by Wayne Grant
“Thank you most kindly, my lord, but I have watched Earl Ranulf for many years and I have seen the things that trouble a baron’s mind. Politics are not to my taste. I am content with my life and my lot. But I do wish you well. I think you will make a fine prince.”
Llywelyn laughed at that.
“Ahh, Sir Roland, you lack ambition. This is why I wanted you for my own! But, alas, it seems it is not to be. Tell your Earl we are square.”
The next day, Griff came to say his farewells as the Invalids mounted and sorted out their column.
“So, English, may I call upon you if I have a need for a brilliant, but complicated, plan in the future?”
Roland grinned.
“Aye, Griff, any time. Though next time you get to take the fort and I will ride to the rescue.”
Griff reached up and took Roland’s hand.
“Fair enough and Godspeed, my friend,” he said and started to turn away, then stopped.
“Engard tells me you bested him with your bow.”
“I would call it a draw.”
Griff arched an eyebrow.
“That’s not how he tells it, but remember one thing, English.”
“Yes?”
“I’m better than Engard.”
Roland laughed.
“Someday, Griff, when the two of us ride among the high peaks of Eryri, we must settle this.”
“Someday, English, someday.”
Roland gave a hand signal and the Invalid Company rode out of Deganwy and up the coast road toward Cheshire and home.
Home
A bright sun was shining, as Roland and the Invalid Company reached the border. The River Dee was deep and cold and never looked better. There was no hesitation as the riders plunged into the water and crossed back into England. Sir Roger, Declan and Rhys Madawc rode with Roland at the head of the column as they spurred their mounts up the familiar trail that led to Shipbrook.
On the high ground ahead, three riders appeared. One of the mounted men peeled off and galloped in the direction of the de Laval’s small fortress. The other two rode down to greet the column.
"I expect Lady Catherine has had the lads out watching the ford from dawn till dusk,” Declan said as they reined in at the riders’ approach. “We are a bit overdue.”
“Only by a week or so,” Sir Roger grumbled. “And we have brought back the boy.”
Declan stole a glance at Roland and gave him a wink. Sir Roger had fretted the entire ride back through Wales over the reception they would receive on their return to Shipbrook.
“Oh, aye, we have young Madawc in tow,” Declan replied, “and that will count for something, to be sure.”
“But were not the lot of you almost hung while collecting the lad?” Roland asked innocently.
The big knight scowled at his son-in-law.
“Catherine doesn’t have to know everything.”
“Things like you enlisting in a Welsh civil war and leading a cavalry charge, my lord?” Declan asked sweetly.
“Well, we saved his neck, did we not?” The Lord of Shipbrook said and jerked his thumb toward Roland.
“I can vouch for that, my lord,” Roland said, “but what will you tell Lady Catherine of all this?”
Sir Roger shook his head sorrowfully and sighed.
“The truth. I never could lie to that woman,” he said in resignation, as the rider drew near. It was Baldric.
“Welcome home, my lords!” he called out cheerfully and wondered why Sir Roger de Laval did not look at all happy to be back.
***
Of the one hundred seven men of the Invalid Company who rode out of Chester the month before, only eighty-seven returned to Shipbrook. Eight men remained in Wales recovering from wounds, and twelve more would never return. Friar Cyril had said a short mass for their souls before they rode away from Deganwy.
Roland and the Invalids tarried only a day at Shipbrook, but it was day to remember. The returning men somehow managed to crowd into the great hall of Shipbrook for a homecoming feast. Roland had never seen quite this kind of a banquet at Shipbrook. There was venison, wild boar and smoked salmon on the tables as well as a savoury rabbit stew. There were sweet tarts and meat pies and loaves of fresh-baked black bread. Barrels of ale were tapped and drained. It was a fitting welcome home for the men of Shipbrook and the Invalid Company as well.
