by Wayne Grant
The track that led up toward the hills beyond the river valley was rough under the best of conditions. It was now coated with a slick layer of ice, making progress painfully slow. With the arrival of the early winter sunset, Roland was forced to halt the march well before they reached the branching of the trail. They had extra horses back with the mules, but not enough to risk losing one to a broken leg.
On his orders, they made a cold camp. Their forward scouts had seen no sign of trouble, but a blazing fire in this wilderness would be visible for a long way. Men wrapped themselves in their cloaks and huddled in bunches like dogs against the cold. In the night, the storm broke and, at dawn, the men awoke to a cloudless sky, though the wind still blew cold. They took a few mouthfuls of breakfast, mounted, and resumed the march.
With the sun not yet high in the east, they came to the old hill fort but did not tarry at the place. It had been abandoned long ago and they still had a dozen miles ahead to reach Llywelyn’s new camp. The path led south and as the morning warmed they pushed the pace. Near noon, there was movement on the road ahead and Roland halted the column.
It was Jamie Finch, one of his advance scouts, coming back to the column at a gallop. Slumped ahead of him in the saddle was a boy who could not have been more than eight or nine years old. As Jamie reined in, Roland and Griff dismounted and helped the child down from the horse. His lips were blue and he was shivering.
“I know this lad,” Griff said, tersely. He turned and shouted over his shoulder.
“Build a fire before the boy freezes!”
Half a dozen men leapt from the saddle, some fumbling for flint and tinder and others gathering wood. The boy was trying to speak but his teeth were chattering too much to be understood. As they waited for him to recover, Jamie Finch spoke up.
“Sir Roland, we come across sign ahead. A road comes in from the west and meets this one. Lots of horses passed that way. Can’t say when, with the ground frozen, but probably within the last week. A little way beyond, we saw a hill fort. Everything inside was burnt. Found this lad wanderin’ around the ruins.”
Roland turned to Griff.
“It looks like your prince had the rights of it.”
“Aye, it looks bad. Maybe the boy can tell us what we’ll find ahead.”
It took only a few moments for the half-dozen men to light a flame and get a credible fire started. Friar Cyril had ridden up from the rear with a woollen blanket to wrap around the boy. Griff sat down by the fire and pulled the boy into his lap. Slowly some colour returned to his lips and the shivering began to subside.
“Master…Griff…” he croaked.
“Aye, Pedr, it’s Griff. Warm yerself, boy. Yer with friends now.”
The boy settled back against Griff’s chest and looked as though he might drift off to sleep. Roland was now joined by Patch and Sergeant Billy, as they crowded around the newcomer. Friar Cyril made long, fervent prayers for the boy’s recovery until Patch shushed him.
Griff shook the lad and his eyes popped open.
“Tell us, Pedr. Tell us what happened,” Griff asked gently.
The boy squirmed around and reached his hands toward the fire.
“The Prince, Lord Llywelyn, came in t’ camp five nights ago. He was on a lame horse and alone.” The boy was speaking in Welsh, which Roland understood well enough. Having managed a few words, Pedr was promptly overcome with a fit of coughing. He recovered himself and continued.
“There was alarms. Everyone was runnin’ about and shoutin’. I heard a horn sound from back along the track where the Prince had come. Lord Llywelyn said something—I couldn’t hear what, but some men ran down that way with bows. The others saddled the horses and headed off south. Lord Llywelyn stayed at the camp for a long time. He saw me and told me to fetch my pony and follow the men south. I was right scared, Master Griff.”
“Ye should a been, lad,” Griff said softly. “But what happened then?”
The boy hung his head.
“I got on my pony, but with all the noise, she spooked and threw me. Weren’t her fault. She was scared, too. I must’ve hit my head when I landed in the bushes. Didn’t know where I was when I woke for a bit, but I could hear men talkin’. They spoke a strange tongue—not Welsh or English, but I’m not sure. They wore strange dress too.”
