A Prince of Wales

by Wayne Grant

  There was only time to fight.

  Ten feet ahead of him, he saw Jamie Finch parry a vicious slash from a Dane and drive his blade up under the man’s ribs. The blade lodged there and, as the man toppled off the wall walk, Finch had to grasp the palisade with his free hand to keep from being dragged along. He pulled his blade free just as another Dane swung over the wall and landed in front of him. The man was half a head taller and half again heavier than the young Invalid. Roland recognized him.

  It was Haakon.

  “Jamie!” Roland shouted, as the mercenary leader turned on Finch and swung his long broadsword in a backhand stroke at the young man’s head. Finch ducked under the blade as a large chunk of the south wall went flying. For a moment the sword stuck in the wood and Finch uncoiled with his own blade, aimed at Haakon’s groin. The big Dane did not retreat, but lunged forward, ramming his shield into Finch’s head and sending the boy tumbling off the wall and into the bailey.

  Alwyn Madawc had once worried that Roland Inness lacked the killing fury needed to win a desperate fight. He needn’t have. As Roland watched Jamie Finch fall, he lost all concern for the defence of the castle, or the outcome of this war, or the fate of Llywelyn. He felt nothing but fury and the urgent need to kill this Dane.

  “Haakon!” he screamed.

  The Dub Gaill leader was already looking in his direction. He raised his sword in mock salute.

  “Sir Roland? Is it you?” he jeered. “I was expecting a man, but I see it is another boy!” He waved his sword toward the bottom of the wall where Jamie Finch lay. “That’s what happens to boys who fight Haakon!”

  Roland did not reply. At his feet was one of the red and black shields, dropped there by the man he had pitched off the wall walk. He plucked it up and moved toward the Dane, who stood waiting. Over the man’s shoulder, he could see more mercenaries hauling themselves over the wall.

  Off to his right, he heard a thundering boom. He knew it was the ram smashing into the gate again, but ignored the sound. The men he’d ordered to throw back any breach of the gate were now fighting to save the north wall from being overrun. If they could not clear this wall, the gate would not matter.

  Roland watched Haakon shift his shield arm up and draw back his long broadsword. And he saw something else—Haakon was right-handed and the parapet of the north wall rose almost to the man’s right shoulder, hemming in his sword arm. He would have to keep his long blade clear of the wall.

  Roland closed in and Haakon uncoiled with a lunge forward. Their shields met and the Dane made a straight thrust over the top at Roland’s head, missing by inches. Roland jerked his shield up, hoping its edge would break the man’s wrist or forearm, but the Dane was too quick. The shield caught only the blade of the broadsword as Haakon drew it back.

  With both shields raised, Roland bent his knees and made a straight thrust at Haakon’s groin. The man sensed it coming and twisted away as Roland’s blade slid along the tightly linked mail at the Dane’s hip. As Haakon twisted away, he swung his broadsword in a vicious overhead arc that caught the edge of Roland’s shield and split it down to the boss. The long blade wedged there and Haakon cursed as he tried to free it. Finally, it jerked loose and the two men drew back, glaring at each other through the pouring rain.

  At the far end of the section of wall the Danes occupied, Roland saw Seamus Murdo slowly forcing the intruders back with his vicious long-handled axe, but more of the mercenaries were gaining the wall behind Haakon. A few were beginning to leap from the wall walk down into the bailey, the first wave in what would soon be a deadly torrent pouring over the north wall.

  With a cold certainty, Roland knew they were losing this battle. He went back on the attack, feinting low then slashing high. Haakon slid his shield down to block the feint and Roland’s blade struck the side of his helmet, slicing through the raven’s wing and denting the steel. Haakon staggered backwards, but recovered quickly.

  Behind him, four more Danes hoisted themselves up over the jagged timbers of the north wall. But they never reached the wall walk. All four froze at the top of the wall, then fell backwards into space. In the clamour of battle, Roland did not hear them cry out, but Haakon did. He looked over his shoulder and saw three of the men behind him on the wall tumble headfirst into the bailey. The big Dane swung his shield up as two longbow shafts imbedded in the oak.

