The Ravenous

By W. B. Baker

Centuries of warfare had barely encroached upon Glamorgans boundaries and any who dared its conquest met with bold resistance. Warriors lurking in the mountains of Wales invited all unwary trespassers to come and taste of death. Such was the case in 1316, when Edward II attempted to resurrect a United Kingdom after the execution of William Wallace.

As Edward and his Nobles would all too soon discover, the rage that English garrisons uncovered across the valleys of Wales would prove to rival any fury of the Scots.

A Magnificent Re-emergence of English Literature For the 21st Century

W. B. Baker has done more through his writing to promote Wales around the world than anyone in recent memory. Stunning imagery and the ability to convey the warmth of Welsh culture combine with historical accuracy to bring Wales its finest champion since Dylan Thomas.

BBC Hall of Fame
Southwest Wales

The British People at Their Finest and Most Magnificent


Shamelessly brutal in his examination of the human heart, W. B. Baker presents Britain a stunning masterpiece of fiction. The Ravenous is Bakers tour de force; the author using his considerable command of the English language to weave a majestic tale of valour and faith.

Tottenham Court Road
London, England

A disturbing indictment of human frailty ... An even more glorius assertion of mans innate nobility


Couched inconspicuously within this modern epic of Wales lie affirmations of the true majesty of humankind Within this moving tale, valiant men and women emerge from the mire of war to exemplify the inextinguishable courage of this nation we call home.

Pwllypant
Caerphilly, Wales







REVIEWS FROM AROUND THE WORLD

David McAlister in Kansas City, Missouri

I feel that Dr. Baker is not only a very gifted author, he is also one of the most interesting and compassionate individuals it has been my good fortune to call friend.

Mitchell in New York, New York

Great to see people talking about this author!

I agree - The Ravenous - is probably Bakers strongest work so far. In-depth historical research into Edward II and a compelling storyline. GREAT BATTLE SCENES and some of the best poetry Ive come across in years.

Gillian in Edinburgh, Scotland

WHSmith now offers THE RAVENOUS and several of his other books! I couldnt find them at several bookstores, but they are all available on the internet.

REALLY Brilliant writing!

A touching account (The Ravenous) of a father and daughter trying to come to deal with war and its effect on their lives. Extremely well researched.

Some of the best British storytelling out there!

Geoffrey Crawley from London, England

An extremely competent writer who has combined engrossing historical fiction with, undoubtedly, the finest iambic pentametre verse England has seen in the last hundred years.

In The Ravenous, Baker uses the character of the Welsh poet to give us compelling moral principles such as:

My Lord, the simplest truth may miss mans groans

When he, in conquest of mere piece of land,

Forgets he fights above his fathers bones,

And only briefly in the sun may stand.

Despite the gains of life, his finite hand

May only once caress the timeless stone,

That stands forever, top the Dark Unknown.

and

For ju

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 25, 2007
• ISBN: 9781465317827

W. B. Baker

Member of The Most Excellent Order of the British Empire, the author has been recognized by the Congress of the United States of America and awarded the Queen’s Golden Jubilee Medal for his contributions to Literature. W. B. Baker has been honoured with inclusion in Gale (Cengage) Contemporary Authors, Who’s Who in The World, The Magistracy Medal of Honour (Order of St George), Top 100 Writers Author Laureate (Cambridge, England), and recognised with a Resolution from the Missouri Senate (United States). Enthusiastic readers in forty-one countries around the world attest to this author’s breath-taking imagery and his ability to convey the uncommon faith and courage of the British nation. “Kudos to the author for clouting our sensibilities – in an unapologetic attempt to awaken England’s devotion to a grand and goodly heritage … and his tireless service to the United Kingdom, its culture and its people.” — Royal Tunbridge Wells

Book preview

Copyright © 2007 by W. B. Baker.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage

and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the

copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used

fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or

dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

38785

Contents

By The Same Author

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Author’s Introduction

Maps

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Selected Bibliography

For

Missy

The English Hearing Dog

For Help, Courage, and Faithfulness

To my friends

Michael and Marion

In Southampton, England

&

My own puppies for putting up with me

God made Man, and He gave him three great gifts:

His Son—that mankind might discover Life,

Woman—that his creature might find Love,

and Dogs—that men might learn of Nobility.

By The Same Author

Ordeal Of The Dragon

Xlibris/Random House

Philadelphia, PA; USA.

2006

Vault Of The Griffin

Xlibris/Random House

Philadelphia, PA; USA.

