A Prince of Wales

by Wayne Grant

  “Too many ears hereabouts,” he said, sliding out from behind the table. “Walk out with me.”

  The inn sat near the eastern wall of the town and the two made their way up stone steps to the wall walk. Over the rooftops of Chester, they could see the Earl’s castle perched on its hill to the southwest and the tower that overlooked the Watergate opposite them. They began a slow stroll north along the wall.

  “So, what is the situation with Lord Llywelyn?” Roland asked. “We all knew he would one day call in Earl Ranulf’s debt, but why now?”

  “Because things have now reached a tipping point,” the tall Welshman answered without breaking stride. “We have grown stronger in the last year. We’ve driven Daffyd from the interior of his lands to a strip along the coast. He knows we are winning and ten days ago he offered Llywelyn land for peace.”

  “And Llywelyn refused his uncle’s offer?”

  “The offer was shit. You know the land along the west bank of the Dee could be rich farmland, but the Princes of Gwynedd claim it as do the Earls of Chester. Much blood has been spilt between them over this land. No plough turns the earth there.”

  “And that’s what Daffyd offered.”

  “Aye.”

  Roland nodded.

  “Not a very valuable parcel under present circumstances and it would place your master squarely between his uncle and our Earl of Chester. It’s a good place to get trampled upon.”

  “Yes.”

  “So Llywelyn said no.”

  “He did not give them an answer, and maybe they didn’t expect one, for they tried to kill us shortly after the offer was made.”

  “They?”

  “Aye, Llywelyn believes that Roderic, who rules west of the River Conwy, has decided that we are now a threat to him and has thrown in with Daffyd. The men who ambushed us flew no banners, so we can’t be sure…”

  “Roderic and Daffyd are brothers, are they not?”

  “Aye, and half-brothers to Llywelyn’s father.”

  “It’s a complicated family.”

  “Ye’ve said a mouthful there, English!” Griff said, with a rueful laugh.

  Roland stopped and gazed over the battlements toward the west. The sun was creeping toward the Irish Sea and the breeze was stiff from that quarter. He thought about all the blood that had been shed in the dispute within England’s own royal family. Richard had risen twice against his father, King Henry, and his final rebellion had driven the old man to his grave. Then, Richard’s own brother had come within a hair’s breadth of snatching the crown from his head while he was a prisoner of the Holy Roman Emperor. He looked back at Griff.

  “Fights between blood kin tend to spill a lot of unrelated blood.”

  “True enough,” Griff said, “and there will be no end to it in Gwynedd until Llywelyn rules all—or is dead.”

  “What would he have us do?”

  Griff shook his head.

  “He didn’t say. I’m not sure he knows yet. Before we parted, Llywelyn told me his uncles would likely move against our winter quarters, expecting the Prince to be dead or at least on the run. He hoped to reach our men before they did.”

  “And if they have done as he expects?”

  “Then he will have beaten them or, failing that…” The tall Welshman paused for a long time before he spoke again, as though unwilling to consider this possibility.

  “There is a place in the mountains to the south. It’s remote and almost impossible to attack. I’ve been there, but in the seven years we’ve fought the uncles, we’ve never had to rely on it. I’m praying it’s not that bad, but we won’t know until we are back in Gwynedd.”

  Griff paused again, gathering his thoughts.

  “Whatever we find over the Dee, English, I know this. Our need is urgent as was your Earl’s not many years ago. You and your Invalids could tip things in our favour. How soon can you ride?”

  “We will ride at first light.”

  Griff arched an eyebrow.

  “I’ve seen some of the men of the company. They looked…”

  “Unfit.”

  “To put it kindly.”

  “I will have them fit before we cross the Dee, Griff, but they will not improve here in Chester. Too much to tempt them, so we will ride at first light. But I’m curious—why did Llywelyn ask for me?”

  Griff laughed.

  “He likes you!” the Welshman said and slapped Roland on the shoulder. “And he well remembers the charge you led with your Invalids that saved us in the Conwy valley. He thinks you are a man who understands war—and he thinks you are lucky.”

