Queen Sacrifice

by Tony Riches

  The next morning was bright and warm, with just a trace of a pleasant autumnal breeze pulling the first brown leaves from the trees. Queen Rhiannon chose to make the short journey to the coast for some sea air and rode in a royal procession. Two of the king’s guards were in the lead, then the queen on a beautiful black horse with her sister Ceinwen alongside. Behind the queen was the special carriage carrying her sleeping son, followed by four more armed guards on black horses. The news of their arrival travelled quickly, so when they went through a village people lined each side of the track to see the queen, hoping for their first glimpse of Prince Evan.

  Rhiannon was happy to be out meeting her people after her long confinement with the baby. She was quickly recovering her slim figure and, unlike Gethin, who preferred to not be recognised as the king, the queen was proudly wearing a royal tiara and dressed in expensive flowing black silk robes. The rare black silk was a gift from her husband the king, traded for the precious Welsh gold with merchants who travelled from the other side of the world. Rhiannon and Ceinwen had to ride side saddle because of their long dresses, but they were well used to it and the journey was a short one. Their procession joined the coastal track and the queen’s long black cloak billowed out in a gentle sea breeze. She laughed as she held it down.

  They looked out to the sparkling sea. A skylark sang musically overhead and when they licked their lips they could taste the faintest trace of sea salt in the air. Small fishing boats were hauling in their nets and she could see the silvery fish struggling to escape.

  ‘I love this place so much.’

  Ceinwen looked back at her sister. ‘I know how hard it is for you, Rhiannon. King Gethin will be back as soon as he can.’

  ‘Did you not see how excited he was to go? He has been waiting for this all his life. I don’t think we will see him here until this war is over.’

  ‘I saw how much he loves you, Rhiannon. We must stay here. It is as safe as anywhere.’

  ‘I was remembering the story of the warrior queen Boudicca, wife of the king of the Icenii,’ said Rhiannon. ‘Bishop Emrys told me when the king died and the Romans claimed all her lands, she raised a Celtic army and burned the Roman settlements.’

  ‘So you are going to raise your own army?’ Ceinwen had a good sense of humour and often teased her sister. ‘Didn’t the Roman’s kill Boudicca?’

  Rhiannon frowned in pretend disapproval. ‘Emrys was unsure how her life ended but he said there were rumours she took her own life rather than be taken prisoner by the Romans.’

  ‘I pray every night that Gethin will rid us of the threat of the Gwyn.’

  Ceinwen continued to watch the fishermen as she rode. ‘He will,’ she said softly and turned to her sister. There was a hard look in her eyes Rhiannon had not seen since their parents died. ‘We could set a trap for the Gwyn. Catch them like the fish in that net.’

  Rhiannon could see her sister was serious. She had always listened to her and realised she was right. The quickest way to defeat the Gwyn would not be through the long battles with spears and swords so loved by the warlords and his warriors. If she could lure their leaders onto her territory, it would be possible to deal with them once and for all. ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Archbishop Renfrew was hoping that you could be persuaded to talk,’ said Ceinwen.

  Rhiannon nodded. ‘We could somehow get a message out that I may.’

  ‘It could be risky. If the Gwyn took you as a hostage…’

  ‘I will have to make sure that they don’t.’

  They rode in silence together as the sky clouded over, hiding the sun and making the sea breeze feel suddenly cold.

  Rhiannon looked at her sister. ‘I can’t put Evan at risk, will you keep him safe for me?’

  ‘Of course, but where will you go?’

  ‘West. I will have Bishop Emrys and Lord Llewelyn’s men to protect me.’

  When they got back Rhiannon quickly packed and made ready to leave.

  Ceinwen watched her preparations sadly. ‘How long?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Rhiannon. She hugged her sister tight. ‘Look after my baby, Ceinwen, I don’t want this, but as queen I must put my people first.’

  Rhiannon rode west with a handful of guards and few possessions before she could be talked out of it or change her mind. She felt in her heart it was what she should do.

