Forgotten Dragons: The Madoc Chronicles, #1

By Dai Pryce

300 Years' before Columbus there was a Welsh prince named, Madoc

Cherokee folklore tells of a brave group of moon-eyed, pale-skinned explorers who many generations ago crossed a great water to reach their lands. These people called themselves Welsh, and their story begins here . . .

The North Wales princedom of Gwynedd mourns the death of its greatest leader, Owain. Not all grieve though, his son Dafydd, positions himself for an audacious power grab.
Owain's bastard son, Madoc unearths evidence of a murderous plot, but his duplicitous half-brother Dafydd is one step ahead of him. Caught up in a sibling power struggle, the net closes on Madoc, but a chance meeting with an old friend from the Norse city of Dublin offers him an escape route, although there is a grave price to pay.

Exiled in Dublin, a plan is hatched for a triumphant return to Gwynedd, but there are bumps in the road to negotiate. One of the agents sent back to garner support for the cause is captured, while their host's beautiful daughter proves to be a fatal attraction for Madoc's boisterous young half-brother, Cynwrig.

The story reaches its dramatic and heart wrenching climax on the ancient druidic island of Anglesey. Will Madoc succeed in restoring order and justice to his homeland, or does a wondrous new world far across the ocean beckon?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ddraig Goch
• Release date: Jun 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215977934

Dai Pryce

Born and bred in North Wales; after graduating from The University of Leeds with a Mining Engineering degree, Dai spent the next seven years living and working (often four km underground) in Southern Africa. This was followed by spells living in California and London. Although calling the beautiful state of Colorado his home, he returns to Wales on a regular basis to visit family and soak up that indefinable magical atmosphere and experience the sense of belonging he feels nowhere else – a Hiraeth if you will. Proper fish and chips and CAMRA pubs serving real ale are the icing on the bara brith.

Book preview

Forgotten Dragons

The Madoc Chronicles, Volume 1

Dai Pryce

Published by Ddraig Goch, 2022.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

FORGOTTEN DRAGONS

First edition. June 3, 2022.

Copyright © 2022 Dai Pryce.

ISBN: 979-8215977934

Written by Dai Pryce.

To my Mum and Dad, who always encouraged my inquiring mind and who were always there for me growing up and beyond. To my sister for being the solid rock at home, as a counterpoint to my gypsy tendencies over the years, and of course for setting the benchmark for me to follow at school. To Nigel, for introducing me to the story of Madoc in the first place. To Jon, for his invaluable help and advice on editing – cheers mate. And to Tamara, without whose encouragement, I probably would never have started this book in the first place

Forgotten Dragons

The Chronicles of Madoc, America’s first Welshman

Book 1

By

Dai Pryce

Copyright © 2017 by David MacCallum-Price

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For sound files to help with the pronunciation of Welsh names, plus lots of other useful information, please head over to wales2america.com.

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from David MacCallum-Price.

All artwork by David MacCallum-Price

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Dolwyddelan Castle, 1169

With the sky bathed in delicate amber and crimson, a tall, broad figure stood on the ramparts of the castle, watching the sun sink behind the glorious mountains to the west.

With long flowing golden locks and noble bearing, he looked every inch the ruler he was. Having dismissed the guards who usually prowled the walls, he was alone with his thoughts.

Heavy footfall on the wooden steps broke into his quiet contemplation and he span around. The new arrival was at least twenty years’ the older man’s junior.

Oh, it’s you Dafydd. Did your mother send you? No matter, I have chosen my successor and plan to make the official announcement on the morrow. The matter is closed. And you can tell your mother the same.

As you say, father, but perhaps you might reconsider? For the sake of Gwynedd.

For the sake of Gwynedd, the older man parroted, with a shake of the head.

You have some gall, I’ll give you that, but as I say, my decision is made.

Dafydd shrugged his shoulders as his narrow lips cracked into a smile.

As you wish. But perhaps a little peace offering? He held up a goblet. Some wine will assuredly complement such a spectacular end to the day.

