by Tony Riches
The men knew better than to speak to Vorath but one of his most trusted warriors knew how to tempt him out of the black mood.
‘The man Kane was here, asking for you again, Lord Vorath.’
Vorath looked up with keen interest in his dark eyes. ‘Where is he now?’
The warrior pointed to a temporary stockade they had built from saplings to safeguard their remaining horses. ‘We have him prisoner, for his own safety. The men have a score to settle with archers of the Gwyn.’
Vorath grinned. ‘Bring him to me. We will see what he knows.’
Kane was led to him rubbing his wrists to restore the circulation where they had been bound too tightly with twine. He looked defiant and could barely be distinguished from the hardened Du warriors.
Vorath took his knife from the leather scabbard at his belt and cut a slice from the roasted mutton. ‘Eat with us,’ he ordered, handing the hot meat to Kane.
The archer took it gratefully. ‘Thank you Lord Vorath. There has not been any time to eat since I left the castle.’
Vorath nodded and made space for Kane to sit by the fire. ‘Are you with us, Kane?’ He watched the man’s face carefully but there was no clue to his allegiance.
‘I am with the victors of this war,’ Kane replied. ‘Right now, that looks like the Du.’ It was a dangerous tactic but he knew the Du respected loyalty, however misguided it may be.
Vorath was busy eating but his eyes never left Kane’s as he considered his response. He carefully wiped his hands on a cloth and looked Kane in the eyes. ‘Our scouts sighted a group of Gwyn riders leaving the castle this morning.’
‘Where were they headed?’
‘West. Could your king be with them?’
Kane pondered this. ‘He could. He has not forgiven you for taking Pennard. My guess is that’s where he is headed.’
Vorath grunted. ‘It was undefended. Just a few farmers and servants.’ He offered Kane more of the smoking meat and signalled one of the warriors to pour them both some of the dark Du beer. ‘They surrendered when we arrived.’
‘He may have sent the riders as a distraction while he heads east to the Saxon king,’ suggested Kane. He drank deeply from the tankard of Du beer. It was warm and strong, with the rich flavour of malt and roasted barley. He needed to keep his head clear but the salty meat had made him thirsty and he wondered if Vorath’s unexpected hospitality was a plan to loosen his tongue.
‘We have all roads covered,’ replied Vorath. ‘If he does go east he will never make it to the border!’
Kane remained silent and took another swig of his beer.
*
Vorath threw a bone into the fire pit and watched as it flared into flame in the intense heat of the glowing embers. ‘We ride tomorrow to finish this.’ He raised his tankard in the air and called to his men. ‘To victory over the Gwyn!’
The warriors roared in response and despite himself Kane felt proud to be accepted by the people of the north.
*
King Gwayne was exhilarated to be leading his men further west, towards his home. They had set a pace to reach Pennard after nightfall and he knew the path so well he was happy to ride under the welcome cover of darkness. As familiar landmarks loomed out of the night his thoughts turned to his wife. He would have loved to find her waiting to greet him but knew instead he would find armed warriors of the Du guarding his home. He said another silent prayer that Kane was right and they could not have captured her without using her as a hostage.
The king and his escort stopped briefly in Abertawe and tried to track down any soldiers of the garrison but had no success. Instead they were seen by Vorath’s spies, who hastened to notify the warlord. Gwayne was saddened to realise that so many good men had given their lives to defend his vision of freedom for the people of the south. He was encouraged a little to see that his escort had doubled in number when they left the town, as farmers and traders still loyal to the cause had armed themselves with whatever weapons they owned.
*
Bishop Emrys of the Du saddled a borrowed horse and followed his calling, heading to the south west. He was not given to visions and disapproved of superstition but felt compelled to do what he could to see the war resolved in a fair and proper manner. There was no one to see him leave, or to wish him well but he was unconcerned, as the tragic end of Archbishop Renfrew had given him a new perspective on his life.