  *

  Archbishop Renfrew of the Gwyn was deeply troubled. The king had blamed him for their wasted journey to see Athelstan and now, instead of brokering peace, he had inadvertently triggered a war against the people of the north. Word of the Du attack and the loss of Sir Gwynfor had quickly travelled through the south and even though those responsible had paid for their actions, this was small consolation to the archbishop. He woke in the middle of the night and resolved to do something about it.

  He considered making the long journey to see King Athelstan again, but there was no guarantee he would agree to a meeting or could intervene in what he could see as a civil war. The only realistic alternative was to make the even more dangerous trip to see the bishops of the north personally. Renfrew knew that Bishop Deniol had already failed to persuade King Gethin to discuss peace, so he would have to see Bishop Emrys. He didn’t know Emrys and had only met him once before, but he was an advisor to the mysterious Queen of the Du, so there was hope.

  As he quickly packed to leave his comfortable rooms at Llandaff, Archbishop Renfrew wondered when he would ever see them again. He considered hiding his priceless Bible, the Vetus Latina, but worried about it being stolen by looters if he was away for a long time. Feeling it would be safer if it travelled with him, he decided to take a pack mule, as well as his best horse, a reliable white mare, so that he could carry the heavy Bible as well as plenty of supplies. A cart of any kind was out of the question as he would have to travel diagonally across the wilderness and the tracks through the wilderness would be poor or non-existent.

  Renfrew was glad it was a bright sunny morning. The sun had risen in the east. He looked up at it and made sure he kept it to his right. Once it set in the west he could rely on his good knowledge of the stars but he was worried about travelling at night. He finally reached the small church in mid Wales he had been looking for and decided to stay for a few days, to recover from his long journey. His horse was tired and his pack mule seemed grateful to have its burden removed. He tried the heavy oak door and was greeted by an elderly priest, the first person he had spoken to since leaving Llandaff. The old priest looked at Renfrew, taking in the quality of his bishop’s robes and noting his gold crucifix with the precious ruby in the centre. When he spoke it was in the old language, with the accent of the north and Renfrew realised he was close to the territory of the Du.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ said the priest. ‘You are welcome to our church.’

  ‘I am Archbishop Renfrew. I have had a long journey. Can I trouble you for a bed and a hot meal?’

  The priest looked doubtful but Renfrew pressed a silver coin into his hand and was ushered into the thatched roofed wooden building next to the church. It was simply furnished but clean and tidy. ‘It’s not so grand but there is a small stable at the back where you can keep your horse and mule.’ He pointed to an old well on the other side of the road. ‘That’s our only water. I’ll fetch you a bucket if you want to have a wash after your journey?’

  Renfrew nodded appreciatively. ‘Thank you. That would be very good of you.’

  After the archbishop had eaten an unexpectedly tasty lamb stew, washed down with some of the locally made wine, he explained to the elderly priest that he was hoping to meet with Bishop Emrys and was surprised to learn that the bishop had not yet returned from a meeting with Bishop Cledwin of St Davids. Renfrew had learnt to trust in his intuition and he suddenly felt an inexplicable sense of foreboding. He hoped that this time he was wrong.

  *

  Unlike Llewelyn’s men, who had travelled stealthily at night, Lord Vorath was unconcerned
about staying out of sight and was half hoping that the king of the Gwyn would hear of his arrival in the south. His fearsome reputation had been hard earned and proved useful, as even the mention of his name could strike fear into the ranks of his enemy. King Gwayne would also be alarmed if he had known how many of his people openly welcomed the Du warriors. It could be they heard what happened to those who tried to run away or refused to give Lord Vorath food and water, but many had a secret longing for the old ways and resented the Gwyn laws and taxes.

  It was from these supporters that Vorath and his men heard of the battles in the west. Vorath had great respect for Lord Llewelyn and was angry to hear of his death. They had never been friends, coming from different tribes and very different backgrounds, but they were both warlords of the Du. Lord Vorath rarely visited the hill fort at Yns Mon, yet he had been able to appreciate the savage beauty of the place. He admired the achievement of his fellow warrior in slaying the champion of the Gwyn and called for Llewelyn’s life to be remembered with a feast and drinking, in the way of the tribes. Whole trees were felled to build a huge bonfire and they gathered round it.