Griff stole a glance at Roland, then turned back to the boy, who had climbed out of his lap and was now standing by the fire.
“How many were there, Pedr?”
The boy looked at the long line of men who had dismounted on the trail and were waiting patiently for their orders.
“Many more than ye have here, Master Griff. I kept hid and I saw what they did.”
“What did they do?”
The boy suddenly shuddered, as though the chill had gone back into his bones.
“The caught two of our lads, Griff—Gwilyn and Caden. They…they hurt em’ awful.” The tears welled up in the boy’s eyes. “I couldn’t do nothing. I put my hands over my ears. I couldn’t stand the sounds.”
“It’s alright, lad. Ye did right to stay hid. Is there naught else ye can tell us?”
The boy scrunched up his face in thought.
“Yes! I saw a big man with an axe. He was givin’ the orders.”
“Did you hear a name, lad? What was he called?” Roland asked in the boy’s native tongue.
The boy glanced at Griff, who nodded.
“They called him Haakon, my lord.”
***
They found the bodies beside the trail. The freezing weather had preserved the corpses and it was plain to see that young Pedr had not exaggerated the grievous treatment these men had received. They had died hard. Roland had seen such as this, and worse, on Crusade. In the holy wars in the east, men were killed in ghastly ways, but it was a shock to see such wanton cruelty so close to home.
“Gwilyn and Caden,” Griff said grimly. “They were two of my bowmen—two of the best and good lads both.” The tall Welshman clinched his fists as he stared at the scene. “I swear on my mother’s grave I will cut this bastard’s heart out and piss on it,” he snarled.
Roland stood quietly as Griff fought to control his rage. Friar Cyril hurried forward and said a quick prayer over the maimed bodies and organized a burial party. Sergeant Billy and the giant Scot, Seamus Murdo, gently carried the frozen remains of the young Welshmen to a small clearing away from the road, while other members of the Invalids began to gather stones for a hasty grave.
“This Haakon—is he Roderic’s man or Daffyd’s?” Roland asked finally. “The name doesn’t sound English.”
“Roland doesn’t sound English either,” said Griff, “but this was no Englishman, I think. If it is who I believe it to be, he is neither Daffyd’s man nor Roderic’s, unless he’s been bought. There is a man known around the western seas as Haakon the Black. He and his men are mercenary Danes from Dublin. They call them the Dub Gaill. Dublin is now ruled rather loosely by Normans, but the Danes held that town for centuries and many still operate from there. Some, like Haakon, still hold to the old ways. He is a freebooter and a mercenary, but mostly takes his pay from Ragnvald, the King of the Isles.”
“There’s a name fit for a Dane,” Roland said.
Griff shrugged.
“The Isles were taken by the Northmen three hundred years ago. Ragnvald and his kin rule the western seas and spring from the same root as you, Roland. Their grandsires were Danes. They speak that language still on the Isle of Man, I’m told. Perhaps that’s why their speech sounded strange to Pedr. By reputation, Haakon is a man who knows his business. He is a bold one and men flock to him from all across the Northern Sea.”
Griff turned and took a last look at the bodies of Gwilyn and Caden.
“By reputation,” he said pointing at the two broken bodies, “he is a man who would do this.”
“You think Daffyd or Roderic has bought his services?” Roland asked.
“Yes, but this could be more of a family matter th
an a simple bit of commerce.”
“Family matter? For God’s sake, speak plainly, Griff. What makes the hiring of these mercenaries a family affair?”
“King Ragnvald is this Haakon’s chief patron and Ragnvald’s oldest daughter is Lord Roderic’s wife.”
Roland furrowed his brow.
“Ah…”
“Yes, Ragnvald is Lord Roderic’s father-in-law, which makes this…”
“A family matter.” Roland shook his head and laid a hand on Griff’s shoulder.
“Your Welsh politics put ours to shame, my friend.”
