“There has been a battle
desperate fighting. They are bringing the prisoners
into the guardroom,” cried Britton, bursting
into the royal apartments with small ceremony in his
excitement. “Come, Alphonso; come, Joanna
let us go and see them. Our fellows
say they made a gallant stand, and fought like veritable
tigers. In sooth, I would I had been there.
Methinks it is the last of the fighting these parts
will see for many a long year.”
Alphonso sprang up at the word of
his comrade, eager to go and see the prisoners, his
humane and kindly nature prompting him to ascertain
that no undue harshness was displayed towards them
by the rude soldiers. But Joanna, although her
face was full of interest and eagerness, shook her
head with a little grimace and a glance in the direction
of her governess, Lady Edeline; for during the years
that had elapsed between the visit of the royal children
to Rhuddlan and this present visit to Carnarvon, Joanna
had grown from a child to a woman, and was no longer
able to run about with her brothers at will, though
she still retained her old fearless, independent spirit
and impulsive generosity of temperament, and was a
universal favourite, despite the fact that she gave
more trouble than any of her younger sisters.
The royal family had been for some
time in Wales. They had wintered at Rhuddlan,
where the little Princess Elizabeth had been born the
previous year, just prior to the outbreak of the rebellion.
Now they were at Carnarvon for greater security, the
king considering that fortress the stronger of the
two. The rebellion was practically at an end,
but there was much to look into and arrange with regard
to the rebels and their affairs, and there was the
prospect of a considerable sojourn at the castle.
At this moment Edward was himself
absent, though not far away. It had been rumoured
that there had been sharp, irregular fighting all about
the region of Snowdon, where the rebels had had their
headquarters. Considerable excitement had prevailed
for some time in the English ranks, and there was
still complete uncertainty as to the fate of Llewelyn,
Prince of Wales; for although a rumour was rife that
he had fallen in fight, it had never been corroborated
by trustworthy testimony, and so long as that turbulent
prince remained alive there was no security for the
peace or submission of the country.
Thus it was that the news of a victory
and the capture of prisoners was exceedingly exciting
to those within the castle. Alphonso, who was
looking somewhat stronger for his sojourn in the bracing
air of Wales, sprang up to go with Britton to make
inspection, and again Joanna secretly bewailed her
fate at being a girl, unable to take an equal share
with her brother in such matters.
The guardroom at the castle was a
vast and really fine apartment, with a vaulted roof
and majestic pillars, that gave the idea of much rude
strength of construction. Just at this moment
it was the scene of an animated picture, and the boys
paused at the door by which they had entered to look
about them with eager curiosity.
The hall was full of soldiers, most
of whom wore the English king’s badge, and were
known by sight to them as being attached to the castle;
but mingled with these were other men, some in the
English dress, but many others wearing the wild garb
of the sons of the mountains, and these last had,
for the most part, fetters on their wrists, or were
bound two and two together and guarded by the English,
whilst many of them were drooping under the effect
of ghastly wounds, and several forms lay stretched
along the ground indifferent to, or insensible of,
their surroundings.
Desperate fighting there had been,
indeed, to judge from appearances, and Alphonso’s
gentle spirit was stirred within him as he caught the
sound of deep groans mingling with the loud voices
of the soldiers. He had inherited the gentle
spirit of his mother, and the generosity which always
takes the part of the weak and oppressed. It mattered
not that these men had been taken with swords drawn
against his royal father; they were prisoners now,
they had lost their all; and if rebels from the English
standpoint, had been striving to free their country
from what appeared to them as the unjust inroads of
a foreign foe.
Alphonso, himself sinking into an
early grave, and fully aware of his own state, saw
life somewhat differently from his soldier sire, and
felt little sympathy for that lust of conquest which
was to the great Edward as the elixir of life.
The lad’s thoughts were more of that eternal
crown laid up in the bright land where the sword comes
not, and where the trump of war may never be heard.
The glory of an earthly diadem was as nothing to him,
and he had all that deep love for his fellow men which
often characterizes those who know that their time
on earth is short.
