Chapter Six
The Paladin
Northwest of the city of Chester
Seat of the House of de Shera
The sun was just setting in the west, casting long beams of yellow and white light onto the landscape that was preparing for the coming night.
Overlooking the estuary for the River Dee as it spilled out into the Irish Sea, a massive fortress stood like a sentinel, guarding the countryside against the darkness that approached.
It was a sentinel that had been guarding the land for centuries.
The Paladin was one of the oldest and most legendary castles in all of England.
Chester had once been an ancient Roman stronghold and the enormous mound upon which The Paladin was built had been constructed by the Romans themselves.
They’d built an artificial mountain and planted a stone temple atop it, dedicated to a god whose name had been lost to history, but it had been a magnificent structure built from blue stone all the way from Wales.
The Romans enslaved the indigenous population, as the Romans always did, and it had been those men who had gone into Wales for the fabled blue stones of Carn Menyn, quarrying the stones and bringing them back to the north, up the estuary of the River Dee, before disembarking and rolling them a short distance over land to be used in building the temple.
For decades, the temple stood as a place of worship on the high ground, but the Romans eventually left, leaving their temples and forts to be overtaken by the indigenous peoples once again, and the old temple on the hill was left neglected over the centuries until the Normans came.
The Normans, knowing a good thing when they saw it, and knowing the strategic importance of the location was crucial, took to restoring the enormous building.
But they did more than that. They created baileys and outbuildings and moats, all of it eventually given over to the Earl of Wolverhampton, Gaetan de Wolfe, who in turn gave it over to one of the native commanders who had sworn allegiance to him.
Antillius Shericus, a descendant of a Roman legion that had never left Britannica, took command and changed his name to Antillius de Shera to suit his new Norman allies.
The building that was known locally as the Daingneach for centuries became something else –
The Paladin.
The name referred to a great knight, standing for grandeur and chivalry, a powerful beacon of Norman strength in the region.
Butted up against the Welsh border, The Paladin was meant to intimidate, and intimidate it did.
It could be seen for miles in any direction and the de Shera army was built up over the centuries to become the largest in the region.
With its blue stone walls encased in a limestone arcade fa?ade that the Normans had put on it, The Paladin was truly a sight to behold and grand beyond measure.
But it was a place of unrest these days.
Tatius de Shera stood in the great hall on the second level of the keep, watching the sun set through the great Norman arches that faced over the estuary and out to sea.
He could see the last of the sunlight glimmering off of the waters of the estuary, a sight he’d seen thousands of times in his life.
Usually, it brought him comfort, but tonight, all he could think of was the country across the estuary.
Wales was on the other side.
“Did you hear me?” Atilius de Shera, the second eldest brother, spoke. He held up a piece of folded parchment in his hand. “William Marshal has sent word that he has sent an escort to bring your bride to us. Truly, Tatius, I thought you would show more excitement.”
Tatius hated it when Atilius spoke to him like that. A big man, and a powerful knight, Atilius was ambitious and ruthless. He ruled the armies of The Paladin with an iron fist, and tried to rule everyone else the same way in great contrast to Tatius’ somewhat meeker and mild personality.
“What excitement would you like me to show?” Tatius finally asked, still looking over the sunset. “She is coming. We knew she would. There is nothing more to it.”
Atilius exhaled sharply and walked up to stand next to him, glaring at his older brother by three years.
“Cadelyn of Vendotia will be here soon and everything we have discussed will finally come to fruition,” he said.
“It is just as we were told. Cadelyn was in the possession of William Marshal and now she is coming. Once you marry her, you will be linked to the rebellion in Conwy, with those who seek independence from Llywelyn and the Princes of Gwynedd.”
He was speaking of a rebellion within a rebellion, the very reason Cadelyn of Vendotia was coming to them.
Tatius was looking in the distance, across the estuary and into the dark gray hills of Wales on the horizon.
It was in those hills that the unrest was simmering.
Shaking his head, perhaps with regret, he turned to face his brothers.
They were all here; Atilius the Taskmaster and Fabius the Covetous. Antoninus, the youngest, was here, too, but he was different from the others. He was very young, only having seen sixteen years, but he was smart and cunning, and he wasn’t greedy like his middle brothers.