  Roland wondered at that. In his short life, he had survived fights with Welsh raiders, Saracens, Moors, Berbers and mercenaries, but did he truly understand war?

  Or had he just been…lucky?

  Muster of the Invalids

  The sky was still pitch black when Roland rose and gathered his weapons and kit. He had taken a room at the inn where Griff was quartered, but saw no sign of the Welshman as he came down the stairs and made his way through the darkened tavern to the street. Connah knew where and when the Invalids were to assemble and Roland didn’t doubt he would be ready to ride when the time came to depart the city.

  The Grey was stabled around the corner and the horse’s ears perked up when Roland came to his stall with a saddle. He patted the gelding on the neck as he threw a light blanket over its back and secured the bridle. Once saddled, he led the animal out into the dark lane. He held the reins loosely and The Grey followed obediently as he headed toward Northgate. The streets were empty at this hour and the sound of the horse’s iron-shod hooves echoed sharply from the buildings crowding in on both sides.

  The wind that had blown steadily the day before had died completely and the night was still and cold. No sign of dawn showed in the east and brilliant stars hung in a clear black sky. He looked overhead and saw the pattern in the star field that his father had called the Plough. His eyes travelled in a line from two of its bright points toward the north wall of Chester. There, hanging high above the Northgate, was a star brighter than the rest. The sight was comforting. Many things were uncertain in this world, but the northern star stayed steady and true.

  He had ordered Patch to have the Invalid Company mounted and ready to ride from the Northgate at first light. He rounded a corner onto Barn Lane and stopped. A hundred yards to his front he saw a column of mounted men.

  The Invalid Company had mustered.

  Given what he had seen the day before, Roland had wondered if Patch could actually assemble the men, but here they were. As he drew nearer, he saw that it wasn’t a pretty sight. Riders slumped in the saddle and one man leaned over and retched on the cobbled street without dismounting. He felt the heat start to rise in his face as he watched this display.

  Roland stopped The Grey and mounted. Near the head of the column, he could see Patch and Sergeant Billy in deep conversation just inside the arch of the Northgate. The two men looked up as the sound of hooves on cobbles reached them, but Roland ignored them as he rode past. He walked his horse slowly down the length of the column, looking at each man as he passed.

  These were men who had been the scourge of Prince John’s professional mercenaries. Englishmen sang songs of their deeds in taverns. He wondered what songs would be sung if their countrymen could see them now?

  As he rode slowly along the line, he saw many familiar faces, but there were some newcomers. Halfway down the column he came to a giant of a man—bigger even than Sir Edgar—with one side of his face deeply scarred from burns.

  Greek fire.

  He’d seen men die screaming before the walls of Acre when they had been engulfed by that strange flame that clung to whatever it touched. Somehow this man had survived, though with a fright mask for a face. Unlike most of his fellow Invalids, the big man seemed fully alert and ready to go on campaign. Across his saddle rested a five-foot long pike with a wicked-looking axe blade on one end. Roland had never seen such a weapon. He m
ade a mental note to acquaint himself with this new man.

  A few ranks behind the giant was another stranger. This man met Roland’s gaze with a dark look. He was missing an arm at the elbow, which was not unusual among the Invalids, but everything else about this rider set him apart. He did not slump in the saddle and sat astride a beautiful black warhorse that could only belong to someone of substantial wealth. His mail was of exceptionally fine quality and the helmet on his head had been buffed to a high sheen. Obviously, this was a man of some means, but something in his look spoke of a simmering anger.

  Another man to get acquainted with.

  As he completed his circuit of the column, only a few of the other men met his gaze and no more than a dozen looked prepared to go to war. Jamie Finch was one such, though he looked a bit shame-faced at the company he was keeping. Roland nodded at the young Londoner as he rode by. His inspection complete, he guided his mount back to the Northgate and dismounted. Patch stepped forward and waited nervously.

  “How many?” Roland asked.

  “One hundred seven, sir. Six men could not be accounted for.”

