by Wayne Grant
“I am no outlaw,” Sir Roger interjected. “Nor do I believe this boy a thief. I am Sir Roger de Laval of Shipbrook, vassal of Earl Ranulf.”
Talfryn turned away from Rhys and stared at the big knight.
“I know of Shipbrook and I’ve heard the name de Laval, but who’s to say you are he? A man in your difficult position might claim to be anyone. And even if you are a vassal of Ranulf, I would remind you that the Earl of Chester does not rule in Gwynedd. Prince Daffyd does.”
He paused as he looked at the prisoners.
“The punishment for stealing from the church is hanging,” he said flatly and beckoned Morgant forward.
“Take them to the gallows tree at first light,” he ordered, a note of triumph in his voice, “and hang them all.”
Haakon the Black
It was past midnight when two scouts rode up to the column of Dub Gaill. The Danes had marched hard through the night and were only a mile from the camp at Deganwy. Haakon had sent the riders ahead to assess the state of things at the fortress and their report astonished him.
“Our boats are there, lord, pulled up on the gravel bar below the camp and undamaged!”
Haakon had not expected this. He had hoped that the thieves would be so untrained in handling the longships that they would run aground somewhere downstream. He had sent men to check the river every mile as they marched north, but they had found nothing. Now this! Why would these English who had stolen his boats put in at a Welsh encampment? He had expected them to make for the Irish Sea and perhaps take their trophies up the Dee to Chester, but they had not. Could his Welsh clients be betraying him? The thought had started to take root when the second rider spoke up.
“My lord, the Welsh are camped between the river and the fortress on the hill. They look to be in disarray. We rode right up to the edge of the camp and none challenged us. It appears the fortress has been taken by the same men who took our boats. We saw wounded in the camp, so there must have been a fight. If there was, the Welsh lost. There is much confusion among them.”
None of this made much sense to Haakon, but two things did. His three remaining boats were safe and the men who had stolen them and burnt the others were only a mile away.
“Pick up the pace!” he roared at the men in the front ranks.
He had scores to settle.
***
“Who commands here?” Haakon’s words were a demand, not a question.
The mercenary leader had ridden into the camp unchallenged, as all around him men rushed about in no apparent order. Some tended to wounded comrades. Some argued with one another, while some simply sat and stared at the mud-spattered warriors who had come tramping out of the darkness.
At first, no one came forward to greet the new arrivals. Up the hill, three men were furiously arguing over which of them should be in command when word came that real Danes had arrived. They hurried down the slope to meet the leader of the Dub Gaill. Haakon swung out of the saddle and looked them over as though inspecting spavined horses. One man of the three was bold enough to step forward.
“Welcome, Lord Haakon. I am Mabon, oath man to Lord Daffyd. I command here at Deganwy.” There was angry muttering behind the man, but he ignored it.
Haakon looked around at the chaos in the camp, then up at the barred gate of the castle.
“It does not look like you do!” Haakon snarled. “I command now.”
Mabon looked as if he might protest, but behind him were two hundred beaten men. Behind Haakon were four hundred Dub Gaill warriors spoiling for a fight. Mabon bowed his head.
“As you wish, my lord.”
“You’ve let yer fortress be taken. How?”
Mabon cleared his throat and told the humiliating story of how hardly more than a hundred men had arrived in the longships claiming to be sent by Haakon himself and had bluffed their way into the fortress.
“We stormed the gate twice trying to dislodge them, my lord,” he added meekly, “but their archers killed a score of my men. We were preparing for a new assault when you arrived.”
Haakon looked past Mabon at the demoralized men in the camp and saw the lie in that statement. He dropped his gaze and met the Welshman’s eyes.
“There is going to be another assault this night and your men had best be ready to do as I order!” he growled.
Mabon bowed his head in acceptance.
“But first, I would know who has your fort and who burnt my boats!”