Stepping forward, therefore, with
the air of quiet authority which he knew so well how
to assume, he enforced silence by a gesture; and as
the soldiers respectfully fell back before him, he
walked through the groups of prisoners, speaking friendly
words to them in their own tongue, and finally gave
strict command to the captain of the guardroom to remove
the fetters from those who were wounded, and see that
they had all due tendance and care, whilst the rest
were to be guarded with as little rigour as possible,
and shut up together, where they would have at least
the consolation of companionship in their misfortune.
The captain gave respectful heed to
these words, and was by no means loath to carry out
his instructions. He was a humane man himself,
though inured to the horrors of war, and he, in common
with all who came into contact with the young prince,
felt towards him a great love and reverence; for there
was something unearthly at times in the radiant beauty
of the young Alphonso’s face, and the growing
conviction that he was not long for this world increased
the loving loyalty shown to him by all.
“Your Grace’s behests
shall be obeyed,” answered the man readily; “I
myself will see that the wounded receive due and fitting
care. They are brave fellows, be they rebels
or no, and verily I believe there is not a man of
them but would have laid down his life a hundred times
to save that of the two young leaders who led them
on to the last desperate sally. Such gallant
feats of arms I have seldom beheld, and it was sore
trouble to capture without killing them, so fiercely
did they fight. But I bid the men take them alive,
if possible, as they seemed too gallant and noble
to fall in that vain struggle. Methinks, could
they be tamed to serve the king as valiantly as they
fought for that forlorn hope, they might be well worth
the saving. I am always loath to see a brave
life flung away, be it of friend or foe.”
“Right, good Poleyn; thy words
do thee credit. And where are these gallant leaders?
Show me them, for I would fain speak a kindly word
to them. I would not that they feared my father’s
wrath too much. Stern he may be, but cruel never,
and it would please me well to bid them submit themselves
to him, that he might the more readily forgive them.
Tell me which they be.”
“They are not here,” answered
the captain; “I had them removed for greater
comfort and security to mine own lodging. One
of them is so sore wounded that I feared he would
not live to make submission to the king unless he
had prompt and skilful tendance; whilst the other,
although his hurts be fewer and less severe, looks
as if some mortal sickness were upon him. It
may be nought but the feebleness that follows loss
of blood and hard fighting; but I left them both to
the care of my wife, who is the best tender of the
sick that I have ever known. They came under
her hands last night, brought on by our mounted fellows
in advance of the rest. Today they are somewhat
recovered; but I have had scarce time to think of
them. I have been occupied since dawn with these
other prisoners.”
“I would fain see these youths;
said you not they were but youths, Poleyn?”
said Alphonso, whose interest was aroused by the tale
he had heard. “I will go to your lodging
and request admittance. Your worthy wife will
not refuse me, I trow?”
The man smiled, and said that his
wife would be proud indeed to be so visited.
Alphonso, to whom the intricacies of the castle were
well known, lost no time in finding the lodging of
the captain of the guard, and quickly obtained admittance
to the presence of the wounded youths, who occupied
a comfortable chamber over the gateway, and had plainly
been well looked to by the capable and kindly woman
who called Poleyn her lord and master.
The bright light of day was excluded
from the sickroom, and as the prince stood in the
doorway his eyes only took in the general appearance
of two recumbent figures, one lying upon a couch beside
a glowing fire of wood, and the other extended motionless
upon a bed in an attitude that bespoke slumber, his
face bandaged in such a way that in no case would
it have been recognizable.
But as Alphonso’s eyes grew
used to the darkness, and fixed themselves upon the
face of the other youth, who was dressed and lying
on the couch, he suddenly gave a great start, and
advanced with quick steps to his side.
“Griffeth!” he cried suddenly.
The figure on the couch gave a start,
a pair of hollow eyes flashed open, there was a quick
attempt to rise, checked by the prince himself, and
Griffeth exclaimed in the utmost astonishment:
“Prince Alphonso!”
“Yes, Griffeth, it is I indeed;”
and then the prince sat down on the edge of the couch
and gazed intently at the wasted features of the youth,
towards whom in days gone by he had felt such a strong
attachment.