2004

The Orphans of Carmarthen

Xlibris/Random House

Philadelphia, PA; USA.

2001

A Solitary Frost

Xlibris/Random House

Philadelphia, PA; USA.

2000

A Solitary Frost

New Millennium Publishers

(First Edition)

London, England; UK.

1998

The Director’s Handbook

A Survival Guide for the Theatre Director

(Private Printing)

Kansas City, Missouri; USA

1995

Celtic Mythological Influences on American Theatre

(Chwedioniaeth Geltaidd Dylanwad

Ar Chwaraedy Americanaidd)

University Press of America

London; New York.

1994

About the Author

Dr. William Baker (PgD, PhD, DLitt, ThD, DPhil) conducted his graduate studies at The University of Hawaii at Manoa and at Coleg Y Brifysgol Caerdydd/University Of Wales (United Kingdom). A Rotary Foundation International Graduate Fellow, he later studied at The Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London, and holds earned Doctorates in Theatre History (PhD), a Doctor of Letters (DLitt), a Doctorate in Theology (ThD), and a Doctorate of Philosophy in Comparative Religions (DPhil).

Stage and film credits include performances in England, France, and Wales; with affiliations featuring BBC Radio Wales, The National Theatre of Wales, The International Festival of University Theatre, along with numerous appearances on ABC, the BBC, CBS, NBC, 20th Century FOX, and films produced by Miramax Pictures, Orion Films, and Universal Pictures.

Previously a university professor and Departmental Chairman, Dr. Baker’s publications include: Celtic Mythological Influences on American Theatre (London/New York), The Director’s Handbook, A Solitary Frost (London), The Orphans Of Carmarthen, Vault Of The Griffin, and Ordeal Of The Dragon (Philadelphia). His poetry, texts, and novels are currently available in bookstores around the world and at Amazon.co.uk, Biblio (United Kingdom), from Books.MusicaBona.Cz (Ceske Republice), Bundesministerium fur Wirtschaft und Arbeit, (DE) Buch, de: die ganze medienwelt (Germany), Kinokuniya BookWeb (Japan), the World Retail Store, The Lawyer Book Store, and History Bookshop.com.

William Baker’s extensive academic and professional biography is catalogued in The Cambridge Blue Book, The Worldwide Honours List, Who’s Who in the World (Marquis), and Contemporary Authors (Thomson Gale). The author has been awarded numerous honours and citations, including: The International Peace Prize (United Cultural Convention), Top 100 Writers (Author Laureate), Man Of The Year (USA), Men of Achievement (Cambridge), Outstanding Intellectuals of the 21st Century (UK), Great Minds of the Twenty-First Century (ABI), The Royal Edition of The Dictionary of International Biography (Melrose Press), and an Investiture of Knighthood from The International Order of St. George (KtOBE). Additionally, he has been nominated for such prestigious awards as The American Medal of Honour, The International Medal Of Freedom, International Writer of the Year (England), and The International Authors and Writers Who’s Who.

W. B. Baker was bestowed The Queens Golden Jubilee Medal at the command of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, upon receiving the commendation of His Grace, The Most Reverend and Right Honourable Dr. Rowan Williams, Archbishop Of Canterbury, in recognition for outstanding contributions to the Monarchy of the United Kingdom. Additionally, he recently received a vestment as Companion of the Order and Knight Grand Cross of the International Chivalric Order of St. George (Great Britain), and serves as Diplomatic Attaché for The Peers Of The Black Raven (England). Recent accolades include a State Senate Resolution in his honour and a Congressional Tribute from The House of Representatives of the Congress of the United States in Washington, DC.

Acknowledgements

There are many individuals who should, in all fairness, receive special acknowledgment and commendation for their invaluable assistance with regard to the historical investigation and research necessary for the production of this fictional work set in the region of Glamorgan and, specifically, within the village of Caerphilly, Wales.

