by Wayne Grant
There had been peace for many years here on Anglesey, but Hova had lived long enough to remember when there had been no peace. As a boy, half of the people in his village near the Strait of Menai had been slaughtered by raiders on one bloody night. No one had ever been certain which of the warring royal kin had ordered it and it hardly mattered to the dead or grieving. One more tack to starboard headed him directly into the mouth of the river.
He might have a chance yet.
***
Llywelyn had seen the small boat dodge between his ships, but thought little of it. He was straining to see what lay ahead. There was a bright crescent moon in the sky, but it kept ducking behind clouds. While the moonlight held sway, he could clearly see the mountains of Eryri, rising up to starboard, but Anglesey was low country and not yet visible.
Master Priddy said they were but a few miles offshore, but clouds had again made the night dark and he could see nothing. Long minutes passed until, finally, the clouds parted. Llywelyn saw a dozen ships on either side of his own and more strung out behind. Ahead, the moonlight illuminated a bright strip of white. It was the beach that bounded Aberffraw Bay
As the boats grounded on the sandy bottom of the bay, men leapt from the decks into waist-deep water with swords drawn. Some had been with Llywelyn for many years. Others were oath-men loyal to the brothers from Meirionnydd. In the long years of rule by Roderic and Daffyd, none of these men had imagined a day such as this.
Aberffraw.
It was no great city. Nor did it boast a great fortress, such as the castle at Caenarfon, but it was the home of the dynasty that had ruled Gwynedd for three hundred fifty years. Each of the men who now contended for the rule of Gwynedd were offspring of that royal line and recognized the legitimacy that Aberffraw lent to whoever possessed it.
Both Maredudd and Gruffydd had visited Roderic’s court as younger men, but only at the sufferance of their uncle. Llywelyn had never laid eyes on the royal Llys, having fled Gwynedd as a babe and returned only as a rebel.
As the men assembled, quiet orders were given and they began to move off the beach. As the first ranks topped the high dunes that rimmed the bay, someone noticed the small fishing boat tacking into the mouth of the Ffraw River. Maredudd, who had landed with his men closest to the mouth of the river, instantly realized the danger posed by this boat. If surprise were lost, they might still seize the royal court, but casualties would be high. He dispatched a half dozen of his archers to head off the threat.
But Hova Iwan had luck on his side. There was wind at his back and just enough tide to keep his small boat from running aground. With the skill acquired in thirty years of sailing, he coaxed all possible speed from his little boat. Not even Welsh longbowmen could stop him, as a flurry of arrows fell twenty feet behind his stern. When word reached Maredudd that the boat had slipped by, he cursed, then sent a warning to Llywelyn.
The Prince had already started down the backside of the dunes at the head of his men when the news reached him. Looking to his left, he could see the top of the mast of the fishing boat gliding up the river. He turned to his men.
“At the run, lads!” he ordered.
The command did not need to be relayed. Men in the rear and on the flanks saw the tall young nobleman break into a run toward the river and leapt forward to follow him. They reached the eastern bank of the twisting Aberffraw River just as a cock crowed in the sleeping village that lay on the opposite side. Only two hundred yards to the north, the low walls that enclosed Roderic’s royal court could be seen.
Llywelyn saw the fisherman’s boat pulled up on a mud flat. It was empty. Without slowing, he scrambled down the bank and into the river. This far upstream, the water barely rose above his knees. A hundred yards ahead of this invading host, Hova and his son raced through the alleys of the village. They made no effort to reach the royal court and alert the guards of the calamity about to fall upon them.
Let the royals kill each other! It was none of their concern.
As Llywelyn and six hundred men splashed through the shallow river and streamed into the town, Hova led his wife and children out the far side.
