by Wayne Grant
“Stand clear, Maeve!” he shouted at the old woman. “Morgant, carry out your orders!”
Morgant motioned to the phalanx of guards behind him and they moved to surround the prisoners. They levelled their spears and began to herd the three out the gate and into the lane that ran by the fortress. Morgant planted himself in front of Maeve and Mairwen, blocking them from any further mischief. It was light enough now to see the track stretching down a gentle hill toward the village.
The land between the fortress and the cluster of huts was cleared and cultivated, save for a huge old oak that had been allowed to grow in the centre of the field to provide shade for the peasants tending the crops through the summer heat. But over the years the tree had acquired a more sinister purpose. One limb grew straight out from the trunk at about three times the height of a man—perfect for use by a hangman.
It was the gallows tree.
“You can’t hang a man without Lord Daffyd’s leave!” Maeve shouted as Talfryn strode past her. “He’s just a boy!” Mairwen wailed.
“Lord Daffyd is occupied with hunting down the rebel Llywelyn these days and lets me do as I please here—as you well know, Maeve,” he said to the old woman dismissively. He glanced over his shoulder at Mairwen as he started down the hill after the execution detail. “And this boy you are so concerned with was man enough to steal from the church, so he’s man enough to hang. Your sire should take a willow switch to you for interfering in such things, girl.”
The two trailed down the hill after the procession, futilely scolding, threatening and begging as they went. It took only a few minutes to reach the solitary tree in the middle of the field, its branches bare and stark in the thin light of the winter morning. One of the guards had a rope over his shoulder and heaved an end over the low limb. He expertly fashioned a noose in one end and looked toward Talfryn.
The chieftain nodded toward Sir Roger and two of the guards seized him by his bound arms and dragged him forward. The big man lunged hard to his left and sent one of his captors stumbling backward into the dirt. The man on his right arm tried to pull him back and received a vicious head butt for his trouble, his nose exploding in blood as he released his grip. As the man he’d dropped with his first lunge struggled to his feet, the Lord of Shipbrook kicked him in the side of the head and he dropped unconscious back to the ground.
It was signal enough for Declan to sweep a leg at the ankles of the man who had been restraining him. The man’s feet shot out from beneath him, but he held his grip on the prisoner’s arm. As he struggled to rise, Declan brought a knee up under his chin and the light went out in his eyes.
This unexpected explosion of violence froze Talfryn’s men. Rhys, seeing his chance, twisted away from his guard. In three running steps, he reached Talfryn and kicked the man in the groin doubling him over. With a moan, he sank to the ground.
It was Morgant who recovered first. He smashed a fist into the side of Rhys’ head and the boy went down hard. He turned to the seven men who stood gaping at the mayhem.
“Kill them!” he bellowed.
His order snapped the spell and the guards lowered their spears and fanned out. Together they moved toward the two bound men who edged backwards. Rhys shook his head and tried to get to his feet, but felt dizzy. As he placed both hands on the frozen ground and tried to rise, he felt a strange rumbling vibration in the palms of his hands. It took him a moment to realize what it was.
Horses. Lots of horses.
He staggered to his feet. Over the crest of the hill near Talfryn’s small fort came a thick column of riders, moving fast. A man near the front of the column held a banner that caught the morning light. The boy recognized the red and yellow banner of the House of Aberffraw.
Talfryn groaned as he also struggled to stand. He saw his men frozen in place looking back up the hill. He turned and saw the riders coming. A good forty men had already crested the hill and there looked to be no end in sight, a formidable force in these parts. The shock of this sudden arrival was allayed by the sight of the banner at the head of the column. It was the symbol of his master, Daffyd ap Owain. He relaxed.
***
Griff Connah rode beside the flag bearer near the head of the column as they passed the small wooden stockade on the hill. It was an unremarkable little fort, not unlike a dozen others scattered through the wilder parts of Gwynedd. It most likely belonged to some minor vassal of Daffyd’s, and had there been less need for haste, he would have had his men demolish it. But on this day, he could brook no delays.
