by Tony Riches
‘She was right,’ said the stranger. ‘There is no telling what the Gwyn are capable of, the prince is safer here with you.’
Ceinwen nodded. ‘He is quite a handful but I love looking after him.’
The servant brought two elegant silver goblets and a jug of mulled wine. She filled a goblet for them both and the stranger sipped his appreciatively. It was rich and spicy although Ceinwen found that she drank it a little quickly, glad for its comforting warmth.
She smiled at the stranger. ‘What were you hoping to see the queen about?’
The stranger stared into the crackling fire. ‘Bishop Emrys offered to arrange for me to see her about how I could help.’
Ceinwen leaned forward, her curiosity aroused. ‘Help? In what way?’
The stranger poured more mulled wine for them both and looked to see that the servant was out of earshot before he answered. ‘I have… information about the Gwyn that Bishop Emrys thought would be useful to the queen.’
‘She may still see you. I know where she has gone.’
‘You are so kind to me,’ said the stranger,
Ceinwen was thinking that helping her visitor may even bring Hywel home to her sooner and gave directions to the lodge where the queen planned to stay. She was touched by the stranger’s gratitude. There seemed no harm in telling him why Rhiannon had left so soon. It may have been the richly spiced wine but she felt comfortable sharing the plan to divert the Gwyn from King Gethin. Only after he had left did she realise that she didn’t know his name or even what he did. Fortunately Ceinwen considered herself a good judge of character, and she was hardly ever wrong.
*
Cledwin was no longer a man of God. He had committed a mortal sin. As a bishop he knew better than most, as he had studied the Latin bible and preached the words of St. Paul. ‘To sin wilfully, after having knowledge of the truth, there is now no sacrifice for sins’. As he walked south to find the queen, like St Paul on the road to Damascus, he had time to reflect on how he had not murdered the captain of the guard by accident. There would be no miraculous conversion for Cledwin, but he did know that one journey had ended and another begun. His action was premeditated, truly a rejection of the law of God.
The small deception of the queen’s sister came easily, as he no longer thought of himself as a bishop of the Gwyn. He was the son of a warrior of the Gwyn and the hunger for vengeance flowed through his veins. Around his neck he wore the silver crucifix, no longer as a sign of his faith, simply as a memento mori, to remind him how life is short and how shortly it will end.
He was the father of a soldier of the Gwyn, killed by the people of the Du. From Ceinwen he had learned how Queen Rhiannon of the Du planned to lure the Gwyn into a trap. That could not be allowed to happen. Once he would have thought that God had shown him where the queen was to be found, but now he knew that God had no part in this war.
*
The men of the Flint garrison sang lustily as they marched west along the coast road, following the black flag of King Gethin. Differences forgotten, the men of the tribes were proud to be the king’s warriors. They knew that at any time they could receive orders from the king to march all the way to the south, so it was important to be ready to defend their way of life from Gwyn, Saxons, Vikings or whoever else tried to invade their country.
Travellers had brought word to the castle at Flint that Lord Vorath had already seized huge tracts of land from the Gwyn. Although they also knew that the old warlord Llewelyn was now dead, they had cheered when they heard he had died a warrior’s death in a victory against the Gwyn. Their spirits were high, and King Gethin had made sure they were well paid and well fed.
King Gethin dressed simply, as a warrior of the tribes and would not have easily been recognised as king, were it not for his dark, penetrating eyes, which seemed to know so much. The king had ordered Dafydd to ride with him to check the border with the east, as he was concerned about the threat to his lands from the Saxons. Gethin slowed his fine black horse to a trot, as the track narrowed and became more overgrown, and looked across as his old friend matched his speed. ‘The men showed good spirit!’
‘Yes,’ grinned Dafydd. ‘They are ready for the Gwyn.’
The king reined his horse in and looked to the skyline. They had reached their destination, the line of the old King Offa’s Dyke. The Saxons had dug out the ditch to the height of a man and restored the high ramparts with wooden palisades. Gethin knew what this meant and had passed a new law. He had decreed that to go beyond the dyke was to go into exile. ‘We need to watch these Saxons,’ he said, as much to himself as to Dafydd.