Gratitude and admiration is humbly offered to Lady Marion Veronica Brett and The Right Reverend Michael Greene-Butler of Southampton, England; whose friendship and support over the many years have inspired my attempts to capture something of their nobility. Noteworthy appreciation is, likewise, extended to the following individuals and organisations for their contributions, time, and expertise:

CADW

Welsh Historic Monuments

Cathays Park, Cardiff

Great Britain

Julian Thomas

Brenda Cook

Caerphilly Castle

Caerphilly, Mid Glamorgan

Wales

Cyngor Bwrdeistref Sirol

Caerffili

Pecadlys Llyfrgelloedd

Pontllanfraith, Coed Duon

Caerphilly Local Studies Collection

English & Cymraeg

Caerphilly, Blackwood, Rhymney, and Bargoed

Glamorgan

Nic Pitman

Community Librarian

Caerphilly

Helen Lerry

Julie Lancaster

Daniel Morgan

Library Assistants

Caerphilly

Maureen Bowler

Janice Pratten

Supply Library Assistants

Caerphilly

The Library of Bargoed

The Square

Bargoed, Wales

Steve Kings

Senior Library Assistant

Bargoed

Leighton James

Library Assistant

Bargoed

Nigel W. Phillips

Bryncenydd House

Nantgarw Road

Caerphilly

Stephanie Davies

Jane Steward

The Model House

Llantrisant

Colin Cranness

Postmaster

Llantrisant

And

The National Library of Wales

Aberstwyth, Wales

* * *

The author would like to especially acknowledge the significant contributions of Julian Thomas and Brenda Cook, caretakers of the secrets of Caerphilly, and Steve Kings, Senior Library Assistant at Bargoed. These three individuals were instrumental in procuring the necessary historical and valuable mythological references utilised within this work of fiction.

It would be remiss of me, indeed, to fail to mention the love of Laura Hendershot. This extraordinary woman’s heroic faith and steadfast passion, combined with her unfathomable conviction to a love I thought had long been lost to time, has proven too great a devotion to ignore; even for a heart as blind as mine.

Appreciation is also extended to my good friends, David and Teresa McAlister, Ruth and Marty Beamer, Charles and Lissa Sloan, and Shelly Mitchell for their continued support and contributions. A special thanks to Marty Beamer for graciously allowing the use of the Author Photo for the book cover. Gratitude is, likewise, extended to Logan and Lily Hendershot; for demonstrating one of humanity’s greatest illustrations—that one is never too old to learn of life’s lessons from a child.

* * *

My highest recognition and appreciation is once more extended to my very dear friend of over twenty-four years, Mr. Gary Scott Mitchell.

Proving time and again his unfailing friendship, this gentle man has willingly offered his critical perspective on matters and themes that often swept my point of view away from the sensible and tumbling toward the sentimental. This humble individual’s perpetual and equally indomitable sense of integrity has, despite all efforts of the man to deny the same, quite often compelled me to rethink and justify my beliefs. I can think of no higher accolade than to say it has been and remains a privilege to call him friend.

Throughout my years of experience and travels around the world as an educator and author, I can quite confidently state that I have never happened to chance across a finer human being.

* * *

Author’s Introduction

Welsh dynasties and clans ruled over Senghenydd, the eastern-most portion of the kingdom of Morgannwg, long before the untimely invasions from Ireland. Their culture survived the four hundred years of oppressive Roman occupation and later met the subsequent Norman invasions from England with the fury of a wounded animal.

Countless years of conflict had only narrowly encroached upon Glamorgan’s boundaries and any who dared presume its conquest met with tenacious, bold resistance. Very much in character like the ferocious clans of Scotland, who have held the Highlands since the dawn of time, the tribal leaders lurking in the mountains to the west in Wales invited all unwary, unrepentant trespassers to come and taste of death.

Though harbouring no united front of central authority, individual tribes and villages swarmed together under the leadership of regional chieftains time and again to face the onslaught of invaders. Such was the case in 1316, when Edward II of England attempted to resurrect the concept of a United Kingdom of the Britons after the capture and execution of William Wallace in 1305.

As Edward and his Nobles would soon discover, the contempt that English garrisons uncovered amidst the mountains of Wales would prove to rival any fury of the Scots.

* * *

As in any work of historical fiction, the writer initiates the plot with extensive research into the period and specific geographic location in question. Such was the case in this instance, with great care being given to the accuracy of what was actually happening in the region of Glamorgan, and Caerphilly specifically, during the period of the Welsh Rebellions.

With regard to characterisation, I must confess that certain of the characters in this novel are shamelessly based upon individuals I have encountered in my travels throughout Great Britain. Whether those individuals are portrayed in positive or negative light, I will leave to the mind of the reader; sufficing only to categorically maintain that the author did everything possible to portray the characters as realistically as possible.

Some of the individuals actually deserve a far better accolade than I can offer them here; while others appear to have lost the plot of life long ago.

