Over the years there have been many historical novels. The
idea is probably as old as civilization itself. All ancient civilizations
seem to have enjoyed telling tales of heroic deeds from their
past. In our modern era Walter Scott did much to publicise the
Medieval novel with his Ivanhoe and associated historical works.
At the end of the twentieth century film-making has added to the
available audience and indeed to the perception of Medieval history
in modern society. Unfortunately, and probably inevitably, film
makers have their eye mainly on the returns from the box office;
and box office rarely relates to historical accuracy. It seems
to me, therefore, a pity that films like Robin and Marion, which
makes an effort be achieve a historically accurate background
to the fictional plot, are not as successful as the historical
bunkum of Mel Gibson's William Wallace. It is difficult to see
how historical realism can be brought more to the fore in popular
entertainment. Perhaps it is true to say that it never was and
never can be profitably integrated.
The short paragraph above is merely my musing on a subject which
often fills me with sadness, that so little of our past is shared
with the public at large. In some small attempt to rectify this
perceived failing I began writing my own novel some years ago
with the intention of it and exciting the interest of the general
public in events from long ago. Like many such writing projects
this work has lain dormant for some considerable time. However
the advent of the Internet may serve to revive this ideal. I have
therefore decided to place here an opening section from my novel.
This has proved successful for the likes of Stephen King so I
thought I might try and do the same. If I get enough email (from
different people) encouraging me I may publish other sections
of the story at later dates.
Finally I should point out that though the names taken for this
novel and the dates and facts used are as historically accurate
as possible, as with all historical novels much has to be invented
as in the intervening 700 years much has been lost. There is also
the continual problem of whether what is reported is truth, partisan
bias or just plain rumour or misinformation. Such questions can
never thoroughly be answered so all I can say is please spend
a while to read the following and hopefully enjoy its content.
Paul Martin Remfry
1 September 2000
Chapter 1
A blast of cold wind brought the sleet and
snow billowing through the sights
of the old man's great helm once again. Involuntarily he shuddered.
Warm
tears ran down his cold numbed cheeks. The lines of the fluid
made an
irregular path through the wrinkles and grey three day old stubble.
The tired
watering eyes focused again on the dark iron clad figure opposite
him, hunched
forward on his restless destrier. Behind him were further armoured
and semi-
armoured men seated on their freezing mounts. Steam blew through
the horses
nostrils and hung briefly around the faces of the men mounted
upon them. Some
were young untried men in light leather hauberks seated on ponies
little
better than sumpters, pack animals. In front of them were the
fully armed
knights like Brian himself, seated on great iron clad chargers,
the destrier,
the warhorse of Medieval Europe. In the cavalry brigade waiting
on the steep
rise of ground above Dinieithon ford were 28 fully armoured knights
and 173
troopers with a variety of armour and armaments. They were both
cold and
nervous. Cold seemed to have been with them since they set out
from the
warmth of their winter homes 6 days before. It had eaten into
their bones on
the short ride to Wigmore castle. It had settled into their very
fibre during
their cold nights in summer campaigning tents. The luckier ones,
those of
greater social standing, had of course commandeered houses for
their nightly
rest. The hoipolloi had to look after themselves. Now after 3
days
inactivity at Cefnllys castle, where they had come to repair the
damage done
by the Lord Roger's treacherous rebels, word had come that the
traitors were
moving against them.
Sir Roger Mortimer, lord of Wigmore castle, had bade Brian to
go out and
deal with the enemy. Hence their 3 hour vigil on this windswept
rise. To
call it a vigil was an overstatement for the visibility was down
to just a few
yards. Brian knew this district well. He remembered as a child
playing in
the river below. That seemed so long ago now, yet he could remember
it as if
it was yesterday. He must have been 3 or 4 years old. The water
then ran
fast through the rapids, but the river was not deep. His mother
and her
friends were gambling along the banks of the river under the shattered
ruin
of old Dinieithon castle. He thought back to his mother. A large
woman with
long flowing dark hair. She was quite old even then. He was her
seventh son
- although he did not know that at the time. All the rest had
died soon after
birth. Brian pondered on why he had been spared and of course
Margaret his
only surviving sister. He started to turn round to try and make
out Hugh
Turbeville, the now long dead Margaret's widower. That was a mistake.
His
horse unsettled by the sudden movement shied, the cold clammy
chain mail
shifted on his back and a long cold trickle of melted sleet slid
easily, but
discomfortingly down his back. He cursed inwardly for the new
discomfort.
