Extract from THE KING’S JEWEL
Chapter 1
Palace of Carew, South Wales, April 1093

Nesta was in the stables greeting Hera’s new foal when her father came home. Wet with birthing fluid, the colt struggled to his feet and immediately tumbled back into the straw. The mare whickered encouragement and licked him with long strokes of her tongue until he tried again, this time surging to all fours, swaying but precariously upright.

‘A fine future warhorse for your father,’ said Dewi the groom as the foal wobbled into the shelter of Hera’s flank. ‘He’s the image of his sire.’

Nesta smiled with wonder and delight, for the foal did look exactly like Taran, champion of the royal stud at Carew. Her father was riding him on campaign, three days’ journey to the north, where the hated Normans were building another of their castles at Brecon, pushing ever further into Welsh territory. The peace agreement her father had made with King William the Bastard had died with him, and under the new rule of his son, William Rufus, the Norman border barons had turned their avaricious gaze westwards, viewing the principalities of Wales as ripe for their picking. Ten days ago, news had come to Carew that the Normans had allied with her father’s old and bitter enemy in Powys, Cadwgan of the house of Bleddyn, and her father had ridden out with his warband to put a stop to the incursions.

Legs splayed like a drunkard, the foal sought the mare’s udder.

‘What shall he be called then, young mistress?’ Dewi asked, his eyes twinkling.

Nesta tilted her head. ‘Tymestl,’ she said. Tempest, son of Thunder. Her heart always leaped when she watched her father’s stud herd galloping together, manes and tails streaming with their speed. Taran, with his arched crest and high-stepping pride, was her favourite, but she loved the sleek mares with their sun-polished coats, and the leggy foals dancing at their heels. The storm-horses of Carew were renowned and coveted throughout Wales.

‘A fine choice,’ Dewi said. ‘Your father will approve.’

Nesta hugged herself at the praise. Pray God her father returned soon; she wanted to be first to show him the new arrival. Her stomach growled. On waking, she had thrown on her clothes, braided her hair and raced to the stables, knowing the birth was imminent. Now, although ravenous, she was reluctant to leave the mare and foal. For a few precious moments this wonderful event was hers and Dewi’s alone.

Giving her a knowing grin, the groom unfolded the napkin containing his breakfast of bakestone bread and fat bacon. ‘You are welcome to share, young mistress.’

Nesta dipped her head, affecting gracious dignity. She was the Prince’s daughter, and there were boundaries, but she had known Dewi since he had first held her on a pony as a chubby infant, and by mutual assent they had made their own rules of hierarchy. She was fond of him, and he cherished her, for he only had sons ? grown men away with Lord Rhys and the warband.

Nesta bit into the bread, flat and chewy from the bakestone, but flavoursome, and the perfect accompaniment to the thinly sliced fat bacon, tasting of hearth smoke and herbs. Having taken his first drink, the foal curled in the straw to sleep and Hera stood over him, absorbing his scent and nudging him softly with her nose. The spring sun was climbing in the sky and the morning was going to be fine and clear. Not a day for spinning in her mother’s chamber with her four-year-old brother Gruffydd under her feet, but for riding along the river bank or over to Manorbier to watch the waves roll white-maned to the shore.

The lookout guard shouted from the palisade, and a horn blew the sequence Nesta knew by heart, heralding her father’s return. Brushing crumbs from her gown, she dashed into the compound, her breathing swift with anticipation as the great wooden gates swung open.

As the first men straggled through the entrance in exhausted disarray, her eyes widened at the sight of  her father’s formerly proud and vibrant warband  returning in disorganised clots of wounded and beaten men. She searched with growing panic for a prancing stallion with a hide of twilit gold, and a raven-haired man in a sweeping red cloak, and saw neither. Nor was her father’s brother, her uncle Rutherk, among the men.

Dewi’s sons Morgan and Geraint rode through the gateway, Morgan leading a brown gelding with a body lumped across the saddle. Nesta’s breath jammed in her chest for the corpse’s hair was midnight-black and its red cloak was heavily stained with blotches of darker rusty-brown.

Dewi had run out of the stables after her, and the other servants were gathering in a huddle, eyes staring, hands to mouths.

‘Montgomery is coming, with Cadwgan and his warband behind him,’ Morgan announced grimly. ‘We have a few hours at most – we have ridden ourselves into the ground to get here, and we are spent. Too many are dead and not enough of us to defend Carew from attack.’

‘Where is the lord Rutherk?’ Dewi demanded.

Geraint’s face contorted with disgust: ‘He yielded his sword to the Normans and swore allegiance to save his own hide. Do not look to him for help.’

Nesta heard the exchange but it meant nothing. Her father would come and make everything right. He couldn’t be dead; that was not his body draped over the horse. How could it be, when it wasn’t Taran? How could it be when he was so big and strong? He would never leave his people leaderless and unprotected.

