by Wayne Grant
Thunder on the Plain
There was a well in the bailey and a cistern atop each of the hills, but only four buckets could be found. Fighting the fire was impossible. Roland ordered his men down from the hilltop forts and into the centre of the bailey. To the north, the wall of flames overtopped the timber palisade. He stood beside Patch above the south gate and looked down on the only path left to escape the flames.
At the bottom of the hill, he could see thick lines of enemy warriors through the swirling smoke. At their centre stood a solid line of red and black shields—Haakon’s Dub Gaill warriors, come to kill the men who’d burnt their boats. Off to the right, out toward the sea, the boats he’d seen clustered at the mouth of the river had not moved. None were putting in to shore.
“Damn, Llywelyn!” Patch growled bitterly. “Why isn’t he landin’ his troops?”
Roland shook his head.
“I don’t know, Tom, but something has gone amiss.” He looked down and saw the last of the Invalids come stumbling down through the choking clouds of smoke and gather behind the south gate. “I think it’s time to take down your banner.”
Patch nodded and hauled down the black banner with the wolf’s head, folding it quickly and tucking it inside his coat. Together, they climbed down the stairs to join the men at the south gate.
The Invalids had gathered in a cluster behind the gate. Roland looked out at the familiar faces, some smeared with soot from the steady rain of ash, some with cloth tied over their nose and mouth to block the smoke. Jamie Finch, his arm in a splint, looked back at him with red rimmed eyes, but there was no hint of surrender there. He had his blade out and looked both eager and anxious.
Fancy Jack looked calm, but the broadsword in his hand twitched as though eager to draw blood. Seamus Murdo leaned on his long-handled axe with a placid look on his damaged face. Off to the side, he saw Friar Cyril cross himself. The priest had a dirk in his hand.
These men, veterans and newcomers alike, had followed him loyally and had never failed in a fight. Now he had led them to this place. He felt a sharp stab of guilt as he looked out on their faces. None would choose to stay here and burn, but all knew what waited for them on the other side of the gate. He thought of Millie, barely wed, and now so quickly to be widowed.
My fault, he thought.
He gathered himself. Whatever his guilt, these men deserved more from him than despair. He pointed to the gate and began to speak, his voice rasping from the smoke.
“They are four-deep at the bottom of the hill! The Danes, who fight for pay and torture prisoners, hold the centre of the line. They plan to stop us there and fold their line in upon us. Herd us like cattle to the slaughter. It’s a good plan, but, by damned, we are the Invalid Company!”
There was a low growl from the men at that.
“No shield wall four-deep will stop us. We will form a tight column, like an arrow with a bodkin head. Six men only in front—the rest fall in behind, but stay close. We go down at the run and punch a hole right through their line! No one stops. No one turns to the side. If the man in front of you falters, you push! We keep moving straight down the hill to the river.”
It took a moment for the import of Roland’s words to sink in, then three men shouted at once.
“The boats!”
“Aye,” Roland said with a grin. “We’ve three longships sitting on the gravel bar down there just waiting for us. We cut through those bastards at the bottom of the hill, push off and row. In a day’s time, we could be tying up at the Shipgate in Chester!”
He knew it was a lie and most of the men did as well, but men needed some shred of hope to cling to. It was all he had to give them.
“Shields to the front!” he screamed above the growing roar of the fire. A score of men pushed their way into the front ranks, presenting a wall of the red and black shields they had taken from Haakon. Roland took his place in the front rank. Beside him were Patch and Seamus Murdo. Behind him was Sir John Blackthorne. With but one arm, he could not carry a shield, but he took his place in the second rank and glared at any man who thought to displace him. Roland saw the leader of the Welsh bowmen striding forward to find his place at the front and stopped him.
“Engard, gather your archers behind us. There’s an enemy line two hundred paces down the hill. Thin it out for us, if you please.”