His life as bishop to the queen seemed far off now. He had enjoyed the challenge of teaching Queen Rhiannon to read and write in the language of the tribes, as well as Latin and a little Anglo Saxon. He had hoped she would ask him to tutor the young prince but he had received no word from her since long before the fire that changed his life, so it seemed his work was done. He was unaware that his decision to travel south placed the king of the Gwyn under a new threat and had triggered a sequence of events that could only have one outcome.
*
King Gwayne and his escort took the back road to Pennard and watched his former home from the safety of the trees. There was a Du sentry at the gate as expected but few lights in the windows, suggesting that Vorath had decided not to leave many men to guard it. The irony of the situation was not lost on Gwayne, as he waited in the darkness like a Du warrior, outside his own house, with only a handful of Gwyn soldiers left to support him while Lord Vorath roamed freely through the lands of the south.
He turned to his men. ‘I need an archer, the best amongst you.’
A young soldier stepped forward, already fitting a white feathered arrow to his bow. ‘My lord?’
‘Are you certain you can take the sentry from here?’
The soldier nodded. ‘I can, my lord.’
Gwayne beckoned the other soldiers to him. ‘Be ready once the sentry falls. We need to check every room for the Du and quickly, before they know what’s going on.’
The men looked grim faced, knowing the risks but loyal to the king. He nodded to the archer, who carefully sighted on the sentry standing just in the shadow of the entrance to the Royal Llysoedd. The arrow flew straight and true, thudding deep into the chest of the Du warrior and killing him instantly. Gwayne drew his sword and led his men in a run to the entrance and put his shoulder to the heavy oak door. It was not barred and opened to reveal am empty courtyard. He silently gestured for half his men to check the queen’s apartments and let the rest into the main building.
The Du looked up in surprise as King Gwayne and his men burst into the main hall. Empty wooden casks of the kings finest wine lay all around and it was clear they had been drinking. Without hesitating, Gwayne slashed the throat of the nearest and his men did the same to three others but not before one gave a yell of alarm, his last act for the warriors of the Du. Two black clad warriors appeared in the doorway and quickly took in the scene. One carried a spear, which he threw at a Gwyn soldier, piercing him mortally through his unprotected neck. Gwayne yelled in fury and hacked at both men with his sword, killing the spear thrower and opening up a deep gash in the face of the second. Undeterred, the Du warrior fought back bravely, with the blood running freely down his tunic, but he was outnumbered and soon lay dead on the cold stone floor.
Gwayne stood back panting with the exertion of the fight. It seemed so much more violent in the familiar surroundings of his home and he realised it was the first time he had actually killed a man for many years. He sent the soldiers to check the other rooms but stayed alone in the blood spattered room with the dead. Looking up at his father’s battle shield that still had pride of place on the wall above the fireplace he vowed that he would never surrender his lands to the Du. Whatever the cost.
Chapter Twenty Three
The sturdy cart driven by Bishop Deniol ground to a halt on the muddy track leading west and he wished he was back at home, reading in the comfort of his library of Basingwerk. He looked up at the brooding sky and wondered what he had done to deserve such poor luck, then noticed that a man who had been following at a distance would soon catch
up with him. The bishop felt the weight of the silver coins in the leather purse he carried at his waist. He would only part with them as a last resort so attempted a forced smile. As the man came closer Deniol could see he was a strong and hardy type, more than capable of helping him out of his predicament.
‘Good day to you, sir. I am the Bishop of Flint,’ he called. ‘Would you be so kind as to lead my old horse out of this mud?’
The man looked at him suspiciously. He had little time for the church and the cart looked substantial but it would block the road if it was left there, so he reluctantly took the rein of the horse and encouraged it to pull the cart from the deep rut. At first it seemed too much of a challenge for the tired horse but the man persevered and with a final squelch of mud the wheels of the cart began to turn once more.
The Bishop was grateful. ‘There is plenty of room if you would care to ride with me? I would be glad of the company.’
