Chapter Six
by crusaderknight
The walls of Constantinople loomed on the horizon. Tall and majestic, they signaled the end of the first leg of the journey. Gruffydd ap Urien gazed up at the sight in awe, his heart filled with wonder. He had seen the occasional stone fortress in his home of Wales, and in other parts of Britannia. As he had traveled through France and Germany, he had seen real castles as well. Yet nothing compared to the sight he now saw. The City of Constantine shone is all its regal splendour. For seven centuries this city had been the heart of the greatest empire the world had ever known. There was no city that could claim to be its equal. Jerusalem may be the Holy City, and Rome may be the seat of the Papacy, but neither one could stand next the Constantinople. A seat of both Imperial Power and the Eastern Church, a place where the East met the West in astonishing colours, of shrewd commerce and fervent piety, of tranquil spleandour and military might, the home to both the beautiful imperial palace and the dark intrigues of the court.
His weary bones ached from all the marching, and he was more than ready for a little respite. He turned, and looked back at his men. Though small in number, and from such differing backgrounds, they had already found a bond, and had become such a unified force, that he was certain there were no warriors on earth to match them. Neither Moslem heathens nor his fellow Christian warriors were a match for the men who had come to be known as Gruffydd’s Wolves. They had already come a long way, both in distance and as men. Most of them had less than savory pasts: criminals, exiles, rebels. Most had no homes to return to, no families. They came on this Crusade seeking redemption from their sins, and a new life in the Holy Land. But Gruffydd was different. He was not here seeking redemption, but to find his name. He was not here seeking a new life, but rather to return to his old life with the respect of his fellows.
He was the lord of a minor estate in the realm of Powys, in northern Wales. Yet despite his family’s status as nobility, they had never been viewed with anything less than contempt by their peers. Not even the Kings of Gwynedd showed them any respect. He was descended from a bastard son of Rhodri the Great, the King of Gwynedd who united the realms of Gwynedd and Powys, and fought against the Saxons and Mercians who sought to bring Wales into submission. Rhodri had loved all of his children, even this bastard son. Yet for both his sake and the child’s, he had made certain that the nature of the child’s birth was never revealed. However, secrets are impossible to keep in a royal court, and word soon got out. Rhodri admitted that he had fathered the child, and was pressured by his nobles to dispose of the child, lest it bring a curse upon the kingdom. Rhodri would not kill the child, and so instead sent him to live with his cousin in Powys. When the child grew up, he was given a small estate in Powys, which he passed on to his son, who passed it on to his son, in succession until now it rested in Gruffydd’s hands, two centuries later. To the Mathrafal Dynasty, the Kings of Gwynedd, his family was a stain upon the Mathrafal name, and they despised him. And whenever a non-Mathrafal had taken the throne, they viewed Gruffydd’s family as a threat, for bastard line though they were, they were still Mathrafals, and therefore a threat to the legitimacy of any non-Mathrafal king. His father had always taught him that it was by God’s Grace alone, through the protection of Saint David, patron saint of Wales, that their family had retained their lands for so long.
A tear came to Gruffydd’s eye as he remembered his father. Urien had died shortly before the Crusade began. His father had always been a staunch defender of the Mathrafal Dynasty, despite their hatred of him. In Gruffydd’s eyes, Urien was the most heroic of men, and far more worthy of the throne than the “legitimate” Mathrafal line, but Urien would not tolerate such talk from Gruffydd. Urien was especially supportive of King Bleddyn ap Cynfyn, who had restored the Mathrafal Dynasty to power after King Gruffydd ap Llewellyn had been slain by Harold Godwinson. Bleddyn had been of a different disposition than the kings of the past, and had treated Urien and his household kindly. In return, Urien was an extremely zealous defender of Bleddyn’s crown. Urien had led the men of his estate alongside Bleddyn and the Mercian Eadric the Wild during their raids upon William the Bastard’s England from 1067 to 1069. In 1070, the sons of King Gruffydd ap Llewellyn rebelled, and Urien once more fought for Bleddyn at the Battle of Mechain. The rebels were defeated, in part due to Urien’s valour.
