A Prince of Wales

by Wayne Grant

  “My lord,” he began, “this man here is from Haakon the Black. Says he’s been told to bring these rebel prisoners to the fort to be held for Lord Roderic.”

  The garrison commander’s scowl deepened.

  “When did we begin taking prisoners?” he asked. “I’ve received no word of any prisoners to be brought here.” The man pointed at Roland. “Tell him that Lord Roderic is not here!”

  “Told him that already, my lord,” Iolyn offered. “Didn’t seem to make him any difference. Not sure he understands much Welsh.”

  The commander of the fortress at Deganwy was not known for his patience, and what little he had was at an end. It was almost completely dark now and he had been called away from his supper to deal with this unexpected arrival. Whatever this damned Dane said, Deganwy Castle was a fortress, not a gaol! He took two long strides forward until he stood at arm’s length from this tall Dane who had upset an otherwise quiet evening.

  “Understand this,” he snarled, poking a finger at Roland’s chest, “no prisoners in my fort!” The finger never reached its target. In one quick motion, Roland seized the man’s wrist, pulled him forward and punched him beneath his breastbone. It was a trick he’d learned years ago from another Welshman, Alwyn Madawc, and it dropped the garrison commander to his knees, gasping for air. Roland slammed a fist into the man’s temple and he toppled over and lay still

  Near the head of the column, Seamus Murdo saw the fortress commander go down and needed no further signal. He thrust the concealed longbows he’d been carrying into Engard’s arms and charged the guards. The big Scotsman let out a chilling howl as he came on, an old war cry born in the wild highlands of his home. It was a cry Roman legionnaires might have recognized defending Hadrian’s wall a thousand years before.

  Two of the guards stood their ground and lowered their spears to meet this sudden onslaught, while the other two fled back toward the gate, shouting an alarm to the men on the wall above. Murdo rumbled directly at the two men blocking his path and swept aside their spears with his long-handled axe as though they were twigs. He lowered his shoulder and bulled his way into them, hardly slowing his forward charge as the two guards were sent tumbling to either side of the path.

  The few men in the camp who had trailed the Danes and their prisoners up the hill out of curiosity heard the big Scotsman’s war cry and stood gawking as a ripple of movement ran down the length of the column. These Danes, who they thought to be allies, drew their weapons and turned toward them, while the bound hands of the prisoners, suddenly free, drew forth blades from tunics and cloaks all along the line.

  Iolyn watched it all in horror. He started to draw his own sword, but saw Patch and two of the now-armed prisoners turn toward him. It suddenly occurred to him that someone would need to raise the alarm in the camp. He turned and ran. Those of his men who did the same lived. Those too slow to react did not.

  Roland saw Murdo lurch past him and followed in the big man’s wake. As they charged up the path toward the fort, they saw the two guards who had fled reach the thick oak door that served as the gate into the lower bailey. The two men dropped their spears and began frantically pushing the massive barrier shut. Two more guards joined them from the wall walk above and the gate began to swing toward them with a load groan.

  “Seamus, the gate!” Roland screamed as he overtook and passed the Scotsman. At a sprint, he covered the final twenty paces to the rapidly closing gate and leapt through the gap. A startled guard picked up a spear and thrust it at his belly. He dodged the point and brought his short sword down in a quick slash that dented the man’s helmet and opened up his cheek to the bone. Behind the fallen guard, he saw three men leaning into the gate in a panicked effort to close it. But there was an impediment. The huge bulk of Seamus Murdo was wedged in the opening.

  With a roar, the giant Scot planted his feet and shoved. Men on the other side of the wooden barrier dug in their heels, but were slowly driven backwards as Murdo leaned a huge shoulder into the thick oak, forcing the gap wider an inch at a time. Roland swung around to see a score of men pouring out of a barracks on the other side of the bailey and coming at the run to defend the gate. He turned back in time to see one of the guards break and run as Murdo bulled the gate half open.

  “Invalids,” he screamed, “to me!”

