Queen Sacrifice

by Tony Riches

  *

  Hayden was confused by Sir Gwynfor’s reaction to the news he had chosen Elfred to warn of the Du advance. ‘You said to send a good man, my lord.’

  ‘I did. I also asked you to look after young Elfred but you’ve put him in danger.’ He gave Hayden a withering look.

  Hayden recalled their conversation. ‘May I know what is so special about the farmer?’

  ‘I made a promise to his family, that’s all.’ Gwynfor brightened as an idea occurred to him. ‘The king has agreed that we can take the fight to the Du. Have my outriders here by morning and instruct the servants to prepare provisions and supplies for a journey north.’

  ‘Yes my lord. I will also put the men on standby ready for your command. They still have some rough edges but looking forward to some action now.’ Hywel left to make the arrangements, relieved to have got off so lightly for his error.

  The messengers must have travelled quickly, as Gwynfor’s outriders soon began arriving and added to the clamour and sense of excitement by practice-fighting in the courtyard. Word of this spread and by dusk Picton was filled with local villagers and soldiers of the king’s army. Some brought any weapons they could find, under the impression that the war had already started. Others had seen the chance to sell provisions to the departing men and were busily setting up stalls in an improvised market at the entrance to the castle. Burning torches had been lit and although it was turning dark early it was a dry and warm evening. A small group of musicians started playing for the crowd. Their instruments were crudely made and although their skill did not match their enthusiasm, before long the old songs of the Gwyn were drifting raucously through the night air.

  Gwynfor heard the singing and went to the window overlooking the central courtyard. He was pleased to see so many supporters in such good spirits. He told his servants to invite them into the great hall and provide jugs of ale. His estate was running low on funds but the war would soon make him a rich man again. As well as extending his lands to the north, he planned to get his hands on the legendary Du gold. Most importantly, he would remind anyone who mattered that he was the right man to lead the people of the Gwyn, if anything were to befall the king.

  At the thought of the king he had a sudden and powerful memory of Elvina, not of their moment of passion but of the sadness he had seen in her eyes as he left. He had known since they first met that she would change his life but never expected she would become his lover. Although he was one of the most powerful men in the land, he was the king’s champion and she was the queen of the Gwyn, the king’s wife. The one woman he thought he could never have. He wished he could see her one last time before leaving for the north, but the risk was too great.

  As he watched the merry making of the villagers through the window an idea occurred to him. Taking a sharp knife he cut a fresh nib on a quill and wrote a note to Queen Elvina. It was in Latin, for secrecy and deliberately obscure, but he was certain she would understand its meaning. He sealed the small parchment with wax then summoned one of his most trusted servants.

  ‘You are to take my fastest horse and deliver this with all speed to the queen’s handmaiden at Pennard. Her name is Bethan and you are to tell her it is a private matter for the queen.’

  ‘I understand, my lord.’

  ‘I hope you do, for your life depends on it.’

  The seriousness of the threat was not lost on the servant, who immediately left for Pennard.

  Sir Gwynfor watched him go and smiled. One day, if he were to become king, he would establish a new tradition. He would marry the old king’s widow. Feeling a little happier, he went to join the revellers. They had good cause to celebrate. The greatest battle ever fought by the Gwyn was about to start.

  Sir Gwynfor and his riders left for the north early the next day, with a surprisingly large crowd gathered at Picton to see them off. The knight was wearing his best armour, covered with a blindingly white tabard. He held up a gloved hand to signal the cheering crowd to silence. ‘People of the Gwyn,’ he paused to have their full attention. ‘We ride on the orders of the king, to keep our lands safe for all time.’ Another loud cheer came from the crowd and someone shouted ‘Good luck to you Sir Gwynfor!’

  The mounted men laughed and turned their horses north. They trotted at a leisurely pace as they had a long ride ahead. As they rode, the light autumn breeze tugged at flowing white pennants carried by two of the outriders on silver lances. Gwynfor knew they could be seen from far off by any Du invaders but cared little. His riders were more than a match for the men of the tribes.

