A Prince of Wales

by Wayne Grant

  “Hit that hat and I concede,” he said.

  Roland stepped up. The wind had continued to rise and now swirls of ice crystals were being blown into the air from the drifts that still filled the valley. Through this thin white haze, the small hat on the snowman’s head looked in danger of blowing away. Roland stood still for a moment, feeling the strength of the wind on the side of his face, then nocked his final arrow. He drew his longbow and corrected for the wind blowing in from his right. He waited a single heartbeat, then released.

  The arrow leapt down the slope, slowly being pushed to the left by the wind. In mid-flight, a strong gust swirled through the valley floor, lifting the green cap and sending it dancing high into the air as Roland’s arrow plunged down, digging a furrow atop the snowman’s head.

  On all sides, a clamor went up. Men who had wagered turned to each other and hot words, in two languages, were exchanged. Roland watched it all with growing horror. He waded into the crowd and raised his arms, appealing for peace, but tempers were flaring. Then Engard plunged in, bellowing at his men in Welsh. Finally, quiet fell over the men, though angry looks continued.

  The leader of the Welsh archers shouldered his way through the crush toward Roland. When he reached him, he offered his hand. Roland took it. Engard turned to his men.

  “By God,” he shouted in Welsh, “but for the wind, that was a hit! I now see that at least one Englishman can handle a bow!”

  “What’d e’ say?” one of the Invalids shouted from the rear of the crowd. Roland caught Engard’s eye, then turned and shouted back.

  “He calls it a draw!”

  Engard nodded and released Roland’s hand. A few men on each side grumbled, but all had seen the shot and silver was grudgingly returned to its original owners. The excitement over, men began to drift back toward the castle, but Engard lingered.

  “Are you sure you are not part Welsh?” he asked Roland with a grin.

  “No Engard, I am English, though many English call me a Dane.”

  “The boats we will steal—they belong to Danes, no?”

  “Aye.”

  “Are any your kin?” Engard asked, only half in jest.

  Roland laughed.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “but don’t fear. I’ll have no trouble killing them, if need be.”

  Engard gave an approving smile.

  “If you’d kill your own kin, then you must be part Welsh!”

  Like Father

  Sir Roger de Laval paced slowly along the eastern wall of Shipbrook, stopping every few yards to check for any loose mortar between the stones or to lean over the parapet to view the condition of the ditch that ran along the base of the wall. He made this inspection weekly and was quick to assign men to attend to anything he might find amiss.

  It was late January with spring still months away, but the day was one of the warmest in the valley of the Dee since the previous autumn. Looking west, he saw white tops still on the Clwydian hills, evidence of a fierce winter storm that had blown through five days before. It left only a dusting of snow in Cheshire but the high country of Wales would have got much more. He wondered how Roland and the Invalids had weathered the tempest.

  Below him he watched a resident robin digging a worm from the softening soil at the bottom of the ditch and made a mental note to have his men clear out a small cluster of brambles that had taken root there. He was nearing the southeast corner of the wall walk when he spied Rhys Madawc. The boy was on the south wall looking off into the distance. So engaged was he in his gazing, that he jumped when he heard Sir Roger’s steps behind him.

  “My…lord,” he sputtered.

  “Afternoon, lad. Fine day for a stroll on the walls.”

  “Aye, it is, my lord.”

  “Not much to see from here, though. Ye can’t even see the Dee through the trees at this distance.”

  “Well, I can see the hills yonder, lord. Home is that way.”

  Sir Roger nodded.

  “It hasn’t been very hospitable to ye, but home is home, I reckon. Sir Declan tells me yer making good progress with yer trainin’.”

  Rhys gave a rueful laugh.

  “Aye, lord. Sir Declan gave me this, just this morning,” he said, pointing to an angry red welt behind his ear. “It’s only been three days, but he says I’m improving. He said I might not actually hurt myself in a fight, though I was not yet likely to hurt an enemy either.”

  Sir Roger laughed.

