by Tony Riches
Dafydd decided that if he saw any Gwyn soldiers he would surrender rather than fight and see if he could negotiate with them. It seemed a better idea than trying to kill them and he had a new spring in his step as he walked further into the lands of the Gwyn.
*
Sir Padrig was woken by the sound of arguments amongst his men. Quickly buckling his white breastplate over his shirt he winced as the broken rib made a sharp stabbing pain in his side and he had to take a few deep breaths before he could go on. This war with the Du was taking its toll and he wondered if he was getting too old to be living in the field. He splashed some cold water in his face then strapped on his sword and followed the raised voices.
‘What’s going on?’ Padrig looked round at the faces of his soldiers and realised that it was the commander of the guard he had heard arguing with a young soldier, one of the scouts.
‘We’ve located Vorath’s camp,’ the soldier answered. ‘We need to strike now, before he moves again or goes after the king.’
‘Our men are battle weary and many are recovering from their wounds,’ said the commander firmly. ‘It would be madness to attack Vorath until we are ready.’
Padrig was surprised at how quickly the discipline of his men was slipping away and how they now referred to Vorath. He could see both sides of their argument. His heart told him they should fight the invader but he knew the men needed time. He turned to the commander. ‘How long?’ He already knew the answer.
The commander shrugged. ‘A week, maybe two.’
The soldier looked shocked. ‘By that time they could have taken the king!’
Padrig shook his head and put his hand on the shoulder of the young soldier. ‘I know how you feel,’ he said. ‘I would like to go now and take back our lands, but we need more men.’
The soldier looked disappointed. ‘It was hard to count how many Du were in the camp but they are not so well trained as us and we know this ground well.’
Padrig liked the young soldier. He looked confident and reminded him a little of himself when he was younger. ‘You and I will go and have another look at this Vorath, then we will decide.’
They set off as the earliest light of dawn was breaking. It was a risky venture and Padrig’s broken rib was still very painful, but these were exceptional times and the kingdom of the Gwyn could be at stake. They could not expect any mercy if they were captured, so had both replaced their white uniforms with the rough grey wool favoured by the local crofters. It would make them harder to spot and may even allow them to infiltrate the camp, as Vorath’s army now included many deserters and local people who had simply switched their allegiance to the king of the Du.
‘This way,’ whispered the young soldier as they came close to the perimeter of the camp. They took cover under some twisted oak trees and Padrig suddenly made out the dark shape of a warrior armed with a spear. It was one of Vorath’s sentries, well positioned to have the widest field of view. Taking great care, they slowly crept around him in a large circle and ran to a hedge overlooking the camp. Padrig was glad they hadn’t taken the soldier’s advice, as he could see many men camped out in a large field that was well chosen and easy to defend.
He was about to suggest to the soldier that they should go when he spotted a possibility. ‘See the Du horses?’ He whispered, pointing to the next field.
The soldier nodded. ‘I can only see a handful of men guarding them.’
Padrig counted at least thirty of the big black war horses and another twenty Welsh ponies, probably looted from farms as the warriors made their way through the Gwyn territory. Some were grazing at the short grass in the muddy field and others seemed to be sleeping standing up.
‘Without their horses, the Du would have to travel more slowly.’
Padrig agreed. ‘It won’t be easy but if we can take them it would give us the time we need.’
They returned stealthily back the way they had come and Padrig explained his plan to the commander. Their best archers would deal with the warriors guarding the horses then a mounted group led by Sir Padrig would take as many horses as they could. The commander was to take the walking wounded to a hideout north of the Du camp, the last place they thought the warlord Vorath would think of looking. The commander looked at their grim faces, knowing that if the plan went wrong they would all be killed, then saluted the knight and went to brief the men.
The archers left at midnight, led by the young soldier who knew the layout of the camp. He took them to a good vantage point with some cover where they silently prepared, sighting on the warriors guarding the horses and readying their bows for the signal. It was a dry night, with a partial moon to help them but it also made their mission more dangerous. Unlike the Du, the Gwyn soldiers were not equipped for night fighting, although the archers had been allowed to replace their white tunics with brown capes that should help prevent them being seen.
Sir Padrig chose only skilled riders who were good at handling horses. It was important that they could keep their head in a fight, as all their lives would depend on the success of the raid. They rode as close to the enemy camp as they dared, then dismounted and led their horses in the darkness as silently as they could in a wide arc out of view of any sentries. Padrig winced with the pain from his broken rib as he climbed down from his horse and hoped that none of his men had noticed.
Padrig waited until they were all ready and in position. ‘Mount up men. Ready for my signal and remember my orders. We are not here for a battle this night, so if the Du come for us you are to make good your escape but be sure they do not follow you to our hideaway.’ He nodded to the young soldier who had been waiting to relay his signal to the archers. There was no going back now.
The arrows flew silently in the night and struck with deadly force at such close range. One of the Du sentries fell wounded and started to call out for help but the hour was late and his yell of surprise went unnoticed. Sir Padrig swiftly rode to him and finished him with a single blow from his sword. As they had planned, one group of riders took spare horses to the archers, while the rest followed Sir Padrig to ride between the horses and the camp, slipping the tethers of the black war horses and skilfully driving them north as a herd. Their hooves made little noise on the soft turf and the riders were careful not to panic the horses.