  The first man through the door was Sir John Blackthorne. Missing an arm, Fancy Jack carried no shield, but he did not need one. He took down one of the guards straining at the gate with a backhand slash as he passed. Murdo now stepped through the gap and clubbed the remaining guard senseless with the butt of his axe. The two reached Roland just as the wave of aroused garrison troops bore down on him.

  Murdo stepped to the front and Roland ducked as the man swung his long, wicked axe behind him and brought it forward in a deadly arc. The head of the axe clove a spear in half without slowing and took one of the charging guards in the side, doubling the man over.

  The headlong rush of the garrison troops hesitated before this disfigured giant, as he drew back the axe for another swing. Fancy Jack peeled off to the right, feinting convincingly at one defender who tripped over himself backing away. The man blundered into one of his comrades causing them both to go down. Still moving forward, Sir John disarmed a swordsman with a quick twisting motion of his blade—a manoeuvre Roland had never seen before.

  Five men were down or disarmed in a blink of an eye, but more were coming. Roland could see another dozen streaming down from the hilltop forts as the men to his front pressed forward in a desperate attempt to throw them back and secure the gate.

  But it was too late for that.

  With the south gate now fully open, the Invalids and the Welsh archers began to pour into the bailey. The defenders saw them come and knew the lower bailey was lost. They turned and began to flee toward the two bastions on the hilltops.

  Among the crush of men rushing in through the gate was Engard who began handing out longbows to his men as they pressed into the bailey. Beside him, Friar Cyril gave out bundles of arrows, a fistful at a time. A few crossbow bolts began to fall in amongst them, striking one man in the shoulder. The shot came from the wall walk on the far side of the bailey. The crossbowman belatedly saw longbows being strung and ran for his life. He did not reach safety.

  Roland saw the garrison troops in the lower bailey fleeing to the left and right, seeking safety behind the timber walls that topped the hills on either side. He had counted on this. None of Llywelyn’s spies had known how to gain entrance to either of the hilltop fortifications. Now the panicked garrison troops were pointing the way.

  Roland looked over his shoulder and saw Patch charge through the gate looking for someone to kill. His second-in-command’s sword was already streaked with blood and there was fire in his one good eye. That afternoon on the gravel bar, they had agreed that he would lead the assault on the smaller eastern hill. As Patch reached him, Roland pointed at the fleeing men who were streaming toward a single small door tucked into the southern end of the palisade.

  “Go!” he shouted, and Patch did not hesitate. A score of picked men, including Jamie Finch and four of the Welsh archers, followed close on his heels as he charged after the garrison troops running for their lives from the growing rout in the lower bailey.

  “Sir Roland!”

  He turned to see Sergeant Billy lurch through the gate.

  “The fellows in the camp are gatherin’ down the hill. They’ll be along very soon I reckon.”

  “Aye, Billy! Get the rest in and get that gate barred.”

  He turned back to Sir John, who was now surrounded by a score of Invalids and more of the Welsh archers. His orders were to lead the assault on the larger western fortification and he had now assembled his picked men, Seamus Murdo among them. Off to his left, desperate men were scrambling up a steep slope and disappearing on the other side, where a rocky outcrop concealed the entrance to the western fort. Sir John set off at a run after them, his picked men trailing be
hind.

  Roland kept a dozen of Engard’s bowmen with him and led them up a flight of wooden steps to the southern battlement. Down the hill Daffyd’s men were milling about in the camp, but had not managed to organize a counterattack on the fort. He left the archers on the wall walk with orders to shoot anything that came within their range, then turned to see a knot of panicked defenders trying to force their way through the only entrance to the eastern fort. It was a narrow door that would only accommodate one man at a time, but many more than that tried to force their way through.

  As Patch and his men fell on the rearmost of this mass, some turned to fight, but these were garrison troops and no match for men of the Invalid Company in full battle fury. They died where they stood. Other men at the rear of the crush began to throw down their weapons and beg for mercy.

