The Wind From Hastings by Morgan Llywelyn Page A

wife, the Lady Edyth! Is that not so, Rhyderch?”
    â€œAye, for what it’s worth,” responded Rhyderch. His Saxon was as poor as my Welsh was good, but the housecarle understood him well enough. “The daughter of a twice-convicted traitor and herself a traitor to King Edward, she’s not such a prize.”
    â€œYou’re a fine one to talk of traitors!” I exploded.
    â€œYes, shut your mouth, Rhyderch,” the Saxon said. “You enrage this witch much more and I may not be able to hold her. In fact, I may let her loose at you!” They all laughed at that. He gave me over to be held by his men and stepped back to get a good look at me.
    The strength of my madness was draining from me, leaving my stomach heaving and my knees weak as water. A roaring came into my ears like the distant voice of the sea, heard from the towers of Rhuddlan. I tried to fight it off, but a swirling mist enveloped me and they all went away, Saxon and Welsh alike. I sank into a darkness where there was no Griffith.
    The world came back to me very slowly. I lay on a rough blanket on the ground, face down, and my ankles and wrists were bound with something that scratched my skin. I wanted to vomit, but my belly was empty, and I would have swallowed my own tongue rather than give those men the satisfaction of seeing me shamed.
    There were voices above and behind me.
    â€œWhat shall we do with the body, sir?”

    â€œDig a hole yonder and bury it; I have no orders concerning its disposal. Bury it deep so that you need build no rock cairn to protect it. I want no one to find his remains!”
    His remains! It was my Griffith’s body they were putting into the ground, in an unmarked grave in the mountain fastness of Snowdonia. There was something right about that. It was not a royal burial—the Cymry funeral rites would not be done—but at least my lord would sleep undisturbed in a place he loved.
    Then I remembered. He would not sleep entire. My body convulsed with pain, and I wept bitter tears onto the Saxon blanket.
    â€œShe’s awake, I think.”
    â€œLet her be.” It was the voice of the captain, he who wielded the ax. There was compassion in it. “There is no comfort for her in this day. The best thing we can do is to leave her alone to mourn her dead.”
    â€œWhat will be done with her, sir?”
    â€œShe will go with us to Tremadoc Bay, where we rendevous with Godwine’s flagship. My Lord Harold will be much impressed with the tropies we bring him.”
    â€œThe head is not a trophy!” exclaimed a Welshaccented voice. “You gave your word, Gareth!”
    â€œSo I did. Very well, it shall be a sign from your people that they wish to make peace and will submit to the King.”
    I shuddered. How my Griffith would have hated having the head of his body used for that vile purpose! Griffith, who never submitted: Griffith, who had fought so long and gallantly to unite his people as the independent Welsh.
    The children!
    It came on me like a blow. With Griffith’s death every other thing had gone out of my mind; it was as if nothing existed but him and the loss of him. Then they were back again, all that was left of our love, and I knew that they were nearby and in danger. I twisted
around on my blanket and tried to see what was going on.
    The Saxon captain, Gareth, stood close by, supervising the breaking of our camp and the packing up of booty. Little enough it was by then: our ragged clothes, our weapons, cooking utensils and the small chest of coin and jewels that was all we had left of the wealth of Gwynedd. I saw one of the Saxons gather up the violet silk which had been Griffith’s wedding gift to me and smooth it against his rough beard.
    â€œThere are toys for a child here, sir,” one of the men reported. “And these are an infant’s clothes.”
    Gareth was on his knees by my side, bending down to peer into my face.