His restless move also brought the silent knights about him to
life.
"What now old man?" the armoured knight in front of
him he had been
regarding so intently for the last few minutes asked. The question
grated -
he hated the phrase 'old man' nearly as much as he disliked the
man who said
it. He was the only one who dared call Brian that, but then again
he was his
eldest son and heir. Before Brian could submerge his anger and
summon up a
reply a new sound suddenly rent the air - distant at first, but
drawing
nearer. Up onto the sleet swept rise thundered a rider - his palfrey
rearing,
its breath coming in short panting rasps. The rider upon it, Heilin,
his face
blue with cold, his gentle lilting Welsh accent taut with emotion,
burst forth
his news. "My Lord, there're coming. There're coming."
Brian regarded the young Welshman through the sights of his helm.
Without speaking he raised the great padded iron load off his
head - its
leather fastening straps not having been buckled. Bare-headed
he looked
slowly at Heilin and said in carefully measured and slightly forbidding
tones
"Who is coming Master Heilin?". Behind his expressionless
mask Brian was
happy. Not only had Heilin's unexpected arrival saved him from
having to
converse with his son, and no doubt also others around him, it
had also made
him appear aware of the rider's presence before the others around
him had
sensed it. In a coming battle faith in your leader was at a premium.
The
young Heilin swallowed deeply realising his impatience might be
considered
impertinence. His father and grandfather before him had fought
for the
Mortimers in their wars against the sons of Maelgwn and Prince
Llywelyn the
grandfather and Prince Dafydd his son. Now he too was taking his
place behind
his lord in this new and exciting war. He looked around at the
other knights
who seemed to have jostled in around him on their mighty destriers,
overshadowing the wiry Welshman on his lesser mount. He looked
the old man
square in the face summoning up every ounce of his dignity that
flowed through
his young body - dignity cradled from a thousand years before
when his
forebears had marched to the centre of the world to do battle
under the banner
of the Emperor Magnus Maximus - and said calmly and collectedly.
"Welsh foot,
Sire. At least 3 or 4 hundred, in line, marching on the ford".
"Three or four hundred you say? Marching in line? What of
their
scouts? Did you see the end of their column? Was there any cavalry?
How far
are they from the ford?" The old man saw the momentary confusion
in the young
man's face. Ah he too remembered when he was that age. So young,
so
cocksure, all the world was at his feet. "Well?"
"I don't know, Sire. The sleet was bad and I did not want
to be seen.
I rode parallel with them for a way, but did not come to the end
of the
column. I met no scouts and saw no cavalry. Just the foot, marching
in line
towards the ford some half a league distant."
Brian shook his head slowly and raised a giant iron clad mitt
to wipe
the tears from his still streaming eyes. Immediately he wished
he had not as
the harsh cold iron chain grated on his numbed flesh. How foolish
could a man
get. Marching in a blizzard without scouts towards a waiting enemy.
Perhaps
that was it. They expected no resistance until they reached the
castle. But
who was this marching army. "Did you see any colours?".
"No Sire", said the esquire.
"Were they in good order?"
"Sire?"
"Were they spread out or marching like a trained body?"
"Were they spear-
armed, bows or knives?"
"I saw no spears and they appeared sullen, spread out, not
well disciplined".
"Humph", said the old knight and sat back upon his mount
and thought. Their
own troops marching across the moors a few days ago had appeared
a right
rabble he thought, but then when hadn't they? No spears, they
probably
weren't Llywelyn's men. Locals then, the rebels, they had come
back to the
scene of their crime. That could explain the lack of scouts, but
then who
would expect an enemy in this damned weather. If they were local
they would
have known of the Lord Mortimer and Bohun's encampment at the
foot of
windswept Cefnllys hill. Perhaps they planed to march right up
to it and
deploy before the assault. He had heard that Rhys Fychan of Dinefwr
had
visited Cefnllys castle and supervised its destruction before
the arrival of
Mortimer and his army. Perhaps he had regrouped his men and had
now decided
it was time to deal with the Marchers. Brian knew all to well
how weak the
Marcher army really was. Perhaps Rhys did too. England was in
chaos. Earl
Roger Clare of Glamorgan, the most powerful of all the Marchers,
had just died
and what passed for the government of England while Henry III
was abroad was
immersed in internecine fighting between the 'royalists' and the
'reformers'
under that French popinjay Simon Montfort. Brian had no time for
any of them.
