Medieval III - Sword of Liberty Page 13

‘Is there any more?’ asked Philippe.

  ‘That is all I know,’ said the mason. ‘Now, you should be gone for I hear the guard approaching with my evening meal. Tell your master that I wish him well on his crusade and should the sword deliver what is believed, then I will go to my grave a happy man.’

  Philippe paused before removing a long length of thin rope from his pack. He secured one end to one of the bars before releasing the rope already around his waist.

  ‘Is there anything we can do for you?’ asked Philippe.

  ‘Yes there is,’ said the mason, ‘when you get a chance, light a candle in a church somewhere and pray for the soul of an old man.’

  ‘I will do that,’ said Philippe, ‘fare ye well, mason.’ Without another word he lowered himself back over the edge and walked backwards down the castle wall, using the rope to support his weight. The mason peered out and when the rope went slack, he undid the knot and let it fall.

  ‘Fare well yourself, boy,’ he said quietly, ‘and whoever this Garyn may be, let God strengthen his arm.’

  ----

  ‘There he is,’ said Garyn, getting to his feet as the boy ran through the rain toward him.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Derwyn as the boy reached them. ‘Do you have the location?

  Philippe nodded but Garyn could see he was shivering violently.

  ‘Where is it?’ demanded Derwyn

  ‘Enough,’ said Garyn, throwing his oiled cape around the boy’s shoulders. ‘All will be revealed but first we will get to a place of warmth and safety, Come, we will go back to the sanctuary.’

  ----

  An hour later, the two men and Philippe sat near a roaring fire. The Monks had retired for the night but Elias let them in and now stood guard against any interruption. Philippe was wrapped in a warm sheepskin and supped on a tankard of hot ale.

  Finally he had warmed up enough to talk and the men sat silently as they listened to the mason’s tale. When he had finished, Garyn looked at his friend in silence.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘A Roman fortress that no longer exists,’ said Derwyn, ‘right next to an English castle. This quest gets harder and harder. What’s more we don’t even know if his tale is true.’

  ‘He seemed an honest man,’ said Philippe, ‘and I for one believe him.’

  ‘He is a grave robber,’ said Derwyn, ‘that doesn’t seem like an honest man to me.’

  ‘He seeks forgiveness and asks that we pray for him.’

  ‘Did he say the name of this fortress?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘The name escaped him but he was adamant it exists.’

  ‘Then we should make ready to go,’ said Garyn.

  ‘Where to?’ asked Derwyn.

  ‘Caernarfon,’ said Garyn.

  ‘Caernarfon is a walled town built and populated by the English,’ said Derwyn. ‘On top of that it is protected by a castle second only to Conway in its strategic location and strength of its fortifications. It is said it holds a garrison of hundreds.’

  ‘I have no interest in the castle nor the town,’ said Garyn, ‘only the location of this Roman tomb.’

  ‘If it even exists,’ said Derwyn.

  ‘Well, there is only one way to find out,’ said Garyn, ‘and that is to go there. Tell our men to return to the hide and await instructions. Tomorrow we travel alone.’

  ----

  Fermbaud curled up in a foetal position, hidden in the depths of the bracken. For days he had managed to avoid the riders sent after him by Cynan and though he knew he was near the border between Wales and England, he was exhausted, weakened by fatigue, hunger and fear. His clothes were saturated from the constant rain and he shivered uncontrollably, not only from the cold but the fear of the fate awaiting him at the hands of Cynan’s soldiers.

  Despite his state, his eyelids dropped and he subconsciously welcomed the brief respite sleep would bring, even if only for a few seconds but he was jolted wide awake at the sound of horses passing nearby. He pushed himself further beneath the bracken and listened as the latest patrol passed his position, Fermbaud was desperate to remain undiscovered for though his situation was miserable, he knew the following day would see him across the border and in the safety of an English village. A voice carried through the gloom.

  ‘Sire, the trail leads there.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ came the reply.

  ‘The trail is as clear as a wayside sign, our quarry lies less than an arrow’s shot from your horse.’

