Medieval II - In Shadows of Kings Read online

‘Then you will find a warm welcome,’ said the shepherd.

  ‘Is there somewhere we can get a dry night’s sleep and perhaps a crust to eat?’

  ‘You will find a small tavern next to the bridge,’ said the shepherd, ‘they do not have rooms but their stable is dry.’

  ‘Many thanks,’ said Garyn and the men rode onward into the village. Within moments they found the tiny tavern with a rail outside. After tying up their horses they ducked under the low lintel and into a darkened room lit only by a fire and a few candles. At the far end two old men sat close to the hearth and an older woman stirred an enormous iron pot, a utensil blackened by generations of cooking on open fires. Sitting to one side was another man, a tankard of ale upon an upturned barrel before him.

  ‘Good day,’ said Garyn, ‘I am told this is a tavern.’

  ‘You have been told right,’ said the woman holding her back as she got to her feet. ‘You will find ale and Cawl for the weariest of travellers.’

  ‘We would be grateful for both,’ said Garyn, ‘but first would have our horses seen to.’

  ‘What coin do you have?’ asked the woman.

  Garyn withdrew his purse and after undoing the leather laces, poured out the last of his money.

  ‘Three copper coins,’ he said, ‘it is the last of my purse.’

  ‘Three coins hardly pays for fodder for your horses,’ said the woman, ‘how will you pay for your ale?’

  Garyn glanced at Tom who shook his head, indicating he had no money to add.

  ‘It seems we are at your mercy,’ said Garyn.

  ‘For the three coins I will give you Cawl and Ale,’ said the woman. ‘The horses can be let out into the field to graze. It is the best I can do.’

  ‘They have eaten nought but grass for days,’ said Garyn, ‘they need grain and hay.’

  ‘Then make your choice,’ said the woman, ‘for though I feel your plight, many such as you pass this way and if I gave free grain to every traveller suffering hard times, I would soon starve.’

  ‘I understand’ said Garyn, ‘think upon it no more.’

  ‘So do you want the Cawl?’

  ‘No,’ said Garyn, ‘we will have the grain for our horses. Their need is greater than ours.’ He handed over the three coins.

  ‘Take the animals around to the stable,’ said the woman, ‘and I will have them taken care of. Perhaps I can find a crust of bread to ease your hunger.’

  ‘That would be good,’ said Garyn and the two men turned to leave but a voice made them stop in their tracks.

  ‘Wait,’ said the man sat alone in the corner.

  They turned toward him but his face was hidden in the shadows.

  ‘Do you address us, Sir?’ asked Tom.

  ‘I do,’ said the man. ‘Woman, give these men a bowl of Cawl each and make sure your ladle is heavy with meat.’

  ‘You have our gratitude, Sir,’ said Garyn.

  ‘Any man who puts the needs of his horse before his own is worth a bowl of Cawl,’ he said, ‘see to your animals and return when you are done. The food will be waiting.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Garyn as they left the tavern. Half an hour later they returned. The horses were in the stable and had been rubbed down with dry straw before being given a leather bucket of oats, as well as a net of hay and a bucket of fresh water. Garyn looked around the room. The two old men were still there but the mysterious benefactor had gone.

  ‘Ah, you are back,’ said the woman. ‘Sit yourself down, I will bring your food.’

  ‘Where has he gone?’ asked Garyn.

  ‘Who knows the mind of Meirion,’ said the woman, ‘he comes and goes as he sees fit. It is no business of mine or indeed yours. Just be thankful he has left enough coins for your food, some ale and a dry blanket in the stable.’

  ‘Why would he do that? We are not known to him.’

  ‘Really?’ asked the woman. ‘What if I was to say your name is Garyn and your fellow there has a crippled hand from the fire trial.’

  ‘What witchcraft is this?’ asked Tom, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

  ‘No witchcraft,’ said one of the old men near the fire without looking up. ‘Word travels fast in these parts and many people pass this way.’

  ‘It must have been Goddeff or one of his men,’ said Garyn.

  ‘It matters not the name,’ said the man, ‘and you will need to learn not to drop names into conversations. Such habits get men killed.’