The man answered by climbing up onto the cart and taking his place at the reins. He seemed to know what he was doing. What happened next took the bishop completely by surprise. The man produced a sharp dagger which he held to Deniol’s throat.
‘Your money?’ His voice was dark and threatening.
Deniol remembered the warnings he had been given of the lawless men of the wilderness and knew he had no choice. He nervously handed over his purse, fairly sure that the blade had already nicked the skin of his neck. ‘It’s all I have. There is nothing else of value.’
The robber relaxed a little and grinned as he hefted the purse in his hand. It was more wealth than he had ever had in his life. He put his dagger back in its scabbard and loosened the draw string of the purse to see the contents.
Something snapped in Bishop Deniol’s mind. He was not a violent man but he felt a surge of anger at the man’s impudence. He grabbed the handle of the dagger and quickly held the blade to the robber’s neck. Now the situation was reversed he felt quite pleased with himself.
‘I’ll have that purse back now!’
The man pulled back suddenly but there was not much room on the seat of the cart and he slipped, falling heavily to the ground. He lay there unmoving, so Deniol hastily climbed down after him and was shocked to see that the man was unconscious and bleeding profusely from a head wound where he had hit his head on a large rock. There was nothing the bishop could do but to leave him to take his chances by the side of the road.
For the rest of his journey south Deniol was in turns elated at his own surprising bravery and wracked with guilt over probably causing the death of a man, even though he was a robber who preyed on innocent travellers. As he neared the church of St Davids his luck changed. The keeper of an inn where he had stopped for some rest told him Bishop Emrys was staying in a chapel a few miles further down the road. Deniol was pleased to find Emrys after such a long and dangerous journey but was shocked at the change in the bishop, who seemed to have aged beyond his years.
Once he had seen to his horse he sat with Bishop Emrys in the modestly furnished vestry, a room attached to the chapel used to store the records of the parish. As with many chapels in Wales, the vestry was used for the serving of tea when the congregation returned to the chapel after the burial or cremation, so now it also served as a convenient temporary home for Emrys. Bishop Deniol was glad of the warmth of a log fire which flickered in the hearth and accepted a small goblet of wine.
‘I heard what happened,’ he said. ‘Archbishop Renfrew was a good man.’
Emrys nodded. ‘He made me realise I could do more to bring an end to this war.’
Deniol was surprised. ‘The church must do what it can to end suffering, but I don’t see what we can do about the war?’
‘The fact that we are both here in the south means we are already changing the course of the war,’ replied Emrys. ‘We have priests in every village of the south and they make it their business to know what is happening in their parishes.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Deniol. ‘But surely they are loyal to the Gwyn king?’
‘I have learned that they are loyal to the church first,’ said Emrys. ‘You need to know that the men of Ynys Mon have control of the west and Lord Vorath moves freely in the south.’
‘Then there is something you need to know,’ said Deniol. ‘We need to act quickly as the Gwyn have Prince Evan held hostage.’
Now Bishop Emrys looked shocked. ‘It may be the Lord’s will is that we work to save him,’ he muttered. ‘We must get word to the warlord Vorath.’
Deniol found himself being drawn deeper into what he now realised was only going to lead to more deaths and wondered if he really would have been safer staying in the empty castle at Flint.
*
Encouraged by the ease with which he had retaken Pennard, King Gwayne resolved to recruit more men to his cause in the west while the army of Lord Vorath remained in the east. After the best night of sleep he’d had in a long time, Gwayne and his men took the weapons and horses of the dead warriors of the Du and rode to the market town of Carmarthen. It was a fine sunny morning for the ride, although the bitingly cold wind could not let them forget that winter was now upon them. Gwayne looked at the pure white clouds that filled the sky for as far as he could see. A heavy fall of snow would make it hard for the Du and could buy him the time he needed to rebuild his army.
