Medieval III - Sword of Liberty Read online

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  Back in the valley the two walls of armed men closed in on each other beneath a wave of spears thrown by both sides. Dozens fell as a result but the charge maintained its impetus. Seconds later the lines crashed together in a melee of steel and hewn flesh. Men screamed as wielded pikes reached over the shield wall to pierce the exposed flesh of their enemy and heavy maces smashed against the helms of any man within reach. Those lucky enough to have shields crouched behind them, pushing against the enemy with all their might, the adrenaline of combat matched by the fear of death. Swords were thrust between the shields whenever gaps appeared though were often deflected by chainmail armour.

  Cynan stood alongside his own men, fighting with a fanaticism born of nationalistic fervour and hardened battlefield experience. Fermbaud on the other hand stood behind his men urging them on and often hitting the backs of their heads with the hilt of his sword whenever he perceived a weakening of the line.

  ‘Heave,’ screamed Fermbaud, ‘break their lines or we will be overrun.’

  The English fought like demons and acquitted themselves well but eventually the overwhelming numbers of the enemy told and the line broke. Almost immediately, individuals turned to flee and within moments the call to retreat could be heard along the line.

  ‘Revoke that command,’ screamed Fermbaud, ‘hold the line,’ but it was too late, the damage was done and his men broke to flee back the way they had come. They had not gone a hundred paces when they saw another equally strong force coming from the direction of the burning village.

  ‘It is a trap,’ shouted Godfrey, we are surrounded.

  Fermbaud finally realised the risk and looked frantically around for safety.

  ‘Across the river,’ he shouted, ‘head for the trees.’

  By now the battlefield was covered in individual battles to the death. Chain Mail shirts were no protection against heavy pikes and many men were speared through or had their bodies’ cleaved open by the heavy blades. Men screamed for mercy as they were overrun but in the heat of battle, most were ignored and many died on their knees, their cries for clemency still ringing in their killer’s ears as they dealt the killing blow.

  Dozens reached the river but had underestimated the steepness of the far bank and Cynan’s men stopped at the water’s edge as they realised they had their enemy cornered. Fermbaud was frantic, demanding his men lift him up to the perceived safety of the tangled undergrowth upon the other side of the river and as he stumbled away from the battlefield, Godfrey turned to face the enemy massing along the bank behind him.

  Cynan walked through the ranks of his victorious men and stared at the scene before him. Fermbaud was getting away but what was left of his command was either dead on the battlefield or standing in the river.

  ‘Sire, do you want one of the archers to bring him down?’ asked William, indicating the running man.

  ‘No,’ said Cynan, ‘send some of the cavalry to bring him to me alive.’ He returned his attention to the men in the river. ‘You men,’ he said, ‘are no less victims than we. You have been led by a false King into lands that don’t belong to you but such is the life of a soldier. Ordinarily I would have you ransomed but I can’t ignore what I saw this morning through the dawn mist. There was a hunger in your eyes and if we hadn’t warned the people, I suspect there would not be one living soul left in the village, aged or child. Poor people who face a battle every day just to stay alive would have met the steel of trained soldiers without thought of mercy. As a boy, I once attended a church where the priest preached an eye for an eye. I have never forgotten that and feel that in this case, the justice preached by that man fits the crime.’ He turned and said something to William. Within moments, a hundred archers pushed forward and loaded their crossbows.

  ‘Wait,’ shouted Godfrey, ‘this is murder, you can’t do this.’

  Cynan turned to face him.

  ‘Ah, I remember you, you are second in command of this campaign, are you not?’

  ‘I am,’ said Godfrey, ‘and demand compassion. Kill me but let these men go, they were only carrying out orders.’

  ‘Carrying out orders does not an innocent man make,’ said Cynan, ‘and there was a hunger amongst them when they thought their prey defenceless.’

  ‘Call yourself a Knight?’ shouted Godfrey, ‘you were quick enough to challenge Fermbaud in one to one combat not an hour since, well I now challenge you, Welshman, give me a sword and fight me as an equal. Let the prize be our deaths or our freedom.’

