by Wayne Grant
Opening Moves
Llywelyn sat on The Surly Beast, though he did not call his favourite warhorse by that name, and watched his men ride through the gate at Dolwyddelan and down toward the pass at Bwlch y Gorddinan. Traversing the pass was much less daunting now, since warmer weather had turned the waist-deep powder on the trail into ankle-deep slush.
Gruffydd and Maredudd had ridden out at dawn, anxious to muster their fighting men and assemble their fishing fleet in the protected estuary of the River Mawddach. It was midmorning now and Llywelyn was leading sixty of his own men down to join them. Roland Inness stood beside the big horse that had once been his own and watched the men ride out.
Once agreement on the plan had been reached in the small hours of the morning, there was no more discussion. Orders were issued, cooks were roused, horses were given the last of the fodder and the men were mustered. At Roland’s request, a local boy who knew the mountains between Dolwyddelan and the River Conwy and a man who had grown up along the Conwy River were left behind along with twenty of the Welsh longbowmen.
Holding a poorly maintained fort, protected only by a steep slope and a wooden palisade, simply could not be done without archers and Llywelyn had been quick to grant the request. If Haakon joined Daffyd at Deganwy, as he well might in search of his stolen boats, there would be at least eight hundred men trying take back the castle. Twenty longbowmen on the ramparts might just buy enough time for help to arrive.
Roland glanced up at the Prince, keeping a wary eye on the big roan charger, who had a nasty tendency to bite without warning. Llywelyn looked full of confidence, but Roland fretted. The Prince had been fighting for seven long years and was now about to risk all on a complicated plan that Roland himself was not sure would work.
Simple is always best.
Sir Roger’s words still gnawed at him, but the die was now cast. As the last man in the column cleared the gate, Llywelyn leaned down and interrupted Roland’s thoughts.
“Maredudd has an eye for weather. Before he rode out this morning he studied the heavens and prophesied good sailing. We should reach the Mawddach on the morrow by late afternoon and will load the boats and set sail straight away. Gruffydd says his fishermen are not afraid of the dark. With fair winds, we will land at Aberffraw just before dawn two days from now.”
“And I will take Deganwy Castle on the day after, if all goes well.”
As they spoke, Griff rode up to join them. He was mounted on Roland’s big grey gelding. There was no place for horses where Roland was going and the Welshman had need of a horse with speed and endurance to reach the winter camps out near the border with Powys. He would need to take narrow and steep trails to skirt the Danes, who would now be guarding the main roads out of the mountains. For that, there was no more sure-footed mount than The Grey.
Griff patted the horse’s neck and nodded to Roland.
“I’m obliged for the loan,” he said.
“I’ll need you in Deganwy in five days, Griff. If any horse can get you there, it’s The Grey.”
Griff smiled.
“I’ll not fail ye, English.”
“Nor will I,” said Llywelyn. “Look for my boats on that day and luck to you both!” The Prince gave The Surly Beast his spurs and the big horse sprang forward. His rider did not look back at his childhood home as he rode through the gate and down toward the pass. A moment later, Griff turned in his saddle.
“Good hunting, English.” he said with a growl and dug his heels into The Grey’s flanks. As the horse sprang forward, the Welshman called over his shoulder.
“In five days—at Deganwy!”
***
It took Llywelyn a full day to make his way through the mountain passes of Eryri and reach the border of Meirionnydd. Just over the border, he found his two hundred men waiting for him where the River Eden meets the River Mawddach, high in the foothills. Maredudd and Gruffydd had passed their encampment in the night and alerted them that the Prince was not far behind.
Marching at first light, Llywelyn reached the protected estuary of the River Mawddach at noon, where Maredudd and Gruffydd were waiting for him with boats and four hundred men. Llywelyn gave a silent sigh of relief when he saw the thirty large fishing boats bobbing at anchor in the estuary. The brothers had made good their promise of sea transport.
