A Prince of Wales

by Wayne Grant

  “That would cause Roderic to panic, if it were harvest time. But as you can see, it is the dead of winter. We might carry off a few cows and burn a granary or two, but the fields are frozen with nothing much to steal or despoil there.”

  While they spoke, men had begun to rise and stumble out into the courtyard. Some headed for the cook shed, but others began to drift over to where the two men were so intently engaged in conversation. Both noticed the growing interest.

  “I could stretch my legs,” said Griff pointedly and Roland nodded his agreement. Together they crossed the courtyard and walked out through the arched gate of Dolwyddelan. The sun was fully up now and wherever it struck the drifts, the morning light sparkled like diamonds. Roland looked around.

  “It’s beautiful up here.”

  Griff scannned the valley below the fortress as they trudged along.

  “Aye, and safe too, but we are short provisions.”

  “Two days I’m told.”

  Griff gave him a hard look.

  “Our people talk too freely.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that we will have to move in two days or start to eat the horses. And we have no plan.”

  They walked along in silence for a while, save for the crunch of their boots on the crusted snow. Abruptly, Griff stopped and grasped Roland’s arm.

  “Aberffraw!”

  The name sounded familiar to Roland, but he could not recall its significance.

  “What of it?”

  “It’s but a small village on Anglesey, but Roderic keeps his Ilys—his royal court—there. Aberffraw holds a special meaning for the people of Gwynedd. The village was chosen by Anarawd, son of Rhodri the Great, three hundred years ago to be the seat of his family dynasty. It’s been seen as the centre of royal authority in Gwynedd ever since. Princes of Gwynedd may rule from wherever they choose, but most have recognized the value of ruling from there. At Aberffraw, there is a low stone enclosure and a handsome great hall where Roderic holds court and issues his edicts, but no real fortifications.”

  “So, we strike at Aberffraw?”

  Roland watched, as mounting excitement played over the usually stolid face of the tall Welshman.

  “Aye, aye, if Llywelyn seized the royal court and proclaimed himself Prince of Gwynedd from that sacred place…”

  “Roderic would panic and march to take it back.”

  “He would!” said Griff with absolute certainty.

  “Then we have at least part of a plan. How do we get to Anglesey?”

  Griff shook his head.

  “As you know, Anglesey’s an island. It is separated from the mainland by the Strait of Menai. The strait is hardly more than the width of a river in places, but it is deep and there are difficult currents. There is a ferry that crosses the narrowest section, but it would take most of a day to get enough men across. And the ferry is less than a day’s march from Roderic’s garrison at Caenarfon. We would not be able to cross unseen or unmolested.”

  “We will have to find a way, but there is another problem,” Roland said.

  Griff cocked his head.

  “If we seize Aberffraw, what will keep Roderic and his brother from marching together to meet us there?”

  The Welshman rubbed his chin.

  “Daffyd would rather stay near his own territory, no doubt of that. But if they thought there was a chance to bring Llywelyn to battle at Aberffraw with their united forces, he would go. So, that is a problem. The uncles would still be united and the flat land of Anglesey is no place to fight a battle if you’re outnumbered.”

  By now, they had reached the bottom of the path leading from the castle to the valley floor. The snow still lay deep, but the temperature had continued to climb along with the morning sun and the signs of melting were everywhere.

  “What if we seized the fortress at Deganwy? You said yourself that Daffyd keeps half his treasury there, but it might be taken by surprise assault. Daffyd would not march off to Anglesey if we seized his treasury.”

  “Aye, but I also said we couldn’t just parade through the uncles’ encampment on our way to attack the fort without raising the alarm.”

  Roland nodded.

  “So, we have a plan—seize Aberffraw, if we can get there, and take Deganwy, if we can surprise the place.”

  “With that many ifs, it’s not much of a plan,” said Griff dryly, as they began trudging back up the slushy track to the castle. Roland slapped him on the back.

  “It’s a beginning, Griff, and I’ve begun with worse!”