Dafydd halted his own horse next to the king. ‘They are worthy warriors. It is good they have retreated.’ The Saxons had made many border skirmishes over the years and the Du had learnt to respect them as fighting men. More than once it had been too close for comfort.
The king nodded in agreement. ‘We will ride the line of the dyke and see what they are building down there.’ He pointed to a tall shadow on the highest point of the dyke. When they got closer they could see it was a watchtower, built from freshly cut timber and facing out over their lands. At the top they saw movement but were too far away to tell who it was.
Dafydd pointed. ‘They are keeping an eye on us!’
Gethin laughed. ‘It’s good news. The dyke is intended to keep us out. They wouldn’t go to all this trouble if they were planning to attack us.’ He turned to Dafydd. ‘The way is clear for the men to head south. We will not sit by our hearth waiting for the Gwyn, we will take the fight to them!’
*
The heavy white cape gave King Gwayne some protection from the chill autumn breeze and he was glad of it as the grey skies signalled rain before long. It was a long journey to Caerphilly Castle but the waiting at Pennard had been frustrating so he was pleased to finally be seeing some action. His powerful white horse was leading the Royal Guard, followed by servants driving carts laden with supplies. Their procession attracted an audience of villagers to either side of the road, as well as opportunists who tagged on to the end, hoping for a change in fortune.
A cheer went up as they approached and Gwayne raised a hand to halt the procession. He waited a moment until the cheering had subsided then looked around the crowds, recognising some with a nod. ‘My people,’ he said, his voice carrying well in the crisp autumn air. ‘Your loyalty warms my heart!’ Another rousing cheer came from the growing crowd and the commander of the guard drew his sword and held it high, ‘Victory to the king!’ he shouted, a cry which was echoed by hundreds of voices in the procession. The king signalled for them to proceed and they could hear the cheering until Pennard was well behind them.
The good road from Pennard eventually turned into a track and they had to slow the pace to let the carts catch up. The king rode in silence, wondering what fate held for the cheering villagers. There was a reason he had agreed for his queen to visit the country, as there was for him to travel far to the castle at Caerphilly. The Du warriors were raiders and used cowardly hit and run tactics. They would know of his home at Pennard and he had two choices, to defend it more strongly or move to a place that was better fortified. His plan had been to create a new garrison but events had moved too fast and his decision was now made. He said a silent prayer to the old Gods that his people would remain safe but even as he did so, he heard a crow call loudly nearby, a bad omen.
Gwayne’s thoughts were interrupted by the thudding of hooves drawing close and the commander appeared alongside him. He had risen quickly to the position and Gwayne had already noted him as a potential future knight of the Gwyn. He was quick to learn and had worked hard, selling his inherited lands to buy a fine horse and sword in keeping with his position.
‘Are we to follow the route through Sir Padrig’s lands, my Lord?’
‘Yes, although he will not be there to greet us, more’s the pity.’ The king turned in the saddle to look at the commander. He was proudly carrying the royal standard in a l
eather support on his saddle and the breeze extended the flowing white pennant to its full length. The man would have been handsome but his face was marred by a scar that had been poorly tended, leaving a jagged line across his cheek which made him look dangerous.
‘Sir Padrig is a legend,’ said the commander. He had heard many tales but this was his first chance to hear the king speak of it.
‘I owe my life to him,’ agreed the king. He smiled as he remembered that fateful day. ‘We chanced upon a group of Du warriors, they were on foot and should have been no match for our riders.’ Gwayne shook his head with the recollection. ‘The Du scattered like a disorganised rabble, but it was a trick.’ He remembered the sudden blast from a horn as if it was yesterday. It had been the sign for them to suddenly turn and attack.
The commander realised he too would soon be facing the Du and was keen to learn as much as he could of their ways. ‘What did you do?’