He had rousted his men up well before dawn and they had been making good progress while the ground was still frozen. If it warmed during the day, these trails would turn to muck once more and his progress would slow. It was thirty more miles to Deganwy. If Roland Inness and his Invalids had taken the castle, they would have need of him and his four hundred men very soon.
But despite the urgency of the march, a scene down the hill caught his attention. There appeared to be an execution in process and it was not going well. He saw two bound men standing with their backs to an old oak tree. Near them, one man sat on the ground holding both hands on a nose that gushed blood, while another lay flat on his back and wasn’t moving. A half dozen or so other men stood with spears levelled toward the bound men, but their heads had swivelled around toward the road. A little apart from all this were two women and a well-dressed man half bent at the waist.
He wondered idly why so many armed men were having difficulty with just two prisoners. He looked closer at the two—one tall and bald, the other with long red hair. Then he reined in his horse abruptly and gawked. Behind him, men had to jerk their reins to the right and left to keep from piling into their leader and trampling him.
By God…it was de Laval and O’Duinne!
Recovering himself, he signalled for the column to halt in place and dug his heels into The Grey’s flanks. The horse nimbly jumped the ditch beside the road and trotted down to the gathering by the gallows tree. Talfryn had managed to pull himself erect and greeted this newcomer deferentially. He had never seen the tall man on the grey horse before, but he rode under the banner of Lord Daffyd and he had hundreds of men behind him—reason enough for caution.
“My lord, we did not mean to delay your march,” Talfryn managed. “We were about to hang three thieves.”
Griff did not dismount. He looked down at Talfryn with disdain.
“It looks like you’ve made a botch of it,” he said idly. “Did Lord Daffyd approve of this execution?”
Talfryn squirmed.
“He has given me free rein in these matters, my lord.” he said, with as much assurance as he could muster. But the crone who stood behind him would have none of it.
“He did not!” Maeve shrieked. “Lord Daffyd knows nothing of this.”
“I’m not surprised,” Griff said. “Even a man as stupid as Daffyd would never approve the hanging of the Earl of Chester’s favourite vassal!”
Talfryn looked confused.
“You…you are not Lord Daffyd’s man?” he managed to blurt out.
Griff gave him a cold look.
“I am not, sir.”
“But…but…your banner…”
“It’s the banner of the House of Aberffraw, you ass—the banner of the true Prince of Gwynedd—the banner of Llywelyn ap Iowerth!”
***
Declan was first to recognize Griff Connah, having spent six months encamped with Llywelyn’s men before the taking of Chester. He turned to Sir Roger with a grin.
“We are saved, my lord.”
Sir Roger squinted up the hill. His eyes were not as sharp as they once had been and there was a good bit of blood dripping down from his forehead—none of it his own. He saw naught but a tall man on a horse.
“Who?”
“Griff Connah, by God,” said Declan. “God bless the Welsh!”
Sir Roger dropped his bloody head and leaned back against the gallows tree.
“God bless them in
deed!”
***
Griff dismounted and, ignoring the local chieftain, bowed to the old woman and girl.
“My ladies, you may spread the word that the usurper Daffyd is finished. Prince Llywelyn rules Gwynedd now, and there will be no more of this,” he said gesturing toward the gallows tree. Talfryn could only stand there, mouth agape, as Griff turned and snapped off crisp orders to his men.
The three prisoners had their bonds cut and their guards were disarmed without a struggle. Sir Roger and Declan walked up the hill to greet their rescuer, chafing their wrists where the bonds had dug into the flesh. Declan walked up to Morgant and punched the man in the nose. Blood spurted and the Welshmen staggered backwards. Declan pointed to the broadsword that hung at his hip.
“My sword.”
All the fight had gone out of Talfryn’s henchman. He meekly drew the sword and handed it over by the hilt. On Griff’s orders, ten men rode up to the small fortress on the hill and within minutes smoke began to rise from the structure. Talfryn and Morgant were seized and their hands bound as they watched in despair as the weathered wood of their fortress became a roaring blaze. Maeve spit on the ground as the two men were led away.
