by Tony Riches
There was no sign of the Du but Hayden had a feeling that they would not be far away, so they rode on, staying to open ground where they could, aware of the danger of ambush from behind any cover. They reached the wooded area near the scene of the battle and stopped, listening for any noise. Hayden was struck by the eerie silence of the woods. Even the birds seemed to have stopped singing. He held his finger over his mouth as a sign to the men to remain silent and they continued, riding as quietly as they could until the narrow path through the trees divided into two.
Hayden held up his hand for them to stop. They were waiting for him to decide what to do when the silence was broken by the distant whinny of a horse. Their own horses pricked up their ears and the men tensed, aware that the noise could be their enemy approaching. The sound had seemed to come from direction of the woods closest to the right hand path, so Hayden made his decision. There was no way of knowing how many Du warriors they could face so he was reluctant to split his men, yet if they took the wrong path they could lose valuable time.
More noises could be heard as they rode closer to the hiding place of the Du and each time Hayden held up his hand for them to stop, while he strained to listen. Voices, deep and hushed but clearly audible, drifted through the dense trees and he knew they could only be the warriors they were searching for. As far as he could tell it sounded as if the enemy were not far away from them, heading north. He was relieved they had not taken the wrong path but felt secretly anxious about what they were about to do. It had seemed a good, if risky plan but now he wondered how he could possibly succeed where Sir Gwynfor, with all his skill and experience, had failed.
Hayden and his men rounded a bend in the track and suddenly had a clear view of the track through the woods ahead. There were riders in the distance, dressed in black. They seemed to be completely unaware of his men approaching and there was something odd about the way they were riding. Several of the black horses were carrying two men and some were hunched awkwardly. Hayden suddenly realised why. They were far from unscathed from their fight with Sir Gwynfor. Normally he would have hesitated to order an attack on men wounded or injured but he needed every advantage he could and ordered his men to charge.
The silence of the forest was shattered with the staccato drum beat of thudding hooves and the blood curdling war cries of the charging men. The Du riders span round, realising they were under attack and turned to face them, some quickly dismounting and dashing for the cover of the trees. Hayden unsheathed his longsword and urged his men forward, a shaft of sunlight flashing from the long blade as he lifted it high above his head with his right hand. He focussed on his target, as Sir Gwynfor had told him to do so many times. It was the leader of the warriors, an older man on a fine black horse, who was shouting urgently to his men, making sure they stood their ground, spears and bows at the ready, waiting for Hayden and his men to get in range.
As the two sides closed one of Hayden’s men dropped from his saddle, an arrow in his chest from Du archers in the trees. Another was hit in the shoulder and yelled with alarm with the pain. Hayden’s fear of the Du was replaced in an instant with a surge of anger. He had been trained to use the longsword on horseback against riders wearing armour and slashed down with all his might. The blow cut deep through the black wool cape and tunic into unprotected flesh and bone, violently ending the life of the legendary warlord of the Du in a single deadly stroke.
*
Lord Vorath loved the wilderness, even when the mist swirled around the mountains and the rain seemed relentless, as it did now. He had ridden since early morning with his men to the heart of the country and was looking forward to something good to eat. They were like brothers to him, every one chosen for his bravery, prowess in battle and loyalty to the people of the Du. Ddraig, his heavy black warhorse, seemed as fresh now as when they had set out on the long ride and their spirits were high and they would be rewarded well once they had driven the Gwyn out of the south.
Delwyn had been soaked to the skin by the heavy rain and sought shelter in a small wood. He was hungry and tired and beginning to wonder what he was doing there, alone. Feeling thirsty, Delwyn immersed his leather water bottle in the creek that ran through the wood and drank deeply of the clear fresh water. It tasted good and reminded him of his hunger. He had been looking for a croft or farmstead where he could find food and dry his clothes but the area seemed uninhabited, so for now he decided to rest and wait for the others to catch up. It had been a mistake to allow them to fall so far behind. He grinned at the realisation that he had managed to lose an army. With only the sun and stars to rely on for direction, the wilderness was so vast it was easy to become disorientated. He had been counting the days and knew it was over a week since he set out, but had no idea how far away the rest of them could be.
He was just wondering if they had also decided to stop for the night when he heard the unmistakeable sounds of horses approaching. With great relief Delwyn gathered up his few possessions and started back down the path he had been following, glad to have company again. He had been too quick to volunteer for scouting duties and would ask to be replaced. He missed the company of the others and had seen how dangerous and unpredictable the Du could be. He heard a shout and was just about to shout back when he suddenly realised that the sound had come from behind him. For a moment he wondered if the army had somehow gone past him when he was resting, but he knew it was impossible. He was not going to be caught in open ground, so raced back to the woods where he had been a moment before.
Diving for cover, he brushed against nettles that stung his arms and hands painfully but served to help him focus on his situation. The sound of hooves was closer now, the voices of the riders still too far away to make out the words but he had been lucky to have any warning. Delwyn counted eight arrows remaining in his quiver and wished he had more. He carefully moved to have a better view of the enemy and realised his choice of the wooded area had been a good one, as anyone approaching would have to cross open ground while he could easily remain hidden.