To be sure, the de Lavals were not poor, but it took Lady Catherine’s sharp eyes and good sense to make ends meet from the revenue of their lands. To her, money hard-earned was grudgingly spent and banquets were not a part of her household budget. But Prince Llywelyn had been generous to the men who had helped him win a throne and had favoured Sir Roger with enough silver to pay for a dozen such feasts.
Whatever complaints Lady Catherine might have had with her husband’s adventures in Wales were aired in private. In public, she did not stray far from the big knight and did not complain when he pulled her close and kissed her cheek during the festivities.
***
The next morning, the Invalid Company made the half-day journey to Chester. Once inside the Northgate, Roland turned over command of the men to Sir John and rode on alone to Chester Castle. As he rode into the bailey, he saw that word of his return had already reached the Earl. Ranulf was standing on the steps of the keep, waiting for him. As Roland dismounted, the Earl hurried down to greet him.
“Sir Roland! I feared I would not see you until spring,” he said with genuine warmth, “do you bring good tidings from Wales?”
Roland handed the reins of The Grey to a groom and bowed to the Marcher Lord.
“My lord, I bring news of Wales and of Llywelyn,” Roland said gravely. “You can judge if these tidings are good or ill.”
Ranulf furrowed his brow.
“Come then and join me inside. I’ll want to know everything.”
He led Roland to a small parlour on the second floor of the keep, where a blazing fire had banished the winter chill. For an hour, Roland recounted the events of the past month while Ranulf listened intently. He spoke of the trek through the towering peaks of Eryri in a blizzard and the fashioning of a plan to strike at Llywelyn’s uncles. He told of the theft of Haakon the Black’s longships and the defence of Deganwy Castle. He spoke of the courage of the Invalid Company and, sadly, of their losses.
When Roland finished his report, the nobleman rose and stood silently by the fire for a while. He had not missed the pain in the young knight’s voice as he spoke of the men he’d lost.
“It’s an extraordinary story, Sir Roland,” he said, as he warmed his hands by the blaze. “In less than a month, you and the Invalids have wiped clean my debt of honour. That is well. Now that Llywelyn rules all of Gwynedd, it would not be wise to still be beholden to him.” He paused and looked carefully at Roland.
“You are pained by your casualties—I can see that.”
Roland blinked. He thought he had kept his personal feelings out of his report to the Earl.
“They were good men, my lord.”
Ranulf nodded.
“Aye, aye, it is hard to lose good men, but you, more than most, know we live in a violent world, Sir Roland. And if the good are not prepared to fight, then…” The Earl let his advice trail off. He could see it would not do much good. Sir Roland would have to find his own way of dealing with leading men to their deaths.
“I’ve had news,” he said, changing the subject, “a rumour really, that a party including Lord Daffyd was seen fording the Dee south of here a few days ago.” The Earl gave a little sigh. “He was a man of limited vision. I will miss him.”
“Aye, lord. I take your point. Llywelyn does not lack ambition, but for now I think our borders are safe from him.”
“Why should that be so?”
“The Welsh love to fight each other, lord. It will be a while before they have time for us.”
***
Lady Millicent Inness was talking with Cook about the evening meal, when the door to the smal
l timber hall burst open. It was Sir Edgar Langdon, moving fast for a huge man with a bad leg. It took the big knight a moment to catch his breath as Millicent waited to hear his tidings.
“It’s Roland, my lady! Down at the ford and headed this way.”
Millicent rose, a little breathless herself. She had hoped her husband would be home in a few weeks, though she knew it could be much longer. Still as January came to an end, she had fretted and spent more time than was useful on the southern wall walk watching the ford over the Weaver. Now the wait was done.
“Are you sure, Edgar?”
“Well, the rider is bundled up so it’s hard to tell, but I would know that big grey gelding anywhere.”
Millicent broke into a relieved smile and quickly wrapped a heavy cloak around her shoulders. Sir Edgar hurried back out to gather the men-at-arms. Danesford was a modest place, but its lord was returning and that called for a proper reception. Millicent started for the door, then paused to pat her dress and run fingers through her hair. Then she almost laughed at herself. She knew this was vanity and that Roland would not care that her dress was wrinkled or her hair tangled, still…
When she reached the door, she heard footsteps behind her and turned to see Lorea coming down the steps from her bedchamber, a questioning look on her face.
