Y Llyn Llwyd

by Michael Arram

III

'Damn it nephew, you really are a disgusting bustach. Where did you find this pretty whore? A bit better than your usual standard of cnych.'

'Hello Uncle Iorwerth. Did I not deliver the Lord Richard into your hands, as promised? May I introduce my good friend Gwrgan ap Gwrgan, the son of the late bishop of Glamorgan. He was very helpful and he deserves a reward: a nice fat church or three.'

The Lord Iorwerth ab Owain, edling of Glamorgan, was still quite young, in his late twenties. He had the same curled dark hair as his nephew, and the same air of 'I always get away with everything'.

'Yes we do have Richard, or rather we had him but now he is in the bosom of Abraham, him and all his men, apart from his feisty boy chaplain whom I gave to the men to play with. They had a game of Martyrs with him.'

Morgan reared up from his seat in Urban's naked lap. 'Martyrs? What fun. Oh my God! Tell me they chose St Sebastian ... my favourite. Fuck, I missed it.'

'I think he's still awaiting the coup de grace. If he'd had any useful information I would have kept him for you, but he was just a French hanger-on. Can you two get dressed. We've dealt with the Clare people we took, quite artistically I would say, and I want to be on my way down to the Usk. Your good father is, I believe, currently occupying the New Town on the River Usk, the place the French Lord Tancarville named Gwent-town and he's besieging the castle there. He intends to reclaim the Usk valley before Whitsunday and set up his royal seat in Caesar's palace at Caerleon, and wear his crown there like Arthur reborn. And I intend that he should succeed. After that who knows? Newport? Cardiff? Chepstow? Gloucester? Exciting times, nephew. A pleasure to meet you, Gwrgan. I wish you luck with my nephew. If his past performance is anything to go by, you will need it.'

Urban dressed rapidly and mounted Mair to follow Morgan back down the track. From the hints that Iorwerth had given he feared the worst in what he would see. He could smell the scent of blood before he reached the skirmish site, as could Mair who was restless under him.

Five pikes had been driven into the earth. On five of them the naked, headless trunks of Richard fitz Gilbert and his knights were impaled, their severed heads mounted on the spearpoints above. Under the trees lay the stripped corpses of the crossbowmen, already stiffening. Their arms and gear were being heaped onto a baggage cart—now Iorwerth's prize.

But Urban's gaze was dragged to the naked youth tied upright against a tree. Alan the chaplain. The boy's wrists were bound behind the trunk; his thin chest rose in painful, shallow breaths. Several arrows protruded from his limbs, groin and shoulders, placed with deliberate care to keep him breathing as he suffered. Morgan surveyed the scene as though appraising workmanship.

'The lads were thoughtful,' he remarked. 'Nothing vital touched—not at first. They wanted time to enjoy their martyr. And they showed enthusiasm for the… symbolism.' His glance indicated the chaplain's loins, though he did not elaborate. 'They cleared the way to give themselves a clean shot at his masculinity.'

Urban staggered to the side and retched into the grass. When he straightened, he whispered, 'Can we help him? This is monstrous. He's still alive.'

'Alive, yes,' Morgan said, 'but past any help he'd thank you for. If he could speak, I fancy he'd ask to be finished. I do wonder if the lads felt inspired enough to give him all the rites Sebastian enjoyed.' His tone was almost reflective. 'Our martyr, though, is indeed owed a final stroke. For the original Sebastian it was a shattered skull. We can be more subtle.'

'Wait.' Urban went to the boy, crouched, and spoke into his ear. 'Alan—it's Urban. I cannot absolve you, but if you have any last wishes, I will honour them.'

Alan's head turned with effort. His lips worked. 'Bury… me… in holy ground… and… knife that… traitor… Morgan… for me.'

'What did he say?' Morgan asked, stepping close.

'He advised me to stab you to death.'