In 1075, Bleddyn was murdered by Rhys ap Owain of Deheubarth. Bleddyn’s cousin, Trahaearn ap Caradog succeeded him to the throne. But Trahaearn did not look upon Urien as kindly. He returned to the old hatred the Mathrafals felt for this bastard line. However, for Bleddyn’s sake, Urien supported Trahaearn. When the new kind declared that he was going to march against Deheubarth to subdue them, Urien quickly offered his men to join the army of Gwynedd, eager to avenge Bleddyn. They met the forces of Deheubarth at the Battle of Gwdig, and defeated them. Rhys was killed soon after, and it was said that the blood of Bleddyn had been avenged. In 1081, Gruffydd ap Cynan invaded to take the throne from Trahaearn. Urien was ill at the time, and unable to render assistance. Trahaearn was killed, and Gruffydd ap Cynan had become the new king.
The new king was also a Mathrafal, of another line: The House of Aberffraw. But he was still a Mathrafal. This meant that Urien declared for him, and in return, he despised Urien’s illegitimate descent. Gruffydd ap Urien always asked his father why they supported men who hated them. Urien would always tell his son, “They are protected by God and Saint David as we are. To attack them is to forfeit the love of God and Saint David. Gruffydd, my boy, always put your trust in God and in our patron saint. They will not lead you astray.” That last sentence reverberated in the young lad’s ears. He was only eight years old, but those words stayed with him.
Urien had died in 1095, when Gruffydd was 22. His dying words had been to remind his son, “Gruffydd, my boy, always put your trust in God and in our patron saint. They will not lead you astray.” Gruffydd ap Urien was now lord of estate. It was a small land. It had never even been given a name, nobody had cared to name the land of a bastard line. It was simply “The Estate”. Twenty families worked the land, and thirty soldiers called Urien, and now Gruffydd, their lord. One of these, the captain’s son, Rhodri ap Cadell, was Gruffydd’s friend, so close were they, that they loved each other as brothers. He put his hand on Gruffydd’s shoulder and said, “I am here for you, brother.” Cadell himself, captain of the thirty men of The Estate, saluted, and said, “My Lord Gruffydd, I and my men are at your command.” Gruffydd smiled. There was not much to this estate, but it was his now. Twenty peasant families, plus thirty soldiers and their families, now looked to him for leadership. He swore he would not fail them.
However, first, he needed to seek guidance. Remembering his father’s words, a few days after the funeral Gruffydd rode to Tyddewi, the site of Saint David’s burial, and the most holy place in Wales. Only Rhodri accompanied him on this pilgrimage. While they were still in Powys, they passed by the estate of Cadwgon ap Bleddyn, the son of Bleddyn ap Cynfyn, and “King” of Powys, though his station was more akin to that of a duke, for he was vassal to King Gruffydd ap Cynan. As the two passed by Cadwgon’s estate, Gruffydd stopped for a moment and sighed. Within those walls was Gwyn, Cadwgon’s niece, and the one woman Gruffydd had ever loved. He knew he loved her, and what’s more, he knew she loved him as well. But she lived under Cadwgon’s roof, for her father was dead, and Cadwgon was not about to allow his brother’s daughter to marry Gruffydd. Indeed, he did not permit them to even meet. But that did not stop them. Gwyn would often go to the stables, take a horse, and go riding. Often during her rides, she would escape from her escort and meet Gruffydd.
With another sigh, Gruffydd began to ride away, Rhodri silently at his side. When they were just out of sight of the estate, they heard a horse coming up behind them. They turned, and saw Gwyn. When she had caught up to them, she smiled, and with her hands she smoothed down her long red hair. Suddenly, though, her face turned somber, and she said, “Gruf, I heard about your father. I’m terribly sorry. Urien was a good man, and well beloved of my grandfather. Why my father hated him, and why my uncles do, I cannot understand. Why should it matter that your ancestor two centuries ago was a bastard? Your family is every bit as Christian and Noble as the other lines of the Mathrafal Dynasty!”
Gruffydd shook his head, “It is alright, Gwyn.”
There was a moment of silence. Then Gwyn smiled again, to lighten the mood, and asked, “Where are you two off to on this lovely day?”
“To Tyddewi,” Gruffydd replied, “to seek the counsel of Saint David.”
