Elfred, looking uncertainly at the guard. ‘I am here on the orders of Sir Gwynfor of Picton.’
The guard viewed him with suspicion. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Elfred. I have come by sea from St Davids.’
The guard made no move to let him pass but at that moment a soldier arrived at the entrance to the castle. The man was about his own age, dressed in a heavy chain mail vest that looked too large for him. He was carrying a heavy bow over one shoulder and had a leather quiver, full of arrows over the other.
The soldier looked at him. He had obviously heard the exchange, as he said ‘Sir Gwynfor?’
‘Yes,’ replied Elfred.
‘Then you are with me,’ said the soldier. ‘Another lamb to the slaughter!’ He grinned at the thought and clapped Elfred on the arm. ‘Ned’s the name. Come in and meet the others.’
‘There are others like me?’ asked Elfred, surprised.
‘Yes, and more over at Caerphilly I’ve heard. I’ve been here a few days learning how to use this thing.’
Elfred looked at the bow. ‘We are to be trained as archers?’
‘Archers, swordsmen, jack of all trades - and master of none!’ said Ned, ‘I plan to make the most of this war and you should too!’ He led Elfred into the castle and took him to the garrison barracks. The room was surprisingly clean and tidy, with a row of simple beds and various weapons neatly placed in wooden racks.
‘Where are the others? asked Elfred.
‘Sentry duty. It’s your turn tonight, so get some rest.’
Elfred was tired, and gladly stretched out on a vacant bunk, fell asleep almost straight away.
*
Elvina woke alone in her comfortable bedchamber and wondered at the events of the previous day. She could not be in love with the young knight but felt a strange excitement at the memory of him. It was a feeling so far absent from her life with the king. It was, after all, a marriage of convenience, not a love match. Until Sir Gwynfor opened her eyes to the truth of her situation. She called for her maidservant Bethan. Elvina thought Bethan a classic Welsh beauty, with jet black hair and dark eyes. She had chosen not to bring her Anglo Saxon servants, as with Bethan as her handmaiden she would learn more about the people of the Gwyn. Bethan was teaching her the language of the Welsh and something of their customs. The queen had learned quickly.
Bethan appeared in the doorway. She had been expecting the call and bowed to the queen before speaking. ‘My lady?’
‘Where is the king?’ asked Elvina
‘He woke early, my lady’ said Bethan, ‘I think he has been meeting with Sir Padrig and Sir Gwynfor.’ As she said Gwynfor’s name she remembered the moment they had shared in the corridor. An unspoken understanding. He would never know it was no accident she was in the corridor at that moment. Now she had more power over them both than she had dreamed possible. One day her time would come.
Queen Elvina lay back in her bed. The sun was shining, lighting up the room. The small leaded glass window was open and a gentle breeze brought the sound of birdsong. If she listened carefully, she could hear the waves breaking on the shore at the foot of the cliffs. She was happy with her life in Wales, but unfulfilled. She had wanted just one thing, to be accepted by the people of the Gwyn. Now she wanted more. To be the first Queen of all Wales and have her rightful place at her brother’s side. She knew she was a favourite of King Athelstan but he had used her as a convenient way of dealing with what he called ‘the troublesome Welsh’. Soon, she thought, he would see her as an equal. Sir Gwynfor was the key and now he was hers.
Bethan had been waiting patiently for orders. She crossed over to the window and looked out on the courtyard below. ‘The groom is preparing horses,’ she said. ‘They must be going for a ride.’
The queen sat up in bed. ‘Prepare my bath, if you will,’ she said, ‘I want to look my best when they return.’
*
King Gwayne and the two knights had been arguing about the merits of using the element of surprise by attacking the Du or waiting for their enemy to show their hand. Padrig had suggested a ride along the headland path and the King agreed. It was good exercise for the horses and the fresh sea air was exhilarating. They galloped dangerously close to the cliffs, finding sport in expertly following the twists and turns of the narrow path through the dunes to the beach. The king reined in his
mount and the others matched him.
‘I used to come here as a boy,’ shouted the king over the noise of the heavy surf that was whipping the water into white foamed crests, ‘There is no finer ride in Wales!’
Gwynfor shouted back. ‘Which is why we need to protect it, by taking the fight to the north!’