'Ha! Defiant to the last.' Morgan crouched beside the chaplain, drew a small knife, and—almost gently—slipped it beneath the ribs. There was a soft, tearing sound, like cloth giving way and a wet sound as the boy's viscera slid on to the ground at his own feet. Alan exhaled once, sharply, and sagged in his bonds.

Morgan wiped the blade on the grass. 'There. No lingering to delay the foxes' fun. Let the creatures of the wood finish the rites.'

'You're quiet,' Morgan observed, as they rode side by side westward across the bare hilltops of the Black Mountains.

'I'd not seen warfare before,' Urban replied.

'I know. That's why I kept you away from the ambush. No knowing how you'd react.'

'It was horrid beyond belief, to see what men – our compatriots – might do to their enemies. What they say about our people seems a lot less defensible.'

Morgan rolled his eyes. 'The butchery at Grwyne Fawr was payback. There is no time to rehearse all the monstrosities the Saxons and French have committed across our lands over the past two generations. My father will be a lot less bloodthirsty as he conquers the Usk valley and reclaims his kingdom, believe me, but he is a king and seeks to rule Saxon and Britons alike, he's not a creature of the carrion field, like Uncle Iorwerth.'

'And you. Do you take after your father or your uncle?'

Morgan shrugged. 'I admire them both each in their way. But though I am King Morgan's son and people call me arglwydd and prince, I am not the edling of Glamorgan. So I must be a bit like both of them, judicious and yet savage, as I navigate the stormy sea which is the kingdom of Glamorgan. My father is a merciful and temperate man, but he knows when brutality pays off. The assassination of Richard fitz Gilbert, the English king's cousin, will gut the Marcher cause as surely as I gutted Alan the chaplain. The lowlands of South Wales will now acknowledge its born British king once again. But he did not want his name attached to the deeds at Grwyne Fawr. For that he has his ruthless brother, and I suppose me too, his jackal of a son. And this is why I needed you too in part, my Gwrgan.'

'How do I come into this?'

'Well cariad, apart from the fact you are soft and prettier to me than any girl, you are a member of the household of the Lord Warden of the Marches, and you were seen with Richard's assassins before the deed. And all know that Richard fitz Gilbert stormed angry out of King Stephen's court before heading for the Marches after the king refused his demands in land. Many were already suspecting he was contemplating joining his fortunes to Stephen's rival for the crown, the old king's daughter. So knowing Miles's agents were in communication with the assassins can be made to tell a very helpful story.'

Urban's mouth fell open. 'That's … outrageous!' he yelped.

Morgan shook his head sympathetically. 'I know. It's terrible.'

'You fucking planned it, you devious cunt.'

'I'm wounded that you could think such a thing. Your good name means as much to me as my own does.'

'You have no good name!' Urban snarled.

'My word, cariad, you can be mean when you're roused. That being so, what are you going to do now? Storm off like my other boyfriends do? I hope not. You are very beautiful and you fit so nicely into my lap.'

Urban fumed in silence for a while. 'No. I'll stay. My lord sent me into Gwent to spy, so I will fulfil his mission and collect information and communicate it back to Gloucester in whatever way I can. You may not turn up in my reports in any good light, Prince Morgan.'

Urban could not but notice the irritating smile that occupied Morgan's face at his solemn announcement.

They reunited with Uncle Iorwerth on the western flank of the Black Mountains. A green valley spread out now on either side of them. 'What's that lake just below us, at the foot of the slope?' asked Urban. It was a remarkably smooth body of water despite there being a fair breeze that morning. It reflected the low grey sky above, like a polished sheet of iron.

'That is the lake of Llangorse, called Syfaddon, a place of legend,' Morgan replied.

'How so?'

'It is haunted by a demon called the Afanc, an elusive sort of giant beaver. But for my family it has a real political importance. The birds of the lake are said to have the civil custom of flocking to and greeting by name the true king of Glamorgan if he comes to its shores.'

'And do they?'