  Roland nodded.

  “We’ll leave them behind.”

  He turned to Sergeant Billy.

  “How are we on mules and rations?”

  The one-legged veteran took out a small scroll and handed it over. He could not read, but had the Earl’s steward write down the supplies he had been issued. He might not be able to decipher the writing on the scroll, but he had counted things himself.

  “Nine mules and dry rations for two weeks, sir.”

  Roland unrolled the parchment and saw that Billy’s count agreed with that of the Earl’s man. He turned back to Patch.

  “Weapons? Mail?”

  Patch still looked uncomfortable.

  “Every man is armed, Sir Roland, but I cannot speak to the condition of their weapons. Haven’t seen a blade sharpened for months. Most have mail, though it be rusty, and all but a few have shields.” Roland looked back down the long double column of men that disappeared into the gloom of Northgate Street and was at least comforted to see that every man had a helmet, of sorts, on his head.

  He gave Patch a curt nod and was about to give the order to move out when a man came clattering up from the rear of the column on a tall, spindly horse. The rider was a match for the horse—tall and bone-thin and wearing the robes of a monk.

  “My lord!” he called out cheerfully, a gap-toothed smile plastered across a face that was as sharp as an axe blade. He hauled in the reins of his mount and the horse proceeded to skitter across the cobbles and almost trample the men standing beside the column. The cheerful grin turned to a look of stricken horror as Patch and Sergeant Billy scrambled for safety.

  “Oh damn!” the man cried as the horse managed to regain its footing and stop six feet from the scattering men. Accident averted, the tall monk slithered down the side of the horse and onto the street. He hurriedly crossed himself and turned to Roland.

  “I beg pardon, my lord,” he said, a little unsteadily. “My mount is a bit too spirited.”

  Roland looked sceptically at the bony nag, then turned his attention to the priest.

  “Come to see us off with a blessing, father?”

  The man nodded his head vigorously.

  “Yes…eh…no.”

  “Well, which is it?” Roland asked with just a touch of irritation in his voice. Over the man’s shoulder, he could see the first lightening of the sky above the eastern wall. It was time to ride.

  The man smiled sheepishly.

  “I will of course provide a blessing, my lord, but I will be riding with you. I am the company chaplain.”

  Roland turned and gave Patch and Sergeant Billy a look.

  “Chaplain?”

  Billy shrugged, but Patch spoke up.

  “This is Friar Cyril, Sir Roland. He appeared among us last spring and has provided spiritual counsel to the men.”

  Roland arched an eyebrow.

  “Do you say Mass for the men, father?”

  The churchman looked at the ground and rubbed his hands nervously.

  “Mass, my lord? Well, no. Not for some time. Attendance has been…sparse. But I have found a way to serve God and be useful to my comrades—I hope.”

  Sergeant Billy eased up beside Roland and whispered to him.

  “Father Cyril patrols the taverns and helps the boys find their way home by morning, sir. He also intercedes with the Bishop when…complaints are lodged.”

  “Why does he do that?” Roland whispered back.

  Billy shrugged.

  “Never got a clear answer from him, sir. But the boys like the fellow.”

  Roland turned back to the skinny monk.

  “You should stay here, father. There’s no place for a priest where we are heading.”

  The man stiffened.

  “You go to fight, do you not, my lord?”

  Roland nodded.

  “Likely.”

  “Then where better for a priest to be than where men are about to meet their maker.”

  Roland gave the man a long look, then shrugged.

  “Suit yourself, but if you don’t keep up, or if you cause any trouble, we will leave you wherever we are. And you do not want to be left behind in Wales, Friar.”

  The man smiled broadly.

  “I’ll be no trouble, my lord. You’ll see.”

  Roland once more surveyed the column. The entire length of it, stretching down Northgate Street, was now visible in the approaching dawn. He looked to the front of the line of riders and saw a man holding a staff. At its top, a black banner stirred, as a stray breeze found its way through the open Northgate.

  “What is that?” Roland said pointing at the flag.