***
The watchers on the south wall saw the Danes arrive. After the failure of two half-hearted assaults on the gate, the Welsh had slunk back to their camp, leaving their dead where they lay. The beaten men had rekindled their fires and relit their torches—clearly done with attacks for the night. It was by the light of these fires that the men on the south wall of Deganwy Castle saw the Dub Gaill march out of the darkness and into the camp below.
There was no mistaking who these men were. Most carried the familiar red and black shields marking them as Haakon’s mercenaries, but it was their bearing that set them apart. These men had marched nearly twenty miles over bad roads to get here and still moved with more purpose than the beaten Welsh. Sergeants issued quiet orders and men fanned out to set a defensive perimeter, while others rushed down to the gravel bar, clambering aboard to inspect the three surviving longships.
Jamie Finch counted heads as best he could by the light of the fires. He raised a finger as he counted each score of men emerging from the darkness into the light. He ran through three hands and half of another before the tail of the column came into view.
“Near four hundred,” said Patch who had been watching the count. “It looks like he’s brought his whole force with him.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Roland. “This Haakon would take the burning of his boats personally. They’re worth more to him than whatever gold he’s paid.”
“He’ll want revenge,” said Sergeant Billy.
“Aye, I expect he will, but we’ll soon know,” Roland said and pointed down the hill.
A single man came trudging up the hill carrying a torch and a shield. At a hundred paces from the gate he stopped and shouted up the hill.
“Lord Haakon seeks safe conduct to speak to those holding the fort!”
There was a low buzz along the wall at this news.
“Invite him to parlay, Sir Roland, and we’ll kill the bastard with our bows,” Engard snarled and his Welsh archers looked eager for the chance. Roland shook his head.
“That, I will not do. If I give my word, I will not break it, even to kill Haakon the Black. He comes to take our measure, and I would take his as well, but you must swear, Engard, you and all your bowmen must swear, you will not strike him unless I order it.”
There was grumbling, but Engard raised an arm and it quieted.
“You’ve led us this far, Sir Roland. I would never have believed we could take Deganwy, but here we stand in possession of the place. You command here.”
Roland swung around and called down to the herald.
“Tell your master he may come speak with us. He has my word we will not attack him.”
The man with the shield wasted no time retreating to the camp. Within minutes he reappeared, trudging up toward the gate. Behind him came an unusually tall man who wore an expensive cloak over a beautiful knee-length mail shirt. Atop his head was a polished steel helmet with a long, jet-black raven feather affixed to one side. If his garb were not enough to mark him as a leader, his bearing surely did.
Haakon the Black had come to make their acquaintance.
When the two were fifty paces from the gate they stopped. Haakon casually took off his helmet and shook out his long black hair. He swept his gaze along the south wall of the fortress as though he owned the place. He seemed to have little regard for his safety, so close to his enemies.
A fine show of bravado, Roland thought, but he noticed the Dane stayed close behind his shield-bearer.
Completing his inspec
tion of the walls, he called up to the fort. He spoke in Danish.
“Who commands here?” he asked with surprising politeness.
On the wall, men did not understand the words, but all knew who the mercenary leader was addressing.
“I command here,” Roland answered in Danish without elaboration.
“Ah, the strange Dane who speaks with a poor accent and commands a host of Englishmen!” Haakon exclaimed, as though pleased with his deduction. “My men, the ones you left alive, they say you are called Sir Roland. It’s an odd name for an Englishman and an odd title for a Dane.”
“And you are Haakon the Black,” Roland returned mildly, “a man who tortures prisoners to death.”
“Yes, I am Haakon! And yes, I will make men suffer if they have information I want or if they have given me cause for grievance. And you, my English Dane, you and your men have given me much to grieve over! Why did you burn my boats?” This he asked in an almost plaintiff voice, as though baffled that anyone would have done such a thing.
“It was a cold night, Haakon, and they do burn nicely, do they not? I’d have torched them all, but I needed three to fool your allies down in the camp.”
“Such a pity,” Haakon said and his sorrow seemed almost genuine. Then his voice turned harsh.
