by Wayne Grant
Dolwyddelan.
Lookouts on the ramparts of the castle saw the approach of the column and sounded hunting horns to raise the alarm. Soon a throng of men could be seen atop the stone keep and along the top of a timber palisade that ran around the top of the crag. For the first time in hours, Roland lifted his gaze from the treacherous path in front of him and looked around. Everywhere a blanket of white covered the high moorland, broken only by a few patches of gnarled trees. It was a stark place, but beautiful.
It was Llywelyn’s birthplace and the Prince had returned to it in his hour of need.
***
There was a huge clamor as Griff and Roland led the Invalid Company through the arched gate of Dolwyddelan. Some men cheered, others beat swords against anything handy, while dogs barked and ran frantically around the small courtyard. Llywelyn rode down himself to greet the newcomers, convinced they could only be friendlies. Even his bitterest enemies would have thought better than to risk the pass after a blizzard.
Roland hadn’t seen the Prince in two years and the man had lost none of his royal bearing. If anything, the extra years had added a note of gravity to the young noble’s countenance, though Llywelyn’s face this day was split by a huge smile that was a reminder of his youth.
The Prince was mounted on none other than The Surly Beast, the magnificent warhorse that Roland had traded for the use of eighty of Llywelyn’s longbowmen. Now, he led a hundred men of the Invalid Company to complete payment for that crucial aid. The Prince of Gwynedd leapt from his saddle to embrace Griff like a brother, then held him out at arm’s length.
“I knew you wouldn’t fail me! That lot said none could make it up here till a good thaw,” he shouted, waving his arm in the general direction of the castle. “But as soon as I heard the horn blast, I knew it was you!”
“I come bearing gifts, my lord,” Griff proclaimed with a flourish, pointing to the exhausted column of men strung out behind him. “The redoubtable Invalid Company and their commander, Sir Roland Inness!”
Llywelyn spied Roland and tromped through the snow to embrace him almost as enthusiastically as he had Griff.
“Sir Roland! Well met, sir—though I wish it were under more auspicious cirucumstances.”
Roland gave the man a small bow.
“My lord, if circumstances were better, we might have no need to meet. And perhaps we can help, in some small way, to change the current situation. I have come to fulfill Earl Ranulf’s debt of honour to you. We are at your service.”
Llywelyn clapped him on the shoulder.
“Good! Good! Ranulf can be a stiff one, but never did I doubt the man’s honour. Come, walk with me. Your men need food, drink and some warmth as well. They look frozen and hungry and we have much to discuss.”
The young Welsh noble took back the reins of The Surly Beast from one of his men, who had been barely restraining the ill-tempered warhorse. He led the way up a steep incline to the castle gate and into the courtyard.
“Quarters will be cramped, I’m afraid. I have eighty men here to garrison Dolwyddelan. It is a small keep.”
Roland looked around. For the birthplace of a Prince, it was a very modest place. There was a small stone gatehouse that faced south, connected by wooden palisades on the east and west to a square stone keep at the northern edge of the crag. It was bigger than Shipbrook, but not by much. Quarters would be crowded indeed.
Llywelyn saw Roland assessing the fortifications.
“My father had it built to guard against incursions from the south of Wales. This fort blocked one of the paths into Gwynedd. It’s a lonely spot. I was but a babe when last I lived here, but I always thought of it as home.”
“It reminds me of my own home back in Derbyshire,” Roland said, looking over the walls at the surrounding peaks. “I was raised in high country such as this.”
Llywelyn nodded.
“Home has a pull on a man’s heart, does it not?”
“Aye, my lord, it does. The Earl of Derby drove my people out of the mountains of Derbyshire and many long to return to it, though the new land granted by Earl Ranulf is rich. I will always hold Kinder Scout dear, but I have found a new home and am contented.”
“Lady Millicent?”
Roland grinned.
“Aye, lord. Millicent Inness is all the home I need.”
Llywelyn stopped at the arched door to the square keep.
