by Wayne Grant
“Aye, that’s true. You might have heard of the troubles here in England these past few years,” she began.
“The royal brothers? I heard they fought.”
“Aye, they did and a bloody time it was. Richard was off on Crusade, my husband and his squires along with him. Sir Roger entrusted Sir Alwyn with the duty of defending Shipbrook and protecting me and Millicent.”
“That is a lot of trust,” the boy said.
Lady Catherine nodded.
“Aye, and there is no other man in England my husband would have given it to. Events proved it to be a greater burden than anyone suspected.”
“Events, my lady?”
“Bloody events, lad. We were loyal to King Richard, as was our Earl, Lord Ranulf, but men loyal to the King’s brother drove Ranulf from Chester. He sought refuge here, but Shipbrook could not stand against the Earl’s enemies. We had to flee in the night. They caught us down at the very ford where you crossed yesterday. Sir Alwyn—your father—defended the southern bank against them while my daughter and I got safe away with Earl Ranulf. I begged him to come with us, but he knew his business. We would have been run to ground in an hour had he not slowed them at the ford. I am told he killed a half-dozen men before he too fell. It gave us the start we needed to make good our escape, but at a terrible cost.”
Rhys gave a small sigh and pushed his bowl away.
“It is hard to hear this, my lady.”
Lady Catherine bit her lip.
“It is hard to tell it, Rhys. I am so sorry that he had to give his life for me and mine. Memories of that night weigh heavy on me.”
“No, no, my lady, I do not fault you for his death. I can see it had to be as it was. You gave him something worth dying for. He found a family here in this place. Something I never managed in mine. I grieve that I never had that and that I will never know him.”
Lady Catherine eyes were brimming as she rose and stood next to the boy. She placed a hand softly on his shoulder.
“Stay here awhile, lad, and I think you will come to know him.”
***
Declan reined in at the top of the rise and slid out of his saddle. He raised an arm and beckoned to the boy on the opposite bank. Patrols had seen no sign of the party that had pursued young Rhys, but Declan was not one to take unnecessary risks. He had ridden across first and satisfied himself that the Welsh bank was deserted before signalling the boy to join him.
It was low tide and Rhys splashed easily across to join him. The gravesite was well off the trail and not visible unless you sought it out. The grave itself was well-maintained, with round river stones neatly stacked atop the place where Alwyn’s body lay. A handsomely-carved cross stood at one end with Alwyn’s name etched in careful script. Among the stones were small bundles of brown and weathered stems, the remainder of flowers left during seasons of bloom.
For a long time, the boy stood over the grave silently. Finally, he spoke.
“It’s a nice spot.”
Declan looked out over the grave to the ford below.
“I think he would be pleased. He spent many a year watching over this ford.”
The Welsh boy found a small stone that had rolled off the mound and carefully placed it back.
“You were off on crusade when he died.”
“Aye. Your father was not happy to be left behind, and that’s a fact. He did not love war, but war was his business and he never shrank from a fight. He was Sir Roger’s Master of the Sword and that title was a good description of the man. He gave me this.”
Declan lifted his chin to show a ragged scar beneath.
“And this,” he said, sliding the sleeve of his tunic up to reveal another scar above his elbow. “He taught me how to fight and what I learned from him saved my life many times over.”
Declan paused and slid his sleeve down.
“None could have imagined that those who went off to war would return unharmed and that Alwyn, who chafed at being left safe here in England, would fall.”
“But he did not die in England, did he, Sir Declan?”
“No, he died on his native ground. He died here—in Wales.”
Rhys turned away from the grave of the man he had never known and looked up the frozen track that led off to the west and the Clwydian hills.
“It’s my native ground as well, and I will be going back.”
“Back to your village?” Declan asked, sharply. “Whatever for?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Do you seek to settle accounts with your step-father?”
“My reasons are my own,” the boy said flatly.
Declan shook his head.
“Listen to me, lad. No doubt, ye have yer grievances, but don’t be a fool. A man such as this Talfryn does not rule even a small patch of Wales by being weak—or careless. You said he had this man Morgant as his right hand and he will have other guards. Is he ever alone and unprotected? And, even if you could find him so, would you have the skill to kill him?”
Declan watched the boy, who continued to look off toward the hills.
“Or do you not care if you live or die, Master Madawc?”
The boy whirled around, startled to be called by his true name for the first time.
Rhys Madawc locked eyes with Declan.
“I do not wish to die, Sir Declan, and you are right. Talfryn goes nowhere without his guards nearby and I’ve seen myself his skill with a blade. He would be a hard man to kill, though I have never said that was my intention.”
Declan gave him a sceptical look.
“Whatever your purposes, lad, there is civil war in your country. I don’t know your village, but I know Saint Asaph’s church sits on land ruled by Lord Daffyd and Daffyd is losing that war. The Earl of Chester just sent one hundred of his best men to aid Daffyd’s enemy, Prince Llywelyn. The best man I know leads them. There is going to be blood aplenty spilt before all is done. Whatever your reasons for going back, it will put you in mortal danger, if not from Talfryn, then from one side or the other in this war. I do not wish to have another of your line laid in the soil of this wretched country before his time.”