“I do not know who you are or who you serve, but it matters not,” the Dub Gaill leader snarled. “You burned my boats! For that you, and all your men, will die. You should have stayed in England, Sir Roland. You should not have meddled in Wales!”
“And you should have taken your own advice, Haakon,” Roland shot back. “But here you are in Wales, a long way from home and without boats to get you back there.”
For a long moment there was no response from the two men below. Then Haakon jammed his helmet back on his head and turned on his heel. The shield-bearer hurried to follow.
“He doesn’t look happy,” said Sergeant Billy, dryly.
“What did he say?” Sir John asked.
“He said he’s going to kill us all,” Roland answered, loud enough for all the men clustered along the south wall to hear.
“Let ‘em try,” growled Patch. “He’ll find the Invalid Company is not that easy to kill!”
“Let them come,” added Engard, grimly. “We have our own scores to settle. We haven’t forgotten what the bastard did to Gwilyn and Caden!”
“They’ve got over five hundred men down there,” said Fancy Jack. “If they get over the wall, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Worried, Sir John?” Patch asked.
“Nay, I’m happy!” the one-armed knight replied. “I signed on with the Invalids to kill mercenaries and will finally have my chance. I’ll be waiting for them on the wall.”
Roland did not know where Haakon would choose to strike, but the weathered gate was the most vulnerable point. He ordered half of Engard’s archers to the south wall to join the thirty English already manning it. He directed Sir John to station himself with twenty of the Invalids in the bailey behind the gate to defend it should the heavy doors be breached.
He sent Jamie Finch with a dozen men to watch over the north wall for any threat there. He gave the young Londoner a hunting horn to signal any trouble on the backside of the fortress. The rest of the Invalid Company would occupy the two hilltop redoubts.
Down below, they could hear crisp orders being given and watched as the dozen fires blazing in the camp were doused once more. A sprinkle of rain began to fall as the last fire winked out and the night turned ink black once more.
“They’ll be coming before dawn,” Roland said to the men who surrounded him. “Get back to your posts and keep a sharp eye.”
***
In the Welsh camp, new orders were issued. An oak log was found washed up on the gravel bar and Mabon’s men were ordered to haul it up on the bank and hoist it onto a wagon. It was lashed to the bed and its forward end tapered to form a ram. Daffyd’s men were ordered to form up around the ram and wait for a signal to move.
While the Welsh were grunting and hauling the heavy log up the bank, a large force of Danes gathered at the edge of camp and began securing anything on their persons that might rustle or rattle or gleam in the night. Haakon’s senior lieutenants personally checked every man before leading them out of camp and into the night. As they disappeared into the darkness, the light sprinkle became a steady cold rain.
***
The men inside Deganwy Castle heard trouble coming before they could see it. At first, there was a low rumbling sound that came from the direction of the Welsh camp. Then, shouted orders could be heard in the darkness below. On the south wall, men drew their swords and archers nocked their arrows and waited.
Out of the gloom, a heavy-beamed wagon appeared just a hundred paces from the gate. Atop the wagon was the waterlogged trunk of an oak with two large limbs protruding on either side. The limbs had snapped half off somewhere in its journey down the Conwy. Six men leaned into each limb and pushed the makeshift ram toward the gate, while others pushed from behind. Four shield-bearers hurried along a few paces ahead of the wagon to protect those manning the ram from archers. Behind the ram, the rest of Daffyd’s Welshman followed and behind them came Danes keeping a watchful eye on the zeal of their Welsh allies.
As soon as the ram came into view, Engard’s archers began to pour arrows into the men manning it and those who followed behind. The shield-bearers stopped dozens of shafts, but not all. Men began to fall. As soon as a pusher was hit, a new man was shoved forward to take his place. With Haakon’s men ready to strike down any man who wavered, none did.
Fifty paces from the gate, the path levelled and the wagon gained momentum. Men were dropping in bunches, some being crushed beneath the wagon’s wheels, but on came the ram. With a thunderous crash, the tapered end of the oak log smashed into the weathered wood of the gate. The men who waited behind the barrier with drawn swords heard the wood crack and groan, but it held.
