Tangwstyl

By Mansel Jones

Tangwstyl is set in the medieval town of Kenfig in the year 1399. The story centres on a prophecy made by Merlin and the birth of a girl, named Tangwstyl. Based on historical fact, Tangwstyl tells the story of King Richard and a plot to assassinate him, of Owain Glyn Dwr and his struggle for personal and national justice, and of the medieval Church and its desire to suppress all forms of heresy. Tangwstyl also tells the story of the common men and women of Kenfig, ordinary people caught up in extraordinary events, events that would alter long held beliefs and reshape lives.

From an English Chronicle – The Welsh habit of revolt against the English is an old-standing madness...and this is the reason: the Welsh, formally called Britons, were once noble crowned over the whole realm of England; but they were expelled by the Saxons and lost both the name and the kingdom. The fertile plains went to the Saxons, but the sterile and mountainous districts to the Welsh. But from the sayings of the prophet Merlin they still hope to recover their land. Hence, it is that the Welsh frequently rebel, hoping to give effect to the prophecy.

From The Welsh Books Council...Mansel Jones has well imagined the details of life in the period. He obviously knows the landscape well and the evocation of this adds greatly to the book.

From Amazon...For once I found that Tangwstyl portrays a true medieval village. The weather, scenery and characters, all resemble a true Welsh village at this era in time. The divergence between the Welsh and the English, as was the case during this period, is also made clear. The characters are believable, and it shows a side to King Richard that is not often seen. The plot is brilliant, and is filled with twists, as each page reveals a new piece of it. The timeline of Tangwstyl is perfect, as it stretches over only a few days. This helps the story feel more realistic and keeps the reader’s attention throughout.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Goylake Publishing
• Release date: Aug 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311578594

Book preview

TANGWSTYL

Mansel Jones

Goylake Publishing

Copyright © 2010 Mansel Jones

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, nor transmitted, nor translated into a machine language, without the written permission of the publisher.

The right of Mansel Jones to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Condition of Sale

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

Goylake Publishing, Iscoed, 16A Meadow Street, North Cornelly, Bridgend, Glamorgan. CF33 4LL

http://www.goylakepublishing.com

This book is dedicated to Daniela

and to

Owain and Rhys, heroes in their own right

Author’s note:

This story is a work of fiction based upon historical fact

Principal Characters

The Vill

Euros - Master of the Hall

Anest - a healer

Madog - Steward of the Hall

Tirion - a servant girl

Tangwstyl - child of prophecy

Lady Meirian - Mistress of Ty Maen

Einion ap Rhiryd - a blacksmith

Branwen - Mistress of Deumay

Rhys Goch - Master of Hevedaker

Cynan ap Gruffydd - Esquire to Rhys Goch

The Castle

Sir Roger de la March - Constable of Kenfig Castle

Payn de la March - Portreeve of Kenfig Town

Geoffrey de la March - Bailiff of Kenfig Borough

Matildis - Matriarch of Kenfig Castle

Sir William Scurlag - Constable of Ogmore Castle

Athelena Scurlag - Sir Roger’s betrothed

Rig Fitzsimon - Chief Sergeant, Keeper of the Peace

Morgan de Avene - Lord of Avan

The Church

Father John - Abbot of Margam Abbey

Brother Osbert - Prior of Margam Abbey

Brother Leisan - Precentor of Margam Abbey

Brother Blanchigernonis - a shepherd at Llanfihangel Grange

Brother Helias - a herbalist

Brother Jordan - Envoy to the Bishop of Llandaff

Cardinal Francesco D’Orso - Papal Legate

Johanna Wittard - Custorin of the Maladeria

Lords and Nobles

Richard II - King of England

Edward - Duke of Aumerle

Sir Thomas Despenser - Earl of Gloucester

Sir Reginald Grey - Lord of Ruthin

Owain Glyn Dwr - Lord of Glyndyfrdwy

From an English Chronicle – ‘The Welsh habit of revolt against the English is an old-standing madness…and this is the reason: the Welsh, formally called Britons, were once noble crowned over the whole realm of England; but they were expelled by the Saxons and lost both the name and the kingdom. The fertile plains went to the Saxons, but the sterile and mountainous districts to the Welsh. But from the sayings of the prophet Merlin they still hope to recover their land. Hence, it is that the Welsh frequently rebel, hoping to give effect to the prophecy.’

See ye that blazing star

The heavens look down on Freedom’s war

And light her torch on high,

Bright upon the dragon’s crest

It tells that glory’s wings shall rest

When warriors meet to die.

Let Earth’s pale tyrants read despair

And vengeance in its flame

Hail! Hail! Ye Bards, the omen fair

Of conquest and fame,

And swell the rushing mountain air

With songs of Glyn Dwr’s name.