There was something of sorrow and
reproach in his glance as he said gently:
“Griffeth, can it really be
thou? I had not thought to have seen thee in
the ranks of our foes, fighting desperately against
my father’s soldiers. Whence has come this
bitter change in thy feelings? and what is Wendot
doing, who was to act as guardian toward his younger
brethren? Hast thou broken away from his controlling
hand? O Griffeth, I grieve to see thee here and
in such plight.”
But Griffeth’s sad glance met
that of the young prince unfalteringly and without
shame, although there was something in it of deep and
settled sorrow. He made a gesture as though he
would have put out his hand, and Alphonso, who saw
it, grasped it warmly, generous even when he felt that
he and his father had been somewhat wronged.
“Think not that we took up arms
willingly, Wendot and I,” he said faintly, yet
with clearness and decision. “Ay, it is
Wendot who lies there, sore wounded, and sleeping
soundly after a night of fever and pain. We shall
not disturb him, he is fast in dreamland; and if you
would listen to my tale, gentle prince, I trow you
would think something less hardly of us, who have
lost our all, and have failed to win the soldier’s
death that we went forth to seek, knowing that it alone
could make atonement for what must seem to your royal
father an act of treachery and breach of faith.”
And then Griffeth told all his tale
told of the wrongs inflicted on hapless
Wales in Edward’s absence by the rapacious nobles
he had left behind him to preserve order, of the ever-increasing
discontent amongst the people, the wild hope, infused
by David’s sudden rising, of uniting once and
for all to throw off the foreign yoke and become an
independent nation again. He told of the action
taken by their twin brothers, of the pressure brought
to bear upon Wendot, of the vigilant hostility of their
rapacious kinsman Res ap Meredith, son of the old foe
Meredith ap Res, now an English knight, and eager
to lay his hands upon the broad lands of Dynevor.
It was made plain to the prince how desperate would
have been Wendot’s condition, thus beset with
foes and held responsible for his brothers’
acts. Almost against his will had he been persuaded,
and at least he had played the man in his country’s
hour of need, instead of trying to steer his way by
a cold neutrality, which would have ruined him with
friend and foe alike.
Griffeth told of the hardships of
that campaign amongst the mountains; of the death
of Llewelyn the prince, and of his brother Howel; and
of the resolve of the gallant little band, thus bereft
of their hope, to go out and die sword in hand, and
so end the miserable struggle that had ceased to be
aught but a mockery of war. It was plainly a bitter
thought even to the gentle Griffeth that they had
not met the death they craved, but had fallen alive
into the hands of the foe.
Alphonso gently chid him, and comforted
him with brave and kindly words; and then he asked
what had befallen his brother Llewelyn, and if he had
likewise fallen in the fight.
“Nay; he was not with us when
we made that last rally. He commenced the march
with us, but his wound broke out again, and we were
forced to leave him behind. He and a handful
of faithful servants from Iscennen and Dynevor were
to try and push on to the stronghold of Einon ap Cadwalader,
and ask counsel and assistance from him. In old
days he and our father were friends. Although
he was one of the few who did not join Llewelyn in
this rising, he has ever been well-disposed towards
his countrymen. So we hoped our brother would
find shelter and help there. If he had tried
to march with us, he must assuredly have died.”
“Ha!” said Alphonso smilingly,
“methinks Llewelyn will have no trouble in gaining
entrance there. Rememberest thou the Lady Arthyn,
who was with us at Rhuddlan when thou wast there before?
She hath left us of late to return to her father,
whose loyalty has been proved, and whose request for
his child was listened to graciously. But we shall
be seeing them soon again, for my father betrothed
Arthyn’s hand to Raoul Latimer, whom doubtless
thou rememberest as a somewhat haughty and quarrelsome
lad. Time has softened down some of his rude tempers,
and he has ever been eager for the match. My
father has promised her hand in troth plight to him,
and we await the coming of her and her father for the
ceremony of betrothal.
“If I remember rightly, she
was always a friend to thy brother. If so, he
will find a ready welcome at her father’s house,
for my Lady Arthyn always had a soft spot in her heart
for those we called rebels. She was a true daughter
of Wales, albeit she loved us well, and she will like
thy brother none the less that his sword has been unsheathed
against the English usurper.”