‘I cut down several of the closest man and thought it would be an easy victory, but another of the black warriors put his spear into the chest of my horse. The poor beast collapsed onto my leg, breaking it in two places…’ He paused, lost in the memory of the moment. ‘It hurt like hell but although I managed to keep hold my sword, I was in no position to use it.’
‘I heard that Sir Padrig fought well and killed many Du that day?’
‘It is true,’ said the king, ‘I thought I’d had it when Padrig appeared from nowhere and set about them. The Du fought bravely but Padrig was like a man possessed! Even though he was wounded he somehow managed to lift me on to his own horse, then went back into the fray and didn’t stop until the last of the Du was dead.’
‘We must not underestimate the Du.’
The king grinned. ‘You are right, Commander. That was not the first time the Du took us by surprise and it will not be the last.’
*
Bishop Emrys was starting to regret agreeing so readily to Bishop Cledwin’s request to see the queen. It was already too late for the church to do anything to stop the war, if the accounts he had heard about the recent battles were true. Reluctantly he decided that although he had already given his word, he would have to visit the queen himself and advise her of caution. Whatever information Cledwin may have, Emrys worried that the price could somehow compromise the position of the queen.
He was right to be concerned. Cledwin was already close to where Ceinwen had told him the queen planned to stay. He had made good time on his journey by travelling since the first light of dawn, which also meant that he avoided unwanted attention. His Du black cloak had served its purpose well but Cledwin now visited the market place and replaced it with a Carthusian monk’s habit of coarse greyish-brown undyed wool. As well as a tunic, the habit had a long wide piece of woollen cloth worn over his shoulders with an opening for the head, and a cowl completed his disguise. Cledwin also purchased a length of good strong cord, which he wound around his waist and covered with a cloth belt. He carried a leather water bottle and used a stout walking stick, which meant he looked older and more infirm than he actually was. Even his own servants would struggle to recognise him now and he could easily be mistaken for a monk or one of the pilgrims who travelled throughout Wales, visiting the relics of the saints.
He was clear in his mind about exactly what he would say to the queen when he arrived at the lodge. Bishop Cledwin had spent all his life building up his reputation and nurturing his career in the church but none of that seemed important to him now. He no longer cared about making any deals regarding his lands at St Davids, which seemed so far away now, but was determined to make certain that her plan would fail.
Rhiannon was also wondering about her plan. It was essential that she did not allow herself to become the prisoner of the Gwyn, as they could use her to force Gethin to surrender his throne. It was also important that her presence in the area was known, if she was to successfully divert the Gwyn resources. The queen had never visited the lodge before and was pleased to find it was an attractive building with a slate roof, in a remote and beautiful valley not far from the border with the Gwyn. A clear spring provided water and vast forests of old oak trees had ensured that the kings of the Du enjoyed good hunting grounds for generations. She had chosen this place as her destination because it was close enough to the border to be within the reach of her enemy but as far as it could be from King Gethin and the garrison at Flint.
Cledwin waited in the shadows, patiently watching the hunting lodge from a safe distance. There was no sign of the queen but she was clearly in residence, as he could see the queen’s guard were already in place. He counted four men in total, smartly dressed and well disciplined in immaculate black tunics. Cledwin smiled wryly to himself at their inefficiency. None of them seemed to even look in the direction of his hiding place and he remembered the ease with which he had gained the confidence of their unfortunate Captain Idris. A black cloud momentarily obscured the sun when he remembered what he had done and he looked up at it, nearly giving in to the nagging regret in his mind, then cursed himself for being superstitions and went back to his study of the lodge.
Queen Rhiannon took a fresh quill and parchment and wrote a long and difficult letter to her sister Ceinwen and another to her husband, the king. She knew that neither of them could read or write as well as her, but Gethin had the services of Bishop Deniol and Ceinwen could ask Emrys for help. Her writing was interrupted by one of the guards, who reported sighting a stranger. As ordered by the queen, they had not apprehended him and he seemed to be noting the activity at the lodge. Rhiannon thanked him and went back to her writing. The success of her plan depended on spies reporting her presence there back to the Gwyn.