  Patch and Jamie Finch paid them no mind. They bulled their way through the surrendering troops until they reached the doorway. The last man fighting to get in looked over his shoulder and saw them coming. He screamed at the men inside to let him through—to no avail. In desperation, he slashed at Patch and died for his trouble. In the narrow passage, his lifeless body had nowhere to fall, so Patch seized the corpse by the collar and jerked it out of the doorway. The passageway, built narrowly to make entry difficult, now worked against the defenders. In the crush, men had no room to turn about and shove the door closed behind them.

  So death followed them inside.

  Patch and Jamie Finch forced their way over the threshold and into the passageway. Others crowded in behind them. The fight in those close quarters was a nightmare. The defenders knew that if the entrance was lost, so was the fortress, but none could stand against the fury of Patch. It was as though he was washing away the stain of his dereliction in Chester with reckless courage.

  One by one, defenders fell until those in the passage lost all heart. Patch, with Jamie Finch on his heels, stumbled over the bodies in the passage and out onto the rocky summit of the hill. Behind them came more of the Invalids. A few flickering torches revealed the last of the defenders scrambling over the timber walls to escape.

  Once he saw Patch and Finch disappear through the door to the eastern fort, Roland looked to the west, but Fancy Jack and his men were out of sight behind the stone outcrop. By now it was almost fully dark. A bright quarter moon hung in the sky, but clouds had started racing up from the south, blocking the light for long stretches.

  Roland looked down the hill toward the encampment below. It was as though an angry mass of fireflies had been unleashed in the night. Dozens of torches were lit and men were moving everywhere in the darkness. He heard Sergeant Billy’s wooden peg thumping on the steps behind him and motioned the old veteran to join him. The man peered down toward the river.

  “They’ll try to force the gate, and soon.”

  “Aye, Billy, it looks that way. Make good use of Engard’s archers when they are in range. As soon as the forts are secured, I’ll be back with more men.”

  Then, to his left, Roland heard a cheer and turned toward the eastern fort. It was too dark to see faces, but he recognized the thin shape of Jamie Finch, standing on the parapet there, waving vigorously at him.

  The eastern fort was theirs.

  With Sergeant Billy organizing the defence of the lower bailey, Roland bounded down the steps and set off toward the hidden entrance to the western fort. He heard a crossbow bolt whiz by his head as he ran and saw a man on the wall above duck quickly down. Off to his right, on the level ground in the centre of the bailey, Sir John had placed his four Welsh archers. They waited with arrows nocked and longbows drawn for a target. When the man’s head popped back up, he took one shaft in the shoulder and one in the neck.

  As Roland came over the rock outcropping he saw a standoff in front of the small door to the western bastion. The defenders had almost completely closed the only entrance into the fort, but something had blocked the final two feet between door and frame. Spear points bristled inside the gap, ready to fend off any attempt to force it open from the outside. Though no defender showed himself, Roland could hear defiant curses coming from the men behind the door. His own men stood in a loose circle shouting back curses of their own.

  As he drew near, Roland saw that one of the shields stolen from Haakon’s men had been jammed between the heavy door and the jam, preventing the men inside from sealing the entrance. The man who had done the deed lay dead, his hand still on the shield. He could not tell who it was in the eerie flickering light cast by the torches in the bailey. Ten paces back from the gap in the door stood a trio of his archers with drawn bows waiting for anyone foolish enough to reach into the gap to dislodge the shield. None did.

  Fancy Jack was standing with the archers near the door, beseeching them to find some target that might break the standoff. The sleeve that covered the man’s one good arm was black with blood where one of the spears had ripped through the rich fabric of his tunic. Roland touched Sir John’s shoulder and the man whirled around, a look, half fury and half despair, on his face.

  “You’re wounded!” Roland shouted over the din.

  The one-armed knight glanced down at his sleeve and spat on the ground.

  “Bastards won’t break!” he shouted back. “What of the other fort?”

  “The east fort is taken,” Roland said, leaning in to be heard over the men hurling insults and defiant curses at each other. “But the men in the camp are gathering. They’ll be at the bailey gate soon!”