Taking her arm, Dewi turned her towards the hall. ‘Child, go to your mother, we have to leave.’ She resisted him, needing to see the face of the man hanging over the brown horse to make sure it wasn’t her father, but Dewi’s grip tightened. ‘There will be time for other things later,’ he said with increased urgency, ‘but now we must run for our lives. Quickly, go now!’

The mingling of hardness and compassion in his gaze ripped into her and, crying out, she tore from his grasp and fled from the shocking sight of her father’s shattered warband.

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Time became a blur, as slow as riding in fog and as fast as water in spate. Nesta packed her jewels, her rich clothes and ribbons ? the items of her status as the cherished daughter of the High Prince of Dyfed. This was a dream, and in a moment she would wake up safe in her bed. She pinched herself hard enough to bruise the skin, but the nightmare remained the reality.

Her mother, Gwladus, grimly bundled her little brother Gruffydd into a cloak and knelt before him to fasten the pin. ‘Be a good, brave boy for me,’ she said, a quiver in her voice. ‘Do as you are told and I will come to you as soon as I can.’

He nodded solemnly, round-eyed, bewildered and on the verge of tears as she hurried him outside and handed him to Dewi’s sons who were waiting with fresh horses. ‘Do not stop for anything,’ she said. ‘Get him safely away. Here are his clothes and money for your needs.’

‘We shall protect him with our lives, Lady Gwladus,’ Morgan replied, lifting Gruffydd in his strong arms while Geraint took care of the bundle and the bag of coins.

The last Nesta saw of her little brother was his frightened face and big eyes as Morgan lifted him onto his saddle and reined about. And then they were gone at a pounding trot.

‘Please God they reach the coast in time,’ her mother whispered, crossing herself. She drew a shuddering breath and turned to Nesta. ‘We must hasten too ? are your things ready?’

‘Yes, Mama.’ Nesta pointed to her own bundle. Four years ago, during a period of strife with Cadwgan of Powys, they had been forced into Irish exile for a time, and they were always ready, but this was different: the Normans had a terrifying reputation, and her father was . . . could not lead them.

‘Good. Put on your cloak and cover your hair – quickly now.’

Nesta swallowed. ‘Mama . . .’ she said, and then stopped, because the words were stuck in her throat.

‘Ah, child . . .’ Gwladus draped Nesta’s cloak around her shoulders, fussed it into place as she had done with Gruffydd, and pinned it with her favourite silver and garnet brooch. ‘None of that. Be brave as your father would expect and command.’

Nesta swallowed hard, nodding to show that she understood, even while her world fragmented into jagged pieces. Her mother hugged her fiercely, and together they stepped outside, leaving a life that only an hour ago had been routine and secure, but was now gone for ever, like a candle snuffed in a puff of wind.

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By late morning they had arrived at the stone watchtower on the estuary three miles from the settlement at Pembroke, and here they pitched their tents and shelters close to the shore. The watchtower guardian, a dour, balding man of middle years, relayed the message that Morgan and Geraint had secured passage with Gruffydd on a vessel headed to Ireland with a cargo of wool, and had sailed two hours ago, bound for the court ofDiarmait MacEnna , King of Leinster. More ships were expected, but not before the return of the tide, many hours hence.

Three of Lord Rhys’s  warband  took his body gently down from the horse and placed it on a board, hands crossed upon his breast. Standing beside her mother, Nesta gazed at her father’s body. His face was undamaged, the chiselled features still beautiful even though there was no breath in him. She wanted his chest to rise, to see him open his eyes, smile at her and tell her it was all a ruse. If she believed she was dreaming, she could live from moment to moment, knowing she would eventually wake up, and everything would return to how it was. How could her handsome, vibrant father be lost to all sense and feeling? No longer to sit in the hall with his silver rod of office, drinking mead from the Prince’s horn. It couldn’t be true.

With rigid control, her mother approached her husband’s body and leaned over to kiss his brow. ‘God keep your soul, my fair husband,’ she whispered. ‘You will be avenged, I swear it. Your son is gone to safety across the sea, and he will return when the time is right, and strike blow for blow. This is not the end – never the end.’

Nesta clenched her fists until her fingernails bit her palms. Even if her brother did return and avenge their father’s murder, for now Gruffydd  was only four years old and it was a long, long time to wait.

Her mother called for water to wash the body, and a linen sheet from the baggage to make a shroud, while the men dug a grave, and their chaplain said prayers. Nesta knelt to help her mother, and wiped one of her father’s hands, dissolving away the blood rimming his fingernails, holding the cold, unresponsive hand that had once patted her head. And still it wasn’t true because it was too enormous to contemplate.