Griff pulled away.
“This is no longer politics,” he growled, pointing to where his dead bowmen were being covered in stones. “Gather your men, English. It should not be hard to follow the trail of these vermin. We must track them down and make them pay!”
Roland shook his head again.
“No.”
Griff blinked.
“No? You saw what they did! Or do you fear crossing swords with these bastards?”
“You would call me a coward, Griff?”
“I…no…you are no coward, Roland,” he sputtered, “but this…,” he said looking again at the graves, anguish in his voice.
As Roland stood there and looked into the Welshman’s eyes, he was tempted to relent. He knew well the thirst for revenge, but William de Ferrers still lived and he had learned to keep that fire banked. And at moments like this, the voice in his head was that of Sir Roger de Laval.
“Don’t do anything stupid!”
It was a simple admonition he’d heard many times in his years of service to the big Norman and it had always proven good advice. Striking at this new enemy, without knowing his strength or intentions, would be stupid.
“Griff, if there is a just God, we will have our chance to make this Haakon pay, but I have only one hundred men. I won’t throw them away. I led the Invalids here to help your master win his war, not to settle scores. How best can we do that?”
The question seemed to draw Griff back from his seething rage. He muttered a final curse under his breath then nodded at Roland.
“We find Llywelyn.”
“Good,” said Roland.
“But, English, you must understand that, in Gwynedd, politics is settling scores.”
***
After scouts were dispatched to find where Haakon’s men had gone and sentries were posted on every trail leading into Llywelyn’s ruined winter quarters, Roland called a council of war. Griff, Patch and Sergeant Billy were there and Roland was surprised to see Sir John Blackthorne as well. Patch pulled him aside and whispered in his ear.
“Fancy Jack is the best horseman in the company, sir, and maybe the best swordsman as well. The men respect that and will follow him.” Roland gave a small nod and the promotion was approved. John Blackthorne was now an officer of the company. When all had gathered, Roland spoke first to Griff.
“How many men did Llywelyn have in this camp?”
“Three hundred, give or take a score, and it looks like most got away clean or there’d have been more bodies to bury. We have two camps a little smaller than this farther to the east. I have no notion if they’ve been attacked.”
Roland nodded.
“The men who came here had the advantage of surprise, but I expect they outnumbered your people as well. Else your lord might have stood and fought. What is the strength that the two uncles can bring to the field?”
“Our spies have counted five hundred for Daffyd,” Griff said. “As we have not fought with him in the past, I am less sure of Roderic’s numbers, but I’d guess near a thousand.”
“Add say, four hundred or more Danes, paid by Roderic, and the uncles have a formidable force.”
“Aye,” Griff said, “I doubt we can field more than eight hundred, if you count your Invalids.”
“That makes the odds steep,” said Roland.
Griff looked at the small knot of men gathered around him. It would not have surprised him if these English, seeing what had happened here and considering the forces arrayed against them, had wheeled their horses around and headed back to Cheshire. But he saw no sign of quit in any of their faces.
“We’ve faced steeper odds and won,” the tall Welshman said simply.
“As have we,” said Roland.
Griff gave him a wan smile.
“Aye, ye have,” he said, remembering their midnight assault on the Bridgegate at Chester.
The sound of hooves made the men in the circle look up as two scouts rode in, dismounted and hurried to report to Roland.
“Sir, all of the tracks we saw leaving this camp followed a good path headed due west. Lord Llywelyn must have fled that way. It looks like the men who attacked him here followed.”
“That road leads to a good ford on the Conwy and to the main pass into the mountains on the other side,” Griff said, rubbing his chin. “It’s the road Llywelyn would take if he’s making for Dolwyddelan.”
“Dolwyddelan?”
“Aye, it’s the fortress in the mountains I spoke of back in Chester. It is a difficult place to get to at this time of year, with snow in the passes, and impossible to reach if those passes are defended. It would take more than his uncles and a band of Northmen to roust him out of that place.”