  ‘Then flush him out,’ said the first voice. ‘I tire of this game.’

  In the bracken, Fermbaud was distraught. His position was compromised and he faced discovery within moments. His heart demanded he stand and fight but his exhausted body could not deliver so Nicholas Fermbaud, Knight of Edward and Castellan of Bristol Castle, curled up in a tighter ball, hoping against hope they passed him by.

  Minutes passed and though the sounds of booted footsteps came near, none seemed to get close to the terrified man. Eventually they died away but just as Fermbaud began to hope he had escaped discovery yet again, he felt the gentle press of cold steel upon his neck.

  ‘Well, well’ said a muffled voice, ‘what do we have here?’

  Fermbaud, froze, his face pressed into the ground as he waited the thrust that would end his life.

  ‘Mercy,’ he whispered, ‘grant me life and I will make you and your men rich beyond your dreams.’

  ‘We have no use for money,’ said the voice, ‘what else can you offer?’

  ‘Anything,’ gasped Fermbaud, sensing interest in the man’s tone, ‘land, women, you name it and it can be yours within days, all I ask is that you spare my life and return me to England.’

  ‘Do you give your word as a Knight?’ asked the voice.

  ‘I swear on my honour.’

  For a few seconds there was silence before the blade was withdrawn and Fermbaud heard the weapon being sheathed.

  ‘Then stand up, Fermbaud,’ said the voice ‘and get yourself mounted. We are on the way to Bristol as we speak and look forward to claim this bounty you speak of.’

  Fermbaud scrambled to his feet and turned to face his captor. For a few seconds his mind struggled to comprehend the situation but suddenly his woes fell away and he gasped in relief as he recognised the man before him.

  ‘Orland,’ he cried, ‘I thought you were one of Cynan’s men.’

  ‘A mere jest at your expense,’ said Orland, ‘though I will not let you forget your pledge.’

  ‘Women and ale I will gladly give,’ said Fermbaud ‘whether gleaned by fair means or foul. I thought you were surely dead?’

  ‘We came close to conflict several times,’ said Orland ‘but in such circumstances, discretion won the day and we laid low until the Welsh army moved on. We followed your trail for days but always it was too dangerous to move in because of the enemy searchers. Still, we are here now and you are alive, that is what matters.’

  ‘You have my gratitude,’ said Fermbaud.

  ‘Right, let’s get you a dry cloak and some food. The area is clear of Welshmen but we can’t be sure so daren’t risk the road tonight. We will rest nearby and at dawn we will ride as fast as we are able to the border. With a bit of luck we can be in Bristol within two days.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Fermbaud, ‘I can’t wait to get away from this cursed place. The luxury of the castle will be a welcome sight after these past few weeks.’

  ‘I seek no luxury, Fermbaud,’ said Orland ‘only to brief Longshanks about the rekindled threat from the Welsh.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Fermbaud, ‘that as well.’

  ‘Then come,’ said Orland, ‘our camp is nearby.’

  ----

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Island of Ynys Mon

  Madog was staring through an upper window of his Manor when Geraint and Tarian arrived. Together they were shown in by a servant and stood at the door awaiting the Prince’s attention.


  ‘Sire, we were summoned,’ said Geraint eventually.

  ‘You were,’ said Madog, turning around, ‘I have heard news that Cynan Ap Maredudd has embarked upon a campaign in the south.’

  Geraint glanced at Tarian.

  ‘It is true, Sire, Cynan took it upon himself to exact retribution on the column that rode from Bristol.’

  ‘On, whose orders?’ asked Madog, ‘did we not agree that the offensive would start once we rode under a common banner?’

  ‘It was discussed, Sire though Cynan is a law unto himself and oft acts on the spur of the moment.’

  ‘He threatens this whole thing with his impatience,’ said Madog, ‘and will fragment the alliance of the Welsh Lords.’

  ‘Perhaps, not,’ said Tarian, ‘perhaps there is another goal within his aim.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Madog.

