by Wayne Grant
“Did you know the men call you Fancy Jack?”
Sir John struck one more blow with the axe, then laid it beside the neat stack of firewood. Something akin to a smile played across his face.
“Of course, I know. Did you think these drunkards could keep a secret?”
“Sergeant Billy says they are just a bit afraid of what you can still do with your good arm.”
Sir John’s smile grew broader.
“Well they should be.”
“One day, one of the men will have the nerve to call you Fancy Jack to your face. What will you do when that day comes?”
“It seems that day just came, Sir Roland, and you look none the worse for having done it. To be honest, I rather like the name, but let’s not tell the lads that.”
Roland smiled. He had his answer about Fancy Jack.
***
Satisfied with the organization of the camp, Roland rode out to the northwest field to see how the Invalids were faring. Griff rode with him and, from a distance, they could hear Sir Roger’s shouted commands.
“Make ready!”
The men of the Invalid Company were arrayed in two rows facing each other. Roland watched as a hundred wooden staves were raised to a guard position. More than a few wobbled in the frosty air.
“Hold ‘em steady, damn all!” he heard Sir Roger curse.
As he dismounted, he saw the big knight stomp over to where one of his charges seemed unable to hold the stave up without trembling. With a gloved hand, he wrenched the wood from the man’s grasp. Unbalanced, the man staggered backwards and sat down hard on the frozen ground.
“I’ve seen milk maids with stronger sword arms than you men!” Sir Roger roared.
Across the way, Declan O’Duinne walked slowly along the line, shaking his head and correcting mistakes. The men of the Invalid Company knew O’Duinne well. They had followed him and Roland Inness into five battles since first laying eyes on the two at Oxford. None of them, veteran soldiers all, would have challenged the Irishman’s skill with a blade.
Near the end of the line nearest him, Roland saw the giant he had first glimpsed at dawn by the Northgate. Now that they were both on foot, the true size of the man made him blink. He stood at least six and a half feet tall, had legs like tree trunks and arms like saplings. He held the stave out before him like it was a twig.
Roland walked over and stood in front of the man and could more clearly see the hideous scar that covered the left side of his face. It was as though the skin had melted like candle wax and hardened into a terrible mask.
“What is your name?”
The big man had been looking straight ahead, which is to say, well over Roland’s head. He glanced down.
“Murdo, lord, Seamus Murdo.”
Roland recognized the name as Scottish and the man had more than a trace of that northern accent.
“How came you by your wound, Murdo?”
The big man screwed up his face in thought.
“Which one?”
Roland wondered what other, hidden wounds, the man bore, but touched the side of his own face in answer.
“Oh, the face. Greek fire at Limassol. Never made it to the Holy Land. I’d liked to have seen the walls of Jerusalem.”
“How did a Scot come to fight for an English King on crusade?”
Murdo furrowed his brow and did not answer right away. Roland waited. Finally, the man spoke.
“Had to leave the Highlands, lord. Done some things I shouldn’t of.”
Roland nodded. Few of the men in the Invalid Company had spotless records and it was not his business to dig up bones.
Roland studied the giant of a man. He was truly fearsome looking, but his voice was soft, almost gentle.
“Why join the Invalids?” he asked
Seamus Murdo shrugged.
“Where else could a man such as I go?”
***
As Sir Roger moved from one man to another, he had worked himself into a high dudgeon.
“Staves up! Who told ye to rest? I thought I was gettin’ the Invalid Company here, not some poxy boys who can’t hold up a stave!”
All the staves came up.
“Now…fight!” he roared and the field echoed to the sound of oak on oak and occasionally oak on muscle and bone left unguarded.
Roland turned to Griff.
“Seen enough?”
The tall Welshman shook his head glumly and the two mounted their horses and rode back to camp. As the sun set, Sir Roger and Declan rode in from the far field. Behind them, the Invalids straggled in on foot, bruised, sweat-soaked and weary. A few limped and more than a few cursed under their breath as they saw to their horses and gathered their kits. A dozen fires glowed in the chill air and cooks from Lady Catherine’s kitchen scurried between stew pots, judging when their contents would be ready.