  “That’s decent praise from the Master of the Sword. Seems I remember a young Irish squire being told much the same a few years back.”

  Sir Roger paused and for a long moment both the big knight and the young refugee turned back to look at the snow-covered hills of Wales.

  “Rhys, I’ve heard ye’ve sworn to go back to yer home, but I would ask you to wait a bit to do that. Sir Declan and I have agreed that I have been too long with no squire. Lost my last two when they went and got themselves knighted on crusade. I will be going north to Yorkshire in a month or two to visit our holdings there and will have need of a squire for the trip. We think you would do nicely.”

  Rhys turned and looked at the big man.

  “My lord, I…I’m honoured by the offer.”

  He looked around the small fort of Shipbrook, then back to the big Norman knight.

  “I can see why my father found a home here, but…”

  “But?”

  “I need time to think on this, my lord. Will you give me a day to decide?”

  Sir Roger clapped the boy on the shoulder.

  “Of course, of course. You need a bit of time to settle in, lad. Take a few days, and let me know your decision.”

  “I will, my lord.”

  ***

  “Damn the boy! He’s gone,” Declan O’Duinne muttered, as he hurried toward the main hall of Shipbrook.

  He had gone searching for Rhys Madawc to give him a proper hiding when the boy failed to show up for the morning sword drill. His young student had always been in the courtyard and ready for instruction well before the appointed hour and, when that time passed, the Irish knight had a bad feeling. Those feelings grew darker when he found the boy’s bed chamber empty and his few possessions gone. Running to the north gate, he hailed the guard. He knew in his gut the answer to his question before he called up to the man.

  “Did Master Madawc ride out this morn?”

  “Aye, sir. He wished me a good day as he left. Last I saw, he was headed down toward the ford.”

  Declan cursed. It was common practice for the members of the Shipbrook household to come and go as they pleased, with no challenge from the guards. And while Rhys Madawc had only been among them for a week, he had been accepted as a member of their household—and a popular one. It wasn’t just that he was the son of the much-loved Alwyn Madawc. The boy had a natural charm all his own and it gained him friends quickly.

  But behind the genial manner, Declan had seen a fierce determination. The Welsh boy had approached his few days of weapons drill with a focused intensity, a fire Declan knew must be fed by a thirst for revenge. It made the lad an adept student, but worried his teacher. Like all important skills, learning to kill took time, and practice and repetition. Rhys Madawc was happy enough with the practice and repetition involved, but less so with the time. Declan had cautioned him from the start that it would be months before he was ready to move from wooden staves to steel blades. He hoped that by the time the boy had attained the skill, his fire would have cooled, but he could see Rhys chafed at the thought.

  Now he was gone.

  Declan hurried into the hall and found Sir Roger and Lady Catherine discussing plans for the spring planting.

  “He’s gone,” he said simply. He did not have to explain who.

  “Damn!” said Sir Roger. “I feared this. Though he had me half cozened that he was growing contented with his place here.”

  “Roger, they’ll kill him. You know they will,” said Lady Catherine, with anguish in her voice. “We
cannot let that happen. He’s Alwyn’s…” Her voice trailed off.

  Sir Roger turned to her.

  “Of course, we cannot,” he said with a growl. “Declan, I want six men mounted and ready to ride as fast as the horses can be saddled.”

  Declan held up a hand.

  “My lord, consider. There is war where we are going. If we come in force, we will certainly be met with force—and I doubt eight men would much impress this Talfryn.”

  “What are you suggesting, Declan?” Lady Catherine asked, harshly. “Surely you won’t have my husband go alone…”

  “No, no, my lady, I’ll be with him.”

  Sir Roger held up a hand for silence.

  “He’s right, Catherine. Eight armed and armoured men riding through that bloody land would be seen for what they are—a war band—and would attract the wrong sort of attention. Two men, though, might pass as peaceful travellers.”

  The mistress of Shipbrook frowned and twisted her hands together. She started to protest, but finally sighed.