Now the run up had to be repeated. As the survivors of the first charge scrambled back down the slope, the Danes used ropes lashed to the rear of the wagon to pull it back into the darkness. On the wall, men cheered, but Roland did not. Two of his men had been struck by longbow shafts sent up by the attackers and were being tended by Friar Cyril. It was a small price to pay for repelling an attack—and that worried Roland. The assault had felt half-hearted. There were almost six hundred men gathered outside the fort and he’d seen barely half that many attack the gate.
He turned and tried to see what was happening elsewhere around the perimeter of the fortress, but the darkness and driving rain hid any new threat from view. Outside the gate, the rumble of wagon wheels could be heard over the growing roar of the storm as the ram began to move back up the hill. Then, from across the bailey, Roland heard the blast of a hunting horn, the signal for trouble on the north wall. He had stationed Jamie Finch there and knew, with frightening clarity, that here lay the real threat. He grabbed Patch by the sleeve.
“Tom, hold the gate!” he shouted, as he turned and bounded down the steps three at a time.
***
In the darkness below the north wall, the Dub Gaill waited for the sound of the ram slamming into the gate. A dozen of them had fanned out around the base of the wall and each held a wicked, three-pronged grappling hook. Every Danish longship had an ample supply of these hooks, essential tools for snagging other vessels and pulling them close for boarding. The three boats left on the gravel bar below the camp had supplied all that Haakon needed.
When the sound of the ram reached them, the Danes stepped forward and began to swing the iron hooks attached to long ropes in widening loops to gather momentum. With long practice, they released them at the top of the arc to sail over the north wall. The hooks bit deep into the wood of the palisades and now Deganwy Castle, like some ponderous trading cog, was ensnared. A dozen men began to climb up the ropes, hand over hand. Two hundred more stood ready to follow them.
From the bailey behind the
south gate, Fancy Jack saw Roland coming down the stairs. He had heard the horn blast and recognized there was a new danger in that quarter. He and his men fell in behind Roland and sprinted across the open ground toward the north wall. They could already see men hoisting themselves over the top of the log parapet and onto the wall walk. Screams reached them, as the Invalids cut down half of the men who were first up the ropes. But the Danes kept coming, and Roland could see bodies sprawled in the dirt of the bailey below the wall—his men.
As he reached the base of the wooden steps that led up to the wall walk, a Dane came barrelling down at him, his shield still slung over his back. The man screamed a war cry and swung his sword wildly, striking nothing but air as Roland ducked beneath the blow, driving his shoulder into the man’s gut and cartwheeling him into the air. The Dane landed hard and tried to rise, but Sir John drove his sword into the man’s chest. He made an odd gulping sound and sat down. He dropped his sword and held both hands over the wound for a moment, but he was a veteran and knew it was mortal. He lay back, took his sword in hand and waited for the Valkyries to come.
Roland did not see the man’s fate, as he bolted up the wooden steps to the wall walk just as a Dane with an axe heaved himself over and stumbled toward him. Before the man could regain his balance, Roland grasped him by the collar and sailed him screaming into space. He landed with a thud in the bailey, where he was dispatched by Sir John’s men.
An arm’s length away, a helmeted head rose above the sharpened timbers. Roland slashed the rope with his short sword. The Dub Gaill gave a startled cry as he plummeted downward. Ahead of him, he counted five Danes holding a thirty foot stretch of the wall, with another four hoisting themselves over the parapet. He peered over the side and saw a host of Danes massed below the wall with scores on the ropes or waiting their turn.
With nine mercenaries now on the wall, the Invalids still held the advantage in numbers, but they could only come at the Danes from either end of the narrow wall walk, one man at a time. If the Danes could hold the captured section of wall, the weight of numbers would swing rapidly in their favour. And if the north wall was lost, so too would be Deganwy Castle. There was no time now for plans or for strategies.