NOVEL NEXT Chapter 12: Chapter 12 Prince Henry
Aberystwyth Castle stands as a vital strategic asset in and its importance was clear. Positioned on the west coast it sits on a raised outcrop, providing a commanding view of the surrounding area. From here, defenders can spot potential threats from miles away, making it an ideal defensive stronghold. The high ground gives it a significant military advantage, ensuring that it is well-fortified against both land and sea attacks.
Overlooking the Ystwyth River and the Irish Sea, Aberystwyth controls critical trade and transport routes. The castle's location is a crucial point for regulating commerce, allowing its occupants to oversee the movement of goods and people. The control of these routes brings not just economic power, but the ability to tax, manage resources, and restrict movement within the region.
The castle was now the heart of English operations in the region, giving them a secure foothold in the Welsh territories.
Prince Henry, a young man hardened beyond his years, stood at the head of a long wooden table. The map before him detailed the land of Gwynedd, and his brow furrowed as he traced the lines with his finger.
The murmur of his men quieted as he scanned the land. There was no room for error now.
"Aberdyl, Machynlleth, those I'm sure will drain our treasury. Then we push straight towards Harlech," he said, his voice cold and measured. "
Sir Thomas, a knight, leaned back in his seat. His leather gauntlets creaked as he crossed his arms. "But what of the terrain, Your Highness? The land's not made for swift movement. Are we not at risk of the Welsh attacking from the hills?"
Henry's eyes narrowed. "The terrain is ours to command, Thomas. Glyndŵr's men are familiar with it, yes. But desperation blinds. When they're trapped, they will show themselves. We take advantage of their weaknesses, and their morale will crumble before they can strike."
Sir Thomas tapped his fingers against the edge of the table. "Our supply lines are secured, Your Highness. With Aberdyl and Machynlleth ours, there will be nothing left for them. Their hold on the mountains will be nothing."
John ap Gareth, a Welsh noble loyal to the English crown, leaned forward. His dark eyes gleamed. "Most of the welsh will turn on Glyndŵr, no one will fight a lost battle."
Henry's lips twitched into a smile. "Do not underestimate Glyndŵr's followers," Sir Thomas warned, his voice lowering. "Damn fanatics....Our taking of this castle may might not be enough."
Henry's expression hardened. He straightened, staring at the map again. "Our spies in Harlech report weak points in their defences but they are still strong. The food stores are low, and the men are restless."
"The Prince Of Wales will fall," Henry decreed, his voice steady yet resolute.
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room as the men exchanged satisfied glances. Their confidence swelled with each report of Glyndŵr's diminishing hold.
As Henry leaned over the table, his hand resting on the map near Harlech, the distant sound of raucous laughter and the faint plucking of a harp wafted through the air. The discordant melody grew louder, mingled with jeers and the unmistakable clatter of overturned barrels, emanating from the castle square.
"What devilry is this!?" Henry's brow furrowed in irritation. "Go, see what commotion stirs in the yard."
A soldier scurried out, returning shortly with a troubled look. "Your Grace, a bard has been seized in the square. The men... mock him and make him dance for their sport."
Henry's gaze sharpened.
Moments later, the heavy doors groaned open, revealing a disheveled man, his once-proud garments now torn and he was naked. His harp hung limply from a frayed strap across his shoulder. The soldiers shoved him forward, their sneers and laughter echoing in the grand hall.
"What is this?" Henry demanded, his tone icy.
A grinning soldier stepped forward. "He sings of Glyndŵr, my lord. We thought to humble him..."
Henry's gaze flicked, "Sing, then," He ordered, his voice like a whip. "Let us hear this treasonous dirge."
The bard's fingers danced over the harp strings, conjuring a somber tune. His voice, though hoarse, carried a haunting melody that stilled the laughter.
"You may seize our lands, and burn our fields bare,
Take our coin, our tongue, the clothes that we wear.