Iolo Goch, c1402

Prologue – 13th March 1399

Silence invaded the tavern. Calloused hands wiped excess ale from pensive lips. Eager eyes turned their gaze upon one man and held, transfixed. That man was Madog, steward of the Hall in the manor of North Corneli. He sat, centre stage, square and resolute, his right elbow resting upon the scarred, ale-stained surface of a trestle table, a table that had once served as a church door. A gateway to God for the conversi and the learned brethren, the door had become a battleground, a place for men to test their strength and pit their wits, a surface whereupon reputations could be made together with a sizeable profit, a location where purses could swell with all the indecency of a bloated gourmet.

With his muscular right arm poised, Madog opened his hand, inviting his opponent. His slate-grey eyes remained unblinking, focused; the game could begin.

Sitting opposite Madog was one John Faber, a blacksmith from the town of Kenfig. Burly and squat, he stared intently into the Welshman’s eyes. Beads of sweat formed on John Faber’s brow, for he knew of Madog’s reputation: none had bettered him in ten years of competition; no one had lowered his colours in a decade of combat. And all this despite the fact that Madog felt compelled to fight with his weaker arm, for he had lost the strength of his natural arm, his left, when that limb had been taken from him, severed, from just below the elbow, when serving the king at the battle of Quimperle during the French wars of 1375.

The taverners circled around the two men, creating a sense of theatre. Predominantly burgesses, they were from the nearby town of Kenfig. A few travellers were scattered amongst their number, together with a handful of villeins from the manor of North Corneli. A certain antipathy existed between burgesses and villeins, this stemming from the fact that the town, protected by its castle, represented the citadel of the conqueror. Founded by the Normans, some three hundred years prior, the town, like many others, stood as an English enclave, with its own laws, its own taxes and its own rights. The indigenous population might have been able to live with this imposition, had these laws, taxes and rights not impinged upon their native traditions and customs, for it was written in the town charter that the burgesses had exclusive trading rights in the town and in the neighbouring manors. In practice, this meant that the villeins were forbidden to sell their produce, or trade their goods, save upon market day in the town. And, to rub salt into this economic wound, a toll had to be paid before the villeins could enter this bastion of commerce.

Another source of provocation was the town mill: the burgesses were free to grind their own corn, or pay a suitable miller, whereas villeins were obliged to take their corn to the town mill. And for this doubtful privilege they were forced to pay a handsome price. Little wonder that resentment often flared into open hostility.

Without question, to hold a burgage plot meant to hold privilege. And this privilege was jealously guarded with few outsiders invited in. The natural order had to be maintained, interest had to be protected; those settlers who had risked all, who had gambled with their lives, and with the lives of their kin, expected, indeed, demanded this, and more.

Within the cosy confines of the Angel Tavern, the villeins may well have been small in number but, with contentment, they smiled, for bets had been well placed, wagers made on the outcome of the contest between Madog and John Faber and history, in this circumstance, suggested that they would win.

With the sparring over, the protagonists placed their respective right elbows adjacent to one another. Fingers entwined. John Faber’s face contorted into an expression of supreme effort, a nervous tic playing around his left eye. Madog remained impassive, his forearm taking the strain. The silence was broken by a cry of exultation emitted by one of the taverners and soon all had joined in. Both sides urged on their respective champion. Fists were clenched in advocation. Yells gave way to jostling and to open aggression. A lot of ale was spilt.

At God’s table, sweat continued to pour from John Faber’s brow. The blacksmith bared his teeth as he summoned up the last vestiges of his strength. Again, Madog remained impassive, unflinching, save for his rippling triceps, which bulged as he absorbed the blacksmith’s might.

The wooden table creaked and groaned. Imperceptibly, Madog began to take control of the contest; to the delight of his supporters, it appeared as though he was about to win.

Tightening his grip on John Faber’s hand, Madog allowed his effort to be displayed upon the contours of his rugged face whereupon the taverners became frantic in their excitement. One, supporting John Faber, made to intervene, to halt the contest, only for others, with bets well placed, to hasten and restrain him. All was lost for the blacksmith. With a thud that echoed like thunder, Madog brought the back of John Faber’s hand crashing down, on to the table. God himself doubtless shuddered at the sound. From the victors, cheers and coins filled the air, overwhelming the moans and the sighs of the vanquished.

Holding his right arm in tender fashion, John Faber rose from the table. With a snarl, he turned his back on the contest, seeking instead the comfort and the consolation of his associates. With typical modesty, Madog took the plaudits, the slaps upon the back, the cries of adulation. The winning bets were paid. The villeins had made a good profit from the tavern. Some of the burgesses, not blinded by loyalty or over-burdened by allegiance, had also backed the Welshman. Now, they placed a number of silver coins in front of Madog, a show of thanks and appreciation. As was his wont, Madog uttered a few softly spoken words of recognition, before picking up the coins and placing them in the comfort of his leather purse.

With the arm-wrestling over, dice and merrills now took the gamblers’ attention; Joaf, the rat-catcher, proved fortunate with the former, allowing Ernald, the dung-collector, to display a surprising degree of dexterity in regard to the board game. As for the rest, the hard-earned wages of the day were casually frittered away.

As the ale flowed, a sense of bad feeling overwhelmed the tavern. Accusations of cheating ran rife. Words gave way to blows that, in turn, gave way to bloodshed. Madog had seen enough. He downed his ale, collected his sack of victuals, obtained earlier, at the market, and headed out into the cool of the night air.