'It is indeed said that before many witnesses they greeted by name my father as a young man, as he was bearing my grandfather's body past the lake on his way home for burial at the clas church of St Gwynllyw, after the old man's murder in Carmarthen, and so my tadh came by his kingship unopposed.'

'So we won't see that happen today.'

'I hope not. For that would mean my tadh is dead. And who then would they salute as king? Me or Uncle Iorwerth, or neither of us?'

They rode down from the hill into the town street of Llangorse, where they found Iorwerth marshalling the teulu or military household of King Morgan, of which he was commander or penteulu. They were an impressive body of men, on horseback, as customarily were all Welsh princely teuloedd, but armed in the latest Anglo-French fashion, with mail coats and leggings, open kettle helmets, red jerkins and triangular shields with the livery badge of Glamorgan, a rampant yellow lion regardant, looking back over its shoulder. There were well over a score of them looking little different from any French noble mesnie Urban had seen, though perhaps better equipped, all with longbows strapped at their shoulders. Several had captured crossbows at their saddles. Richard fitz Gilbert's looted baggage wagons stacked with captured weaponry and armour were drawn up ready behind them.

Iorwerth looked at his nephew. 'Get yourself armed, boy. We may have more work yet to do today when we get to Gwent-town. Gruffudd has your war gear and I need you to be a soldier now.'

Morgan winked at Urban. He slid off his mount and walked over to one of the soldiers who was carrying Morgan's arms and equipment, and was ready to act as his squire. When he had finished, Morgan was in the same mail and livery as his father's teulu, except for one detail. He strapped at his shoulder a blue shield painted with three gold coronets, one above the other. He now looked the perfect deadly warrior Urban somehow knew him to be. He vaulted effortlessly into his saddle, and took up the pole of a cased banner which it was apparently his duty to bear. He caught Urban's eye and winked.

'The banner of Glamorgan. I bear it as my father's distain, or seneschal.'

'The shield?' Urban asked, for he knew Morgan well enough by now to know he was a man who used symbols to a purpose.

'The supposed arms of King Arthur of Caerleon. I have appropriated them to myself.'

The view of Gwent-town-on-Usk looked peaceful, a motley collection of wooden houses between the Usk bridge and the castle. Some smoke was ascending to the sky outside the castle gates. They were awaited at the wooden bridge.

'Daddy!' yelped Morgan, who shoved the banner of Glamorgan into Urban's hand, leapt off his mount and ran to the side of the richly dressed man awaiting them, a gold circlet around his head. He lifted his father's boot and kissed it as the man removed Morgan's helmet leaned down and kissed and ruffled his hair. Iorwerth moved up beside Urban and whispered close into his ear, 'There, you gullible young catamite. He is capable of real love. But will you ever see it when he looks at you …?'

Urban was a little surprised to see father and son motioning him to join them on the bridge. He passed the banner on to Iorwerth, dismounted Mair and walked a little nervously to meet a king.

He said, 'Lord King' and bowed low.

The man looked down on him kindly from his horse. 'You are Gwrgan, the son of my dear old friend and tutor, Bishop Gwrgan of Glamorgan. From that fact alone, not to mention my son's recommendation, I am well-disposed to you. Now listen, bachgen, I was a witness to your father's last testament, which should have been executed by the present bishop, Uthred, but has been left in abeyance.

'Yes, sire?'

The king surveyed Urban with a sympathetic look in his eyes before continuing. 'His death at Rome was unfortunate for several reasons. Had he returned alive and successful he would have been very well placed as Archbishop of Wales and Primate of the Britons to make your fortune. His testament indicates that was his intention. He urges his archdeacon Uthred and the chapter of the community of Llandaff to make provision for you out of the churches they control. But Uthred became bishop and has his own coterie of boys to provide for, so nothing was done and you stayed penniless at Worcester.'

'Yes, sire. I was aware that was the way the wind blew.'