  Silence fell and all eyes turned to Cynan. After a moment’s silence he nodded to a nearby soldier who threw Godfrey a sword. Godfrey started to wade out of the water but was stopped by Cynan.

  ‘Hold there, Sir Knight for I will not suffer one more English footprint upon Welsh soil.’ Saying that he threw away his shield and waded into the river to face his enemy. ‘Be guarded Sir,’ he said, ‘for today there will be no quarter.’

  ‘I expect none, nor offer any,’ said Godfrey and without warning swung his sword at Cynan’s head. Cynan lifted his sword to deflect the blow and as the weapon glanced away, punched Godfrey to the side of the head with his fisted gauntlet. Godfrey fell back but maintained his stance. Cynan took up the offensive and steel clashed on steel as the advantage swayed back and forth. Cynan tired quickly for he had fought hard during the battle but Godfrey was also exhausted and both men’s swords dropped momentarily as they gasped for breath in the knee deep water.

  ‘Your skills are better than expected, Welshman,’ said Godfrey, ‘you fight like an Englishman.’

  ‘I was taught by a man who fought alongside Llewellyn himself,’ said Cynan, ‘and resent the comparison.’

  ‘I care not what you resent,’ snarled Godfrey and swung a low blow against Cynan’s side.

  Cynan deflected the worst, but the blade still cut into his chainmail shirt, digging into the flesh beneath. He gasped in pain and stumbled to his knees, dropping his sword in the process. As quick as a flash, Godfrey lunged forward and pulled his dagger to rest it against Cynan’s throat. The Welshman was kneeling on the river bed and waist deep in water. On the bank, many men raised their crossbows but Cynan ordered them lowered.

  ‘Hold your weapons,’ he shouted, ‘it was a fair fight.’

  ‘This is where you belong, Welshman,’ snarled Godfrey, ‘beneath an Englishman’s blade. Now, do we ride from here free men?’

  ‘No Godfrey, you don’t,’ said Cynan.

  ‘So you go back on your word?’

  ‘On the contrary, my word is my bond and is as strong as iron. Your men will die here, as agreed.’

  ‘But I have won the fight,’ said Godfrey, ‘the deal is sound.’

  ‘The fight is not over,’ said Cynan, ‘we said no quarter, remember?’ As he spoke, Cynan’s hand thrust upward from the water and drove a dagger into Godfrey’s groin, the only part of him unprotected by chain mail.

  Godfrey gasped in pain but before he could retaliate with his own blade, Cynan grabbed his wrist with his other hand and forced it away from his own throat. Godfrey staggered backward toward the river bank before turning and falling to his knees.

  Cynan got to his feet and followed the wounded Knight. As he reached him, Godfrey’s head hung low and his hands grasped his groin in agony.

  Cynan looked up at William and nodded silently. Without warning, crossbow bolts thudded into the chests of all the remaining English soldiers standing in the river and within a minute, their bodies started to float gracefully downstream, turning the water red from blood. Godfrey looked up, surprised he was still alive.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ he shouted, ‘Which of you will send a bolt through my heart?’

  Without warning Cynan kicked Godfrey in the back sending the man sprawling in the mud. The wounded Knight tried to push himself up but Cynan stepped forward and placed his foot on the back of his head.

  ‘Like I said, Godfrey, today is a day of equality, an eye for an eye. For too many years
we have lived under the heel of an Englishman, how ironic it is that you now die beneath the heel of a Welshman.’

  As his men looked on in silence, Cynan exerted all his pressure to force Godfrey’s face further into the riverbank, choking him on the blood soaked mud of his dead comrades. Finally the man moved no more and Cynan staggered from the river.

  ‘Sire, the day is done,’ said William, ‘let me see that wound.’

  ‘It is a mere scratch,’ said Cynan, ‘and I will seek poultices from the physician later. In the meantime, get our dead buried and the wounded tended. I want to be out of this place by dawn.

  ‘Are we to disperse?’ asked William.

