(NSFW!) Revolt - Excerpt

[demidekidasu]

Hi everyone,

 

This is an excerpt from the latest tale I'm writing involving my character, Ysabel. It is based during the real, historical events of a revolt by 10,000 Welshmen that occurred in January of the year 1316, partly caused by the power vacuum in the region as the De Clare line died out at Bannockburn in 1314.

 

My research has been quite extensive. I have read and bought many books detailing the revolt and even visited the castle where it begun, Caerphilly, which is the second largest castle in all the UK.

 

This tale is long and may end up being a novel at this rate. This is part 2 of the tale and is over 6,500 words, so set aside the time if you plan to read :smile:

 

Anyway, thanks to anyone who reads this!

 

WARNING: CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE AND VIOLENCE. SHOULD BE CONSIDERED "NSFW" (NOT SAFE FOR WORK).

 

It's also quite messy and rough with some historical inaccuracies which I may decide to leave in for storytelling purposes.

 

I do believe I may be the first person to ever fictionalise this, as most people (even those here in Wales!) have never heard of it, despite the sheer scale and significance of the revolt.

 

Final point: Nexus Forum's language filter may change some words and result in possible confusion.

 

 

 

Orion carefully treaded the icy mud, carrying a tired Ysabel on his back. He was covered with a big, brown blanket which she’d bought a few days earlier in Cardiff to keep him warm and dry as the snow started to fall. He seemed much happier this way and their pace had increased twofold since.

“Good lad,” she said, stoking him between his ears. He’d never faced ground like this before, but he was doing well so far. She’d reward him with a lovely apple as soon as they reached the little town ahead.

The horizon beyond the town was dominated by a huge fortress, and a truly enormous dam with many towers and turrets along its whole length, sat in the middle of a frozen lake. It was a mighty thing, probably the grandest she’d ever seen. How the hell anyone’d ever be able to take that castle was well beyond her imagination.

She smelt the horrid whiff of civilisation in the air. Orion didn’t approve either and tried to come about. “Come on,” she said. “I’m not sleeping under a tree again.” She corrected his heading and nudged his flank with her heels.

She spotted the town’s stable and steered him towards it, jumping off his back and giving him the promised apple as they arrived. He gobbled it down and she asked the stableboy how much it’d cost to park for the night.

“Three shilling,” he said.

“Three shilling?” she coughed. The price was eye-watering. “Three bloody shilling?”

“Aye, taxes are sharp nowadays, milady.”

She gritted her teeth. “I’ll give you two and no more than that.”

The lad thought about it for a moment, scratching his chin and eyeing the weapons about her person. “Go on then,” he sighed.

She gave him the coin and handed him the reigns. He gave a brief thanks and walked Orion into the barn. As the world was turning dark and no other folk were likely to arrive before morning, he closed the doors behind him for the night.

She lowered the hood of her fur-lined coat and looked around. The snow-covered, wooden town lacked any apparent buildings of governance or defence—strange for a place with such a mighty castle nearby. It seemed quite run-down with shoddy workmanship and sections of thatching missing from most roofs, possibly due to those taxes the stableboy mentioned, unless that was just his usual business pitch.

Muffled laughter and singing came from what sounded like a tavern somewhere to her right. She followed her ears and found herself standing outside a building much taller than all the others in the town that looked like it was fairing quite well. Obviously, the landlord ran a good business here and profits were high enough to keep the place looking decent.

She stepped up to the door and creaked it open. The place was packed with a crowd of lively folk who all turned to greet the strange face at the door. They clearly didn’t mind outsiders here and one man even rose from his stool to signal her to come on inside and out of the cold. She obliged and smiled at the warm welcome.

She looked around for the landlord and caught the eye of a short, chubby man with all his front teeth missing and wearing a dirty, malt-stained apron. He seemed like a cheery fellow, laughing and joking with everyone he walked past.

“Evening, milady!” the landlord bellowed with a big grin.

“How much for a night’s boarding?” she asked.

“A shilling per head.”

The price was almost as steep as it was at the stables, but most inns in Cardiff had asked double that much—sometimes even more—so it wasn’t too bad. “I’ll take a room then, if you’ve one available,” she said, taking off her cloak.

He noticed her weapons and his grin dropped. “I see you’re bearing arms, milady. May I put them in storage for you? I’ve seen far too many bloody brawls over the years.”

