by Wayne Grant
As he surveyed the gleaming river in the quiet night, this Wales campaign promised to be the easiest money he’d ever made.
***
In the trees on the opposite bank of the Conwy, Roland and the Invalids watched the man stargazing by the banks of the river. All that day, they had followed a local boy along small trails through the high hills, skirting the large force of Danes that sat astride the valley five miles upstream. As they neared the river, another of Llywelyn’s men who’d grown up along the Conwy took the lead. They had slipped into trees opposite the gravel bar where the Danish longboats were drawn up like sea beasts come to bask on the shore.
On the bank above the gravel bar, men sat around a fire and told tales and laughed until well into the night. Finally, they had drifted off to a row of low huts and gone to bed, save for one sentry who kept watch down by the river. Roland had been set to signal his Welsh archers to take out the guard, when he saw a second man come down to the bar and look up at the heavens.
His bad luck.
He gave the hand signal and four longbowmen took aim. A small sound to his right caused Ulf to look back down the row of longships. He saw Snorri, clearly illuminated by the moonlight, bend forward at the waist, then straighten up and raise a hand. He started to wave back, but saw the man fall, face-down, onto the gravel.
Ulf was a veteran and not slow to recognize danger. He reached for his sword and crouched low, looking for cover. He ran for the nearest longship but took only three steps before one arrow took him in the back of the neck and another between his shoulder blades. He dropped to his knees, clutched at his throat and joined Snorri, face down on the rocks. One hand clutched desperately for the hilt of his sword, but it lay a foot away on the gravel, forever out of reach. Ulf Haroldson would not be feasting with the gods in Valhalla this night.
The archers’ job done, Roland slid down the bank into the river. The night air had warmed considerably since the fierce winter storm the week before, but the Conwy was fed by snowmelt and the water was shockingly cold. He gritted his teeth as the icy stream rose to his knees and then to his waist.
Here, the river shallowed enough for a man to cross on foot—if he could keep his feet against the strong current. Behind him, Seamus Murdo eased into the river and clasped hands with Roland who gingerly searched for a solid spot on the streambed to set his next step. One by one, forty of the Invalids followed, until there was a chain of men stretching from bank to bank. A few slipped on the mossy rocks of the bottom, plunging up to their necks before being hauled back up by the men on either side. Despite the splashing, nothing stirred on the far shore.
Roland reached a small fringe of sand that edged the stream above the gravel bar and ran at a crouch to shelter beneath the deeply cut bank. There he waited as his forty picked men slowly joined him, soaked and shivering beneath the bank. No word of command was needed as Roland led them downstream to the gravel bar then up to a row of four small huts strung out along the bank. The Invalids stationed themselves around the entrance of each hut.
While there had been daylight left, they’d carefully counted the men guarding the boats. With two dead on the bar, there would be eighteen left in the shelters. Roland pulled back the flap that served as a door to the first hut, stuck his head inside and shouted in Danish.
“Up, there’s trouble with the boats!”
Men groaned and stirred, slow to rise. Roland stepped inside.
“Up, damn you!” he roared and grabbed the first man to rise by the collar, dragging him out the door. The Dane was knocked senseless by Seamus. Other men stumbled out of the hut to a similar fate, while Roland moved to the next hovel and repeated the alarm. In minutes, it was over. Two of the Danes in the last hut realized something was amiss and came out fighting. These two were quickly dispatched to Valhalla. The rest now sat disconsolately on the ground, bruised and bleeding.
Roland nodded to Patch, who whistled sharply. It was the signal for the Welsh archers and the rest of the Invalids to join them. While they waited for the others to cross the river, Roland ordered the prisoners stripped and bound. He sent men into the huts to gather clothing and any other gear they could find. They were going to have to pass as Danes very soon and it would help if they dressed the part.
