Queen Sacrifice Read online

  Cledwin was a fastidious man and had personally overseen the refinements to his home at St Davids. The farms had all been surrounded with fences or hedges and gates to keep the livestock safe. Nearly all the original wooden buildings had been replaced with local stone with roofs of slate. He was fortunate in that Roman invaders had long ago shown the benefits of the irrigation and drainage systems he had built to serve his lands. He was particularly proud of his bath, which had been made for him by the town blacksmith. As he explored the Du encampment he realised that the Gwyn now lived a very different life in the south.

  He was disappointed to find that most of the men in the camp knew or cared little of the war. Cledwin considered returning home but realised that it would only be a matter of time before he found out something of value, so he paid a silver coin for the use of one of the empty huts. It contained little more than a rickety bed and it was here he waited for news of the Du, passing the time by eavesdropping on the people coming and going through the camp and slowly building a picture of their lives.

  Cledwin’s patience was rewarded when a noisy group of young warriors arrived and soon began drinking in what passed for a tavern in the camp. He bought a mug of rough beer and sat listening to their bragging, quickly learning that the blond haired man at the centre of the group was their leader, called Tristan. It was easy to overhear that they were from the castle at Flint as they argued about the merits of returning back or joining a warlord. Cledwin was stunned to hear that the warlord was already on his way, with the best of the Du warriors, to find and kill King Gwayne.

  *

  As Lord Llewelyn and his men approached the boundary with the lands of the Gwyn he said silent thanks to the gods that his illness had not returned. When he first became ill those around him had readily accepted his explanation that he suffered from a fever, secretly Llewelyn feared it was something much worse. He had been in constant pain and the combination of poor appetite and loss of sleep weakened him. He had taken potions made from willow bark and boiled valerian roots which eased the pain a little, but at one time he could barely walk without the aid of a stick.

  His solution had been to carry a heavy wooden fighting staff to support him during his recovery. Llewelyn found that exercises with the staff helped his muscles regain their strength and he quickly became skilled at swinging the heavy staff in the complicated figure of eight that could be both defensive and an attacking technique. At nearly eight feet long Llewelyn’s fighting staff it was a formidable weapon, allowing him to stay well out of range of any sword thrust. His servant Bryn doubled as the blacksmith at the hill fort and had fashioned a savagely sharp metal point, that was now fixed to one end, so that when on horseback the warlord could use the staff underarm, like a lance. He carried this staff with him now, in preference to a sword or spear, as in practice he had found that the point could easily pierce all but the best chain mail armour.

  Lord Llewelyn and his men travelled under the cover of dusk and through the night, finding good hiding places to sleep during the daylight hours. This was becoming increasingly difficult as they moved deeper into the land of the Gwyn. Llewelyn wanted to have the advantage of surprise but was sure that word of their presence would travel quickly through the countryside if they were seen. He knew there was a sizeable garrison in the west, so stealth was an essential part of his plan to establish a safe base from which his men could make their raids.

  They had been living off the land for days. The warriors knew how to find water from the clear springs in the hills but although they had seen plenty of the wild rabbits which were a legacy of the Roman occupation, they had been unlucky with the snares they set. Their hunger overcame their caution when they discovered a fat sheep, which they slaughtered and roasted over a blazing fire. Llewelyn knew this was a risk but his men had to eat and they had long since exhausted the supplies they carried from the north.

  King Gethin had only given Lord Llewelyn and his men general orders, leaving the moment of attack to the judgement of his warlords, but they knew what was expected of them. The soldiers of the Gwyn were to be prevented from crossing the wilderness at any cost. When the moment was right he would unleash the army waiting at the hill fort. He was to do whatever it took.

  *

  Queen Elvina returned to Aberteifi, a quiet fishing village on the banks of the River Teifi by the western coast, where she was hoping to meet Sir Gwynfor. She was disappointed to find he was not there and there was no message for her. As she had no way to contact him, all Elvina could do was take Bethan into her confidence and explain the reason for them staying. Bethan quickly grasped the situation and soon found them rooms in a comfortable slate roofed farmhouse overlooking the sea. The guards kept constant watch over the queen, as there were rumoured sightings of Du warriors in the hills. There was also a risk of invaders from the sea, so guards were posted to keep a lookout from the high cliffs overlooking the shoreline.