What was the point of their silly paper squabbles if in the meantime
Llywelyn
threw them out of Wales? Fools the lot of them! Now here he was
leading this
ragtag squadron against who knows what! "Go out and deal
with them", Mortimer
had said to him after the rumours were brought in that a Welsh
host was
approaching. Deal with whom, Brian thought. Well there was only
one way to
find out...
"Well father?", came Brian Junior's impertinent voice.
Brian just ignored
him. Perhaps his grandsons, Walter and another Brian, would be
made of better
stuff.
"Right Heilin, back down to the ford, keep yourself hidden
and back here when
they arrive. We'll be waiting". "Yes, Sire", came
the retort as the young
horseman wheeled away, the surrounding knights peeling back from
him like a
curtain. Brian turned to his attendant knights. He was now known
as the lord
banneret, the most senior knight in charge of the lances, the
mounted troops.
How fast times changed. Things were so simple in his youth. Brian
started
in his thin even voice. He made a mental effort to keep his voice
plain and
level. He did not want the emotion showing to his men as he prepared
for yet
another engagement. There had been so many over the years. The
old knight
had few illusions now. He often wondered what had spared him for
so long when
so many others had fallen by the wayside, death in battle, death
from
gangrene, disease, some just dropped down dead, others disappearing
without
trace. Yet he was still here. His heart still beat fiercely, he
still felt
that strong pride he had first felt all those years ago back besides
this very
same river. He remembered in a flash the sudden panic along the
river bank.
The ladies running and shouting. The sudden rush of men-at-arms
- being
gathered up in his mother's arms - other children crying. Then
the sight of
his father, resplendent in his full mail armour, his shields and
pennants
gleaming in the gentle mid-summer breeze. The splash of the horsemen
crossing
the sparkling river, the cloud of dust and then they were gone.
It was only
years later that he discovered that it was a sudden uprising by
the men of
Ceri and an assault on Rhaeadr castle that had brought the troops
out so long
ago.
"You will form the troops into a line two deep and then report
back to
me. I want everything done as quietly as possible. They shouldn't
see us in
this snow. I want the heaviest troops in line in the centre. Our
charge will
break the infantry. They won't know what hit them till its too
late. We will
ride them down then the lighter lances will follow on through.
The slope of
the ground will give us momentum. Once we have ridden through
them we will
wheel about on the other side and charge back through them. Make
good use of
your swords then. Scatter them, kill them, take no prisoners except
for Rhys
or the lords if any of them be with him. Any questions?".
A grim silence
greeted his words. "Good, then about your business".
The armoured horsemen
wheeled off along the frozen body of troopers. Harsh words carried
brittly
over the howling gale, lost virtually before they were heard.
All around him,
as far as his curtailed view could see, men were moving their
horses into
position. The whinnies of the beasts, patient in their waiting,
but now
disturbed as the buzz of excitement spread through the troops,
carried above
the sounds of the storm. Brian wondered distractedly if their
advancing
enemies might hear them, before dismissing such thoughts from
his head. If
they caught them in the open it would be a slaughter. Even so
nagging away
at the back of his head were recurring doubts. Why were there
no scouts, was
this really the main body or just an advance guard. Such doubts
were quickly
pushed down. What did it matter. They were there, they must be
attacked.
After all why else where they there?
The tell tale clink of steel and iron as well as the noises of
the
beasts broke the soft silence of the blizzard, but eventually
these sounds
stilled as the brigade came to order. The old man thought on.
Half a league
distant. The Welsh foot would probably be marching at slightly
more than 2
miles an hour. In which case they should be at the ford in less
than an hour.
How long had gone by since Heilin saw them and where were his
other scouts.
Perhaps one or more had been captured or.... Brian stopped himself.
There
was no point in following down these lines, so many ifs and buts.
None of
them mattered, all that mattered was that they were ready for
whatever awaited
them - good or ill. Once more the troop waited on their rise,
but this time
it was different. You could almost cut the noise of the blizzard
with a
knife, physically feel the tension. Here they were, 200 cavalry
and himself.
This was not the unit he had campaigned with or the men he knew
personally.
True some of them were his own retainers, like young John Lingen
or old Roger
Aston. But many were missing, too far from the Marches to reach
this scratch
force in time. Old retainers he knew well, the Pertworths, Tokehams
and
Astons of Wiltshire, the Dispensers of Oxford and the multitude
of other
knights of the realm who owed allegiance to Roger Mortimer. Instead
he had
under his command too many farm hands, mere boys, ready and willing
to come
to his master the Lord Mortimer for this great adventure against
the rebels.
