by Wayne Grant
Roland sent Jamie Finch up to the walls of the western hilltop fort to watch out to sea for the boats that would bring Llywelyn and his six hundred men from Anglesey. On the walls of the eastern fort, Friar Cyril watched the coast road that ran down from low hills to the east. Griff Connah would be coming that way with four hundred more.
It was the fifth day.
***
On Anglesey, the storm had blown through with only some lingering clouds and a gentle breeze left in its wake. At dawn, Roderic’s scouts rode down to the coast in search of Llywelyn. They brought with them an old fisherman who’d sworn the invaders had come by boat. Hova Iwan had volunteered to show them where these boats had been beached on the sandy shore, but when they reached Aberffraw Bay, they only found a choppy sea, empty to the horizon. Whatever sign there might have been of a landing had long since been stripped away by the waves. But Hova Iwan knew what he’d seen.
“The boats were here, my lord, I’ll swear to that,” he stated emphatically. “But they had to be long gone when the storm blew in. No man who sails hereabouts would a left ‘em on the beach to founder. There’d be wreckage on the sand if they had. But they went away empty! The men who came in those boats were still at the Llys late into the night while the storm still raged.”
The commander of the scouts nodded. He’d seen a few signs that Llywelyn had come this way—down to the mouth of the Ffraw—but the rebel Prince had not marched into the sea. He must have turned and followed the coast, either southeast along the rolling dunes that swung off in that direction or southwest along a rocky arm of land that enclosed one side of the bay.
The man wasted no time in trying to divine which it was. He sent three riders in each direction along the coast and waited. Two hours later, the riders he’d sent southeast returned. They’d found Llywelyn.
***
“Ynys Llanddwyn?”
“Aye, my lord. You know it?”
“Of course, I know it,” Roderic snapped at his scout. He pictured the tiny rocky islet only a few miles from where he now stood. He had ridden past it many times out hawking. He’d always thought Saint Dwynwen a bit daft for making that barren rock home, but it was a conveniently close pilgrimage site. On occasion, when there was a need for a show of piety, he would visit the ruins of an ancient church there to pay homage to the dead woman. But it wasn’t the religious aspect of the place that concerned him, it was the narrow land bridge, submerged twice daily by the tides that connected the island to the shore.
“Where has he placed his men?”
“They’re drawn up into three lines, lord, where the dunes slope up from the tidal neck. Couldn’t see archers. They are likely placed behind the dunes.”
Roderic rubbed his chin. It puzzled him that his rebel kin had not taken ship when he had the chance. Perhaps it was pride. His nephew had spent a busy few days issuing proclamations from the royal Llys. In these, he’d fashioned himself Lord of Aberffraw. To give up the place now would be a blow to his growing reputation, but it mattered not. Llywelyn had missed the chance to save himself and would now pay for it.
He had hoped to corner the rebels at the Llys, but wasn’t surprised that his nephew had abandoned that indefensible compound when faced with superior numbers. He hadn’t expected him to make a stand on Ynys Llanddwyn, but the move made sense. There were only a few hours each day when the strip of land that linked the island to the shore was free of water and firm enough to cross. His cavalry, which could have butchered infantry in the open, would not be able to get at the enemy flanks on the narrow land bridge.
But while Llywelyn’s move to Ynys Llanddwyn negated many of his advantages, he still held one. Of his thousand men, two hundred were archers. No doubt Llywelyn had longbows of his own on the island, but not that many. It would be an unfair fight once the arrows flew and that suited him. He would thin out those three lines of rebels, then send in his men to crush them.
“Summons my captains,” he ordered.
***
In the fortress of Deganwy, every second man kept watch on the enemy movements, while the rest tried to snatch a few moments of sleep—something they’d not done in two days. During the night, Sergeant Billy had found where the provisions were stored in the great hall and had passed out food and water to the defenders and the scores of prisoners huddled together in the centre of the bailey.
In his search for food, he’d also discovered Daffyd’s treasury, hidden behind a concealed door and down a dozen steps to a crypt-like space beneath the floor of the hall. He sent for Roland, who had curled up on the wall walk to doze.
“What have you found, Billy?”
“Silver, sir. More than I’ve ever seen in one place.”
Roland looked at the trove and gave a low whistle.
“It’s a hoard—for certain!” He hefted a silver bar and examined a chalice with fine engravings. “Lord Daffyd has done well for himself.”
Sergeant Billy laughed at that.
“He might not be thinking so at the moment!”
Roland gave the old soldier a smile.
“Jamie Finch reckons there must be eight hundred men down below,” Roland said.
“Aye, I’ve heard,” said Billy. “But when Griff Connah and Prince Llywelyn arrive, that’ll even the odds!” here was just a note of scepticism in the man’s voice, but no censure. “That’s the plan, is it not?”
“Aye, Billy, that’s the plan. Are you worried?”
At this, the one-legged sergeant shrugged.
“Not at all, sir. We all have to die sometime.”
