by Wayne Grant
“Aye, I’d like that. I saw true mountains once, as we passed by Italy, but only from the deck of a ship. I’d like to walk among the high peaks here.”
“I will be happy to be your guide, if we live. You may trust that if the weather turns, we will have challenge enough just reaching Llywelyn’s fortress in these hills.”
“If we live,” Roland agreed with a smile.
As the sun fell behind a hill to the west, the dark clouds reached the valley of the Conwy. It began to snow.
***
By nightfall, the light snow became a howling blizzard. Roland called a halt two miles beyond the ford. Men did their best to fashion crude windbreaks to protect them from the onslaught of the storm. Darkness brought a sharp drop in temperature and permission was granted for fires to be lit. No enemy force would venture out in these conditions.
The men of the Invalid Company huddled near the flames or stood to stamp their feet against the cold, as drifts piled up wherever the wind chose to blow the snow. Roland made his way to the picket line with a blanket he had fetched from his kit. Millie had a soft spot for horses and had packed the extra covering against just such a storm as this. The Grey nickered as he approached and swung his head around to rest it on his master’s shoulder. Roland rubbed the gelding’s jaw then draped the blanket over its back.
“Courtesy of Lady Millicent,” he whispered as he secured it with a length of sturdy twine tied at the corners. He gave the horse a pat and walked back through the blinding swirl of white toward the crackling fires of the encampment.
“Come warm yerself, sir,” a voice called out as he approached. It was the big Scot, Seamus Murdo. Beside him at the fire were Sir John Blackthorne and the cadaverous priest, Friar Cyril. That these men shared a fire did not surprise him. He had seen this on Crusade when fresh troops had arrived from Europe during the great siege of Acre. New men had to earn their way into the bonds of trust that knit together any company of fighting men. The Invalid Company was no exception. All at this fire were newcomers, yet to prove their mettle with the veteran Invalids.
Roland stepped between the big Scot and the Friar and warmed his hands. On the other side of the flames, Fancy Jack did the same. Roland noticed that the driving snow did not seem to cling to the man’s cape, which was fashioned from some kind of tanned leather.
Fancy indeed!
“I seen blows like this many a time in the highlands of home,” Seamus Murdo declared, slapping his massive hands together to keep the blood flowing. “Won’t last long.”
Roland glanced over at the priest who had his robe pulled tight around his neck but stood in the storm bare-headed. In the fire’s glow, he had a far-away look on his face.
“I’ve seen frozen mountains, floating in the sea,” he said.
“Mountains in the sea?” Fancy Jack said. “You’re telling tales now, Friar.”
The man shook his head.
“No. They were made all of ice and were huge. At least the size of some of these hills.”
“And where did you see these wonders?”
“Far to the north, Sir John.” Off the coast of a great island the Northmen call Iceland and others call Thule.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Murdo said, “far to the north of Scotland?”
“Aye, Seamus, very far to the north.”
“What took you there?” Roland asked, genuinely interested.
“I was a slave, my lord—taken by Ivar Longbeard, when he raided my village in Northumbria. Ivar had settled in Thule with many of his kinsmen.”
“I know Northumbria,” Seamus put in.
“Aye, Seamus, I’ve little doubt. Scot’s love to raid there, though I don’t remember seeing you among those who paid occasional visits to our village.”
The big Scot scowled.
“We only raided into Cumberland and only when provoked by the English!” he said sulkily.
“This Longbeard—he enslaved a priest?” Fancy Jack asked, surprised.
“I was no priest back then,” Friar Cyril said, “but he thought I was. My family possessed a scrap of parchment. The priest who visited our village claimed it had the words of the Pater Noster written on it.”
“The Lord’s prayer,” Roland said.
“Aye, or so the priest said. None of us could read and none knew how this relic had come to us, but that parchment was our most precious possession. I was clutching it when they took me out to slaughter. Ivar took the parchment and demanded to know what it said. I knew the words in Latin by heart and, believe me, I was praying with all my heart when I recited them. Thinking I was a priest and could read, he decided to take me back to Thule to teach the skill to his children.”