  *

  Bishop Deniol had a secret. He had chosen a life in the Church not through a devout Christian faith but as an escape from the world of the Du. As well as gaining a better education than he could ever have hoped for, he had risen quickly to the position of bishop to King Gethin. He had never felt at ease in the tribes and had grown more apart from them as each year passed. He knew that even the simple farmers who regularly attended his services clung on to the old ways, covering their bets for the afterlife.

  He had made several attempts to reply to Archbishop Renfrew’s letter as directed by the King, but each time he had failed and thrown the draft letter into the hearth. Watching deep in thought as the flickering flames turned the last draft letter to ash, he realised his dilemma. Putting the king’s rejection of peace with the Gwyn in writing made it seem more real, yet Deniol was clever enough to know that great care had to be taken with any letter to their enemy. Anything he wrote could prove damaging in the future, whatever the outcome of any war but particularly if it did not turn out well for King Gethin.

  He decided to the best solution was to meet with Archbishop Renfrew in person. The thought occurred to him that he had more in common with the bishops of the Gwyn than he did with his fellow Bishop Emrys, who he suspected of being a Druid. If anyone could work for peace it should be the Church and, as the only true representative of the Church in the north, it would have to be him. As he made preparations for the journey he wondered how he would explain his absence to the king.

  Once again he had his servants load his sturdy farm cart with supplies and was driven by his bondsman Rhys, who now had additional pay as a bodyguard to the bishop. Rhys was grateful for the work and had been practising with his home made crossbow, hoping he would get the chance to show the bishop what it could do. As it was no longer a secret, the crossbow was now slung over his back on a leather strap, alongside a quiver he had made to hold the bolts. The bishop was as usual unarmed.

  The weather was fine when they left but Deniol was soon glad of the cover they had over the cart, as it started raining hard and they were both able to keep fairly dry. The track was another matter, as the wheels of the cart were cutting deep ruts into the mud. Deniol was a poor traveller and clung grimly to the side of the cart, muttering the occasional prayer when the track was particularly rough.

  They were making good progress when Rhys pulled hard at the reins, bringing them to a halt. A tree had fallen across the track ahead of them, its roots in the air. There was clearly not room for the cart.

  ‘We can’t go on, bishop.’

  ‘I must. Many lives could depend on the work I have to do. Sort out supplies for a few days. I will have to continue my journey on foot.’

  ‘Do you wish me to come with you?’

  ‘I would be glad of your company, Rhys, but we cannot leave the cart here.’

  Rhys jumped down from the cart and put some food in a bag for the bishop, together with one of the blankets they carried to keep out the cold at night. He was unhappy to be leaving the bishop to carry on alone, as he had been looking forward to the journey south.

  He handed the bag and a leather water bottle to Bishop Deniol, who watched as he managed to turn the cart round.

  ‘Have a safe journey, my lord!’

  ‘God go with you Rhys.’ Deniol watched until the cart disappeared from view then climbed past the fallen tree, with some difficulty, and began his
long trek south, towards the border with the Gwyn. As he walked, he wondered if he would ever see his home again.

  *

  Owen had finished his training with the garrison at Caerphilly castle and made the long journey home to Pennard with mixed feelings. There would have been a good chance that as a member of the Royal Guard, he could have quietly waited out the war safely protected within the palisade of the Royal Llysoedd. This was not to be now that he was the queen’s chosen man in the field, so Owen had volunteered for training as an archer. He liked the idea of being as far as possible from the enemy, as fighting at a distance was far more preferable to him than hacking at close quarters with a sword. He had seen the injuries sustained by swordsmen. It was hard to look heroic if you were missing an ear or worse, your nose. He wasn’t even certain he could kill another man face to face. He was no coward, but had a wife and family to look after, which brought responsibilities.