It was the usual routine for a tavern and completely understandable. No sane landlord wanted drunken louts swinging swords come closing time. “If you’ve a secure place then, yes, of course,” she said, hanging her cloak on hook near the door.

“I do that,” he said. “You’ll have them back first thing in the morn.”

Ysabel unloaded her impressive kit into the arms of the landlord. He needed to call over two of his daughters to carry them all. “Lose anything and you’ll lose your life,” she threatened. The sword especially was important to her and she nervously watched it disappear through a narrow doorway behind the landlord.

“Enjoy your night, milady,” the landlord said, taking the coin from her hand and dropping it in his purse.

Despite the cost, the tavern seemed like a good one, unlike those of most towns in this part of the world. The brew was fresh, the songs were lively and the folk were a happy bunch with jokes and banter aplenty. The place was being warmed and cosily-lit by a roaring fireplace in the corner and even though the floor featured a layer of trodden in horse s***, the smell wasn’t so bad.

“Ale, milady?” shouted the landlord, several hours and several shillings later into the best night she’d had in a long time.

“Aye, a pint for myself and another for your strapping son here,” she slurred, winking to the lad she’d taken a liking to.

He was big and brawny and sat all alone with his shirt slung over his shoulders. His bloated arms and massive chest glistened with sweat from a recent arm wrestle which he’d won without challenge. God knows how the landlord had fathered such a man.

He eyed her up and flicked aside a long lock of curly, blonde hair. “The lad’s supposed to buy the lass a drink,” he said with a gruff voice and a knee-trembling smile, “not the other way!”

“This lass’s waited for the lad to make his move all night!” she said, cheekily sitting-down in his lap.

“This lad’s let the lass down then,” he said, grabbing her hips, “for he’d failed to spot her affections!”

“Too late for excuses,” she said, wrapping her arms around his thick neck. “You’d best kiss the lass quick, before she sobers and changes her mind.”

As their eyes closed and their lips touched, all the folk in the tavern whistled and cooed. The landlord chuckled and shook his head. Ysabel stuck two fingers high and everyone laughed. The whole tavern then began singing a rude song about young love and the kiss ended when Ysabel guffawed at its filthy chorus.

She gazed deep into the lad’s eyes, wondering if she’d been stricken with love or just too much ale. The lad looked right back and stroked her hair with a face as though he wondered the same things.

They kissed again and she felt his hand moving for her arse. She giggled and slapped him, pretending to be a decent lass who’d put up with no such thing. He laughed and carried on, but she didn’t really mind one bit.

Their embrace continued until the landlord brought over their ales. Ysabel snatched hers and downed the pint as though she’d not drank a drop in days. The lad was impressed and he guzzled his the same.

They were moving to kiss for a third time when the chair gave way beneath them and its shitty craftsmanship spoiled the moment. The tavern laughed off their heads and the song changed to one about a clumsy lass called Mary.

“Tell me my lover’s name,” she said, still sitting in the lad’s lap with her arms still wrapped around him.

“Fergus,” he said, wincing from a piece of the broken chair poking into his left arsecheek. “What should I call my fair maiden?”

“Ysabel,” she said, pondering his name. “Why doesn’t your name sound Welsh?”

“My birth parents were travellers who died in brawl one night in this very tavern.”

She laughed.

“What on earth could be funny about that?” he said with an offended look.

“No! I don’t laugh at your tale,” she quickly said. “I laugh because I’d wondered how the landlord could’ve fathered such a handsome lad!”

“Oh! Well, he didn’t!” Fergus laughed. “What of you? From where do you hail?”

“Bayonne by birth, but raised near Bordeaux.”

“Where?” he asked, looking completely lost.

“Aquitaine!” she said, playfully poking him in the chest.

“Aquitaine?” He still looked lost.

“Aye, Aquitaine!” she laughed, poking again. “It’s in France! You’re not one bit worldly, are you?”

They both laughed and kissed again, rolling sideways onto the floor this time.

“Come on, lovebirds!” shouted the landlord. “Be decent or go upstairs, for f***’s sake!”

Fergus grinned and rose to his feet, lifting Ysabel clear from the floor with his immense strength. She lay across his arms and smiled and bit her lip, knowing exactly where they’d be headed to now.

The tavern gave cheers and applauses and sang the young couple all the way up the stairs...