The king laughed, like a heartier version of his son. 'But the wind is changing in these days. I am about to go to the castle gate here and receive the surrender of the Lord Tancarville's constable. And with that ends the lordship in the Usk valley that old King Henry gifted his Norman chamberlain William de Tancarville, and it becomes part of my own growing kingdom. Now in Tancarville's gift was the ancient clas church of Llantrisant, to the south of here in the Wentwood. That great church, its tithes, church-taxes, estates and dependencies I happily grant to you, young Urban, and I do not doubt that Bishop Uthred is feeling guilty enough not to dispute my right so to do.'

'Oh! Your majesty is very generous.'

The king laughed. 'These days indeed I can be. Now young Urban, draw up for me in Latin a deed of gift in my name of the church of St Peter of Llantrisant in Wentwood and all its dependencies, addressed to Bishop Uthred which instructs him to install Urban of Worcester, a worthy and learned clerk, in the church by his episcopal authority. Hah! Date it in obsidio castelli de Gwentuna super Uscam. That'll give the old fence-sitter food for thought that he might find difficult to digest. I will seal it by my great seal and send it to Uthred at Llandaff with a covering note expressing my royal will that he promptly fulfil his duty in the matter.'

Urban bowed low again, as the king, his teulu, and his son bearing the royal banner now unfurled, crossed the bridge and headed for the castle gate.

In one sentence, King Morgan ab Owain had transformed his fortunes. He would be the head of the collegiate church of Llantrisant, one of the great churches of Gwent, with dependencies, junior clergy looking to him as lord rector, landed estates and as good an income as he could expect at his age. He was only a subdeacon, so he would need to get himself ordained to the higher orders. He was old enough to be a deacon, but it would be a few years yet before he could be priested.

He was not in any way afflicted by a sense of unworthiness for the promotion. He was a bishop's son, educated to the highest standards and universally considered as deserving the promotion by his father's own disposition.

Yet he was nonetheless troubled. As with everything else he had experienced at the hands of Morgan and his family he found himself enmeshed in their wider machinations. In this case he was a stick to beat Bishop Uthred into line as a loyal servant of the House of Morgan the Old, the pencenedl or founder of the Glamorgan royal lineage, as its power was once more rising between the rivers Wye and Tawe, Brycheiniog and the Severn Sea. No one willingly kisses the stick that beats him.

As Leofric raised the lid to place on top of the coffin holding the mutilated body of Alan the chaplain, he paused. 'He was a good-looking kid, were you and he … y'know?'

'No, boy. He was not our way inclined, which may be one reason the Lord Iorwerth's soldiers treated him as they did. Morgan the Latimer may have besieged his citadel and resented the refusal. So he arranged that the fellow lost his masculinity in every sense as he was tormented to death.'

'That's very cruel, sir. I looked to find the remains of his manhood, but there's nothing. The foxes and weasels had quite a feast here over the past few days.'

Urban squeezed the boy's shoulder. 'You've done a good job there, Leofric. It was kind to wash his hair and body, and packing his empty bowel cavity with herbs before sowing it up will make it easier for anyone wishing to view the body.'

'Are there any relatives who might, sir?'

'I think not. He was from far away, the southern frontier of Normandy, I believe, but he might have had local friends. So it falls to us to do the decencies, to prepare his corpse and bury him at Llantrisant. If there is a coroner in Y Fenni we might inform him so he can view the body as is his duty. But I don't know that many such officers exist in the Marches.'

Leofric gave one last long look at the dead face, and then bent down to kiss the grey lips, before closing the lid on it. 'There sir, he's had a proper farewell from one who thought him worthy of care. He doesn't smell that bad. Is that 'cos he's one of the church's martyrs?'

'No, boy. He was just an innocent who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and very much crossed the wrong man. Had he surrendered his virtue to Prince Morgan he might be standing beside us, but there was a cost for spurning sin and asserting his sexual continence.'

'His what, sir?'