“How’d the men fare?” Roland called as his old master and friend dismounted.
Sir Roger laughed scornfully.
“Can’t go t’ Wales with this lot,” he barked. “Not yet.”
Declan shook his head.
“I’ve never seen so many men puke in a single afternoon, Roland,” he said, then brightened as he sniffed the smells coming from the cook fires. “But a few good bowls of stew and a night’s rest should put most of them right.”
Roland nodded.
“Griff is not happy that we stopped here, but he saw what we all saw today. He will want the Invalids in full fighting form when we cross the Dee. Still, I think we can spare only one more day to sweat out the drink and knock off the rust, so don’t spare the lads on the morrow.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” said Sir Roger.
***
Roland took the evening meal in the new great hall of Shipbrook and, despite the feeling of homecoming, the gathering had a melancholy tone. For a while, all ate in silence until Sir Roger finally spoke.
“I should go along,” he declared, simply.
“I, as well,” Declan chimed in.
Roland sighed. He had expected this and, in truth, would have welcomed turning command over to the older man and having Declan’s steady nerves and unmatched sword arm to rely on, but he knew it would be a shirking of his own duty.
“My lord...and my friend, I thank you for the offer, but I must say no. Your duty is here, where I believe the Welsh are back to their old profession of stealing our cattle. Am I not right?”
“Right enough,” Declan admitted grudgingly. “With things as they are over there,” he said gesturing with his knife toward the west, “they can’t very well farm, so new raiding bands have formed. They aren’t very practiced yet, but they are nettlesome.”
Sir Roger scowled, but knew he could not gainsay anything his Master of the Sword had just said. Still he was unwilling to let the matter lie.
“Declan can handle the raiders. I can come.”
“And serve under Roland’s command, Roger?” Lady Catherine asked. “The Earl has given this task to him—not you! Would you not bridle taking orders from your former squire—and even if you did not, would not Roland defer to you out of respect? It is not a good arrangement, husband. You know that.”
Sir Roger groaned.
“Damnit, Catherine, you can talk circles around any subject!”
The mistress of Shipbrook gave him a withering look.
“Roger, you only speak to me so when you know I am right, but don’t like what I say!”
Roland broke in.
“My lady, my lord, I owe everything to Shipbrook and the de Lavals, but I am the Earl’s oath man now and he has given me command of the Invalids. Sir Roger, it would be passing strange for me to be giving you orders. I know you are a soldier above all and don’t doubt you would obey me, but the trouble would be with the men, not you. They know well who you are and your reputation. I may have led them into battle, but you commanded the King’s own cavalry. They will look to you in any moment of doubt. Lady Catherine is right, my lord. It is a bad arran
gement.”
Sir Roger muttered something no one could hear, then went quiet. Declan returned to sawing on a chop of meat, but finally broke the awkward silence that had fallen over hall.
“Sooo, how fares Millie?” he asked innocently.
***
Before dawn the next day, Patch marched through the camp bawling at the men to rise. They rolled out of their blankets onto hard frozen ground with a thick coating of frost. The fires they had drawn close to for warmth through the night had burned down to coals and a brisk north wind made men stamp their feet and clap their hands to get feeling into them.
“It’s a grand day to be a soldier!” Patch shouted as he moved among them and a few managed to laugh and return a vulgar reply. Many groaned and nursed injuries from the day before, but all moved with a purpose once they caught the smell of hot pottage in a large cauldron near the edge of camp—courtesy of the Shipbrook cooks.
“Eat up, lads!” called Sergeant Billy as he stood by the food. “It’s going to be a long day!”
Before the sun rose above the trees, all the Invalids, including those excused the day before to make camp, were mounted and ready to move. Sir Roger de Laval, on Tencendur, rode out of the gate of Shipbrook and reined in midway along the column. Men turned their mounts to face him. Unlike the previous morning, none slouched in the saddle or emptied their stomachs on the ground.
