A Wounded Realm Page 12

  Your servant,

  Gerald Fitzwalter of Windsor

  Edwin looked up at the guard.

  ‘Can this be confirmed as genuine?’ he asked.

  ‘My lord, the scroll was secured with the seal of Gerald himself. It is genuine.’

  ‘Leave us,’ said Edwin and as the guard left, he turned to face Goronwy.

  ‘It is a trick,’ growled Goronwy. ‘Don’t you think all this is a very fortunate coincidence? It is nothing but a ploy to get us to leave.’

  ‘There is no talking to you,’ said Edwin quietly. ‘Your army falls apart around you, hurting from cold and hunger. Many are already dead from pointless assaults against a fortress well manned with English knights and yet you cling to your dream of conquest. It is over, Goronwy, I am taking my men home.’

  ‘If you leave now,’ shouted Goronwy, ‘I cannot maintain the siege, you have to stay a few more days.’

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ roared Edwin. ‘It is over, Goronwy. We tried our best but came up short. This battle is over and we have lost. I’m going to muster my men and ride out before it gets dark.’

  As Edwin left the tent, Goronwy sat back in the chair and stared into space, his heart drained of any emotion. Eventually, one of his servants entered and stood before him.

  ‘My lord,’ said the servant quietly, ‘is there anything I can get you?’

  The warlord looked up at him and stared for a long while before answering.

  ‘Yes, Jonas,’ he said, ‘pass word to today’s captain of the guard. Tell him to attend me with all haste.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said the servant and he turned to go.

  ‘And Jonas,’ added Goronwy, the defeat clear upon his face.

  ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘Pack your supplies, we’re going home.’

  The following morning, every man in the castle stood behind the palisade walls, staring down to the treeline. The air was silent except for the calls of circling crows as they sought out any dead yet unburied. All eyes stared at the returning patrol of twenty knights as they galloped back to the castle.

  ‘Open the gates,’ called Gerald, and as the giant doors creaked inward the column galloped through before turning to face the men upon the battlements.

  ‘Well?’ said Gerald, descending from the ramparts.

  The lead rider removed his helmet and pushed the sweat-soaked hair back from his face before answering.

  ‘You were right, my lord,’ said the knight, ‘the forests are empty, the Welsh have gone. The siege is over.’

  As an almighty roar of celebration filled the air, Gerald turned and stared at the smiling man at his side.

  ‘You did it,’ said Godwin, ‘your subterfuge won the day and saved every man here. Well done, my lord, well done.’

  He held out his arm and as each man took the wrist of the other, many of the garrison clambered down the buttresses to gather around their master.

  ‘Silence,’ shouted Gerald eventually. He waited as the excited talking died away.

  ‘Fellow warriors,’ said Gerald eventually, ‘this is a special day and your heroism will echo down the ages. Every man here should feel proud of themselves and I will personally see that each is suitably rewarded.’ Holding his hand up to silence the cheer, he continued. ‘Yes, there is cause for celebration, but now is not the time. First we will tend to our wounded and bury our dead. We will say prayers to God, beseeching he takes our comrades’ souls unto heaven. After that, we need to find food and to that end I seek volunteers to sally forth amongst the farms and villages.’ He turned to Godwin. ‘My friend, can I entrust you to lead this task?’

  ‘It will be my honour, my lord.’

  ‘Good. Care will be needed for we are strangers in a foreign land but I expect little defiance. Tread lightly and pay for what you take, but leave nobody hungry for on that route lies defiance.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘The rest of us will take a well-earned rest,’ continued Gerald. ‘A few hours, no more. When we are refreshed, we will set about repairing our defences and ensuring such a siege is not possible again. Over the next few months the walls will be made higher and thicker. The armoury will be stocked with arrows until it is solid with willow. Blades will be sharpened and food stores will be stocked to bursting point. Ownership of this castle was hard earned, my friends, and now we have control over it, we will never let it go.’