By the time Lord Vorath heard his men shouting and ran into the field the horses were all gone and Padrig was safely far north in his hideaway with his prize. The stolen horses included Vorath’s own warhorse Ddraig and were worth a fortune in addition to their military value. Vorath took one of the white-feathered arrows from the ground next to one of his dead sentries and held it in the air. ‘This is why we need to finish the Gwyn! We will track down these Gwyn and show them what we do with horse thieves!’ His men roared in agreement. There would be no mercy for any soldiers of the south from now on.
Chapter Twenty Two
King Gethin paced restlessly around the windswept battlements of the castle at Flint, desperate for news. The castle which had once seemed so full of life was now empty, damp and cold. Several days had passed since any word of the war in the south and he found Bishop Deniol well meaning but poor company. He looked to the path from the west and saw the small black shape of a single rider approaching. He was not riding with any sense of urgency that could have meant good or bad news but Gethin felt a strange sense of foreboding as he watched the man approach.
The king picked his way down the rickety wooden steps from the battlements to meet the rider at the gate. As he came closer Gethin could see the man was wearing the black tunic of the royal household and cursed under his breath. It must be another letter demanding ransom for Prince Evan. He had considered taking some men to free his son but the best warriors had left long ago with Lord Vorath, so all that remained were too young or old to fight. The rider recognised the king and dismounted, looking nervous. He produced a black leather case from his saddlebag and handed it to the king.
‘There is a letter fro
m the queen, my lord, and one from her sister which she respectfully requests for you to read first.’ The man took a step backward, still holding tightly to the reins of his horse.
‘You come from the queen?’ Gethin had been concerned about the safety of his wife and could not conceal the hope from his voice.
‘No, my lord. I carried the message on command of the queen’s sister.’ He had not wanted to make the long journey across the northern coast in bad weather and knew from the queen’s sister that the king may react angrily to the contents of the letters.
Gethin told him to wait and went to his rooms to read the letters, ordering for Bishop Deniol to be summoned. He did not expect to have difficulty reading a letter from either Rhiannon or her sister Ceinwen but his hand was not as good as he wished and he could need some assistance with the reply. One letter bore the queens personal seal and the other the royal mark. Ceinwen had also repeated her request that her letter should be read first on the front in stark black ink. He hesitated, looking at the small dark royal seal for a moment before breaking it and opened the first letter.
Ceinwen explained that she was a still held captive, a prisoner of the Gwyn, as was the prince, but they were both being treated very well and in good health. Her main concern was that there had been no reply to the original letter, so she repeated the demands of the Gwyn and Gethin realised that she had been made to do so under duress. She then said she was concerned about the queen. The people holding her had been to the hunting lodge and there was no sign of her, apart from her black dresses. One of these Ceinwen knew the queen would not have left behind, as it was a special favourite. It was with great reluctance therefore that she was abiding with her sister’s wish that the second letter should be delivered to him
Gethin picked up the letter with Rhiannon’s seal and remembered the last time he had seen her. She had a look of sadness in her eyes that haunted his dreams for many nights, as if she had some premonition that she would never see him again. He ran his finger over the small black wax seal. It was from the Welsh gold signet ring that she always wore, a Celtic design from the old days. Reluctantly, he opened the second letter and saw Rhiannon’s distinctive handwriting.
Any happiness at finally hearing from her quickly vanished as he realised she had taken too great a risk, sacrificing her safety for the good of her people. He had no way of knowing if her actions had any impact on the course of the war but, by her own admission, the fact that he was reading the letter meant that something had gone badly wrong. Worst of all, she asked him to make sure that their son was kept safely away from the Gwyn until he was old enough to look after himself. Gethin sat back in the heavy oak chair in despair and his mood quickly turned to anger at the people of the south.
A timid knock at the door announced the arrival of the Bishop.
‘Come in, Deniol. You need to see these and help me make sense of it all.’
Bishop Deniol quietly entered and took the first letter from the king. After reading it carefully he picked up the second and read that through twice.
‘If the queen is also in the hands of the Gwyn, my lord, I am sure we would have heard from them. The fact that they only mention the prince is indeed curious.’ He looked at the king and for the first time had a sense of the pressure the man was under.
‘I will have to find the truth of this,’ answered Gethin quietly. ‘I will ride to the nearest camp and find some warriors worthy of the name.’
‘The closest is just south of here, my lord, but the best had gone to the territory of the Gwyn with the warlord Vorath…’
‘I need you to find Bishop Emrys. If anyone knows where the queen could be hiding or where my son is being held, it will be him.’
‘Of course, my lord. I will leave as soon as I can,’ replied Deniol, retreating towards the door. He would be glad to be out of the damp castle and there would be safety in numbers by staying with Bishop Emrys. Even the Gwyn would hesitate to attack two representatives of the church.