Fire on the Mountain
The remains of the strange winter storm had swept over the rebel camp during the night, though most of the fury of it looked to be off to the west over the Irish Sea. Stars had appeared around midnight and the temperature had fallen. Griff Connah had his men up and in the saddle by the dim light of false dawn. It was the fifth day and the urgent need to reach Deganwy gnawed at him.
The cool air had firmed up the ground overnight, but the track was still slippery and they had fifteen miles to cover. He pushed the pace as much as he dared, but the going was slow. He glanced to his right at the big Norman knight who rode next to him and took a little comfort at the sight. The night before, they had sat beside a fire and talked about what was to happen when they reached Deganwy.
“So, what is yer plan, Master Connah?” Sir Roger had asked.
Griff did not answer at once. In truth, he had fretted over how to deploy his men since leading them west out of the camps. All were mounted, but over a hundred were archers riding the smaller Welsh ponies. Those he knew what to do with, but cavalry? On the few occasions when the rebel mounted forces had clashed with Daffyd’s cavalry, it had been Llywelyn who led them, not he. He was a fighter and a proud man, but pride did not win battles.
Griff looked across the fire at Sir Roger de Laval. The Lord of Shipbrook’s reputation as a hard man in a fight had long been known along the Welsh Marches. But it was not fighting cattle thieves that interested the Welshman. The tall, bald knight with the quick smile who sat across from him was the man who had commanded King Richard’s heavy cavalry in Palestine. Here was a man who knew how to use mounted troops. Griff shook his head.
Pride be damned.
“I will confess, my lord, that I am an archer, not a knight, and more at home on the ground than in the saddle. I have a hundred longbowmen, but almost three hundred men on good horses. How would you use them?”
Sir Roger stirred some coals in the fire with a long stick and looked over the flames at the Welshman. He had not expected the rebel commander to ask his opinion and guessed that it had been a painful decision to do so. Connah had told him about the fortress on the two hills that overlooked the Conwy and the enemy camp that sat between the fortress and the river. What they would find once they reached Deganwy, the Welshman didn’t know.
He took the stick from the coals and began to scratch on the dirt.
“This is what
I would do…”
***
By early afternoon, the sky above Deganwy Castle had turned a bright blue. After days of wind and rain, the sun was dazzling and men turned up their faces to feel its warmth. Watchers on the walls of the castle had seen patrols leave the camp, circling the steep hills that cradled the wooden fortress. By early afternoon there were knots of troops in position, forming a complete cordon around the hills.
“Settling in for a siege?” asked Patch, as they watched the encirclement proceed from the north wall.
“Maybe,” Roland replied, “though with eight hundred men, I would not expect them to be so patient. Have your lads keep a close eye. I’m going up to have a look to the west.”
Roland did not have to explain what he was looking for. He crossed the bailey to the small door that was the only entrance to the western fort. He climbed over the rocky dome of the hill and up to the wall walk where Jamie Finch greeted him.
“You can see why they built their castle here,” he said, nodding toward the view. Roland looked out on a scene of stunning beauty. Due north rose a huge dome of rock that formed a headland. The Welsh called it the Great Orme. To the northwest, the Irish Sea sparkled in the bright sun. Looking due west, he could see the Isle of Anglesey, still shrouded in low mists and below them, was the River Conwy, snaking its way from the mountains of Eryri to the sea. Some of those peaks could be seen through a golden haze in the distance.
He did not think he had ever seen a lovelier sight, but he had not climbed up here to admire the landscape. He swung his gaze back to the northwest, past a headland jutting out from Anglesey—out toward the Irish Sea. It was from that quarter that help would come, if it came.
Jamie followed his gaze.
“Been watching steady since I come up, sir. Nothing to be…”
He stopped in mid-sentence and leaned forward over the edge of the parapet. Had he seen something there at last?
Roland saw the boy straining to see through the morning haze and did the same. He pointed toward Anglesey.
“There! A hand’s width to the right of the headland. Are those masts I see?”
Jamie Finch had the sharpest eyes in the Invalid Company, but not sharper than Roland’s. He shifted his gaze from the last point of land he could see on Anglesey to the right and saw three thin, dark shapes dancing just above the horizon. With mounting excitement, they watched as the three masts became three ships with square sails heading directly toward the mouth of the river. Behind them, more masts began to peek over the curve of the horizon.
“Llywelyn,” Roland said simply, and Jamie Finch pounded him on the back, heedless of rank in his excitement.
“Aye, sir. It’s the Prince—just as he promised!”
Along the wall walk he saw more of the Invalids pointing out to sea. Word passed quickly and from the bailey below, a small cheer went up. As they watched, more and more ships joined the flotilla until they could count twenty-seven in all. Roland hurried over to the south wall and looked down at the enemy camp. Some men were beginning to form into ranks there, but they seemed in no hurry and there was no sign that they had seen the approach of Llywelyn’s fleet.
He ran back to the western wall as the boats grew nearer. It was a stirring sight—the dark hulls ploughing through cobalt seas to close the trap they had so carefully laid. He could see the lead boats start to reef their sails as the rest closed up only a mile offshore now. For long minutes he watched to see where they would make their landing, but the fleet came no closer. They appeared to have anchored near the mouth of the river.