  “Very well. I won’t tell you your business, Roger, but I don’t like this at all.”

  Sir Roger gave her a small bow and turned to Declan.

  “No mail, no helmets, no shields—swords only—and we leave the warhorses behind and ride palfreys.”

  Declan hurried from the hall to order the horses saddled.

  “I’ll gather your provisions,” Catherine said, bleakly. She started toward the kitchen, but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her close.

  “Yer a good woman, Cathy de Laval.”

  “I’m happy you still notice, husband.”

  “Always,” he said and gave her a gentle kiss.

  “Bring that boy back, Roger.”

  “If it can be done, I will do it.”

  Lady Catherine returned his kiss and touched his weathered cheek.

  “And yourself as well…”

  ***

  Catherine packed provisions for three days and little time was wasted on further leave-taking. They were now three hours behind the runaway and would need to ride hard to make up that gap. As they mounted, Declan turned to Sir Roger.

  “The boy said his village was a half day’s ride south of Saint. Asaph’s church. I’ve heard of that church, but have never ventured that far into Wales. How do we find it?”

  “I’ve not been to the church proper,” Sir Roger replied, “but I did ride with Earl Ranulf to Rhuddlan Castle, nigh ten years ago, to parlay with Lord Daffyd. I understand the church is just a few miles south of there. That would put Rhys’ village in the valley of the River Clwyd. By my reckoning, if we ride due west from our ford until we reach the Clwyd, we would come very near to where the boy said his home was.”

  Declan nodded.

  “And with this thaw, there is a good chance he’s left a trail that will point the way. Even I could track one of our horses through mud.”

  “Let’s hope. It will be a rough road through dangerous country, so let’s get down to the ford and make up some time. With luck, we’ll catch up to the boy before he reaches his village and starts trouble.”

  The big knight turned the head of his black palfrey toward the gate and applied the spurs, with Declan close behind. The two men rode through the gate of Shipbrook and swung west on the track that led down to the Dee. Catherine De Laval had already found her way up to the wall walk by the gate and watched them until they were out of sight.

  As always, her husband did not look back.

  ***

  Across the Dee and into Wales, Rhys Madawc reined in his horse at the top of a rise and searched the trail behind him. Nothing moved there. He did not know how long it would take for the alarm to be raised at Shipbrook. The guard at the gate had seemed unconcerned as he departed and, with luck, he wouldn’t be missed until he failed to appear for weapons drill. By then, he would have a good head start on whoever might come after him.

  He wondered if he would be pursued at all. The folk of Shipbrook had seemed fond of him, for his father’s sake, but would they risk chasing him into these wild borderlands? It would hardly make sense, but, then again, he had stolen a good horse and a sword. That thought brought a flush of guilt to his face.

  He had repaid the kindness of the de Laval’s by robbing them! It was a shameful act and he knew it. He had sworn to himself that he would return to Shipbrook with the animal and the weapon when he had done what must be done, but it was a feeble attempt at justification. He took a last look back to the northeast. Still nothing. He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks.

  Too late to turn back now.

  ***

  Sir Roger and Declan rode until darkness forced a halt. The ground had been rising for the final hour of the day as they reached the foothills of the Clwydian range. In narrow clefts and shaded slopes, a thin layer of snow still clung to the ground, but the weather continued to be mild. They hobbled the horses and made a cold camp by a small stream, a hundred yards off the track.

  “What’ll we do if we catch him?” Declan asked absently, as though the question had just struck him.

  Sir Roger, wrapped in his winter cloak was leaning on his saddle and chewing a piece of dried beef.

  “We take him back with us, whether he is willing or no. I will try to reason with the lad, but he goes back to Shipbrook either way, trussed and bound to his saddle if it comes to that.”

  “Really, my lord? You do that and he’ll just run again when he gets the opportunity—or do you fancy keeping him under lock and key?”

  Sir Roger snorted.

  “If I must—at least long enough to talk some sense into the boy.”

  Declan gave a scornful laugh.