“Today is mounted drill,” Sir Roger announced. “I know that not all of ye have been trained as cavalry, but ye may have need to fight as such where yer goin’, so best ye get the basics here and not in the middle of a bunch of Welshmen.”
Most of the Invalids knew Sir Roger de Laval and the newer men knew of him. One or two had been under his command in King Richard’s heavy cavalry at Arsuf and others had ridden with the big Norman knight to the bloody field outside Towcester when they had faced John’s mercenaries. After the brutal drilling the man had administered the day before, all waited with nervous attention.
“Face right!” the big man bellowed and a hundred men yanked their reins to the right—but they had not kept a proper interval and there was little room for their horses to turn. It took a full minute of cursing and manoeuvring to get the double ranks into a column.
“Lesson one, keep…your…interval!” Sir Roger roared. “Now, by twos, forw’rd!”
This order was simple enough and the double column of riders moved off toward the far field. For the remainder of the morning, Sir Roger and Declan put the men through cavalry drills, beginning with simple manoeuvres then moving to more complicated tactics. Columns turned about, formed line, wheeled and charged—again and again.
The drills began raggedly. Roland, Declan and the lord of Shipbrook shouted and cajoled their charges until, by noon, the experienced riders began to recall old habits and the newer men began to shadow them. The formations slowly started to resemble proper cavalry. After a brief respite for a noon meal, they were back at it. Toward late afternoon, Sir Roger summoned his two former squires to his side.
“They are good men, Roland, and a few days in the saddle will improve their horse handling, but it would take a week or more to turn them into decent cavalry. If it comes to it, line ‘em up and point yer sword where ye want ‘em to go. They’ll figure out how to kill the other fellows.”
***
Their last night at Shipbrook, the Invalids seemed to be changed men. A few days of good food, hard work and no spirits had worked wonders. All through the camp could be heard the sound of men laughing and jesting with each other. And there were other sights and sounds that made Roland smile.
Near the gate of the fort, the smith had dragged out two grinding wheels and two long lines of men stood waiting to put new edges on their swords, axes and spears. In another part of the camp, a huge barrel had been filled with sand and rusty hauberks. Men shouted and laughed as the contraption was rolled between the fires, scattering men and providing entertainment while scouring the rust from the mail inside. Roland saw the skinny priest, Friar Cyril, scampering around and cackling with the rest and wondered if the churchman had any notion of what he would be facing in the days ahead.
After a time, the activity quieted and Roland strolled through the camp. He hadn’t gone far when he was intercepted by Patch.
“Sir Roland, a word—if ye’ve a moment?”
Roland nodded and the two walked together to the edge of the camp.
“What’s on your mind, Tom?”
“Chester, sir…what I done there…or more like what I didn’t do. I think you should pick someone else to lead these men. I’m not fit to.”
Roland said nothing for a long time as they walked past the last fire and out into the dark beyond the camp. Finally, he spoke.
“Perhaps I should, Tom,” he said coldly. “I’ll not judge a man for liking drink or women. I like them both myself, but men like the Invalids have none of the moorings that most have—no wife to comfort or scold them, no children to support, no land to tend and no trade but fighting. Such men need something to bind them to their duty. They need a leader and you failed them there.”
“Aye, sir, I did,” the one-eyed soldier said mournfully.
Roland looked up into the night sky, but there were no stars to be seen.
Storm coming.
“Tom,” he said gently, “reputations are hard won, but easily lost. The Invalid Company was once an object of pity and scorn. Men like you and Billy made it an object of fear and respect. That reputation has suffered of late, but not beyond repair. You let them slide back into the gutter. I will look to you to lead them back out—if you are up to it.”
Patch drew in a sharp breath.
“My thanks, sir, I won’t let you down.”
Roland turned back toward the camp and together they walked among the men. For the first time since he had entered their barracks at Chester, they did not cast their eyes down as he passed. It had taken two days of brutal training and the prospect of a fight for these men to right themselves. Across the Dee, he would find out soon enough if they were still the Invalid Company.
