by Wayne Grant
***
Three miles to the north of Haakon’s burnt fleet, an hour of drill with the beached longships had the men pulling on the oars in unison at last. Roland ordered them back into the river. It was now well into the morning and as the three boats slipped downstream, the river widened, allowing some room for error on the part of the helmsmen. Patch, Jamie Finch and Sir John Blackthorne called a steady cadence, while Roland, Sergeant Billy and Friar Cyril kept the longships in the centre of the channel. After a time, the boats began to surge forward smoothly with each stroke.
As they came around a bend in the river, the valley ahead widened further and the hills angled away to the west. The local riverman told Roland that they were now only two river miles from the final ford on the Conwy. It was here that Roderic and Daffyd would have to cross to march south to Bangor and beyond to Anglesey. Roland signalled to beach the boats once more. When they’d been run up on a sand bar, he called together the two other helmsmen along with Patch, Fancy Jack, Jamie Finch and Engard.
“If Llywelyn has taken Aberffraw as planned, word will have reached his uncles sometime in the night. The Prince expects Roderic and Daffyd to move against him as soon as they get this news, but we cannot afford to reach the ford and find a thousand Welshmen still crossing—or still camped at Deganwy.”
He turned to Engard.
“I want you and Jamie Finch to scout the ford and the camp below the fortress. I’ll not have us blunder into more than we can handle.”
The Welshman nodded and turned to Jamie.
“We go on foot, unless we find a horse to steal.”
Jamie Finch nodded his agreement.
“And if a thousand men are still at Deganwy?” asked Patch.
Roland shrugged.
“Then we wait.”
***
Lord Daffyd stood on a low bluff on the western side of the Conwy and watched anxiously as the last of his men urged their horses into the river. They’d roused the men three hours before dawn and started the foot soldiers marching south from Deganwy an hour later. It had been a race against a rising tide that daily surged from the mouth of the river far upstream. At this time of the month, the ford was impassable by noon. By the time the last of the foot had crossed, the water was chest deep at midstream and still rising.
He watched as the tide forced the last of his mounted troops to swim their mounts across. He let out a relieved sigh when the last horse came splashing onto the bank. He’d brought three hundred men across the Conwy to join Roderic and left two hundred behind in the camp below Deganwy Castle. He was eager to smash Llywelyn on Anglesey, but too cautious to strip his own domain of troops in the attempt.
Satisfied that all his men were accounted for, he mounted and headed north along the track that had been churned-up by the hundreds of men and scores of horses that had gone before. He spurred his horse into a trot, a dozen of his personal guards trailing behind.
He never felt fully comfortable on this side of the Conwy. This was his brother’s domain and he had no illusions about the depth of Roderic’s affection for him. But Llywelyn had finally made a false step and he meant to make him pay. His nephew had grasped at Aberffraw without the power to hold it. Neither he nor Roderic could ignore this chance to finally dispose of the upstart rebel.
By the time the last horseman had cleared the ford, the head of the column, and his brother, were passing through the little fishing village that sat across the river from Deganwy and nearing the coast road to Bangor. South of Bangor was a ferry that would take them across the Strait of Menai to Anglesey and from there it was a short march to Aberffraw.
Aberffraw.
He had long ago accepted his younger brother’s rule over the birthplace of their family’s dynasty, but had never liked it. They might jointly rule Gwynedd, but Roderic never missed an opportunity to remind him that it was he who ruled from Aberffraw, as had their grandsire. This he had tolerated, but the thought of his nephew sitting on Owain Gwynedd’s throne drove him to fury.
He signalled his guard to clear a path along the side of the marching column. He was determined to keep a close watch on Roderic and he could not do that from the rear of the column. He urged his horse into a fast canter and his guards surged ahead, shouting at the men on the trail to give way for Lord Daffyd.