  “When did ye last talk sense into a Welshman, my lord, or a boy, for that matter?”

  Sir Roger did not speak for a long moment, then gave a long sigh.

  “I take yer point, Declan, I do, but we must try, for Alwyn’s sake. In the end, though, ye have the rights of it. He will do whatever is in his heart.”

  Declan smiled in the dark.

  “As do we all, my lord. As do we all.”

  ***

  Darkness forced Rhys to halt for the night. By late in the day the track had started to climb up the flanks of the hills that stood between the river Dee and the river Clwyd. His village was on the far side of the broad valley of the Clwyd and he was anxious to reach it, but he could not risk his mount breaking a leg on the rough trail.

  The Welsh boy led his tired horse well off the trail and made camp. He would be up and away before first light and should reach his village just after dark. He’d not brought any fire-making kit when he’d fled, but would have hesitated to start a blaze in any event. Even if no one was on his back trail, there was no profit in announcing his presence with a fire in these parts.

  He sat down and leaned against a tree as he munched on a slab of dark barley bread he’d slipped from the kitchen at Shipbrook—another theft! His face flushed as he swallowed the mouthful of black bread. He’d never stolen so much as an apple from a neighbour’s tree before and now he was little better than a lowly cutpurse!

  But he’d seen no other way. Tomorrow he would reach home and do what he’d come to do. And that would be worth this stain on his honour. He finished his bread and tried to sleep.

  Almost home, he thought as he drifted off.

  Aberffraw

  Hova Iwan kept a gnarled hand on the tiller as he gave quiet instructions to his oldest son, Cadugan. The sail on their tiny fishing boat had gone slack in the fluky onshore wind and it was costing them time. They had set out from the beach that lay near the mouth of the River Ffraw just past midnight and had to reach the spawning ground of the herring before first light. The fish schooled up at night and dispersed to feed at dawn. If they arrived in darkness they could fill the bottom of their little boat with herring in an hour. If they were late, they’d likely come home empty-handed.

  They’d launched the boat with plenty of time, but the shifting winds were hin
dering them. No sooner had the boy adjusted the sail to make it taut than it began to flap once more. Hova was about to chastise the lad, when he noticed that his son was no longer watching the sail. The boy swung around with a look of shock on his face.

  “Father…”

  He did not have to speak further, for Hova saw with his own eyes what had so stunned the boy. Out of the darkness to their front—and to port and starboard—came ships. First two, then four, then more, looming up, then sliding by in the gloom. They were bigger than Hova’s little craft and as the first of them plunged by, he saw that the decks were crammed with men—armed men.

  The ships kept coming, but seemed to take no heed of the smaller boat. Hova frantically turned the tiller to starboard, then port, then back again to avoid a collision. As the last of the flotilla passed by, a man in a steel helmet leaned over the railing and acknowledged them with a small wave. The gesture did nothing to lessen the dread gripping the man. These ships were heading back the way he had come, back toward his home, and he knew full well what boatloads of armed men meant.

  When the last boat had passed, Hova swung his bow around and followed in their wake. They were headed straight for the mouth of the Aberffraw River. Just a mile inland was his village and the royal court. The court was barely defended and the village not at all. Lord Roderic had marched away with most of his local garrison a fortnight ago. Rumours said he was joining his brother to crush the upstart Llywelyn, but that hardly mattered to Hova. What mattered were his wife and younger children, still asleep in the undefended village.

  His one hope was the river itself. With a quarter moon in the sky, there was a neap tide. In such a tide, he thought he could navigate the shallow, braided Aberffraw River, but the big ships would run aground if they tried. They would have to be beached down at the bay. From there it was only a short march across the low dunes to the village.

  As he tucked in behind the trailing boat, Hova wasn’t sure his own craft could manage the shoals in the river, but it had a shallow draft and he would try. He looked up at the sky and saw the first hint of false dawn in the east. The men on the boats would reach the town before sunrise. He tacked off to port to try and gain more speed.