* * * * *

The tiny window blasted wide open and the morning’s bitterly-cold wind rushed over to the bed.

“f***ing f***!” Ysabel screamed as she woke with a shock and scrambled to cover her naked self with the blanket.

Fergus leapt from the bed and slammed shut the window so hard it nearly smashed. He yawned and turned to notice Ysabel shivering under the bed covers. “Morning, milady,” he said sheepishly as he gathered his clothes from the floor.

She sat up, dragging the blanket with her. Her head hurt a bit and her mouth was bone-dry. “Morning, Fergus,” she wheezed, embarrassed by the room’s happenings last night.

“Sorry, Ysabel, but I must leave you be,” he said, dressing himself quickly. “Thank you for the lovely night.”

“Is that all?” she said, rubbing her sleepy eyes and feeling quite degraded. “Bang-bang-thank you?”

“Listen...it truly meant a great deal to me,” he gulped. “Please don’t think I mean otherwise by leaving in such a hurry.”

“Then why do you haste to go?” She reached for her own clothes which had been drunkenly tossed over the back of a nearby chair. “Be truthful, Fergus,” she said, now annoyed and trying hard to keep herself hidden with the blanket. “Am I a boast for your mates?”

“Oh, Ysabel...If it were any other day, I’d shower you with all the romance a maiden deserves. But on this day, I’ve a calling to answer.” He sat beside her and curled his arm around her back. “I won’t tell anyone of last night. You’re a sweet lass and I’d do no such thing. It’s just our paths have crossed on the wrong day.”

She shoved off his arm and started to dress herself. She couldn’t believe he was fobbing her off now the morning came, even after all that was said and done last night.

Fergus closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Ysabel,” he said, “there’s going to be an uprising today.”

“An uprising?” she said, wondering if there was truth to his words. “Do you jest?”

“I jest not. That prick up in the castle’ll be toppled.” Fergus stood and approached the window, peering out to the fortress. “De Turberville’s his name. He’s a tyrant who got the position after the baron fell at Bannockburn. First thing he did was raise the taxes so much we can’t even afford our lives.”

He paused for a moment and waited for Ysabel to pull down her shirt over her head.

“Llywelyn made a proper complaint on our behalf,” he continued, “but the king’s a bloody whelp, only interested in throwing dirty parties where he’ll dress in women’s frocks and dance like a princess. He gives no s*** for his kingdom and even decreed to hang Llywelyn for f***ing treason, of all things.”

 

“You speak truth, don’t you?” she said, raising an eyebrow as she tied all her hair in a tight ponytail. “Who’s Kthloowelin?”

 

Fergus laughed kindly at her poor command of the Welsh alphabet. “Llywelyn,” he corrected. “Llywelyn y Bren. He’s one of our few remaining nobles. The Saes call him...” He mocked an English accent. “...Thloellin of the Woods. ”

“Saes? The English?” She rose to her feet and fastened her belt. She believed him now. No one’d make up something like that, surely.

“Aye, that’s it. Saes is what we call the English bastards ‘round here.” He tapped on the glass with a finger and scrunched his face. “And that prick’s the biggest bastard of them all.”

Ysabel walked over to Fergus and rested her head on his chest. Fergus put his arms around her and they kissed. Now she felt guilty for not believing him and apologised. “I thought you were trying to cast me off after...you know,” she said.

“No,” he said softly, holding her tight. “Don’t say sorry. I don’t blame you for thinking it. I’d probably think the same thing.”

She kissed his chest and realised there were feelings brewing inside her, feelings she’d never felt about any man in all her life. She didn’t want him to leave. She wanted to keep hold of this one. “Don’t go,” she said.

“I’ve got to,” he said. “I’m the one who’s doing him in.”

“What?” She lifted her head and gave him a scathing look. “You mustn’t. You’ll only enter a world you’ll wish you’d not.”

“Look at my arms, Ysabel.” He showed her his huge biceps. “I’m the biggest lad in the town. Even the watch s*** themselves when I walk by. I can draw a bow like no one else and smack a target right in the middle from more than two hundred paces off. I’m the best man for it.”

“In that case,” she said, “I’m coming with you.” She didn’t approve but couldn’t trust the world to not f***-up this one chance for a little bit of happiness in her life if she let him out of her sight.

“Like f***, you are,” he laughed. “I’ll not see my woman in harm’s way like that.”