  ‘Sire, we well know he has aspirations to the crown himself and whilst he has not declared against you, his continual preying upon the forces of Edward could rally the southern Lords behind him and strengthen his claim.’

  ‘So he garners support while I sit here and wait for an artefact that may not even exist.’

  ‘It is the best way to unite Wales, Sire and if the sword is found will instantly unite everyone behind you.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but if it turns out to be a fool’s errand then this man will have a far stronger support base than I.’

  ‘You have the lineage, Sire,’ said Geraint.

  ‘What is lineage without the support of the common people?’ answered Madog. ‘Geraint, I was ignorant of all this until you saw fit to enlighten me. In hindsight, it may have been better if I had remained so but that time has long passed. We are where we are and every day the fire within me grows, as does the injustice inflicted on our people. I will not just sit back and wait while history books are written in my absence. Are the men ready?’

  ‘For what, Sire?’

  ‘For War,’ said Madog. ‘I am no longer willing to wait and will take the offensive to Edward.’

  ‘Sire, in a few more weeks, the King will have sailed for France and victory will be assured. Even without the sword, at the very least you will be in a far stronger position to bargain with him when he returns.’

  ‘There will be no waiting,’ said Madog, ‘and there will be no bargaining. There will be retribution, there will be conflict and ultimately there will be freedom. This Cynan Ap Maredudd may have set himself up as champion of the people but Wales will not be denied unity and I will not be denied my birth right. In two days we will send a message across the country that will proclaim the real leader of this campaign and at the same time, send shivers of fear down the backbone of Longshanks himself.’

  ‘What do you intend to do?’ asked Tarian.

  ‘What I intend to do, Tarian, is that which has long been thought impossible. I intend to break the ring of steel.’

  Tarian and Geraint fell silent as the implications sunk in. Geraint was the first to speak.

  ‘Sire, that can’t be done,’ he said quietly, ‘Edward’s castles are impregnable and we do not have the strength to besiege them.’

  ‘We may not have many siege engines,’ said Madog, ‘or the greatest armies to immediate hand but what we do have is heart and a belief born of frustration garnered by generations of servitude to a false King. Fret not, Geraint, I have not sat back and spent my days in idle chatter these past few months but have explored all options for when this day comes. I have made my plans and I swear by Almighty God that this ring of steel will be broken.’

  ‘But, Sire, even the greatest of hearts will be shattered upon the masonry of Edward’s walls. How can we possibly hope to succeed, even against the smaller fortresses?’

  ‘We will succeed with guile and cunning,’ said Madog, ‘combined with a conviction of right and God’s will but dismiss this talk of smaller fortresses, the message sent needs to be clear. We own these lands, they are ours by right of birth, ours by right of justice and ours by God’s will. This King may build his false walls,’ he continued, ‘but to a man who seeks freedom they are little more than a hindrance. Two days from now my banner will fly above a castle of Edward and by doing so, we will shatter this so called ring of steel wide apart.’

  ‘Which castle, Sire?’ asked Tarian.

  ‘The greatest of them all, Tarian,’ said Madog, ‘tomorrow we take Caernarfon.’

  ----

  ‘He has gone mad,’ said Geraint after Madog had left the room to collect his briefing documents. ‘There is no way these men can take a fortified manor house, let alone a castle. The man has lost his mind.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Tarian, ‘I think he may just have found it.’

  Geraint stared at his friend.

  ‘How can you say this?’

  Tarian stared back.

  ‘Geraint, you have become too close to the Prince over the years and still see the boy within him. I have not shared this closeness and see a young, intelligent man hungry for adventure and justice. Combine these with a keen mind and experience and you have the makings of a great leader.’

  ‘Therein lies the problem, experience he has none.’

  ‘Then this is something we shall bring to the table. Give the boy his head and stay close to the decision making. If he gives sound advice, as I suspect he will then we will just flank him as a deer hound does a stag, influencing his direction.’

  ‘And if his choices are foolhardy?’

  ‘Then alas we will do what the deer hound is also good at, we will bring him down.’