Clouds had started to obscure the bright moon by the time the rest of the men reached the Danish encampment. They would not begin their voyage downriver until dawn, which was still hours away. Roland ordered fires built to ward off the chill and dry out the men, many of whom were still trying to get feeling back into their feet from the river crossing. By the light of the fires, the newly arrived Welsh set aside their bows, drew knives and moved toward the prisoners.
Roland stepped in front of Engard.
“No killing,” he said simply.
Engard drew back.
“No killing? What sort of trick is this? We know what they did to our lads at the winter camp. Griff told us. These bastards have to die. We will at least make it quick, which is more than they did for Gwilyn and Caden.”
Roland looked at the furious face of the young Welshman and sympathized. What these Danes had done to the two archers they’d caught at Llywelyn’s winter quarters had turned his stomach. The men had been strangers to him, but for Engard and the rest of the longbowmen, they were comrades and friends.
He looked up to see that the Invalids had edged closer, waiting to see if he would allow the Welsh to have their revenge. None would have challenged him had he done so, but he recalled the revulsion he felt when news reached him of the slaughter of the Muslim captives at Acre on King Richard’s orders. That was a stain on the Lionheart’s honour he could never wipe clean.
“We will not kill unarmed prisoners while I command,” he said quietly. “Or would you wish us to be no better than them?” he said, pointing at the Danes who looked terrified.
Engard spat on the ground.
“You speak their language. Perhaps you’re more Dane than English,” he said with disgust.
A low growl rose from those Invalids who had overheard the man’s insult. Nearby, Fancy Jack and Jamie Finch reached for their sword hilts. Roland gave a small hand signal without taking his eyes off Engard. Hands slid off hilts. Roland took a step toward the Welshman.
“Hear me, Engard. Your Prince knows my heart—even if you do not. Lord Llywelyn gave me this command. Do you wish to challenge that?” For a long moment, the two stared at each other. It was clear the Welshman did wish it, but also clear he dared not. Finally, he dropped his head.
“No, lord. Llywelyn is my Prince.”
“And?”
“You command here.”
“If it comforts you, Haakon will probably kill these men when he finds his boats gone.”
Engard shrugged.
“Maybe Haakon understands this war better than you do…my lord.”
***
With the first hint of dawn in the east, the men of the Invalid Company and the twenty Welsh archers began loading their gear into three of the longships down at the gravel bar. The long days of waiting at Dolwyddelan had not been spent solely on weapons’ maintenance and archery contests. Roland knew from Llywelyn’s spies that the Danes had come in ten longships manned by forty men each. They would need three of those boats to carry them down the river to Deganwy. And three boats required three men who could steer them past the bends and bars of the Conwy and a crew that could row in unison.
Only Friar Cyril had any direct experience on such a craft, having travelled in one to and from Iceland, outbound as a slave and homeward as a false priest. He would man the tiller on one boat. Roland had spent many hours on the steering oar of the Sprite on their voyages to the Holy Land and back. He would steer a second boat. To the surprise of all, Sergeant Billy offered himself as master of the third longship.
“I grew up on the Thames—downriver from London. I know how to steer in a current,” he’d said.
“How big was yer boat?” Patch asked.
B
illy shrugged.
“Not big…bit of a rowboat really, but I know how to handle a tiller!”
Now that the actual boats had been seized, men assembled around the three helmsmen who would steer them right into the heart of enemy territory. As they gathered round, bits of clothing, weapons and armour belonging to the prisoners were passed out to a few men in each crew. The Dub Gaill armour was distinct. Their helmets, in particular, had an unusual mail coif that draped down over the back of the neck and shoulders. The shields they carried were also uniform—round oak, with red and black designs on the front.
Only a handful of the men would be able to don the Danish gear. The others would be treated as rebel prisoners being transported to Deganwy for confinement. It was not much of a disguise, but it was the longships themselves that gave weight to the deception. No one would expect any but the mercenary Danes to arrive in such craft.
As men began to hoist themselves over the sides and find their places at the oar benches, Roland returned to the captured Danes who watched sullenly. They were happy to be alive, but knew that Haakon would be furious at the loss of three boats. Roland spoke to them in their own tongue.
