by Wayne Grant
“My lord!” he screamed, pointing back into the blinding smoke. “Flee!”
Daffyd blinked and looked back toward where the man was pointing. He strained to see but there was nothing there but a grey haze. Then there were men running toward him—his men. Some were dropping their weapons as they fled. Others looked over their shoulder in terror. Daffyd needed no further prompting. He jerked savagely at his reins and spurred his horse into a gallop, fleeing south along the gravel bar and away from whatever was coming his way. Behind him, dark shapes began to appear. Then, a wall of charging horseflesh and flashing steel burst out of the swirling smoke.
Hell had come to the valley of the Conwy.
***
The Dub Gaill had been stunned by the breaching of their shield wall, but had not panicked. At Haakon’s call, they turned and gave chase, as the Invalid Company sprinted for the longships at the river’s edge. Roland was the last to leave the bank and he and Seamus Murdo each grabbed one of Sergeant Billy’s arms to drag the old veteran along faster.
As men reached the line of boats at the river’s edge they turned to see the Danes dropping down from the bank and forming up around Haakon. Sir John Blackthorn looked at the men beginning to cluster around the boats and at the Danes gathering less than a hundred yards away and knew the Dub Gaill would be upon them before they could launch the boats.
A longship was no fortress. Its sides are low, rising less than six feet from the keel, and they are thin. The hull is meant to hold back the sea, not men with swords and lances, but it was better than being swamped on the gravel bar. He did not wait for Roland to arrive. He bellowed for the Invalids to board the two nearest beached boats and stand ready to defend them. Men began to hoist themselves over the gunwale as the Dub Gaill closed on the boats.
Men saw Roland and Seamus coming with Sergeant Billy in tow and Haakon’s men only fifty yards behind. Engard and a handful of his archers scrambled to the bow of the centre boat and sent shaft after shaft into the charging Danes, but they were few and the Danes were many.
Gasping for air, the last three men reached the boats. A half-dozen hands reached down to pull Sergeant Billy up and over the gunwales. With no time for niceties, Murdo set his hands on the man’s rump and shoved. Billy fell gasping into the hull of the longship like a landed fish. More men leaned over the railing of the boat and dragged Roland and the big Scotsman aboard as the Dub Gaill wave surged around the beached ships.
***
As his Danes swarmed around the sides of the two longships, Haakon paced back and forth behind his warriors in mounting frustration. His men were aroused. Their shield wall had been broken and their longships again taken by these Englishmen. It was a blow to their pride that could not be tolerated. They pressed in on the sides of the boats with reckless bravery, but everywhere men waited for them with spears and axes and swords. Every attempt to climb up and over the gunwales was met with bristling steel and the number of dead that lay on the gravel bar grew.
Haakon winced as some of the Danes, in their rage, began to hack at the hull of the longships with their war axes, determined to get at the men who had tarnished their reputation. He was now losing boats and men and both were expensive to replace. He was about to order a withdrawal and have Daffyd’s longbowmen finish the job from a safe distance when he heard a sound behind him.
He turned to see Daffyd’s son, Owain, leading a mob of Welsh troops down toward the ships, no doubt coming to be in on the kill. He could use the man’s archers, but the others would just be in the way. He started to hail the young Welsh noble when he saw a riderless horse gallop right off the edge of the bank and stumble as it landed on the gravel bar. Even at this distance, Haakon could see the animal’s eyes were white with terror. Regaining its stride, the horse barrelled into the rear of the advancing Welshmen, trampling men in its path.
Behind the horse came men, leaping off the bank and onto the gravel bar. Most were weaponless and all were terrified. Haakon had seen routs before—had seen men run like this from his Dub Gaill. Something in the smoke had broken these men and it was coming his way.
***
Three hundred horsemen broke free of the choking smoke less than a furlong from the river. As they swept over the broken ground on the eastern side of the fortress their lines had frayed, but Declan O’Duinne managed to keep his right flank in check as Sir Roger led his wing in a long deadly arc off to his left. When it emerged from the smoke, the line of rebel cavalry was ragged, but intact. And for the first time, the mounted men could see more than a few dozen yards to the front.
