Edward Marston - The Hawks of Delamere

What annoyed him most was the abrupt loss of his privileges.

Instead of being allowed out daily for exercise in the bailey, he was kept permanently in his dungeon. In place of food of good quality, he was now fed on scraps. And fresh straw was no longer brought into his tiny domain on a regular basis to combat the fetid atmosphere.

Once an important prisoner of state, he was now treated like a common criminal and it rankled. When he heard feet approaching along the passageway, he rushed to put his face to the grille in the door to shout a protest but it died in the back of his throat.

Antagonising the guards would only worsen his plight. He backed away to the wall and glowered.

A key was inserted into the lock and the door creaked open to admit one of the guards. The man clearly disapproved of the duty which he had been given.

‘You have visitors,’ he grunted.

Not understanding, Gruffydd darted forward involuntarily.

‘Get back, you Welsh rogue!’ said the guard, pushing him in the chest. ‘If it was left to me, you would be allowed to see nobody.

I would simply lock you in here and throw the key away. Now be quiet and do as you are told.’

The Welshman resisted the urge to spring at him.

‘Are you ready?’ called a voice from the passageway.

‘Bring them in!’ ordered the guard before pointing an admonitory finger at the prisoner. ‘Behave yourself, do you hear? Or the visitors will be hauled straight out again.’

Gruffydd watched sullenly from his position against the wall but his resentment fell away when Idwal came into the cell and greeted him in Welsh. It was the first time in months that he had heard his own language spoken. Gervase Bret followed the archdeacon in and coughed as the stench hit him. The door was locked on all three of them.

‘Who are you?’ asked Gruffydd warily, not certain whether they were friends or interrogators. ‘What do you want?’

‘To talk to you, my lord,’ said Idwal.

‘What about?’

‘Peace.’

Idwal introduced himself then explained why Gervase was there with him. Gruffydd took time to be convinced of their sincerity but his reservations gradually faded. If nothing else, he could use them as a means of learning about what was happening in the outside world. Questions burst out of him.

‘One at the time, my lord,’ said Idwal, holding up a restraining palm. ‘We will tell you everything you wish to know. But we must speak more slowly. Gervase Bret will not understand either of us if we gabble and it is important that he hears every word that we say.’

‘I accept that, Archdeacon Idwal.’

‘Then what is your first question?’

Gruffydd ap Cynan had it ready for them. He reminded himself that he was still a Prince of Gwynedd and no amount of degradation could alter that fact. Straightening his back, he lifted his chin with pride. His voice was accusatory.

‘Why are they treating me with such disrespect?’

Robert of Rhuddlan spent the whole morning on the battlements.

An eerie silence had settled on the castle as if it was waiting for some terrible blow to fall. The captain of the guard was as conscious of it as Robert. Looking out at the road to the east, he ran a ruminative hand across his chin.

‘I do not like it, my lord,’ he said.

‘No more do I. This quiet is unsettling.’

‘There is nothing to be seen but I am certain that they are out there somewhere. Watching and waiting.’

‘I, too, feel their eyes upon us.’

‘How can we fight an invisible enemy?’

‘It is impossible.’

Robert forced himself to leave the ramparts in order to ease the discomfort he was feeling inside. It was bad for the morale of his men to see their commander subject to any fear or doubt.

His soldiers needed to draw confidence from him and they would not do that if he patrolled the battlements with such anxiety.

Preparing his garrison to resist any attack was a more immediate priority.

But he had no time to put it into effect.

‘My lord!’ called a guard on the rampart.

‘Yes?’

‘Someone is approaching.’

‘Soldiers?’

‘No, my lord. A waggon.’

Robert went quickly back up the wooden steps with the captain of the guard at his heels. They joined the man who had raised the alarm and saw why he had done so. A waggon was heading towards them along the road from the border. It was being driven with such speed that it was swerving crazily from side to side. A whip was being used to coax even more effort out of the carthorses.

As it got closer, they could see that it was being driven by a man in the armour of a Welsh warrior. Standing up and brandishing his whip, he seemed to be relishing his work and they soon began to catch the sound of his triumphant song on the wind. Robert of Rhuddlan was baffled. Was the lone warrior intending to attack the castle on his own?

When it got within half a mile, the waggon suddenly described a semicircle and came to a juddering halt, enabling the watching party to see what the vehicle was carrying. A group of men were trussed up in the rear of the waggon. Robert noted that there were twelve helms and he shuddered.

The driver jumped nimbly into the back of the vehicle and hurled his cargo roughly out, one man at a time. Bound hand and foot, unable to resist the rude treatment, the soldiers groaned in pain as they hit the solid earth and rolled over.

The driver worked fast and his entire load was soon squirming in agony on the ground. Still singing at the top of his voice, the driver leaped back on to the driver’s seat and whipped the horses into action. The waggon rattled off in the direction from which it came.

Robert of Rhuddlan descended the steps again and mounted a horse to lead a troop of men out to the stricken soldiers. When they reached them, they saw that their iron helms were the only things they had been allowed to keep. The twelve men who had been dispatched to Chester had been sent back stark naked.

Their bodies were covered with bruises and lacerations.

Robert was bewildered. Why had their lives been spared when the men could so easily have been killed by their captors? What game were the Welsh playing this time?

Gervase Bret was both impressed and unsettled by Gruffydd ap Cynan. The man had a presence and authority which was enhanced in the confined space and, after ridding himself of bitter recriminations, he showed great composure. At the same time, there was a deviousness about him which made Gervase watch him very closely. More than once, when he felt that he was deliberately being misled, Gervase asked for clarification of the words that had been spoken by the Prince of Gwynedd.

Archdeacon Idwal was in his element. Honoured with what he saw as a key role in the negotiations between two nations, he behaved with scrupulous fairness. Though his heart was clearly on one side of the border, he strove to be as detached and objective as possible.

‘This war must be stopped,’ he insisted. ‘Otherwise, my lord, countless lives will be needlessly lost.’

‘What can I do?’ asked Gruffydd.

‘That is what we have come to discuss.’

‘I have no power to alter the course of events.’

‘You can hardly condone it, my lord.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it puts your own life in question.’

‘I would gladly sacrifice it for my country.’

‘Bold words,’ said Idwal approvingly, ‘but you would not be helping the people of Gwynedd by surrendering your own life.

You are their prince. They look to you for leadership.’

‘It is difficult to lead anyone from a castle dungeon.’

‘Messages can be sent. Signed by you.’

‘They would be suspect, Archdeacon Idwal. My people would think that they had been extracted from me by force.’