Engard raised his longbow in a salute and shouted orders to his men. Fifteen Welsh archers could still draw a bow and they formed a line behind the thick column of Invalids. At Engard’s command, they drew and loosed a volley over the south wall. Jamie Finch had heard Roland’s order and bounded back up to the wall to gauge the distance. He watched as a tight cluster of arrows arced over his head and dropped into the last two ranks at the bottom of the hill. He counted eight men hit.
“Drop ten paces,” he called out, and the Welsh adjusted their angle of release. Another wave of longbow shafts slashed into the front ranks. Some there had reacted to the first volley by lifting shields, but not all. Another six men staggered out of ranks, though the disciplined Danes filled in the gaps quickly.
A ragged cloud of longbow shafts came arcing over the wall from below, as Daffyd’s own archers responded, but they overshot the men huddled behind the gate and landed among the prisoners still clustered in the centre of the bailey. A dozen men toppled over, struck down by their own comrades. The rest began to scatter in a panic. Behind them, the north wall was now ablaze.
Jamie Finch bounded back down from the wall and Roland directed him and Sergeant Billy to the gate. An oak beam secured the heavy door. The two men hurried forward and stood ready to hoist it from its iron cradle on Roland’s command. He looked back at the dense column of men, poised like a solid steel spike behind him.
He gave a hand signal to Sergeant Billy and Finch. They lifted the bar clear and swung the heavy door inwards on its massive hinges.
Roland gripped his shield and raised his sword.
“Invalids with me!” he roared and leapt through the gate, the Invalid Company howling behind him.
***
At the bottom of the hill, Lord Daffyd heard the howl. He’d been walking his dun-coloured charger nervously back and forth near the river bank and now reined in as he strained to see up the smoke-shrouded hill. Near him, Haakon sat, still as a statue, on a fine black stallion. To his front, the Dub Gaill formed a solid shield wall, four-deep. The front rank kneeled, the second rank stood above them with shields to the front and the third rank held their shields at an angle to the sky to fend off arrows. Those in the fourth row stood ready to step into any gap where a man might fall.
Together, they waited for the doomed men on the hill to come to them. To the left and right, Daffyd’s Welsh troops curved up the hill like the horns of a bull and were lost to sight in the smoke. They would move in from the flanks once the Dub Gaill stopped any vain attempts to break through.
Haakon had insisted that he and his men be placed at the centre of the line. They had a personal score to settle with the bastards on the hill who’d burnt their boats. It had taken him years to acquire his fleet of longships and would take all the silver he’d been promised by Daffyd—and more—to replace them. But it was not the money that galled him. It was the insult. Word of his loss would spread and, in his business, reputation was all. Slaughtering the men that had burnt his boats would help remove the stain of that loss.
Smoke and ash swirled around the blazing fortress as the men at the base of the hill waited. Then they heard a sound that rose above the roar of the flames. It was half scream and half snarl, a low keening howl, more animal than human. They could see nothing through the billowing grey clouds to their front, but the sound grew louder and louder. Men braced themselves as dark forms erupted out of the smoke, only forty paces to their front.
***
Roland burst from the smoke and saw the Danes with their shields interlocked to his front. Behind them, he saw two mounted men, but had no time to concern himself with t
hem. He made for the centre of the line. He did not look behind him. He had no need to. He could hear the howls of the Invalids close on his heels. They came on, shoulder to shoulder, in a tightly-packed column only six men wide, but twenty deep.
As they entered the trap laid for them, they paid no heed to the Welsh warriors on their flanks. They were a human spearhead with only one thought—to punch through the shield wall and reach the boats beyond. Drive through the Danes and the Welsh wouldn’t matter.
A final hail of longbow shafts came from overhead and ripped gaps in the shield wall as Engard and his men fell in at the rear of the charging column. From behind the Danish line, return volleys came and Roland could hear arrows bury themselves into the wood of his shield as he ran.
At the very centre of the line, a big man with an axe in the second row locked eyes with him, his face contorted into a snarl. The Dane braced himself and drew back his axe, waiting for their shields to meet. Roland had seen this before. As soon as his shield was close enough, the man would come over the top with his axe to snag it and force it down. Then, his comrades on the right or left would make short work of him.