  His wife, Myfanwy, had actually grown very capable of looking after the family on her own, cooking for the royal household. He teased her about her name, which meant ‘little one’ as she was no longer very ‘little’. He had married a lithe and attractive servant girl, but the woman now welcoming him home had put on weight over the years. She had also developed a fondness for ‘bara lawr’, as the area around Pennard was one of the only known places where the edible seaweed, known as ‘lawr’, could be found. Myfanwy would make the seaweed into heavy dough, mix it with oatmeal then cook it in bacon fat. Her body had also paid the price of having four children in quick succession, as well as many years of hard work in the kitchens of the king’s residences.

  Myfanwy was glad to see Owen safely home and had put on a clean apron and washed her unruly brown hair to look her best. Although many soldiers had been seriously injured or even killed in training, she knew him well and was sure he would have avoided placing himself in any real danger. Myfanwy also knew he could easily have taken the opportunity to desert over the border and take his chances in England, rather than risk his life fighting in a war with the Du.

  Owen hugged his wife warmly. ‘I’ve really missed.… a decent hot dinner!’ he joked, ‘The food in Caerphilly Castle isn’t fit for pigs to eat.’

  ‘Well you don’t look as if you’ve starved. I bet you were out in the taverns every night!’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ replied Owen.

  ‘You know what I think of your drinking,’ She wagged an accusing finger at him. ‘You’re not to go wasting your pay in those ale houses.’

  Owen decided not to tell her about the drinking that had passed the evenings while he was away, or that he had lost most of his pay and won it back again gambling with the other soldiers. ‘I have orders to go north,’ he said.

  ‘But you’ve only just got here?’

  ‘I have to make an early start, first thing tomorrow.’

  Myfanwy looked at him, concern in her eyes. ‘You’ll take care now Owen. I’ll cook you fried oatmeal patties, with eggs, bacon and cockles. That should make you think again about rushing off in the morning!’

  He gave her another hug, then after the best meal he’d eaten for a month, washed down with a whole jug of ale, Owen told Myfanwy he had to report to his Captain. He went to look for Bethan, the queen’s handmaiden and found her in the queen’s outer hall, repairing a tapestry by the light of a candle. As he approached he thought she looked more like a noble lady than a servant, with an expensive dress and a richly woven shawl over her shoulders. Her long dark hair was tied back with a white silk ribbon and she was concentrating hard on her sewing, making small stitches with a silver needle and fine thread.

  Bethan looked up at the sound of his boots on the polished wooden floor and smiled as she recognised him.

  ‘Owen, I am so glad to see you made it back safely.’

  ‘Good evening to you, Bethan. I was hoping to find you here. Did you miss me?’

  ‘Of course,’ she smiled. It was only a little lie. ‘How was your time in Caerphilly?’

  ‘It wasn’t so hard for me,’ he couldn’t help bragging to her. ‘You remember I’ve experience of battle, so the others looked to me as a something of a leader.’

  ‘And now you are ready to do your duty?’

  ‘I am. I turned out to be a natural archer and have learnt to use the longbow. It’s a powerful weapon, more than enough to keep me safe from the Du.’ Owen looked around to see if they could be overheard. ‘What of your mistress, the queen? Is there any message before I go, Bethan?’

  She looked serious for a moment. ‘The queen wishes you to keep safe, Owen. You are to watch over the area north of here.’

  ‘What do I do if I sight the enemy?’

  ‘You must find a way to get word back to the queen, as soon as you can. There are messengers we can trust, so you must look out for them.’

  He looked at her expectantly, hoping for more, but she smiled at him and went back to her sewing as a sign he was dismissed.

  ‘I will leave in the morning.’ He sounded awkward and unsure of himself.

  Bethan surprised him by laying down her tapestry and giving him a hug. ‘Come back safe Owen,’ she said softly.

  He was to remember that meeting as he headed further and further away from the safety of Pennard.

