Stephen Lawhead - Hood

"Lord Cadwgan," said the rider, swaying on his feet, "the words I have are bitter ashes in my mouth."

"Then spit them out and be done, man! They will grow no sweeter for sucking on them."

Drawing himself up, the messenger nodded once and announced, "King Rhys ap Tewdwr is dead-killed in battle this time yesterday."

Lord Cadwgan felt the ground shift beneath his feet. Only months ago, Rhys, King of Deheubarth-and the man most Britons considered the last best hope of the Cymry to turn back the tide of the Ffreinc invaders-had returned from exile in Ireland, where he had spent the last few years ingratiating himself with Irish kings, slowly eliciting support for the British cause against the Ffreinc. Word had gone out that Rhys had returned with a massive warhost and was preparing to make a bid for the English throne while William the Red was preoccupied in Normandie. Such was the strength of King Rhys ap Tewdwr's name that even men like Cadwgan-who had long ago bent the knee to the Ffreinc king-allowed themselves to hope that the yoke of the hated overlords might yet be thrown off.

"How can this be?" Cadwgan wondered aloud. "By whose hand? Was it an accident?" Before the messenger could answer, the lord collected himself and said, "Wait. Say nothing." He raised his hand to prevent the reply. "We will not stand in the yard like market gossips. Come to my chambers and tell me how this tragedy has come about."

On his way through the hall, King Cadwgan ordered drink to be brought to his room at once, then summoned his steward. With Queen Anora and Prince Garran in attendance, he sat the messenger down in a chair and commanded him to tell all he knew of the affair.

"Word came to our king that Ffreinc marchogi had crossed our borders and set fire to some of our settlements," the messenger began after taking a long pull on the ale cup. "Thinking it was only a few raiders, Lord Rhys sent a warband to put a stop to it. When none of the warriors returned, the alarm was raised and the warhost assembled. We found the Ffreinc encamped in a valley inside our lands, where they were building one of those stone caers they glory in so greatly."

"And this inside the Marches, you say?" asked Cadwgan.

The messenger nodded. "Inside the very borders of Deheubarth itself."

"What did Lord Rhys say to that?"

"Our king sent word to the commander of the foreigners, demanding their departure and payment for the burned settlements on pain of death."

"Good," said Cadwgan, nodding his approval.

"The Ffreinc refused," continued the messenger. "They cut off the noses of the messengers and sent the bloodied men back to tell the king that the Ffreinc would leave only with the head of Rhys ap Tewdwr as their prize." The messenger lifted his cup and drank again. "By this we knew that they had come to do battle with our lord and kill him if they could."

"They left him no choice," observed Garran, quick to refill the cup. "They wanted a fight."

"They did," agreed the rider sadly, raising the cup to his lips once more. "Though the Ffreinc force was smaller than our own-fewer than fifty knights, and maybe two hundred footmen-we were wary of some treachery. God knows, we were right to be so. The moment we assembled the battle line, more marchogi appeared from the south and west-six hundred at least, two hundred mounted, and twice that on foot. They had taken ship and come in behind us." The messenger paused. "They had marched through Morgannwg and Ceredigion, and no one lifted a hand to stop them, nor to warn us."

"What of Brycheiniog?" demanded Cadwgan. "Did they not send the battle host?"

"They did not, my lord," replied the man curtly. "Neither blade nor shield of Brycheiniog was seen on the field."

Speechless with shock, King Cadwgan stared at the man before him. Prince Garran muttered an oath beneath his breath and was silenced by his mother, who said, "Pray continue, sir. What of the battle?"

"We fought for our lives," said the messenger, "and sold them dear. At the end of the first day, Rhys raised the battle call and sent to the cantrefs close about, but none answered. We were alone." He passed a hand before his eyes as if to wipe the memory from his sight. "Even so," he continued, the fighting continued until the evening of the second day. When Lord Rhys saw that we could not win, he gathered the remnant of the warhost to him, and we drew lots-six men to ride with word to our kinsmen, and the rest to remain and seek glory with their comrades." The messenger paused, gazing emptily down. "I was one of the six," he said in a low voice, "and here I am to tell you-Deheubarth is no more."

King Cadwgan let out a long breath. "This is bad," he said solemnly. "There is no getting around it." First Brychan at Elfael, he thought, and now Rhys at Deheubarth. The Ffreinc, it seemed, would not be content with England. They meant to have all of Wales, too.

"If Deheubarth is fallen," said Prince Garran, looking to his father, "then Brycheiniog cannot be far behind."

"Who has done this?" asked Queen Anora. "The Ffreinc-whose warriors were they?"

"Baron Neufmarche," answered the messenger.

"You know this?" demanded Cadwgan quickly. "You know this for a truth?"

The messenger gave a sharp jerk of his chin sideways. "Not for a truth, no. The leaders amongst them wore a strange livery-one we have not seen before. But some of the wounded we captured spoke that name before they died."

"Did you see the end?" asked Anora, clasping her hands beneath her chin in anticipation of the answer.

"Aye, my lady. Myself and the other riders-we watched it from the top of the hill. When the standard fell, we scattered with the news."

"Where will you go now?" she enquired.

"I ride to Gwynedd, to inform the northern kingdoms," replied the messenger. "God willing, and my horse survives."

"That horse has run as far as it will go today and for many days, I fear," replied the king. "I will give you another, and you will rest and refresh yourself here while it is readied."

"You should stay here tonight," Anora told the messenger. "Continue on your way tomorrow."

"My thanks to you, my lady, but I cannot. The northern kings were raising warriors to join us. They must hear that they can no longer look to the south for help."

The king commanded his steward to bring food and make ready provisions the messenger could take with him. "I will see to the horse," said Garran.

"My lord king, I am much obliged." Having discharged his duty, the messenger slumped, grey faced, into the chair.

"We will leave you to your rest now," said the queen, leading her husband out.

Once out of hearing of the chamber, the king turned to his wife. "There it is," he concluded gloomily. "The end has begun. So long as the south remained free, it was possible to think that one day the Cymry might yet shake off the Ffreinc. There will be nothing to stop the greedy dogs now."

Queen Anora said, "You are client to Neufmarche. He will not move against us.

"Client I may be," spat the king bitterly. "But I am Cymry first, last, and always. If I pay tribute and rents to the baron, it is only to keep him far away from here. Now it seems he will not be satisfied with anything less than taking all of Cymru and driving us into the sea."

He shook his head as the implications of the catastrophe rolled over him. "Neufmarche will keep us only so long as it pleases him to do so. Just now he needs someone to hold the land and work it, but when the time comes to repay a favour, or provide some relative with an estate, or reward some service rendered-then," intoned Cadwgan ominously, "then all we have will be taken from us, and we will be driven out."

"What can we do?" asked Anora, bunching her mantle in her fists. "Who is left that can stand against them?"