 

“Your woman, eh?” She playfully slapped him then stepped away and braced her foot against the bed to strap her boot. “Fergus,” she said, “in my life, I’ve killed more men than’ll die in all today.” She turned to smile at him and winked. “I’ll not see my man in harm’s way like that.”

* * * * *

“Where-the-f*** is he?” shouted Fergus, marching about in a frozen copse of young willows.

His good friend Tomos was supposed to be meeting them here to deliver the word from Llywelyn that the day goes ahead. Worryingly, there was no sign of him and there weren’t even any tracks in the snow. For all they knew, it could’ve meant Llywelyn had been confronted by an English force and made to either turn tail or commit to battle early.

“Hold for a while longer,” said Ysabel, looking through the trees and scanning for any movement in the open fields surrounding their hill. “Perhaps he’s overslept.”

“No way,” said Fergus. “He’s a funny one. Wakes up not long after midnight, every f***ing day. Always has done. He used to—”

“Eyes to the east!” She cut him off and pointed to a man riding a horse at full pelt in the distance, crossing the fields and headed in their direction with a cloud of kicked up snow trailing behind him.

Fergus bent the stave of his hand-carved longbow and strung it with a length of flax from end to end. He pulled a long and thick, bodkin-tipped arrow from the quiver on his hip and gently flicked a light coating of frost from the quills. When the arrow was ready for use, he scurried a short distance through the trees to a rock where he took a knee and began tracking the unknown rider as he approached.

Ysabel readied an arrow on her own, much smaller, bow and positioned herself at Fergus’s right. They couldn’t take any chances here. If Fergus didn’t recognise the man as Tomos, they’d have to fill him with arrows else they’d be spotted.

The unknown rider closed to about three hundred paces and Fergus drew his bow, the huge muscles in his chest and arms exploding with might.

Two hundred paces. Ysabel felt a bead of sweat on her forehead. Archery was never her strongest point and they simply couldn’t afford to f***-up.

A hundred paces. She drew her bow. Her arm soon started to ache and the tight bowstring hurt the skin of her fingers. She prayed for Fergus to hurry the f*** up and say if it was Tomos or not.

Fifty paces. Still no word from Fergus. “For f***’s sake, Fergus! Is it him or not?” she whispered as loud as she dared.

“I still can’t tell!” said Fergus with strain from the bow in his voice.

Ysabel forced herself to stop blinking and aimed a finger-width to the right of the rider. She took a shallow breath and held it in, ready to kill the man if need be.

The rider nearly reached the base of their hill when suddenly, his horse spooked and reared its front legs skyward with a loud whinny.

“Drop the bastard!” cried Fergus at the top of his lungs.

Ysabel let the bowstring slip over her fingertips and the arrow’s shaft gently stroked the knuckles of her other hand as it was pushed into flight. It cleared the stave without any wobble or tilt and punctured the air perfectly, flying straight towards the target.

It reached about half-way there when a passing robin flew too close. The little bird exploded in a cloud of tiny feathers and the arrow deflected upwards and over the top of the target, missing by an arm’s length and landing sideways in the snow. She looked to Fergus’s mighty bodkin, hoping it’d do what hers had failed to do.

The monstrous arrow parted the willow branches lying in its path and crossed the distance to the target in a mere instant. It struck with a loud ‘thud’ and sank half the length of its enormous shaft into the middle of the horse’s chest, smashing right through the beast’s ribcage and splitting its heart. The rider was flung onto his back and the horse collapsed beside him without even the slightest whimper after being killed instantly by the great arrow. Ysabel let out her breath and blinked.

Fergus dropped his bow and pounced over the rock, sprinting downhill through the trees and drawing a short dagger from his boot as he approached the man laying in the field. “Oh, f***!” he shouted as he closed to within a few steps. “It’s him!” He dropped the dagger as concern for his friend took precedent. “s***! You alright?” he cried.

“I can’t breathe,” wheezed Tomos, “nor can I move!”

“Hold on, mwsh,” said Fergus. He looked back to the hill and called to Ysabel. “He can’t breathe!”

Ysabel let go of her bow and rushed towards Fergus and his mate as fast as the terrain would allow, dodging several trees and jumping over a drift of snow before falling to her knees beside them. “Can you feel your legs?” she asked Tomos, looking over his motionless body.

