A Prince of Wales

by Wayne Grant

  Once inside the walls, Finch took his leave, his task complete. Roland had come to know the city like the palm of his hand and needed no directions to the Earl’s dwelling on the south side of the town. More guards met him at the entrance to Chester Castle and a stable boy took the big grey gelding to be fed and watered. As Roland entered the bailey, he was hailed.

  “Sir Roland Inness, bless my soul!”

  Coming across the cobbled courtyard, swinging his wooden leg as he hurried along was William Butler, know to all as Sergeant Billy. Roland grinned as the man drew near.

  “Billy, good to see you! I see you are as nimble as ever!”

  Sergeant Billy smiled at the young knight.

  “Aye, sir. Fit as a fiddle, though getting a little thick in the middle.” Then he frowned. “Garrison duty, ye know.”

  Roland leaned back and assessed the bulk of the man.

  “We could use a man like you out on the Weaver, Billy. You’d soon be thin as a rail and healthy as an ox. The country air would be good for you.”

  The man lowered his eyes and shook his head.

  “Ye know I’m a city lad at heart, sir. A campaign is one thing, but takin’ up, permanent-like, out in the country? It’s not for me!”

  Roland laughed.

  “Well the offer stands, but we can discuss it over an ale. For now, I’ve been summoned by the Earl so I must be off.”

  He started to move toward the keep, but Sergeant Billy touched his arm.

  “There’s been rumours about, Sir Roland. Trouble across the Dee. Are we bound for a new adventure?”

  Roland shook his head. He had heard of no trouble in Wales, but it was not likely he would at his small outpost in the north of Cheshire.

  “I suppose I’ll know after I see His Lordship, Billy.”

  ***

  “Sir Roland! How fare my Danes up on the Weaver?” Ranulf de Blundeville, the Sixth Earl of Chester, slapped Roland on the back. The young Earl appeared to be in high good humour as he greeted his young vassal—and well he should have been. The man’s stock had risen markedly since King Richard had been ransomed from the Holy Roman Emperor.

  Richard’s return had transformed the political landscape of the island realm. Only two years before, Ranulf had been ousted from his lands by William de Ferrers and charged with treason by Prince John, all part of the Prince’s grand plan to usurp the throne from his brother. And the plan had come very near to succeeding.

  While the Earl fled to Wales to escape the headman’s axe, John drained the Midlands of its wealth to buy the support of key barons and to pay the wages of a mercenary army that had marched and plundered across the land unchecked for two years. Throughout, Ranulf remained steadfastly loyal to the King and in a lightning stroke had retaken his city of Chester from de Ferrers, with the help of Roland Inness and the Invalid Company.

  Having retaken the city, Ranulf had to hold it as John turned his fury on the place. Chester was besieged and almost starved into submission, but the Earl would not yield. When John’s mercenaries lifted the siege and marched on London, he followed, shadowing them relentlessly. His timely arrival on the field outside of Towcester to bolster William Marshall’s small force had tipped the scales in that clash and dealt a death blow to John’s ambitions.

  Ranulf’s emergence as a military leader and a man of absolute loyalty had elevated his standing in the King’s eyes. When Richard began his campaign to take back the English lands treacherously seized by Philip of France during his long captivity, the Earl of Chester had been pointedly exempt from the levy of troops and left to prosper in peace—if peace could be maintained along the border with Wales.

  Roland smiled at his liege lord. He had watched Ranulf grow from a pampered and indecisive young nobleman into a credible leader. Adversity had a way of paring away the surface of a man and laying bare the character beneath and Ranulf had faced adversity aplenty. The Earl might never be a great warrior like William Marshall or the King himself, but he was steady and had courage to spare. Roland liked the man.

  “My lord, the Danes are content with their lot. With the Earl of Derby in exile, a few—a very few—have drifted back to the high country. Leaving behind the ground that their sires are buried in has been hard for them all, but most are well pleased with the land you have given them. The harvest was bountiful and that’s all that farmers can ask.”