The three shames of a corpse are asking ‘Who killed this one?’ and ‘Whose is this bier?’ and ‘Whose is this fresh grave?’ So said the law of her great-great-grandsire Hywel Dda who had set down the rules by which the people of the Cymru should live. But how would anyone know in the days and years to come when all that remained was dust and the family scattered?

Her mother’s grief was as hard and glassy as stone. Her own was made of fog.

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Gerald FitzWalter tossed another branch onto the fire and watched it settle amid the greying coals with their hot red underbelly. Sparks snapped free, shooting bright dashes into the darkness, making him think fancifully of Welsh dragons – a notion he would never admit to any of the men gathered around the camp fire.

The Norman host of Arnulf de Montgomery had arrived at Carew at dusk to find it deserted, with signs of a hasty retreat. The hearth in the hall had retained a vestigial heat and stray hens had been pecking in the compound, one of which had served Gerald and his serjeant for their evening meal, although it had been as tough as his winter boots, and Gerald was still picking rags of meat from between his teeth.

They had spent three days pursuing the remnants of Rhys ap Tewdr’s warband southwards, but the Welsh had slipped through the trees and from their grasp, swift and light as wraiths. He did not trust their guide an inch, even if Rutherk was Rhys ap Tewdr’s brother and desired to ingratiate himself with his new allies. Gerald suspected that Rutherk hoped to rule Dyfed, and that meant ensuring Rhys’s wife and children were dealt with, especially the boy. Rutherk had not been happy to find Carew deserted, but it had been too late to press on and the horses needed to rest.

Gerald reached for his cup but flashed his hand to his knife instead and cursed in surprise as a figure materialised at the guard fire – a slender Welshman of indeterminate years, wearing a rough sheepskin hood and a tunic mid-way between olive and grey. Ifan was one of their scouts, valuable because he spoke the Norman tongue – atrociously it was true, but better than Gerald’s command of Welsh, although he was improving.

The scout’s eyes squeezed together in amusement at Gerald’s discomfiture. ‘Be not so fast to draw steel, my fine lord,’ he lilted. ‘I bring news.’

Gerald cautiously withdrew his hand from his knife hilt. Stealthy as wolves, the Welsh scouts knew the terrain intimately, but despite their love of silver, their loyalty was fickle and could not be bought ? only their service. Gerald’s lord, Arnulf de Montgomery, paid them well but withheld his trust. ‘And what news would that be?’

The Welshman licked his lips and eyed Gerald’s cup. Sourly amused, Gerald handed it to him and sloshed in some wine. It was one Norman import the Welsh never scorned.

Ifan drank, smacking his lips with relish, then said, ‘They are at the watchtower on the estuary beyond Pembroke, hoping to take ship for Ireland before you arrive to prevent them.’ He shrugged. ‘Whether they escape or you take them matters not. Prince Rhys is dead and no one to fill his place. Rutherk ap Tewdr might fancy himself Lord of Dyfed, but he lacks the strength to sit in his brother’s chair.’

Gerald rasped his palm over his chin stubble. ‘Then who will they follow?’

‘That is not for me to say, my lord.’ Ifan took another drink, swilling the wine around his cheeks to savour before swallowing.

‘Perhaps not, but I am asking you.’

‘You should watch the lord Cadwgan. He has long desired this territory, and he and Prince Rhys have fought over it bitterly before. Last time, the lord Rhys cut down two of Cadwgan’s brothers. He will be seeking scraps at the least and his heir, Owain, is coming into his strength too.’

‘Interesting.’ Gerald held out his hand for the return of his cup. It would not be the first to go missing and he was wise now. ‘I will bring you to my lord ? he will want to hear your report for himself.’ He paid the scout with a silver penny, minted with the head of King William Rufus.

Ifan squirrelled the coin into a drawstring bag tied to his trews. ‘Perhaps a fine Norman lord might decide to take his chance in Dyfed?’ His eyes glinted with mockery.

Gerald gave him a hard look. ‘Do not go too far.’

Ifan continued to smile. ‘Only ever as far as I need, ,’ he said, mockingly addressing Gerald as his lord.

Ignoring his impudence, Gerald escorted Ifan from the watch fire to the hall where Arnulf de Montgomery, his brother Hugh, and the Welsh noble Rutherk ap Tewdr were sitting by the hearth deep in conversation, Rutherk using an interpreter.

Arnulf de Montgomery looked up, his fox-brown eyes immediately alert. He was as lean as a fox too. His brother, in contrast, was wide-shouldered, with a paunch drooping over his belt.

‘They’re on the coast beyond Pembroke, by a watchtower, waiting for an Irish ship,’ Gerald said. ‘It’s our luck against theirs.’

‘What about the boy?’ Rutherk asked through the interpreter, his handsome face creased with anxiety. Gerald disliked him on principle; a man who would sell his own brother rather than stand hard was unworthy of respect ? although disposing of rival relatives was a particular and complex feature of Welsh ruling families.