  It was Engard and six of his bowmen. They loosed another volley and three more Danes who had come over the wall without shields died.

  The Dub Gaill were brave—recklessly so—but they were not suicidal and neither was Haakon the Black. The big Dane kept his shield between him and the archers, but pointed his sword at Roland.

  “Another time, boy!” he snarled, then vaulted back over the wall. For a second Roland saw the man’s hands gripping the top of the wall, white in the pounding rain. Then they were gone.

  Along the wall walk, nothing but dead bodies now lay between Roland and Seamus Murdo. The two looked at each other, then over the palisade and saw the Danes streaming back down the slope, through the thick gorse and into the darkness.

  The north wall had held.

  Roland motioned for Sir John to take command of the wall and made his way back down to the bailey. He saw Engard standing with his longbowmen. He walked over and hugged the startled Welshman.

  “You and your men saved us tonight, Engard,” he said, drawing back. “We were losing the north wall.”

  Engard shrugged.

  “After the south gate held, we had nothing left to shoot at on that side. So, we came looking for targets on this side of the bailey. Unlucky for the Danes.”

  “Not for this one,” Roland said with a weary smile.

  ***

  “Eight dead—six of ours and two of the Welsh archers, sir,” Sergeant Billy reported. “A dozen wounded—all of them Invalids. Nine can still fight. One will probably not last the night.”

  Roland nodded wearily as he listened to the casualty figures. All things considered, a low butcher’s bill for this night’s work—unless you were one of the names on the bill. He’d already been told that Jamie Finch had survived his fall from the north wall with a broken arm. Friar Cyril had set the bone and splinted the arm.

  When the Danes had broken off their attack in the north, he’d run across the bailey to find the gate intact, but beginning to splinter at the centre. Outside the south wall, the ground was littered with dead, more of the Welsh longbowmen’s work.

  The rain had stopped and a few stars could now be seen through gaps in the clouds as he stood with his leaders around him atop the south wall. Even in the dark, he could see that all were exhausted.

  Roland turned to Patch.

  “Where is your banner, Tom?”

  For a moment, the old veteran did not take his meaning, then his tired eyes lit up. He looked to Sergeant Billy, who dug into his tunic and pulled forth a carefully folded piece of black cloth. He handed it to Patch.

  “Hoist it,” Roland ordered.

  There was a tall pole over the gate that flew the banner of the House of Aberffraw, when Lord Daffyd was in residence. It was empty now and Patch secured the cloth by a rope attached to the pole and hauled it up. Roland watched it rise above the south gate as the sky began to lighten in the east. The black banner of the Invalid Company was nearly invisible against the predawn sky, but the silver wolf’s head caught what little light there was. Men all over Deganwy Castle saw it and stood a little straighter.

  “Thank you, sir,” Patch said in a husky voice.

  “You’ve earned it, Tom. You’ve all earned it.”

  The Gallows Tree

  Thirty miles away from the embattled fortress of Deganwy, a tired man led his horse into a small barn and unsaddled the animal. It was hours until dawn, but it had already been an eventful and unsettling night.

  The first sign of trouble had been the sound of his daughter’s voice coming from outside the house, long past the girl’s usual bedtime. He’d peeked thro
ugh the shutters and seen her standing in the moonlight, arguing with a boy. The boy’s face was in shadow, but there was no doubt who it was.

  He was shocked that Rhys Einion had returned to the village after his own father had accused him of theft, but less shocked that the boy had come in the night to disturb his daughter’s slumber. Anyone with eyes to see had known that Talfryn’s son was sweet on his girl.

  Not so long ago, he had encouraged the connection. Having his daughter joined to the son of the local chieftain would have been good for the family and Rhys had ties through his dead mother to another powerful family in the village. It would have been a very good match for his Mairwen, but alas, the boy had stolen money—and from the church no less!

  He’d dressed hastily and hurried downstairs, only to see Mairwen march through the back door with tears in her eyes. Rushing to the door, he’d seen Rhys Einion trudging off into the night.