Crossing the Dee
After two days of cold but clear weather, the Invalid Company broke camp at dawn as a winter storm struck the valley of the Dee. At first light, a stiff wind blew dark clouds in from the northwest. Then came slanting bursts of sleet that stung the men’s faces and caused the horses to turn toward the south.
“A good day for a ride!” Patch bellowed, as he walked among the men clapping his hands together. Roland stood with Sir Roger and Declan beside the last fire still burning in the camp and watched as the men, in surprisingly good spirits, readied their gear.
“I think they’re happy to be done with Sir Roger and myself,” Declan observed and his master snorted.
“They’re just happy t’be soldiering proper again and not drunk in some bawdy house in Chester,” the big Norman said. “Only way to keep a soldier on the straight path is send him to war!”
“Or have him marry a proper woman!”
All turned to see Lady Catherine striding toward them, wrapped in a long cape with a hood pulled over her head against the weather.
“Cathy, ye’ll catch a chill out here!” her husband scolded her. She just shrugged.
“I’ve spent days out in worse than this, Roger. I can see my son-in-law off, I think.”
Roland gave her a small bow.
“Thank you for coming, my lady.”
Lady Catherine de Laval looked out over the preparations for the march and gave a little sigh.
“I always come when one of my men goes off to war.”
***
In the driving sleet and dim light of early morning, it was hard to see more than a few yards ahead as the Invalid Company was ordered to mount. Patch unfurled the standard of the Earl of Chester with its golden wheat sheaths on a blue field. The proud banner snapped in the wind. Roland rode up beside him.
“We leave that here, Patch. The Earl is not anxious to proclaim his hand
in what we do across the river.”
“I reckon we must look to ourselves, then,” the one-eyed veteran said as he handed over the banner, which Roland passed to Sir Roger.
“That we must,” Roland replied. “Now, let’s get on with it.”
Griff rode up and joined Roland at the head of the column.
“Ready to move, English?”
Roland just nodded and gave Patch a hand signal. The column headed west on the well-travelled road to the old ford. As the riders left Shipbrook behind, he felt a strange sense of loneliness. He was going into harm’s way with a hundred men, but never more alone. No Sir Edgar. No Declan. No Sir Roger. His fate and that of the Invalid Company would be on his head alone. It was a daunting thought.
He had already dispatched two men to scout the opposite bank of the Dee on the slim chance that a hostile force might lay in ambush. As they approached the ford, his outriders signalled from the opposite bank that the Welsh shore was empty.
Little wonder in this weather.
Griff had sketched out the route they were to take and it was one that Roland knew well. The first twenty miles followed the rough path that led to Llywelyn’s old hill fortress where Earl Ranulf and the ladies of Shipbrook had been given shelter and protection in the bitter days of 1192. The trail branched south from there for another dozen miles to reach the place where Llywelyn’s main body of rebels had made their new winter quarters.
He looked out on the river where the sleet was roiling the placid surface. A thin layer of ice had formed along the bank and extended for two feet into the swirling water. He had crossed this ford many times, and never without apprehension, but at this hour, the tide was low and water would only reach a horse’s chest.
He stood up in his stirrups and looked back at the long line of men that disappeared into the gloom behind. In this weather, he would have to take it on faith that there were no stragglers. He eased back into his saddle and clucked to The Grey. The animal did not hesitate and plunged into the icy water. Behind him the Invalids followed.
At the far shore the gelding scrambled up the frozen bank and Roland kept the animal moving until he reached a small rise overlooking the ford. There lay a stone-covered grave, rimed with frost. It was the resting place of Alwyn Madawc, the first and best Welshman Roland had ever known. Sir Alwyn had fallen on this very bank saving Lady Catherine and Millicent from William de Ferrers’ men. He wondered what the old Master of the Sword would think of this expedition back into his native land. He said a quiet prayer over the grave, then turned to watch the last of his men cross the Dee and ride into Wales.