  They were close to St Davids, so Elvina sent one of her guards to summon Bishop Cledwin to see her. She was curious to know if the silver crucifix was the same one she had seen being worn by the bishop, and if so, how the warrior had come by it. The guard was an intelligent man and greatly admired the queen. He easily found the bishop’s well appointed home and knocked on the door, which was answered by Anwen, the bishop’s housekeeper.

  ‘I am on a mission for Queen Elvina,’ explained the guard. ‘I have an important message for Bishop Cledwin.’

  Anwen looked at the guard, her welcoming smile turning to a look of concern. ‘I am afraid he has been away for nearly a week now. I don’t know when he will return.’

  The guard was disappointed, as he did not want to fail the queen at this simple task. ‘Where will I find him, please?’

  ‘He was going to check the northern boundary of the property.’ She was curious now. ‘Can you tell me why the queen wants to see him? I am the bishop’s housekeeper so I may be able to help you.’

  The guard hesitated, then took the silver crucifix from his pocket. ‘Do you know if this belongs to the bishop?’

  Anwen took the crucifix and recognised the distinctive Celtic engraving immediately. ‘It does, how did you come by it?’ There was a sudden sadness in her voice.

  ‘I had best come in,’ said the guard. ‘This is a private matter of concern to the queen.’

  Anwen showed him to the Bishop’s study, her mind running through the possibilities, none of which were good.

  ‘I regret to tell you this was found on a newly dug grave, close to our border with the north.’

  Anwen tried her best to remain composed but tears formed in her eyes. ‘I tried to persuade him to stay here, that it was too dangerous to travel in the wilderness alone at his age. Do you think he was robbed and killed?’

  The guard felt pity for the woman. She had clearly been fond of the bishop. ‘The grave was marked by an old sword. One of the other guards said it was the sword of a warrior of the Gwyn.’

  Anwen gasped. ‘Elfred!’

  The guard looked confused.

  ‘Bishop Cledwin gave an old Gwyn sword to a soldier from our farm who was on his way to watch for the Du.’ She looked again at the silver crucifix held tightly in her hand. ‘I can’t be sure but he may have given this to him, it was the sort of thing the bishop would do.’

  ‘His name was Elfred?’

  ‘He was a good man,’ Anwen felt relief that the bishop was probably alive but great sadness at the death of the young farmer. She had known him all his life.

  Anwen looked at him with sad brown eyes. ‘You said you are on a mission for the queen. What interest does the queen have in this?

  ‘We were escorting the queen when we found the man who killed this Elfred. It was a warrior of the Du.’

  ‘I need your help to find Bishop Cledwin, he has to be told.’

  *

  Sir Gwynfor was angry to be roused from his sleep but decided to check the condition of the horses for himself. Gwynfor had grown up
around horses and knew that colic could be fatal. He had lost some of his best horses to colic in the past and although walking them was known to help relieve the pain, he didn’t want to risk them. He realised he would have to delay his meeting with the queen while the horses recovered, and consoled himself with the knowledge that she would wait for him, if it was possible for her to do so.

  Several of his best white horses had been showing the signs of the colic, pawing the ground and kicking, so Gwynfor suspected the problem was with their feed or water. At the back of his mind he worried that he had overdone their training. Colic was a fact of life but could be brought on by overworking horses too quickly. He carefully picked his way through the tents of his sleeping men in the darkness, following the groom who had woken him. Something was wrong with the horses but not what he expected. They were restless and excited, something had spooked them.

  Gwynfor called for two men to follow him and sent another to fetch his sword. They began a cautious patrol of the perimeter of the camp. It was a cold and moonless night and even once his eyes became accustomed to the dark, Sir Gwynfor strained to see into the trees that encircled the clearing they had chosen for the camp. The threat of ambush by the Du had been on all of their minds as they had pressed closer to the wilderness and many of the men had seen what the Du were capable of. They took no prisoners.