***
Atop a high ridge on the eastern side of the Conwy, two men watched the last of the riders exit the ford and disappear into the hills on the far side. The dark, muddy quagmire churned up on either side of the ford below them was clear evidence that a large number of men had passed this way, but how many? To the north, the fortress of Deganwy and the encampment below it were shielded by high hills. Jamie Finch nudged Engard.
“Let’s find horses.”
***
Sergeant Billy was idly whittling on a stick when he heard the horse coming up the river road. He’d stood watch here, a half mile downstream from where the longships were beached, for three hours. They had seen no enemy patrols and it appeared that any locals were staying close to their hearths on this winter day—a wise course when armies were passing nearby.
The approaching rider was out of sight around a bend in the road, but he was coming at a good clip. The Welsh bowman who stood watch with Billy eased an arrow from his quiver and nocked it. They did not have to wait long. A spavined old plough horse rambled around the bend with two men riding bareback aboard. The scouting party had returned.
Jamie Finch signalled to Billy to follow them back to the boats as he urged the rickety old horse down the lane. Engard sat behind and looked more than eager to dismount. Sergeant Billy hobbled up the road behind the horse as fast as his wooden leg would allow. He reached Roland as Jamie was beginning his report.
“The uncles have marched. We saw the last of their men crossing the ford. We got as near to Deganwy as we could. We couldn’t count the garrison troops in the fort, but there are about two hundred men still in the camp down near the river. The road from the landing up to the fort runs right through the camp.”
Roland was careful to hide his concern at this news. Two hundred men still in the camp! He had hoped that Daffyd would leave just his garrison behind.
“What could you see of the fort?” he asked.
“It’s built on two rocky hills, not more than one hundred paces apart,” Jamie said, using his hands to sketch out a picture in the air. “Each hilltop is circled by a wooden palisade and these two strongholds are connected by timber walls on either side, from one hill to the other. They form a kind of bailey in the low saddle between. There’s a gate into the bailey that faces down toward the river. We got close enough to see it was open, with two guards on either side and two more on a parapet above.”
Roland furrowed his brow. During his time at Dolwyddelan, Llywelyn and Griff had done their best to describe the fort, but they had only seen the place from a distance and had never set foot inside. News of the open gate into the lower bailey was welcome, if it was still open when they arrived. The two hilltop citadels were a problem. These had to be taken quickly once they’d forced the main gate. If Daffyd’s men held even one of these strongpoints, it would be impossible to defend the low ground between the hills. If they held both, his men would be cut to pieces from every direction. He turned back to Jamie.
“The forts on the two hills—could you tell how they are entered?
“Couldn’t see without going into the fort, sir,” he said and glanced at Engard. “We thought that not advisable.”
Roland hid his disappointment. They would have to wait until they were inside the main gate to find a way into the forts that overlooked the bailey. That’s if they could bluff their way through two hundred of Daffyd’s men in the camp. He looked at his two scouts.
“Sensible choice—both of you.”
Above him, the sun was inclining toward the west. They had sat on this sandbar for three hours, but he would wait. It would be folly to navigate the river in the dark, but the less ligh
t the better once they landed at the enemy camp. He turned back to the men gathered before him.
“Tell the men—we go at sundown.”
***
As the afternoon wore on, Roland kept turning the plan over in his mind, looking for weaknesses. There were more than a few. They would present themselves at Deganwy as Danes, bringing rebel prisoners in from the backcountry, but their disguise would be thin. Bits of Dub Gaill clothing, weapons and armour taken from Haakon’s men would help as would the longships themselves, but if the ruse failed, things could turn ugly in an instant.
Should that happen, he had no doubt the Invalids would give a good account of themselves, but the clamour of battle would end any chance to surprise the fortress on the hills above. The open gate would be closed and barred against them and the garrison roused. Without surprise, the place could not be taken—not even by the Invalid Company. His men would have to fight their way back to the boats and flee, their mission a failure.
