CHAPTER TWELVE #3
The cart lurched forwards, forcing Brynach to grasp the side with his bound hands.
Every jolt and bump on their route reminded him that he was in no state to fight his way free of his situation.
Nor could he withstand torture as he had done before.
De Chapelle had known what he was about when he played the longer game of starving his captive.
With a heavy heart, Brynach came to the realisation that, when his ordeal resumed, he would not be able to withhold the information they wanted.
This knowledge brought with it fresh shame and great sadness.
Had he been able to end his own life then and there to save his Lady, he would have done so.
Alas, no such release would be afforded him; the Baron’s soldiers would make sure of that.
There were twelve of them following behind the cart.
Ahead, three more rode with their commander.
As the group made its slow progress out of the village, Brynach forced himself not to give in to despair.
He reasoned that if he could endure solitude and starvation he could surely draw deep on his reserves of courage to find a way to yet help Lord Llewelyn’s beloved daughter.
He searched the faces of the villagers as he travelled down the broad street of Talgar.
None would meet his eye. There would have been those who knew who he was, where he had come from, whom he protected, yet not one of them would stand against their new lord to help him.
He could not blame them. He had learned, through his taciturn yet bored jailor, what terrible hold de Chapelle had over them.
When he had ousted the Welsh Prince from his land, by order of the Norman King, he had stormed the village with his soldiers.
Highly trained and well armed, they had made short work of the men of the village.
All of fighting age had been slain. The women and old men were spared, but the children were taken.
Rounded up like so many sheep, they had been locked in caged carts and borne away, taken to the city of Mercia.
Every desperate mother and distraught grandparent had been told the same thing; serve your new master peaceably, work hard, give him no trouble, and your children will be safe.
They will be raised as servants and soldiers in good households.
This was the agreement they were forced into.
Any dissent, any movement against the new Lord of Brycheiniog, or his men, would be punished.
And it would be the children who would bear that punishment.
A first offence would earn them a flogging.
A second would see them sold into slavery.
They continued up through the high valley pass that would take them back to the village of Cwmdu.
It was slow work, the track roughened by winter and not suitable for a cart.
The men were forced to stop often, dismount, and help heft the cart out of a rut or a hole.
The mud clung to the wheels and sucked at the horses’ hooves.
The journey, though short, tested the patience of those fighting men who felt their time and skills could be better used.
They knew it was Brynach who needed the wagon, for he was too weak to sit on a horse, and the way they looked at him made it clear they despised him for it.
At last they descended a short incline, rounded the bottom of a low hill, and came into the abandoned village.
Brynach had thought his heart hardened to a knot of oak, but the sight of his old home empty and silent, the houses twisted with ivy, pastures untended, roofs staved in and fences broken, caused a sharp stab of pain in his chest. The elegant house that had once been the home of a noble family was greatly reduced, its roof mostly holes and rotten rafters, its walls tangled with ivy, and willow saplings growing through the glassless windows.
The wagon came to a halt at the centre of the village, just beside the old well.
Brynach glanced at de Chapelle. The younger man sat atop his horse, staring at the well as if he half expected Rhiannon to spring out of it.
His adjutant, evidently knowing his master’s wishes, set about making camp in the small clearing.
A tent would provide more comfort than the ruined house at the top of the village.
When one of the soldier’s thought to draw water from the well he was bellowed at and all were told that no-one was to touch it.
Although spring had arrived, the nights promised to continue cold, so wood was gathered for fires.
Brynach had to bite back oaths when he saw the men wrench doors from their hinges to serve as firewood.
Two soldiers untied him and roughly dragged him from the cart.
They took him to a post near one of the fires and secured him there.
Others prepared food over the fire. For two hours he was forced to sit and watch while the Baron and his men relaxed in the camp, sitting by the fire, eating venison and bread, drinking strong wine.
It was properly dark when at last de Chapelle’s attention turned to his prisoner once more.
He had Brynach untied and brought to stand before him. Yet again, it was Stew-faced who stepped forwards to seize the opportunity to be involved in his trials.
‘So, here is our loyal Welsh soldier, returned to his princely home,’ he mocked, taking in the ruined village with a sweep of his arm.
The firelight reflected off his silver nose piece making it impossible to ignore, however hard Brynach tried.
He was all too well aware of how his tormentor watched himself being watched.