But what would they make of real fighting? No glamour, no glory,
just waiting
then... Even as Brian's mind wondered on the strength of his lances
another
part of his brain was whipping over other matters. Worse still
than their
inexperience was the fact that with Mortimer had come Humphrey
Bohun, lord of
Brecon, and his retinue. Mortimer and Bohun were not the best
of friends at
the best of times. Young Roger Mortimer still coveted the lordship
of Brecon
of which he thought the Bohuns had robbed him. Worse still young
Humphrey was
an adherent of Simon Montfort, as Roger too had once been. But
now Roger was
openly a champion of the king's party. The ill-feeling between
the knights
of both parties had yet to show, faced as they were by a common
enemy, but
even so Humphrey had only ridden with Mortimer as he had been
commanded to do
so by his father, Earl Humphrey, whom Henry III had appointed
captain of the
Marches of Wales. The simmering discontent Brian could feel was
bubbling just
beneath the surface.
How long had he sat and waited now? Had Heilin got it wrong, or
had he
got lost, or even been captured? Suddenly Brian was aware of another
knight
close beside him. How long had he been there? As the other knight
realized
Brian was aware of him he asked in slight voice made boomingly
hollow by the
enclosure of his helm, "How long do you think it will be
uncle?". "Not long
now, Henry", the old man replied. This was to be his favourite
nephew's first
action and he could tell from his voice that he was full of trepidation.
Take
the boy's mind off it he thought and said "Here, help me
replace my helm".
The great padded iron helmet had been sat in the knight's lap
since his
discussion with Heilin. Now was just as good a time as any to
replace it.
The 8 pounds of iron was replaced on Brian's head, and with the
help of his
nephew's far more agile fingers the leather straps and buckles
were fastened.
If this helmet was to be knocked off the head under it was coming
off with it!
For a while the two men sat there in silence. Then Brian said,
"When
we get going stay close to me and follow what I do. This shouldn't
take
long". "Yes uncle", came the reply. "I hate
the waiting, its by and far the
worst time, but... listen...".
**********************
Goronwy's feet hurt. Even through the numbing cold and the protection
of his worn leather boots they hurt. They had probably marched
a little over 2 leagues he guessed since Prince Llywelyn had come
to them at Rhaeadr-gwy. He had arrived last night with an immense
army, over 20,000 strong it was said. Llywelyn had ridden in with
his barded cavalry body-guard in front of his army. "Goddamed
Venedotions", murmured Goronwy under his breath. Beside him
his friend Meirion turned towards him and in his twangy lilt added,
"What's up with you then, would you prefer to be going on
your own?" Goronwy returned his friend's stare and looked
upon his frozen beard and the sleet and snow settled in his grey
shawl. Meirion was about 35, though he now looked twice that age.
He farmed the croft just over the valley from where Goronwy had
lived out his 33 years. They had played together as children in
their remote valley high above the River Wye. They had grown up
under the rule of Prince Llywelyn the grandfather, although nominally
they still had their own prince, Maredudd ap Maelgwn, the grandson
of the great hero King Cadwallon. They had both grown up listening
around the fires to the bards sing of their great hero. But now
all the talk was of Llywelyn. Maredudd's son, Gruffydd was back,
but he was firmly under the younger Llywelyn's power. Goronwy
resented that.
"Look at you", the younger man said. "Look at me
for that matter. My boots are worn through, my shawl does not
keep out the cold. All I have for protection is this knife and
all the food I carry is what I ate last night! I'm cold, I'm hungry
and I'm fed up! What are we doing here?"
"God's teeth! Keep your voice down. Do you want Prince Llywelyn's
men to hear you?"