  The woman brought two wooden bowls over to an upturned barrel. Each was piled with meat and root vegetables in a thick juice.

  ‘Food fit for Kings,’ said Tom and drew his eating knife to spear the contents. The woman returned with two tankards of ale and a hard crusted loaf, still smeared with ashes from the village oven. For several minutes, nobody spoke as the two men pushed gravy soaked bread into their mouths, interspersed with chunks of meat and vegetables. Finally they drained the bowls before using the last of the bread to wipe out the gravy and swilling it down with mouthfuls of bitter tasting ale. Garyn wiped the froth from around his mouth and waited for Tom to finish before speaking.

  ‘Probably the best meal I have ever had,’ he said.

  ‘Hunger does that to a man,’ said Tom, using his knife to pick meat from between his teeth.

  One of the old men got up and walked over to them at their makeshift table.

  ‘Can I join you?’ he asked.

  ‘Be our guest,’ said Garyn.

  ‘Woman, more ale,’ said the old man and within a minute, the old woman brought a jug to replenish the tankards.

  Garyn nodded in gratitude and lifted the tankard, draining half the contents before placing it down.

  ‘So,’ said the man, resting his own drink, ‘you are from Brycheniog.’

  ‘We are,’ said Garyn.

  ‘And you seek service in the army of Llewellyn?’

  ‘Whoever it was who gave you the information was well informed,’ said Garyn. ‘What else do you know of us?’

  ‘Not much,’ said the man, ‘I know you upset an English Lord and fled the stocks, I also know that your friend here suffered trial by fire but ran to escape justice. That probably makes you outlaws.’

  ‘We are no outlaws,’ said Tom.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said the man, ‘but if that’s all I have to go on, you would forgive me for thinking otherwise.’

  ‘You do not know the details,’ said Garyn.

  ‘I don’t,’ said the man, ‘so why don’t you fill in the gaps.’

  ‘Why would we do that?’ asked Tom, ‘we are grateful for the ale but I see no need to tell a stranger our business.’

  ‘I’ll tell you why,’ said the old man, ‘because I can give you direct access to Llewellyn. Now start talking.’

  ----

  A hundred miles south, a group of four horsemen gathered outside of the abbey in Brycheniog. Amongst their number was Sir Gibson of Glamorgan, an ageing Knight whose tournament days were behind him but though his face was wrinkled with age, he was still held in high esteem around the circuit for contests won and battles fought. They waited patiently until finally the man they had been expecting walked out of the abbey gates, Gerald of Essex.

  ‘Well met,’ said Gerald, ‘as you know, a few weeks ago, two men escaped the authority of this manor and rode northward. One is charged as an accomplice to a cold blooded murder whilst the other has escaped a legal punishment passed down by his betters. By doing so they have placed themselves outside of the law of our land and each now has a price on his head. As we speak, they probably think they have escaped their punishment but I can assure you they have not. You men are tasked with pursuing these brigands wherever they may flee and take them back into custody. Bring them back here to hang and you will be handsomely rewarded by the Abbot of this town, a God fearing man who values honesty amongst the best virtues of Christianity. If you cannot take them alive, then their heads will suffice as evidence and you will collect half the bounty.’

  One
of the men spoke up.

  ‘Sire, it is a massive country and we are but four men. With respect, they could be anywhere.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Gerald, ‘however, you will be furnished with letters for every church from here to Conwy. They will pass the message to their congregations and the word will soon spread. Eventually the outlaws will have no place to hide.’

  ‘But even if we find them, they are unlikely to be handed over. The northerners hate the men of the South when they interfere with their business.’

  ‘We anticipate this,’ said Gerald, ‘so I have here a scroll under the seal of the crown of England, demanding any man hands over the outlaws. Present this to any offering succour on pain of death.’

  ‘Sire,’ said Sir Gibson, ‘I understand they may be seeking to join forces with Llewellyn. If this proves to be true then our opportunities will be limited.’

  ‘Any nobleman worth his salt will recognise a royal seal, even if it goes against their better judgement. Why risk the ire of a King for the lives of two commoners?’