And then the prince and the rebel
subject both laughed, and that laugh did more to bring
them back to their old familiar relations than all
that had gone before.
Griffeth was easily led on to tell
the story of the life at Dynevor these past years;
and Alphonso better understood from his unconscious
self-betrayal than from his previous explanation how
the fire of patriotic love burned in the hearts of
these brothers. He thought that had he been one
of them he would have acted even as they had done,
and there was no anger but only a pitying affection
in his heart towards one whose life was overshadowed
by a cloud so like the one which hung upon the horizon
of his own sky.
For it was plain to him that Griffeth’s
hold on life was very slight; that he was suffering
from the same insidious disease which was sapping
away his own health and strength. He had suspected
it years before, and this supposition had made a link
between them then; now he was certain of it, and certain,
too, that the end could not be very far off. The
fine constitution of the young Welshman had been undermined
by the rigours of the past winter, and there was little
hope that the coming summer would restore to him any
of the fictitious strength which had long buoyed up
Wendot with the hope that his brother would yet live
to grow to man’s estate.
“For myself I do not think I
wish it,” said Griffeth, with one of his luminous
glances at Alphonso; “life is very hard, and
there seems nothing left to live for. I know
not how I could live away from the woods and rocks
of Dynevor. But there is Wendot my
dear, kind, most loving brother. It cuts me to
the heart to think of leaving him alone. Prince
Alphonso, you are the king’s son; will you pardon
Wendot his trespass, and stand his friend with your
royal father? I have no right to ask it.
We have grievously offended, but he is my brother ”
A violent fit of coughing came on,
and the sentence was never completed. Alphonso
raised the wasted form in his arms, and soothed the
painful paroxysm as one who knows just what will best
relieve the sufferer. The sound roused Wendot,
who had been sleeping for many hours, and although
he had been brought in last night in an apparently
almost dying state, his vigorous constitution was
such that even these few hours’ quiet rest,
and the nourishment administered to him by the good
woman who waited on him, had infused new life into
his frame, so that he had strength to sit up in bed,
and to push aside the bandage which had fallen over
his eyes, as he anxiously asked his brother what was
amiss.
Then Alphonso came towards him, and,
holding his hand in a friendly clasp, told him that
he had heard all the story, and that he was still
their friend, and would plead for them with his father.
Wendot, bewildered and astonished and ashamed, could
scarce believe his senses, and asked, with a proud
independence which raised a smile in Alphonso’s
eyes, that he might be led out to speedy death
the death by the headsman’s axe, which was all
he had now to hope for. Life had no longer any
charms for him, he said; if only his young brother
might be pardoned, he himself would gladly pay the
forfeit for both.
But Alphonso, upon whose generous
spirit bravery and self devotion, even in a foe, were
never thrown away, replied kindly that he would see
if peace could not be made with his offended sire,
and that meantime Wendot must get well fast, and regain
his health and strength, so as to be fit to appear
before the king in person if he should be presently
summoned.
But though the young prince left lighter
hearts behind him in the room where the two eagles
of Dynevor were imprisoned, he found that the task
he had set himself with his father was a more difficult
one than he had anticipated. Edward was very
greatly incensed by this fierce and futile rebellion
that had cost him so many hundreds of brave lives,
and had inflicted such sufferings on his loyal troops.
The disaster at Menai still rankled in his breast,
and it was with a very stern brow and a face of resolute
determination that he returned to Carnarvon to look
into matters, and to settle upon the fate of the many
prisoners and vassals who had once mere placed themselves
or their lands in his sole power through the act which
had rendered them forfeit.
Nor was Alphonso’s task rendered
less difficult from the fact that Sir Res ap Meredith
had been before him, poisoning the king’s mind
against many of the Welsh nobles, and particularly
against the sons of Res Vychan, in whose possession
were the province and castle of Dynevor. Upon
that fair territory he had long cast covetous eyes.
He cared little in comparison for the more barren
and turbulent region of Iscennen, and it was upon
Wendot and Griffeth, but particularly upon Wendot,
that the full bitterness of his invective was poured.