Madog walked home along a trackway, a road first paved by the Romans; a path trampled for over a thousand years. The walk covered a distance of some one and a half miles, heading southeast, from Kenfig Town to North Corneli Hall. Open fields, woodland and small settlements lined the way. The night was clear, starlit, inviting. The road was quiet. Peace and serenity reigned supreme. Although a man once given to battle, the tranquillity of such an evening now appealed to Madog. He felt at ease with solitude, in the open fields, tending his animals. He thought of his cows, in particular the finest, the one he would present to the Church on the thirteenth of September, this being the feast day of St Cornelius, the patron saint of cattle. He hoped that this animal, along with all the others, would escape the murrain, the virulent disease that was sweeping the countryside. Times were hard; a plague was something they could ill afford.

Madog entered the vill to find lanterns burning. Within the confines of their timber-framed dwellings, womenfolk declined their beds and waited instead for their drunken men to wend their weary way home from the various inns and taverns. Some of them, no doubt, were still licking their wounds, sore from the fight at the Angel Tavern. Wives and lovers would not be impressed. Smiling, Madog reflected that, like the lanterns, many of the women would flare-up at the sight of the diverse cuts and bruises, indignation fuelling their flame; insult would be added to injury as sure as the Church collected its tithes.

With that thought in mind, Madog opened the main gate and entered the courtyard, before striding towards the magnificent structure that was the Hall. Built of stone, with slates upon its roof, the Hall was flanked by stone barns and stone outbuildings. A stairway, also made of stone, led to the living quarters, which were situated upon the first floor, while the ground floor consisted of a large vaulted undercroft, ideal for storage. Generous windows lighted both the main hall and the solar. A high stone wall, positioned opposite the main body of the building completed the rectangle, enclosing the courtyard. Without doubt, the Hall was a building fit for a lord. And, Madog reflected proudly, his lord was fit for such a building.

Madog barely had time to close the main gate when his dog, Ci, leapt towards him. An animal of indeterminate breed and good nature Ci ran towards his master, raising his front paws at the end of his approach. Laughing, Madog took hold of the dog’s paws, cradling them in his strong right hand. He patted his dog upon the head before delving into his bag of victuals. From there, he produced a bone, obtained from the town butcher. Sitting upon command, Ci sniffed at the bone, his tongue lolling out in fervent anticipation, a smile seemingly playing around his soft, gentle mouth. Madog uttered, ‘Good boy,’ then, he tossed the bone, Ci catching it in his jaws before running around joyfully, making the courtyard his playground. The steward laughed even louder as the animal sped in circles, dropping the bone before swooping upon it with a snarl and a growl. His brow creased however when he caught sight of his cattle, housed, as they were, near the frontage. Should he inspect them now, or wait for the dawn? Madog reasoned that the clear light of morning would be a more trusting ally than the gloom of a March night. Besides, he was tired; it was time to rest.

Madog was about to climb the stone steps and enter the Hall, when Ci barked, demanding his attention. At first, Madog thought that this was just another canine game involving the bone. However, when he turned, he discovered that the bone had been abandoned; Ci was at the main gate, barking frantically, the hackles upon his back standing on end. Narrowing his eyes, Madog walked across the courtyard. He bade his dog to silence and, dutifully, the animal acquiesced. Stepping in front of Ci, Madog opened the solid oak door and strode out of the courtyard. His eyes now widened in surprise as before him stood a young woman, late in her teens. She was pregnant, heavily so. Her hair was dark, a rich auburn, but her skin was pallid, an unnatural colour, even allowing for the soft illumination offered by the moonlight. Madog noticed that her feet were bare and that she was wearing a simple threadbare tunic. On her shoulders there rested a veil while, surprisingly, upon her hip, there sat a quillon dagger, a dagger akin to a miniature sword with its protruding hand guards and its finely bejewelled hilt. Her hands were clutching her midriff while her pretty face was convulsed in pain. It was then that Madog caught sight of the blood, droplets of life forming a crimson pool upon the earth. He was about to run, to seek assistance, when the stranger reached out, crying, ‘Help me!’ before collapsing, unconscious, into the crook of Madog’s strong right arm.

* * *

The great abbey of Margam was located some two and a half miles to the north of Kenfig. A Cistercian house, founded in 1147, the abbey followed the Rule set down by the monks of Citeaux. The Order adhered to Benedictine principles with the aim of creating a freedom of the mind, body and heart through a vow of poverty and an austere lifestyle, an essential component of that lifestyle being the daily round of prayer. The day concluded with the singing of the Office of Compline where weary monks gave thanks to God after a long day of prayer, study and toil. Today, as on every other day, Brother Leisan, the abbey’s precentor, led the service. Tall, lean and of sombre appearance, Brother Leisan was a quiet, studious man, whose other duties included those of librarian and archivist. He obtained great joy from his singing and he always put his heart and his soul into the psalms at Compline, exalting, as they did, total trust in God.