“She’s a comely lass and full of spirit—I can vouch for that! You’ve married above yourself with that one, Sir Roland, and I’ll do my best to see you safe returned to her.”
“I’d be obliged, my lord.”
***
A pen had been built on a level spot below the fortress of Dolwyddelan for the horses Llywelyn had brought with him on his flight from the winter encampment. Men were immediately put to work expanding it to accommodate the mounts of the Invalid Company. Finding lodging for the men was a more difficult problem, as the castle itself could not so easily be enlarged.
Llywelyn’s steward scurried about as frantically as the hounds in the courtyard, seeking out any sheltered spot where the tired men could take some rest. Patch and Sergeant Billy kept a wary eye on him as he directed the new arrivals into storage sheds, empty grain bins and every other sort of unoccupied space, until all were out of the weather. The Invalids were simply grateful to escape the bitter cold and settled in next to their fellows without complaint.
Roland followed Llywelyn and Griff into the keep, which loomed three stories above his head. The bottom floor held most of the supplies for the castle along with spare arms. The Prince led them up a narrow stone stairway to the second floor, which was spacious and comfortably fitted-out with tables and chairs.
Two men sat at the table. Both were well into their middle years. One was almost painfully thin, with close-cropped greyish hair and an exuberant moustache that curled up at each end. He lounged casually, with his chair tipped back and his feet up on the tabletop. While his body was spare, his face was oddly round. He had lively dark eyes that spoke of a keen intelligence. Across the table was a man of thicker build, with a fringe of a beard at his jawline that had gone completely grey. His round face and dark eyes marked him unmistakably as kin to the man opposite, though his eyes seemed somehow dull and world-weary.
Brothers, Roland thought immediately.
The thinner man slowly lowered the chair to the floor and stood when Llywelyn entered the room. Seeing his brother rise, the man opposite grudgingly got to his feet.
“My lords, may I present Sir Roland Inness, vassal of Earl Ranulf of Chester, Commander of the redoubtable Invalid Company and proclaimed by King Richard himself as the greatest archer in all of England!” announced Llywelyn. Roland bowed toward the two men.
“Sir Roland, may I present my cousins, Lord Gruffydd,” the stocky man gave a slight nod, “and Lord Maredudd,” the thin man smiled, “rulers of Meirionnydd—and my allies.”
“I am honoured, my lords,” Roland said.
“How many men did you bring?” Gruffydd asked, bluntly.
“One hundred seven, my lord.”
“Hardly enough to frighten our uncles,” Maredudd said, still smiling.
“These are the Invalids,” Llywelyn interrupted. “I saw their worth with my own eyes in the Conwy valley two years ago. Had they not cut through Daffyd’s best men that day, I would not be standing here now. I’d not trade them for three times their number.”
“They are all crippled, are they not?” Maredudd asked, with genuine curiosity.
“All have been wounded—in body or in spirit, my lords,” said Roland, a bit defensively, “but not a one is crippled.”
“They fought in your King’s crusade, did they not?”
“Aye, most did.”
Gruffydd snorted.
“As soon as your King set sail in search of glory, or salvation for his soul, we should’ve invaded and taken back all the land you Normans stole from us—but Daffyd and Roderic did nothing.”
Roland bristled. He had ridden through a blizzard and struggled through waist deep snow to reach this place and was in no mood for insults.
“I am no Norman, my lord.”
“He’s a Dane!” Griff offered, helpfully.
Roland fixed Gruffydd with a stare.
“I doubt you Welsh will ever recover what you have lost and certainly not as long as you busy yourselves killing your own brothers, cousins and uncles...my lord.”
For a moment there was a frozen silence in the room, then Maredudd let loose with a cackling laugh.
“That is the truth, sure enough, sir, but you must not begrudge us if we kill just two more of our kinsmen! That is why my brother and I are here. It is time for Gwynedd to be whole. It will never happen with Roderic and Daffyd squatting on the two halves of our land. We are hopeful that our young cousin here,” he nodded toward Llywelyn, “can unite us, as our grandfather once did. That will make the English tremble when they look across the Dee.”