He was the voice of reason in the family.
While Atilius and Fabius saw the marriage to Cadelyn of Vendotia as a land grab in Wales, one that rebellion would provide them, Antoninus was quite the opposite.
He felt that the marriage should be an alliance with the Welsh and not the beginning of a revolution with a band that called themselves Gwrthryfelwyr Rhos – the Rebels of Rhos.
They were led by a woman named Nesta who claimed she was the mother of Cadelyn of Vendotia.
That was how the ambitious de Shera brothers knew where to find her.
Being so young, however, Antoninus’ opinion for peace was dismissed by Atilius and Fabius. But Tatius agreed with him, yet he was too weak to stand against his warmongering brothers.
That was the truth of it.
“So we shall be linked to the Rhos rebellion,” Tatius finally said. “Until I meet this Cadelyn and see her for myself, I am not going to get excited about anything.”
Atilius was clearly perturbed. “Why not?”
Tatius shrugged and turned for the ever-present wine pitcher that was on the feasting table. The servants knew very well to keep it full, for Tatius drained it by the hour. He had to in order to deal with his ambitious brothers who intimidated and belittled him.
“Did either of you stop to think about this situation?” he asked as he poured himself a cup.
“My mother’s lineage can be traced to Rhos.
That is no secret. She married our father and it was a proud moment for the Welsh as well as for the House of de Shera.
But she has been gone, lo, these many years, and then we were suddenly approached by this woman, Nesta, and her rebels.
They want me to marry Cadelyn, Nesta’s daughter, who was taken from her at birth.
They want to join us in marriage and then the House of de Shera is supposed to feed this great rebellion in Wales, led by Nesta and my new wife. Does this not seem strange to you?”
Atilius wasn’t following him. He was only growing more frustrated.
“The only thing that seems strange to me is your inability to understand what this will mean for us,” he said.
“We shall have lands in Wales, Tatius, rich lands. We will probably command half of northern Wales because of your wife. She is the child of two ancient kingdoms, kingdoms that are now ready to rebel against not only their Gwynedd overlords, but against English rule.”
Tatius cast his brother a look that suggested the man was losing his grasp on reality. “We are English,” he said. “You are English, Atilius. Do you intend to rebel against your own king?”
“Aye!” Atilius nearly shouted. He jabbed a finger at his brother.
“And I am not the only one. John has his share of enemies, Tatius. You know this. We can gain control of part of Northern Wales as well as our lands here in England. Once we have such power, no one save John and his armies can challenge us. And if he does, we will destroy him.”
Tatius was always intimidated when Atilius spoke of such supreme domination. He didn’t like it; it frightened him. But it wasn’t as if he had any choice. As was usual in situations like this, he backed down.
“I do not think this will be as glorious as you think,” he said, turning back to his wine. “I think Nesta and her rebellion merely wants to use our military might. I think it will be the rebels who control us, not the other way around.”
“That will not happen,” Fabius said. He tended to be the emotional one in the group. “We have twenty men to every Welsh rebel, Tatius. We outnumber them greatly. They cannot control us. For once in your life, have some courage.”
Tatius cast his brother a long glance. “For once in yours, have some sense,” he said.
“All I am saying is that we do not hear from any of my mother’s distant relatives for twenty years and, suddenly, they come to us with a betrothal suggestion and plans for a great rebellion.
Why did they wait so long? And why do we need Cadelyn of Vendotia for a rebellion? ”
“Because she is the last great Welsh princess,” Atilius hissed. “She is their inspiration, their leader. Christ has his disciples; Cadelyn of Vendotia has an army of men whose ancestors lived and died for Rhos. If you do not understand this, I cannot explain it any better.”
Tatius understood it. He just wasn’t certain he believed any of it, nor did he like any of it. Taking a gulp of wine, he licked his lips, thinking on the turn his future was taking thanks to his brothers.
It wasn’t as if he’d had a choice.
“We will break all ties with William Marshal when we do this,” he said. “The man has armies bigger than anything the king has. He controls most of southern Wales and the Marches. We will have to deal with his anger, you know.”