  ‘For Llewelyn!’ roared Vorath, throwing a burning torch into the dry timber of the bonfire. He held up a metal cup of the strong beer, ‘He had an honourable death, a true warrior!’

  Flames leapt high from the crackling fire and the men cheered noisily. Before long the beer was flowing freely and old Du drinking songs were ringing out into the gathering dusk. Unlike a Gwyn funeral, this was a celebration. Many of the people of the north followed the Druid belief that after death the soul of a warrior was reborn into the afterlife. A good death, which brought honour to the tribes, was to be rejoiced, not mourned. They knew it was what Lord Llewelyn would have wanted.

  Vorath approved of the celebrations but his regret was that Llewelyn’s body was in a shallow grave somewhere, not on a warrior’s funeral pyre. He sent for the local man who had brought the news of the battle and questioned him further. Not only did the man know where Lord Llewelyn had been killed, he knew the Gwyn soldiers were still in the area and told Vorath he could guide them to his camp. Still angry and fired up with the beer, Vorath shouted to his men and called for his warhorse Ddraig to be saddled. Their mission to find the king of the Gwyn forgotten for now, the warriors charged off into the night, out for revenge.

  *

  Hayden had mixed feelings about his first encounter with the Du. He was suddenly a hero, being talked of as the next champion of the Gwyn, yet four men had lost their lives in the charge and the vicious hand to hand fighting afterwards. These were good men he knew, with families, who could still have been alive. The king had personally sent a message of congratulations to Hayden and his men, ordering them to remain in position, so they made camp on a good area of high ground surrounded by open meadows.

  He had posted lookouts around their camp and made sure all the men kept their weapons ready. They took turns to rest and sleep, so a surprise attack on them would be impossible, even at night. Hayden even considered banning cooking fires, which could give away their position, but the nights were cold and the men needed to eat. As a compromise, he ordered the men to only burn dry wood from oak trees, which was plentiful in the wilderness and reduced the amount of tell-tale smoke.

  Finding food in the wilderness was a different matter. There were a few scrawny goats grazing in the meadows and they were some way from the nearest farm, so he assumed they were either wild or would not be missed. Hayden sent some of the men to catch one. The goats ran off bleating loudly as they approached but undeterred, they gave chase and eventually managed to bring one down, slashing its throat with a knife. In no time they were enjoying a good pot of stew and had cut up and dried as much of the remaining stringy meat as they could.

  Hayden had slept well and was just washing his face in a bowl of cold rain water when he heard one of the lookouts shout that riders were approaching. Men grabbed swords and rushed over to see. A band of dark clothed men were brazenly riding towards them, making no attempt to avoid being seen. Hayden’s first thought was that they must be something other than Du warriors, possibly of the many bands of mercenaries coming to Wales to work for whoever would pay. As they continued to approach he could see they were on heavy black warhorses and carrying spears as well as swords. A chilling realisation came to him. The riders were definitely warriors of the Du and they didn’t care about being seen.

  Hayden quickly assembled his men.

  ‘We can stand and fight, or leave now,’ he told them, trying to hide the nervousness in his voice.

  The men looked at their young leader. He was waiting for their answer. Sir Gwynfor would never have asked for their opinion, but instead of seeing it as a sign of weakness, the men could sense he really cared about them. One of them drew his sword.

  ‘We have beaten the Du warriors once, we can do it again!’

  The others agreed and Hayden quickly weighed up the odds. The approaching Du riders would be getting tired, while his men were fresh. He had the benefit of having chosen the high ground and his enemy would have to climb a long steep slope to reach them. He looked again at his men. They had been a rough and ill-disciplined bunch when they first set out but had bonded well after the success of the battle and he had earned their respect. Hayden realised they had never really had a choice. He took the flowing white cape he usually carried in his saddlebag and put it on over his silver chain mail, no longer concerned about being seen by the enemy.