As the chant of the Salve Regina filled the choir stalls, Brother Leisan cast an eye over his fellow brethren. The numbers were few now; waves of plague, and an antipathy towards the spiritual life, had taken their toll. The first person to catch Brother Leisan’s attention was the abbey’s leader, Abbot John. The abbot was a man short in stature with an unruly head of tonsured, snow-white hair and dark brown eyes, made watery with age. His face was lined with experience and no little wisdom. He stood at the head of the choir stalls, rubbing his eyes, whether through tiredness or contamination, only he could say. Abbot John had guided his flock for over thirty years now, through times of famine, through times of plenty. Adroit and politically skilled, he was nothing if not a survivor. Beside Abbot John stood his deputy, Brother Osbert, prior of the abbey. As usual, Brother Osbert held a somewhat stern, supercilious expression; his thin lips pursed, his prominent nose protruding, his dark, piercing eyes staring straight ahead. In contrast to Abbot John’s hair, Brother Osbert’s hair was rich and dark, as black as midnight. A conscientious, disciplined man, with eyes on the great prize of one day achieving the status of abbot, Brother Osbert had his supporters amongst the brethren, though Brother Leisan would be the first to admit that he was not among their number.

Glancing along the stalls Brother Leisan’s eyes fell upon those of Brother Helias. The assistant herbalist and infirmarer to his fellow monks, Brother Helias had a dark complexion. In addition, he had a flat nose - the result of a childhood accident - and an unfortunate, somewhat devious expression. A young man under the tutorage of Brother Ithenard, Brother Helias had arrived at the abbey after serving as an esquire to a local lord, the dashing and popular Morgan de Avene. Helias had accompanied Morgan on King Richard’s expedition to Ireland, some five years earlier, and had found the experience, the carnage, the bloodshed, disturbing, to say the least. Upon their return, Helias had pleaded with Morgan that he might take his leave and so enter the abbey and his lord, being generous to a fault, had acceded to this request. Unfortunately, for Brother Helias, the horrors of the secular world had given way to disillusionment with the Church. This left him confused: his beliefs and principles had been shattered by his experiences in Ireland; he had entered the abbey in search of a Grail, but he was no longer sure of its shape or its form. Guardedly, Brother Leisan nodded towards Brother Helias. Displaying an equal amount of discretion, Brother Helias inclined his head in turn.

Love for the Blessed Lady had been fully expressed; the Salve Regina had been dutifully intoned. Now, Abbot John moved amongst the brethren, sprinkling them with holy water. Suitably blessed, the monks could retire for the evening and rest until the Night Office of Vigils.

As the monks dispersed, some jostling with their fellow brothers, some telling lewd, scurrilous jokes, Brother Leisan and Brother Helias held back. They waited until the monks had entered the south transept and were well on their way to the dormitory. Secure in this knowledge, Brother Leisan glanced over his right shoulder, ensuring that Abbot John and Brother Osbert were well out of sight, hidden as they were, by the corner of the south transept wall. It was then, and only then, when he was certain that no eyes could be set upon him, other than those of God, that Brother Leisan delved into the sleeve of his vestment, removing a roll of parchment from its copious folds. In a smooth and well-practiced manoeuvre, the dexterity of which would have drawn a conjurer’s applause, Brother Leisan transferred the parchment into the sleeve of Brother Helias’ habit. The two brothers then traded glances, but no words were spoken. The exchange complete, Brother Helias lowered his dark, sad eyes before quietly, innocently, striding towards his workshop.

The intense brother had taken no more than two steps when Brother Osbert cried out, ‘Brother Helias!’ filling the south transept with his censorious tones.

It was as if fingers of ice had gripped his shoulder. They held on tight and, slowly, they turned him around. A crimson hue brightened Brother Helias’ sombre features. Averting his gaze, he looked down to the tessellated floor. Lost in thought, Brother Helias failed to notice the coat of arms of the family Despenser, they being overlords of Kenfig and generous benefactors to Margam Abbey. Instead, he saw only a blur, a swirling mass of colour, patterns circling on the diminutive floor tiles. His mind racing, Brother Helias could think only that Brother Osbert had caught sight of the transfer, that his piercing gaze would be his downfall.

‘Brother Prior.’ Brother Helias spoke softly. Slowly, he took a step towards his would-be tormentor.

‘Come quickly, brother!’ Brother Osbert waved his arms around like some demented windmill, the blades of which had been caught in a storm. ‘Father Abbot is in need of your ministration!’

His sense of relief was palpable. Brother Osbert had not witnessed the exchange after all. Instead, Abbot John lay stricken, slumped at the altar, a wrinkled, blood-blotched hand placed against his forehead. If Brother Helias had been of a calm mind, he would have noted that Brother Leisan had remained unmoved throughout the hiatus; he had retained his sanctimonious air, his persona remaining as pure as the abbey’s whitewashed walls. For Brother Helias, the urge to run had abated. A sense of decorum and virtue could be maintained after all.

Slipping his right hand into the left sleeve of his habit, Brother Helias clutched at the parchment, holding it tight. Reassured that it was secure, he then hurried towards the abbot.