  ‘This is Llewellyn we are talking about,’ said Sir Gibson. ‘Since when does the Welsh Prince bend his knee at the sight of a wax seal?’

  ‘If he doesn’t then it will add to the list of crimes against the crown he will one day answer for, however, I accept this doesn’t help you so we have trickery on our side. This man here fought alongside the one called Garyn in the holy-land. He is trusted by the blacksmith and when you find him, as you will, he will lure him to a place where he can be overwhelmed.’

  ‘Why are these men so important that they demand this level of attention?’ asked Gibson.

  ‘Let’s just say there is honour at stake and the situation has become personal,’ answered Gerald.

  ‘So be it,’ said Gibson. ‘If there is nothing else, we will be on our way.’

  ‘Make haste, Gibson,’ said Gerald, ‘and when you bring them back, we will feast in your name, as we did in days gone by.’

  ‘A distant memory,’ said Gibson.

  ‘Yet easily relived,’ replied Gerald as he turned to walk away.

  ‘And if we fail?’

  Gerald paused but did not turn around. Instead he spoke just loud enough for the riders to hear and understand his manner.

  ‘Do not fail,’ he said quietly, ‘now be gone.’

  The riders turned their horses and rode away from the abbey as Gerald stepped inside the walls. Father Williams waited for him having listened to the meeting through the wooden gate.

  ‘Do you think they will succeed?’

  ‘I do,’ said Gerald, ‘Gibson may be old but he is a formidable Knight. At least, he was. Since the death of his wife he has withered as an apple in autumn and he yearns for one more quest before he dies. I have granted him the opportunity and he will move mountains to once more have his name lauded.’

  ‘I see you have included the Squire from the estate. I have had dealings with him in the past and know he was once a comrade of the man we seek. Is this a wise move?’

  ‘He was a Squire to Cadwallader,’ said Gerald. ‘I learned about him from Elisabeth. Apparently he committed some indiscretion in the holy-land and missed out on Knighthood. She gave him a place back amongst the squires on the understanding that if her husband absolved him of blame on his return, he could once more take up the code. As we are aware, that cannot now happen as Cadwallader is dead so he had no place to go. When I found out he was once a comrade of the blacksmith I grasped the opportunity. He helps us catch his friend and in return I will become his sponsor and see to it that Longshanks himself bestows Knighthood upon him.’

  ‘You can do that?’

  Gerald shrugged.

  ‘It matters not,’ he said, ‘I have no intention of bestowing Knighthood on any man who defied an order from his betters.’

  ‘But he will surely proclaim that Gerald of Essex goes back on his word.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Gerald, ‘but luckily there is another amongst them who has the morals of a rat and will ensure he doesn’t return to besmirch my name.’

  ‘And this man can be trusted?’

  ‘He can and has carried out several such acts on my behalf in the past.’

  ‘You never cease to amaze me,’ said Father Williams, ‘the depths of your deceit and lack of morality are surely unequalled across this Kingdom.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Gerald, ‘I stand before a man who surpasses me in all things corrupt. Now, let’s go back inside, I know you still have that bitch from Caerleon somewhere and I would once more sample her wares.’

  Father Williams shook his head yet laughed at the demand.

  ‘You are an evil man, Gerald,’ he said, ‘yet I find your company agreeable.’

  ‘That’s because we are cut from the same cloth,’ said Gerald, ‘now lead the way.’

  ----

  As the riders reached the road out of Brycheniog, Sir Gibson called a halt and turned his horse to face the others.

  ‘Fellow riders,’ he said, ‘before we travel one league further I suggest we take a moment to learn of each other. I am Sir Gibson of Glamorgan. Introduce yourselves I pray so our journey is easier.

  ‘I am Brother Maynard,’ said the Monk amongst them, ‘and am here to protect your souls from the devil’s temptation. In addition I carry the message for the houses of God proclaiming the guilt of the outlaws.’

  ‘And as the eyes of the Abbot,’ sneered one of the men.

  ‘That as well,’ said the Monk.

  ‘And you are?’ asked the Knight turning to the smaller man.

  ‘I am known as Buckler,’ said the man, ‘and am a representative of Gerald himself.’