Before Gwyn could answer, they heard more horse hooves falling on the path behind them. Gwyn said, hurriedly, “My escort! Quick, they must not know we have been talking, or else my uncle will be most displeased!”
Gruffydd and Rhodri dug their heels into their horses and spend away. Rhodri looked to his friend and said, “Brother, I don’t know what you love more: the girl, or the fact that the time you spend with her angers her uncle to no end!”
Gruffydd just smiled, and sped on, saying, “Race you!”
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There was nothing visually impressive about Tyddewi. It was just a monastery and a small village. But Gruffydd wasn’t here to see, he was here to pray. The abbot led him to the statue of Saint David, while another monk showed Rhodri around. When he came before the statue, Gruffydd knelt, and said, “Saint David, patron saint of Wales and defender of my family, I ask for your guidance. I know not what to do. I am young, and I do not know how to rule an estate, even one so small as mine. Nor do I know how to reclaim my family’s honour, which is lost because of my ancestor’s illegitimate birth. Please, great saint, help me! Give me a sign! Tell me what I should do!”
Not a moment later, one of the monks came to him and said, “My lord Gruffydd, I apologize for the interruption, but there is a man here with a message for you. He says it is from the king, and it is most urgent.”
Gruffydd thanked the monk and went to the door of the monastery. There was Cadfan, his family’s retainer. Cadfan bowed and said, “My lord Gruffydd, not two days after you left, a message arrived at your estate. I rode with all haste to catch you. The king is holding a council in Caernarfon, and requests the presence of all nobles of the realm, including you, sire. You are summoned to Caernarfon at once!”
Gruffydd called Rhodri, and together with Cadfan they rode at fast as they could to Caernarfon. They arrived just in time. As the council began, King Gruffydd ap Cynan rose, and all others rose with him. He looked over all of his nobles, and said, “We have received news from Rome, from Pope Urban II himself! A council has been held at Clermont, in France. For centuries Jerusalem, the Holy City, has been in the hands of Moslem heathens. Now they turn to active assaults against the Christians of the Holy Land, and against the Greek Empire of Alexius Comnenus. The East is no longer safe for Christians. Pope Urban urges all the lords of Christendom to unite in Crusade against this threat. However, this presents me with a problem. King William II of England has given no indication that he intends to Crusade. He may intend to invade Wales. Therefore, I cannot commit an army to aid in this Holy War. Yet I do not wish to look impious and send no aid. I have called you here to seek your counsel. How should Wales respond?”
Gruffydd felt something in his heart leap. This could be his chance! What if this was the sign from Saint David. He muttered a quick prayer under his breath, “Saint David, if this is the sign you have given me, then please, let what I am about to propose come to be.” Then he spoke up, “My king, I have a proposition. One which I believe will be beneficial to yourself, to myself, and to my lord Cadwgon.”
Cadwgon, being one of the “kings” who served under the king, was already near to the king, and whispered in his ear, “This is the one, my lord. Gruffydd ap Urien. The one of bastard lineage.”
The king whispered back, “He offers a proposition which may benefit both you and me. Let us hear what he has to say before we silence him.” The king then said out loud, “You may speak, Gruffydd ap Urien.”
Gruffydd took a deep breath and said, “Forgive me my lord, but it is no secret that the legitimate lines of the Mathrafal Dynasty look upon my family with no small measure of ill regard. You think me and my family to be a blight upon the Mathrafal name. You wish to be rid of me. I offer you that chance. I will go on this Crusade with my household guard, and any volunteers who will join me. This will not be a serious drain upon Wales’ manpower, so you will still be able to defend against William if he invades, yet this will also satisfy your majesty’s piety, as you will be sending a Welsh contingent to Crusade.”
“You would do this for me?” asked the king.
“Yes,” replied Gruffydd. “But I am not my father. I will not do this out of altruistic loyalty as he did. This is where the proposal comes in. If I do this for you, then should I return, I ask one thing of you my king, and one thing of my lord Cadwgon.”
“Go on,” said the king.
“If I should return victorious, then of you, my king, I ask that my family’s name be legitimized. That we be seen as true Mathrafals, and not as the filth of Wales. And of my lord Cadwgon, I would ask for his niece’s hand in marriage. I would ask for the Lady Gwyn.”
The king said, “I find this acceptable.”