—W. B. Baker

Maps

While most readers may be quite familiar with the geography of Britain, it would be sensible to include several illustrations of the region. These should allow readers an opportunity to recognise the importance of Caerphilly during the period of the Welsh Revolts and its comparative location within the United Kingdom. For this very reason, customized illustrations have been included to reveal not only the boundaries of Glamorgan, but the design of the Norman castle constructed at Caerphilly by Richard de Clare.

image1.jpgimage2.jpgimage3.jpg

Prologue

A great grey wall of stone yet stands there, sir,

With skin etched white, time’s aged battle won;

On fields where stalwart lads, if e’er there were,

Bright honed long blades by glare of morning sun,

Beyond yon heathered hill, the battle done;

Where meadows spread fine shifts with flowers pearled

To cradle hills from time and wearied world.

Half-thousand years true massive monarch stands,

Defiant ’gainst black rage of vengeance vowed;

Cold, close-tongued champion watching over lands

Entrusted to thick bulwarks, high and proud;

Whose glorious, metered song of speechless sound

Strikes ancient melody, both fond and fair,

In chords of seabirds piping through the air.

Full-circled wall cries out to circled kin,

Against whose ramparts morning shadows creep,

To ponder long the calumny of men

Who fell to drown in waters, dark and deep;

And lie entombed between those walls in sleep.

This once-proud bastion half-forgotten lies,

To view the world through lichen-covered eyes.

Yet grey-eyed lovers now walk hand in hand;

Along the lilied moat they take their rest,

While unseen men, three thousand slain, do stand

And long for brief embrace against her breast;

And for such, trade their sweet, eternal rest;

And yet; no one hears, or sees, or minds them,

As they dew the grass with eyes, wet and dim.

And well, sir, you may ask, ‘How can this be?’

To mark that here no noble blood hath vied.

And right you are, so far as you may see;

For with the day, no gentle ladies cried,

Or cross the naked, beaten valley spied

The sight of lover, father, son, or friend;

And with their loss did feel the world to end.

Yet, tears there rained like Noah’s ancient flood,

For all the lads that mothers saw no more;

Who purchases ideologies with blood,

And hobbled crippled home to cottage door.

For certain, truth stands true forevermore:

Aristocracy immolates the fate

Of common men, to give own status weight.

For souls must know, kind sirs and ladies near,

Each step you take, this castle wall around,

In morning dew, for those forgotten here,

Writes epitaph in grass that covers ground.

As noiseless wings do soft same wall surround:

So soft, no ear may hear their ancient song,

They soundless talk with those who walk along.

Yet, ken: no sweep may sever hollow tread,

As limpid time provides thin, windowed door;

That ambulated gaits of hallowed dead

Articulate of deeds done late before

Our time; and souls wait near the crystal shore:

To cyclic turn and mould transparent time,

Perchance lives past at last entwine with thine.

For whom but man could profane such a world,

And in Love’s name, pass blind by all God wrought?

And whom but woman in finery pearled,

Would overlook greater love than she sought?

Both wish for more than can ever be bought.

Me’ thinks, this is then the folly of man:

To ever want more than fits in his hand.

Winds ever sift the shifting sands of time,

And for heav’n, not for man, cool breezes moan;

So poets plant within the lines of rhyme

The unborn seed of wisdom timely sown;

Still, may lost riddle of thick broken stone

Ne’er be found, for men must, ’ere search begin,

Conception see to comprehend the end.

—Warin of Llanhennock

The Siege at Caerphilly

Chapter One

Screams shrieked through Warin’s mind; so sharp they seemed to slice through his ears and tried their best to lacerate his brain.

The morning fog cut back abruptly at the edge of the stream. It seemed almost as if the water secretly marked an unseen boundary: the gods of heaven or of war concluding how the brutal conflict might unfold. Welsh ponies held their gait against the mist; unwilling to launch their weight against the fog. Their hooves splashed noiselessly into the mud: conspicuously hushed amidst the sharp clanks of steel and moans of groaning leather.

Silence had seized the voice and mind of even the most exuberant, as if all gathered there were waiting for the invisible hand of Death to step up from behind and softly tap each upon his shoulder.

From the most gallant to the most menial, they stood there upon the bank: anonymous silhouettes hulking together within the early morning mist. Like frantic rabbits in a snare, widened eyes darted furiously to and fro—searching for kin or friend to calm the dread that began to swell up in their throats.

Terror more than territory seared its brand upon their collective chests: the young frightened of falling anonymously; the old troubled at the prospect of abandoning their families back home to hard-hearted fate. Dying drenched with the blood of one’s enemy held no horror for the youths; the thought of being felled by an errant, un-aimed arrow or bleeding to death from the hack of a flailing, random blade was far more horrendous. To fall in obscure, unrecognised anonymity like stalks of wheat before the scythe painted sheer panic across their ruddy faces.

