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    Avenging Rhodri
    Avenging Rhodri
    Avenging Rhodri
    Ebook297 pages4 hours

    Avenging Rhodri

    By John Broughton

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    After charismatic king Rhodri Mawr of Gwynedd is killed in battle, people call his son Anarawd’s victory over the Mercians at the Battle of the Conwy, a few years later, "God's vengeance for Rhodri".


    Rhodri awakened nationalist sentiment among the small Welsh kingdoms at a time when Saxon Wessex threatened the Welsh with dominion. Meanwhile, Mercia never renounced her claim to lands across the Wye and the Vikings threatened the long coastline.


    Despite these outside threats, one descendant of Rhodri succeeded in uniting the whole of Wales under his kingship. Find out who in 'Avenging Rhodri', John Broughton’s meticulously researched historical adventure set in 9th century Wales.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherNext Chapter
    Release dateJan 30, 2023
    Avenging Rhodri

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      Book preview

      Avenging Rhodri - John Broughton

      ONE

      Aberffraw, 878 AD

      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.

      Your ale is good, friend. It is worth pillaging your Hall for that alone.

      Alun scowled and held the Dane’s gaze. I’m not sure a cask of ale is worth a Viking’s life.

      They glared at each other but as Alun reached for the flagon and poured the chieftain another beaker of ale, the tension defused, and Magnus roared with laughter. They speak the truth when they praise your courage Alun ap Drystan. I’ll forget I heard that since you are a man after my own heart. They clashed beakers and drank ardently.

      Drink the whole cask if you think you can stay on your feet, King Magnus.

      If we didn’t have business to conclude, I would, too, rumbled the deep voice.

      That business can be done tomorrow, on Anglesey.

      Let’s set to on yon cask, then.

      Despite his enviable resistance to strong drink—and this was double-brewed ale produced by the local monks—Magnus grew merry and treated Alun like an old friend.

      Tell me about this prince that I shall meet tomorrow.

      Treat Anarawd fairly and he’s a good man, kind-hearted and generous. Treat him ill, and he’s a fierce warrior.

      We saw what he did to the Mercians, the Viking growled, but we’re sure to get along fine.

      If you do, he’s sure to provide you with the silver your men desire.

      The following morning, they travelled to Aberffraw on Anglesey, Alun with a hangover, Magnus, apparently no worse for his excessive drinking. Magnus set off with four other Viking warriors. It is our custom. The men understand negotiations better when I take along friends and relatives. Alun made no issue with something so plainly understandable.

      Prince Anarawd gazed at King Magnus and tried to imagine his immense strength and reach in battle. Here was someone well-suited to fighting in his frontline.

      We will pay you silver coin monthly at the full moon, friend. All that remains is to establish how many pounds of silver.

      One hundredweight is a fair amount for men who are prepared to risk their lives or shed blood in your cause, Prince. Magnus grinned wolfishly.

      Ay, but they may not even have to raise a blade, who knows? Anarawd said.

      Alun groaned inwardly; the prince’s prevarication risked shattering the alliance before it was sealed.

      They certainly will not raise a blade if there’s no just recompense, Magnus growled, and his four companions sniggered.

      Very well, a hundredweight of silver at every full moon.

      Alun breathed a sigh of relief and nodded at Magnus, who spat on his palm and offered his hand to Anarawd. That’s in ten days, said the tall Viking.

      Bring a cart to my Hall on that day and you can load the sacks.

      Anarawd spat on his palm, too. The two monarchs clasped hands and the prince called for ale. The five Vikings lowered their muscular frames into the chairs at the high table. Even seated, their stature made the Welshmen seem slight. Magnus questioned the likelihood of a Mercian assault on North Wales.

      As chief counsellor, Alun replied, We expect Edryd Long-hair to seek revenge for his defeat.

      We’ll be ready, have no fear, friend Alun. Magnus always grew mellow when drinking ale. The two men grinned at each other and became friends during the two months when things went smoothly. In the third month, all the villagers from a place fifteen leagues to the north-east of Aberffraw came to court to protest. A marauding band of Vikings had robbed their cattle, pillaged the church and their homes, resulting in fifteen Welsh dead.

      Alun took immediate action, when Magnus refused to compensate the villagers, claiming that the circumstances were normal for Norsemen, he broke the alliance and shared the bad news with Prince Anarawd.

      As you once said, Alun, a wolf may lose its fur, but not its vices.

      Ay, true. I’ll cast around for a different alliance, Lord, if such is your will.

      Do that, Alun. I trust the Mercians less than the Vikings.