But Cadwgon interjected, “My king I do not! I will not marry my niece to this man!”
“I can sweeten the deal,” said Gruffydd. “My lord Cadwgon, if you will agree to my condition, then I offer you this: if I should be killed, or if I should live but the Crusade should fail, then all my lands pass to you, and you will never hear from me again. You will be rid of me and my family forever, and no more will you have to look upon this blight on the Mathrafal name.”
Cadwgon was about to refuse again, out of sheer contempt, but the king whispered to him, “Give in to the boy. Honestly, what are his chances of success? He has a household guard of thirty men, does he not? And how many volunteers do you think he will get? He will die on this Crusade. If we accept, then as he said, we shall be rid of his family forever. No more bastard line to shame the name of the Mathrafal Dynasty. As your king, I am ordering you to accept his proposition.”
Cadwgon sighed and said, “I accept.”
The king then spoke to the council, “It is decided then. Lord Gruffydd ap Urien shall lead his men, and any volunteers, to join this Crusade. Should he return, his family shall be legitimized, and he shall marry the Lady Gwyn. Should he fail, he will never return to Wales, and his lands shall pass to King Cadwgon of Powys.” The king then looked straight at Gruffydd, and said, “But Gruffydd, know this: you are on your own. I will not provide you with men, nor provisions, not ships.”
Gruffydd nodded and said, “That is acceptable, sire. God will provide what I need.”
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Gruffydd left ten of his men at The Estate. He left Cadell in charge of The Estate, and brought Rhodri along as his lieutenant, and Cadfan to continue serving as personal retainer. Together with their twenty men they prepared in early 1096 for their departure, but were astounded when the volunteers began pouring in. More and more Welshmen came: most of them peasants, though there were some lesser nobles among them. Seven hundred men came, and swore to fight and die alongside Gruffydd. They had brought weapons and provisions, but none had any boats with which to cross to the mainland of Europe.
Gruffydd made the decision to march the army into Herefordshire in England. The army marched under the sign of the Cross, and bore Papal protection as a Crusader Army. William would not touch them. But perhaps in Herefordshire, or further south, they could procure ships. But in a tavern near Hereford, they found something else entirely.
Gruffydd and Rhodri were discussing their situation over some ale, when a bearded, and clearly drunk, Saxon wandered over to them, and said, “*hic* I hear… I hear you’re looking for *hic* looking for transport*hic* transportation to the mainland. *hic*”
The Welshmen were not used to speaking English, but they knew how. Gruffydd answered, “We are. But uh… what do you have to offer?”
The Saxon replied, “Do you even*hic* Do you even known to whom you are*hic* to whom you are speaking?”
Gruffydd shook his head, “I’m afraid I do not, boyo.”
The Saxon leaned in close and said, “I am *hic* I am Edgar Aetheling. The *hic* the true King of England*hic*. And over*hic* over there, you see? Those men*hic* those men are mine. I have more*hic* more, too. Two*hic*hundred to be precise. Two hundred *hic* Saxon warriors.”
“That is impressive, Edgar,” said Gruffydd with a nod. “But what of this transportation you spoke of?”
“Trans*hic* transportation? Oh! Oh yes. I *hic* I *hic* I *hic* I know a man. He’s *hic* he’s Cornish. Derrick is his *hic* his name. He knows a man who has plenty *hic* plenty of boats. He can *hick* get you to *hic* to Brittany if you want.”
“I thank you for this information, Edgar. Tell me, what can I do to repay you?”
Edgar sat down at the table and grabbed Rhodri’s ale. Rhodri was about to protest, the Gruffydd stopped him. Edgar drank the whole ale, and then said, “Take me *hic* take me with you. And my *hic* my men. Let us join you *hic* let us join you on this Crus*hic*Crus*hic*Crusade.”
Rhodri shook his head at Gruffydd and said, “Not worth it.”
Gruffydd replied, “Where else will we find boats to take us across the channel? Besides, 200 Saxons would make a great addition to our army! We’ll have almost 1,000 men now! And a king at our side!”
“A drunken ex-king,” said Rhodri.
Edgar pointed an accusing finger at Rhodri and said, “I… I… *hic*” then he sighed, dropped his hand to his side, and sighed, “I guess *hic* I guess I can’t argue with that.”