  “Good, good! I can tell you, it makes me sleep well at night knowing I have a hundred men with longbows I can call upon if my need is dire. And how does work on your fort proceed? I’m told you’ve named it Danesford.”

  “Aye, my lord, it was Lady Millicent’s choice of names. The fort is complete now and sits on the only high ground near the ford. One day we hope to replace the timber palisades with stone, but for now it is secure enough to watch over the crossing of the Weaver. You must come be our guest.”

  The Earl smiled a genuine smile. It was useful to have the Danes with their lethal bows only twenty miles away, but it was the young knight before him that put him most at ease about his northern lands. Since first they’d met at the great archery tournament celebrating Richard’s coronation, he had taken the measure of Roland Inness many times and never found him wanting. He trusted the young man completely.

  “I will make a point of it! It will be a pleasure seeing Lady Millicent again. You know my head would have been on a pike above the Northgate were it not for her seeing things more clearly than I.”

  It was a story Roland had heard many times—of how Millicent had led the Earl out of Chester in the dead of night, just ahead of William de Ferrers’ men. It was a grand tale and all too true. If caught, Ranulf would have been a dead man.

  “She will be most pleased to see you as well, my lord.”

  “Excellent, but my visit must wait until some pressing business is attended to.” The Earl’s voice grew serious, indicating an end to pleasantries. Roland waited patiently to finally hear why he had been summoned.

  “Your Welsh friend, Griff Connah the archer, appeared at our gates two days ago with an urgent request from his master. It seems things are coming to a head on the other side of the Dee, though Connah was not inclined to provide many details. The man’s message was clear enough. Lord Llywelyn is calling in the debt I owe him. He has asked for the Invalid Company.”

  Ranulf did not have to explain the debt owed to Llywelyn. The Welsh rebel had sheltered him as well as Millicent and Lady Catherine for a year when there was a price on the Earl’s head. He also had provided eighty Welsh longbowmen to support Ranulf’s attack on Chester. Llywelyn had taken a huge gamble and made powerful enemies by supporting Ranulf against Prince John—all in the hope that Ranulf would someday repay that support in full. It seemed that day had arrived. Llywelyn had kept his part of the arrangement. Now it was Ranulf’s turn.

  Roland nodded.

  “And I’m to go with them, my lord?”

  “You will command them, Sir Roland. Llywelyn asked for you by name, but I would have sent for you in any event. The men trust you and so do I.”

  “I am honoured by your trust, my lord—and by theirs. I will do my best.”

  “I’m certain you will, sir, but it is no simple task I am giving you. To begin with, there is the current situation with the Invalid Company.”

  “Situation, my lord?”

  “Aye, situation indeed. It seems the men of the Invalid Company are not so well-suited for garrison duty. The bishop was just in to see me a week ago. There’s been a bawdy house opened but a block away from St. Mary’s on the Hill and by all accounts their profits come entirely from the Invalids. His excellency is most put out. And there have been other—incidents—here in the city.” The Earl made a face.

  “The upright folk of Chester have started to complain. It’s to the point that I was seriously considering dispatching the Invalids to France. No doubt the King would make good use of them, but I doubt I would ever have got them back. And who knows when I might have need of men such
as they again?”

  The Earl paused for a long moment, then spoke again.

  “Never doubt my regard for the Invalids, Sir Roland. You brought these men to me in my hour of greatest need and they proved their mettle more than once. There are none like them anywhere in England. But, I must say, this request from Llywelyn is timely. I can discharge my debt and get the Invalids back into the field where they belong, but have a care. I would not have the Invalid Company, my Invalid Company, destroyed to serve a Welshman’s ambitions. Is that clear?”

  “Aye, my lord—clear enough.”

  Earl Ranulf put a hand on Roland’s shoulder.