      The gates of Aberffraw swung slowly open to admit a canvas covered cart and three armed outriders. Instantly, the expression of the captain of the guards changed from hostile to deferential. Please, come this way, Lord. King Cadell urged his horse gently after the captain as far as the doorway of Anarawd’s Hall. He had not seen his brother since the unfortunate rift with one of his other brothers in a dispute over territory. He had now consolidated his position in Seisyllwg and made peace with Merfyn. Now, he hoped that presenting Anarawd with a newborn nephew, he would similarly calm their troubled relationship.

      He waited patiently on horseback next to the misleading cart, its dusty and mud-spattered exterior belying the luxurious interior containing his wife and babe: Hywel.

      Soon, the captain reappeared in the doorway beside a shorter man, wreathed in smiles, sporting an unmistakeable copper-coloured head of short, straight hair—Cadell’s brother, Anarawd. The brothers embraced, glad to be reunited, however briefly. Meanwhile, servants hurried to help Cadell’s queen and little heir with their serving maids to their quarters, where the queen could refresh, feed the infant, and bathe him. So, it wasn’t for a while that Anarawd could cradle his nephew in his arms. He remained impressed that his brother had wed the heiress to the King of Dyfed, maintaining Rhodri’s tradition of exploiting politically useful marriages, whereas his people had still not decided to conduct his coronation,

      Attribution - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/en:GNU_Free_Documentation_License

      TWO

      Aberffraw and Winchester, 893 AD

      The Prince of Gwynedd pressed his coppery whiskers into his giggling, squirming nephew’s tender cheeks and murmured repeatedly, Hywel. The contented expression on Anarawd’s countenance was outmatched only by those of the child’s parents.

      Later, the contentment grew when the prince proposed a mutual assistance treaty in the event of a third-party attack. Cadell spoke honestly, openly referring to Viking movements among his southern isles.

      In the event of war, all you have to do is send a messenger. I’ll do the same. The brothers sealed the pact with an embrace.

      Meanwhile, Alun ap Drystan travelled slowly on horseback alone through the Great Selwood. One small band of outlaws regretted their attempt to steal his horse and possessions. Each ended with a severe wound inflicted by the Welsh hero’s sword. After that sole, ugly incident, his progress remained undisturbed until he found an inn in Winchester.

      The King of Wessex’s poor health was a subject of common knowledge in the city. So, his appearance was not entirely a surprise when Alun faced the ailing monarch. The narrow, sallow face beamed at him, contrasting starkly with Alfred’s reputation back in Gwynedd as the mighty conqueror of the Danes, the victor of Edington.

      Alfred received Alun with respect and honour.

      "It is a pleasure to meet you, Alun ap Drystan, known far and wide as Rhodri’s Fury"—this was news to Alun, who almost blushed like a maid. Come, sit with me and relate the tale of the Battle of Sunday.

      This Alun did willingly, pleased to explain the Welsh action when pressed for details by the King of Wessex, who seemed to absorb the knowledge of all things, especially military, as a dry sponge absorbs seawater. Thus, Alun passed a pleasant morning, also obtaining an appointment in the afternoon to discuss the reason for his embassy to Winchester. Only as he walked out of the royal palace into the fresh autumn air did he realise how mentally drained he felt. The King of Wessex was affable company but also a mental leech, sucking the last drop of information from his interlocutor.

      His physical state was nothing a good ale would not cure. Alun marvelled that, unlike at the court of Gwynedd, Alfred’s hospitality did not extend to torrents of ale. Was he constrained by his health?

      It was a mistaken speculation because as soon as he returned and was seated opposite the king, servants brought green Frankish glasses and a tall pewter flagon brimming with ale—and what a brew! It was a relief for the Welshman, who always found conversation more fluent after a glass or two of strong drink. His quicksilver speech reaped its reward as Alfred skilfully set forth the only barrier to an accord: his insistence that Anarawd should be baptised. Alun laughed because Rhodri had baptised all his children. This revelation made pleasant hearing for the devout King of Wessex, but he insisted, Nonetheless, your prince must come to Winchester, where he will be confirmed in our faith by a Welsh bishop who resides at my court. I shall stand as witness to the confirmation, declared the Saxon monarch. Anarawd will accept me as his overlord and we’ll seal the alliance."

      Alun found the terms congenial and informed the king that he would ride forthwith to Gwynedd to fetch his sovereign. So, he rode away with his mission two-thirds accomplished. As he trotted carefree under the multi-coloured canopy of the Selwood, little did he suspect that thrice, different bands of outlaws hesitated to attack him. His outward passage through the extensive woodland had left him with an indelible reputation. None of the miscreants wished to meet a similar fate to their mutilated brethren. They would await other, easier pickings on the morrow.

      Once across the Severn Ferry, although still not in Gwynedd, Alun felt himself back in his homeland. He stopped overnight in a tavern to break his journey. The innkeeper’s wife’s fresh-baked bread was the highlight of his stay, almost matched by the tastiness of the new-laid eggs. He willingly added an extra silver coin to the tariff when he paid the good woman before setting off with the fixed thought to embrace Rhiannon and, if he made good time, his prince, too.