Gruffydd said, “You and your men may join us, Edgar, on one condition. No getting drunk. I understand your pain. It must be hard to have lost your throne to a Norman bastard like that. But if you are to Crusade with us, we will need you at your best, and that means you cannot be drunk. Can you do it? Can you Crusade without drunkenness?”
It took Edgar a moment, but he at last said, “That *hic* That *hic* That I can do… *hic*”
“I am *hic* I am Edgar Aetheling”
---
As the now 900 man strong force of Crusaders marched further south towards Cornwall, Gruffydd and Edgar became fast friends. Gruffydd offered to Edgar shared leadership of the group, on account of his status as rightful King of England, but the Saxon declined. His response was, “Your friend was right when he called me a ‘drunken ex-king’. I may be getting better at avoiding the drunkenness, but I am still an ex-king. You are the only one of us with any real title to his name. Let me be a lieutenant alongside your friend there, and let me continue to command my men, and I will be happy.” So it was agreed.
When they at last arrived in Cornwall, Edgar led them to the town where Derrick lived. Derrick was only too happy to help, because like his friend, he perceived from this Crusade a chance to make a new life for himself. Derrick was a rebel. He despised the Normans. But there were too few rebels in England these days. Derrick could no longer fight the Normans, but he refused to live under them. He arranged transportation for the Crusaders, but made them promise to take him with them.
Once they landed in Brittany, the Crusaders encountered someone else. He said his name was Corentin, which is Breton for hurricane. It certainly was a fitting name. He was a man on the run. He insisted that he was a good man at heart, but that trouble always seemed to find him. He never knew his parents. He was an orphan from a very young age, and had to steal in order to survive. But he only ever stole enough to live. He never wanted to hurt anyone. He tried to keep to himself.
But about a month ago, while he was wandering in the woods, he found several bodies sprawled on the ground. He noticed the coat of arms on the shields. These were men in the service of one of the local counts. They were all dead. He also found the bodies of a few bandits. But these were well equipped bandits. Armour and longswords. He knew they must have been robber knights. As he looked over the bodies, he noticed the body of a young girl, perhaps fourteen years old, lying on the ground. She was covered and blood and bruises, and at first he thought she too was dead. But then Corentin had seen her stomach rising and falling, just barely. She was breathing! She was alive! Judging by her dress, and by the likelihood that the fallen warriors were her escorts, he decided she must be the count’s daughter. He picked her up gently, and found one of the guards’ horses a short ways off. He put her on the horse, and mounted it as well, and rode full speed to the castle, hoping to be able to save her.
When he arrived at the castle, the guards took the girl from him and some maid servants came to care for her. But when one of the guards recognized Corentin as the poor lad who had to steal to survive, he accused Corentin of being the girls attacker. Corentin tried to protest: if he were her attacker, why would he bring her back? But they did not listen and came to arrest him. He quickly turned the horse around and fled. When he reached the place where the attack had occurred, he dismounted, took one of the fallen knights’ swords, remounted, and rode off. He had been in hiding ever since. He begged them to let him join their Crusade, that he might find forgiveness for his sins, and find a new life in the Holy Land. Gruffydd could not refuse him.
Corentin of Brittany
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So this was the contingent which had crossed Europe to join the Crusade, and which now stood at the gates of Constantinople. Seven hundred Welshmen, led by Gruffydd ap Urien, a shamed and unwanted noble, seeking to reclaim his family’s honour and to marry the woman he loved; two hundred Saxons, led by Edgar Aetheling, a dethroned and exiled king, seeking to make something of his life; Derrick, the Cornish rebel who lived for battle and for killing, and who refused to live under Norman rule; and Corentin, the Breton orphan who sought forgiveness of sins and new life abroad. Such different men, from such different walks of life, Crusading for such different reasons. Yet they had found a bond with each other, for they were all seeking something in this Crusade, and they could only find it if they stood as one. They knew not what the future had in store for them. But whatever it was, they would meet it together.
crusaderknight is the author of the Byzantine AAR The Morea, a Palaeologid AAR. If you enjoyed his writing aboe, you might also want to give it a try as well. Or maybe his other AAR, The Heirs of King Arthur – A History of Wales, which is brimming with Welshmen.