And the sight was extraordinary.
Looking down the gentle slope to the river bank and the gravel bar beyond, Declan saw a mob. Hundreds of men were moving down toward a line of boats at the water’s edge. Beyond them, hundreds more were swarming like ants around two of the boats. They were trying to board, but the men already there were beating them back. At this distance he couldn’t tell who was friend or foe.
Sort them out when I get there, he thought.
Unprepared foot soldiers on open ground was the dream of every cavalryman and Declan could feel the eagerness of the men around him. Some started to surge forward. He stood in the saddle and shouted at them to hold formation. Off to his right he caught sight of Sir Roger as that flank caught up. The big knight had seen the disarray on the gravel bar and spurred his mount into a canter. As the right flank came even with the left, the two knights from Shipbrook led Llywelyn’s rebels over the lip of the river bank and onto the gravel bar.
Men on the bar heard the pounding of hooves and the rattle of harness and turned, but it was far too late to save themselves.
***
Friar Cyril was first to see the line of horsemen drop down off the bank and plough into the rear of the Lord Daffyd’s men, slaughtering many and scattering the rest. The churchman had staggered back from the stern of the longship where a knot of mercenary Danes had managed to force their way on board. The fighting there was savage—like a boarding at sea.
Men hacked at each other with swords, axes, grappling hooks and anything else that came to hand. Jamie Finch was in the thick of it, despite his broken arm. The young Londoner did not see a short, squat Dane with a milky eye swing a broken oar at him. He went down hard and did not move. The Dane stepped over a thwart to finish him and the friar drove his blade into the man’s neck. He said a quick prayer for forgiveness—not his first this day.
As he looked up from his quick supplication, he saw the horsemen spilling over the bank. As they drove into the mass of Welsh troops on the bar, blades flashing in the afternoon sun, the churchman felt his heart soar. He looked around frantically and saw Sir Roland club a man trying to climb over the bow of the longship. He stumbled forward and reached out to touch his young commander’s shoulder.
“Sir Roland,” he croaked.
Roland whirled around, half expecting to find a Dane there.
Friar Cyril pointed.
“We are saved.”
***
Haakon the Black had not survived twenty years of warfare across the northern seas by being slow to act. When he saw the rebel cavalry burst out of the smoke, he knew this battle was lost. He did not hesitate. He bulled his way in amongst his warriors and screamed at them to follow him. One longship sat empty on the bar not thirty yards away from the battle swirling around the other two and he turned and ran for it.
In the heat of battle, many of the Dub Gaill did not hear Haakon’s command. Those who did not would be dead or captured within the hour. Those who followed Haakon, reached the longship and frantically shoved it into the river, hauling themselves aboard as the stern caught the current and swung downstream. Eighty men managed to crowd onto a boat meant for half that number as Llywelyn’s rebel cavalry men fell on the rest.
Some of those left behind tried to form a hasty shield wall, but were ridden down. Others splashed into the river desperately trying to reach the longship. Two men who could swim were save
d. Others drowned or were cut down in the shallows.
It was flood tide and the longship seemed to drift suspended between the flow of the river and the inrushing sea. With twice the usual number aboard, men cursed and shoved each other as they struggled to run out the oars and get underway. Haakon shouted orders and grasped the steering oar himself, trying to swing the bow around toward the mouth of the river.
Engard watched the boat spinning in the river with the tall Dane at the steering oar. He stumbled across a thwart and grabbed Roland by the arm.
“Haakon is fleeing!” he shouted in anguish.
Roland raised his head and saw the longship in the middle of the channel only a hundred yards away. There was no mistaking the big man in the stern fighting to control the boat. There was confusion on board, but oars were starting to be run out on each side and the bow was turning toward the sea.