As the only man among them who spoke Danish, Roland was prepared to pose as the leader of this band of Northmen. He would have to put on a convincing show if they were to bluff their way through. As the disk of the sun sank behind the hills to the west, Roland pulled on his steel helmet with the mail coif that hung down to his shoulders. He wore a sleeveless jerkin made of deer hide and a fine woollen cape fringed at the neck with the fur of a fox. Both garments were of good quality and had belonged to one of the dead men they’d left on the gravel bar when they’d taken the boats. As much as anything, the cape marked him as a man of some stature. He hoped no one would notice the hole in the back where the arrow that ended the man’s life had struck.
As he walked among the Invalids, he could feel their tension. He’d seen this before. It was an eagerness to get on with a fight they knew was coming. Patch grinned at him from beneath his own steel helmet and hoisted his red and black shield.
“I may keep this,” he said admiringly.
Near him, Seamus Murdo loomed like a mountain. He wore a fur cloak that only made him look bigger and he slung his long-handled battle axe over one shoulder. He wore a wool cap, as none of the helmets would fit his massive head.
“Do I look like a Dane?” he asked, as Roland examined him.
“You look like a nightmare, Seamus. I doubt any man will wish to question your nationality.”
Murdo grunted and moved off toward the boats. Down on the gravel bar, Engard was collecting his men’s longbows and tying them into two bundles. He too was dressed as a Dane, though the rest of his men and most of the Invalids would play the role of prisoners when they landed at Deganwy. The Welshman had a dark look on his face.
They had argued over giving up the bows an hour before, but Engard had finally conceded that his men could hardly pass as prisoners if they openly carried weapons. It was agreed that men who played at being captives would carry concealed blades on their persons—but not bows. Those would be carried in two bundles, wrapped in cloth and only returned to their owners once inside the fort. Seamus Murdo would carry these, and Friar Cyril would carry a large sack filled with arrows.
Roland walked over to Engard and handed the man his own bow. It was not a weapon a Dane chieftain would carry.
“I’ll feel naked without my bow, but the big Scotsman yonder,” he said, pointing down the bar at Murdo, “will carry them all. I doubt anyone will ask him to unwrap his parcel.”
Engard looked over at the giant in the black cloak and nodded reluctantly.
“I’d not do it, fer certain,” he agreed.
Roland looked downstream. Visibility was still good, but the light was fading. It was time. He looked along the gravel bar and saw that men had already gathered near their longships.
“Launch the boats!” he ordered.
Deganwy
A bored guard on duty down at the river bank was the first to see the Danish longships come gliding around the bend at twilight. He had heard of such craft, but had never seen one, and now these three boats were coming right at him—moving fast on the last of the ebb tide. All knew that Lord Roderic had hired Dub Gaill mercenaries, but only a few remaining in this camp had seen their longships pass upstream a fortnight ago.
Now it seemed, some were returning. The man wondered what their business might be, but was not alarmed. These were allies after all. He hurried up toward the centre of the half-empty camp and called for Iolyn, the man Lord Daffyd had left in command. He found him hitching up his pants by a ditch where men had been relieving themselves for a fortnight. The smell almost made him gag, but it was just another part of camp life.
“Boats on the river, sir—three of ‘em. Look to be Danes.”
Iolyn screwed up his face as he tied off the cord that held his pants up. No one had told him there’d be any visits from Haakon’s men, but that was nothing new. No one ever told him a damn thing. He looked down toward the river and in the fading light saw the three boats pulling steadily downstream.
Maybe they were heading back to Ireland where they belonged, but he doubted that. Lord Roderic would not be releasing them until Llywelyn was in their hands or dead. That thought had barely registered when the boats began to veer from the centre of the channel and head for the bar that served as a landing for the camp.
“Best pick a few of the lads to form a greeting party, Harri. It looks like we have visitors.”
***
Roland’s longship was the first to run up on the gravel bar. He turned to watch the others come in and felt an odd surge of pride as he saw them, one at a time, ship their oars and run smoothly up onto the landing.