Brother Osbert was at the old man’s side, placing a steadying hand to the abbot’s left elbow. ‘Father Abbot has been taken by one of his sick headaches.’ Brother Helias was dutifully informed. ‘He is in need of a balm from your workshop.’

‘I am fine.’ The abbot waved a weary, exasperated hand towards the prior. ‘Get to your bed. Let me rest.’

‘You have been working too hard,’ Brother Osbert insisted. He placed his thin lips close to the abbot’s ear, lowering his voice to a whisper: ‘You are worried about the king’s visit?’

‘The king’s visit is in good hands – your hands.’ The abbot took hold of the prior’s hand, patting it with enough warmth to thaw a thousand frosts. ‘Your hands,’ he repeated. ‘I have no worries there.’

As Abbot John offered his words of reassurance to the prior, Brother Helias noted that the brethren had retraced their steps and that they were now gazing upon their stricken leader. This drew forth a frown of disapproval from the old man, for he loathed over-fussiness and any sense of unwarranted attention; he believed that if a man had to suffer, then he should be allowed to do so on his own terms.

‘Get to your beds,’ the abbot ordered, whilst making a feeble attempt to ease himself away from the prior’s support. ‘Hear me all: I am tired, but I am well.’

Reluctantly, uncertainly, the brothers withdrew, taking with them diverse thoughts pertaining to their sickly abbot, thoughts that they would share with each other when resting that night in the comfort of their beds.

Brother Osbert was not so easily dissuaded, however, and he clung on to the abbot’s sleeve, frenetically, frantically, fussing around him like a mother hen. ‘But you seem troubled,’ the prior persisted. ‘Let me look into your eyes.’ He bent a knee and squatted before the abbot, his ghostly lips pursed as he made his assessment. ‘Yes, just as I thought; your eyes are bloodshot. You will not obtain any relief until you allow Brother Helias to make a balm for your head.’

Reluctantly, Abbot John conceded that the prior was correct. Such headaches had pained him since adolescence; they were a periodic cross that he was forced to bear. Relief only came from the balm blended by Brother Helias; the old abbot acknowledged that it was time to call upon his gifts once again.

‘You are right, Brother Prior. I shall go to my bed and I shall take my medicine. Brother Helias…’ With the bending of his right index finger, all gnarled and crooked, Abbot John summoned his herbalist. ‘If you will be so kind as to prepare a poultice…Please bring it to my chamber. I shall lie in wait for you there.’

Reverentially, Brother Helias inclined his head. His fingers were still clutching the illicit parchment, ensuring that it remained secure, that not so much as an inch should reveal itself. He watched as the abbot, supported by the prior, left the altar, both followed by Brother Leisan, who proceeded to walk straight ahead. Not once did the precentor turn to look back at Brother Helias, for there was no need: their plans had been well made and each man knew how to conduct himself.

With that thought in mind, Brother Helias crossed the cloister and hastened towards his workshop, this being situated outside the enclave of the abbey, beyond its imposing stone walls. Normally, Brother Helias’ mentor, Brother Ithenard, would have tended to the abbot. However, the elderly brother had taken a fall late in winter and was recuperating in the abbey infirmary. Not that Brother Helias lacked confidence in his task; Brother Ithenard had been a good teacher and Helias an eager pupil; much knowledge and skill had been acquired these past four years.

When he arrived at his workshop, Brother Helias found the place in darkness, save for a soft, suppressed glow from a fire, under curfew. After hiding the parchment in a large earthenware pot, Brother Helias withdrew the curfew. Then, he applied a bellows to the fire, encouraging a bright orange flame. When that flame had risen to a satisfactory heat and light, he fired a lantern and proceeded to search amongst his herbs, placed, as they were, high upon a shelf, out of harm’s way. Locating a measure of barley, he sprinkled it into a suitable pot, transferring that pot on to the fire, so that the contents might boil. To the pot, Brother Helias added a handful of betony and vervain. When the concoction had boiled and simmered to Brother Helias’ satisfaction, he took a pair of tongs and removed the pot from the fire, draining away the excess water and placing the mash upon a dry, clean cloth. The herbs were then wrapped in the cloth, ready for the whole to be placed upon the sick abbot’s forehead. Satisfied with his alchemy, Brother Helias prepared his return to the abbey. He was about to gather up the poultice only for a cold blast of wind to ruffle both his habit and the flames in the hearth. Startled, the monk looked up, his jaw dropping as he found the imposing figure of Rig Fitzsimon, chief sergeant to the borough of Kenfig and keeper of the peace, framed in the doorway.