  ‘Soldiers of the Gwyn’ he shouted, ‘Mount your horses!’

  Hayden and his men lined up on the ridge overlooking the meadow, holding position on the high ground as the Du riders steadily closed the gap between them. A slowly building roar of noise came from the warriors and Hayden realised it was their famous battle cry. His horse started in alarm and pulled at the rein but he held it back. The men on each side of him stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the approaching warriors. Hayden noticed that there was still early morning dew on the grass at his feet and looked up at the clouds. There was a patch of clear blue autumnal sky but he could also see clouds with the look of rain about them. The day could go either way, in more ways than one.

  The Du didn’t hesitate when they reached the bottom of the slope, continuing their relentless charge towards the row of men on the ridge. Hayden could see them clearly now. The leader of the Du held his sword high and yelled something in a booming voice to his warriors. He was a powerful figure of a man with a dark beard and bare muscular arms, covered with tattoos. The riders with him were different from any Hayden had seen before and he suddenly remembered tales of a legendary warlord. This could only be Lord Vorath.

  Hayden drew his longsword and pointed it at the advancing Du.

  ‘For King Gwayne and the people of the Gwyn!’ he shouted.

  They swept down the hill towards the warriors.

  The clash was violent and brutal.

  Hayden sliced the longsword viciously at the closest warrior, feeling satisfaction as it cut deep then panicked as his blade stuck fast. The sword was dragged from his hand as the man collapsed from his horse and Hayden instinctively reached for the dagger he wore on a belt at his waist. He looked down at the weapon in his hand and smiled at the absurdity of it, despite the seriousness of his situation. He was taking on the finest warriors of the Du kingdom with a knife he had sometimes used to peel apples.

  Lord Vorath saw what had happened in an instant and charged at Hayden, ramming his sword into the young man’s chest. The chain mail vest Hayden was wearing saved his life but he was winded and bent double with the sheer force of the blow. All around him the tranquillity of the autumn morning had been shattered by men who were hacking and chopping at each other, the sound of horses snorting and stamping mixed with cries of pain and shouts of anger.

  Hayden remembered how Sir Gwynfor had trained him to breathe deeply and focus. He pictured himself being knighted by King Gwayne, with his men cheering loudly as he was appointed the n
ew champion. He saw the beautiful Saxon Queen Elvina smile at him admiringly, as he had seen her smile at Sir Gwynfor, with an attractive twinkle in her eye that won men’s hearts. He imagined inheriting Picton and the vast estates of farms and forest that came with his new knighthood and decided he would treat his people fairly, as he would wish to be treated himself.

  All these thoughts went through Hayden’s mind before he even looked up at his savage enemy. Vorath quickly drew back his sword and roared loudly as he thrust at Hayden’s unprotected neck.

  It was a quick end. Hayden felt nothing when he died with all his men and the wilderness was claimed in the name of King Gethin by Vorath, warlord of the Du.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ceinwen welcomed the stranger in the dark wool cloak when he explained he had called on behalf of Bishop Emrys. She was also intrigued about why he was so keen for an audience with Queen Rhiannon.

  ‘I was told by the guard that the queen is not here and may not return for some time?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Ceinwen. ‘I am the sister of the queen. I am sorry you have had a wasted journey. There was something familiar about him. At first she thought it was a slight resemblance to her father, then she realised he had the same assured confidence as Bishop Emrys. ‘Come in and warm by the fire. Would you like some hot mulled wine?’ He had a kindly face and she was glad to have company. She had been lonely since her sister left and was missing Hywel.

  ‘I am grateful for your kindness, my lady, it is a cold night.’

  Ceinwen sent a servant for the mulled wine and looked more closely at her visitor. He was unshaven and dressed like a traveller, but seemed very polite and well educated. She sensed a trace of the man’s sadness and loss, but there was something about him that made her feel at ease.

  ‘My sister left yesterday, you have just missed her. I wished to go with her but she asked me to stay here and look after the Prince Evan.’