  Chapter Eight

  King Gethin urged his black stallion to a gallop, not because he was in a hurry but with the sheer exhilaration of the ride. He looked behind to see his warriors were falling back and slowed a little, enjoying the fresh breeze from the sea. The long track along the northern shore had been a favourite ride since he was a boy. He knew it well and as his horse cantered easily on the sandy road he remembered the excitement of the first time he made the journey alone. He was about fifteen years old and a proud Du warrior. He was also the heir to the throne of the Du, so it was risky to be out alone, as foreign raiders and pirates often attacked the coastal villages, taking whatever they could find. A prince would be a great prize, worth a king’s ransom, yet he remembered hoping they would try. He was ready to use the fighting skills he had practiced since he could first hold a sword.

  He felt that same sense of excitement now, as he made his way to the outpost at Flint. All his life he had lived under the threat of another war with the Gwyn and at last he was going to bring that to an end. He had listened to the stories of the old warriors by the fire, tales of battles lost and won, kings and queens triumphant or deposed. The last war had resulted in a country divided, with the Du forced to retreat to the northernmost part of the country. Their rich farmland was quickly turned back into the ‘diffeithwch’, a dangerous and lawless place where people simply disappeared.

  For the first time ever, Gethin allowed himself to picture his life after victory over the people of the Gwyn. His name would become a legend, stories of the battles passed from one generation to the next for all time. His people would be free to roam where they wished and the Saxons would stay the other side of the huge defensive dyke they had built to keep the Welshmen out of England. He could not bear to think of the Gwyn invading the Du lands. If they did he would want a warrior’s death rather than the humiliation of watching his people enslaved and subjugated. He spurred his horse on with renewed urgency, his life depended on it.

  When at last the fort came into view King Gethin could see no guards or activity, just a wisp of smoke coming from one of the chimneys and a few stray goats grazing on the grass at the entrance. His first thought was that he was too late. The Gwyn had somehow reached the north already and his warriors gone. It was impossible that they could have moved so quickly and without raising the alarm. A shout from a high lookout reassured him.

  ‘Turn out the guard, the King is here!’ There was a sudden commotion and men started appearing at the entrance to greet him. Gethin recognised Dafydd, who seemed to be in charge. The king had known his father, a good man who had ridden with him before he was cruelly struck down with a fever. Dafydd appeared unshaven and was wearing a jerkin that had seen
better days. He was looking curiously at the king and his warriors, who were all dressed in black and clearly ready for a fight despite their long ride.

  ‘Welcome, my lord, we were not expecting you so soon.’

  ‘It seems you were not.’ The king shook his head and dismounted. ‘Who is in charge here?’

  ‘I am, lord, but only until the commander returns.’

  ‘Who is the commander and where has he gone?’

  ‘His name is Tristan, my lord. He has taken a party of warriors to the border.’

  ‘I know this Tristan, he is one of Lord Vorath’s men.’

  ‘Yes, my lord, he made no mention of when he would return.’

  The king looked at Dafydd. He had won a reputation as a swordsman and would be useful to him now that he had sent Vorath south. ‘Tell the men to assemble, I will speak to them.’

  It took longer than it should have for the men to gather and while he was waiting a movement caught his eye. He looked up at the top of the castle’s single tower and saw they had raised a large black flag, which now fluttered proudly in the breeze. Gethin smiled, Vorath may be on his way to the southern border but his hand was evident in this. The tribes of the Du could never agree on a single battle standard, but Vorath had suggested that they would unite under a black flag, which would be a clear challenge to the white pennants of the Gwyn.

  The king looked at the sea of faces he could tell they were glad to see him.

  ‘Warriors of the Du,’ his voice was deep and carried well. ‘We must make ready for the greatest challenge ever to face out people. The Gwyn are building an alliance with the Saxons. A sister of King Athelstan sits alongside their king and it is only a matter of time before they plot to enslave our people and take our lands.’ He looked around to see they understood. ‘I shall take command of this castle and you are to all be known as ‘rhyfelwyr y brenin’, warriors of the king, my personal guard.’