The boy did not answer for a long time, but finally spoke quietly.
“This country may be wretched, Sir Declan, but it is my own and one day I will return to it. I know well there is war there. Lord Daffyd calls on Talfryn from time to time to supply men for the fight. I also know that some younger men from the village have slipped away to fight for Lord Llywelyn. Only God can know how it will all end. But, if you feel obliged to keep me from harm, then teach me the things my father taught you. Talfryn never spent a moment teaching me any useful skills. I can ride well enough, but have no training with a sword—or weapons of any kind. I heard one of the men call you Master of the Sword. Do you hold my father’s old post?”
“Aye, I do.”
“Then teach me how to fight, my lord. Teach me what he taught you.”
***
Declan and Sir Roger sat by a roaring fire in the great room of Shipbrook late into the night considering the future of Rhys Madawc. Declan had reported on Rhys’ determination to return to Wales and to be trained in arms. The first item troubled the big Norman knight, but the second was welcome news.
“I need a squire, Declan, and I’ve yet to find a boy among the folk here at Shipbrook who seems suitable.”
Declan arched an eyebrow.
“My lord, with respect, you could not swing a cat by the tail around here without hitting a boy who would be an excellent squire! Why, I’ve nominated three myself.”
Sir Roger scowled.
“They all talked too much. A bit like another squire I once had!”
Declan laughed at that.
“So, you think a Welsh boy will be more taciturn?”
The master of Shipbrook sighed and shook his head.
“You still talk too much, Sir Declan, and I could well do without a squire, but I confess—the chance to have Alwyn’s son in my company
…”
“Then we will make it so, my lord,” said Declan, rising. “I’ll start with him on the morrow.”
“Good, and Declan, keep an eye on the boy. There’ll be nothing but death for the lad if goes back to Wales.”
“Aye, lord, I’ll watch him.”
***
The next day, the education of Rhys Madawc began humbly enough. He was sent to help the grooms muck out the stables until midmorning and only then did he report to the patch of hard earth set aside within the walls for arms training. Declan O’Duinne was already there, watching carefully as two of Shipbrook’s men-at-arms had at each other with wooden swords. He called a halt when the boy hurried up, eager to begin and smelling of horse dung.
“Top of the mornin’, Master Madawc. By yer fragrance I can tell yer well on yer way to mastering the first duty of a fightin’ man in training—that being shovelin’ horse turds. But now it’s time for more serious work. Find yerself a wooden sword that suits you in the barrel yonder.”
The boy hurried to the barrel that stood in one corner of the practice field. He sorted through the dozen or so carved wooden staves and found one that seemed to have the right heft and feel in his hand. He hurried back, face full of eager readiness.
“So, take up a guard position, if yer familiar with that.”
The boy hesitated, unwilling to show his ignorance, then spread his feet and brought the wooden sword up horizontally to shoulder level. Declan just stared.
“Oh, gad! I see we will be beginning at the beginning with you on sword drill. First, ye can’t stand stiff-legged like that. Bend the knees—and don’t sit back on yer heels. And in most fights, you will likely be moving forward and back, not side to side, so having yer feet square beneath yer shoulders is no good. If ye have a shield in yer left hand, then left foot forward. If no shield, it depends on what the situation dictates.”
The boy tried to make all these corrections at once and practically fell over. His face reddened and Declan laughed.
“Let’s take it one step at a time, lad. Now, shift yer left foot a little forward. Good. Bend the knees and get off yer heels.”
He watched the boy reposition himself and walked ten paces to his front.
“Very well, that’s where we start from. Now come at me as though you planned to strike with yer sword.”
The boy hesitated, then came forward in a sort of scurrying walk toward Declan.
“Ah, now here is a rule to take to heart, lad. In close quarters, never—and I mean never—let one foot cross the other when ye move. If they tangle and ye go down, ye stay down—for good! Watch me.”
Declan took up a guard position with his left foot forward and came across the practice field in a quick series of lunges and shuffles, his rear foot never crossing in front of his lead foot.
“This is most important in a pitched battle, Rhys, where there’ll be bodies layin’ about to trip over, but even if it’s just you and one other man, ye can’t afford to lose yer footin’. Clear?”
“Aye, sir. Clear.”
Declan nodded.
“Now we practice it.”
For an hour, Declan drilled Rhys with no let up, until the boy was dripping with sweat in the cold air. The lad was nimble on his feet and had a natural sense of balance. What’s more, he was fast—very fast. But he was unused to these drills and, while he never complained, fatigue began to make his movements slow and clumsy. Declan called a halt.
“We’ll finish every day like this, lad. I’ve seen more men die in a fight from weariness than from lack of skill. Now let’s give the legs a bit of a rest and work on yer sword and shield arms.”
He handed Rhys a heavy metal bar, twice the weight of a broadsword and led him to a leather bag stuffed taut with hay and rags that hung at one end of the field. He ordered the boy to strike the bag thirty times with the bar using his right arm, then thirty more with his left. Rhys did not complain, but there were small, involuntary groans as he laboured through the drills.