“But of course, we have no ambitions beyond the natural borders of Gwynedd,” Llywelyn added, staring pointedly at his two cousins. Gruffydd snorted again, but Maredudd seemed to suddenly remember that Roland was here as a vassal of one of the great English Marcher Lords—a man who had his own ideas where natural borders lay.
“None, whatsoever,” he said hastily.
Roland watched this little drama play out and understood Earl Ranulf’s concerns more clearly now. How events played out here in Wales would surely be felt in Cheshire and beyond for years to come.
“And we don’t kill all of our kin, Sir Roland,” Llywelyn added cheerily. “Gruffydd and Maredudd have managed to avoid killing each other through ten years of joint rule!”
“Though I have been tempted,” Gruffydd muttered.
“Now it is time to finally deal with our uncles. Daffyd has hunted me like a dog for seven years and Roderic has kept his thumb on my dear cousins for longer than that. It is time for them to go.”
“So what is the plan, my lords?” Roland asked, relieved that his own sharp response had not soured the project from the outset. There was a pained silence all around. Llywelyn finally cleared his throat and spoke.
“We have not...agreed upon a course of action...as yet.”
Roland’s heart sank a bit at this awkward admission by the Prince of Gwynedd. He had seen how difficult it was to forge a coherent plan between allies during the long siege of Acre. There, the Germans had a plan, as did the French, as did each of the European contingents. Under King Guy’s leadership, there had been only loose coordination, at best. It was a situation remedied only when King Richard finally took firm command of the host. It appeared that Llywelyn, in desperate need of aid from his cousins, was in no position to dictate as Richard had done. It was yet another layer of complexity he would have to sort out.
Still, there had to be a plan.
“Tell me what forces you can bring to a fight, my lord,” Roland asked mildly. Llywelyn seemed relieved to move the discussion from politics and fratricide to strategy.
“I’ve eighty men here and I’ve sent two hundred more on to my cousins’ domain of Meirionnydd. I’ve between four and five hundred men scattered between two winter camps near the border with Powys. Your Invalid Company has one hundred or so and my cousins have another four hundred they can muster in Meirionnydd.”
“Over twelve hundred men in all—a formidable force,” said Griff.
“Aye, but we estimate Daffyd can bring five hundred of his own men to the field and Roderic, if he takes some men from his garrisons at Aberffraw and Caenarfon, can muster a thousand or more,” Maredudd said.
“Then there are the men who attacked us at our winter camp,” said Llywelyn. “I had little time to stop and make their acquaintance, but I know they were not Welsh. Word has reached me that there are longships beached on the east bank of the Conwy—down near Llywrst. So they are probably Irish mercenaries.”
Griff spoke up.
“Irish, after a fashion, my lord. We found the boy, Pedr, wandering about the ruins of the winter camp. He hid during the attack and was left behind. He saw the leader. They called him Haakon.”
A dark look stole across Llywelyn’s face and he slammed a fist down on the table.
“Haakon the Black! I should have known. That will be Roderic’s doing,” he said fiercely. “That man has gone begging to his wife’s father for aid and the King of the Isles has sent these Danish scavengers to our shores. No doubt it was Roderic who supplied their mounts and who will supply their silver—for I doubt the King of the Isles is that generous, even for his daughter’s sake. My uncle will regret this—I swear!” The Prince’s face had turned a bright red.
“They caught two of our lads,” Griff said softly. “Gwilyn and Caden. They died hard.”
Roland could see Llywelyn’s jaw tense as he fought to keep his temper from boiling over.
“If this be Haakon, I will make him rue the day he left Dublin,” he said finally and seemed to gather himself. “The last of my spies reached me before the storm came with news of these Northmen. Twenty men guard their boats at Llywrst and the rest have marched upstream to block the valley where the Conwy enters Eryri. They sit there, across our most direct route out of these hills, like a bung in a hole. My man counted four hundred of them.”