Accepting the proffered goblet, the older man raised it to his lips. The final remnants of the sun caused the golden cup to shimmer as he tilted his head back. He cast his gaze back out to the mountains. The white topped peaks suddenly blurred and his head began to swim. Instinctively, he reached out toward the castle wall with his right hand, and the goblet clattered to the floor. Steadying himself momentarily, he swiveled his big frame around.

What have you done, boy?

He staggered toward Dafydd and in three strides was standing in front of him.

I said, what have you done? The older man reached out with one of his big hands.

Dafydd adroitly stepped aside. I’m sorry father, but as I said. It's for the good of Gwynedd. He watched as his father overbalanced and tumbled down the wooden steps.

In four paces, Dafydd was at the wall. He crouched down and scooped up the goblet. He heard a scream from below as he stuffed it inside his tunic.

Standing up straight, he ran to the top of the steps and seconds later had joined the small group of people gathered around his father.

One of the palace guards attending to the prone figure looked up. What happened, Prince Dafydd, sir?

We were on the ramparts enjoying the sunset; father was re-telling a story about the ambush of the English king, Henry, at Ewloe.

A brief smile of recollection flashed across the guard’s face.

When all of a sudden he overbalanced. I tried to grab him, but . . . Dafydd’s voice trailed off; false anguish etched across his face.

The guard lowered his ear to the old man’s mouth. I detect a breath, but it is faint.

For the briefest of moments, the look on Dafydd’s face turned from anguish to disquiet, before he quickly recovered his composure.

Carry Prince Owain to his chambers, he ordered.

The two palace guards gently lifted the old man.

†

How long has the physician been attending to him, mother? Prince Dafydd asked.

Princess Cristin pursed her thin lips. Long enough for him to ascertain your father’s chances of surviving.

Has he retained consciousness? Dafydd asked.

She frowned. Not as yet. Luckily for you.

The door opened and a tall, well-dressed thin man emerged. He bowed to both of them.

"I’m afraid the prognosis is not good. I would suggest a priest be called so that the prince may receive the sacrament. Sadly, he is no state to make a final confession.

Dafydd glanced at his mother, but she remained stony faced.

The physician bowed once more. Should I fetch the priest to attend to your husband, my lady?

Princess Cristin waved a dismissive hand. If you would be so kind.

And Prince Hywel?

Her eyes narrowed. Why do you ask?

As Prince Owain’s elder son and heir apparent, surely it is only right that he should be at his father’s side when he passes.

Heir apparent, she snapped. Unless my husband made a pronouncement I was unaware of, no such conclusion can be reached.

But it was my understanding that only yesterday, Prince Owain uttered such words. Indeed, your husband’s favorite bard, Cydifor, was instructed to compose a verse especially for this very eventuality.

Dafydd took a step forward, hand casually resting on the hilt of the sword dangling from his hip.

The physician took a half-step back and bowed for the third time. Perhaps I am mistaken. In any case, if I have caused offense, then I offer my most profound apologies.

Cristin’s mouth cracked into a forced smile. No, you are right. My stepson should be at his father’s side. If you would be so kind as to arrange it.

As you wish, my lady. The physician swiveled on the spot and strode off.

Dafydd frowned. I wasn’t aware he’d informed others of his decision.

Cristin nodded. Yes, that is an unfortunate turn of events. But it simply means we shall have to be patient.

She ran the back of her hand gently down Dafydd’s face. Do not worry, my son. Your time will come.

CHAPTER 1 - Assassin

The faint roar grew louder as the four riders trotted down the narrow path. Rounding the bend rewarded them with the sight and sound of the Llygwy River cascading over rocky outcrops, water frothing and foaming like ale in a giant tankard.

With her blue eyes sparkling with excitement, the pretty girl implored. Can I get closer? Please Madoc?

Prince Madoc smiled. Ioan can you escort Princess Angharad down to the riverbank?

The strapping young palace guard nodded and dismounted. He reached up a muscular arm and helped Angharad off her horse.

With the princess hiking her skirt to avoid the mud, the two of them scrambled down the steep trail towards the raging torrent.

And be careful, Madoc shouted.

Angharad waved a dismissive hand over her right shoulder.