He ran faster.
There was no time to think, only time now for what Sir Alwyn had called the killing fury. The Dane raised his axe, ready for the collision. Roland lowered his shoulder as the man’s blade flashed in the sun, but the Dane had misjudged his attacker’s final burst of speed. Before the axe could fall, Roland jerked his shield up, ramming it into the warrior’s wrist as his arm came over the top. The full weight of the heavy blade rotated forward, but the arm could not follow. The bones in the man’s wrist snapped like twigs, as Roland ploughed into his shield. The Dane stumbled backwards, his axe hanging uselessly from a cord bound to his fractured wrist.
The impact of Roland’s charge unbalanced the man kneeling in the front row and he too fell backwards. Roland stepped on his neck as he lunged after the man with the axe. As the big Dane staggered back into the third rank of men, the front rank of Invalids crashed into the shield wall.
The wall bowed inwards, but did not break. The force of the first impact had knocked many in the front rank backwards into their fellows. Any that could not keep their feet met a quick death. Patch climbed over the fallen Danes and drove his broadsword into a gap, found flesh, and pulled it back to look for another opening. Behind him men were beginning to lean into the backs of their comrades and push. To his right, Fancy Jack had somehow managed to fight his way to the front, though he had no shield. The man’s blade slashed and thrust in a blur. All around, the sound was deafening—shield on shield, steel on steel, men hurling curses, men screaming in pain.
Roland bulled his way into the gap he’d hacked in the shield wall. The axe man had fallen backwards into the third row, but they would not open to let him through. Roland ignored him and lowered his shoulder once more. A man to his right jabbed at him with a spear, but missed. To his left, a fierce-looking man with blue rune marks on his face hacked at his shield. Then, a wicked, long-handled axe flashed past Roland’s head and split the man’s helmet straight through. Behind him, Roland heard a Scottish curse.
Seamus Murdo had followed Roland into the gap he had created, roaring his battle cries and swinging his murderous axe with abandon. A Dane struck the big Scot a glancing blow with his sword but Murdo hardly seemed to notice as he used his shield like a ram and kept his huge legs churning forward. As he followed Roland deeper into the Dub Gaill lines, men rushed in to follow, hacking at Danes on either side of the small but growing crack in the solid shield wall.
Roland saw a man in the third row go down, felled by Murdo with the butt end of his long-handled axe. He plunged into the gap, driving his short sword in under the armpit of the man to his left. He felt pressure on his left side and twisted to see that Murdo had leaned into him as he hacked another gap in the line.
The men in the final row had expected nothing more than a good show this day. They’d been told there were no more than a hundred men coming down the hill to meet them. On a dozen battlefields, they’d seen far larger numbers hurl themselves at the Dub Gaill shield wall and die. The wall had never broken. Now, with alarming suddenness, a hole had been torn in the first three ranks and a wedge of men were pouring into it.
Behind the line, Haakon bawled at his men to close ranks and seal the gap, as the relentless pressure from the tight wedge of Invalids threatened to burst through the middle of his line. The Danes knew their business and, from the left and right, they turned inward to snuff out this penetration.
But the column that had slammed into the centre of the line was twenty men deep and had the impact of a battering ram. As the Dub Gaill turned, new gaps appeared in the solid barrier of the shield wall. Across a twenty-foot front, men forced their way into these gaps and the fight became a melee. The tight discipline of the Danes began to falter as men were attacked from front and sides.
To his right, Roland saw Patch strike down a man in the third row and climb over the fallen body to hack at the man behind. To his left, he saw two men leap backwards as Murdo’s axe swept toward them. Beyond the spot where the two had stood, he saw—no one. He did not hesitate and prayed that Seamus would stay his axe as he burst through the opening and into the clear.
Roland ignored his own order and did not make straight for the longships, only fifty yards away. They’d gouged a small hole in the Dane shield wall, but most of the Invalids were still fighting their way through the narrow gap. He could hear Haakon shouting at his men to close ranks and seal the breach. He could not let that happen.
