by Wayne Grant
“Give us the boy!” the Welshman snarled.
“Why do you want him?”
The man hesitated for a second.
“He’s a thief,” he said.
Declan could see the lie in the man’s eyes.
“It didn’t look like the lad had anything of value on him when he passed by me,” Declan said, still smiling. Then he edged his horse forward, his smile gone. “Turn around and get back to your own side of the river. We of Shipbrook do not let armed Welshmen cross the Dee.”
The big man’s face grew red and he spurred his horse forward, raising his sword to strike. Declan watched him come and waited. The man stood in his stirrups, leaned over his horse’s neck and swung his sword in a vicious downward arc. It would have been a killing stroke against a lesser swordsman.
Declan rose in his stirrups and used the tip of his blade to deflect the slash harmlessly to the side. The Welshman found himself off balance and in the next instant had the tip of a sword pressed at his throat.
“Drop it in the river!” Declan ordered and pressed the point into the man’s flesh. A thread of blood trickled from where the blade touched. The man tried to lean backwards, away from the threatening blade, but Declan clucked to the dun and the big horse edged forward, keeping the point under the Welshman’s chin. The man locked eyes with the Irish knight for a moment and did not like what he saw there. His jaw clinched, but he opened his hand and the sword disappeared into the brown water. Declan clucked to his horse again and it edged back a few feet.
It had all happened so fast that the riders behind had not been able to react, sitting as though frozen in the cold river. Their leader, now a safe distance from the point of Declan’s sword, twisted in his saddle and snarled a command. They now surged forward as though released from a spell.
Declan gave a signal to his own men who lowered their lances and moved forward to meet them. The Welshmen reined in without the need of a command from their leader. With no room to manoeuvre, their swords would be no match for lances. The big man who led them cursed and gave a command through clinched teeth. The men behind wheeled their horses around and made for the Welsh side of the Dee. When they had scrambled back onto dry land, the leader turned.
“You will regret this, Englishman,” he shouted and spit in the swirling water between them.
Declan gave him a friendly wave and called back.
“Actually, I’m Irish!”
***
The patrol clattered through the gate as the sun dipped below the horizon. Declan had hauled the wet, shivering boy up behind him and thrown his own cloak over the lad’s shoulders to keep him from freezing on the ride back to Shipbrook. As soon as he reined to a stop, his passenger slid to the ground and offered the cloak back.
“I am…obliged, sir.”
Declan dismounted as Sir Roger appeared at the top of the steps. The big Norman knight looked at the wet boy, then at Declan.
“What have ye brought me now, Sir Declan?
“My lord, I have a fugitive to be sure. A band of unsavoury types thought to cross over the Dee onto your lands—apparently to seize this lad. Claimed he was a thief, but I’ve seen naught of any value on his person. Young fellow threw himself on my mercy. That is all I know, my lord. I thought it best to bring him here straight away before he froze solid.”
Sir Roger inspected the new arrival closely. The boy did not flinch.
“We’ll need to have that gash seen to,” he said, leaning in to look at the wound on the boy’s forehead, “but it’s not bleeding.” Finished with his inspection of the injury he leaned back.
“What brings you across the Dee, lad?” he asked in Welsh.
The boy hesitated for a long moment, then spoke, in passable English.
“I come to find…my father, my lord.”
“Father? I can tell from yer speech, yer Welsh, sure enough, but there are few Welshmen that I know of hereabouts. Why do ye think yer father would be here in Cheshire?”
“My mother, lord. She told me, before she died, that he had found a place for himself here by the ford of the Dee. She said he was at a place they call Shipbrook. Is this that place?”
Sir Roger arched an eyebrow.
“Shipbrook, you say?”
“Aye, it’s the name she said.”
“Well, this is Shipbrook, sure enough, lad, but I’m afraid she was mistaken. For certain, there are no Welshmen here, but what is yer sire’s name? Perhaps I know of him.”
“His name is Madawc, my lord—Alwyn Madawc.”