  Sergeant Billy stumped over to the rider and took the shaft from him, lowering it for Roland to examine. Emblazoned on the black field was a grey wolf’s head. The beast’s face was fixed in a snarl with bared fangs and there were deep scars around its muzzle. One ear was half gone.

  “It’s our banner, sir,” Billy said proudly. “The men wanted one of their own to take into battle. Seamstress over on Eastgate Street did the head.”

  Roland took the black cloth in his hands. The wolf’s image was finely done. The animal’s red eyes seemed to look right into his own. He handed the banner and staff back to Billy.

  “Put it away.”

  “Sir?”

  Roland looked once more at the men lined up in the dawn. Another leaned over and tried to heave, but nothing was left to come forth. He started to speak, but Patch spoke first.

  “You heard Sir Roland. Put it away, Billy.”

  The old sergeant gave a little sigh, but did not protest. He unknotted the cloth from the shaft, carefully folded it and tucked it inside his tunic.

  Roland turned to Patch.

  “Lead them out,” he ordered.

  “Bound for?”

  “Shipbrook,” he said, nodding toward the column of half-awake men. “This lot isn’t ready for Wales.”

  ***

  Griff was waiting just outside the Northgate when the Invalids rode out of Chester. No doubt, the Welshman had seen the men groaning and puking in their ranks and had not wished to embarrass his English friend by being present for such a spectacle.

  “We go to the crossing at Shipbrook?” he asked, as Roland reined in beside him and let the column ride past.

  “Aye, but we won’t cross this day—or the next.”

  Griff started to protest, put Roland raised a hand.

  “I know your master would not have sent for us unless the need was urgent, but you saw the men. They are useless in their present condition.”

  “But….”

  Roland turned on the Welshman.

  “Understand me, Griff. We will pay the Earl’s debt and with interest I expect, but these men,” he said, nodding toward the column as it passed them by, “must be ready to fight. If they are not, they will die and be of no use to Llywe
lyn or the Earl.”

  Just then a man in the column almost toppled out of his saddle but managed to grab his horse’s mane and pull himself back up. Griff shook his head.

  “I take your point, English. But we can’t tarry long.”

  “That’s why we make for Shipbrook, Griff. It won’t take long for Roger de Laval and Declan O’Duinne to reacquaint these men with soldiering.”

  ***

  Roland sent Jamie Finch ahead with a message for Sir Roger and when the Invalid Company emerged from the trees east of Shipbrook just before noon, Roland’s old master was there to greet them. By his side was his Master of the Sword, Sir Declan O’Duinne. Roland ordered the column to halt and spurred forward to meet the man who had saved his life—many times over. Griff followed close behind.

  “My lord, you look well!” he called as he reined in.

  Sir Roger was mounted on his new warhorse, a young roan stallion with thick muscled shoulders and haunches. The animal pricked up its ears as Roland came near and gave a warning snort for The Grey to stay clear. Roland laughed as he halted the big gelding a respectful distance away.

  “I see Tencendur’s mood has not mellowed.”

  Sir Roger reddened as the warhorse fought against its reins and edged toward Roland’s mount, malice in its white eyes. The roan’s sire was a magnificent warhorse that Roland had taken from a dead Flemish mercenary. Declan had dubbed that horse “The Surly Beast” for its foul temper, but Llywelyn had been smitten the moment he saw the animal. It mattered not to him that the horse was truculent. He cared only that it was a fighter and a proper mount for a prince. Roland had been happy to throw the unruly stallion into a bargain with Llywelyn for eighty Welsh archers to help retake Chester for Earl Ranulf.

  The year before, Llywelyn had presented Roland and Millicent with the first foal sired by The Surly Beast as a wedding gift. Roland had gladly gifted the animal to his old master, who had lost his beloved horse, Bucephalus, to a farmer in the high Alps. Sir Roger proudly named the little stallion Tencendur. It had been the name of Emperor Charlemagne’s great warhorse. The big Norman lavished attention on the young horse, but it seemed Tencendur had inherited his sire’s truculent temperament.