Nearly as good as any Northmen, he thought.
He made his way forward as the men on his boat secured their own oars. When he reached the bow, he vaulted over the rail and onto the rocks below. A half-dozen men wandered down to the bank to watch them land, more curious than vigilant. Roland saw them gawking and turned back toward the two longships that had followed him in. He took a deep breath and shouted in his best Danish.
“Sikre bådene!”
All around men nodded and scurried about onboard the longships as though they had understood his command. The men on the bank nudged each other at the odd sound of the words, then parted as Iolyn and Harri arrived with four armed men behind them. Roland paid them no attention as he went about hurling orders in Danish at his men as they began to join him on the bar.
“You there!” Iolyn called down in Welsh, the only language he knew. “What’s yer business here?”
Roland had spent enough time south of the Dee to understand him clearly. He turned and scowled.
“Fanger!” he called back, pointing at the boats, then paused as though remembering that the man on the bank could not understand him.
“Prisoners,” he shouted again in heavily accented Welsh. “Rebel scum. Haakon sends to Lord Roderic.”
“Prisoners?” Iolyn said, rubbing his chin. “When did we start taking prisoners?”
“Prisoners,” Roland repeated, ignoring the Welshman’s question. “Haakon says, take to fort.” He motioned toward the brooding timber fortress that coiled around the tops of the two hills that overlooked the river.
By now, most of his armed men had gathered on the gravel bar and the prisoners were being herded to the bow of each longship, their hands bound in front of them and all secured by a long rope linking them together. The first of these had begun to climb awkwardly down onto the landing.
Iolyn eyed all this with mounting concern. It seemed passing strange to him that prisoners were being taken to the fort. There was no good place to secure them there and he could not imagine what use they would be. He could tell by their dress that these bound prisoners were not men of any rank who might be ransomed off.
“Lord Roderic is not here. Understand?” Iolyn said, speaking slowly and loudly—as any man would to a foreign savage who could not speak a civilized tongue. “Ye should load this lot back on ship and go on to Bangor,” he added, motioning toward the mouth of th
e river. “His Lordship will be there by now.”
As Iolyn spoke, the last of the prisoners assembled at the landing. Roland ignored the man’s suggestion with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Fort,” he grunted once more and pointed obstinately toward the two hills to the east. “Haakon say bring there.”
The man on the bank shook his head in frustration and cursed to himself. No one ever told him anything! But who was he to know the mind of Roderic or of Haakon the Black? He had no wish to cross either man. He looked around and saw that half the men in camp had found their way down to the bank to watch the show. Most of them had not brought their weapons, whereas the Danes who guarded the prisoners were exceedingly well-armed and had a fey look about them. Perhaps it would be best, absent orders, to let someone else decide the issue.
“Very well. I’ll lead ye up to the fort. The garrison commander can decide to let ye in or no.”
The parlay complete, Roland scrambled up the bank followed by Patch and Engard. Behind him on the bar, those Invalids dressed as Danes spoke gibberish commands to the woebegone men posing as prisoners, occasionally jabbing a man in the ribs with the butt of a spear to keep the line moving. It was a convincing display and none challenged them as they marched up through the largely abandoned encampment in the gathering gloom.
Two guards at the southern gate saw them coming and were soon joined by two more. A moment later, a broad-shouldered man appeared at the gate. He wore a fine cape and a polished steel helmet that marked him as a man of rank—no doubt the garrison commander. As the column neared, the man came forward to meet them with the four guards following close behind. He held up a hand to signal the oncoming column to halt. It was a signal understood in any language and Roland complied.
As the Welshman drew near, Roland once more pointed proudly to the bound men behind him and declared their status.
“Prisoners!” he said with a flourish.
The garrison commander scowled as he took a long look at this unexpected arrival. Iolyn stepped forward and cleared his throat. The garrison commander was a distant relative of Lord Daffyd and outranked him. For once, Iolyn appreciated that the man was his superior.