  ***

  “Aberffraw?” Prince Llywelyn snorted. “Why not just take London and declare myself King of the English? Sir Roland, I know you made the plan that took Chester back from the Earl of Derby. It was a brilliant diversion and a bold assault you made to open the Bridgegate, but this is no plan. Roderic’s court might not be fortified, but we would need wings to get there! You do know it’s on an island, do you not?”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “There is the ferry at the Menai Strait, but we’d need to march thirty miles through mountain passes and slip by the garrison at Caenarfon. Hardly likely.”

  “Aye, lord,” chimed in Griff. “Using the ferry would not be advisable.”

  “Well, we can’t swim the strait!” Llywelyn said heatedly.

  “No, my lord, we can’t,” said Griff. “We will need boats, but cannot use the ferry.”

  “And where shall we find these boats?”

  At this, Griff stood and walked over to the fire burning in the hearth.

  Where to find boats…

  He looked back at the men gathered around the table and blinked. Then a small grin creased his usually solemn face. He gestured toward Llywelyn’s cousins, who had been watching this debate with barely concealed boredom.

  “It occurs to me, as I look upon my lords Gruffydd and Maredudd, that there are boats in Meirionnydd,” he said, “lots of them.”

  Gruffydd looked startled, but Maredudd’s eyes lit up. He turned to Llywelyn.

  “Your man is right, cousin. Recall that Meirionnydd has little farmland. It’s why our dear Uncle Roderic gave it to us. But we do have the sea, and many of our folk are fishermen. We have boats that could make the voyage around Llyn and on to Anglesey.”

  “Fishing boats? How many?” Llywelyn asked.

  Maredudd turned to Gruffydd.

  “What would you guess, brother. Thirty vessels sturdy enough for such a voyage?”

  Gruffydd shrugged.

  “About that.”

  “How many men could we transport?” Llywelyn asked eagerly, his irritation at a foolish plan was starting to turn to enthusiasm.

  Gruffydd took a moment to pick something from his teeth.

  “Six hundred, give or take a few score. Enough for most of the men here and those waiting in Meirionnydd—but not enough for your men in the eastern camps or these English,” he said, jerking his head toward Roland.

  “But it would be enough to take Aberffraw with Roderic and his thousand men camped at Deganwy!” Llywelyn said as he rose from his seat and began pacing the room.

  “Aberffraw sits hardly a mile up the Ffraw River from the coast,” Maredudd said, warming to this new idea, “but the river would be too shallow for our boats. As I recall, there is a fine little bay with a good sandy shore near its mouth. We can beach the boats and reach the town before anyone can prepare.”

  “They’d hardly have time to close the gate!” Gruffydd added, starting to get caught up in the idea of storming the royal Ilys.

  “By God, that would shock my uncle!” said Llywelyn. “He will not sit there at Deganwy while I warm his seat in Aberffraw!”

  He turned back to face Roland, a little of the fire going out of his countenance.

  “It’s a start, sir, but only that. If they think they can trap me on Anglesey, both brothers will march there. Six hundred men could not stand against such a host.”

  Roland had stayed silent as the idea of a wa
terborne attack on Anglesey had taken hold of the Prince and his cousins. While the men around the table had exulted at the thought of tweaking Lord Roderic by taking Aberffraw, he had been thinking about the next move.

  “My lord, timing will be everything for this plan to work. Your seizure of Aberffraw must draw both of your uncles south. Only then will the way be clear for us to mount a surprise assault on Deganwy Castle. If Daffyd doesn’t move, then there is no hope of taking the place. But if he does, we let him march a day south while we take his fortress from him. He will then countermarch, leaving Roderic to face you alone.

  “With at least a thousand men, Sir Roland, and perhaps another four hundred mercenaries!” Llywelyn shouted, slamming his fist down on the table. “Of what use is drawing Daffyd back to Deganwy, if Roderic alone can slaughter me and all my men at Aberffraw?”

  “But you will not be at Aberffraw when Roderic arrives, my lord.”

  The room fell silent for a moment as Llywelyn stared at Roland.

  “What do you mean?” he asked finally, confusion written on his face.