  He was just cursing himself for being as jumpy as his horses when the Du attacked. The man next to him yelled as a spear hit him squarely in the chest. Several burning arrows flashed into the camp, setting fire to the makeshift cotton tents where men were sleeping. One of Sir Gwynfor’s most trusted riders screamed in sudden agony as another well aimed spear plunged deep into his back. There was no clue to where the Du were firing from, as the arrows and spears seemed to be coming from all around them.

  Sir Gwynfor shouted for the man he had sent to retrieve his longsword but the whole camp was in panic, all the hours of training forgotten in an instant. He dashed to his tent and grabbed his sword, throwing the scabbard to one side. Gwynfor hesitated for a moment, not sure what to do, how to fight an enemy they couldn’t see. The Du had yet to even show themselves but had managed to create chaos amongst his men. Someone shouted for help and he realised that one of the burning arrows had set fire to the hay and straw for the horses that were now violently thrashing at their tethers to escape the flames. He ran to them and slashed through the leather straps with the sharp blade of his sword. One of the horses reared up in alarm and kicked him hard in the head before bolting into the trees.

  As he watched them go he saw sinister dark shapes lit momentarily by the flames. Du warriors, on horses as black as the night, using the cover of darkness to kill and maim as they pleased. A sudden memory came to him. As a boy he had nightmares, terrified by Archbishop Renfrew’s description of purgatory. The peaceful night had turned into a living hell. Warm blood began flowing down his face from the wound where he had been kicked by the horse and he felt a sudden surge of anger at the raiders. This was his land.

  ‘To me!’ Gwynfor shouted at the top of his voice. Heads turned in his direction and the men looked alarmed to see him wounded but glad of his leadership. ‘Find whatever weapons you can and form a circle,’ he yelled, ‘We need to hold our ground.’

  Men began joining him in the clearing, standing with swords and bows ready. Smoke from the fires drifted across the camp and stung their eyes, making it even harder to see the charge when it came. Du warriors appeared out of the night, throwing more deadly spears as they galloped. Another of Gwynfor’s men went down with a loud yell, the force of the spear throw knocking him from his feet. For a moment it looked as if the warriors would ride right over the soldiers of the Gwyn, then they turned at the last moment and slashed down with viciously sharp swords.

  Sir Gwynfor swung his longsword in a practised arc and cut the right arm from the closest of the riders, then turned and slashed the neck of another’s black horse, which collapsed to the ground, trapping its rider by his leg. Gwynfor didn’t hesitate and sliced the helpless fallen rider’s head from his body. Even his own men were shocked for a moment by the knight’s brutality, then they began to show the Du what the months of training had achieved. Gwynfor’s archers now had targets they could see and wasted no time, launching a salvo of deadly arrows that brought down another two riders. The swordsmen hacked and sliced at their enemy, slowly turning the tide of the battle and Gwynfor realised that he had been lucky. This was a small raiding party but many men had been left dead or dying. He had allowed them to be caught unprepared and made a mental note to make sure it would not happen again.

  Lord Llewelyn held back from the first wave of the attack but now urged his old horse into a gallop and lowered his wooden staff with its deadly sharpened iron tip into position. He charged the Gwyn soldiers, ignoring the arrows that zipped past as he chose his target, the knight wearing the white cape, spattered with the blood of warriors of the Du. Their eyes met and there was a silent understanding that cut through the noise and chaos of the fighting. One of them was about to die.

  Sir Gwynfor felt unexpected admiration for the bravery of the old Du warrior charging towards him. The man was dressed entirely in black and seemed to emerge from the darkness of the trees like an apparition. His eyes had a look of steely determination that showed he was feared nothing and was prepared to die fighting. As if in slow motion, Gwynfor’s powerful two handed swing of the longsword sliced through the air and smashed into the warrior’s lance, cutting cleanly through the wooden shaft.

  Llewelyn felt himself falling. He had been lifted from the saddle with the force of the blow, feeling at least one of his ribs crack as he crashed heavily to the ground. The knight was distracted for a moment as he parried the sword another of the riders. This was the chance Llewelyn needed. What was left of his heavy wooden fighting staff was still within reach and he grabbed for it. With one hand at the butt and the other a shoulder width above, Llewelyn raise the heavy staff above his head, wincing with the sharp pain from his ribs, then brought it down as hard as he could on the back of the Gwyn knight.