“No,” he said, fighting for air.

“Any pain?”

“None. Am I dying?”

Ysabel looked into his eyes and saw absolute terror. “You’re just winded,” she said with a comforting smile. “Try to not move and calm your breathing.” She lifted her head and mimed to Fergus that his friend had a broken back. She didn’t want the poor lad to know, he was already frightened enough.

Fergus sat back and bit his fist. He knew full well it’d be impossible to move him back to town without killing him.

“Who are you, milady?” said Tomos.

“I’m Ysabel, a friend of Fergus’s,” she said softly.

“Oh, Fergus,” he said with a playful look, “she’s a pretty one.”

Ysabel and Fergus laughed at Tomos’s joke and looked to each other, both knowing what had to be done. Ysabel handed Fergus the dagger he’d dropped, making sure Tomos didn’t see it.

“I bring news,” said Tomos, trying to turn his head. “The day’s changed. De Turberville was taken alive, just after dawn.”

“Alive?” said Fergus, smiling and trying to disguise his broken heart. “How?”

“He was riding out when his path crossed with Llywelyn’s.”

“Well, f***ing hell,” said Fergus, pleased by the bittersweet news. “That gives us a strong position for bargaining with the English then.”

“Aye, it does,” said Tomos.

“But what of Llywelyn?” asked Ysabel.

“Marching as we speak,” said Tomos. “He’ll reach Ffili before noon.”

Ysabel and Fergus looked to each other again. Ysabel nodded. Fergus nodded back, closing his eyes and swallowing the lump in his throat.

“You’re a brave lad for bringing us this news,” Ysabel said to Tomos, stroking his dark hair and kissing his forehead. “Now,” she said, “I want you to do something.”

“Aye,” he said with a cheeky grin, “anything for a maiden!”

“I want you to close your eyes and picture yourself happily at home.”

Tomos knew what it meant. He’d been injured by the fall far worse than he’d realised. As he closed his eyes, tears ran down the sides of his face. “I understand” he said, taking a final deep breath and readying himself to accept fate. “Keep an eye on my mother for me, Fergus.”

“I will,” said Fergus, his voice cracking as he started to sob. “I’m so very sorry, my dear pal.” He gripped Tomos’s hand and readied the dagger. “Godspeed, Tomos.”

Ysabel placed one hand over Tomos’s mouth and another covering his eyes. She looked away when Fergus drove the dagger into his pal’s throat and the snow around them turned bright red as he drifted into his final sleep...

* * * * *

When the jug ran dry for the fifth, or possibly the sixth or seventh time, the landlord filled it with the last of the dark, frothy brew from the oak cask they’d hauled across the room to the floor beside the table. He poured another pint for Fergus and topped up Ysabel's and his own. “None left after this,” he said.

Fergus gulped it all down, letting out a loud burp and slamming the cup on the table when it was empty. Ysabel and the landlord were pacing themselves, but Fergus wasn’t. Frankly, no one honestly expected him to after the morning he’d had.

A snowy wind howled from outside as the tavern door opened. A bald, elderly knight with an ugly scar on his forehead came through the doorway with one hand resting on a sheathed sword at his hip. “Fergus?” he said as he quietly shut the door behind him.

Fergus snorted and shook his head. “Not home,” he said. “He’s off in the woods, killing his mates.”

The old knight approached their table, his splendid suit of chainmail and studded cuir bouilli creaking and rattling with every move. “I heard of a brave Welshman who lost his life today,” he said, “and I wish to pay my respects.”

Ysabel watched him very carefully as he reached for a nearby chair and dragged it to their table. She didn’t trust him in the slightest.

The knight sat down and poured himself a pint from the jug into an empty cup he’d found on another table. The landlord didn’t ask for any coin in exchange, but the knight gave him a penny regardless.

“To Tomos,” said the knight as he rose his cup.

Fergus fought back tears and honoured his friend with the knight. Ysabel didn’t move, she just continued watching the knight.

“Milady,” said the knight, “something tells me you think evil of me.”

“I’ve not yet decided, sire,” she said.

The knight wiped ale from his long, white beard and placed his cup down on the table. “I can relate,” he said. “I’ve also been scorned with broken promises. Mostly those from Saes mouths. It’s one of the reasons I declare war today.”

“And what are the other reasons, sire?” she asked.