  So, Mairwen had rebuffed him.

  As he turned back from the door, his daughter had sobbed.

  “He wanted me to run away with him!”

  He’d put his arm around the girl.

  “There now, stop yer tears. Ye did right sending the thief packing. He’ll not be back to trouble ye again, girl. Once I tell Talfryn his son is back, the man will scour the country till he has him sure!”

  This only made the girl bawl louder.

  “No! You mustn’t, father,” the girl said, as she gulped for air between sobs. “I know he’s no thief, but Talfryn will hang him anyway. I couldn’t bear that! I wanted to go with him—I did, but he said it was to England and that made me afraid. So, I said no. But…but…I wanted to go...I love Rhys! Please don’t tell Talfryn he was here!”

  The man had realized long ago that he did not understand women, and particularly his wilful thirteen-year-old daughter. At some point, he had stopped trying.

  “Yer talking nonsense, Mairwen. Now get to yer room and stay there!” he ordered.

  Ignoring his daughter’s pleas, he had fetched his horse. The girl would be cross with him, but that would pass and it was a small price to pay for the favour he would curry with the local chieftain. He’d mounted and galloped over to Talfryn’s fort to alert him that his wayward son had returned.

  Talfryn had been pleased to hear this news and within an hour, his man Morgant had returned with three prisoners in tow, Rhys among them. Satisfied that he had done his duty and gained favour in the eyes of the chieftain, he had ridden home.

  With the horse safe in the barn, he slipped back into the house and stopped by Mairwen’s room to see if the girl was asleep or awake and in a sulk. He cracked the door. The room was empty.

  What now?

  ***

  As soon as her father had ridden off to alert Talfryn, Mairwen had bolted out the back door. If her stubborn father would not listen to reason, she would have to take matters into her own hands and warn Rhys of the danger he was in. Rhys’ tracks in the soft earth were easy to follow as she ran across the open field and into the wood line. Here things became confusing, for there were multiple tracks, but all led in the same direction, so she followed.

  She saw tracks leave the woods and followed them across a large field her family owned. The trail led into another dense patch of trees she knew well. She had often walked in this glade as a girl, but only during the day. Now, in the darkness, it looked different and frightening, and the tracks were not so easy to see. But Mairwen was not a girl to be daunted when her back was up. As she pondered how to follow, she heard faint sounds ahead of her. It must be Rhys!

  She plunged into the woods toward the sounds to her front, stopping now and again to listen. Bare branches and brambles along the trail clutched at the cape she had wrapped around her as she hurried along. She burst out into a clearing to find it empty, but off to the right she heard a horse whinny and felt her hopes rise. Perhaps Rhys had got clear away before her sire could bring down disaster on the poor boy!

  She followed the sound of the horse, but then heard angry voices shouting. Creeping closer, she’d watched as Rhys and two other men were seized by Morgant. He’d taken them back toward the village as prisoners and she had followed as fast as she could. At this hour, there was no one about as she hurried past the darkened huts and on to Talfryn’s timber fortress. By the time she reached it, the gate was closed and barred.

  There was no point pounding on the gate. She knew Talfryn would no more listen to reason than her father, but she knew someone who might. She set off at a run back toward the village.

  ***

  Inside Talfryn’s stockade, the two knights from Shipbrook sat through the night in a horse pen with a runaway Welsh boy, their hands bound behind them. Talfryn’s men had kept a careful watch over the prisoners, but otherwise left them alone. Now the sky over the eastern wall of the palisade was starting to brighten.

  “I’ll not be hung like a criminal,” Sir Roger said, tugging for the hundredth time at the ropes that bound him.

  “That would be my choice as well,” Declan O’Duinne agreed.

  The Welsh boy sniffed and spoke mournfully.

  “Ye should never have come after me, my lords,” he said, his voice cracking. “Now I’ve led ye to this! What will Lady Catherine think of me?”

  Declan snorted.