'He should have put his bum in the air.'

'So boys fucking boys is a sin, sir? But you …'.

'Yes it's a sin, even though it happens a lot. Leofric, you must have been in church in Easter Week when the priest read the penitential and warned the boys about touching each other down there, and got flogged for putting your hand up to it, if ever you did.'

'Can't recall, sir. My father certainly didn't tell me it was a sin when he whored me out on the river. My bumhole was just another source of income to him.'

'But you're a boy who would have done it for free without his pimping you to customers, I would think.'

Leofric gave a very knowing grin. 'When a boy is as clean, kind and soft as you sir, it's a real pleasure. And you kiss so sweetly. I love being in your bed.'

'Even though I scrubbed you down first?'

Leofric laughed. 'Not sure how that'll affect my health, sir. I know of people who have sickened and died after being bathed.'

Urban was happily kissed despite Leofric's worried prognosis. Then they hefted Alan's coffin and placed it in the back of the wagon they had driven up from Llantrisant. Urban raised a processional cross at the front of the wagon so its mission of mercy would be clear in those troubled days in a war-torn province.

'Funny how no one's been up here to see to the dead,' Leofric observed as they rattled back down the Grwyne Fawr.

'Their bodies had been stripped, Leofric, so there were no pickings. Most of the dead were mercenary English and French soldiers with no local family to seek out their corpses. Lord Iorwerth was happy to leave the remains to the local wildlife to dispose of. You see how busy the foxes and carrion birds have been at the pile of corpses further up the track. Lucky for us. That bounty drew them away from Alan's remains, so he was at least recognisable still. The stink of them was something awful.'

A look of puzzlement was on Leofric's handsome face as he said, 'How did the Welsh defeat Lord Richard so easily, sir? They killed every one of Richard's men, but there were no Welsh casualties, you say.'

Urban frowned. It was a fact that had puzzled him but he had been too disenchanted with Morgan to pursue him on the subject, but he had given it some thought since, as Lord Miles would want to know the answer. 'It's to do with Lord Morgan's deceptions. He convinced Richard there was no danger in the pass of Grwyne Fawr, despite the opposing opinion of the Lord Brian, the castellan of Abergavenny. But there was also the fact that the teulu of Lord Iorwerth used powerful and accurate Welsh longbows, as tall as a man. They shot Lord Richard and his crossbowmen to pieces from cover, and as you saw they used the same weapon in the torture to death of poor Alan.'

Urban had come to realise that a lack of education did not indicate a lack of intelligence, and Leofric was a classic in that respect. The youth had a good deal of intellectual curiosity and was endlessly questioning. His emotional intelligence was also high, higher than Urban's, and he'd learned his knowledge of humanity in a very hard school. He had made a better initial judgement of Morgan than he had. Urban was considering teaching Leofric his letters. It would make him a better servant. As it was he had retained Leofric as his household marshal on his arrival at Llantrisant, now he had to have a household and had an income to support it.

Leofric had arrived back in Gwent from Gloucester only two days before, carrying letters of Lord Miles to Urban in reply to his despatch. It said a lot for Miles's intelligence network that he already knew of Urban's ecclesiastical preferment and had directed Leofric to Llantrisant to find him. He had also decently clothed the boy and given him a pony and expenses to find his way back to Urban. Leofric's opinion of 'the Norman lord' was as a result very high.

Urban had plenty of time to think about that letter as the wagon rumbled over the track back down to Patrishow. Leofric was no great conversationalist, and Urban soon detected from the weight against his left side and the head nestling into his shoulder that the boy was asleep. He smiled. The boy's smell was a lot fresher now and the warmth of his naked body against Urban's in their bed at night was an endlessly erotic joy. It would take most of the day to get this old cart back to Llantrisant. When it did the choices put to him by the Lord Warden would have to be made. So now was the time he was given to consider and weigh them.

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Y Llyn Llwyd

by Michael Arram

III