“What happened when they found you could not read?” Seamus asked, taken up with the friar’s story and over his pout.
“They never found out.”
“You escaped?” Roland asked.
The tall friar shrugged his bony shoulders.
“In a manner of speaking. We were drawing near to Thule when a mighty storm blew up—not unlike this one,” he said, as a swirl of icy air sent embers from the fire flying upwards. “Our ship was driven upon rocks and sank. All were lost, save for me and Ivar. The two of us grasped a broken spar and were washed up on a shore of black sand.”
“Then what?” asked Fancy Jack.
Friar Cyril’s shoulders slumped.
“Ivar was near senseless, but starting to come around. I found his dagger and I slit the man’s throat. I dragged his body back into the waves to let the sea take him.”
There was shocked silence around the fire.
“It was a mortal sin, I know, but Ivar had killed all in my family save me, whom he enslaved.” The friar paused, then spoke with uncommon ferocity.
“I am no man’s slave!”
Again, silence fell on the small group around the fire.
“I’d have done the same, Father Cyril,” said Fancy Jack, gently.
“The man deserved to die,” said Seamus, poking at the fire with a stick.
“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,” the monk said with simple conviction.
The churchman’s words took Roland back to the dark day he had killed his first men in a rage of vengeance on the heights of Kinder Scout. Friar Tuck had quoted the same scripture to him that day and he understood it well enough. But it took a humbler soul than his own to follow God’s admonition against revenge. His rage might have grown cold in the years since he had first been driven to kill, but his desire for vengeance—on a man no doubt taking his comfort in Brittany—had not waned. He wondered if Friar Cyril had truly found the humility to abide by God’s law.
“I was found a day later by some of Ivar’s kin and passed myself off as a shipwrecked priest,” the monk continued. “It was easy enough. My parchment had been lost in the wreck, but I could recall many passages of the Bible in Latin from years of attending mass. It was enough to convince these folks. I lived among them for months before finding passage back to England. They were decent people, not monsters. In all that time, they had no idea that their kinsman was dead and that I had done the deed. The guilt gnawed at me. When I came home, I made my way to Alnwick Abbey where I took priestly vows. Passing as a priest had saved me. Being one is my penance.”
“But why do ye minister to the Invalids?” asked Seamus. “After all, we are killers of men.”
“And all the more in need of grace!” the friar said brightly. “That too is part of my penance.”
“Best of luck with that,” said Fancy Jack with a sly smile, as he tossed another branch on the fire.
***
In the small hours of the morning the snow stopped, though a raw wind still blew from the north and the few trees along the river were coated with ice. When dawn came, it was hard to tell which of the white lumps scattered across the encampment were drifts and which were men covered with a layer of snow. A few of the Invalids were already up at first light, having taken the final shift feeding the fires
to ward off the bitter cold of the night.
Now, Patch and Sergeant Billy roused those who still slept. Men shook out their blankets and cloaks, wolfed down cold hard biscuits and saddled their horses. There were more than a few soft curses at the harshness of the weather and the unappetizing breakfast. The Invalids grumbled as they broke camp and Roland watched it all with satisfaction.
Start worryin’ when a soldier stops complaining.
It was advice he’d heard often from Sir Roger. In his own experience, he’d found it sound. He had seen men grumble endlessly during the campaigns in the east—and with good reason. Fleas, vermin, rotten food and insufferable heat had been the order of the day in the trenches before Acre, and men had cursed the wretchedness of it all in every language native to Europe.
But there were also units that slowly fell into a sullen silence under the unrelenting harshness of that siege. Some had refused orders to take up their arms and stand their watch. In the end, these men were often shipped back to Tyre, where they fell prey to drink and the fleshpots of that city.
During the siege of Chester, the Invalids had grumbled colourfully about the food, drink, and women of that city, but never complained when it was time to cross swords. It had now been almost a week since he had rousted them, indolent and drunk, out of their barracks in Chester. They were complaining, but every man moved with a purpose on this frozen morning. Roland smiled.