  Sir John Blackthorne shook his head. This had been his first test as a leader of the Invalids—and he was failing. Roland looked up at the palisade above the gate. He could see spear points showing above the wall and the occasional glint from the helmets of men crouched behind it. None dared stand and present a target to his Welsh longbowmen in the bailey below.

  He looked north along the wall then back south and saw no sign of defenders. The men inside knew that this lone gate had to be held or they were lost. They had massed along the wall there—and no doubt behind the door itself—to repel any attempt to break through. The plan to force the door had failed. The words of Sir Roger came to Roland.

  No plan survives its first encounter with the enemy.

  It was time to change the plan.

  ***

  In the darkness, a dozen men slipped quietly along the wooden palisade of the fort that topped the western hill, staying close to the wall. Roland led this silent band, followed by Sir John, Seamus Murdo, a handful of Invalids and two of the Welsh archers. Behind them another twenty men continued to pressure the defenders at the half-open door. Roland led them over the hump of the rock outcrop and down the far side, out of sight of the melee at the door and the defenders on the wall there. He looked up at the timber palisade and judged the height at no more than ten feet. He turned to Seamus.

  “Here,” he whispered.

  The big Scotsman turned and braced his back against the logs of the wall with his knees bent. He cupped his huge hands, lacing his fingers together and nodded. Roland grasped the big man’s shoulders and set his right foot in the cradle of Murdo’s hands. He hoisted himself up and placed his left foot on the big man’s right shoulder and lunged for the top of the wall, his arms outstretched.

  Standing on the shoulders of a man who stood over six feet tall, he was easily able to grasp the top of the wall and hoist himself up and over the sharpened tops of the timbers. There was no one there to challenge him. He looked south and saw the length of wall in that direction was dark and deserted. To the north, a few guttering torches revealed defenders massed behind and above the gate. None seemed to notice this breach in their defences.

  He leaned back into the wall and reached over the side. Murdo hoisted Sir John up. Roland grasped the one-armed knight by the wrist and pulled him over the top.

  “Obliged,” the man whispered, breathing a little heavily from the awkward scramble.

  One by one, men used Seamus Murdo as a ladder until all save himself were inside
the fort. Roland motioned the three archers to climb down from the wall and find a decent shooting angle on the rocky knoll summit of the hill fort that sat behind and above the lone gate. When the bowmen were in place, he turned back to the Invalids, who were gathered behind him in the darkness.

  “No sound till we’re on them,” he whispered. He could barely see the men’s faces but sensed their eagerness for the fight.

  “With me now.”

  He turned and, in a crouch, padded quietly along the parapet toward the defenders at the gate. The attention of those men was riveted by the attackers outside who made one loud foray after another to threaten the vulnerable door. None noticed the line of men coming out of the darkness along the wall walk until it was too late.

  A single defender caught motion in the corner of his eye when Roland was no more than ten paces from him. The archers already on station had waited for this moment. Before the man could cry out a warning, an arrow took him in the back and he toppled off the wall. Within seconds, two more men did the same. Roland leapt over a dead body and barrelled into a defender who was turning, too late, to bring his spear into play. The man pitched backwards off the wall walk into the mass of defenders below, scattering them.

  Panic swept through the ranks of Daffyd’s men as the Invalids let out a roar and fell upon the confused defenders. Half of Roland’s band leapt down from the wall and attacked men who were defending the gate. Outside the wall, the eruption of noise within stirred the attackers to once more rush the oak door. Its defenders had turned away to meet the threat from their rear and that was all the opening they needed. They drove the door inward and poured into the last stronghold of Deganwy.

  In minutes, it was over.

  ***

  The prisoners from the garrison were herded into the centre of the bailey and guards were posted. Roland climbed wearily up to join Sergeant Billy on the parapet that overlooked the gate, trailed by Patch and Sir John. Engard had been checking the placement of his archers along the south wall and joined them as all looked down at the enemy camp below.