Entering the workshop, Rig closed the door. He was the bastard son of Simon St Quentin de Orchard, a wealthy lord of dubious moral standing and doubtful character. Rig’s mother, a lady with a reputation as vast as any ocean, was said to be free with her favours, having a particular penchant for the rich and the well groomed. Strong and menacing, with a dark, brooding presence, Rig Fitzsimon was exceptionally tall, broad shouldered and powerfully built. He had fair, wavy hair, swept back from his forehead, a long, thin nose and dark, hooded eyes, set close. He was wearing a long, quilted tunic, a deep red in colour. The tunic covered a shirt of closely linked mail, visible at the collar. His shoes and belt were made of leather, his belt sitting low upon his hip, weighed down, as it was, by a particularly heavy broadsword. Like Brother Helias, Rig had also served King Richard in Ireland. Though, unlike the good brother, the mercenary had thoroughly enjoyed his time there, glorying in the bloodshed and the violence, enhancing his reputation through the slaughter, so much so that upon his return to Kenfig he had been offered the position of chief sergeant.

‘I was just leaving.’ In a somewhat nervous, agitated fashion, Brother Helias fingered the poultice. He offered up the remedy, presenting it to the chief sergeant, as if to indicate its benign nature: after all, he was a law-abiding man; he had nothing to hide. ‘I must take this cure to my lord abbot.’

‘The abbot can wait.’ Rig’s voice was hard and imposing. He crossed the workshop floor and he stood, broad and tall, his shoulder resting insolently against the wattle and daub wall. Beside Rig’s head, level with his eyes, sat the jar, the earthenware pot containing the scroll of illicit parchment. Brother Helias eyed the pot uneasily; he began to perspire profusely, beads of sweat trickling over his brow. However, Rig remained unaware of this; he had removed a dagger from his belt and was busying himself, cleaning his fingernails. He looked up from his manicure and smiled at Brother Helias: ‘We have business to discuss.’

Reluctantly, Brother Helias set the poultice to one side. He averted his gaze, staring into the fire’s rich flame. ‘We have nothing more to say to one another.’ He glanced up, briefly, peering anywhere but into Rig’s intimidating eyes. ‘I made my feelings plain the last time we spoke.’

‘Not one month ago you agreed to make a poison. You swore an oath: to get rid of this accursed king.’

‘The only oath that I have taken is to serve My Lord God.’

‘You swore that you would make the poison!’ Rig’s vociferous tones shook the workshop, disturbing the herbalist, shattering a veneer of confidence that was but parchment thin. Cringing, Brother Helias fingered the threads of his habit, his face matching the garment’s colour as it faded into virgin white.

‘I did,’ Brother Helias conceded. ‘I said that I would help you. But my heart and my thoughts have changed upon this matter. I bid you, take your leave, let me free from your plan.’

Rig laughed, the laugh of the Devil: wicked, perverted, alluring. ‘Oh, that it were that easy. But we have invested time, set our plans around you, brother. You cannot withdraw now.’ Sheathing his dagger, the chief sergeant drew his broadsword, placing its tip at the quivering brother’s neck. ‘I am here to remind you of that fact. I am here to ensure that you proceed.’

‘Run me through.’ Brother Helias closed his eyes and offered up a silent prayer to the Blessed Virgin. ‘But what will you gain by my murder? Please accept that I cannot perform the task; my conscience will not allow.’

‘Not one month ago, you were keen; you displayed a fervour like no other. Who has changed your mind? With whom have you talked?’

As Rig’s broadsword drew blood, Brother Helias had to concede the truth in this statement: when his former lord, Morgan de Avene, had approached him, Brother Helias had been keen to play a part in the matter, for he resented the king with a passion rooted deep within his soul. That resentment still burned, born out of Ireland, fuelled by the king’s capricious nature and his disregard for his people. The monk felt that if ever a man deserved to receive the punishment of his peers, then Richard was that man. However, all this had occurred before Brother Helias’ conversion, before a chance conversation with Brother Leisan had led him along a more glorious path. True, this path too was strewn with rocks and with boulders; dangers presented themselves at every turn. Nevertheless, Brother Helias felt that these dangers could be faced, that the journey was both noble and glorious. He had found a cause that begged his commitment, one that rested easily upon his mind. And yet, at night, when all was quiet, demons were still wont to torment him. Why couldn’t he find peace? Why wouldn’t they leave him alone!

Brother Helias opened his eyes only to notice specks of red upon his habit, droplets of blood, born from his trembling, for with each shake of his body Rig’s sword had cut a little deeper, until the moment arrived when the monk could stand this torture no more. Taking his courage into his hands, he leapt free of his tormentor, scurrying to the safety of the open door.

Once outside, Brother Helias felt that he could confront the chief sergeant. Calling to mind the strength of the Trinity, he felt sure that he would come to no harm. With this holy shield to protect him, he raised an arm, extended a finger and pointed towards Rig, as if daring him to raise his sword again and take up arms. When this did not happen, Brother Helias felt his breathing return to normal; he felt free to speak, to present a façade of calm.

‘I have talked with God. I have found my direction. I can help you no longer. I beg you to go. I will not betray you. Please find another. Rest assured, your plot will lie safe in my knowledge; I will spread its word to no man.’

Grinding his teeth, Rig sheathed his sword before gathering up the poultice. He threw the dressing at the monk, who caught it with juggling hands.