***
In the first dim light of dawn, men slipped silently through the dirt alleyways of Aberffraw. A skinny dog tied up in a small garden snarled as they passed, but none gave it heed. As ordered, they halted at the edge of the village. Across an unploughed field laced with tendrils of frost lay the Llys—Roderic’s royal court. One lookout slouched sleepily against his spear atop the wall near the south gate. He gave no sign he had seen anything amiss.
At a hand signal from Llywelyn, a dozen of his taller men burst from the cover of the village and sprinted across the open ground to the low wall of the Llys. The wall, more ornament than fortification, was only eight feet tall and there was no ditch beneath it. The men reached the wall and sprang forward, planting a foot and hauling themselves over. Before the first confused alarm was raised, a dozen men were inside the court.
Three guards died defending the gate. The sound of their struggle did not go unheeded and men began to stumble out of the low barracks that sat just a few yards from the south gate. The first of these were cut down, but more erupted from the building. They were too late. The first men over the wall had reached the gate and raised the bar. The heavy oak barrier swung open with a groan and a wave of men rushed in, led by Llywelyn.
Without looking to see who followed, the Prince slammed into the defenders who were desperately trying to form a line across the narrow street outside their barracks. He rammed his shield into the face of the man to his front, sending him tumbling backwards, then turned and slashed to his left and right with his broadsword. That quickly, a gaping hole was punched through the line. A few of Roderic’s men began to break and run. A feral roar went up from the attackers who surged forward.
Abruptly, Llywelyn turned to face his own troops.
“Hold!” he ordered, then turned toward the wavering garrison troops.
“Yield, and be spared!”
A few of the older defenders, proud veterans, snarled defiance, but most of these garrison troops were green—hardly more than boys—and were stunned at the savagery they had witnessed. They had no stomach for more and began to throw down their weapons. The veterans cursed them, but had no choice but to drop their own swords.
Llywelyn gave a curt order and the prisoners were herded back into their barracks and placed under guard. Patrols were dispatched to search the dozen or more small buildings inside the Llys as Gruffydd and Maredudd forced their way through the crush of men at the gate to join their younger cousin. Maredudd had a gleam of triumph in his eyes and even the dour Gruffydd sported a broad grin as he greeted Llywelyn.
“God’s breath! This will upset our uncle!” he growled.
Llywelyn nodded.
“Let us pray, for we need him to be upset! Now let’s go see what Roderic keeps in his great hall.”
Together, the three men hurried up the centre lane of the royal enclosure toward the large building on the north end. Llywelyn’s men fanned out on both sides of the street to ensure no hidden defenders might strike at their Prince. When he reached the front of the hall, Llywelyn stopped and looked up at the stone façade. He dropped to one knee, said a silent prayer and rose. Together, the three grandsons of Owain Gwynedd marched through the arched doorway their grandsire had built.
The guards had fled and no one tried to bar their way. The front entrance led to a large formal receiving room with narrow windows set on either wall and a high-beamed wooden ceiling. Two men stood alone in the room. One was of middle years with a beard that had gone to grey. The second was young—no older than Llywelyn himself. He was fair of face, but his body bent oddly to the left—a sign of some infirmity. The younger man bowed low as the three men entered but the older stayed stiffly erect.
“Who makes war on the Prince of Gwynedd?” the older man asked sternly.
A small smile flickered over Llywelyn’s face.
To his credit, the older man did not flinch at this news.
“I am Cadwalader, Seneschal of Gwynedd, my lord, and you must be Lord Llywelyn. I see you have brought your faithless cousins with you,” he said and gave Maredudd and Gruffydd the evil eye. “Why have you come to disturb the peace of Aberffraw? I had thought you and your uncles could reach agreement to bring this senseless rebellion to an end. My lord Roderic had high hopes for a reconciliation.”
Llywelyn gave a small harsh laugh.
“Your lord Roderic is a dried-up horse turd and I barely escaped with my life from his reconciliation!”
The Seneschal was unmoved by Llywelyn’s claim and hardly seemed surprised by it, but the younger man looked troubled. He sent a searching glance at his older companion, but was ignored. Llywelyn addressed him for the first time.