The Welsh archer had set aside his longbow in favour of a spear as the battle for the beached longship turned into a melee. He found it now and recovered two arrows from beneath a rowing bench.
“He must pay for Gwilyn and Caden,” he said and nocked his arrow. Roland saw another of the Welsh archers retrieving his bow and took it from him. Engard handed him one of the shafts and, together, they drew. Roland released an instant after Engard. It was not a long shot, but Haakon stood at the helm in profile and the rowers had begun to find a rhythm. The longship lurched toward the sea, as the two shafts reached the top of their arc and plummeted down. One struck the Dane in the right shoulder and tore through muscle and sinew there. The second struck him in the neck. He sank to his knees and his hands slipped from the steering oar. A man took his place at the helm as other Dub Gaill cradled their fallen leader and eased him down to the deck. The crowded longship now surged forward against the flood tide and Haakon, dead or alive, was seen no more.
***
On the gravel bar, smoke drifted down from the burning fortress atop the two hills of Deganwy and hung over a scene gone strangely quiet. Hundreds of Daffyd’s troops along with a few score Danes sat disarmed and morose on the rocks of the gravel bar. Griff Connah and his archers rode in through the smoke and gawked at the bodies and the prisoners crowding the bar.
Sir Roger and Declan gladly turned back command of the mounted host to Connah, who sent knots of rebel horsemen up and down the riverbank and through the Welsh encampment seeking any foes who had not been killed or captured on the bar. From the captured men, he learned that both Lord Daffyd and Owain had managed to flee the field. No doubt, they would be running for the safety of Rhuddlan.
Relieved of command, the two knights from Shipbrook rode up to the battered longships at the water’s edge, fearful of what they would find there. It was a dreadful sight. The dead lay in heaps around the two boats and aboard each were more bodies that lay where they fell. The wounded were being tended to by men who barely had the strength left to stand.
As they drew near, both men reined in as they saw Roland climb down from the stern of one ship followed by an archer and the big Scot, Murdo. The young knight was barely recognizable. His face was soot smeared and his long dark hair was soaked with sweat. His eyes had a hollow look to them.
“He’s alive, my lord,” said Declan, his voice husky.
“Thank God for that,” said Sir Roger, dismounting.
Roland looked up and saw his old master and old friend standing twenty feet away and gaped as though he’d seen phantoms. He stumbled toward the men from Shipbrook. His legs felt rubbery and he was suddenly aware of a raging thirst. There was something important he wanted to say to these two men, but he struggled to find the words. Then they came and he blurted them out.
“I… failed them, my lord,” he croaked and waved an arm back toward the boats where the men of the Invalid Company were tending to their dead and wounded. “So many dead—my fault.”
Sir Roger de Laval did not reply. He knew, when this much blood was spilt, words did not console. The big Norman had lost many men in his years of soldiering and still felt the pain of it—still sometimes saw their faces. Some men who led other men to war hardened their hearts to the losses and that hardened their hearts to much else. Others had their hearts broken by the men who died doing their bidding. Time would tell if Roland Inness could live with the losses. For now, he was dead on his feet and all used up. Sir Roger stepped forward and threw his arms around his old squire.
“Rest now, lad,” he murmured. “It’s a victory.”
The Strait
Griff Connah watched as the south gate of Deganwy Castle collapsed in on itself, the final victim of the flames that had consumed the fortress. With patrols dispatched in pursuit of Lord Daffyd, he turned the head of The Grey back toward the river and looked out to sea. The sight made him rein in the horse and stare.
There were over a score of boats clustered together in the estuary of the Conwy. For a moment his heart soared. This could only be the fishing fleet promised to Llywelyn by Maredudd and Gruffydd—the fleet that was to deliver the Prince here, on this, the fifth day. But if the fleet had reached Deganwy, where was Llywelyn?
Connah did not know what the anchored boats meant, but feared the worst. He gave the spurs to The Grey and galloped down toward the gravel bar. He reined in when he reached the beached longships. Roland was drinking river water from an upturned helmet. Griff dismounted and embraced him.