How he looked for any sign of ridicule or repulsion.
The Baron shifted on his seat of sheepskins.
‘I have been considering,’ he went on, ‘what might be the swiftest way to gain from you that information you so stubbornly refuse to give me. I have asked my men, and they have very…. entertaining ideas as to what we might try.’ He paused to let this thought do its work on his prisoner’s mind.
He sighed then. ‘But I weary of such things. Far better you simply tell me what I wish to know, and avoid all the time and unpleasantness,’ here he waved his hand as if the torture might trouble him more than Brynach, ‘that brutal means must take. What say you, soldier? Will you speak?’
Brynach did not rush to reply. He had thought out his plan, and everything depended upon him presenting his case convincingly. However much it cost him. When he tried to speak, he was so unaccustomed to using his voice that it was little more than a hoarse whisper.
‘Louder man!’ snapped de Chapelle. ‘Do not use up what little patience I have left for this matter.’
‘Forgive me, my Lord,’ he said, the words curdling in his mouth. ‘I was Lord Llewelyn’s liege man for more than a decade. My life’s work was to serve him. Upon my life, all that I wish for is to serve him still and do right by his blood. But…’ he hesitated.
‘But? Yes, go on…’
He lowered his head, humble, staring at his feet.
‘I am… not the soldier I once was. I cannot pretend otherwise. And… among the villagers are my kin, a sister and a niece. Those who live on the mountain, they are not soldiers, but they would fight to protect… their Lord’s daughter.
And they would die doing so.’ He looked up then, meeting his captor’s eye.
‘I would save them from that if I could. I would have you strike a bargain.’
‘Ha! It seems to me you are in no position to bargain with me, Cymru.’
‘I know it is Lady Gwen you seek,’ he said, using her old name, not wanting to raise the other man’s suspicions that she was in some way elevated, or that she might be in charge of the community.
‘Her actions cannot go unpunished. She must answer for them. It may be that having the whole village pay a price will teach her better and send a warning to others.’
‘It may. And yet, there is not much honour to be found in the killing of old women and small children. Your men are fine soldiers, I can see that. Must they blunt their steel on such unworthy opponents?’ Brynach held his breath.
Had he gone too far? De Chapelle was not a man who would suffer being told what to do.
Might he take the opposite course merely out of pique or spite?
‘Tell me then, how you would plan to give her up?’
Brynach’s heart raced at this small glimmer of hope. It seemed the Baron would at least consider his offer.
‘Let me return to the village. I will tell the elders there that they must send the girl down the mountain to you, or your men will sweep through their hideout without mercy.’
‘You have just said they would die for her. Why now do you expect me to believe they would give her up?’
‘They have spent two long winters shivering on the hillside. Many are frail in their health, and the children are growing with no hope of a future. I believe they will listen to me. I believe I can make them see that they must let her go for the greater good.’
De Chapelle picked up a stick and poked at the fire, sending a shower of sparks leaping and spitting into the night sky.
‘And how am I to trust you? Why would you not simply scuttle back to your hiding place and stay there?’
At last Stew-face could hold his silence no longer.
‘Do not place your trust in this Welshman, my Lord! They are known for their cunning ways.’
The Baron looked at the scarred face of his soldier with something approaching disgust. Brynach wondered if the commander kept him close to make himself feel less ugly, or to have at hand another who wished the Welsh girl dead.
He would not lose ground to such a villain.
He spoke again. ‘Your best hope for gaining what you wish is to trust me, and you will see it is a sensible course of action. Before I go I will tell you where the community lives. I will give you the route.’ He saw the Baron sit up a little, his interest in the idea growing.
Beside him he felt the watching soldiers tense slightly.
‘Let me return to my people tomorrow at first light. I will see to it that Lady Gwen has descended the mountain, by her own free will or not, and is delivered to you by noon the following day.’
‘And if she does not appear?’
Brynach struggled to keep his voice level. ‘Then you have the route. You will know where to come.’
The Baron smiled. It was a crooked, unattractive gesture that did nothing to suggest either warmth or humour.
He clicked his fingers and called for more wine.
He then reached for a lamb bone from the platter at his feet.
He threw it to Brynach, who fumbled but caught it.
‘Eat,’ de Chapelle told him, leaning back on the sheepskins and glugging his wine.
‘You will need your strength to ascend the mountain in the morning.’