Conversely, the old soldiers gave no thought to dying; focusing their fears on the all too real possibilities of pain. Death was something each had considered and accepted as simply inevitable. Excruciating, blinding pain was, to the battle-hardened, far more horrific. It came upon one without grace or mercy, filling the air with gurgling, high-pitched screams that drowned out commands and bravery with equal indiscretion.

For any who had heard those unholy screams before, death held little consequence.

Sunlight broke through the fleece of dawn and tore through the fog like gauze. Those high upon the wall, crouched safely behind cool blocks of stone, were sickened at what the daylight now revealed. No mob of dirty peasants gathered below them on the heath, armed with wooden implements or hayforks. Rather, the mist rolled back to expose the gleaming teeth of a beast with at least ten thousand eyes; whose curved and razor-like talons waited to dismember any unlucky soul who managed to fall from their narrow perch into its maw. The Welsh had been magically transformed into a honed behemoth of hammered steel; that now undulated in rippling waves across the meadow and slammed against the parapets of stone.

Silent fury shook the roughly hewn planks of wood; that now seemed far too feeble to even slow the swell of humanity that appeared to float over the moat and crash against the curtain wall and towers. Further, the breeze was filled with shrieks of stamping steeds, whose chiselled hooves waded through ally and enemy alike and splayed through tangled, dying men amidst this bloody threshold of Hell.

Along the periphery, black dogs of war, with broad paws soaked in blood, broke their leather leads like flax and darted back and forth amidst the fray. Massive yellowed jaws slashed and gnawed the leg of horse and man alike. Hundreds of Welsh footmen fell by scores from the escarpments into the flotsam in the moats. The unlucky bastards thrashed about in futile struggles until drowned by even more who fell and forced their bodies beneath the mire.

The panorama winked like a prism: shifting from gleams of white and brightly coloured banners to a uniform shade of crimson. Blood saturated everything and everyone: a slick and spurting tide that rose from the very midst to saturate and drench all unfortunate enough to wander out upon the field. So great the din became that one could not discern the screams of men or steeds: the cacophony very much resembling a dissonant symphony from Hell. Underscored by the beat of distant drums, the clanks of cutting blades and steel only served to punctuate the discordant harmony of madness and confusion.

Still, on they came, that fury of human tide.

As one, they rose like a breaker of flesh and bone and crashed feverishly and mindlessly against the defenders of that blue-grey wall of stone. On and on, till the bastions themselves tinged red beneath the spray. The lucky few fell dead immediately beneath the indiscriminate barrage of arrows and dripping swords. Most, though, were not so fortunate: to have arms or legs hacked through by whirring axes and merciless blades.

Thousands fell, with flailing arms and sightless eyes, as legions pressed on and stamped them underfoot—likewise on their way to die.

* * *

Warin screamed.

The farmer bolted up from bed, suffocating under an invisible shroud of astonishment. Stricken with such an overwhelming sense of dread that the old man could not move, Warin was terrified so completely that, for all his strength, it was all he could do to force himself to breathe.

Naked, he lay there, alone upon his bed: trembling uncontrollably; tears streaming down his cheeks as he fought to wake and shake his consciousness free from the garish nightmare.

Unaware of the imagined horror, his old dog had scrambled to his side, frantically wagging his tail so furiously that it now beat uncontrollably against his master’s thighs. The old man pulled his best friend’s muzzle close against his face and cried.

Caerphilly was calling him once more.

* * *

Chapter Two

The Lady was a whore.

Nervous laughter sliced through the evening air and cleft apart the twilight like a sword: coquettish giggles that strangely seemed to pacify the men that huddled together around the scattered fires. The young women had learned its value from the onset: desperate men who visited their tents invariably preferred their conquests to be naïve. Quickly realising that her very survival might well depend upon such an insignificant intonation, forced strains of naïveté became the unspoken rule of the day.

No newcomer to the unwelcome touch of strangers: of brutish men whose throated grunts and greasy hands did nothing to remind the slip of a girl of her femininity; of men in finery as well—whose pallid complexions mirrored the equally pale condition of their souls.

All brackish men, who exchanged small slices of themselves and the eternal for brief shelter from the loneliness that, nightly it seemed, stormed the bastions of their souls.

The teenage prostitute was not all that much better, she supposed.

For, if it could ever be confirmed that the act of making love compelled a girl to freely forfeit a secret allotment of her soul to passionless men;