Gethin carefully folded the letters and stared at them for a long time, wondering what was for the best. It would be a short ride south of the castle, so he packed only what would fit in his saddlebag and ordered his servants to prepare for the journey west as soon as he returned. Pulling his cape around him as some protection from the rain Gethin rode alone ahead of his servants, starting to form a plan. The letters which he carried inside the pocket of his black tunic nagged at his conscience. In his heart he knew he should be doing everything in his power to ensure the safety of his wife and his son and heir but for now he just had to have faith.
*
Bishop Deniol travelled south west, alone in his sturdy horse drawn cart towards the last known location of Bishop Emrys. He fixed a cover to guard against the rain but still he was glad to have relief from the biting cold wind when he called at a small chapel. He knew the garrulous old priest was the only person able to write and read in the village, so it fell naturally to him to gather the latest news. As well as being a notorious gossip, there had once been a question about him showing favour in the distribution of alms to the poor of the village. Priests were meant to behave better than the laymen but if they fell from grace they could suffer at the hands of the less privileged. The priest had asked Deniol to speak up for him and the bishop earned his complete loyalty in return.
The priest could hardly wait for him to stable his horse and be seated before he started telling the tale of the tragic death of Archbishop Renfrew.
‘Slowly, please brother,’ said Deniol, raising his hand to silence the man, his head whirling with too much information.
The priest ignored him and continued with the practiced ease of someone who has told a story many times. ‘There was a terrible raging fire,’ he explained excitedly. ‘Some say the Lord has punished his servant for his sins!’
Deniol disagreed but decided to leave it and watched in silence as the priest poured them each a generous goblet of good red wine. ‘Bishop Emrys escaped unharmed?’
The priest shook his head. ‘His body is unharmed but they say the whole event has turned his mind. He has taken it on himself to see a proper end to this war, although I don’t see how…’
‘What of the Gwyn?’ asked Deniol, mindful of his discussion with the king.
The priest looked pleased with himself and drained his goblet of wine with enthusiasm. ‘The war is all but won! I heard we have routed the armies of the Gwyn. Just one knight and his retainers are left and the king of the Gwyn will run to the Saxons.’
Once again, Bishop Deniol chose to privately disagree but also chose not to share his concerns with the talkative priest. As far as he was concerned, few people would ever learn of the ransom of the prince or the disappearance of Queen Rhiannon. As he listened to the old priest’s gabbling his mind was on higher matters. With the archbishop dead and Emrys apparently suffering from some form of shock, the way was clear for him to be considered as the new archbishop of all Wales. Deniol had never thought himself ambitious and had merely become the king’s advisor through the accident of proximity. Recent events had suddenly opened a window through which he could glimpse a very different future for himself.
King Gwayne was aware that his rooms at Caerphilly were the finest of any castle in the land, yet he missed the comfort of his home at Pennard. He realised he missed the guidance of his father, the old king. He was also surprised to realise that he missed his beautiful young wife, particularly on the long cold winter nights. Unaware that Queen Elvina was now living on the northern coast, he was thinking of her to be safely in the sanctuary of the church at St Davids. It was only when he overheard his servants discussing rumours that the Du had taken Pembroke that he began to be concerned for her.
He went to the window and looked out to the western hills. The lush green was now just a memory and had long been replaced with the dull tones of approaching winter. Gwayne had been reassured by Sir Padrig’s victory and was confident that the knight and his men would keep the warlor
d Vorath occupied, but he had stayed too long in the castle. He summoned Kane but his servant returned within the hour to report that the archer was nowhere to be found. He felt the stubble on his chin and an idea formed in his troubled mind. Kane had deserted him in his time of need. Gwayne felt anger at the archer’s disloyalty but knew in his heart that he had expected as much.
‘Fetch my horse, and tell my escort to be ready!’ he shouted, more aggressively than was really necessary. As his nervous servant scuttled off to make the arrangements, Gwayne realised he wasn’t sure where he would be headed. He had always planned as a last resort to escape over the border to the east and find Elvina’s brother, King Athelstan. To do so would be to admit defeat, something he knew his father would never have done. Gwayne considered risking a journey to join Sir Padrig, but he was way off to the north and it would mean passing Vorath’s army to reach him. Reports that had reached him of the fate of the garrison suggested that if any men survived the massacre he would be lucky to find them. King Gwayne said a rare prayer for luck and left the castle with his escort, taking the path west, to find the survivors.
*
The Du camp had been moved as close to the castle as possible without being seen and a whole sheep now roasted on a spit over a fire pit. The deep core of hot, glowing hardwood embers were the remains of a big roaring fire and gave an intense heat without flame that could have burned the meat. A young warrior had the job of stirring the ash covered embers with a spear. His face was slick with sweat from the hot fire pit which glowed brightly in the failing evening light.
Lord Vorath watched with little interest, still angry and mourning the loss of his fine black warhorse Ddraig to the thieving Gwyn. They had fought and won many battles together and he vowed he would not rest until his horse was returned. He had taken a small group of warriors on the few remaining horses and set off in rapid pursuit of the Sir Padrig’s men but the Gwyn had too much of a lead and had vanished into the misty mountain air. Reluctantly, he had called his men to a halt and been forced to concede that the pursuit was futile.