‘We cannot attack the northerners without good reason,’ said Padrig.
The king stopped and turned his horse to face him. ‘Was my father’s death not reason enough?’
‘Would the old king have wanted us to start another war?’ asked Padrig. It was an argument they had practiced many times, always with the same outcome. The king knew the answer.
‘Let me test their readiness,’ suggested Sir Gwynfor, swiftly drawing his sword and slashing it through the air to make his point. ‘We need to know their strength - and show them we are stronger.’
‘Yes, this waiting is hard for me to stand. It is time to make our destiny.’ Gwayne spurred his horse back to the gallop and the others followed, racing hard across the long expanse of golden sand. The king led the way, following the line of the surf, the horse’s hooves digging deep holes that were washed away with each crashing wave. Padrig would recall that moment in the months to come.
Chapter Four
It was a short but dangerous journey across the fast flowing River Menai to the island of Ynys Mon. The water was dark and deep and good people of the Du had drowned attempting the crossing. There were good reasons for them to try, for as well as some of the best farming land in the country, the island was home to many tribes. Reaching out into the Irish Sea, Ynys Mon had been invaded by the Roman army, marauding Vikings and Irish pirates but still the Du clung steadfastly on to their birthright. The legacy of several generations of relentless fighting could be seen in the land and the people. Old hill forts dominated the high ground and were still maintained by men who had learnt to stay prepared for invaders.
The largest of these wood and stone hill forts now brought Lord Llewelyn and his servant Bryn to Ynys Mon. It was Llewelyn’s responsibility to protect the west of the kingdom, so he needed to be certain it was ready for any attack from the Gwyn. Llewelyn was recovering from a long illness and carried a long fighting staff everywhere he went. He would lean on it for support but was also skilled in its use as a weapon and had killed men with it in the past. It was clear from the practised ease with which he handled the staff that Llewelyn was not to be underestimated. Dressed always in traditional black, he was immediately recognised and liked by the people who lived on the island, as well as respected as a warlord of the king.
His follower Bryn could not have been more different, so they made an incongruous pair as they waited on the quayside for the boat that would make the crossing. Bryn was a giant bear of a man, with an unkempt beard and a deep, throaty laugh that belied his violent nature. He had a weakness for the ale houses which were springing up in every town and would invariably end up in a drunken brawl, unable to account for his actions when questioned by his master. The two of them had been together many years now. Something of Llewelyn’s skill as an orator seemed to have rubbed off on his bondsman, as Bryn was prone to offer an opinion on every subject to anyone who would listen.
Bryn pointed suddenly. ‘The boat is on its way back my lord!’ He had keen eyes, as Llewelyn could see nothing through the autumn mist that hung in the damp air. It was a short trip of about a thousand paces and he was pleased to see that the river was fairly calm. He shuddered involuntarily at the memory of an earlier trip across the narrow straits of the Menai. The short sail had failed to catch the wind and, despite desperate rowing by the oarsmen, their boat had been caught in the current which carried them quickly down the coast at a perilous speed. Bryn had enjoyed the experience, cheering and encouraging the rowers as they strained and sweated to keep away from the jagged rocks, but Llewelyn had never felt the need to learn to swim. Although he would not admit it, he had felt completely helpless and not for the first time had been in fear for his life.
They boarded the old boat and this time sailed swiftly across without incident, to be greeted by the wagon driver who was waiting to take them up to the fort. ‘Good morning, my lord,’ he said, smiling and touching his hat as a sign of respect. ‘You are here for the Mabon?’ It was a poorly kept secret that the elderly lord followed the Druid religion. After a thousand years of tradition, it was barely surviving on the island as the power of the church took hold. His involvement was now reduced to celebrating the solstices and equinoxes, so the timing of his visit to the island to coincide with the autumn equinox was no coincidence.
Llewelyn looked at the wagon driver more closely and recognised him as a fellow Druid. He smiled back but it was a fleeting moment and he quickly looked concerned again. ‘We will give thanks for the gifts of the harvest and prepare for the darkness of winter,’ he replied. ‘I fear it will be a long dark winter.’