“Tell Haakon that he should have stayed in Ireland. He will be lucky to leave this land alive.”
One of the bolder men spat on the ground.
“You speak Danish like an Englishman,” he snarled. “When Haakon learns you have stolen three of his longships, he will come after you. He will hunt you down!”
Roland smiled at the man.
“Then he’d best find a horse or start walking.”
The man glared back, unsure of his meaning.
Roland turned to Patch and Fancy Jack who were standing behind him and pointed to the seven boats that sat empty on the bar.
“Burn them.”
Both men pulled flaming brands from the one bonfire that still burned. In the night, Roland had ordered piles of dry branches to be stacked fore and aft in the seven boats they were leaving behind. It only took moments for the dry wood to catch and soon long rows of furled sails that lay along the keels ignited and began to burn furiously. When the flames reached the pitch-soaked wool that caulked the hulls, the Dub Gaill longships became infernos that lit up the valley of the Conwy ahead of the approaching daylight.
The bound prisoners looked on in horror—horror at the loss of their beloved vessels and horror at what Haakon would do to them. Some cursed and some wept as they watched the last of their captors shove the surviving longships into the current and clamber aboard. In the hellish glare of the burning boats, the Dub Gaill awaited the dawn with dread.
Riders in the Night
It was past midnight when the rider reined in his horse at the gate of Deganwy Castle and leapt from the saddle. His mount staggered from exhaustion and the man looked in no better shape than the horse. The glow of torches set above the fortress gate illuminated the rider’s face, streaked with dust and lined with fatigue. He’d ridden all day and most of the night to get here, ruining three horses in his haste. A sleepy guard heard the commotion and peered over the rampart.
“Open the gate! I’ve urgent news for Lord Roderic!” the man shouted.
The guard ducked out of sight without replying and the messenger, left standing before the barred gate, began to pace back and forth in agitation. He was about to pound on the unyielding oak of the gate, when it suddenly began to swing open with a loud groan. The sleepy guard appeared, and right behind him came a tall man in mail and helmet, who was anything but sleepy.
“This better be good!” the captain of the watch snarled at the exhausted rider.
The man straightened. He might be of lower rank than this man, but he had ridden eighteen hours to get here and was out of patience. He snarled back.
“Rouse Lord Roderic—at once! Aberffraw has been taken!”
“Taken? What nonsense is this?”
The messenger wanted to scream.
“It’s the rebel, Llywelyn, damn you! Llywelyn has taken Aberffraw!”
The captain of the guard blinked, then shook his head.
“That bastard is bottled up in the mountains of Eryri—last I heard.”
The rider stepped in close to the captain.
“I was there, and he’s not in Eryri anymore! The men coming over the wall of the Llys were shouting Llywelyn’s name. This is no mistake. Now, get me to Roderic or answer for it later!”
The messenger’s certainty troubled the officer of the guard, but his story seemed far-fetched. Just a fortnight ago, Llywelyn had been routed from his winter quarters and driven into the mountains. Most of his men were scattered out near the border with Powys. How could he now appear at Aberffraw in strength?
But the damn man seemed certain…
“Very well,” he said at last. “But if I rouse Lord Roderic and this is a faeries’ tale, I’ll have yer balls!” He turned and headed back through the gate with the messenger trailing behind. In minutes, he was rapping tentatively on a door on the second floor of the timber keep.
Roderic pulled open the door in his nightshirt. He was a man who slept lightly, an asset in a world full of betrayal and shifting fortunes, and was fully alert, despite being roused from slumber. He looked right past the officer of the guard to the dust-covered messenger standing in the man’s shadow.
“What news?” he asked, calmly.
The messenger could read nothing in Roderic’s face, as he told of men attacking the royal court in the predawn darkness, scaling the walls with Llywelyn’s name on their lips and overwhelming the garrison at Aberffraw.