***
Declan and Sir Roger lounged on a nearby bench as Lady Catherine hovered near the boy as he wolfed down two bowls of mutton stew and an entire loaf of black bread. She had taken him into the kitchen where the cook fire would warm him and where she could get a better look at the gash in his head.
“It should have been stitched days ago,” she said, as she held a candle near the boy’s forehead to throw more light on the wound. “It will heal, but there’ll be a considerable scar.”
“No matter,” the boy mumbled.
He flinched just a bit as the mistress of Shipbrook began dabbing carefully at the wound with a wet cloth, but did not pull away. One of the servants was sent to fetch dry clothes, while Lady Catherine finished her ministrations. Once done, she sat back and let him eat in peace until he had used the last of the bread to sop up the last of the stew.
“What’s yer name, lad?”
“Rhys, my lady—Rhys Einion.”
Sir Roger and Declan exchanged glances. The name meant nothing to either of them, nor it seemed to Lady Catherine. It was not a name they had ever heard Alwyn Madawc speak. Still, the boy seemed very certain of his connection to their old friend, so he must be told. Sir Roger cleared his throat.
“Master Einion, I will want to hear the circumstances of your birth and what led you here in search of Sir Alwyn Madawc, be he your true sire or no. But it would be…unkind of me to withhold the news that the man you seek died three years ago.”
He watched the boy freeze, a look of incomprehension on his face.
“Died?” he whispered, his voice hardly more than a croak.
“Aye, I’m sorry, lad. Sir Alwyn Madawc was my oldest and dearest friend—a friend to all here at Shipbrook. He was a great warrior and the bravest man I ever knew. He died saving the life of my wife and my daughter. He killed many men the day they brought him low. We have mourned his loss every day since. He is buried on the Welsh side of the Dee, near where you crossed.”
The boy gave a small, animal groan as his head sank to his chest.
“Dead. Alwyn Madawc, dead,” he mumbled. “I’ve come fer nuthin’.”
Sir Roger placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Time will tell if yer journey was for naught, lad. Whether Alwyn Madawc was your father or no, he was the best man I ever knew and I’m sorry ye’ve come too late to make his acquaintance. But tell me, why do ye think he was yer sire? Sir Alwyn never spoke of a son and the man I knew would not have kept such a thing secret. If ye be his child, he knew naught of ye. But you say your mother told you this?”
The boy looked up. His eyes were glistening and there was a weariness in his slumped shoulders.
“Aye, m’lord. She told me this on her deathbed—told me she had once loved a man named Alwyn Madawc, and that he was my true sire, not the man I called father.”
“You say she named Alwyn as your sire, but whose name do you bear?” Lady Catherine asked gently.
The boy’s jaw tightened.
“Until my mother revealed her secret, I took her husband, Talfryn Einion, to be my father, though he barely acknowledged me. Now I understand why. Our small corner of Wales is a poor one, but Talfryn Einion governs it with a fist of iron—a fist I felt many times, as did my mother. He must have suspected I was not his get from the start. My mother feared what would become of me after she passed—feared what Talfryn might do. That’s why she told me of Alwyn Madawc.”
&nb
sp; “And what was yer mother’s name?”
“It was Derryth, lord, though all called her Derry.”
Sir Roger stole a glance at Catherine, who looked stricken. Long ago Alwyn had told them the story of his flight from Wales. He had fallen in love with a young woman—a woman married to a powerful man.
The girl’s name had been Derryth.
He had told the basics of the tale to Sir Roger and, as his friendship with Lady Catherine grew, revealed more of the story to her. Derryth had been high-born and beautiful. She was betrothed as a child to Talfryn, the eldest son of the local ruler. But as she grew into her beauty, she caught the eye of young Alwyn Madawc, who was smitten. The story should have ended there, but against all odds, beautiful Derryth was equally taken with young Alwyn. In despair, Derryth had confessed her feelings to her mother, but the woman had been unmoved by such youthful yearnings.