*
The queen of the Du would make an excellent hostage if she were captured by any of their enemies. In the past, the Vikings had targeted the royal house and very nearly carried her off in a daring night raid. The people of the Gwyn were also known to use cowardly tactics, so abduction of the queen was a very real threat. Rhiannon therefore had a personal bodyguard to follow her whenever she travelled, an experienced warrior called Hywel. Hywel was a proud and careful man who took his royal duties very seriously. He was always immaculately dressed, with well trimmed hair and beard and kept his sword polished and sharp. Before the war against the Vikings, he had been much like any other easy going warrior. The experience of battle had changed him, however. Hardened by the ruthless savagery, death and torture he had seen, he withdrew from the others and as a result had few friends.
The captain of the guard, an outspoken and less experienced warrior called Idris, was the king’s personal bodyguard and there was always a tension between them. One evening Hywel was drinking alone in the king’s alehouse when Idris, who had also been drinking, went over to him. ‘What do we have here?’ he said loudly.
Hywel looked at the younger man with thinly veiled contempt. ‘You are drunk, Captain.’
‘Maybe I am, but you must show respect.’ Idris swayed a little, unsteady on his feet.
Hywel could see the captain was looking for trouble, so realised there was only one way out. ‘I must be going. I am on duty early in the morning.’
Idris laughed and turned to his companions. ‘He guards our queen closely, I think a little too closely?’ The men laughed but their fun was cut short when Hywel struck him down with a single vicious blow.
One of the guards rushed to help Idris, who lay bleeding on the floor. ‘Now you’ve done it! Grab him men, he will pay for this!’ Hywel didn’t resist as they bore him off to the dungeon. There were many witnesses to what seemed an unprovoked attack on the captain, who was slowly recovering but needed to be carried home. Discipline in the king’s guard was harsh and Hywel knew that there would be no trial or chance to explain. He was chained to a wall with no food or water and given plenty of time to regret his action. After the briefest consideration, a sentence of flogging and dismissal was agreed by the captain. His nose had been broken and he was in no mood for leniency.
When word of what had happened reached Rhiannon, she asked the king to intervene. He considered doing so but quickly realised it could be seen as a sign of weakness. As a compromise, he agreed that the flogging should proceed but ordered that Hywel should then return to his post, having been taught a lesson. The outcome may have been different if he had known the accuser was right.
Idris chose one of his strongest and most ruthless men to administer the punishment, which was to be witnessed by as many of the guards as could be spared. Hywel was led out into the courtyard and his hands were tied high on a wooden post set into the ground. Idris read out the charge, not without some satisfaction and much self importance, then stood back to watch as the hide whip was lashed across Hywel’s exposed back until it was cr
isscrossed with deep red cuts. Hywel flinched with the agony of each lash, but did not cry out once. He clenched his teeth and swore quietly to himself that one day he would be avenged.
*
Lord Vorath had sent one of his most trusted warriors, a man called Tristan, to help Dafydd ready the castle at Flint for battle. Tristan had grown up in the household after his entire family were murdered one night by raiders from the sea. He had fair hair but the dark brown eyes of the people of the Du, which spoke of mixed parentage or possibly a Celtic background. A quick learner, Tristan had been taught by Bishop Deniol and could read and write a little of the language of the Du. At one point Deniol had hoped to convert the gifted warrior to following the church and even began teaching him Latin. There was a hunger for revenge in the young man’s eyes, however, that marked him out as a fighting man. Lord Vorath recognised this and spent long hours training him with the sword and dagger until the sweat dripped from them. For all his loyalty and energy, Vorath felt that Tristan lacked the spark of leadership he had seen in Dafydd, so he hoped that putting them together would be good for both.
Unknown to Vorath, Tristan was already planning to become his successor. He secretly thought the warlord was starting to lose his touch and made up for technique with brute force. Tristan suspected that in a battle against the well trained soldiers of the Gwyn, the old fighting methods would be the undoing of his lord and master. In the meantime, he was glad of the opportunity to help prepare the men at Flint Castle. He already carried authority over them as Vorath’s man and was well known amongst the lesser warriors of the tribes. Once they saw his skill with the sword he would start winning supporters of his own. Vorath had provided him with an old horse and provisions for the journey to Flint. He was grateful for the mount but arranged for it to be stabled at a smallholding out of view of the castle so he could arrive on foot.