“Milady, you’ve seen the ill state of the town outside,” he said, pointing to the door and leaning back into his chair. “You’ve seen the castles they build to crush and subdue our people. They tax the s*** out of every man living under their rule to fund endless wars against the French, the Scots and the Irish, with whom they plan to do exactly the same. The desire to conquer and exterminate runs deep in the black heart of every Saes bastard and they’ll not stop until all the world bows before their tyrannical kings.”

“I don’t question the cause, sire,” said Ysabel, crossing her arms.

“Then what do you question?” he laughed. “I assure you, I’ve the best interests of my people at heart.”

“That’s what concerns me, sire. Should a man not be free to choose his own ‘best interests’?”

“Aye, they should.” He nodded his agreement and pointed to the door again. “That’s precisely what ten thousand brave Welshmen are doing right now as they lay siege to that English castle out there. I’m but the banner to which they’ve flocked.”

“But when the siege is over and your kingdom’s won,” she said, “what then?”

“Oh, no,” he said, shaking his finger. “That’s not the man I am. I’m no prince, nor am I a conqueror.”

“Not yet, you aren’t,” she scoffed.

He gave her a curious look. “Milady, who are you?” he said. “You seem quite learned in politics and the like.”

“Ysabel de Bayonne,” she said.

He scratched his chin and tapped his foot. “The same Ysabel de Bayonne who caused the ruckus in Cardiff last week?”

She nodded, trying to hide an amused grin.

He raised an eyebrow and began to chuckle as he thought about the rumours. “I do hope you’ll be fighting for my side in this coming war then.”

“I’ll fight on one condition,” she said, her face turning very serious. “Give me your word you’ll uphold your promise of freedom for your people and not drag them into a bloody conflict for selfish ambitions.”

“Aye, of course,” he said, looking somewhat surprised by her words.

“Swear it under God?” she said, tilting her head and waiting to see his reaction.

He smiled and nodded. “Yes.”

“The swear it under God!” she yelled, slamming the table with her fist and pointing upwards with a finger. The impact caused the jug to wobble and Fergus’s empty cup to fall over and roll to the floor where it shattered.

Everyone jumped at her loud outburst, including Llywelyn who missed a breath and gulped at the fright. “Aye,” he said, looking up and crossing himself. “I swear it under God.”

“Then I’ll fight under your banner,” she said, reaching for her drink...

* * * * *

The next morning, Ysabel woke up before Fergus. She hadn’t drunk anywhere near as much as he had and she didn’t feel any signs of a hangover, thankfully. She removed his arm from her waist and sat up, being very careful not to wake him. He’d drunk a lot—and quite understandably so—and would likely need a few more hours before he’d be ready to face the day.

She dressed herself before quietly creeping out of the room and gently closing the door behind her. Just outside the room, someone had left a bucket of warm water on the floor with a fluffy, woollen cloth folded neatly beside it.

After a quick wash, she descended the narrow, wooden staircase which creaked and groaned and it felt as though it were going to give way. One of the daughters, calling herself Gwen, instructed her to sit down at a table and brought her a bowl of turnip and leek pottage from a jar in the larder. It was probably alright when fresh a few days earlier, but now it was cold and quite disgusting. She only managed to eat half and left the rest on the table.

She wrapped herself in her warm cloak before stepping outside where the chilly air hurt her nostrils and lips. The snow was still falling, although much lighter than the day before, and now it lay as deep as her ankles and had been frozen to a crisp overnight. It was so cold even the poor sheep across the street were shivering, despite a roof above their heads protecting them from the snow.

Thankfully, no one else in the town was up yet to see how much of an idiot her strides must’ve made her look as she treaded through the snow and down the street towards the stables. Perhaps they were up, but hadn’t yet mustered the courage to brave the outdoors. She didn’t blame them.

She banged on the door of the stables. There was no response and she banged again. After third bang, the door finally opened and caused a torrent of snow to fall down from the roof above and land on her head. Luckily, the cloak’s hood protected her from the avalanche, but it was still unpleasant and made her curse.

The stableboy came through the doorway, rubbing his eyes as though he’d just woke up. He blew into his hands in defiance of the cold and giggled as he noticed the mounds of snow piled on Ysabel’s head and shoulders. When he recognised her, he stepped back inside and fetched her horse, still amused by the sight.