Atop his horse next to Madoc, the young man shook his head. Don't fuss Madoc, she's seventeen, and your half-sister, not your daughter.

I know Idwal, but having watched her grow up, it's hard not to. Perhaps if Gwen and I had been blessed with children, I might feel different?

Prince Madoc’s younger sibling smiled. Your time will come.

Madoc recalled the visit he and his wife had made to the soothsayer. He had reluctantly agreed just to please Gwen and could still hear the old woman's barely coherent wailing. Something about not understanding why the spirits were casting a dark cloud over such a pretty lady. Despite his protestations that they were the ramblings of a godless heathen, his wife convinced herself that it meant she would remain childless.

He turned toward the river where his half-sister teetered precariously on a rock.

Angharad, it’s time we were leaving.

But Madoc, we've barely got here.

But nothing. You knew we couldn't stay long when I agreed to this little diversion. We have to catch up with the others.

Angharad frowned, but when her handsome chaperone held out his hand, she dutifully grasped it. As he pulled, she fell forward, and her pert breasts pressed against his chest as he caught her.

Angharad's cheeks flushed. Thank you, she muttered.

A few moments later, they arrived disheveled and muddy, having scrambled on their hands and knees up the final few feet of the riverbank. With Ioan's help, Angharad heaved herself into the saddle.

Madoc's face cracked into a wry smile. It was clear that Angharad had taken a liking to the palace guard. He'd watched the lad's career develop with interest. His own mother and Ioan's were sisters, but unlike Madoc's father — the mighty Owain, ruler of Gwynedd — Ioan's had been a palace guard. He'd died during a border skirmish with the Earl of Chester. However, his son did him proud.

He chuckled to himself, imagining the look on the face of Angharad's mother if she knew. He was certain that Princess Cristin would be furious.

He caught Angharad’s gaze and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. She ignored it and spurred her horse forward, blonde locks dancing.

†

Peering through the leafy branches, the distinctive aroma of damp vegetation hung in his nostrils. He fondled the yew longbow, willing his targets to appear. The funeral procession had passed by barely ten minutes earlier. They couldn’t be far behind.

His instructions were clear — kill the princess and don’t worry about collateral damage. Above all, he should not be captured.

He heard them before glimpsing the straw-colored hair. Although not privy to the ins and outs, the political ramifications and such, he still thought it strange to have been tasked with killing his master’s own sister.

He could see the four of them clearly as they rounded the bend. It was a shame though, she was such a pretty little thing.

†

Dense vegetation pressed in on either side of the trail, the ground thick with ferns. While lichen covered birch trees mingled with ash and hazel. Madoc couldn’t shake the feeling they were being watched. He slowed his horse and peered into the foliage. Behind him, Ioan let go of the horse’s reins and slid his right hand down until it rested on the hilt of his sword.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ioan saw movement above them, and in the dappled sunlight the glint of metal.

We ride, he yelled. With a swoosh, an arrow whizzed past the big palace guard, embedding itself into a tree trunk on the opposite embankment.

Angharad let out a loud scream and Idwal grabbed her reins. Go, he yelled.

Paralyzed with fear, she hesitated. A second arrow emerged from the trees, and she watched in morbid fascination as the projectile barreled toward her. At the last moment, her horse twisted. The arrow passed through the folds of her dress and struck it. The beast bellowed in pain and reared up as Angharad clung on for dear life. Idwal grasped for the reins while Madoc and Ioan spurred their horses forward.

Crashing through the trees, they scanned left and right. Further up the embankment, a hooded figure stood up. Holding the bow in his left hand, he nocked an arrow on the string. With well-practiced ease, he pulled back the thin strand of hemp, alert eyes focused on Madoc.

CHAPTER 2 - A Secret

Ducking under a protruding branch, Ioan drew his sword and accompanied by a blood curdling scream, swung the weapon in a wide arc. At the last second, the hooded figure realized his miscalculation and frantically swiveled his torso to acquire this new target. His eyes widened as Ioan’s blade descended and for a fraction of a second, he marveled at how well polished it was.