The afternoon was spent in getting the men embarked, so that the small flotilla could get under way before night fell. The boats all reeked of rotten fish, which bothered the men who manned them not at all. For the six hundred fighting men jammed in the holds and crowded on the decks, it was another matter. By the time the fleet of fishing vessels hoisted sail, men were already retching over the sides and into the river.
Llywelyn stood by the helm of the lead craft and tried to take no heed of the smell or the misery of the men. They were soldiers after all and would get used to the stench. Finally, the anchor was weighed and the bow of his small boat turned toward the mouth of the river and the short run down to Cardigan Bay.
The man at the helm was twice Llywelyn’s age and as brown as tanned leather. There was not an ounce of fat on his wiry frame and his hair, streaked with grey and flying free in the sea breeze, was in a tangle that showed little acquaintance with a comb. The helmsman’s clothes were of coarse, undyed wool that would have been suitable for a pauper, but Maredudd had introduced him as Caradog Priddy, owner of a quarter of the craft assembled for the invasion of Anglesey and a man deferred to by others in the fish trade along the coast.
“Welcome, Lord Prince,” Priddy had greeted him warmly enough, when he’d stepped upon the deck of the foul-smelling vessel. “We’ll have unfavourable winds for roundin’ the Llyn once the sun is down,” he announced in a cheery voice, “but never fear—round it we shall! Can’t tell as what we’ll find beyond that. It will be what it will be.”
Llywelyn nodded.
“My thanks, Master Priddy. All of Gwynedd will thank you for what you are doing this day.”
“Aye, my lord, and I appreciate that, I do, but it is I who thanks you!”
“Me?” Llywelyn asked, puzzled.
“Oh, aye, lord. There’s few fish along this coast this time of year, so the silver you’ve promised is most generous and very welcome.”
Llywelyn furrowed his brow. What had Gruffydd and Maredudd promised this man—in his name? That question was on his tongue, but he bit it back.
Let sleeping dogs lie, he thought.
***
The sun was setting behind the Llyn peninsula as the makeshift flotilla emerged into open water. As Master Priddy had predicted, the winds were blustery and from the south. As the bottom fell away, deep swells formed and the small boat began to rise with each crest and plunge into each trough. Men who had endured the smell stoically, now gave in to the motion and rushed to the edge of the pitching deck to empty their stomachs.
Llywelyn had never been aboard a ship in all of his life. He tried not to watch the wretched display of men heaving on the deck and over the side and he steeled himself against the constant up and down motion of the waves. It was to little avail. Before they were a mile off shore, Llywelyn, Prince of Gwynedd, leaned over the side and vomited into Cardigan Bay. It would take nearly twelve hours to reach Anglesey. It was going to be a long night.
***
Forty miles northeast of the bay, Griff Connah slid out of the saddle and led the big grey gelding off the trail that ran alongside the Conwy. The river, so broad when it reached the Irish Sea, was hardly more than a brook here in the hills. In a few more miles it would tumble out of the high country and bend toward the west. Where the river left the hills was the ancient ford he had crossed with the Invalid Company just days ago. The path he had been following crossed that ford, but he could not. He knew it would now be guarded by Haakon’s Danes. He had to find a game trail or some other path that would take him around his enemies unseen.
The sun had already dipped below the high hills to the west and twilight was descending
on the broad valley as he surveyed the low ridge that flanked the valley on the east. Somewhere above him he heard a sheep bleat. He followed the sound and was rewarded with a narrow but well-worn trail, no doubt used by local shepherds to move their flocks between pasturages. It was heading due east away from the valley and that suited his purposes. He dismounted and led The Grey on foot up the side of the slope. Sometime in the night, he guided the horse back down from the high hills and into the gently rolling country beyond. Connah mounted and turned the horse’s head toward the border with Powys.
The sixty Danes who watched the ford saw nothing.
***
By the time the fleet of fishing boats reached the tip of the Llyn peninsula, Llywelyn had completely emptied his stomach and tried to recover a little of his dignity. It was full night now, and as Caradog Priddy turned his bow to a more westerly course, he nudged Llywelyn and pointed off to the south.