“Why don’t they land?” Finch asked.
“I don’t know, Jamie,” he said with a shake of his head.
Something isn’t right, he thought, but held his tongue.
“Keep watch, and let me know if they move,” he ordered, and climbed down from the west wall, making his way back to the bailey. Patch was there and Roland motioned for him to follow as he made his way into the eastern fort and joined Friar Cyril on the wall. From this vantage point, they could see two miles of the coast road coming down from a low ridge to the east, but nothing moved there. Patch nudged him and pointed to the enemy patrols that had set up a perimeter around the hill.
“Someone’s coming in for a closer look!”
Roland dropped his eyes from the eastern horizon and saw three men moving in toward the base of the hill. Two carried large shields and a third could be seen following close behind. More movement caught his eye and he saw two more groups of three break away from the encircling cordon and move toward the fortress.
“What mischief is this?” Patch asked, a note of concern creeping into his voice.
“Archers!” Roland called. The men were not yet in bow range, but if they continued forward they soon would be. Engard and six of his Welsh longbowmen were stationed on the north wall and watched the men draw closer. At three hundred paces, they took aim and loosed at the first group. Their aim was true, but the large shields did their work and the men continued to advance. When they reached the base of the hill they halted and crouched behind the shields. Roland ordered the archers to stand down as they were only wasting good arrows.
At first, nothing seemed to be happening, but then a thin wisp of grey smoke rose above the shields and it was a mystery no longer.
“They’re firin’ the gorse!” Patch cried as the smoke grew thicker. The men at the bottom of the hill began to back away, exposing a small blaze that grew in intensity by the second. Roland looked to his right and left and saw flames begin to blossom all around the foot of the hill.
He was no stranger to gorse fires. They were common in the Midlands. As a boy, he’d once seen a gorse fire race up a mountainside, driven by updrafts into a roaring wall of flame twenty feet high. He and his father had been hunting along the summit ridge of Kinder Scout when they’d seen a bit of smoke rising in the valley to the west. That fire had grown with frightening speed as it leapt up the steep sides of the mountain, driving deer, hares, grouse and all manner of moorland creatures ahead of it.
That day, Rolf Inness led his son down the opposite slope of the mountain to safety, and the fire had burnt itself out on the rocky summit of Kinder Scout. They’d gone back afterwards and seen the charred remains of the pitiful creatures who couldn’t outrun the flames.
Here, atop the twin hills overlooking Deganwy, there would be no easy path to safety. Lord Daffyd’s negligence had allowed the gorse to grow right up to the base of the fortress walls. The wood of the palisade was old and weathered and if the timbers caught, there would be only one way to turn to escape the inferno—out the south gate where steady traffic had kept the gorse at bay. He had seen the men starting to form up into lines there and now knew why. Out the south gate, Daffyd and Haakon would be waiting for them. He looked past the rising smoke toward the coast road. It was still empty.
Patch had seen the same thing. He turned to Roland.
“The boats?”
Roland shook his head.
“They are not landing, Patch. We are on our own. Gather the men.”
***
As Caradog Priddy guided his fishing boat around a small teardrop of an island that lay off the eastern shore of Anglesey, the man in the bow got his first glimpse of Deganwy Castle. Maredudd had seen the place before, but never from the deck of a boat in the Irish Sea. From this vantage point, the timber fortress sat like a jagged brown crown circling the tops of the two knobby hills that looked down on the estuary of the Conwy.
At this distance, he could not tell who held the fort. For that they would need to get much closer. He looked back toward the stern and saw over a score of boats strung out behind Master Priddy’s modest flagship. The old sailor stood impassively with his hands curled around the steering oar.
“Can you take her in close?” Maredudd shouted back to the man.
Priddy nodded.
“I’ll bring us right into the mouth of the river, lord. You’ll get a good look from there.”
Someone had set fire to the mountain.
***
Lord Daffyd watched as the flames grew from a few burning clumps of gorse into a roaring inferno.
“My castle…,” he whispered, mournfully, but Haakon heard him.
“You’ll rebuild it, my lord—and keep the gorse cut back I expect.”
Daffyd sighed.
“My treasure…”
“Silver won’t burn, lord,” the Dub Gaill leader said, pointedly. If the fire were hot enough all the pretty boxes and crucifixes and chalices would melt down into shapeless lumps, but Haakon would happily take one quarter of it, whatever its condition.
The two men stood on the track that led up to the south gate. They had deployed a thin cordon of troops to encircle the hill, though it was doubtful that the men in the castle could survive an attempt to flee in any direction but south. The flames would stop them.
Here, below the south gate, they had positioned over six hundred men in a tight arc at the base of the hill. Anyone fleeing the flames above would run right into a line of warriors four-deep. The outcome was not in doubt. On the hill above, the fire had swept up the slopes and now rose higher than the walls, with smoke billowing in choking clouds. The men up there would soon have to run, or die.