“I don’t know how ye did it, English, but ye did,” he said, releasing his grasp, “but what of these damned boats,” he added, pointing out to sea. “Why are they just sitting there?”
Roland shook his head.
“They sailed in before Daffyd fired the gorse. When we saw them, we thought we were saved, but not a man came ashore. Something’s wrong there.”
“To put it kindly,” Griff said, with both fear and anger in his voice. He looked hard at Roland and could tell the young knight was exhausted, but a war and a throne were in the balance. “Can you handle one of these Viking boats?” he asked. “Are your men fit to row?”
Roland nodded wearily.
“Aye, fit enough, but we will see to my wounded before we put one in the river.”
***
The longship shot out of the mouth of the River Conwy on the ebb tide current with hardly a need for oars to propel it toward the bobbing fleet of fishing boats anchored offshore. Roland stood a little unsteadily at the helm with Griff beside him. The approach of a longship had not gone unnoticed by the fleet. Men could be seen hurrying about the decks of the nearest boats. Some appeared to be hauling in anchors, while others were arming themselves with swords or spears.
“What’s this?” Griff asked, his nerves raw.
“They don’t know who we are, Griff, but they know these ships do not usually come in peace. Hail them.”
The Welshman scrambled up to the bow and stood, waving his arms and shouting.
“It’s Griff Connah, by God. If this be the fishermen from Meirionnydd, identify yerselves!”
For a moment, the only response from the nearest vessel was more scurrying around, but then a thin man in fine clothes appeared on deck. It was Lord Maredudd.
“Master Connah, thank God it is you and not some heathen Danes! Come alongside. We have much to relate.”
Roland ordered his men to ship oars and the momentum of the longship took it close alongside the fishing boat. A grizzled old man with wild grey hair seemed to be master of the boat and he ordered men to secure lines between the two. Griff and Roland climbed up to greet Maredudd. It took no more than a glance to see that there were no troops on board, nor could any be seen on the nearby boats.
“Where is the Prince?” Griff asked, without preamble or formal address. Maredudd spread his hands, his lips drawn back in a grimace.
“Lord Llywelyn ordered the fleet to sail before the storm. Otherwise it would have been destroyed.”
“And why did the Prince not sail with the fleet?”
“I pleaded with him to make the attempt, but he said
he could not. It was still daylight and there was a mile of open ground between the Llys and the boats. Roderic’s cavalry was already up and probing our defences. The Prince said to march out of the walls of the Llys without the cover of darkness would have invited a slaughter.”
Griff’s heart sank. He could see the truth in what Maredudd said, for he had just seen what three hundred of his own mounted troops had done to twice that number of infantry. Llywelyn would not risk exposing his men to rout and slaughter, but staying at the lightly fortified Llys would only delay an inevitable defeat. Roderic had a thousand men he could throw at the place.
“Roderic’s infantry would have reached Aberffraw last night and attacked at first light today,” he said, “but nothing is certain in war. Perhaps the storm delayed the assault. Perhaps the walls of the Llys have proven more of a defence than we thought. Perhaps the Prince is holding on there.” He could see in Maredudd’s eyes that he didn’t believe it.
“Anything is possible,” the nobleman said, with little conviction.
“Then we must go to his aid! My lord, bring your boats in close to shore. We will load my men and as many horses as we may and sail for Aberffraw.”
Maredudd held up a hand in protest.
“Dark is coming on, Connah. It will take until midnight at least, to load these ships,” he said flatly, “and it’s a twelve-hour sail back around Anglesey to Aberffraw. I doubt we will like what we find there.”
Griff Connah gave the nobleman a hard look.
“What are you suggesting, my lord?”
Maredudd shrugged.
“Until you hailed us, we did not know who had won the battle here. We saw the fort burn, but all else was obscured by smoke. Now we may rejoice that you have defeated Daffyd!”
“He has fled the field with his son, my lord,” Griff said flatly. “He’s probably making for Rhuddlan,”