Sir Roger turned to Griff.
“Our thanks,” said Sir Roger simply, glancing up at the gallows tree. “I did not fancy dying like that.”
Griff shook his head.
“A few minutes more and you would have! You Normans—you are lucky folk! Maybe that’s why you seem to rule half the world. But what brought you here?”
Declan pointed to Rhys Madawc, who was in deep conversation with Mairwen.
“An affair of the heart.”
Griff looked over at the boy and laughed.
“Well, she is a comely lass, but now is no time for wooing. I have urgent business in Deganwy this day. Your man, Inness, and his Invalids were to have taken the castle there last night. If he did, they will be in grave need of my help as soon as I can reach them.”
“Roland? At Deganwy?” Sir Roger blurted.
“So I hope, my lord.”
“Then we ride with you, sir. We’ll need two mounts.”
Griff looked at the old, blood-spattered warrior and the Irish knight. The one he knew by reputation. The other he’d seen fight.
“I’ll be glad of your company!” he said and turned to one of his men.
“Bring up two spare mounts, quickly.”
“Three, my lord.”
It was Rhys Madawc.
Sir Roger turned and placed his big hands on the boy’s shoulders.
“Yer not ready lad. It will likely be bloody work ahead.”
Rhys was unmoved.
“I know I am not ready to fight beside you, my lord, but I will find ways to make myself useful—as any squire would.”
Sir Roger sighed.
“But what of the girl?” he asked, nodding toward Mairwen, who stood by the boy’s grandmother. “It will be safe for you to return now with Talfryn ruined. And that girl—had she not brought the old one there, we’d have been hung for certain.”
“Aye, and I thanked her kindly for that, my lord. But I gave her a chance to come away with me last night and she would not,” he said shaking his head. “For her sake, I almost got us all hung. I am done with women!”
Declan arched an eyebrow and Sir Roger barked a laugh.
“Well, I doubt they are done with you, lad,” he said and turned to Griff.
“Three horses. I’ll be bringing my squire.”
The Uncles
As dawn broke over the mountains of Eryri, Lord Roderic’s men began crossing the Strait of Menai. This being his domain, he had sent men to every village up and down the narrow strait to collect any boats that could carry more than five men across. A ferry had made the crossing here since Roman times. Now that craft was jammed with men and horses and smaller craft were being rowed across the turbulent waters.
The first men ashore paid no heed to the parchment nailed to an oak near the ferry landing. None of them could read. It wasn’t until the third ferry run that a literate man took a curious look at it. His eyes widened when he saw the signature at the bottom. He ripped it down from the oak and hurried back to where the ferry was just pulling away from the shore for the return trip to the mainland. The man waded into the water and hauled himself aboard.
As the empty ferry made its way back to the other shore, he unfolded the parchment and read it through again. For a moment, he wondered if he should just cast the thing into the water and forget he’d seen it, but he was a man proud of his devotion to duty. Lord Roderic had to see this. He only hoped that his master wouldn’t blame the messenger.
***
On the mainland shore, Daffyd’s troops waited their turn. All had passed the night sleeping on the ground near the crossing site south of Bangor. They’d made a gruelling twenty-mile march over rough roads the day before and had been roused hours before dawn. Now, in the fashion of soldiers everywhere who have been hurried along only to wait, they dozed, threw dice, relieved themselves and complained.
Up the hill behind them, their master, Lord Daffyd, was still abed in his fine white campaign tent.
“Cleanest tent I’ve ever seen,” one veteran muttered to his fellows, as the pristine white shelter reflected the morning sunlight.
“Never seen a night in the field, I’d wager,” a man to his right offered, as he spit a wad of phlegm in the dirt.
“Nor has the man sleepin’ in it,” a third man added.