  Sir Gwynfor saw the blow approaching out of the corner of his eye and moved just in time to avoid most of its force but still painfully winded as it thumped into his unprotected side. Instinctively he swung his sword at the warrior’s head but the old Du was ready for him and deftly deflected the attack, then reversed the swing and knocked the sword from his hands. The knight did not even see the next blow coming. He was reaching for the fallen sword when the heavy fighting staff broke his back.

  Lord Llewelyn looked down at his enemy. He seemed unable to move his arms or legs, or even speak, but his eyes were fixed on the warlord with a look which Llewelyn mistook for a plea for him to stop the pain. He reached inside his black tunic, found the small sacrificial knife his servant Bryn had thoughtfully packed and quickly ended the life of the champion of the Gwyn.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hayden had just spoken to the sole survivor of the Du attack and couldn’t believe that his master Sir Gwynfor, the champion of the Gwyn, was dead. The man was confused about the details but had a terrified look in his eyes as he described the events of the night. He thought he had escaped the murderous warriors only because he had been knocked unconscious and left for dead. One of Sir Gwynfor’s most trusted outriders, he had suffered serious sword wounds that the apothecary had stitched up as best he could. Hayden was hopeful that the man would live. He had lost a lot of blood but they were fortunate he was strong enough to find his way home and warn of the attack.

  As Sir Gwynfor’s assistant, Hayden had always needed to plan and prepare for the knight but now he felt the true weight of his responsibility. He had hoped one day to become a knight himself but never expected to command the west so soon, or without Sir Gwynfor to guide him. He sent a fast rider to inform the king of the loss of his champion and called for the captain of the guard to help him consider his options. The captain looked stressed and tired, as none of t
hem had slept since the news of the Du attack. He was a burly, short tempered man with a reputation for strictly enforcing discipline and probably thought Hayden too young to be in command.

  ‘I need your help,’ said Hayden when the captain arrived. ‘You have experience of fighting the Du?’

  ‘I have, but I did not expect them to take Sir Gwynfor so soon.’

  ‘None of us did,’ agreed Hayden. ‘We need to be more prepared.’

  ‘The castle guards are on full alert,’ said the captain. We can hold Pembroke safe but I need the garrison to return as soon as they can.’

  Hayden nodded. The main garrison force from Pembroke had left to support the king and could not return in time to help deal with the Du raiders. ‘Good, there is no telling how long we have.’

  ‘What do you plan to do?’ asked the captain. ‘We have mostly untrained men, with no experience of fighting.’

  Hayden had an idea forming in his mind but it was high risk. He looked at the Captain. ‘Sir Gwynfor and his men would have put up a good fight against the raiders.’

  The captain agreed. ‘The Du will have also suffered losses and injuries, they won’t have gone far.’

  ‘I need your help. I will take a group of our best men and see if we can find them.’

  ‘Yes, I will come myself,

  I know which men we should bring with us.’

  ‘Thank you captain but I need you to stay here in command.’

  ‘I understand,’ replied the captain. He looked at Hywel with a new respect. ‘You need to move quickly, they may have sent for reinforcements.’

  ‘We will leave in one hour,’ said Hayden. ‘Take care to keep this plan secret, we need to have the advantage of surprise. He watched the man go, wondering if he was right to leave him behind.

  True to his word, the captain had found half a dozen battle hardened swordsmen, dangerous looking soldiers all keen for some action. Hywel grinned at the sight of them and ordered they should have the pick of the horses and arm themselves well, as they had a hard ride and a tough battle lay ahead. He personally chose to wear his longsword, that Sir Gwynfor had spent so many hours training him to use, and led the men towards the border, retracing the steps of the lone survivor of the fight with the Du. The wounded soldier had given them as much information as he could remember but it was still difficult to be sure they were on the right track. When they thought they were close, Hayden ordered the men to wait while he sent two of them to scout for their enemy from the top of the highest ridge.