‘Return to your abbot!’ Rig’s face was like thunder, the echo of his tenor resounding just as loud. ‘But I remind you again, this cannot be the end of the matter. I shall return,’ he informed the monk as he pushed his way beyond him, ‘and I shall hold you to our terms, for no man, regardless of his standing, shall present a moat to our plan.’

* * *

Anest gazed at the baby and smiled. Her smile was one of satisfaction, born of assisting the infant into this world. Meanwhile, the baby’s mother, Ceinlys, a woman of comfortable build and homely nature, sat upon her bed, nursing the child. A bout of colic had brought forth tears and tantrums, but a soothing cordial, a mixture of cumin and anise provided by Anest, had brought both relief and silence to the homestead. The cordial had been administered to Ceinlys, the act of suckling ensuring that the child had absorbed its goodness.

Sitting beside Ceinlys was her husband, Meredydd. He was a crofter, farming two acres of land in the vill of Ballas, an indigenous settlement situated one and a half miles to the southeast of the Hall. As lean as a hoe and as proud as any father, Meredydd gazed at the baby with a quiet satisfaction, overjoyed that, after producing three grown-up daughters, he had sired a son.

‘I don’t know how we can thank you.’ Ceinlys blushed with gratitude, pulling her shawl close around her baby, keeping out the evening chill. ‘Once again, we are in your debt.’

‘Your husband has rewarded me well.’ Anest nodded in acknowledgement towards Meredydd, holding aloft a silver penny, a good quarter of the hardworking crofter’s daily wage. ‘I am the one who should be thanking you.’ Offering up a phial of medicine and an earthenware cup, Anest trusted both to Meredydd’s safe keeping. ‘If Medrawd should further complain, take a quarter measure of this linctus, but be sure that four hours should pass between each ministration.’

Ceinlys spoke for herself and for her husband. ‘Be assured, we will heed your words well.’ She kissed her baby’s head, her pride in him palpable, her joy unconfined. More than most, she was a woman born to motherhood, a natural at maternity’s skills and demands. When she looked up, however, to face Anest, there was concern etched on her tender face. ‘But you must be tired. Your bed calls. Allow Meredydd to walk you home.’

‘There is no need.’ Anest’s natural tone was one of reassurance. Sometimes she wondered if her words, and not her herbs, brought the cure, when it came. ‘It is a fine night and the road is safe; I will find my own way home.’

Rising from the bed, Meredydd set down the phial and the earthenware cup before stepping out of the homestead. He walked with Anest, to the dirt track, to the path that led to her home, one mile distant. As they walked, he insisted: ‘If at any time we can help you, you will make use of our labours?’

Anest nodded. ‘Of course, Meredydd. If I am in need of assistance, for any reason, I know where to come.’

Abashed, the crofter stared down at the ground, his fingers tugging at his clothing, his discomfort preventing him from looking Anest straight in the eye. ‘You have been such a strength to us. We could not have coped without you.’

‘You would have found a way, Meredydd. But, all the same, your words do bring me great comfort and joy.’

With a diffident shrug, born both of embarrassment and gratification, Meredydd took a step away from the healer. Looking up and down the dirt tack, he found the road to be clear. Reasoning Anest to be safe, he considered that it was time to rejoin his wife and child.

Anest left Ballas with a feeling of contentment, a glow of satisfaction, warming within. She had all but retired for the night when Meredydd had come calling, seeking her knowledge and her skill. And, without hesitation, she had responded, for Anest gained a sense of purpose through helping the likes of Meredydd; her healing facilitated the easing of her own scars, those wounds obtained on the natural journey through life.

Lost in thought, Anest headed east, following the dirt track as it snaked through the woodland, the trees inviting a sense of confinement and enclosure that would have brought a sense of unease to some. However, Anest felt comfortable for the hoots from the owls and the scurrying of the night creatures made her feel secure and at home.

Anest lived on Stormy Down, in the only cot to remain inhabited. The Down was well named for it was indeed a bleak, desolate place. Ironically, the name was a corruption, taken from the family who had first settled upon the Down. They were called Sturmi. However, when the harsh, uninviting landscape had forced the Sturmis to sell and take their leave, the locals had taken to calling the Down Stormy; the name seemed more appropriate, somehow. And it remained, giving accurate description, leaving no one in any doubt as to the nature of the exposed, windswept Down.

As she walked, Anest thought back to the time when she had first travelled through this woodland, sharing its pleasures with her father, less than a year ago. Like Anest, her father had also been a healer. Indeed, she had learned her skills from him, watching his every move, questioning his every action, seeking the reason behind his every decision. Back then, they had been travellers; along with her mother they had sold their wares, plied their trade, moving from town to town. However, on arriving in Kenfig, Anest’s mother had succumbed to illness, leaving them with no option but to stop travelling and to settle, at least until a cure had been found.

Most of Stormy Down had been gifted to Margam Abbey. Margam Abbey, in turn, rented out plots of land to anyone imprudent enough, or desperate enough, to make a home there. At this point, Anest’s family were close to being beggars, so they knew that they could not be choosers; an agreement was made, the lease was signed and the rent was paid on the first Monday of every month.

