Stronghold

EPILOGUE

Dead bodies would no longer be a feature of battlefields, Gwyddon reflected as he strolled through the precincts of Grogen Castle, while his army departed north.

Oh, the great stronghold was still a grim sight, its ramparts broken, many of its towers and inner buildings burned to blackened frameworks, its walls and walkways splashed with blood, strewn with arrows, spears, swords, smashed shields, severed limbs. There was scarcely a corner of it where evidence of horrific violence was not on full display. Though he was now completely alone here, if he stood still and listened, he fancied he could hear the harsh song of blade on blade, blade on shield, blade on mail, the cries of anger and pain, the thunder of collapsing masonry as catapulted missiles wrought cataclysmic destruction. The air was still rank. Dust, smoke and soot still hung in ghostly palls.

And yet there were no dead bodies anywhere.

Those slaughtered English who had not been caught in the morning's rain, those who lay inside perhaps or under parapets, had in due course been treated with the cauldron brew. Then they too had risen to their feet and marched north. It was now late afternoon, and apparently King Edward had reached Conway. But for all that he routinely sewed those lands he planned to conquer with spies and informers, he would not fully understand the nature of the enemy that was moving to meet him. Most likely he would not even believe the stories he was being told.

Gwyddon would not be part of this next clash, of course; nor would any of his priesthood. They had withdrawn to their sanctuary under the mountain, and shortly he would be joining them. He anticipated with some confidence that King Edward would be defeated. The king reportedly had fifty thousand men, but the army marching to halt him had already swollen to many times that number, and, as Earl Corotocus had discovered, it was invulnerable to most, if not all, earthly weapons.

The absence of Earl Corotocus from the English slain was a minor irritant to Gwyddon. Those killed in the courtyard had eventually been laid out in a row, so that he could examine them before they were recalled. Though many had been mutilated beyond recognition, Gwyddon had eventually concluded that the earl was not present. His helmet and cloak had later been discovered next to the Tefeidiad, but not his flesh. In itself this was not massively important. One man alone, even one man who could call on substantial powers if he returned to England, would be no great threat. Most likely the earl had died in the river anyway, and his carcass had been washed away. Gwyddon would have liked to know for sure, but it was no disaster that he didn't.

He walked up into the Keep, his footsteps echoing through the dank passages and empty rooms. He entered the garderobe and peered down the black shaft, in which hempen ropes still hung. It was possible that the man who had led his men out into the courtyard had not been Corotocus, and that the real earl had escaped this way. A few others among the English almost certainly had. Most probably, they had taken Lady Gwendoyln with them, for she too had been missing when the final body-count was made. Again, this was no great disaster. Ideally, Gwyddon would have kept the heiress of Lyr alive for as long as possible. She would have become the new symbol of this uprising; the excuse for the insurrection. Around her otherwise completely insignificant person, they could have rallied in vengeance for the 'murder' of Countess Madalyn. But such concepts as justification and lawfulness were fast becoming unnecessary. As it was, Countess Madalyn made a more than adequate stage-prop. She still rode at the head of the army. In a few weeks' time, when her ligaments were so rotten and her bones so brittle that she couldn't climb onto a horse much less ride one, Gwyddon would have to think of something else. But that was a problem for the future, not the present.

Overall, he was very satisfied with the way the siege had progressed. Even those one or two English who had survived could now be of use. They would return home and spread the word that Grogen, King Edward's mightiest bastion, had fallen within a matter of days, and that Earl Corotocus of Clun, his fiercest dog of war, had been vanquished. The fear and confusion this would cause would be worth more than threats delivered in the Welsh tongue ever could.

And then of course there was the bliss of victory. Even here, in the foulest chamber in the foulest building of the entire castle, Gwyddon was imbued with it, almost light-headed. How could he not feel triumphant; how could he not feel his own glory wrapped around him like a silken cloak? The first blow in the war to end all wars had been struck — and what a blow it was. The enemy was reeling with it. Of course, it was important not to be totally overcome with one's own importance. There was much to do yet if he was to realise his dreams of conquest. But there was no denying that this had been a more successful start to his campaign than he had ever imagined possible.

He turned to leave the garderobe, and was confronted by a shadowy figure standing in its doorway. Gwyddon stepped forward, curious.

It was one of the English. A large, burly fellow, wearing a steel-studded leather hauberk, covered in fragments of straw. His face was black with clotted blood from a brutally smashed nose, his hair and beard thickly matted by it. He was solid on his feet, but very still. He regarded Gwyddon with dull, ox-like eyes.

"Go north," Gwyddon told him. "Join your comrades. The great battle goes on."

The creature responded by hitting him under the sternum.

At first Gwyddon was merely shocked. He thought the creature had struck him with a clenched fist. But then a slow, agonising chill began to ebb through his lower body. He looked downward, and saw the hilt of a dagger jutting from his midriff. He tried to grab hold of it, but there was no longer strength in his arms. He glanced up at his assailant, his mouth dropping open. This creature was indeed English, but not one of their dead.

His vision fading, Gwyddon sank to his knees. Try as he may, he couldn't give voice to the anger he suddenly felt at his own folly. The Englishman now crouched in front of him, took hold of the dagger and yanked it loose.

The druid grunted; his onyx eyes rolled white. But that didn't concern Murlock the mercenary, for whom other men's deaths had been the currency of life since childhood. Pulling the druid's beard aside, he inserted the dagger into the Adam's apple beneath and sliced it neatly from one side to the other. The crimson gout that throbbed forth lasted only a couple of seconds, before the body slumped heavily to the floor. But only when Murlock was sure the druid was dead did he strip the moon-crescent pendant from his throat, the gem-encrusted rings from his fingers and the silver dragon-head pin from his robe.

Murlock examined each item one after another, cleaning the gore from them with his own beard. He smiled, pleased. He'd been deeply unconscious for a considerable time, but his instincts had not deserted him. When he'd first come round beneath that pile of rancid straw, his first aim had been to get even with Ranulf FitzOsbern, but time had clearly overtaken that ambition. Whatever had happened here, the earl's army had been crushed, and the Welsh themselves had now departed. It was not the ideal outcome, especially with those who owed him wages slain. But the upside was that there was nothing to stop him going home.

He wrapped the valuables in a leather pouch and stuffed it under his belt. Before leaving, he flung the druid's body down the garderobe chute, where most likely it would never be found, though first he searched it thoroughly just to ensure there was nothing else of worth that he'd missed.

He chuckled.

It might have been a distasteful habit of his, but whichever war he was fighting in, whether he was on the winning side or the losing side, Murlock had always believed in making his service pay.