In Alwyn’s telling, the girl had to choose between her family and all she had ever known—and him. With a broken heart, she went through with her marriage, but not before giving herself one secret night to her young lover. Soon after the wedding, rumours began to spread that Talfryn Einion had been made a cuckold.
When word reached Derryth that suspicion had fallen on Alwyn, she begged him to flee, knowing that neither her husband, nor his powerful kin would brook any tarnish to their family name. Alwyn recognized the danger and begged her to come with him, but she would not, could not, bring herself to leave the only home she had ever known.
He had no choice but to run or die and made it over the border just ahead of a band of Talfryn’s warriors. In the years that followed he had taken service with the Earl of Chester and had become the boon companion of Sir Roger de Laval. He had also made the acquaintance of many of the maids in Cheshire, but had never taken one to wife. Those who knew him well, knew why.
Sir Roger gave the boy’s shoulder a pat.
“There is much to tell about the man you’ve named father, lad, but first tell us what happened after yer mother passed.”
“I did not run!” he said, defiance in his voice. “My mother told me that Talfryn never had any real proof of her betrayal and with Alwyn Madawc gone, the rumours finally faded away. But Talfryn never forgot! I believe he would have denounced her and cast me out, had my mother’s family not been nearly as powerful as his own. So, he swallowed his bile and took many mistresses while my mother played the dutiful wife. Me, he mostly ignored, but I knew, even as a small boy, that he hated me.”
“So, when your mother passed, you stayed?”
“Aye, my lord, and I would be there still, but the choice was taken from my hands. I ran because Talfryn sent men to kill me.”
Sir Roger raised a quizzical eyebrow and pointed to the gash in the boy’s head. Rhys nodded.
“Aye, lord, a week after my mother died, I was summoned by Talfryn. He ordered me to deliver his monthly tithe to Saint Asaph’s church. It’s a half day’s ride to the north of our land. I thought it odd that I was sent, for I had never been assigned this duty before. Talfryn usually sent three or more of his men, well-armed, to deliver the funds. It wasn’t a fortune, but in those parts, men would kill for much less than what was in that bag of silver.”
“In these parts as well, lad,” Sir Roger said.
“But I was sent alone, lord. That worried me, so I took my sword and wore my helmet and hoped for no trouble.”
“But trouble found you. Talfryn’s men, I suppose?”
“Aye, lord. On the loneliest stretch of the trail to Saint Asaph’s, they waited for me. I was on my guard, but these were my father’s men. I did not know what to do, until they drew their swords. It was my good fortune that the trail was narrow at that spot, for they could not all come at me at once. I managed a lucky blow that unhorsed the first man in, but the second stuck me in the helmet and gave me this gash. I turned and rode for my life, not stopping in our small village as I passed, though I threw the bag of silver to old Tomas the village smith as I galloped past. Still, I have no doubt they will have branded me a thief.”
“The man at the ford accused him of that,” offered Declan.
“That would be Morgant, Talfryn’s right hand. I knew I was pursued, but did not know who led the chase until I made it to the Dee. He is a dangerous man. He would have had me when my horse balked at the river’s edge, were it not for yer Irish knight there,” he said, giving a respectful nod to Declan.
“My pleasure,” Declan said with a grin.
Sir Roger had a few more questions for the boy, but Lady Catherine intervened.
“Roger, the lad is all wrung out,” she said sternly. “We will let him rest before there is any more talk. Come with me, Rhys.”
The Welsh boy tried to rise but his knees would not hold him and he sank back onto the bench. Sir Roger and Declan did not have to be told to lend a hand. Together they helped him back to his feet and across the hall. There was a small cell there with a cot used for travellers given the hospitality of Shipbrook on their journeys. They lay the boy down and slipped out into the hall. All three exchanged glances.
“His tale rings true,” said Sir Roger, as they gathered by the hearth. “Can it be that he is truly Alwyn’s son?”
Lady Catherine sniffed.
“Did you even look at the boy, Roger? Did you not see the shape of the chin and the colour of his eyes? There is no doubt what seed this sapling sprang from! He is Alwyn’s child,” she said with finality.