Orion didn’t look pleased at all. Just like Ysabel, he’d never seen snow before either, nor had he ever felt such cold. The stableboy handed his reigns over to Ysabel who greeted him with a big smile and a reassuring stroke of his mane before climbing onto his back.

She glanced to the south and spotted Llywelyn’s enormous camp. It was a vast sprawl of several hundred dirty, brown tents, almost completely covering the slope of the hill. Clearly, it was no exaggeration when Llywelyn had said ten thousand men.

She realised she didn’t know anything about the army other than its number. They could’ve been anything from a legion of resplendent knights to a rabble of starving peasants for all she knew. If she was going to be fighting in a war alongside them, it’d probably be a good idea to have a look.

With this in mind, she brought Orion to a slow trot and steered him out of town, following the road southwards...

* * * * *

“No passage!” cried a sentry. He was a skinny lad who looked quite young, stood atop a wall of piled-up earth twice the height of a man and surrounding the entire camp with a deep ditch at its base. Behind him, countless plumes of black smoke were rising high into the heavens. To his right lay the camp’s entrance; a gap in the earthen ramparts protected by a chicane of long and very sharp wooden stakes poking out of the snow.

Ysabel reared Orion immediately. “I’m one of you,” she said calmly.

“Don’t jest with me, lass!” the sentry snapped, pointing an arrow directly at her. “A French lass, one of us? f***-off before I run out of patience!”

She sighed. The sentry was doing his job perfectly and definitely meant business, much to her detriment. She certainly didn’t think it’d be wise to start arguing with him. “Ask Llywelyn if Ysabel de Bayonne may seek entry to the camp,” she said.

The sentry stared at her and scratched his head for a moment before shouting back to someone else in the camp, “ask Llywelyn if he’s heard of an Ysabel de Bourg!”

“Bayonne!” she barked. Everyone in this land seemed absolutely incapable of getting her name right.

 

“Bayonne, not whatever it was I said!” the sentry corrected. A short pause later, he grumbled and shouted again to his cotton-eared mate, “Ysabel de Bayonne, you deaf *censored*! Open your f***ing ears, mwsh!”

Ysabel rolled her eyes.

A few minutes passed by and Orion grew bored of standing still. He tried to wander around and Ysabel had to fight to keep him from moving any closer to the camp lest the sentry take it as a threat and loose his arrow.

Another few long minutes passed before the sentry finally heard back from his mate. “Alright, come on in then, Milady,” he said, relaxing and lowering his bow.

She gave the sentry a pretend smile and brought Orion to a walking-pace. At first, he tried to lead his own path through the wooden steaks which could’ve quickly ended for the both of them in a most gruesome manner. She had to control his heading with firm tugs at the reigns.

Half-way through, the steaks completely surrounded them and he became quite unnerved by the forest of sharp spikes. She brought him to a stop and noticed him trembling against her legs, so she stroked him softly and leaned forward to whisper into his ear. When he calmed down, she got him to move forward again, slowly.

They eventually emerged safely from the other side and she told him all about how brave he was and how proud she was of him. Even though she knew he couldn’t understand a single word, the poor horse trusted her with every bone in his body and she felt the need to remind him that she’d never bring him to harm.

To her right, a man who appeared to be a weaponsmith caught her attention as he started battering a rod of red-hot metal with a rock against a lump of blackened wood. She wondered what on earth he was thinking, the sword he’d make from it would be useless with weak points and blunt edges along its whole length. It’d be no good at all. Although she found it rather irritating to watch, she decided it best to not interfere. Instead, she encouraged Orion to continue on deeper into the camp before she ended up getting herself involved with things that had nothing to do with her.

Things weren’t any better amongst the many soldiers she passed. There didn’t even seem to be a uniform or dress code of any kind. One man’s armour consisted of only a rusty, open-faced helm in the style used by cavalrymen centuries earlier. Another man was blessed with a decent-looking suit of chainmail, but wore next to nothing underneath it and had no shoes on his feet. Never mind how cold he must’ve felt, his poor feet would be sliced to bits by the ground before the enemy got in in a single hit.

She couldn’t ignore it for any longer. It was a sad, sad state of affairs and she couldn’t understand how on earth they expected to take castle such as Ffili with their idiotic approach to warfare, no matter how many of them there were. She’d clearly gotten herself involved in a right mess, guaranteed to end with a bloody massacre.