“Should we follow?” Patch asked.
“No,” Griff said, with an emphatic shake of his head, “the Danes won’t likely venture into the pass. They are mercenaries, not fools. But they may settle themselves at the ford to block any attempt by Llywelyn to come down from the hills. I would dearly love to strike them there, but as your commander advised me,” he stopped and looked toward Roland, “we haven’t the strength.”
“What do you propose then?” Roland asked. “Ride east to reach the other winter camps?”
Griff shook his head.
“I think not. The last thing the Prince told me was to find him at Dolwyddelan if he was not at our winter quarters. He has fled in that direction, and while the direct route is blocked, I know of another way. It will not be pleasant, but there is a backdoor into Dolwyddelan that should avoid these Danes.”
“Then we shall take it,” Roland said.
Nearby a party of the Invalids trudged back from the clearing where they had finished covering the dead men in stones. He turned to Patch.
“Mount the men.”
Eryri
The clear weather held for most of the day as Griff Connah led them on a rough path to the southwest. Near sunset, darker clouds appeared to the north as they reached a wretched little hamlet that overlooked a ford on the River Conwy. Across a frozen field, Roland could see the poor inhabitants of the place disappearing into a patch of barren trees, driving a few sheep and a pig with them. He didn’t blame them for fleeing at the approach of a hundred mounted men.
Of more concern were the three riders they saw spur out of town at their approach. The men galloped off to the north on a well-travelled road that disappeared into dense woods. Roland reached for his bow and quiver, but they were out of range and it would have been a waste of a good arrow.
Griff gave a short curse.
“I’d hoped they wouldn’t know of this route. If those be Haakon’s men, he is as careful as he is bold.”
“At least they haven’t fortified the place,” Roland said. “We won’t have to fight our way through.”
“Not this time,” the tall Welshman conceded, “but now they’ve seen us cross, they’ll have more than three scouts here in a day or two.”
There was no denying this. Should they need it again, the back door to Dolwyddelan would be closed to them. But for now, they splashed across the ford, its waters shallow and swift. They scarcely wetted their stirrups, and found a rocky path on the far shore. It ran up from the ford, then bent to the southwest, following the river’s course into high hills that were covered in snow. Griff reined in his horse and looked ahead as Roland joined him.
“Eryri,” the tall Welshman said, loo
king toward the looming hills. “We follow the Conwy for ten miles or so, until it is no more than a rivulet. Another dozen brings us to the pass at Bwlch y Gorddinan. Men do not use it in winter—at least not in winters such as this one—but it is the back way into Dolwyddelan and that is where we must go. Can yer Invalids manage it?”
Roland shrugged.
“I grew up in hills such as these. If you can manage it, so shall I, and the Invalids will follow.”
Griff turned in his saddle and looked at the tall young knight. Roland had his hood pulled back and gusts of cold air had blown his long dark hair in tangles across his face. The commander of the Invalid Company still looked a bit like a boy, but Griff had seen him lead men in more desperate conditions than these. An image came to him of Roland Inness climbing over the parapet of Chester’s Bridgegate tower in pitch darkness to open that gate on the night they had taken the city. The lad might be young, but Griff had seen how men looked to him in a fight. He nodded.
“Aye, I expect they’d follow you over the edge of the world, English. But if the snow is deep enough, neither man nor beast will best that pass. Are your hills in Derbyshire higher than these?”
“Higher than those I can see ahead, but I’m told there are true mountains somewhere further south.”
“Aye, and great jagged crags they are—their tops as high as the eagle flies.” He stopped and then spoke wistfully. “I saw them only once, as a boy. One day I hope to go back.”
“Perhaps in summer.”
Griff gave a barking laugh.
“Aye, summer for certain, Sir Roland. They say the snow there can be higher than a man’s head at this time of year, so summer it shall be. Perhaps you’d like to see them as well.”