"I'm not sure if I much care", Goronwy replied, but
he knew deep down that he did. It was 17 years ago when both their
fathers and brothers had tramped off into the winter, north to
the ford of the River Conway. They had gone to aid Prince Dafydd
against the king and none of them returned. Many times Goronwy
and Meirion had spoken of what had become of their kin, but no-one
really knew. All they knew is that many died that year. English,
Welsh, Norman, traitor, loyalist, prince, lord, poor man, begger
and thief. What did it matter, they weren't coming back. Now it
was their turn. They had both talked about it when Prince Llywelyn
first arrived back in the wet and stormy December of 1256, six
long years ago. They had both gone down to the Prince at Rhaeadr
and proffered him their homage as their fathers and brothers had
done to his grandfather all those years before. To refuse courted
death. Life hadn't been so bad under the Mortimers. True neither
of them had known much else, but they had known stability. As
long as their taxes were paid no-one much bothered them up in
their remote valley. True the English had their funny customs
and the Normans their obsession with their rights, but on the
whole there was no trouble and the rule of law, their own native
law, was enforced. Since Llywelyn came all had changed. The Welsh
of their province of Gwrtheyrnion had turned to the great Llywelyn
as a liberator, as a restorer of their values and of justice of
old. But what were their values and their justice? Why just those
that Mortimer had enforced with a will of iron, only now they
were no more. Llywelyn's law was Llywelyn's law. It was not their
law. He rode roughshod over their customs, customs that Mortimer
had upheld. His Venedotion bodyguard took their sustenance as
they wanted, no-one dare bid them nay. The taxes were higher than
before Llywelyn came and they had less. Mortimer had not taken
their ficklety lightly. He had come back the next spring and burned
the land, killed those who had opposed him and imprisoned others.
When Llywelyn marched against him he simply withdrew to his great
fortress at Cefnllys. There the great Hywel ap Meurig had held
sway as Mortimer's constable. Goronwy had been told by his mother
many years ago that their two families were related and they too
were relations of the great Cadwallon, but Goronwy knew that everyone
in the old kingdom said that and for all that he knew it was true.
Goronwy knew this district well. The ford was just up ahead, over
the rise to Llanbadarn Fawr and then down the slope. It would
be no fun crossing the River Eithon in this weather. The thought
of how the cold water would freeze him made him shudder involuntarily.
How many more felt like him he wondered? A sudden thought sprung
into his mind and he pulled Meirion close to him. "Let's
make a run for it!", he breathed conspiratorially to his
friend. Meirion's eyes glowed wide in alarm, "Quiet you fool
- do you want us both dead". "Dead here or dead later,
what's the difference? We all have to die sometime. At least lets
die for ourselves and not for something that means nothing to
us!". Meirion pushed Goronwy away. "No, I'll hear no
more of it, speak to me no more of this". Goronwy fell silent
and his mind raced back over the past few years. Yes, Llywelyn
had come to them with grand promises of independence, of glory
and freedom, but what did that really mean. They still lived in
pretty much the same way, but it was harder. Was it really better
under the Mortimers, or was he just being fooled by the passing
of time. He thought of Alan Lingen, the husbandman who had been
his friend. The jolly japes they had got up to in Rhaeadr-gwy
on market days. The beer, the scrapes, the women, the laughter.
Where had it all gone? Alan had been dead these 6 long years.
He was killed that December. Llywelyn's men had gone to his tenement
and cut down all the men there. Alan his brother and father had
been killed and their womenfolk driven off. Goronwy remembered
his feelings at seeing their heads sported on Rhaeadr-gwy bridge
- that mind numbing sickness. They hadn't been his enemies. Now
it was all gone. The farm burnt to the ground by young John Lingen
the next spring and the settlers Llywelyn had put in their place
slaughtered, men, women and children. Rhaeadr-gwy had been burned
to the ground. Even the bridge was now gone - well it wasn't truly
gone, but what use were the charred fragments of wood that now
marked the site of its passage. To destroy was so easy, but Goronwy
remembered the pride of his father when he said he had helped
build that bridge. It was all so long ago, all so pointless.
Meirion had been glancing suspiciously at his friend since the
sudden cessation of their conversation at his instance some minutes
ago. Goronwy glared menacingly at him and all but shouted "Its
just not right". The ragged column came to a virtual halt.
Other voices joined the sudden babble as confusion suddenly reigned.
The rear ranks began to bunch up on the centre which had now inexplicably
stopped. The front ranks unaware of the confusion behind, but
hearing the noise, continued on its march, odd members of its
company looking back over their shoulders and casting inquisitive
glances at their compatriots, but they did not stop, having received
no orders to do so. Rapidly a gap of some 3 to 4 thousand paces
opened up between the lead elements of the local levies and its
main force. This gap proved of crucial importance in the forthcoming
battle.
*********************
Heilin's horse came pounding up the hill.