“Shut up—the lot of ye!” came a sharp command from behind them. It was their sergeant and, in the manner of sergeants everywhere, he had ignored their bellyaching up to a point. They had now reached that point.
“When yer lord of the land,” he growled, “ye can sleep in a fine white tent, but fer now, yer nothing but shit stompers. Shut yer mouths or ye’ll be carryin’ the ration bags.”
This silenced the men and, after a while, they turned back to telling tales and gambling as they waited their turn in the boats. But the tedium was broken when a rider galloped up on a lathered horse and reined in before the white tent. The foot soldiers watched as the man dismounted and made for the flap at the entrance. Daffyd’s guards blocked his way and even at a distance they could hear him protest.
It was loud enough to wake the man inside, for soon the balding head of the man who ruled half of Gwynedd poked out of the flap. What was said did not carry down to the men below who watched with interest, but the guards drew back and the rider disappeared inside. The men wondered what news he brought, but went back to their pursuits. They knew they would find out soon enough.
***
“Deganwy taken? How can that be?”
Annoyed at being roused from a peaceful sleep, Daffyd had stumbled to the tent flap to give his guards a proper hiding for the disturbance. He now stood stunned by the news this rider had brought him.
“It was a ruse, my lord. Men came in Haakon’s longships. They spoke Danish and said they had rebel prisoners to be taken to the fort. They…forced the gate.”
Daffyd’s strode back and forth inside the tent clenching and unclenching his fists. He had felt uncomfortable ever since crossing the ford on the Conwy and marching away from his own domains. Now this! He had left a full garrison to guard the damned fort and two hundred men camped below it. It would take an army to take the place by assault.
“They forced the gate? How many men did they have?” he demanded, barely able to control his fury.
“They came in three of the Dane’s longships, my lord. Perhaps forty to a boat counting the prisoners.”
Daffyd screwed up his face as he tried and failed to do the sum in his head. But he had seen these boats. Three of them could hardly hold enough men to take his fortress by storm.
“How could so few force the cursed gate?” he bellowed.
“It was…open, my lord.”
Daffyd stopped pacing and sat down heavily on his cot.
“Open…dea
r God…”
“Aye, lord,” the man said sheepishly. “Yer garrison commander came out to question these Danes. He ordered them back to their boats, but they struck him down. And these prisoners—they were but posing as such! They threw off their bonds and had hidden weapons. Prisoners and Danes alike rushed the gate. They took the lower bailey in a matter of minutes and not long after it looked as though they had gained control of both hilltops as well.
“What of Iolyn?” David raged as he stood once more. “I left that bastard in charge of the camp!”
The messenger hesitated a moment, but gathered himself.
“Iolyn is dead, my lord. We charged the gate twice, just minutes after the attack began, but they had barred it. Iolyn fell, along with a score of others, but we could not force the gate. They had archers, my lord—good ones!”
Daffyd shook his head in consternation.
“Three boatloads of men marched through two hundred of my own and took a fort garrisoned by eighty more. Who commands there now?” he asked wearily.
“When I left camp, my lord, they were arguing over who had command and what to do next. I thought the thing to do was bring you this news in all haste.”
Daffyd had started to hurriedly dress as the messenger finished his tale of disaster at Deganwy. These men who had taken his fortress were likely Llywelyn’s. Who else could it be, unless Haakon himself had turned on them? He had warned Roderic not to trust the Dub Gaill. But the archers…the Danes had not brought archers. He did not know who sat in his fortress. He only knew he had to kill them.
***
The men lounging below the white tent on the hill had watched events with great interest. After the early arrival of the rider, the top of the hill had erupted like a disturbed bed of ants. Guards had scurried in every direction. Messengers had been summoned and dispatched. Before long, Lord Roderic rode up to his brother’s tent and dismounted as Daffyd emerged to meet him. Within a minute, the two men could be seen screaming at each other, though their words were too distant to be overheard. Daffyd was pointing back to the north and Roderic was waving some sort of parchment in his older brother’s face.