“I got out the north gate on a good horse just ahead of them, my lord. I knew I had to get to you with this news.”
Roderic showed no reaction as the man related the loss of his capital, though the news felt like a gut punch. Aberffraw was a place that conferred great authority on whoever possessed it. Now it appeared his most dangerous foe had somehow snatched it from him. He turned to the officer of the guard.
“Go to the camp and rouse my commanders. We will march at first light.” He turned to the sleepy guard, who was now wide awake. “You go fetch my brother and tell him to meet me in the hall.”
He turned to the rider.
“You did well getting here quickly with the news, lad. Did you actually see my nephew at Aberffraw?”
The man furrowed his brow.
“My lord, I cannot say fer certain. I’ve never seen the rebel, but there was a tall man there. He was coming right up the street toward your hall and he was wearing a tabard with your arms on the front.”
“The arms of the House of Aberffraw?”
“Aye, my lord, the ones with the lions.”
Roderic rubbed his chin. All the warring parties in this conflict had some right to wear the coat of arms handed down from Rhodri the Great, Llywelyn included. But cloth was cheap and an imposter could wear the rampant lions of the Aberffraw dynasty as easily as anyone. Roderic held out a small hope that this was the case—some raider posing as the rebel prince, come to loot the place. He turned back to the messenger.
“What else did you see?”
The man squinted his tired eyes and tried to think back on the chaotic scene he’d fled from at dawn that day. Then it struck him.
“Oh, aye, my lord. Your other nephews were there as well—Gruffydd and Maredudd. They were following behind the tall man wearing your arms.”
Roderic’s shoulders sagged.
Gruffydd and Maredudd—it all made sense now.
His two nephews had once sided with him and Daffyd when they attacked and killed Prince Hywel, Owain’s recognized heir. As reward, he had granted them their small patch of land in Meirionnydd, but they had not been pleased with rule over such a minor cantref. The two brothers grumbled endlessly over their poor treatment and had occasionally challenged his overlordship, but he had always whipped them back into line. Roderic knew they held grievances against him, but had not considered them a threat until this moment.
&nbs
p; Allied to Llywelyn…
Yes, it made sense. He had sent his hired Danes to bottle up his nephew in the mountains until spring when it would be possible to march against the young rebel. He had forgotten that those mountains had a back door, down into Meirionnydd—and Meirionnydd had boats, boats enough to carry an army to Anglesey!
His thoughts were interrupted as Daffyd arrived in the hall. The man’s hair was mussed and he seemed but half awake, but there was worry in his eyes.
“Is it true?” he asked.
“I’m afraid it likely is, brother. It appears our troublesome nephew has found help from Meirionnydd and has taken my court at Aberffraw.”
Daffyd shook his head.
“Aberffraw—that’s bad, and with Gruffydd and Maredudd you say?”
Roderic nodded.
“I should have killed those two years ago, but they seemed harmless enough.”
“I told you they were trouble,” said Daffyd sourly. Roderic nodded again.
“You were right, brother, and we will deal with them in due time. I will march south at first light to undo this disaster before Llywelyn starts issuing edicts as Prince of Aberffraw and stirring up half of Gwynedd!”
“How many men does he have?”
Roderic shrugged.
“Our messenger says he saw hundreds streaming over the walls and through the south gate before he took to his heels. He probably exaggerates. Llywelyn only managed to bring a few hundred with him when he escaped into the mountains and Meirionnydd can’t supply more than a few hundred to add to that.”
Daffyd rubbed his chin.
“You will outnumber him, then, but I have been fighting this bastard, Llywelyn, for seven long years. He’s made few mistakes, but now he has and it’s time he was crushed! I will march with you, Roderic.”
Roderic clapped Daffyd on the shoulder. He had never liked his brother and they had crossed swords more than once, but he was genuinely glad to have this extra strength. He had underestimated Llywelyn to this point. He would not do so again. When they cornered him on Anglesey, it would be with overwhelming force.
***