“Ynys Enlli,” he said, simply.
Llywelyn stared into the darkness and could see white foam breaking around the shore of a dark hump of an island.
“Twenty thousand holy men are buried there,” Priddy said.
Like all Welshmen, Llywelyn knew of Ynys Enlli, though he had never seen it, and would not have this night, if Priddy had kept silent as they sailed past in the dark. He had imagined it to be much bigger.
“Hardly seems they could find room for so many,” he said.
Priddy hooted at that.
“Aye, lord. The saints must be cramped. Makes me glad I’m a sinner!”
The Challenge
While other men moved to carry out Llywelyn’s plan, the man who devised it sat at Dolwyddelan Castle and waited. It was only a day’s march to reach the river at Llywrst, and only hours from there by boat to Deganwy—if they were able to capture the longships. He must not move too soon.
Llywelyn must first strike at Aberffraw and that would take at least two more days. Only then could Roland attempt to bluff his way into the castle and take it by storm. Move too soon, and he would run into the entire force of the uncles when he reached the fortress near the mouth of the Conwy. So he waited.
The Invalid Company made good use of the time to finish honing weapons they had let go to rust during their long garrison duty at Chester. Roland’s sword needed no such attention, but he did need to replace a string on his longbow that had been soaked during the blizzard. He had packed two spares and these were carefully coated with a mixture of resin and beeswax to ward off any dampness. He had just begun his task when he saw the leader of the Welsh archers approach. The man stopped and gave a little bob of his head.
“Pardon, sir,” he said, “could I see the bow?”
Roland lay down his string. The man before him was short and well-muscled with fair hair and an unremarkable face—save for a look of mischief in his eyes. His words were heavily accented, but clear enough. Llywelyn had recognized the need to provide at least one man among the twenty archers he’d assigned to the Invalids who could speak English.
Roland nodded and stood.
“What’s your name?”
“Engard, my lord.”
With a few deft moves, Roland attached his freshly waxed string to the longbow and handed it to the man. This bow was fashioned from one of the yew staves Millicent had saved from the flames at Shipbrook. He had crafted it to be longer and stiffer than the first bow he had made as a boy on Kinder Scout. That bow had been lost to one of Saladin’s men on a dusty hill outside of Jerusalem. This new bow had a harder pull and greater range than his first, and that suited him. He had put on considerable muscle through his back and shoulders as he’d grown to manhood and valued the greater striking power of his new weapon.
He sat back down and watched as Engard leaned into the belly of the bow and slid the string up and into the horn notch at the top. The stocky Welshman held it horizontally for a moment, inspecting it. He raised the bow to his nose and sniffed it.
“This wood—it is not elm?”
“No. I prefer yew.”
Engard looked at him sceptically, but said nothing. He turned the weapon vertically and made a few tentative, shallow draws, then raised it and brought the string back toward his cheek. He gave a small surprised grunt at the resistance but managed to make a full draw then slowly eased it back.
“Stiff,” was his assessment.
“It’s to my taste,” Roland said simply.
The Welshman nodded.
“Griff—he says you are the best archer in all England.”
Roland shrugged.
“I make no such claim.”
“Griff says you won your king’s tournament.”
For the first time, Roland noticed a sizable number of the Welsh archers had edged near to listen, as Engard engaged this Englishman they had been ordered to follow. He frowned.
“It was a long time ago.”
Engard looked over his shoulder at his fellows and allowed himself a small smile.
“I say the Welsh are better archers than the English.”
Roland sighed and stood. For a moment he thought to just agree with the young Welshman and be done with it, but hesitated. These men had been placed under his command and not by their own choice. He had no doubt they would follow him, as Prince Llywelyn commanded, but what would they do when swords were drawn and blood flowed?
They did not know him and had no reason to trust him. In battle, when men are coming to kill you, trust in the man next to you and in the man who leads you can make the difference between standing or running. What he would be asking of these Welsh bowmen in the days ahead would require a great deal of trust. If it took a test of his longbow skills to earn it...so be it.