  “I know you will be anxious to make your preparations, but before attending to your duties, I must confide something else to you. My spies tell me that Llywelyn’s strength has grown. He now commands over seven hundred men. His uncle, Lord Daffyd, has retreated from the interior of Gwynedd to the lowlands. It seems our bold young prince may be winning his long war, though this new request leaves some room for doubt. Daffyd has ruled the lands that border my own for ten years now and he has shown no inclination to directly threaten my interests. In many ways, he has been as good a neighbour as an Earl of Chester could hope for.”

  The Earl paused to let the young knight absorb the point he was making.

  “I would not like to see all of Gwynedd ruled by one man, Sir Roland. Owain Gwynedd, Llywelyn’s grandsire, did so in my father’s time and gave Earl Hugh nothing but trouble. So, you can appreciate, I’d not want an ambitious man as my neighbour. And there is always the possibility that, even with your aid, Llywelyn may not prevail. If that is the case, it would ill serve me with the victors to have taken the field in his support.”

  Roland did not respond at once. This was no straight-forward mission his liege lord was handing him. He was being ordered to aid Llywelyn, but not to sacrifice his men and not to do it so well that the Welshman became a threat to his own lord—that was plain enough. How to do all that, without revealing Ranulf’s involvement, was not clear at all.

  “I will do the best I can, my lord,” he said, trying to conceal his unease.

  Earl Ranulf cocked an eyebrow, but then smiled.

  “You remind me of your old master, Sir Roger. There is a man who hates politics—and I see you like it no more than he. But don’t worry—just trust to your judgment and bring me back my Invalids.”

  Roland managed a weak smile.

  “Aye, my lord.”

  The Earl slapped him on his shoulder to signal the end of the meeting and together they walked toward the door.

  “I’ve promised the man Connah that you would be prepared to ride in two days. He has remained in the city and will be your guide when you have the men ready.”

  ***

  Sergeant Billy was waiting for him outside the keep, anxious to hear the truth behind all the rumours that had been about.

  “Are we to march?”

  Roland nodded curtly, still trying to sort through the tangle of advice his Earl had just given him.

  “Aye, Billy. Where will I find Patch?”

  Patch was Thomas Marston, a veteran of the crusade who had lost an eye at Arsuf and who was something of an unofficial leader of the Invalids. Sergeant Billy looked up at the sun and mumbled something under his breath. Roland turned on him and saw an abashed look on the man’s face.

  “Well? Out with it. Where is he?”

  Sergeant Billy cleared his throat, resigned that he must now reveal his comrade’s whereabouts.

  “I’d expect, this time a’ day, he’d be over to the Ram’s Head.”

  Roland knew the place. It was the foulest tavern within the walls of the city. It favoured sour ale and rancid food, but it was cheap.

  “For God’s sake, Billy, it’s mid-afternoon.”

  Sergeant Billy shrugged sheepishly.

  “Aye, sir. I know it and so does Patch, I imagine.”

  The Earl had warned him that the Invalids had not adapted to the tedium of garrison duty, but if Patch was drinking at midafternoon….

  Roland headed for the main gate of the bailey. The Ram’s Head was just down the hill toward the Shipgate. He beckoned for his companion to follow.

  “Let’s go get him, Billy.”

  ***

  Patch was not fully in his cups when they arrived and seemed only mildly surprised to see Roland and Sergeant Billy forcing their way through the crowded, dim interior of the Ram’s Head.

  “So, the rumours are true!” he shouted as the two men approached. “We are off to Wales!” This announcement he punctuated by upturning a mug of ale and draining it.

  Roland stood in front of the man for a long moment. The tavern stood a stone’s throw from the Bridgegate. Patch had been with him the night they had stormed the Bridgegate tower and hauled up the portcullis, opening the way for Ranulf and a hundred armoured horsemen to thunder into the city. A better fighter and braver man he did not know. He owed the man much, but this….

  “Tom, I’m going to the barracks now.”

  Patch started to reply, but saw the look on Roland’s face and fell silent. He set the mug on the table and his shoulders sagged.