Madoc and Ioan dismounted, tied their horses up to a nearby tree and examined the man’s face, or rather, what remained of it.

He isn’t known to me. Have you ever seen him before, Ioan?

He looks vaguely familiar. I might have seen him around the castle, but can’t be sure.

Does it not seem odd he is operating alone? Madoc asked.

It does sir, I think we should get on the move.

Back on the trail, a visibly shaken Angharad calmed her horse.

You are certain you are unharmed, sister? Idwal asked.

Don’t fuss, I’m fine. Although that is more than can be said for poor Aeron. Angharad stroked the beast’s neck soothingly.

We should leave, Madoc called out, as he and Ioan rode up. Ioan dispatched the bowman, but there may be others.

Idwal and Angharad mounted up, and with the arrow still sticking out of her horse’s hindquarters, the four of them rode off.

†

Having caught up with the funeral procession, Angharad was enduring an interrogation by her older sister.

So what happened? Were you scared? She asked, her voice shrill.

Don’t tell anyone, but I was petrified, Angharad replied.

Still, you had Madoc and Idwal with you.

And Ioan.

Angharad’s sister swooped on her reply like a cat pouncing on a stricken mouse. Ioan? You mean that big brute of a palace guard? The one with the long blond hair who looks like a Dane.

He’s not a brute. He’s kind and gentle. Angharad bit her lip. She had been goaded into revealing far more than she'd intended.

I’m sure mother would not approve, her sister chided.

Say what you like, but I am fortunate he was there. Without him I may not have lived to tell the tale.

Fortunate indeed.

Angharad turned in the direction of the new voice and looked sheepishly at her mother.

Perhaps this whole misadventure will teach you to be more circumspect, child? You may not be so lucky next time.

†

The trail diverged from the river as the procession continued westward, and the terrain opened up. Riverine forest gave way to rolling hills, and in the distance, craggy mountain tops dominated the skyline.

Ahead of the main procession, Madog and Idwal walked their horses into the small hamlet of Curig — in reality, several cottages huddled together within sight of the riverbank. A compact church sat in the shadow of a rocky outcrop and out of it a portly man appeared. He wore his graying hair tightly cropped, and his garb marked him out as a man of the cloth.

Prynhawn da gentlemen, Brother Cledwyn, at your service. What may I do for you on this fine afternoon?

Good day to you, brother. I am Prince Madoc, son of the late Prince Owain, and this is Prince Idwal.

The clergyman bowed his head. Late prince, you say, this is most sorrowful news. I had not heard.

Our father passed only yesterday. We are en route to Bangor Cathedral with his body. Madoc twisted in his saddle to indicate toward the approaching funeral procession as a lone horseman separated from the group.

What does he want? Idwal hissed.

Before Madoc could reply, the striking looking young man drew his mount to a halt.

Hywel suggested I join you.

Madoc nodded. And this strapping young man is another of my half-brothers, Prince Cynwrig.

Delighted to meet you, my son, the clergyman said. While you wait for the rest of your party, perhaps you would care for some ale? The clergyman extended his arm in the direction of a small cottage adjoining the church. A simple wooden table and bench seat stood in front of it.

Idwal and Cynwrig looked expectantly at their half-brother.

That would be most kind, Madoc replied.

The three sons of Owain dismounted, tied their horses up to a nearby tree, and sat on the bench.

Cynwrig slapped his hand on the table. Damn shame that I missed all the action this morning.

Idwal smiled thinly.

Hywel had me riding as part of the close guard for the Princess Cristin, Cynwrig added.

A noble assignment, Madoc said.

Boring though, she’s not in line for the throne or anything.

As much as she’d like to be, Idwal muttered under his breath.

But she is father's widow, Madoc said, shooting Idwal a glance.

Cynwrig shrugged. I suppose. Anyway, Hywel has suggested I ride with you. Hopefully, it will be more fun. He tapped the hilt of the sword dangling from his hip.

The clergyman placed four cups on the bench and filled them from a large jug.

To your late father; the great and noble Owain Fawr.

The four men raised their cups and took a large swig.

"I presume you are from Dolwyddelan Castle; an uneventful trip,