He held out his hand and Engard placed the bow in it with a triumphant grin. Now the Welsh archers crowded closer and the commotion caught the attention of the Invalids who had been tending to their weapons. They drifted across the courtyard to where the Welsh had gathered around their leader.
“Have you a test in mind?” Roland asked mildly.
“Aye, lord, outside!” One of his fellows had handed Engard his own longbow and the stocky Welshman headed toward the arched gate of Dolwyddelan. Roland followed, with the Welsh archers and a growing number of Invalids in his wake. A little way along the slushy track, Engard stopped and pointed down into the valley. There, some two hundred paces down the track was a target—of sorts. Men had rolled large balls of dirty snow into a vaguely human shape and placed a small peaked cap on top. Clearly this challenge had been carefully planned.
“Three shots?” Engard suggested.
Roland nodded. Someone handed the Welshman three arrows. He pointed again toward the snowman on the track.
“I think it looks like an Englishman,” he said with a nasty smile, then turned to his men and repeated his jest in Welsh to howls of laughter.
“It looks more like a cow thief to me,” Roland replied.
Engard scowled, but there were howls from the Invalids. Sergeant Billy edged up to one of the Welsh archers and jingled a few silver coins.
“Wager?”
The man knew no English, but silver was a universal language. He produced a few coins of his own and nodded his agreement. A ripple of whispers ran through the onlookers as more side bets were made. Roland couldn’t help but smile. He had no trust issues with the Invalids.
Finally, all the wagers had been made and Engard stepped forward with an arrow nocked. His bow was of elm and beautifully crafted. He gauged the distance and the downslope and raised the bow to a sharp angle as he drew back the string. All grew quiet. He released and the arrow leapt into the air, all eyes following its path toward the target.
It struck the bottom of the snowman and there was a murmur of approval from Engard’s supporters. He drew another arrow, adjusted his angle by a hair’s breadth and released. The arrow struck flush in the center of the target. Small cheers went up from the Welsh. His third arrow bore into the snowman two inches lower than the first. A hit, but
very nearly a miss. Engard stepped back, a confident smile on his face. It had been exceptional shooting for a target two hundred paces down a steep slope.
Roland gave the young Welshman a respectful nod and stepped forward. He had grown up hunting in the high country of Derbyshire—a place with little flat ground. It gave him an instinctive feel for shooting on a slope. He gauged the angle and the distance and began his draw. His heavier yew bow allowed him to find a release point lower than Engard’s as he loosed his first arrow. It struck the target dead center, only an inch from Engard’s second shot. Now the murmur of approval came from the gathered English.
Roland nocked his second arrow and drew the bowstring to his cheek. He felt a light breeze pick up and made a tiny adjustment to his aim. He released and the arrow arced down into the valley, burying itself into the snowman’s chest two inches from his first shot.
This brought forth a mix of cheers from the Invalids and groans from the Welsh. Engard had a look of abashed admiration on his face at the accuracy of this shot. Sergeant Billy leaned near to the man he’d wagered with and whispered to him.
“Did I mention, I once saw Sir Roland strike a man in the head on a galloping horse from just about this distance?”
The Welshman scowled and made no reply. He did not understand English, but there was no need to translate the gist of this comment.
Roland had one arrow left. Behind him he heard someone yell out.
“The hat!”
He turned to see Friar Cyril giving him a gapped-tooth grin.
“Your cow thief has no manners, my lord. He should have doffed his cap in the presence of an English knight.” That brought amused titters from the gathered Invalids. Then Cyril repeated his jibe in serviceable Welsh—another surprise from this scarecrow monk. The Welsh were not amused.
Roland looked back down the hill. The hat had been blown almost flat by the wind, but clung to the top of the snowman, a small green smear on a field of white. Roland glanced at Engard who had a sour look on his face. The young Welshman met his gaze and shrugged.