They were becoming the Invalid Company again.
***
The day’s march was hard, with new flurries swirling in from the northeast. The trail narrowed and the men rode single file. Always on their left, the River Conwy leapt and plunged down the ever-steepening valley. As the light faded, they made camp in a sheltered ravine near a small village. With nightfall, the last of the snow ceased and the high grey clouds that had spread sullenly over the high country all day drifted off to the south. A crescent moon rose above high hills to the west and its light gleamed off the white blanket newly laid down in the valley.
Griff rode ahead to let the inhabitants of the village know of their approach. These were farmers and freemen who seldom saw armed groups at any time of year, particularly in winter, but they were in the ancestral lands of Llywelyn’s father and were willing to part with some bread and cheese for men loyal to the Prince.
The Welshman returned to the encampment leading a pack horse with the proffered food stuffs and sought out Roland. He signalled for him to follow as they walked to the edge of the encampment. Across the valley and beyond the nearer hills, higher peaks loomed jagged and white in the moonlight. Griff pointed to them.
“The pass at Bwlch y Gorddinan begins three miles beyond this valley,” he said. “The villagers tell me the way is bad—waist deep on a man since the storm and icy beneath the snow. We will have to lead the horses on foot. Dolwyddelan is but a mile beyond the top of the pass, if we can reach it.”
Roland nodded.
“The pass—how long is it?”
“Six miles—six very bad miles. But the villagers also told me five men had ridden into the pass two days ago, before the storm, and had not returned. That could be a good sign.”
“Unless we find their bodies up there,” Roland said quietly.
For a moment Griff looked stricken, then he barked out a laugh and slapped Roland on the shoulder.
“I’m never sure when yer jesting, English!”
Roland returned the man’s smile, but he hadn’t been jesting.
Fugitive at the Ford
Declan O’Duinne swung into the saddle of his dun palfrey and looked over his shoulder at the six men already mounted in the courtyard behind him. Most wore rough woollen cloaks around their shoulders against the biting cold wind that swirled through the gate of Shipbrook. It had been three days since Roland Inness and the Invalid Company rode off to Wales and it was time to resume the routine duties of patrolling this stretch of the border.
Declan heard a hound bark and looked up to see Sir Roger de Laval emerge from the timber and stone hall that took up almost half the space within the walls of the little fortress. The big Norman knight hurried down the steps to the cobbled courtyard and headed straight for his Master of the Sword. O’Duinne had to smile.
Still nimble for a big man…
“My lord,” he called. “Will ye be joinin’ us this morning?”
Sir Roger scowled as he approached.
“Nay,” he growled. “Would if I could, but Catherine is insisting that I sit with her while she goes over our accounts. God knows, I’ve avoided it as long as any man could, but she has me cornered.”
Declan wanted to laugh. Sir Roger de Laval, Lord of Shipbrook and lately commander of the King’s own heavy cavalry, loved peace, but hated attending to the business of peace.
“My sympathies,” offered Declan—and he meant it. The young Irish knight had spent a few years as Sir Roger’s squire and had been taught to read and to do sums by Lady Catherine de Laval so that he could assist her in the management of their lands. The woman could be very demanding when it came to such things as counting heads of cattle and bushels of barley. Now that he had been elevated to the position of Master of the Sword, Declan had other duties to attend to and was glad of it. He did not miss those sessions with Lady Catherine. “You’ll be missing a fine ride, though. Cold as hell, but look at that sky, blue as a maiden’s eye.”
Sir Roger laid a hand on the neck of the palfrey and looked up.
“Indeed, it is,” he said, wistfully, then lowered his eyes to meet those of the young Irish knight. “But you, Master O’Duinne, do not get drunk on the beauty of the day. I had reports of strange riders to the north yesterday. Probably nothing, but these patrols have a purpose and it’s not to take a fine ride. Be on your guard.”