Cledwin had previously been able to rely on the protection of the church but felt less confident that the queen’s guard would welcome a wandering pilgrim to the hunting lodge. He continued watching as dusk fell and noticed that two of the guards were saddling their horses. They were possibly going to the nearby village for more supplies or to find a tavern where they could pass the evening. That still left two of the queen’s guards on duty. Cledwin realised he would need to find some way past them if he was going to carry out his plan. He would just have to wait.
Rhiannon finished her two letters and read them through carefully while the black ink dried. She wiped a tear from her eye as she made sure there was nothing that would compromise her position if they fell into the wrong hands. The letter to Ceinwen asked her to do all in her power to ensure the safely and good upbringing of the young prince if she did not return. She thanked her sister for all her kindness, love and dedication throughout her life, particularly following the death of their parents. Her last requests to Ceinwen were to send the second sealed letter to the king only if she was certain she would not return. She was also to make sure Evan learned to read the stories of the tribes, hidden in the old oak chest, for him to better understand the reason for his mother’s sacrifice. Folding both parchments carefully, she lit a small piece of sealing wax from her candle and sealed them with her mark, using her gold signet ring. Rhiannon called for one of the guards and told him to deliver the letters to her sister right away.
Cledwin couldn’t believe his luck when he saw the third man ride off. His patience had been rewarded and out of habit he nearly said a prayer of thanks to God but stopped himself just in time. The remaining guard was grooming his black horse with a brush and seemed quite unconcerned about any threat to the queen, so Cledwin decided it was worth the risk to approach him directly. He slowly shuffled down the path towards the lodge, his cowl over his head, and called to the guard as he approached.
‘Good day, sir, can you help a poor pilgrim?’
The guard looked up and recognised him as the figure they had seen watching the lodge for some hours. He did not understand why the queen wanted them to take no action. He put down his brush and looked at the stranger. He seemed harmless enough.
Cledwin smiled at the guard, trying to put him at ease. ‘All I ask i
s some water and a little food if you can spare it?’
‘Where have you travelled from?’
‘The north, I have been meeting with Bishop Emrys of the Du,’ replied Cledwin. It was the truth and seemed to do the trick, as the guard obviously recognised the name and relaxed.
‘There is a spring where you can fill your bottle, pilgrim, not far from here. I’ll show you.’
He led Cledwin to a clearing at the rear of the lodge where there was a wooden water pump at the edge of a tranquil lake, fed from the spring. It was a serene and peaceful spot and Cledwin was suddenly reminded of home. The guard cupped his hands and took a refreshing drink of the cool water. As he did so, Cledwin swung his heavy wooden stick at the man’s head as hard as he could. He had never used a stick in this way before and simply meant to knock him unconscious. The helpful young guard was completely unprepared for the blow. He fell forward into the water with a load splash and lay silent face down in the cold water, a trickle of blood staining the area around his head.
Rhiannon thought she heard a splash and stopped singing to herself for a moment, listening. There was only silence so she continued singing. It was one of the old songs of the Du she had learnt from her mother and made her feel sad. Although she was glad to be doing something to hasten the end of the war with the Gwyn, she was missing her baby, her sister, her husband. The lodge had a large open hall in the centre with heavy oak beams on the ceiling. The guards had lit a fire in the hearth to warm her, but the windows were small and it was turning to dusk outside, so she took a wooden taper and lit the yellowing beeswax candles to light up the room.
He watched the queen through one of the side windows as she moved from candle to candle. Cledwin had never seen her before but immediately knew he was looking at the queen of the Du. Her raven black hair shone in the flickering candle light and reminded him of her sister, Ceinwen. He had heard she lived a simple nomadic life, travelling with the seasons, yet her gown was made of fine black silk, worth more than most people of the Du would afford in a whole lifetime, and flashes of gold and rings on her fingers spoke of wealth and luxury.