He circled to his right and attacked the rear of the Danes’ line and Patch followed him. Men who had turned to close the growing gap in the line now had to meet this new threat from the rear. On the other side of the breach, Seamus Murdo had also ignored his orders. He went after the rear of the Dub Gaill shield wall like a woodsman felling saplings. The gap grew, as the Invalid Company poured though and onto the gravel bar.
Roland watched them come. Friar Cyril, his robes and his dirk red with blood stumbled through along with Engard and the last of his archers. Men were streaming down the gravel bar, when the last man lurched free of the Danes. It was Sergeant Billy on his wooden leg, his sword slick with blood.
***
As Haakon saw his line ripped open, he felt his rage building. He would learn which of his mercenaries had run. They would regret that they hadn’t died in the shield wall like men! But that was for later. Now he watched in near shock as these madmen sprinted across the bar toward the longships—his longships!
It had all happened too fast. The solid spike of the enemy column had burst out of the smoke and through his line before his men or the Welsh could fall on their flanks. Now they were loose in his rear! But he still had over three hundred warriors who had yet to strike a blow. He swung out of his saddle and drew his broadsword.
“Dub Gaill to me!” he shrieked. On the bank above the gravel bar, the mercenary Danes turned like a pack of hounds at their leader’s command. Like a wave, they poured over the bank and onto the bar, following Haakon the Black after these men who had burnt their boats and broken their shield wall.
***
The riders on the coast road saw the smoke before they topped the final ridge that bounded the valley of the Conwy. As Griff Connah reached the crest of the ridge, he took in a sharp breath. A pall of smoke hung over the valley and, off to his right, an immense bonfire seemed to be consuming the hill upon which Deganwy Castle sat.
Roger de Laval reined in beside him and cursed. A pillar of dark smoke rose far into the sky above the castle. The walls could still be seen clinging to the rocky knolls, but sections had begun to burn along with the last of the gorse. If anyone still lived inside, they wouldn’t for much longer. Sir Roger drew the broadsword from his belt and turned to Griff.
“See to your archers, sir,” he said calmly. Beside him, Declan O’Duinne sat, sword in hand, waiting for the order to advance. Griff nodded and rode
back down the column to join the bowmen who were bringing up the rear. As he passed his fellow Welshmen, the air was filled with the rasp of steel blades being unsheathed.
Three hundred men on good horses, armed with spears and swords had been given their instructions the night before. As the big Norman knight started down the ridge, he angled to the left and half the horsemen followed him. Declan O’Duinne led the other half to the right as they fanned out across the valley floor.
The men who had set the fires to the north and east of the fort had been idly watching the results of their handiwork, when they heard a low rumble of hooves behind them. They turned to see riders streaming down the ridge to the east and turning toward them as they reached level ground. Men started to run, but there was no sanctuary to be found, as the charge of Llywelyn’s rebels thundered across the open ground and swept over them. They died in their scores.
As the right flank of the riders reached the burned over base of the hill, Declan slowed their charge. To his right, Sir Roger was leading the left wing forward at a gallop, swinging the line in an arc around the base of the hill toward the south. Like a scythe, the double line of horsemen left nothing standing in their wake as they swept down toward the river.
***
On the bank, Lord Daffyd had watched in shock as Haakon’s shield wall bent and broke under the savage assault of the Invalid Company. For a moment, he felt panic start to grip him as these unknown warriors hacked their way through the Dub Gaill line and began to spill down onto the gravel bar. He edged his horse back, but saw with relief that none of the men turned toward him. They were running for the boats down by the river and that was not his concern. He could see there were hardly more than a hundred men fleeing across the bar and wondered how so few could have caused all this mischief. But the Danes had regrouped to chase them down.
It would all be over soon.
Then he heard a squeal behind him. He turned to see a horse plunge off the bank and onto the gravel bar. There was no rider in the saddle. The animal stumbled, regained its footing, and bolted down toward the river. A moment later a second horse appeared on the bank, with a rider aboard. The man reined in hard as he neared Daffyd, fear written on his face.