  “My lord, once you are certain that Roderic is across the Menai Strait and marching on Aberffraw, you must take ship once more and sail for the mouth of the Conwy River.”

  The room fell silent once more. The men around the table exchanged questioning glances. It was Griff who first grasped the logic.

  “Deganwy!” he exclaimed and pounded a fist on the table. He looked first at Roland who nodded agreement, then turned to Maredudd.

  “How long would it take to sail around Anglesey to Deganwy, my lord?”

  Maredudd squinted into the middle distance trying to estimate the distance and time.

  “Twelve hours—maybe more, maybe less—depending on the winds.”

  Griff turned back to Llywelyn.

  “And how long would it take Roderic to march back to Deganwy from Aberffraw, my lord?”

  Llywelyn was starting to grasp the plan. He placed both palms on the table and leaned forward.

  “Two days for cavalry—three for foot! By God, it might work! We draw them both south, then seize Deganwy Castle—Daffyd keeps a horde of his silver there. He will countermarch back as fast as he can drive his men. Griff, you could gather our men out on the border with Powys and when Daffyd returns to Deganwy, he will find that I am not in Anglesey. I will be waiting for him on his own ground along with all of my men. Those odds will be better than even with Roderic two day’s march away!”

  Again, the room fell silent as all saw the shining possibility of facing Daffyd, alone, in open battle. Llywelyn was the first to break the spell. He turned back to Griff.

  “But how do we seize Deganwy Castle?”

  Griff shrugged, his face going solemn once more.

  “This plan to split the brothers is not my own, my lord. Perhaps Sir Roland can answer that.”

  All eyes swung back to Roland. Another lesson from Sir Roger came to his mind.

  There is no need to coat the truth with honey.

  “I don’t know, my lord, but if it must be done, we will find a way.”

  Llywelyn frowned at this.

  “Sir Roland, you have devised a clever plan—brilliant even—but dangerous. Still, it is more than any of us have been able to arrive at over the past week. We have two days of food and fodder left, so please tell me how we will take Deganwy Castle before it is gone.”

  “Aye, my lord,”

  ***

  For the remainder of the day, Roland pondered the nettlesome problem of Deganwy. Deganwy could not be approached until most of the enemy host had crossed the Conwy and it must be taken before they crossed over to Anglesey. But how to do that?

  He conferred with Patch, Sergeant Billy and Fancy Jack. All had ideas, but all fell apart under hard questioning. He huddled with Griff for an hour considering whether they could march the men in the winter camps to the fort and seize it, but concluded that the arrival of five hundred mounted men at Deganwy would make a surprise assault impossible and that five hundred were not enough to take the place if the defenders were alerted.

  As the sun sank below the hills to the west, Roland ate a quick supper of hard cheese and bread and retired to his cell with a candle to sit and think. Sir Roger had always counselled keeping plans simple, but there seemed no simple answer to scattering the enemy’s forces and concentrating their own. Finally, his brain full of cobwebs, he blew out the candle and curled up on his mat.

  ***

  It was well past midnight when Roland arose, his heart pounding and his chest heaving. It was the damned dream again—horsemen on a frozen field thundering toward him. As always, he had turned to run for the woods as the riders drew near. He could hear the horses snort and the men shout. But something was different this time. In this dream, the cries were not in the Gaelic or the Dutch of Prince John’s mercenaries. These words he understood plainly.

  They were Danish.

  “Griff!”

  Griff Connah had been snoring contentedly in his own corner and rose in a panic, searching for his sword in the pitch dark.

  “Griff, Griff! Calm yourself. There is no danger.”

  The sounds of the Welshman rummaging for his weapon stopped.

  “What then,” the man rasped.

  “I have the rest of our plan!”

  “It had best be good, English,” he managed, groggily.

  “We are going to steal the boats!”

  “Boats?”

  “Aye, Haakon’s longships! Llywelyn’s spy said they were drawn up on the bank of the Conwy with only a score of men to guard them. The Invalids will have no trouble dealing with twenty men. So, we take the boats, row down the Conwy, land at Deganwy and march right up to the gate. The men Daffyd leaves behind when he marches south will think we are their Danish allies. Before they realize we are not, we take the fort!”