But Cymru's heart beats deep, wild and free,
No crown, no sword can claim our identity.
We are the hills, the valleys, the shore,
Our spirit, our soul, forevermore.
You can brand us, bend us, but we'll not break,
For the soul of Wales, no king can take."
As the final words left the bard's lips, a distant chorus rose from the square, Welsh prisoners chained together, their voices merging with the bard's in defiance. Their song surged through the cold stone walls, a hauntingly beautiful echo of unity that sent a ripple of unease through the gathered Englishmen.
Henry's face darkened, his patience worn thin. "Enough!" he barked, the command ringing through the hall. The bard's voice faltered, but the prisoners' song continued, defiant and unwavering.
"You dare sing of rebellion in my presence?" Henry's voice was a low growl, his anger barely contained.
The bard met Henry's gaze with unwavering resolve. "I sing for truth, For the heart of Cymru that beats yet."
Henry's fury boiled over. "Hang him. And silence those prisoners. Let their deaths be a lesson to those who defy the crown."
The courtyard was suffused with a grim tension, the air thick with the scent of sweat and fear. The bard stood tall, even as his naked flesh trembled in the cold, his gaze never wavering from Henry's. Around him, the Welsh prisoners shifted uneasily, their eyes darting between the soldiers and their fellow countryman, who had dared to sing of freedom and identity in the face of the English crown.
The soldiers moved, rough hands gripping the bard's arms, dragging him to the makeshift gallows. The noose was ready, swaying gently in the breeze. The prisoners were lined up, their faces pale but resolute. Yet, Henry's eyes gleamed with a darker thought, a cruelty simmering beneath the surface.
"No," he muttered, almost to himself, before raising his voice. "Strangle them with the cords of his harp." His smile was cruel.
The soldiers hesitated, the order momentarily stilled their hands. But they obeyed. The harp, once a source of melody and hope, was torn apart, its strings severed and wound around fists like garrotes.
The bard was the first. The coarse cords bit into his neck, the tension pulling tight against his skin. His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, but his eyes burned with defiance. He did not beg. He did not plead. His lips, even as they turned blue, twitched into the faintest of smiles—a final act of rebellion.
The soldiers pulled tighter, veins bulging in their forearms as they wrenched the life from him. His feet scraped against the stone, his hands clawing futilely at the garrote until, with a final shudder, his body sagged. His eyes, wide and glassy, stared unseeing at the overcast sky.
Henry watched, his expression devoid of mercy. "Next," he said, the word a whip crack in the chilling silence.
The next prisoner was dragged forward, his struggles met with the brutal efficiency of the soldiers. The cord bit deep into his flesh, the sounds of his strangulation a grotesque symphony of choking gasps and the scrape of heels against stone. The onlookers, English soldiers and Welsh collaborators alike, stood in uneasy silence. Some turned their heads; others, hardened by war, watched with detached interest.
The third prisoner whimpered as the cord was wound around his neck, the fear in his eyes a stark contrast to the bard's defiance. He tried to speak, to plead for mercy, but the soldiers gave him none. His body convulsed, the spasms jerking him like a puppet on strings. The cord cut deeper, blood seeping where the flesh broke.
Henry stepped forward, his gaze cold. "Look at them," he said to the gathered men. "This is the fate of those who resist. Let it be a warning."
The final prisoner, a boy barely into his teens, was trembling, tears streaking down his dirt-smudged cheeks. The soldiers hesitated, but Henry's glare left no room for compassion. The cord was wrapped around his neck, and his struggles were weak, futile.
As the boy's body twitched, Henry's eyes never wavered. He watched until the last breath left the boy's lungs, the cords slick with blood and sweat, before turning to his men.
"Dispose of the bodies," he ordered, his voice devoid of emotion. "And ensure the harp is repaired. We'll need it for the next."
The soldiers moved, their boots dragging through the mud as they hauled the lifeless bodies away. The air, once filled with the bard's defiant song, now echoed with the silence of death.