The Du warriors suddenly emerged into the clearing and Delwyn was surprised by their appearance. He had been expecting them to look like the men of the tribes he had sometimes seen in the south, but these were clearly fighting men, armed with swords and spears and dressed in black tunics which gave them a sinister look. Delwyn froze where he was, hoping that they would simply pass his hiding place, but the man at the front was heading directly for him. Too late Delwyn realised that they could be looking for the creek to replenish their supply of fresh water, just as he had.
Delwyn had to stand to use his longbow, so he chose a giant oak and quickly moved behind it, keeping his bow in line with the trunk and reaching into his quiver for an arrow. Four horsemen of the Du were now crossing the clearing towards him and he could see more behind them. For a moment he considered surrender but he had heard gruesome tales of what the Du did with prisoners. Delwyn stealthily brought the Longbow round to the firing position. Again he could hear in his head the familiar words of command from Kane.
‘Ready the bow!’ He brought it to full height, bracing his body against the trunk of the tree that was shielding him from the enemy.
‘Nock!’ Delwyn quickly fitted a long arrow into the taut hemp string.
‘Mark!’ He sighted carefully on the target, allowing for the gentle crosswind and distance as best he was able to.
‘Draw!’ He pulled the bowstring back effortlessly as he had been trained.
‘Loose!’
Drawing back the powerful bowstring in a fluid motion he sighted and loosed the arrow. It thudded into the belly of the closest Du warrior, causing him to call out in alarm and fall heavily from his horse. He lay unmoving on the ground but his companions acted quickly, two dismounting and dragging the wounded man back to cover. The remaining riders charged towards the trees, crouching low in the saddle and making rapid changes of direction to provide the hardest possible target.
They remained silent for a mom
ent then the woods echoed to shouts between the Du warriors. It was something that Delwyn couldn’t make out, the language of the tribes, the old Welsh tongue. Someone called out a reply and there was another cry of pain. Delwyn guessed that they must have pulled out the barbed arrow. Delwyn thought he could see a dark shape approaching his position from the left. He considered waiting until he was sure of his mark, unwilling to risk wasting an arrow with only seven left, then fired and instantly regretted the sight of the arrow plunging harmlessly into the trees.
Delwyn looked over his own shoulder. There were more trees not far away but it would mean crossing another clearing, so he decided to move to the furthest tree of his cover. From his new vantage point he could see more Du warriors starting to encircle him from the right. He took careful aim and fired at the closest. It was a good shot as the man fell to the ground without a sound and others froze where they were. Six arrows left. He looked down at his sword and wondered how well he would be able to use it in hand to hand fighting. He gripped his bow tightly, taking comfort from its familiar strength and power and said a silent prayer. It was just a matter of time before the others caught up, so his best hope was to wait and see what the Du did next.
The answer terrified him. A dozen black clad warriors charged the woods at once, some armed with swords and others with long spears tipped with sharp iron points. It seemed they thought the woods were full of Gwyn soldiers, as they looked ready for a fight. Delwyn fired three arrows as quickly as he could. Kane’s lessons had been well learned, as the first hit a man square in the chest, throwing him onto his back. The second went clean through a warrior’s leg, causing him to drop his weapon and fall to his knees. The charge faltered then a roar went up, the battle cry of the Du, covering the ground at a run.
He had three arrows left. Beginning to panic, he failed to aim with enough care. One went right over the heads of the charging men, with the next falling short, thudding to the ground in front of them. With just one arrow remaining Delwyn dropped his bow and drew his sword. He had chosen to become a bowman because he had no stomach for close combat. Surrounded by Du warriors, he could not expect to kill them all so surrender was his only option. He put his hands in the air and waited. The end was swift. Warlord Vorath’s sword pinned him to the tree and he felt searing pain quickly followed by relief. His dying thought was to notice how raindrops had settled on the leaves, glistening in the autumn sunlight like tiny jewels.
*
Bishop Cledwin had more than enough information about the Du and decided to return to the south to warn King Gwayne. When he arrived at the small chapel the young priest was pleased to see him safely back.
‘Welcome, Bishop Cledwin, I was concerned for you.’
Cledwin smiled, ‘They can be a little boisterous but I have the protection of the church and travel with God.’
‘A messenger was looking for you, bishop.’
‘My meeting with Queen Rhiannon?’
‘No, it was a message from your housekeeper.’
‘I don’t understand how she knew I was here,’ said Cledwin, confused. ‘What was the message?’
‘You had best come in and sit down, bishop, I fear it is not good news.’
Bishop Cledwin felt a sense of foreboding. Anwen would not have found it easy to find him at the remote chapel.
‘The messenger asked me to give you this,’ said the priest, handing Cledwin the silver crucifix. ‘He said to tell you that Elfred has been killed in a fight against the Du.’