  Griff did not respond at once and Roland wished fervently that he could pierce the darkness to see the look on his companion’s face. Finally, the Welshman spoke.

  “I’ll grant ye, that you and the Invalids are the only folk we have who have taken and held a fort,” he said, “but what of Haakon? He is blocking the road out of these hills with four hundred men.”

  “Griff, I grew up in country such as this. There are always paths known to folk in the hills that avoid the valleys. For this, we will not need horses. Find me a local boy and he will lead us round the Danes to their boats.”

  “And how will you be able to convince the garrison that you are Haakon’s men?”

  “When we arrive in longships, they will think us Danes.”

  “From afar, no doubt,” Griff said in the dark, “but you are leading Englishmen and Welshmen. How will they pass, once you are ashore?”

  “They won’t need to, not if they are led by a Dane.”

  There was a long silence, then Griff spoke quietly.

  “Of course, English. You are a Dane.”

  Roland heard him get to his feet.

  “There is much that can go wrong with this, Roland, but I like it. Let’s wake Llywelyn.”

  ***

  Llywelyn did not complain when Roland and Griff roused him long before dawn. He summoned his cousins to a new council and they arrived, groggy from sleep, but alert enough once the plan had been laid before them. All peppered Roland with questions and concerns. He could see them turning the thing over in their minds, like some shiny new play thing.

  Roland glanced across the table at Llywelyn and could see in the Prince’s eyes that he was torn. It was a perilous plan and one that put at risk the lives and the fortunes of every man in the room, but if it worked, he would rule Gwynedd at last.

  If.

  When the questions had at last died away, Llywelyn rose.

  “This plan will be like a dance—and there can be no missteps. I will lure my uncles toward Aberffraw and once they’ve committed, Sir Roland will draw Daffyd back to Deganwy by seizing his fort. Before Roderic can grapple with me on Anglese
y, I will take ship once more. Griff will gather the men in the winter camps and we will all meet at Deganwy. And that will be the end of Daffyd.”

  Roland looked around the table and saw Maredudd and Gruffydd nodding their heads eagerly and it worried him. He stood and spoke directly to the Prince.

  “My lord, there is much here that can go wrong—there will certainly be some things that will go wrong. You are risking all on this plan. Are you sure?”

  Llywelyn looked at him for a long moment.

  “Sir Roland, I see the risks, not the least of them to you and your Invalids, but for a generation, divided rule has made our country weak.” he said, disgust in his voice. “And we have been lucky! Your old King Henry was too busy fighting with his own sons to trouble us and your King Richard occupies his time in France. Otherwise, Gwynedd would already be under Norman rule. Sooner or later, you English will again cast covetous eyes on our country and Daffyd and Roderic are not the men to save it. I am. That is why I fight. I believe God intends for me to rule all of Gwynedd. If that is true, He will not let this plan fail. It is in His hands.”

  Roland winced at the Prince’s words. He had heard other men invoke God’s hand in their own causes before. At Hattin, in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, a Christian army had marched into battle chanting “God demands it!” He had ridden over their bleached bones on that field.

  “God can be a fickle ally, my lord,” he said quietly.

  Llywelyn glared at him, then softened.

  “Sir Roland, the greatest risk is yours. If Griff and I fail to reach Deganwy in,” he stopped, working through the times and distances in his head, “five days time, you could be facing Daffyd alone. Are you willing to risk that? Are you sure?”

  Roland did not answer at once. Sir Roger de Laval had always said that the best plans were simple, but this thing he’d devised was anything but that, and it left him with a kernel of doubt. But he could see no other path forward with any chance of success and he could take some comfort from another piece of his old master’s advice.

  Even a bad plan may succeed, if boldly carried out.

  If the plan could not be simple, the execution would have to be bold. He met Llywelyn’s gaze.

  “Aye, lord, I’m sure,” he lied. There was nothing more to say.