  “Lady Catherine? Yer worried over Lady Catherine? Why, I take second place to no man when it comes to avoidin’ her censure, but at the moment, I think having our necks stretched is the more pressing concern!”

  Rhys Madawc sniffed again.

  “I loved her…”

  “Well, lad, men have done stupider things for love,” Sir Roger offered, touched by the boy’s misery. “But forget about the wench. We need to find a way out of this.”

  “Up!” The command rang across the small courtyard as Talfryn and Morgant came striding across the packed earth of the small courtyard toward the pen. Behind them marched eight armed men, while two more unbarred the gate of the small fortress and pushed it open. The two guards who had watched them in the few hours since their capture rushed in and hauled the prisoners to their feet.

  Talfryn turned to Morgant.

  “You have your orders!” he said, loudly enough for the bound men to hear, a mirthless smile visible on his face even in the dim light.

  “Aye, my lord,” Morgant answered, obediently.

  “Bring out the prisoners!” he ordered.

  The two guards gave each of the condemned men a jab with the butt end of their spears to get them moving toward the gate. As they reached Talfryn, Sir Roger stopped abruptly and turned on the man.

  “When word of this reaches Cheshire, men will come for you, Talfryn,” he said with a snarl. “This little fort will not save you and if you run, they will find you. I know these men—and they will come.”

  “Ah, threats!” Talfryn said and clapped his hands. “I had expected begging, but no matter. Begging would not have helped you either. As for these men of Cheshire you speak of, none there will ever know what happened here, so your threats are…”

  He was cut off by an outburst from Rhys.

  “You are not my father!”

  The man whirled to face the boy, his arrogant smile instantly replaced with a look of pure hatred in the gathering light of dawn. A curse was on his lips, but he bit it back. He knew the boy was goading him and he fought to control his rage.

  That his young wife had been bedded by another man was an old rumour whispered around the village for years. Derryth had denied it, but the suspicion had lodged in his heart like a canker. And when their son arrived, he had seen nothing of himself in the child’s countenance. Now he looked down at Rhys and saw what he had always seen there, the face of another man—the face of his own humiliation. With an effort of will he checked his anger.

  “I wish that were so, Rhys, for you have dishonoured the name of Einion. Would that I had never sired a thief for a son,” he said, affecting an air of sad resignation.

  “You did not sire me
! And I am no Einion! Madawc is my name.”

  “It’s a lie!” Talfryn spat back.

  “My mother told me otherwise!” the boy shouted.

  “Your mother was a whore!” Talfryn roared, losing all control of his temper.

  “What did you call my daughter?”

  All heads turned as one to locate where this new voice had come from. Standing in the open gate was a bent old woman wrapped in a shawl with a young girl standing beside her.

  “Grandmother!” Rhys exclaimed, in near shock. “Mairwen!”

  Sir Roger and Declan exchanged quick glances. This drama had taken a new twist.

  “Rhys, my sweet boy,” the old woman purred. “I’ve missed you.”

  She then turned back to Talfryn.

  “Now, what did you call my daughter?” she said again, with venom dripping from every word.

  It had taken Talfryn a moment to recover from this unexpected appearance, but he managed it.

  “Maeve, this is none of your affair. The boy stole the tithes for the church. He must hang.”

  “The boy is my grandson and that makes it my affair. What’s more, your charge is a damned lie!” the old woman said. “I know Rhys and he would not do such a thing. I demand you release him!”

  Talfryn chewed on his lip. His dead wife’s mother was the matriarch of a local clan nearly as powerful as his own. There had once been hope that his marriage to Derryth would unite the families, but the rumours of her liaison with Alwyn Madawc had soured those hopes. He had been a dutiful husband in public, but in private he had behaved cruelly towards his new bride and no less so to the boy who came nine months after they wed—a boy he always suspected was not his own.

  But the village was small and word of his treatment spread. It had made for bad blood between the families. This would make it worse, but Talfryn saw no other way. To back down now, in front of his men, would be a sign of weakness and his family had not ruled this small stretch of Wales for twenty years by being weak.