Ahead of her, a big, green-and-red tent stood out from the others. It wasn’t just its colours that caught her eye, nor its size—it looked nothing like any other tent in the camp at all. She presumed it must’ve been Llywelyn’s and rode Orion towards it.

She dismounted Orion as she reached the tent and handed his reigns to a bearded man standing guard beside the entrance. He looked at her as though she were mad. “Don’t let him wander,” she said as she lifted the tent’s door and stepped inside.

Llywelyn was sat in the middle of the tent before a desk, reading a book with a red, leather cover. The title on its front looked as though it were written in Welsh, which she couldn’t read to save her life. It must’ve been quite engrossing, as he didn’t seem to notice nor react when she entered his tent.

She cleared her throat.

Llywelyn looked up and smiled. “Good morning, milady,” he said. “You’ll have my attention in just a moment. I’d like to finish reading this one poem.” His eyes returned to the book.

“No problem, sire,” she said.

“Would you care to hear some?” asked Llywelyn, his eyes still fixated on the page.

“Certainly,” she said. She couldn’t deny her curiosity.

“I’ll read to you in the original tongue,” he said before taking a breath and reading a passage aloud in dramatic style.

 

“It’s very beautiful,” said Ysabel, “but I’m sorry to say, I don’t understand the words.”

Llywelyn chuckled. “Not many do,” he said, “not even here in Wales. It’s a very ancient poem and our language has changed quite a bit since those days.” He closed the book and gently placed it on the table. “The poem tells the tale of a poor lass who’s home was destroyed and her husband killed by the English. Quite fitting, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is, sire.”

“Ysabel,” he said, itching his ear, “you needn’t call me that. I’ve already told you I’m no prince.”

“Sorry, it’s habit...” she realised she was about to say it again and stopped herself with an embarrassed grin. “Most knights I’ve met think themselves an extension of royalty and like to be addressed as such.”

“Oh, they do that,” laughed Llywelyn. “They’ve got their own heads held tightly up their arses, haven’t they?”

Ysabel nodded and they both laughed.

“Now,” said Llywelyn, “I doubt you came here to laugh at pretentious knights and listen to my ancient poems. What’s the matter?”

She sighed and thought about how best to put it without causing any offence. “The army...” she said. “I have a few concerns about its...”

“...Its Quality, milady?” Llywelyn finished the sentence for her. He’d obviously noticed it for himself.

“Yes,” she said, “to put it bluntly.”

Llywelyn rose from the chair. “I agree,” he said as he walked over to a bookshelf in the corner of the tent and added the book to it between two others that looked almost identical, probably part of the same series. “I suspect half don’t even know how to string their bows properly,” he said. “But what am I to do? Send them all home?”

“It’d save many lives,” she said. “If you start a war with the English right now, your men will all be dead in the first battle.”

“That’s true. But I can’t send them home, Ysabel. Even if I tried, they’d take my head and fight anyway, which would guarantee them their doom.”

Llywelyn returned to his chair and sat down again, leaning back and crossing his arms. “What if...” he started but didn’t finish.

“...What if what?” said Ysabel.

“Well...I think it’s safe to say you’re probably the finest warrior around here, no matter your sex.”

“Perhaps.” She gave him a funny look, wondering what he was trying to suggest. “What’re you driving at?”

“Well...” said Llywelyn, rocking in his chair and staring at the tent’s ceiling, “what if you were to teach them the basic principles of war?”

Ysabel was about to dismiss the idea, but then thought about it for a moment and realised it might actually work. “I can try,” she said, “but don’t expect me to turn s*** into gold.”

Llywelyn chuckled. “As long as they know how to fight at least to a basic degree, their sheer number could bring victory, I believe.”

“Alright, I think the plan is sound,” she said. “However, if I’m to do it, I ask for another condition.”

“Certainly, but do warn me if you’re going to make me swear it under God again. You nearly stopped my poor-old heart last time,” he said.

“Don’t fear,” she laughed. “I merely ask for Fergus to remain at my side.”

“Without question, milady,” he said...

 

 

[Lisnpuppy]

Ah Ysabel....she slays me.

 

Well done again. I enjoy traveling with Ysabel...reminds me of some of the *cough* more boisterous ladies of my family.

[Maharg67]

Its very good from what I have read and I hope to be able to focus on the writing here and finish it soon.