Brian could hear the approaching horsemen for a short while before
he could see them. Then they were on top of the rise, their horses
steaming as their sweat evaporated in the freezing early December
air. Heilin had learned his previous lesson. His short staccato
bursts firing the required information across at the waiting lord
of Brampton Bryan. "The enemy force is moving through Llanbadarn.
Ifor here, watched them for nigh on half an hour. We think that
there are over 2,000 of them, though they are quite spread out.
There was no sign of spearmen, archers or cavalry, though there
were some horsemen at the front of the force. The lead elements
should be at the ford presently". Heilin stopped well pleased
with his report. Well the lad has learned something, mused Brian
to himself. Now all he had to do was wait. Several things still
worried him though. "Did you see any colours yet?" "None
sire", came the reply "But..", started Ifor. "But
what" said the old man. "I think one of the horsemen
was Madog ap Gruffydd". "Think man, think! What good's
think?" "I'm sorry sire, I could not tell. I just had
a fleeting glimpse of him...". The young man's voice trailed
off. Under his giant helm it was impossible to know what Brian
was thinking. His mind however was working fast. If the force
was led by the aging Madog ap Gruffydd of the commote of Cedewain
north of the River Severn, it meant that this was just a local
force. Even so Brian wished he had some infantry with him. Even
a few score men at arms or even better some crossbowmen, but no,
they were still needed for the repair and protection of Cefnllys
castle.
These thoughts took only a matter of seconds. Then the old lord
said quickly, "Right to your positions... and Heilin, well
done". Heilin, his horse already threading its way past the
great man, glanced sideways at him in surprise and satisfaction.
He had not expected that. Brian saw the look through the sights
in his helm and afforded himself a rare smile. "Yes lad",
he thought, "you tell your grandchildren about that".
With that the old man's thoughts returned to the present... the
waiting foreboding present. As he settled back once more on his
great charger he pondered on the battle he was initiating. Beneath
him was 200 paces of gently sloping ground levelling out into
the plain of the river. In the centre of this plain, about a 1,000
paces across, was the ford. The old bridge above the ford had
been burned down several years ago by the Lord Roger to try to
ensure that no trade would occur with the rebels to the west.
Beyond the river was another flat plain before the ground rose
up gently into the devastated village of Llanbadarn Fawr. This
would be the scene of battle. Fast moving horseflesh topped with
iron against barely armed peasants. It would hardly be a contest,
but then again with the numbers against them.... If the horses
were exhausted then they might tell. Archers too could be a problem,
but Llywelyn had few enough of them and it would seem anyway that
he was not here.
Chapter 2
Prince Llywelyn shivered. His body ached
and he felt so tired. It had been a bad year, one of the worst.
It was amazing to think that only 3 months before he had been
on his death bed. That aside he still felt tired, worn out and
ill. The snow was blowing remorselessly in his face. Even in
his chain mail, surcoat and leggings he felt frozen. Behind him
and his small escort of cavalry, 10,000 foot of his North Welsh
spearmen followed. He looked at the charred remnants of a building
as he rode past. Sad thoughts filtered through his aching brain.
Was this really all that was left of the house he stayed at only
2 years ago when the proud young nobleman Madog ab Owain of Aberedw
was brought before him. Llywelyn turned in his saddle and called
"Owain!". Even as he did so he regretted his action.
Lord Owain ap Maredudd of Aberedw heard the call of his prince
and spurred his sorry nag forward. Lord Owain was not a happy
man. Just 2 years ago he was in high favour with the English
government as 'their man in the Middle Marches'. His fame in
court circles ran high. Here was the noble Lord Owain, the great
Lord Owain, the bulwark against the traitor Llywelyn. The infamy
he had paid amongst some of his own people was also great. He
had heard the rumours that even some of his own household had
plotted his death for his daring to stand against Llywelyn. His
sacrifice of his own family's standing had been even greater.
Within his own living memory his uncle, Gwallter Vychan, had
enforced his rule upon Elfael and even the Norman lords had recognised
him as an equal, though he did not claim the title of prince as
his elder brother, Einion o'r Porth, the friend of the great Lord
Rhys once had. In 1245 Owain had survived the collapse of the
rest of his family by a timely surrender to the Crown. His coming
to terms had also saved the young Owain ab Iorwerth Clud, in whose
care the young man then was. The two of them had thus been saved
from the terrors of the disintegration of the principality of
Dafydd ap Llywelyn in 1246. For this he had been recognised by
the king as a tenant-in-chief and by many of his own family as
a traitor! Many of them had been hounded into banishment and
exile, but he had not killed any, as they would have killed him
given half a chance. No it was so easy for them. 'Resist' comes
their siren call. 'Resist and all will be well'. Owain knew resistance
and what it really meant. The bloodshed, the pain, the loss of
anything and everything. He knew the price of such hollow words.