“Come along, young miss. Your brother has come home!”
A huge smile split the girl’s face. She ran down the stairs and took Millicent’s hand. Together they walked out of the hall and waited by the gate.
***
As he rode up the road from the ford, Roland saw The Grey’s ears prick up at the sight of home. The big horse broke into a trot with no urging from him. Atop the ridge was Danesford. He was struck by how raw and new the place looked after the time he’d spent in the aged and weathered fortress of Deganwy.
He could see the sentry in the lone watchtower. The man was leaning over and speaking to someone in the courtyard and paying no attention to whoever might be approaching the fort. He was making a mental note to speak to Sir Edgar about that when he rode through the gate of Danesford and saw that the big Saxon had turned out eight men-at-arms to greet him in the courtyard.
Roland barely saw them, his eyes going to Millicent who stood holding Lorea’s hand a little way off.
“Welcome home!” Sir Edgar boomed.
“Good to be back,” Roland replied, as he swung out of the saddle and handed the reins of The Grey to a waiting stable boy. He felt awkward as he walked between the men-at-arms flanking the gate. Such a formal reception seemed overdone, but Sir Edgar was his Master of the Sword and had his own way of doing things. He nodded at the men as he passed through their ranks, but his eyes were on Millie. Then he was through the cordon and standing before her.
He reached around her waist, pulling her close and lifting her off her feet. He buried his face in her neck and she gave a little shriek as he whirled her around.
“You smell like home,” he murmured in her ear.
She laughed and drew back, still encircled by his arms.
“And you smell like horse, but I don’t care.”
Roland kissed her then and felt Lorea tugging at the edge of his cape. He sat Millicent back on her feet and threw an arm over the little girl’s shoulder.
“Have you been good, Lorea?”
“Aye, Roland, I’m always good! I’ve done my chores and Lady Millicent is teaching me to do figures.”
“A useful skill, sister.”
“And I’ve kept the secret, as I’ve promised.”
Roland raised an eyebrow and Millicent’s eyes grew wide.
“Secret? What secret?”
Lorea stole a quick glance at Millicent, who gave her a little nod.
“I’m going to be an aunt, Roland!”
Dreams
The riders came out of the trees. The weak winter sun glinted off armour and mail and sharpened lance heads. Horses snorted and stamped the frozen ground. Roland stood in the middle of the frost-covered field and saw them come. He did not hesitate. He turned and ran.
Behind him, he heard a command ring out and the sounds of warhorses lunging forward to give chase. He was a fast runner, but he was a hundred yards from the next wood line and he was not faster than a charging warhorse. He dared not look back, but he could hear them closing on him. Hooves pounded, leather groaned and metal clashed as death bore down on him.
And then he was in the woods. Saplings grew thick along the verge—too thick for horses to follow at speed. Roland could hear men shout and horses squeal as the thundering charge pulled up short in front of this barrier. He did not slack his flight. They would find gaps soon enough and be in the woods after him, but now they were on his ground.
Roland reached behind him to draw forth an arrow from his quiver. It was tipped with the wicked bodkin head—a spike of hard metal that could pierce chain mail at middle distance and plate armour in close quarters. He slowed, turning to look behind him. Only a few of the riders had made it into the trees.
They should have stayed in the field.
Roland stopped and drew his bow. The terror he had felt in the field was gone. He took a deep breath and woke up. He looked to see Millie sleeping soundly beside him. He must not have roused her. She had once said his nightmares would stop if he ever reached the trees before the riders.
He hoped she was right.
***
Four hundred miles south of Danesford, a man awoke to bright sunshine streaming through the high arched window of his bedchamber. His breathing was ragged and his nightshirt was soaked with sweat. He blinked at the light, confused. A moment before he had been running—running through a dark wood with death on his heels.