“Aye, lad, it’s true. Your master set an ambush for me and, when that failed, he sent hired Northmen to hunt me down. Perhaps they should have looked for me closer to home—for here I am. Who are you?”
The older man started to answer, but Llywelyn silenced him with a raised hand.
“Let the man speak.”
“I…I am court poet, my lord. I am called Benfras.”
“I like poetry, lad, particularly where there is fighting! Are you any good? Spin me a poem to commemorate my arrival at Aberffraw.”
The young man looked terrified, but Llywelyn clapped him on the shoulder and spoke quietly to him.
“Do your best, lad. I know not good poetry from bad, so fear no censure from me.”
Benfras gulped, then squeezed his eyes shut. Silence descended on the hall as they waited for what he might bring forth. Then he opened his eyes and spoke in a high, ringing voice.
“Oh, proud Llywelyn, of unmatched fame
In the dark of night, to Aberffraw came
Long had usurpers denied his right
But none could stand before his might
While a dried-up horse turd searches in vain
Here stands the true heir of Owain!”
Cadwalader turned and snarled at the poet, but Llywelyn roared with laughter.
“Best poem I’ve ever heard, lad! You are now my court poet.”
He turned and pointed at the Seneschal.
“And you, scribbler, if you do exactly as I say, you may live to see an end to this war.”
Gruffydd, who had watched this encounter in silence, came forward and spoke quietly to Llywelyn.
“My men report a rider got out the north gate before we claimed it,” he said.
Llywelyn nodded.
“Good! We need word of this to reach Roderic. We must draw him to us in all haste. If he tarries, we must goad him. Roderic must march on Aberffraw and bring Daffyd with him.”
“They could be here in three days with two thousand men,” said Maredudd who seemed suddenly daunted by what they had set in motion. Llywelyn placed two hands on his older kinsman’s shoulders.
“Fear not, cousin! When they come, Roland Inness will take Deganwy and we will have the uncles where we want them!”
***
By noon, a dozen riders on fast horses taken from Roderic’s stables rode from Aberffraw. They carried summonses from Llywelyn to the most powerful barons on the island—men who controlled the fertile fields of Gwynedd’s breadbasket. Most of these men had marched off with Roderic a month ago, but all the same, they were ordered to appear at the royal Lys at Aberffraw in two days. And while the barons might be gone, a royal summons would certainly stir up the noble families left behind.
Other proclamations asserting Llywelyn’s authority were to be posted throughout the island. One rider was ordered to prominently post a proclamation near the ferry landing on the Anglesey side of the Strait of Menai. For years, Roderic had collected a tax on every passenger crossing the waterway. The proclamation abolished the ferry tax and carried the royal seal of the House of Aberffraw. It was signed “Llywelyn, Prince of Aberffraw and Gwynedd.”
The Longships
It was a clear night in the valley of the River Conwy, as Ulf Haroldson stroked his long red beard and looked up into the star-filled sky. He often gazed at the heavens as he went about his evening duties and had spent many a night pondering what the spray of light in the night sky meant. He was a Dane and his people had once believed that the stars were the lights of Valhalla.
Valhalla.
The sagas said that warriors who died in battle with a sword in their hand would be lifted up by the Valkyries, winged warrior maidens, to feast with Odin in the great hall of Valhalla. He half believed that himself, though the priests called it blasphemy.
Priests!
They said men must turn their cheeks if slapped. They said men should be merciful and humble. Ulf snorted at that notion. What kind of man let another strike him without killing the offender? What sort of man sought humility? Why a man with no coins in his pockets and no woman in his bed! Just like a priest!
For Ulf, there’d been plenty of coins in his pockets since joining Haakon five years ago and if you had money, the women would follow! It was a good living and one he’d blindly stumbled upon. He’d sailed from Denmark to seek employment in Dublin with nothing in his pockets and little else to recommend him, save a strong sword arm.