In 1254, eight moderately successful years after the collapse
of Dafydd's principality, the homages of the two Owains of Elfael
had been granted by the king to his eldest son, the Lord Edward.
After the outbreak of the current war the Lord Edward had transferred
their service from him to that of the Lord Roger Mortimer. Mortimer
had appointed Owain constable of Builth castle and for 2 years
the men had continued to work well together to stem the growing
power of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd in the district. It had been Owain's
support alone that had allowed English power to survive in the
district - and the occasional appearance of the Mortimer army.
And the king and Mortimer had been unstinting in their praise
and support. For a while it had seemed that Owain would achieve
his ambition of overlordship over all Elfael through royal favour,
but now all that was gone.
In mid July 1260 Builth castle had been treacherously surrendered
to Llywelyn by 3 of Owain's own men! And clerks at that! His
own son, who was underconstable in his own place, had been captured
and to buy his son's life Owain had been forced to swear allegiance
to Prince Llywelyn, surrender his lands into the prince's hands
and pay him £300 for the privilege of having opposed him!
Still Owain had consoled himself it could have been worse. As
soon as he could he had got word to Roger Mortimer to explain
his actions, how his hand was forced. Mortimer had replied he
could understand Owain's reasons, but that he had other sons and
his allegiance to the crown should have come first. Would Mortimer
sacrifice his own son Owain thought darkly? Since then Owain
had seen all his own land laid waste with a vengeance. His villages
burned, his crops ruined, his kinsfolk and tenants mercilessly
put to the sword. His friend and fellow lord, Hywel ap Meurig,
Mortimer's constable of Cefnllys, had been instrumental in the
attacks upon him, but who could blame him. He had to do what
was necessary. Now Hywel too had gone, captured with his entire
family in their sleep at Cefnllys castle. How cruel the wheel
of fate was. Owain personally had interceded on Hywel's behalf,
much to the prince's annoyance. Hywel and his family were now
ensconced deep in Gwynedd in Llywelyn's castle of Dolbadarn.
And now Llywelyn was here with his army in Builth, the town that
had been his, Owain's, the prince of Elfael in all but name.
How cruel fate was.
"My liege", Owain said, unable to quite disguise the
resentment in his voice. Llywelyn heard it too. "Peace,
my friend", he thought, "I know your true feelings.
You've made them abundantly clear and we both know where your
precious Madog is!"
"How long has it been since I ordered this repaired?",
asked Llywelyn hiding his true feelings for Owain. Even before
the prince had finished speaking Owain replied, "I am no
longer constable here...".
Llywelyn's anger boiled momentarily and cutting off the reply
in mid flow the prince countered in an even voice, but with a
biting edge, "I know that Owain, but how shall we say, I
know you still hold this district dear in your heart and of course
my Lord Maredudd's tenure of this district has not been, shall
we say exactly happy." "Nicely done", Llywelyn
said to himself, "Dangle the bait. Keep them in line."
Owain looked at his prince with some surprise. "Yes, I've
got you there haven't I", Llywelyn thought. Owain swallowed,
momentarily thrown off balance by the comment. Would Llywelyn
really grant him such power, or was he just stringing him a line?
There was no knowing with this man. Owain looked back at the
charred remnants of the house the group of horsemen had now passed.
"As soon as you had heard it, and the town, had been destroyed,
My Prince. But, it cannot be held against my Lord Maredudd.
This district is too exposed to... " Owain stumbled momentarily,
stopping himself from saying 'your' and continued "our enemies
and as soon as we send people in to begin work they descend upon
us and scatter us. Without your army we cannot face the might
of England alone".
"Well now Cefnllys is gone we may find it easier, might we
not Owain", said the Prince.
"With Mortimer pushed back to Radnor as his nearest base
that would be easier."
"You are right, My Lord Owain, Radnor is a nut we should
also crack. Your uncle held Radnor did he not?"
"Yes my liege". Owain saw the bait too...
"And how far is it from here to Radnor?"
"About 5 leagues, my liege".