All went well in the initial period. However, it soon became apparent that Anest’s mother would not recover. Distraught, her father had abandoned his calling and had settled instead for a life tilling the ground. Neither he, nor the landscape, were best suited to the demands of this labour and, within six months, he had followed his wife into God’s everlasting embrace. These events were still fresh in the memory, and Anest carried her grief, albeit silently, with her, hiding it well, offering instead a pleasant, spirited disposition to the outside world.

Crossing the Roman road, the road that continued from the manor of North Corneli to the settlement of Laleston, Anest stopped and stared into the night sky. The stars, and their formations, were familiar to her and she took great joy in observing their patterns. However, there was something strange about the sky tonight: an object, unidentified, was seen to be glowing, its tail apparently on fire. Upon any other occasion, Anest would have held her position and tried to make sense of her vision, but tonight she was too tired; the lantern burning beside her cot proved more alluring and the thought of her bed offered more comfort than any celestial form.

Wearily, Anest opened her door. She was soon wide-awake, however, stirred by the view displayed before her, for sitting on her bed was Einion ap Rhiryd, a blacksmith from North Corneli. With a build to match his trade, Einion was a strong, burly man with rugged hands and muscular forearms. Thickset and of medium height, he had a mass of curly brown hair, dark, intense eyes and a heavy beard, speckled with fine hairs of grey. Instinctively, Anest had placed a hand to her mouth, in an effort to disguise her surprise. But now she withdrew that hand and fixed Einion with an accusing stare.

‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded.

Einion rose from the bed. He offered up his right hand, and a gift held there within. ‘I made this for you.’ The gift was a beautiful silver brooch depicting a bird in flight; the detail was exquisite, its labour obviously intense. ‘It is a thank you, for tending my wounded hand.’

With a sigh, Anest closed the door and entered her cot. She approached Einion and accepted the brooch, taking it from his yielding fingers. The brooch was pretty, that she had to admit. However, Anest had already received payment for tending Einion’s hand and she felt uncomfortable in accepting this additional gift.

‘Thank you.’ Anest ran her fingers over the brooch, outlining the detail of the bird’s wings. ‘The brooch is lovely and you are very kind. But I feel that you should find another more deserving of such a beautiful gift.’

‘You are deserving!’ Einion was adamant. He held up his left hand and indicated a scar, a mark that ran deep between his thumb and forefinger, the legacy of a wound self-inflicted during the course of his work. ‘Without your skill, I might have lost my hand.’

Anest laughed, a merry sound, a sound sweet enough to charm the birds from the trees. ‘You are exaggerating.’ She took off her veil and placed it upon her chest of clothes. She was feeling more relaxed now, over the initial shock of finding Einion, uninvited, in her home. ‘Your hand was in no danger. Any woman worth her salt would have repaired such a graze.’

‘But you were the woman I turned to.’ Einion took a step towards Anest, placing his large frame in close proximity to her slender body. He reached down and took hold of her left hand, embracing her delicate fingers so that her palm faced upwards, running his fingers over her soft, pure skin. ‘You came to me in my hour of need.’

Disconcerted, Anest removed her hand. She turned her back on Einion; the brief period of calm had given way to a feeling of unease. ‘I did no more than perform my duty. I would have done the same for any man.’

‘But you did it for me.’

Einion attempted to place his arms around Anest’s waist, but she was too quick for him; nimbly, she pulled away. A frown creased her forehead. Tension knotted her shoulders and back. Normally swift of thought and full of resolution, she found herself confused, vulnerable.

‘I am tired,’ Anest conceded. ‘I think you should leave.’

‘I will go.’ The blacksmith’s tone was compliant, yet he showed no sign of departure. ‘But first you must hear me out.’

In resignation, Anest took her place upon the bed, sitting close to its edge. Resting her head in her hands she sighed, ‘What more do you have to say?’

‘I would like you to be my wife.’

Startled, Anest looked up, her eyes as wide as a knight’s shield. Was she really holding this conversation? She felt as though she had wandered into a bad dream. It was clear that Einion was both serious and sincere, but Anest wanted no part of his proposal. How to decline the blacksmith’s offer without hurting his feelings?

‘I am flattered, but I am not well disposed to marriage.’

‘Why not?’ Einion demanded an answer. ‘Explain yourself; make your words plain.’

‘Very well.’ Anest rose from the bed, drawing herself up to her full height which, even she had to admit, was not all that impressive. ‘I made a vow to myself, to marry only for love, to decline all offer of position or money.’

At this, Einion became angry, his face flushing with rage, his temples throbbing in indignation. ‘You do not love me? You think me nothing more than a poor smithy? Well, let me tell you, a smith I am, and proud of it. I have built my father’s forge into the finest in this land. I have been frugal, careful with my money. I do not have a vast fortune, but I have enough to satisfy any woman’s needs. And I can satisfy yours, if you would but let me.’

‘You make a strong case, but you appeal to the wrong woman. Now…’ Anest took a step towards her door, pulling it open. ‘…it really is time for you to leave.’

Still incensed, Einion took hold of Anest’s hand. Gripping it tightly, he extracted a cry of pain