After a week, he’d found no work and was in danger of starving. He considered sailing back to Denmark, but had no money for the passage. Someone told him a Dub Gaill chieftain might be looking for men. He found Haakon in a local tavern. He started to approach, but six local men, Irish by their speech, had surrounded the big Dane and were goading him into a fight.
Ulf Haroldson had seen many fights in his day. They could begin with words—and the locals were spewing plenty of those at the big man—or actions. The Dub Gaill sat impassively, while the locals voiced their disapproval of his presence, but then one was imprudent enough to let his hand grasp the hilt of his sword. For this he received a tankard of ale against his temple. The man went down without so much as a groan and his intended victim was up and coming forward with a long straight dagger before the others could react.
Always game for a fight, Ulf had waded in and killed one of the local men. By the time he had laid his man low, the big Dane had killed three of the others with shocking dispatch. He then gave chase as the last man bolted out of the door. Ulf followed out of curiosity. Most men would have been satisfied with the slaughter he had already inflicted, but not this man. The Dane pursued his last assailant relentlessly and finally ran the man to ground halfway across the city. The exhausted Gael had begged for his life—to no avail. Haakon the Black was neither merciful nor humble, but he was a man who would not let a favour go unnoticed.
That same night he’d offered Ulf a place with his raiders. In the five years since, he had risen to command Wavebreaker, one of the deadly longships in Haakon’s fleet. He was a wealthy man now, with a fine house on the banks of the River Liffey just a short walk from Dublin’s port. Life was good.
Ulf lowered his eyes from the heavens and looked down the gravel bar at the row of low-slung boats lined up there. Haakon had left him in charge of securing the longships, not a duty to be taken lightly. A longship was more than sea transport, it was a weapon—one that had helped his ancestors conquer half of Europe. With its banks of oars and shallow draft it had taken entire armies far inland on the rivers of Britain, France and Rus. It was a swift craft and with a good crew, it could overtake slower trading vessels and outrun any war vessel yet designed by their foes.
But every weapon has its counter and, in time, ways had been found to blunt the threat of the longships. The English and Welsh had learned to build fortifications near the mouth of every major river in Britain to challenge an
y invaders who came by sea. This had gradually wrung the life out of the raiders from the north. Great fleets of longships no longer set out from the fjords of Norway or the low sandy islands of Denmark as they once had.
But there was still no vessel that could navigate ocean and stream like a longship! The bond between a master and his ship was a strong one. Haakon loved his boats even more than he loved his women or his horses. This, Ulf understood. And if they were no longer the weapons they had once been, these boats were still their only way back home and must be kept safe.
So Ulf dutifully checked the guard postings every evening. No harm would come to their precious longships while he was in charge! In the bright moonlight, he could make out the shape of his friend, Snorri, at the far end of the gravel bar. Snorri was Haakon’s own helmsman and no better sailor plied the northern seas. The man saw Ulf and raised a hand to signal that all was well. Satisfied, Ulf turned to look at the river. The bright moon made the rushing water gleam and twinkle as it danced over the rocks in the shallow bed.
He had to admit that Wales was a lovely country. When he’d first heard that this was their destination, he was careful to show no concern, but it had worried him. The Welsh did not have a reputation for humility or mercy. He had heard that they were a fierce and warlike people, though mostly fighting amongst themselves.
But events had proved his worries to be ill-founded. After they’d been given free passage past the castle that guarded the mouth of the River Conwy, they’d been sent to attack the winter quarters of this rebel, Llywelyn. They’d struck near dawn and surprised the camp. A few men, with their damned longbows, had given a good account of themselves—and died painfully for their trouble, but most had been routed. They’d fled into the mountains and had not dared to come back down and face the Dub Gaill who waited for them. It seemed the fearsome reputation of Welsh warriors was an exaggeration.