  “Roland, I…ye’ll not like what ye see there.”

  “Don’t like what I see here either, Tom, but let’s be off.”

  Patch gave a great sigh and stood up—a little unsteadily.

  “Aye, sir.”

  ***

  The first thing that struck him was the smell. The gutter outside the barracks stank of piss and vomit and the aroma did not improve as he entered the dim interior of the place. From somewhere near the far end of the building, he heard a woman shriek and then laugh. He turned and glared at Patch.

  “What’s all this, Tom?” he asked, a wave of his hand taking in the squalor of the scene.

  Patch had a pained look. The walk up the hill from the tavern in the cold air had done much to clear the man’s head.

  “It’s the duty, sir. These ain’t garrison troops. Too much temptation, and guardin’ the walls of Chester ain’t kept ‘em sharp. A few have soldiered well enough, but the rest…? I gave up a couple a’ months ago tryin’ to keep ‘em in line.”

  Roland felt his temper rise. These men had once been scorned as cripples and drunkards by their countrymen, but in the recent civil war, they had gained a reputation as the most feared unit loyal to the King. Time and again, the Invalid Company had faced and defeated mercenaries paid for by Prince John.

  Now this.

  In the first alcove he came to, a man lay face down, snoring. He kicked him in the backside and the soldier simply groaned, curled onto his side and returned to snoring. Roland turned back to Patch.

  “Turn them out! Now!” he snarled.

  “Aye, sir!”

  Roland stepped back outside and moved up the street away from the stench. From the barracks, he could hear Patch roaring his orders and, after a bit, men began to stumble into the street, blinking in the midday sun. From a side door, he saw two women fly into an alley and quickly disappear. Slowly, men formed into two ragged lines, some leaning on each other for support.

  This was the feared Invalid Company.

  It looked more like a gathering of beggars than a band of warriors to be feared. Roland let them stand there in the cold for a long time. He counted heads—ninety-two. He knew some would be missing from the muster, either on guard duty, if that was still expected of this rabble, or more likely in a tavern or gutter somewhere within the walls.

  “Sergeant Billy, I will want you to see to horses. We’ll need good ones where we’re going and mules as well, enough to carry a fortnight of rations. I doubt there will be much forage south of the Dee. We will ride out at dawn.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Having shouted the men into some semblance of order, Patch presented himself to Roland. There was no longer any sign of drunkenness in his bearing.

  “You will see to these men, Patch. Any one of them not ready to mount and ride at first l
ight will be left behind. I do not think the people of Chester will be hospitable to stragglers.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “That’s all.”

  Roland turned on his heel and walked away.

  ***

  He found Griff Connah in a more respectable inn near the Eastgate. He hadn’t seen the Welshman since Griff had made a surprise appearance at his wedding the year before. But he had no trouble spotting the tall, rangy archer sitting alone with his back to the wall and his eyes on the door. He walked over and pulled up a stool.

  “Welcome back to England. Stolen any cattle?” he said as he sat.

  Griff laughed. The Welsh were infamous for coveting and carrying off English cows.

  “Thank you for asking! I intend to gather a few fat heifers on the ride out!”

  Roland grinned and extended his hand, which the Welshman grasped and pumped vigorously.

  “How is it with the marriage, young English?” he asked. “Good?”

  Roland smiled. Griff liked to refer to him as English, though many Englishmen would think of him as a Dane first. To the Welsh, anyone from beyond the Dee was English.

  “Very good, Griff. You should try it.”

  The Welshman hooted.

  “Not for me! Certainly, not until all the fightin’ is done.”

  “Then you’ll go to your grave a bachelor, my friend, for when is the fighting ever done?”

  Griff shook his head.

  “Never, and a good thing too, or men like you and I would be forever stuck behind a plough.”

  “I’d be happy to be back behind a plough, but that is not what the Earl has summoned me for. Perhaps you can shed some light on what we are to do for your lord.”

  Griff looked to his right and left, then leaned in.