The Bretland Trilogy - The Complete Series

Excerpt from The Bretland Trilogy

After deep reflection about the death of his old friend and beloved king, Rhodri, Alun ap Drystan regretted the impulse that had led him to withdraw from military life. A resentment of Rhodri’s killers—the Mercians—also invaders of Wales, festered within him. Despite his advancing years, he had now surpassed three-score, he put his body through the same punishing routine he endured when he was a young man. Alun secretly hoped that Prince Anarawd, whom he knew had idolised him since boyhood, would call upon his military services and not just his political counselling. When, at last, the two met, they discussed their mutual loathing of the Mercians at length until Anarawd mooted the matter dear to Alun’s heart, “I know you have retired from court and military activities, Alun, but like my father, I want you to be my chief counsellor and general, for soon I will be King of Gwynedd and I will not disguise that I cannot abide Mercian dominance on our territory. I want to make one of my earliest acts as king their expulsion, preferably within months.

“Lord, nothing would make me happier than to fulfil those roles, but without my sword—a gift once given…” Alun explained how he had exchanged weapons with his son.

“Order your son to restore it. If he will not, I shall command him to return it.”

“Thank you, Sire.” The veteran warrior bowed his retreat from the throne room and hurried off to discuss the matter with Iolyn.

“Father, have no worries. If the prince, soon to be king, wants you by his side, I’m happy to restore the swords as they were before.” He unbuckled the weapon and handed the scabbard to his father. Alun stared hard. “It will be yours anyway, as soon as I die.”

“Enough of that talk, husband! “Rhiannon snapped.

Alun clasped the sheath and did his best to conceal a heavy sigh of relief. He felt blessed to have a fine, understanding son and a supportive wife. His next intent was to drive his blade into the ground and pray in front it. Saint Dwynwen would indicate the way forward.

On his knees before a walnut tree, his sword planted there, Alun concentrated, deep in prayer. It was clear that the Vikings were no longer the principal menace to Gwynedd. “The damned Mercians!” he cried in a moment of insight, startling two blackbirds and a thrush into flight. At the same time, a beam of light from his crystal illuminated the garnet of his pommel. That’s it! he thought, Prince Anarawd is right, we must repel the Mercians from our territory at all costs. I’ll muster a host. He returned to the prince to explain the outcome of his colloquy with the saint.

“Saint Dwynwen has answered to my prayers, Lord, it’s our bounden duty to drive Edryd Long-hair and his followers from North Wales.”

“Ay, Edryd Long-hair, he whom his people call Ealdorman Aethelred—a valiant warrior. There’s talk of a betrothal with the princess of Wessex.”

“It matters not, Sire. I believe that with my trusty blade and Saint Dwynwen’s blessing, I can force him and his Mercians across the Dee Estuary.”

“The estuary and river will make a fine defensible frontier.”

“May I begin mustering the men, Sire?”

“You have my permission and approval, and, Alun, I wish to fight beside you.”

“I have no qualms, Lord, after all, you were my pupil in swordsmanship as a boy.”

“Thanks to my father, who wanted me trained by the best.”

“You honour me, Sire. You should be sure to have Cadfael ap Iorwerth at your other flank.”

“It will be thus, and we’ll make them regret the day they set foot in Powys.”

The Welsh force gathered in a valley at a small place called Cymryt near Conwey not far from the Dee on a splendid day. Alun looked around with pride at the multi-coloured tunics and shields of his men. Not many possessed mail shirts, but what they lost in protection, they gained in mobility. Inside each breast burnt Celtic fire, well-stoked by Prince Anarawd before the engagement, by fuelling the hatred of his father’s murderers. Loathing of the Mercians needed little instigation since almost every Welsh warrior knew, or was related to, a victim of the predatory English.

So, when the battle began, despite their lighter armour, the Welsh attacked with a ferocity that made immediate inroads into the Mercian ranks.

“Come on! We must form a wedge. The moment is favourable to strike,” Alun shouted and placed himself at the head of the stationary forming wedge. Suddenly, he burst into a trot, closely followed by Cadfael and Anarawd and the most courageous of his warriors. The apex of the wedge like furies fell upon the weary English. With the release of pent-up Celtic rage, the Mercians wavered and broke ranks. Edryd Long-hair ordered the retreat to the estuary, where only a privileged elite, including Aethelred, obtained a vessel to cross to safety. The rest succumbed to Welsh blows or drowned in the estuary in what proved a decisive victory that saw the end of Mercian hegemony in North Wales.

That night at the Welsh victory feast, Cadfael crowed, “Bards will sing about the Battle of Gwaeth Cymryt Conwey for generations to come.”

“They will not! Anarawd bellowed enraged, the great vein standing like a whipcord at his neck. Henceforth, that name is forbidden. Anyone who pronounces it will lose his tongue. We won the Battle of Digal Rhodri—God’s vengeance for Rhodri, clear?” The royal eyes blazed around the high table, challenging anyone to contradict him. No one dared, so the battle gained this universal nomenclature in North Wales. Although delighted by the outcome of the battle and in agreement with Alun that it meant freedom from Mercian dominance, Prince Anarawd was not prepared to rest on his laurels. He called Alun, determined to follow his chief counsellor’s advice.

“Alun, I need an alliance to make potential Mercian hostility untenable.”

“Casting an eye around, there are few suitable candidates. You must rule out the most likely person, King Alfred of Wessex, the wisest choice, for he is struggling against the Vikings in the east of his kingdom as well as negotiating the betrothal of his daughter Aethelflaed to Ealdorman Aethelred. One of the minor Dubgaill or Danish chieftains is likely the least complicated choice. But never forget that would be like taking a wolf as a hearth-dog.

Anarawd laughed but it was a strange, concerned sound, not his usual hearty carefree chortle. “Surely, we are in a strong position, Alun. Maybe it would be worth having several score Vikings to call upon in extreme circumstances.”

“I will seek a suitable candidate, Sire.”

Alun ap Drystan strolled out of the throne room more than a little perplexed. Here was the soon-to-be-king, at the moment of his greatest triumph, hoping to enlist the very men Alun had dedicated the best part of his life rebutting. However, if he chose carefully, the prince’s decision might prove wise.

Alun had heard about a Danish king who ruled over territory in Powys, not far from Alun’s Hall in Dinerth. This king, Magnus Ranulfsson, might suit his quest. There was only one way to find out and Rhiannon was delighted to return home to Dinerth, however briefly. So, Alun obtained leave from Anarawd, promising to come back with the ally the prince craved.

Alun sat at his table at Dinerth to welcome King Magnus, offering the best double-brewed ale he could procure. His gaze rose upon the figure of the giant chieftain. He judged him to be seven-feet tall and as broad as a brown bear. Still, with his swordsmanship, he still fancied himself in a direct clash that he hoped would never occur. He’d rather have Magnus and his long-hafted axe by his side. The big-hitting Viking tossed down the ale, smacked his lips and wiped his long blond whiskers with his sleeve.