Declan pulled back his cloak to reveal a mail shirt beneath.
“I always take precautions, my lord.”
Sir Roger gave him a wide grin and slapped Declan on the thigh.
“You’ve had good teachers! Enjoy your ride.”
***
The men seen north of Shipbrook the day before turned out to be two wealthy merchants from Runcorn who had managed to stray from the Chester road and get hopelessly lost. After an uncomfortable night in a peasant hut, the two had managed to find their way back to the proper path and were long gone.
“Likely warming their bums at the Ram’s Head about now,” said Baldric sourly, his cheeks a bright red from the blustery cold.
Declan nodded. Baldric hated the cold and was over-fond of ale, but he was a good man in a fight. He had proved his mettle a year ago, when he had stood in the line at Towcester. The Irishman expected no trouble this day, but was glad that Baldric was one of his six.
Its work done to the north, Declan led the patrol on a wide swing south and west heading for the ford of the Dee. No patrol from Shipbrook would be complete without a check of this shallow crossing. There, an ancient trail made its way across the river from northern Wales and into Cheshire. The small fort of Shipbrook existed to keep watch over this path that brought trade, but more often trouble, from the untamed lands of Gwynedd.
The day was still cloudless and a bit warmer by the time the patrol reached the river at mid-afternoon. Off to the west, the tops of the hills that separated the valley of the Dee from the valley of the Clwyd glistened white in the sun, the remnants of a fierce winter storm that had blown through the day before, leaving a good deal of snow at higher elevations. Roland and the Invalids were off somewhere in that direction and he hoped they were keeping to the lowlands.
Here at the Dee, Declan studied the bank where any riders would have exited the ford. There were some old tracks frozen in the mud, but no sign of any recent activity. Even with the hard freeze, any passage of mounted men would have made some mark upon the path, but he saw none. He looked at the thin crust of ice forming along the bank.
Too cold for traders or raiders, he thought.
A sound from the far shore interrupted hi
s inspection. He looked across the river to see a horse and rider gallop over the low rise that ran down to the ford. The rider whipped the horse frantically and urged it into the water, but the animal balked and almost threw his passenger at the river’s edge. Without hesitating, the rider leapt off the animal and plunged alone into the freezing water, which quickly rose to his chest as he struggled against the current toward English shore.
Declan looked at Baldric.
“What do ye suppose this is?”
Baldric just shrugged.
As the figure in the river reached mid-stream, all could see that it was a boy in the water, not a man, and that he was terrified. A moment later, the reason for his fear appeared on the far bank. Ten mounted men came over the rise and began shouting and pointing at the boy in the river. Their mounts did not hesitate, plunging into the waters of the Dee in hot pursuit.
Declan looked at Baldric and sighed. He gave a hand sign to the patrol to stay where they were, then dug his heels into the flanks of the dun and splashed into the river. He reached the boy well ahead of the pursuing riders. The lad was a strapping youth with long brown hair and a broad chest, but his face was very young and there was a nasty gash from his hairline to just above his right eye that still showed crusted black blood. The boy’s lips were blue from the cold and there was entreaty in his eyes.
“Helpa fi!” he cried out.
Declan’s passable understanding of Welsh wasn’t really needed to grasp the boy’s plea.
“Why should I?”
“They come…come to kill me,” the boy said, struggling a bit with English, his voice wavering as the cold caused his teeth to chatter.
The Irish knight would have questioned him a bit further, but the other riders were coming on and a big man in the lead drew his sword. The boy yelped and resumed his struggle toward the English side of the river. Declan watched the armed riders draw near and slowly drew his own sword. The man in the lead reined in just ten yards away.
“Stand aside!” he barked.
Declan smiled at the man.
“No.”
The men behind the leader began to edge forward. Behind him, Declan heard Baldric give terse orders to the Shipbrook men and heard the splashing as six horses entered the ford from the English bank. He swung around in his saddle and held up his hand to halt them, then swung back to the front.