  Cheering broke out again and as the sergeants started to bark out their commands, Gerald and Godwin walked slowly across the bailey.

  ‘My lord,’ said Godwin as they walked, ‘I have a confession to make.’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Gerald, ‘today is about successes not failures.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I need to unload my burden.’

  Gerald stopped and looked at his friend. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I have to admit,’ said Godwin, ‘I thought your ploys futile and you had cost the lives of every man here.’

  Gerald stared at Godwin before slapping him on the shoulder.

  ‘Well,’ said Gerald, ‘if that is the extent of your confession then you are truly a pious man.’

  ‘You do not resent me for showing so little trust in your judgement?’

  ‘Why should I resent you, my friend, when I worried about exactly the same thing? Now come, I think there may be half a flask of ale at the back of my tent.’

  Several leagues away, the last of the Welsh columns crested a hill and descended into the valleys on the other side, leaving two men behind them on the ridge. For an age they looked back the way they had come, staring at the tiny speck they knew was the fortress at Pembroke.

  ‘I had him, Edwin,’ said Goronwy quietly, ‘I know I did. A few more days and victory would have been ours.’

  ‘You may be right,’ said Edwin turning back to the road, ‘but alas the circumstances dictated otherwise. Let it go, Goronwy, it is time to go home.’

  Three months later, William Rufus summoned Gerald of Windsor to London to bestow recognition for his heroic actions. The ceremony was impressive and his deeds were lauded by all present but despite this, his mind was on other things and as soon as the opportunity arose, he rode hard from Westminster to reach his destination before it got dark.

  Finally, he and his three comrades saw the outer palisade of Windsor Castle and they reined in their horses to stare at the impressive fortress.

  ‘It seems Henry is in residence,’ said Godwin.

  ‘It does,’ said Gerald, seeing the colours of the prince flying high above the upper keep.

  ‘Do you think he will let you see her?’ asked Godwin.

  ‘Why not?’ said Gerald. ‘Since William has returned from Wales, the country lies in relative peace and I see no reason for Henry to hold Nesta prisoner any longer. Hopefully he will release her into my custody.’

  ‘There is only one way to find out,’ said Godwin, ‘and that is to ask.’

  ‘Then what are we waiting for?’ said Gerald and all four men rode up to the gates of the castle.

  ‘Hold and state your business,’ demanded one of the pikemen on the gate.

  ‘I am Sir Gerald of Windsor,’ said Gerald, ‘and I seek audience with Henry.’

  ‘Have you made arrangements? For the king’s brother is a busy man.’

  ‘I have not, but am favoured by William himself. I ask that I be granted audience on short notice. Send word to the prince on my behalf.’

  The guard spoke to another soldier and within moments, a servant could be seen running up the hill towards the upper tower.

  ‘My lord,’ said the guard, ‘I cannot grant you access to the bailey yet, but if you and your men wish to wait within the gatehouse, you will be made welcome. We have a good fire in the hearth and potage to warm your bellies. Prince Henry is not known for his urgency in responding to such matters.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Gerald, ‘that will be much appreciated.’ The four men tied their horses to a hitching rail and entered the wooden
gatehouse. Each man discarded his cloak and enjoyed the welcome glow while drinking heated ale with their fellow soldiers. For the next hour or so, the visitors answered questions about the war in Wales but eventually Gerald got bored and wandered to the steps on the inside of the tower.

  ‘Where do these go?’ he asked.

  ‘Just to the gatehouse battlements,’ said the guard.

  ‘Can I go up?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then I will get some air,’ said Gerald, ‘this room is very warm.’ He turned and climbed the stairs, emerging onto a wide platform overlooking the gate and moat. Another sentry greeted him from an alcove providing cover from the biting wind.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked the guard, levelling his spear.

  ‘Relax,’ said Gerald, ‘just a visitor waiting for audience with Henry. Your comrades have given me and my fellows shelter while we wait.’

  The sentry replaced his spear in the upright position and blew on his hands.