Their arrival in Carmarthen was very different from the last time he had visited the town. Instead of being greeted by cheering throngs of people lining the streets, the king and his small band of soldiers pulled grey cloaks around them to avoid drawing attention and took the back way into the town. They found a stable for their horses and made their way quietly to a tavern where they hoped to find men still loyal to the Gwyn. The tavern was poorly lit and smelled of wood smoke and stale beer, but the man Gwayne had sent in advance had already been able to assemble a dozen young men who were ready to fight.
‘It is good to see you well, my lord,’ said one of the older men. Gwayne could see the glint of silver chain mail through holes in his rough cotton tunic and realised that the man was either one of the few survivors of his army or a deserter.
Gwayne raised his hand in acknowledgement. ‘You may have heard rumours that I had been slain by the warlord Vorath?’ Some of the men looked uncomfortable and he knew it was true. Gwayne smiled. ‘Well as you can see I am very much alive!’
The man in the chain mail stepped forward. ‘My lord, you know that there is a large Du army to the west?’
Gwayne nodded. ‘I do, and I know many men have turned their allegiance to the Du, but we will fight on while I still draw breath.’
The men cheered and Gwayne held up a hand to silence them. ‘We must act with stealth, as we need time to prepare for the last battle.’ He gestured to one of the soldiers who had travelled with him from Pennard, who handed him a heavy leather saddlebag. Gwayne opened it and produced a handful of bright gold coins which he held high for everyone in the room to see.
‘I have a secret weapon, the royal treasury of the Gwyn. With this gold we will buy the best weapons and horses, recruit good men to the cause and hire as many mercenaries as it will take to drive the Du from our lands.’ The light from the poor quality candles in the tavern glinted on the gold, which made a satisfying chinking noise as the king let it fall back into the saddlebag.
Despite his warnings, the men could not resist another cheer. The king called for the landlord and ordered drinks all round. Many of the men who had secretly thought the war was well and truly lost suddenly found fresh hope. Some were happy to know that the Du would finally be shown how badly they had underestimated the people of the Gwyn. Others were motivated more by self interest. Just one of those gold coins would keep them in comfort for many years and the king had more than any of them could count.
As they were all looking at the king and his treasure, none of them noticed a man slip quietly from the back of the room. He had a fast horse ready and galloped into the mist which had silently drifted over t
he town from the sea. If he rode hard, he could reach his master in two days. The gold had really tempted him and for a moment he had wondered if he would be better off following the Gwyn. Then he remembered what Lord Vorath did to traitors.
Vorath listened carefully to his spy’s account of the king’s arrival in Carmarthen and asked many questions before he let the man go for a much needed rest. He wished now that he had stayed at Pennard and simply waited for the king to arrive, instead of allowing himself to be drawn into a fight by the knight Sir Padrig. He called for his warriors and ordered them to break camp. They would have to leave for the west right away to stop the Gwyn before it was too late.
The Du were on the road within the hour but once again Vorath cursed the loss of their best horses. He had sent out raiders to all the farms in the area and they returned with a mix of ponies and farm horses, as well as several strong oxen to help pull carts carrying weapons and equipment. Many of the horses were past their best and unused to the demands of war or the need to travel long distances quickly. Vorath had chosen a good black stallion for himself but still missed his faithful warhorse and hoped that the thieving Gwyn were taking good care of it.
It was good that they no longer needed to travel under the cover of darkness and could use the best roads, rather than the overgrown tracks they had been used to. As they passed through one of the Gwyn towns on the way, Vorath was surprised to be approached by a Gwyn priest with a message from the bishops of the Du.
‘The church wants an end to the fighting, my lord,’ said the priest. ‘Too many good people have died.’
Vorath had not realised that both bishops of the Du were in the south and looked at the priest. The man seemed sincere and had the air of authority that came from a good education. He had never expected help from the church but it was welcome, as communication had been one his biggest problems in the south. Although he knew the old warlord had died a warrior’s death he had received no word at all from the Lord Llewelyn’s men of Ynys Mon.