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Cynan, ‘our men have tasted English blood and you can be sure Edward will not let this lie. Send word to every man across our lands that the time has come to step up and be counted amongst their countrymen. Today we took the first step to freedom but there are many more needed before we can even dream to rule ourselves. So no, William, we will not disperse. Today we unfurl our banners to proclaim our independence and should Edward refute that claim, let him come and deny it in person.’

  ‘What do you intend to do?’

  ‘I intend to take one of his most important strongholds,’ said Cynan, ‘tell the men that before this week is out, we march on Castell du Bere.’

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  Chapter Twelve

  Dysynni Village

  Garyn stood alongside Philippe amongst the trees at the base of the cliff beneath Castell du Bere. The night was dark and there was a storm brewing. Ten other members of the Blaidd were with them and many more sat in taverns throughout the village, drinking watered ale and generally keeping a low profile.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this, Philippe?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘Yes, my Lord, it is my way to repay you.’

  ‘There is no debt, Philippe, now you are well we can seek a way to get you home.’

  ‘No, I want to do this first. The man in charge of the castle inflicted great pain upon me and I would seek revenge.’

  ‘Revenge is a terrible burden for one so young,’ said Derwyn.

  ‘My people are a proud one,’ said Philippe, ‘and we let no man beat us down without retribution.’

  ‘Your task is to get access to the mason, nothing more,’ said Garyn. ‘If you try to get anywhere near the castellan you will be caught and hung. Just get access to the mason, understand?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord,’ said Philippe.

  ‘And you are sure the window above belongs to the room that holds him?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord. I shared the room for three days and spent an age gazing out at the mountains behind us.’

  ‘There are many such windows holding the same view.’

  ‘There are but I recognise this approach for I considered escaping down the walls.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Sire, the bars were too solid within the opening and I could not squeeze through.’

  Derwyn looked up at the sky.

  ‘There is rain in the air,’ he said, ‘we should get this done.’

  ‘Do you need extra clothing?’ asked Garyn, looking at the boy’s attire. He wore knee length leggings and a thin shirt. His hands and feet were bare.

  ‘No, they would weigh me down,’ answered Philippe.

  ‘Then if you are sure, let’s get started.’ Garyn and Derwyn walked with the boy to the edge of the treeline and crouched low as he continued alone to the base of the rocky cliff. Without a backward glance, he quickly clambered over the easier lower reaches before reaching the steeper cliff face. After a final adjustment of the small pack upon his back, he reached up to find his first hold and within moments, was climbing the cliff as sure footedly as a mountain goat.

  ‘The boy has impressive skills,’ said Derwyn.

  ‘This is the easy part,’ said Garyn, ‘the skill comes with the castle walls. I have never seen such a thing.’

  ‘I will have to take your word,’ said Derwyn, ‘for the walls are deep in darkness and will be beyond my sight.’

  ‘As they will mine,’ said Garyn, ‘all we can do now is wait.’

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  Up above, Philippe climbed steadily, his keen eyes in partnership with his searching fingers, seeking out hand holds on the slippery rock. Finally he reached the base of the castle wall and after pausing to catch his breath, slid his hand upward to find the smallest of cracks between the masonry. Slowly but surely his strong wiry arms pulled his scrawny frame upward, aided by feet that sought out the tiniest of footholds. Upwards he climbed, pausing only to catch his breath when a solid grip was assured. In the distance a flash of lightning was closely followed by a crash of thunder and the first drops of rain pattered down on the castle.

  Philippe renewed his efforts and within ten minutes, reached the window of the cell. He extended a length of rope from around his waist and tied it to one of the bars, securing his position on the narrow sill.

  ‘Mason,’ he called quite loudly to be heard above the rain, ‘Mason, can you hear me?’

  Inside an old man turned in his sleep.

  ‘Mason,’ called the boy louder, ‘wake up, it is Philippe, your fellow prisoner of a few weeks ago.’

  Inside the mason sat up and squinted toward the window.

  ‘Boy, is that you?’ he asked.

  ‘It is, come closer or the guards will hear my calls.’

  The old man shuffled toward the window and stared out at the wet boy in amazement.