“We saw riders at the Conwy ford further upstream when we crossed,” said Griff. “They saw us as well. I would guess they will be blocking that exit as well.”
Silence fell around the room as all contemplated the likelihood that the only two routes back into the heartland of Gywnedd were closed to them.
“So we are hemmed in and the enemy has near twice our numbers,” said Roland finally.
Llywelyn nodded.
“Aye.”
“But they are scattered, are they not, my lord?”
“Usually they are,” said Llywelyn. “Daffyd’s men guard villages and forts from the Dee to the Conwy and Roderic has large garrisons at Caernarfon and Bangor, plus troops watching over the isle of Anglesey. But now that they have thrown in together, they have concentrated their men near Deganwy at the mouth of the Conwy, or so they had a week ago when my last spy slipped by the Danes. I think, like us, they have not yet decided where to strike. They cannot assail me here and the rest of my men are scattered to the east near the border with Powys. If they move on them, they’ll just vanish across the border. So I present no clear target to march against and they do not know—yet—that my cousins have joined me.”
“So we are scattered and they are united.”
“I believe that captures the situation.”
“Then we must split the uncles and unite our own forces.”
“Brilliant!” Gruffydd said, making no effort to hide his sarcasm. “We concluded that two days ago. So how are we to do that Englishman?”
“I don’t know,” Roland admitted. He did know he was no longer thinking clearly. The struggle up the pass had exhausted him no less than the Invalids who had collapsed into whatever cramped quarters offered them hours ago. Llywelyn seemed to have recognized that his new ally was at the end of his rope.
“Sir Roland, I have been a poor host. I will have food brought to you. You may take quarters with Griff. The room is small, but it is the best I can offer. Let us take up this problem on the morrow.”
Roland nodded wearily.
“Thank you, my lord, but let me see to my men before I retire.”
He took his leave of the rebel leaders and walked down the stone steps to the first floor of the keep. In a corner he saw Patch and Sergeant Billy curled up and snoring. If Patch and Billy were content, he knew that the men were safely settled in. Griff came down the steps behind him and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Come with me, English. I am dead on my feet.”
What to do with a Madawc
They let the exhausted boy sleep until well after dawn, when he stumbled out into the great hall, still a little unsteady on his fe
et. Lady Catherine put aside a scroll she was working on when she saw him.
“Good morn to you, Rhys. How does the head feel this day?”
The boy raised fingers to the gash and examined the newly-forming scab.
“Passable, my lady, passable. You have my thanks for tending to it.”
“Are you able to ride, lad? My husband has the patrol duties today and is already off, but Sir Declan is about and he thought you might wish to visit your father’s grave. His men buried him on a rise overlooking the ford.”
Rhys nodded.
“I would, my lady, and I’m sure I can sit a horse, though I lost mine at the ford. She ran a good race, she did, but the water just spooked her.”
“We have horses aplenty here, son. I’ll send a groom to saddle you one and let Declan know you are stirring, but first, have some breakfast.”
The boy unconsciously touched his stomach.
“I’m obliged to you, my lady.”
Lady Catherine led him back into the kitchen where a small kettle of pottage was warming at the edge of the cook fire. Cook was gone to the root cellar, so she spooned the warm contents into a bowl and handed it to the boy who found a stool and quickly tucked into the meal. After a few bites, he stopped and looked up at her.
Catherine smiled, a little embarrassed that she had been caught watching him.
“I did not mean to stare, Rhys, but you so remind me of your sire. He hunched over his food, just as you do!”
The boy furrowed his brow at that.
“Tell me about him, my lady.”
How to tell of Alwyn Madawc?
“Very well, but there is much to tell, so please eat while I tell it. Sir Alwyn was a Welshman through and through, with all of the better angels of that race and only a few of the devils. He was a warrior of renown and my husband’s dearest friend—mine as well. He was loyal to his last breath.”
“How did he die?” the boy asked, pausing for a moment from his breakfast. “Your husband says he died saving you and your daughter.”