  ‘So why do you not warm yourself by the fire?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a bit too warm down there,’ said Gerald, ‘I just need some fresh air.’ He looked out over the town of Windsor and the seemingly never-ending maze of streets. Hundreds of smoke trails wound upward from thatched roofs, evidence of so many people seeking comfort away from winter’s breath but apart from that, there was little sign of life.

  ‘How long have you been waiting?’ asked the guard.

  ‘Since about noon,’ said Gerald. ‘It seems your master will not be rushed for anyone.’

  ‘That is a true statement,’ said the guard, ‘however, I suspect your wait will soon be over.’ He nodded towards the lower keep where the door was open and a man swathed in a black cloak emerged into the snow.

  ‘Is that Henry?’ asked Gerald.

  ‘It is,’ said the guard, ‘and it looks like his afternoon has gone particularly well.’ He followed the statement with a laugh but before Gerald could say anything, another figure appeared in the doorway, though staying out of the bitter wind.

  ‘Is that Nesta ferch Rhys?’ asked Gerald, recognising the woman’s long black hair.

  ‘It is,’ said the guard, ‘do you know her?’

  ‘I do,’ said Gerald, ‘why is she free to roam? I thought she was a prisoner of Henry.’

  ‘She was,’ said the guard joining Gerald to stare over the bailey towards the lower keep, ‘but it seems Henry took a liking to her and they have been lovers for months.’

  Gerald’s heart fell as the words sunk in and he stared forlornly across the bailey.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘It is no secret,’ said the guard, ‘and Henry often stays the night with Nesta. It is said if she wasn’t of Welsh descent, he would consider her for a wife but alas, nobody can choose their own birth.’

  ‘No,’ said Gerald quietly, and as if to confirm his worst fears, in the distance, Henry took Nesta in his arms, kissing her deeply before she stepped back inside and closed the door of the keep.

  ‘See what I mean?’ said the guard. ‘If that was a kiss of friendship then I need more friends like her.’ He laughed at his own joke and turned towards Gerald – but the knight had already left.

  ‘Come,’ said Gerald as he reached the bottom of the stairway, ‘we will wait no more.’

  ‘But I thought—’ started Godwin.

  ‘We are going,’ snapped Gerald, ‘there is nothing here for us. Gather your things and have the horses brought around. We leave for Wales immediately.’

  Dublin

  October 12th, AD 1098

  Angharad sat on a blanket contentedly watching her three young children play upon the grass. Cadwaladr, her first son by Gruffydd, was now three years old; his younger brother Cadwallon was two; and the newest addition to the family was a beautiful baby girl by the name of Gwenllian. She had been born the previous year and was just starting to walk.

  The past few years had been difficult for Angharad. Gruffydd’s recovery had been slow and at first he had played little part in the rebellion in Wales, preferring to spend the time with his growing family. But ever since Gerald of Windsor had managed to break the siege at Pembroke Castle two years earlier, her husband had taken a far keener interest in the affairs of the country he called home. Gruffydd was itching to become more involved and Angharad recognised the signs already.

  ‘My lady,’ said a voice, ‘I thought the children may want some refreshment after all this running around.’

  Angharad broke from her reverie to see her oldest servant – and closest friend, despite their differences in station – standing nearby with a tray of sweet meats and a jug of honeyed water.

  ‘Thank you, Adele,’ said Angharad, patting the blanket. ‘Come, sit alongside me.’

  Adele did as she was bid and smiled over towards the children.

  ‘It seems Cadwallon is getting the better of Cadwaladr,’ said Adele, ‘despite him being the smaller.’

  ‘Let not his size fool you,’ replied Angharad, ‘for his heart makes up for any difference in age. I believe he will be a fearless warrior one day, though it has to be said, I suspect his older brother yields advantage due to love rather than fear.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Adele, ‘for they enjoy the true love that brotherhood brings. Let them enjoy it while they can, for politics have a way of souring relations between kin as they grow older.’