  ‘What witchcraft is this?’ gasped the mason, ‘are you dead and fly back as a spirit?’

  ‘I am not dead but have climbed the wall,’ said the boy. ‘I have questions for you from a man who seeks knowledge.’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘He says his name is Garyn, beyond that, I cannot say.’

  ‘And what knowledge is so important that he sends a boy to risk his life in order to obtain it?’

  ‘He seeks the sword of Macsen,’ said the boy, ‘and I chose to come of my own free will.’

  ‘The sword of Macsen,’ repeated the mason, ‘why does he want that?’

  ‘I know not,’ said Philippe, ‘except to say it is needed for a great quest.’

  The mason fell silent for a few moments.

  ‘Boy,’ he said eventually, ‘are you sure this man does not just seek to fill his purse with the coins such a find would bring.’

  ‘He seems an honourable man,’ said Philippe, ‘and saved my life. I believe his intentions are true. He also said that in return he would do everything in his power to release you from this cell as soon as the circumstances are right.’

  ‘Tell him not to bother,’ said the mason, ‘I am comfortable with my lot.’

  ‘No man should accept imprisonment,’ said Philippe.

  ‘This is not so bad,’ said the old man. ‘I grow older by the day and would struggle to find such easy work in the towns. I am locked up only at night and am fed well. During the day I carry out the finer repairs on the Castellan’s keep. If I hadn’t called him a fat pig after too much ale one night, I suspect my quarters would be substantially finer.’

  ‘Are you saying you will not help him find this sword?’

  The mason fell silent again.

  ‘I will help him,’ he said eventually, ‘for if he seeks it for the right reasons, then somebody somewhere must be planning to resurrect a cause long overdue.’ He looked up at Philippe. ‘Listen carefully boy, I will keep it simple but I have a story to tell. Many years ago I was employed to build the walls of a Castle. Stone for the walls was taken from many quarries but there was a finer stone already available in a nearby church that had been long abandoned. The walls had long since fallen and we sent many carts to retrieve the dressed stone for the chapel in the new castle.’

  ‘While we were retrieving the stone, I saw a slab within the floor. The slab was etched with an Eagle grasping a lightning bolt. I had never seen such a thing and believing it may be a pit contain
ing hidden jewels, I am ashamed to say I quickly covered up the slab with earth so no other eyes would cast eyes upon it. A few days later, along with my son, I returned to lift the slab and found steps leading into a tomb. The tomb contained a stone sarcophagus and the Eagle emblem was also engraved upon the lid as well as words in a language I did not recognise. My son said they were Latin and I am ashamed to say that we robbed that tomb of its riches and did not work on the castle again.’

  ‘Did you become rich?’

  ‘For a while but alas, the money earned from the booty must have been cursed for my son drowned a few weeks later after getting drunk and falling in the river. I too suffered only heartache from the coins and spent them on ale and whores. Soon it was gone and I had to resurrect my skills as a mason. This is what led me here and I accept my fate for to steal from the dead is an unforgiveable sin.’

  ‘So did you sell the sword?’

  ‘I did not, for the sword is the one thing we left within the tomb and fearing we would be discovered, we fled without trying to undo the ties that bound it.’

  ‘So where is this place?’ asked Philippe.

  ‘It is exactly where you would expect to find the tomb of an Emperor,’ said the mason, ‘within the walls of a Roman fortress.’

  ‘In Rome itself?’

  ‘No. The castle walls I helped build were those of Caernarfon, one of Edward’s greatest fortresses. High on a nearby hill there lies the remains of a fortress far older than you or I can imagine and I have since learned that it was built by the Romans, though its origins lie far further back in the depths of time. In its day, the Roman fortress would have been something to behold, but alas it is now no more than a ruin. When the Romans left, a church was also built upon the site but this also has gone and provided much of the material for the castle walls. Tell your friend to seek the slab I spoke of in the northernmost corner of the ruins. I expect it is now overgrown but the tomb should still be there. Beneath the eagle, I believe he will find the Freedom Sword hanging above the body of Macsen.’