Cledwin looked at the crucifix in despair. There was no mistake, as he knew it was the one he had given to his son and something deep inside him changed at that moment. He had tried to be a good man, living a pious life as a man of God, yet in his heart he was a warrior, as his father had been. He felt overwhelmed with regret that he had not openly acknowledged his son. Now it was too late.
‘Was there any information about how he died?’
The priest recounted as much as he could remember of what the messenger had told him, including the involvement of Queen Elvina and her wish to see the Bishop when he returned.
‘This soldier of the Du,’ said Cledwin, ‘Did they know what he was doing alone in the wilderness?’
‘There is a curious detail,’ recalled the priest. ‘The messenger told me the warrior had a badge on his tunic, but they did not know the meaning of it.’
‘Did he describe the badge?’ asked Cledwin. It was a slender chance of identifying the killer of his son.
‘He did, and what is more I recognised it as the mark of the queen’s household. He may have been a member of Queen Rhiannon’s personal guard, although I have no idea what he was doing on the northern border of the Gwyn.’
Cledwin thanked the young priest for his help and hospitality, explaining that he had much to do. He did not leave for the south as planned, but instead chose the path north. As he rode through the lands of the Du he could feel the need for vengeance flowing through his veins. He held the rank of bishop of the Gwyn and would make such use of that as he could but his heart was that of a warrior. Cledwin swore an oath to find those responsible for the death of his son and make them pay. He had been prepared to make a deal with the queen of the Du but now she was his sworn enemy.
It was late evening by the time he reached the barracks of the guards and found just two men on duty. Cledwin knew better than to try questioning the guards about the man who killed his son but was able to learn that the captain of the royal bodyguard was a man called Idris. They had no idea where he could be found so late but suggested that Cledwin could do worse than try the local tavern.
Captain Idris was easy to find and happy to accept a drink from a stranger. Cledwin quickly had Idris talking about the importance of his position as captain of the guards.
‘Tell, me, captain, is it true your men are picked from the very best of the Du?’
‘Of course,’ agreed Idris. ‘King Gethin has personally entrusted me with the safety of the queen and his heir, the young prince.’
‘You must be very proud of them,’ said Cledwin, refilling the captain’s pewter tankard from a jug of strong dark ale. ‘I’ve heard stories of their bravery, that they even take on the Gwyn single handed?’
Idris was enjoying the evening and saw no reason to hide the truth. ‘Only recently Queen Rhiannon asked me to send Hywel, her personal guard, to find out what the Gwyn are up to.’
‘Hywel is a favourite of the queen?’
‘I trained him myself. The Gwyn are no match for the men of the queen’s guard.’
‘You serve your queen well, Idris,’ said Cledwin as he deftly refilled the captain’s tankard with the rest of the jug of dark ale and called to the landlord for another.
Idris was proud of his ability to hold his drink but as the night wore on he failed to notice that the generous stranger had hardly touched the second now empty jug. He felt suddenly hot and dizzy, and was grateful for help from the stranger to return to his private rooms near the barracks. With some difficulty, Cledwin managed to remove the captain’s black leather boots and get him to his bed.
‘He was a good man,’ said Cledwin. ‘We will truly miss him.’
Idris was drunk and confused. ‘Who are you talking of?’
‘My son. His name was Elfred.’
Idris tried to clear his head but he had drunk more than his share of the jug of ale. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘You sent this man Hywel to the border with the Gwyn?’
‘Yes. It was on the queen’s orders.’ Idris looked at the stranger more closely, he had never said who he was.
‘You killed him.’ Cledwin’s voice was dark and threatening.
Idris was starting to become alarmed. He was feeling very drunk and disorientated. Even if he called for help, his quarters were too far from the guard house for them to hear and the rest of the men would probably be sleeping at such a late hour. ‘You are a spy from the Gwyn?’
Cledwin didn’t
answer. He took the soft cotton pillow of fine feathers from under the head of Captain Idris and held it down firmly over the man’s puzzled face. Idris struggled violently and made muffled noises that may have been a call for help, but he was right in thinking no one would hear. Cledwin felt no remorse. That would come later.
No questions were asked when Idris was found dead in his bed the next morning. He was not a popular man and, if anything, the men of the royal bodyguard were glad to see the back of their captain. Bishop Cledwin was nowhere to be seen. He had long since left to find Queen Rhiannon and her infant son.
Chapter Thirteen
Queen Rhiannon nursed her baby and stared deep into his dark eyes. She sang to Evan softly, a sad and haunting song of the people of the Du. He eventually went to sleep, so she carefully laid him in his bed and unlocked the heavy oak chest. Inside, hidden under her best clothes and dresses were her painstakingly written scrolls that told the story of the tribes. She took them out one by one and carefully read them, as she had done so many times since King Gethin had left to defend the east. As she read, a plan began to form in her mind that could help secure the future of her people. She decided to share her thinking with her sister Ceinwen, as she had since they were children. Rhiannon would willingly give her life for her husband, for her son, for her people, to see an end to the feuding with the Gwyn. She did not want to say this to Ceinwen though. Not yet, not until she was sure.