  ‘These boys will never set blade against each other,’ said Angharad, ‘I will never allow it. Besides, they share a love for their sister such as I have never seen before.’

  Both women looked over to where Gwenllian was toddling in the wake of her brothers, dragging a twig behind her in an unconscious parody of the wooden swords that held the boys’ attention.

  Gwenllian was not yet a year old and already strong enough to stumble around the grass in clumsy pursuit of her brothers. Her fair hair mirrored that of her mother and fell below her ears in natural curls, framing a pretty face with piercing blue eyes. Though she was still a baby, her personality already hinted at an iron will and she managed to get her own way in many things.

  ‘She is truly a beautiful child,’ said Adele.

  ‘She is, yet I fear she is going to be trouble,’ said Angharad, ‘I can just see it in her eyes.’

  As if she had heard the women, Gwenllian stopped in her tracks and stared over towards them. Both women burst into laughter and were rewarded when Gwenllian responded with a cheeky grin and an outburst of giggles.

  ‘She makes my heart melt,’ said Adele, ‘she surely does.’

  ‘As she does mine.’ Angharad laughed, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. ‘But she makes me worry so.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Oh, I know I fret about things beyond my control,’ said Angharad, ‘but the future is so uncertain, I feel I am exposing her to a lifetime of strife.’

  ‘My lady, she is the daughter of a king and you are safe here in Ireland. With forethought, she will live a full and fruitful life and by the look of her, even at this tender age, I will wager there will be princes fighting wars to claim her hand, such is her beauty.’

  ‘Ah, but therein lies the problem. I want no man fighting over her for that way lies the road to tragedy. At the moment we may be in Ireland, but where will we be next month or the month after that? I love my husband dearly, Adele, but if he is successful in his cause then we could be back in Ynys Mon before the year is out.’

  ‘Is that not what you desire?’

  ‘With all my heart but Wales is a dangerous place at the moment. William Rufus wages war on the rebels, Huw the Fat seeks out my husband with a passion and even the Welsh princes fight amongst themselves for the lands of their fathers. What is to become of my beautiful daughter if she is brought up in such circumstances? My dreams already fill with worry and I fear I will be doing her an injustice if I was to subject her to such things.’

  ‘Can I be so bold as to make a suggestion, my lady?’

&n
bsp; ‘Of course,’ Angharad said, slipping her arm through Adele’s.

  ‘Then I would suggest that nobody knows what will happen in a few years or even a few days from now. Anything can happen before she is of an age to wed. Wales may even have a unifying king and if that man be Gruffydd, then she can have the choice of all men. Put aside your worry until that time, for nothing you can do now will change the path God has in mind for her. Anyway, it seems to me she will be well able to look after herself.’

  Angharad followed Adele’s gaze and saw Gwenllian in a struggle with one of the boys for ownership of a discarded wooden sword. Both pulled an opposite end but when the little girl started screaming at him, Cadwaladr knew he was beaten and relinquished ownership.

  ‘Do you know what?’ Angharad laughed as Gwenllian wandered off with her prize. ‘I think you may be right.’

  The Island of Ynys Mon

  April 13th, AD 1099

  Six months later, Hugh Montgomery sat at a trestle table within his campaign tent, picking at the remnants of the feast upon his trencher. Though the occasion was relaxed, and his chainmail discarded, he was still adorned in quality black-leather armour in case of any call to arms from the camp guards. Opposite him sat Robert of Rhuddlan, cousin of Huw the Fat of Chester, and the officer in command of the joint forces. He was similarly attired though wore a tabard and belted dagger over his armour.

  For the last three weeks, the armies of both men had made their way across north Wales and invaded the island of Ynys Mon, wresting it from the hands of the rebellious Welshman Cadwgan ap Bleddyn. The fighting had been as bloody as the worst battles, with little quarter from both sides, but finally the English emerged victorious and after four long years of Welsh rebellion, the strategic island was once more in the hands of the English crown.