  Geraint stared but eventually nodded in agreement.

  ‘And what about the men?’

  ‘The detail will take care of itself. There are enough Sergeants at arms to ensure the men are well drilled. The boy’s inexperience may indeed be a boon for he is not weighed down by tradition learned from old soldiers.’

  Geraint sighed.

  ‘I hope you are right, Tarian for this has the makings of a huge disaster.’

  ‘It also has the makings of a huge victory,’ said Tarian. ‘Anyway, the Prince returns, let us see what these plans hold.’

  Madog unfolded a map on the table and placed a glazed figurine on each corner to hold it down.

  ‘These are floor plans,’ said Tarian. ‘Never have I seen such detail.’

  ‘They are,’ said Madog, ‘and show the layout of Caernarfon Castle itself. They have been drawn up over many months.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘The man’s name matters not and he would have me keep it in confidence. It is enough that you know that many Welshmen work at the castle in positions of servitude. Cooks, grooms, maids and servants earn their bread within its walls and between them know it better than any man.’

  ‘But surely such information would be kept in the strictest confidence?’

  ‘It is, but each person was convinced to share the little they knew and over the months, a picture emerged.’ He looked down at the drawing. ‘Look closely he said and not only is every corridor and staircase shown but those arrow slits constantly manned are clearly identified in red.’

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Geraint pointing at a list of numbers.

  ‘That is the garrison roll call,’ said Madog. ‘As we speak, the castle is manned by no more than eighty men commanded by a single Knight.’

  Tarian stared at Geraint, the excitement evident in his face before turning to gaze at Madog.

  ‘And you are sure of this?’

  ‘Nobody knows a castle’s numbers better than the man who feeds them.’

  ‘A cook?’

  ‘My own cook’s brother has served in Caernarfon for many years and could probably name every remaining soldier in the garrison. The majority of the men were withdrawn to join Edward’s army of campaign to France.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Geraint, ‘that maybe a fact but a garrison half that number could hold out for months behind those walls. The Castle is defended on three sides by the sea and th
e fourth is protected by a loyal town behind its own strong fortifications. Even if we fought our way through, without siege engines we would never get over the walls.’

  ‘I have no intention of getting over the walls, Geraint,’ said Madog, ‘nor indeed under them. I intend to go through them.’ As both of the older men stared in silence, Madog pointed again at the map. ‘Look at the outer wall adjacent to the town,’ he said, ‘tell me what you see.’

  ‘The same thick walls,’ said Geraint.

  ‘Wait,’ said Tarian, ‘looking closer, there is a difference. This small part has not been inked in, the walls are represented with a charcoal line only.’

  ‘You have a good eye for one so old,’ laughed Madog. ‘Of course you are correct and the reason they are not inked in is that they are yet to be built.’

  Geraint’s head snapped upward.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, ‘Caernarfon’s walls are complete.’

  ‘Apparently not,’ said Madog, ‘there is yet a piece of wall less than fifty paces wide, defended by no more than a palisade and a few crossbow men. Building on the main walls paused a few years ago when the threat was deemed to have diminished. That perceived safety combined with the security that a loyal walled town affords meant that much needed money could be diverted to maintain Edward’s campaigns against the Scots in the north.’

  ‘Edward is not a man to forget such things,’ said Tarian, ‘and ensures his defences are sound.’

  ‘Perhaps so but wars are costly. Why waste money on a castle in a conquered land when his bowmen are idle for lack of arrows in the north. He always intended for it to be completed but as yet has not seen it as a priority. I suggest that shortness of sight will soon change but by the time he opens the coffers, there will be a new Castellan in place, me.’

  Their attention turned again to the map.

  ‘So, gentlemen,’ continued Madog, ‘this palisade is no taller than a man upon another’s shoulders. Am I to expect that you are able to take such a weak defence?’

  ‘The Palisade will pose no problem,’ said Geraint, ‘but even though the garrison is only eighty souls, we will need thrice that to ensure victory over trained men. How will we get several hundred men close enough to reach it without drawing the attention of the guards?’