As Declan watched him, he suppressed a smile. It was too soon to offer any kind words to the boy, but he liked what he saw. It was clear the lad had had no training whatever in arms, but he had ample strength in his thick shoulders and he was game.
In time, he might be a dangerous man.
No Simple Plan
Roland awoke with a start to the sound of a rooster crowing. For a moment he did not know where he was, then he saw the still-sleeping bulk of Griff Connah curled up on a straw mat across the cell-like room they shared. He arose quietly and slipped from the room, making his way to the keep’s entrance where a sleepy guard straightened a bit as he passed by into the courtyard.
He looked up to see another cloudless blue sky, brightening with the coming sunrise. High hills loomed above the wooden palisades to the west, their tops dazzling white with reflected sunlight. It felt as though the bitter cold of the past few days had vanished overnight. There was still a chill in the air, but Roland could see icicles forming at the edge of roofs as the snow began to melt.
Along one side of the stone keep, a shed gave shelter to two cooks who were busily preparing morning rations for the garrison and the new arrivals. Otherwise, the courtyard was empty. An audible growl from his stomach reminded him that it was time for breakfast. He wandered over to the cook pots and was rewarded with a chunk of black bread and small bowl of thin broth. He eyed the pot over the fire.
Rations running low.
He turned up the bowl and quickly drained it. It was hardly more than warm water.
“Good morning, my lord!”
Roland turned to see Friar Cyril approach in his usual jerky gait, all long shanks and elbows.
“And the same to you. Did you sleep well?”
“Well enough, my lord. Jammed in among the lads, but I’ve fared worse!” The friar looked up at the dripping icicles forming on the cook shed. “Looks like a thaw is coming.”
“Aye,” said Roland, “and none too soon. It’s a thin soup for breakfast and that tells me our stay here will not be long.”
“Two days, lord. That’s what I heard the Prince’s steward tell one of his men—and it’s the fodder that will be gone before the food.”
“You have sharp ears, Cyril.”
The monk grinned.
“All in service to the Lord.”
Roland returned the smile. He was warming to this churchman. The friar might be awkward, but he had a keen mind.
“Well then, I’d best fashion a plan before the horses starve.”
The monk nodded.
“I’m sure you will make it a good one, my lord, but I’ll put a word in with God all the same.”
“Amen to that.”
***
Roland returned to his small room to find Griff stirring. The tall archer yawned and stretched.
“Morning, English.”
“Morning, Griff. I wonder if you could spare me a bit of your time? I’m in need of your help.”
“Trouble?”
“None that you don’t already know of. I’ve been thinking on a plan. I have an idea, but it needs meat upon the bones. You’ve been fighting this war for seven years. I think you can help me.”
Griff nodded, fully awake now.
“What is it you need?”
“The uncles have most of their forces concentrated near Deganwy. What will it take to draw one or the other away? Where are they vulnerable? Where might we pose a threat they cannot ignore?”
Griff furrowed his brow.
“Let’s walk while I think. I could use some breakfast.”
“I think it will disappoint you.”
“Nevertheless, I think better with something in my stomach.”
Together they walked out of the keep and Griff took his place behind three other men in line at the cook shed. While he waited, he turned to Roland.
“The place Daffyd values above all is Rhuddlan. It’s the only stone fortress within his domain and its walls are tall and strong. Built by
a Norman of course,” he added sourly. “Rhuddlan gives him a base that we cannot threaten—at least not by assault—and we are in no position to lay siege. He also puts great store in his castle at Deganwy. We believe he keeps half of his treasury there, but it is no Rhuddlan. It sits atop two steep hills, which makes it difficult to get at, but Daffyd has not spent any of his silver maintaining the place. It’s built of timber, not stone, and is not in good repair. They’ve allowed the gorse to grow right up to the base of the walls. With a bit of luck, it might be taken by a surprise assault, but near two thousand men are presently camped within sight of the fortress. We can hardly surprise the castle if we have to pass through an army to get to the gate.”
“Hardly, but what of Roderic? What does he value that we could threaten?”
Griff reached the head of the line and accepted a bowl of the thin soup. He slurped it down before replying.
“Roderic’s most valued possession is the great castle at Caenarfon. He keeps much of his treasure there. It is stronger even than Rhuddlan and can be resupplied by sea, so you can forget threatening that place. We would be laughed at by the garrison.”
“The Prince mentioned Bangor.”
“Aye, there is a cathedral there and no fort to speak of, but I doubt seizing church property would cause Roderic to panic. Besides, it lies just a single day’s march from Deganwy.”
“That’s not far enough for our purposes,” Roland agreed. “Perhaps we should just surrender to the uncles.”
Griff scowled at him, then laughed.
“Don’t think that hasn’t crossed a few minds these past few weeks!”
Roland grinned.
“So, what of Anglesey? Llywelyn says Roderic has men there. I know little of the place. I believe I must have sailed past it once on my return from the Holy Land, but it was night and I got no view of it.
“Ah, the Isle of Anglesey!” Griff exclaimed, a dreamy look coming over him. “It is lovely flat ground. In truth, it is the best land in Gwynedd. Most of our grain and half of our cattle come from there.”
Roland rubbed his chin.
“We could raid the place.”