      As the sun lowered in the sky and Alun gazed out over the scenery, gauging that he had another two hours ahead in the saddle without stressing Thunderwind, who like himself was getting no younger, in the distance he spotted a lone rider. Could it be? At that distance, it was easier to recognise the horse than the rider. Through narrowed eyes, he peered at the splendid, pure white sheen of a white stallion. Such a splendid form could only be Ice-crystal. Rhiannon! But how could she have guessed the day of his return? Pitilessly, he urged his ever-willing, weary steed ahead at a faster pace. Luckily for Thunderwind, Ice-crystal had greater reserves of energy and Rhiannon drove him forwards faster still.

      The two stallions, intimate stable companions, whinnied at each other as they drew closer. Alun waved to Rhiannon, who signalled back, her broad smile evident from two-hundred yards. The gap soon closed between the mounts, and Alun gave the black stallion welcome relief by springing off his back to the turf.

      In moments, he lifted Rhiannon down and held her close to his body. The two stallions stood shoulder to shoulder nuzzling each other.

      I have achieved what I set out to do, but Anarawd can wait a few hours as my news will keep. Come, let’s sit on that fallen tree and talk about things back home.

      After establishing that everything was in order despite his absence—not that he needed to doubt it with so capable a wife—he asked the question tormenting him since they met.

      How did you know that I would be returning today?"

      She smiled slyly. I didn’t, I felt like riding and a breath of fresh air because it’s a lovely day.

      So it is, and lovelier still now that we are together.

      She laughed and bent to kiss him, but he looked serious. "You should stay closer to home, for scoundrels lurk in the countryside.

      People around here know Ice-crystal and fear your wrath, have no worries, husband.

      "You are too headstrong, my dear.

      I’m too old to change, Alun.

      I don’t want anything to happen to the love of my life.

      She leant closer to him certain she’d receive a kiss. She did.

      Then, to be safe, you can escort me home. The king can wait till tomorrow for his news!

      King? Has Anarawd been crowned in my absence?

      "Didn’t you know?

      Nay, I’ve been in Wessex. His countenance grew thoughtful, it means Anarawd can meet Alfred on more equal terms.

      Must the king go to Wessex?

      Ay, to Winchester—if he wants his alliance. Do you want to come?

      Her face illuminated. I’d love to! I can visit the market and choose some silks.

      When Alun felt that Thunderwind was sufficiently rested, Rhiannon, as ever practical, led them to a gurgling brook flowing nearby, where both animals could drink their fill of fresh water.

      This is where our ways separate, my sweet, Alun said, for I must away to Aberffraw and you to Dinerth.

      The rational one of the couple, Rhiannon glared at him. Nay, husband. The king does not know that you have crossed the Severn. If we rise early on the morrow, you can be with him before noon. Thunderwind deserves a good rest in our stable with Ice-crystal. Besides, Iolyn will be happy to see you. I want to sleep with you tonight.

      Alun sighed resignedly. What was the point of arguing with such a logical mind that held out enticing prospects?

      So, they rode up to Dinerth, where they failed to find Iolyn, who appeared after a while, carrying a hare by the ears.

      Father, you’re back!

      Ay, just in time for a good hare stew!

      Men! Surely you know the hare will be better for the keeping, husband? We’ll hang it for a few days, and you can enjoy it when we get back.

      Are you going away again? Iolyn asked glumly.

      Ay, we ride to Alfred’s court in Winchester.

      When will we go hunting together again? It’s been years now! the young man protested.

      I’m going with the king to Winchester so that we can assure the necessary peace to make hunting expeditions possible.

      In that case, I approve, Father.

      The following morn, a sunny November dawn, the couple set off for Anglesey.

      Let’s hope the weather holds, Alun said. The roads can become impassible if rain sets in.

      "It looks set fair, she chirped, thinking of Winchester market.

      On their journey, Alun deliberately passed through his childhood haunts around Din-Gonwy, pointing out places he hadn’t seen for years. His father made regular reappearances from Dinerth to sell his fish in Din-Gonwy, where Alun was surprised to find that he was a local celebrity, perhaps thanks to his father’s boasting. He was not allowed to spend a single sceat in the tavern, for English coins circulated in Wales, although their beakers and platters were never empty. Reluctantly, he took his leave, accompanied by the blacksmith’s son with whom he had occasionally hunted in his youth. They chatted as far as Llechwedd, whence the couple pressed on for Anglesey at a faster pace.

      King Anarawd wrestled Alun into an embrace. Luckily, he did not have the bear-like build of his father, so the counsellor’s ribs were not at risk. "I hope you have good news

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