‘The whole court is there, fy arglwydd,’ Ifan said. ‘I saw the daughter with her mother, and I saw the body of the lord Rhys laid upon the ground. If the boy was with them, he was not in sight. Perhaps twenty warriors and as many servants.’

Hugh de Montgomery folded his arms across his belly. ‘We should leave at first light; it would be a waste to pursue our quarry all this way for nothing.’

Arnulf turned to Gerald. ‘Have the men ready.’

‘Sire.’ Gerald bowed, kindled a lantern at the fire, and returned outside to check the guard posts and walk the boundaries, pausing at the various fires to speak to the soldiers and warn them of an early start. He carried out Arnulf’s orders with meticulous efficiency, leaving nothing to chance. Promotion would only come from proving his worth. Wales was a land of opportunity, far more than England where, as a younger son of his father’s hearth, his prospects were limited. And beyond ambition, .

Humming to himself, he arrived at the stables ? his final visit on his rounds. A cat slunk away on the edge of the light, a young rat in its mouth. The Welsh had left straw and some feed in their haste to depart. He checked his own horses, ensuring his squire had bedded them down properly. Brun, his warhorse, pricked his ears and Gerald paused to scratch the stallion’s thick crest and speak softly to him, before moving on to his palfrey and baggage horse.

Moving further along, he came to the Montgomery warhorses. Another of Arnulf’s brothers, Robert, had bred them – fabulous greys, powerful, full of stamina and fleet as the wind through grass. Wistful desire swelled in Gerald’s breast, for their price lay in the realm of kings and earls, not young hearth knights who had to eke out their wages.

Beyond the greys stood Arnulf de Montgomery’s latest acquisition – Prince Rhys’s stallion, seized during the battle. In his young prime, the horse was a beauty, with a coat that glistened like  storm-washed shingle. Gerald stood to one side, allowing him to breathe in his scent before quietly putting his hand on the smooth, arched neck. The horse stamped and tossed his head, but permitted Gerald’s admiring touch.

‘His name is Taran,’ Ifan said, silently materialising at his side. ‘It means Thunder. I do not think your lord will allow Rutherk ap Tewdr to have him as booty – far too valuable. The storm-horses of Carew are worth a king’s ransom in silver. They go back to the stallions ridden by the great Hywel Dda.’

Gerald concealed his irritation at the scout’s ability to creep up so silently. Arnulf would not permit Rutherk anything beyond his life and a few manors on which to live in service to his new Norman overlords. A prince was dead and he was not going to set another in his place. That part was done. ‘Tell me his name again.’

‘Taran,’ Ifan repeated. ‘Thunder.’

Gerald said the word, committing it to memory. Piece by piece he was learning to speak Welsh rather than relying on interpreters who could skew the details as they chose. The language intrigued him too with its poetic lilt and resonance.

‘Why do you scout for us?’ he asked Ifan. ‘Beyond the money. What makes you serve a Norman lord?’

The scout shrugged his fleece-clad shoulders. ‘Whatever we do, you will overrun this land, as you have overrun England, that much I have seen, so why should I swim against the tide and die when I can live and be paid?’ He stepped suddenly into the full pool of lantern light and bared his throat, causing Gerald to start. ‘See. These are the marks of a collar put upon me by my own people.’

Gerald gazed at the pale scars, barely visible, but still indelible for life. He knew that in warfare, Welsh lords would capture men, women and children from the lands of their enemies and ship them in fetters across the Hibernian Sea to be sold in the Dublin slave market. The Church condemned such activity, but it continued, for it was too lucrative to give up.

‘I was a slave for three years to Cadwgan ap Bleddyn,’ Ifan said. continued. ‘My young wife and son were sold in Ireland and died there but I escaped. You Normans, you are hard masters, and we suffer under your hands. I do not love you, but you pay my wages and give me opportunities for revenge.’

A glimmer of unease stirred in Gerald’s breast at the feral gleam  in Ifan’s eyes. ‘Thank you. I will not mention this to anyone else.’

‘It is no secret,’ Ifan said with angry pride. ‘I have another wife and small son now, but I remember my first family every day.’

Behind them, the storm-coloured stallion snorted and pawed the straw. Gerald turned to calm him and when he looked round again, Ifan had melted into the darkness.

Deep in thought, Gerald returned to the hall and laid out his bed pallet at the side of the room. The three lords and the interpreter were still talking quietly at the hearth, but he did not join them, just nodded his head and exchanged a glance with Arnulf to indicate he had completed his duties.

He drank two full horns of water ? enough to wake him in the early hours with a full bladder and be ready to rouse the men – and then rolled himself in his cloak, his sword at his side, and closed his eyes.