The woman beside him stirred and sat up in bed. He glanced at her and she tried to hide a questioning look. He must have cried out in his sleep again. He rubbed his temples. This was a new girl and perhaps it had frightened her. He didn’t care.
“Leave me,” he said dully. The girl scrambled to collect her clothes and hurried from the room.
William de Ferrers got up slowly and walked to the window. From this high perch, he looked out across his vast estate in Brittany. In the distance, fields turning green with the approach of spring extended to the horizon and beyond. The day was beautiful, the sky as blue as a robin’s egg.
Below, he saw a small knot of his retainers gathering. Grooms were leading horses from the stables, in preparation for the day’s hunt. The men all carried lances, so they would be seeking wild boar. He could hear them jesting with each, their spirits high. They were young men, around his own age, and full of the heedless confidence of young, well-born men everywhere. He envied them.
He had once been a skilled and relentless hunter, but the shadows in the forest now filled him with dread. For in the places he could not see—behind the tree, among the rocks, around the next bend in the trail, might be a man with a bow—a man who had promised to kill him.
He felt the heat rise in his face. He hated this bastard Dane who troubled his sleep. The man had already come dangerously close to making his threat a reality, beginning with a bloody day high on the slopes of Kinder Scout mountain. And after the disastrous battle at Towcester, he’d been ridden down and cornered by his tormentor. They’d crossed swords and he’d felt certain he could end this nightmare then. He had far more skill with a blade, but the ferocity of the man’s attack had unnerved and finally exhausted him. Had it not been for the intervention of Earl William Marshall he would surely have died that day.
On that frozen field, he had looked into the eyes of the man who now haunted his dreams and saw no mercy there. Had he known then where it would all lead, he would have spared the life of the man’s stubborn father, but he had not—and so the dreams came again and again.
He had lived that day, but always…always his sleep was troubled and he would make excuses for why he would not ride with his young retainers to the hunt.
It was intolerable.
He sti
ll had over two years left on his banishment from England, but he’d been generous in his financial support of King Richard’s incessant wars with France. It was possible his return to Derbyshire might be sooner than many reckoned. But Derbyshire shared a border with Cheshire, which brought his nightmare all the closer. Something had to be done before that day came.
Something had to be done about Roland Inness.
Historical Note
Many of the events depicted in A Prince of Wales are fictional, but this story was built around a core of documented history. It is a fictionalized account of the rise of Llywelyn ap Iowerth, later to be called Llywelyn the Great, in the months leading up to his first great victory over his uncles Daffyd and Roderic at the Battle of Aberconwy in 1194.
Other than its location near the mouth of the River Conwy, the details of that battle are sparse—a few lines from court poets being all historians have to go on. But certain events leading up to the clash and its aftermath are clear. For certain, Llywelyn allied himself with his cousins Gruffydd and Maredudd before this battle. What is less certain is where Roderic stood. Some accounts have him joining with Llywelyn for the battle and others have him on the losing side with his brother Daffyd. What is known is that Daffyd fled Gwynedd after the battle and Llywelyn went on to win two more engagements in Anglesey. Whether by violence or natural causes, Roderic was dead a year later.
The details in this book regarding the fratricidal competition to succeed Owain Gwynedd and rule northern Wales are factual. Before he died, Owain designated Hywel as his heir, but it appears that Roderic and Daffyd, the sons of Owain Gwynedd’s second wife, had a well-developed plan to seize control of Gwynedd on Owain’s death. Within a year, they had killed Hywel and driven off all other pretenders. They went on to divide Gwynedd and rule for almost twenty-five years.
Llywelyn was raised in Powys and, for a time, in England, to avoid the bloodbath that followed the death of Owain. He returned from that self-imposed exile at age fourteen to stake his claim to northern Wales, launching a long and bloody rebellion that lasted seven years. After defeating his uncles, he ruled Gwynedd for forty-five years and was de facto ruler of most of Wales for much of that period—Llywelyn the Great, indeed!