Sir Roger shrugged.
“You see with a woman’s eye, Cathy. I just see a boy in a lot of trouble. But his story persuades me. I concede he is a Madawc, though a bastard.”
Catherine had started toward the hall, but swung around and pointed a finger at her husband.
“And what should that matter to you, Roger de Laval? Good God, but you Normans are such prig’s when it comes to legitimacy! He is blood of Alwyn’s blood!”
Sir Roger had taken a half-step backwards, but stopped with her finger touching his chest, and retreated no further.
“Every race has its customs, Catherine, as you know well,” he said calmly. “I can name a few Saxon practices that make what little hair I have stand on end, but you have misunderstood me in this. I intended no disparagement of the boy. He is Alwyn’s. I care not how he came to be so. He had nothing to do with his parentage, but his parentage has everything to do with his future. His cuckolded father has already shown his hand. He cannot go home again. We must help the lad find his way.”
Catherine lowered her hand and smiled at her husband.
“Then we are of one mind, my lord,” she said sweetly.
Dolwyddelan
There were stars in the predawn sky above Eryri when Sergeant Billy roused a few of the men to load the pack horses with their dwindling food stocks. He took special care to inspect the lashings and balance of each animal’s pack. An unbalanced horse on an icy mountain track could be lost in an instant and might take a man or two and needed supplies along for the plunge. Satisfied that the loads were well secured, he began to rouse the rest of the men with his usual bluff good humor.
“Up, lads, up! It’s cold as a witch’s teat and a good day to be a soldier! Up, now!”
Men groaned and a few complained loudly, but all were up in minutes and about their morning duties. Some walked a few steps out of camp to relieve themselves. Others trudged toward the horse line to saddle their mounts. Steam rose all around as the warm breath of horses and men met the bitter cold of the dawn. Roland threw his saddle over the back of The Grey and fed the horse a few handfuls of grain. Other men were beginning to mount and he did the same. Griff came up to join him.
“At least we have clear weather for the attempt,” he said, glancing up at a sky that was deep blue and cloudless.
“Aye,” Roland said, “but I’ve wondered—what shall we do if we conquer the pass and reach this Dolwyddelan and find your master is not there.”
For a moment, Griff seemed at a loss for words, as though th
is thought had not once occurred to him. But then he recovered.
“I’ve followed Llywelyn since he was fourteen, English. I was with him when there were but three of us, then a dozen, then hundreds. If I do not know his mind by now, I am a blind man. He is there alright.”
“Then let’s go greet him!” Roland said, as he clucked to The Grey and headed down into the valley that led to the pass.
***
The pass of Bwlch y Gorddinan was a nightmare. The storm had added two feet of fresh powder to the half a foot of hard pack that had covered the pass the week before. The villagers had been sceptical they could traverse the thing, but Griff seemed unconcerned. When they reached the bottom of the narrow defile that led up into the hills, the order was given for men to dismount.
A slight depression in the unmarked snow showed where the buried path clung to the eastern flank of the pass. As they started to climb, leading their horses by the bridle, the snow rose to their knees, then to their waists. As men in the lead grew exhausted from breaking through the crusting snow, others moved up the column to take their turn at this arduous task. Seamus Murdo, using his huge bulk to advantage, led the column for most of an hour before finally falling back, drenched in sweat despite the miserable cold.
Early on, the frozen track rose high above the valley floor. One horse, straying too far from the line of march, slid down an icy slope and tangled itself in a maze of boulders at the bottom of the narrow cleft. The animal thrashed and tried to rise, but its leg had snapped. Its rider asked to climb down and put the beast out of its misery, but Roland refused. In his cold calculations, he could lose a horse, but not a man. The march continued until the dying animal was finally out of sight..
All morning and into the afternoon, the long column struggled up the pass until, at last, the slope began to flatten. The path now ran nearly flat along a broadening valley floor, though steep hills still loomed on each side. As the sun began to cast long shadows to the east, the head of the column rounded a bend to see a square stone keep on a high crag that overlooked the valley from the west.