  ‘And you?’ asked the Knight turning to the last man.

  ‘I am Dafydd,’ came the answer, ‘and hail from the Estate of Cadwallader.’

  ‘You mean the estate of Gerald,’ corrected Buckler.

  ‘Of course,’ said Dafydd, ‘I stand corrected. Forgive me, the familiarity and allegiance of a lifetime is not easy to forget overnight.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you would do well to remember your new master.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dafydd.

  ‘Tell me, Dafydd,’ said Sir Gibson, ‘you are equipped in the manner of a Squire and I wonder why Gerald would send a man of inexperience on such a quest.’

  ‘My training is complete, Sire,’ said Dafydd, ‘and I only need a sponsor to bequeath my title. When Cadwallader died I was left without route to Knighthood but Gerald has picked up that role. However, he demands I prove myself on this task as evidence of competence. Should we succeed, he promises he will arrange the honour from Edward himself.’

  ‘I understand you know our quarry?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And are you a comrade of his?’

  ‘I rode alongside him on Crusade but have not shared conversation for more than two years.’

  ‘And you are comfortable in your role?’

  ‘Sir Gibson,’ said Dafydd, ‘as long as I can remember I have craved the honour of Knighthood and worked hard to achieve the dream. I was first amongst my peers and rode on Crusade alongside Cadwallader himself. While there I allowed myself to be distracted from my quest for moments only, yet that lapse cost me my dream. I have learned my lesson and am now focussed completely. No more will I take my eyes off a quest accepted and I am committed to bringing this to a successful conclusion, whatever that may be.’

  ‘Even unto the death of your friend?’

  ‘If necessary,’ said Dafydd.

  ‘Then so be it,’ said Gibson. ‘Gentlemen, we have a hard ride before us and know not how long this quest may take. It could be weeks, it could be years but we will not return until it is fulfilled or we lay dead. This is my oath. Make no mistake, I lead this group and will suffer neither fool nor coward. Cross me, and you will feel my wrath and let not my age confuse you, I could easily defeat any one of you on equal terms. Now, take a moment to tighten your straps for there will be little rest. I wi
ll not slow the pace nor wait for the lost. So, if there are no more questions, our quest starts here.’

  ----

  In the tavern of Mynydd-Du, Garyn and Thomas Thatcher told their story to the old man. When they were done he sat back and sipped on his ale as he stared at the two men before him.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what makes you think Llewellyn will allow southerners into his ranks?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’

  ‘It is well known the people of the South are inclined to follow the English crown. Indeed, many of the Lords have pledged their allegiance to Longshanks, even though he has yet to return from Crusade. You may be spies or worse still, assassins.’

  ‘I have no way of proving otherwise,’ said Garyn, ‘except my word. I am an outcast from my village and have left the woman I love to save her from persecution. I can offer no evidence except for my blade against Llewellyn’s enemies and in that, I am willing to prove my loyalty.’

  ‘And you?’ asked the man turning to Tom.

  ‘I doubt my sword arm is of much use,’ said Tom lifting his clawed hand, ‘but I’m sure there are other tasks that need attending.’

  The man nodded before retrieving a leather purse from within his tunic. He placed seven coins on the table and looked up at them.

  ‘In the morning, there will be a column passing through heading for Conwy. I will make arrangements for you to join them. The first six coins will get you food and drink for three days.’

  Garyn picked up the coins and looked at the seventh. It had the head of a Prince on one side and Llewellyn’s coat of arms on the reverse.

  ‘And this one?’

  ‘On route to Conwy you will travel through a pass guarded by Dolwyddelan Castle. Present it to any guard at the gates and it will get you audience with the Sergeant at arms.’

  ‘You are suggesting I try to pay a bribe to a soldier of Llewellyn. Surely my head would be forfeit.’

  ‘That coin will buy neither ale nor bread. It has no value to anyone except to send a message to Llewellyn that the bearer has been recruited by a trusted man. So, do you want it or not?’

  Garyn stared for a moment before placing the coin within his purse.

  ‘I thought so,’ said the man. ‘Now, I suggest you finish your ale and join your horses in the stable. The column rides at dawn.’