He had so imbued the king with the idea that the youth
was dangerous, turbulent, and treacherous (charges
that his conduct certainly seemed to bear out), that
it was small wonder if Edward, remembering his own
former goodwill towards the youth, should feel greatly
incensed against him. And although he listened
to Alphonso’s pleadings, and the lad told his
story with much simple eloquence and fervour, the
stern lines of his brow did not relax, and his lips
set themselves into an ominous curve which the prince
liked little to see.
“Boy,” he said, with an
impatience that boded ill for the success of the cause,
“I verily believe wert thou in the place of king,
thou wouldst give to every rebel chief his lands again,
and be not contented until thine own throne came tottering
about thine ears. Mercy must temper justice,
but if it take the place of justice it becomes mere
weakness. I trusted Wendot ap Res Vychan once,
and laid no hand upon his lands. Thou hast seen
how this trust has been rewarded. To reinstate
him now would be madness. No. I have in
Sir Res ap Meredith a loyal and true servant, and
his claims upon his traitorous kinsman’s lands
may not be disregarded. Dynevor will pass away
from Wendot. It is throwing words away to plead
with me. My mind is made up. I trust not
a traitor twice.”
There was something in his father’s
tone that warned Alphonso to press the matter no more.
He knew that when Edward thus spoke his word was final
and irrevocable; and all he ventured now to ask was,
“What will become of Wendot and his brother?
You will not take their lives, sweet sire?”
“Their lives I give to thee,
my son,” answered Edward, with a gesture towards
his boy which betrayed a deep love, and showed that
although he had denied him sternly he did not do so
willingly. “As thou hast pleaded for them,
I will not sentence them to death; but they remain
my prisoners, and regain not their liberty. I
know the turbulent race from which they spring.
Sir Res will have small peace in his new possessions
if any of the former princes of Dynevor are at large
in the country. Wendot and Griffeth remain my
prisoners.”
“Nay, father; let them be my
prisoners, I pray,” cried Alphonso, with unwonted
energy and animation. “Thou hast granted
me their lives; grant me the keeping of their persons
too. Nay, think not that I will connive at their
escape. Give whatsoever charge thou wilt concerning
the safety of their persons to those who guard us
in our daily life, but let me have them as gentlemen
of mine own. Call them prisoners an you will,
but let their imprisonment be light let
me enjoy their company. Thou knowest that Britton
is fretting for a freer life, and that I see little
of him now. I have often longed for a companion
to share my solitary hours. Give me Griffeth
and Wendot. They have the royal blood of Wales
flowing in their veins, and methinks they love me even
as I love them. And, father, Griffeth has not
many months, methinks, to live; and I know so well
all he suffers that my heart goes out to him.
He has the love of books that I have, and we have
so many thoughts which none seem to understand save
our two selves. And he and Wendot are as one.
It would be cruelty such as thou wouldst not inflict
to separate them whilst one has so short a time to
live. Give me them for mine own attendants, and
bid the servants guard them as best pleaseth thee.
Sweet father, I have not asked many boons of thee.
Grant me this one, I pray thee, for my heart is verily
set on it.”
There was something in this appeal,
something in the look upon Alphonso’s face,
something in the very words he had used, that made
it impossible to his father to refuse him. Blind
his eyes as he would to the truth, he was haunted
by a terrible fear that the life of his only son was
surely slipping away. Alphonso did not often speak
of his health, and the hint just dropped struck chill
upon the father’s heart. Passing his hand
across his face to conceal the sudden spasm of pain
that contracted it, he rose hastily from his chair,
and said:
“Give thine own orders concerning
these youths. I leave them in thy hands.
Make of them what it pleaseth thee. Only let them
understand that charge will be given to the custodians
of the castle, and of whatever place they visit in
the future, that they are prisoners at the king’s
pleasure, and that any attempt at escape will be punished
with instant and rigorous captivity.”
“So be it,” answered Alphonso,
with brightening eyes. “I thank thee, father,
for the boon. Thou shalt never have cause to repent
it.”