"And to Cefnllys from here is less than half that. Perhaps
we will pay Radnor a visit then, after we have finished with liberating
Maelienydd exactly as my grandfather held it." The prince
smiled. "Perhaps we might be graced by the support of your
son in such a venture?" The barbed comment hit its mark
directly.
"My son is a grown man, my Prince, he must do as he thinks
fit".
"I do believe he would see fit to kill me if he could. Do
you not think that is so, my Lord Rhys?".
Rhys ap Rosser had been listening with glee as the prince had
put his cousin on the spot. He held little regard for the Anglophile
Owain Fychan and would dearly love to have seized his lands when
Builth fell, but the Prince would not let him. "Patience
my dear Lord Rhys", he had told him, "your time will
come". Well it was not here yet and he was the only son
of Rosser Vychan, the eldest son of Gwallter Clud, lord of all
Elfael. Owain ap Maredudd was of the younger branch who had cow-towed
to the French and their English lackeys. Not him, nor his father.
They were men. They had fought till all hope had gone, and even
then they had not made any craven and cowardly surrender. Buying
their lives at the cost of their honour! They had fled to Gwynedd
and there they had been nurtured by first Prince Dafydd and now
his nephew Prince Llywelyn. They had plotted long and hard for
their return and now the time was ripe. The world would hear
of Rhys ap Rosser, the bards would sing songs of his prowess as
they did of his kingly ancestors. They would all see!
"My good cousin Madog", Rhys said sardonically, "is
not a man to disguise the workings of his mind, would you not
agree my dear cousin?"
Owain sat back in his saddle. How he would like to tear the gleeful
grin of that Rhys' face, but no, subtlety for now. That could
come later. "My son is my son. He must do as he feels fit".
By now Llywelyn was tiring of this banter. His head throbbed
numbly through the cold. Was it the cold or the remnants of the
terrible sweating sickness? "Enough!", Llywelyn looked
at the swollen river before him. Up behind him was the wreck
of Builth castle, rebuilt by John Monmouth just 20 years ago,
and which Llywelyn himself had ordered demolished after its fall
just 2½ years ago. The great rectangular keep still showed
the signs of the ferocious fire that had eaten the timbers and
cracked the stones of its very fabric. The stone battlements
lay in a snow covered shroud at the bottom of the breached wet
ditch. The great curtain walls, whole chucks of them cast down
by the massed ranks of Rhys Vychan of Dinefwr's army, still stood
sentinel like so many great teeth on the massive jaw of the bailey.
Inside the broken fortress lay the charred timbers of the hall,
the chapel, the barracks, the knights' chamber, the stables, the
smithy and the other buildings and hovels that went to make a
great fortress.
Owain and Mortimer had known them all well. To Llywelyn it had
been just a castle, just a fortified place, cold empty walls to
be destroyed. To Mortimer it had been the castle of his inheritance
the home of the Braose, famed, feared, admired and reviled. They
all meant the same thing, success and power. Now they were gone
and Mortimer saw himself as the heir to all they had been. And
then there was himself, Owain ap Maredudd, lord of Aberedw. Builth
had been 'his' castle. Given him to protect for first the Lord
Edward and then Roger Mortimer. He had lived there, fought there,
at times he wished he had died there too. Yes even that. It
had been his home, his pride, his joy. He knew the rooms, he
knew the walls, he knew the very stones. Now it lay in ruins
so like so much else in Owain's life. "I want it flattened,
so no two stones stand one upon the other", Llywelyn had
raged in the very room of that house they had just passed by.
And Llywelyn had him oversee it. "I will not have that
abomination that has obstructed my will for so long stand on my
land for one minute more. I will NOT!" Owain had had no
option. He had obeyed, but with such a heavy heart.
Owain's thoughts drifted back to the present and what was coming.
In front of the Prince of Wales and his army lay the River Wye.
The bridge had been destroyed soon after the main fighting began
5 years ago. Well there was only one option now. Fording the
river. Llywelyn gave an involuntary shudder and waved two scouts
across. The two horsemen ploughed forward into the fast flowing
river. Owain watched as the water sprayed up the flanks of the
two protesting horses as their riders urged them on, through the
flow and then up the other bank. The river was not at all deep
here, barely 3 feet at the deepest. Still he would get wet.
The men too would be soaked. The snow was still falling and the
wind was cold. Llywelyn pricked his spurs into Lion's flanks.
The great war horse moved forward and plunged into the river.
Behind him the dismayed ranks of his army knew what was coming
next...
Copyright©1994-2004 Paul Martin Remfry