A Prince of Wales

by Wayne Grant

  “Are you injured?” the Prince asked gently.

  The man shook his head.

  “No, not a scratch, lord,” he managed as he continued to rock. “Is it always like this—this butchery?”

  “Yes,” Llywelyn said flatly, “always.”

  “I see no glory in it,” the poet said with a catch in his throat.

  “There is none,” said Llywelyn, “but men will make it so in the telling.”

  “Like the poets.”

  “Aye, like the poets, but they are not alone. Old men and boys love it best. It comforts the old and beguiles the young.

  “And are you beguiled, my lord? You are young.”

  Llywelyn looked at the heaps of exhausted men laying all about him and shook his head.

  “I cannot remember ever being young, poet.”

  ***

  A shudder ran though the hull of the longship as its starboard side scraped along a hidden shoal.

  “Damn!” Caradog Priddy cursed as he heaved viciously on the steering oar to swing away from the obstruction.

  “Still shallow to starboard,” the younger Priddy sang out as he pulled in the weighted line and flung it twenty feet ahead. His father kept the steering oar hard over, searching for the way ahead like a blind man.

  “Nine feet now,” came the call and the old sailor eased off the oar a trifle.

  For two hours they carefully picked their way down the turbulent strait. Three times they had almost run aground, but the shallow draft of the longship and Master Priddy’s deft handling of the steering oar kept them afloat. Roland stood in the bow next to Declan and Priddy’s son. Ahead he could see more rocks, laced with white foam from the rush of the tidal currents. He looked back over the stern and saw a half-dozen vessels, all carefully following in the wake of the boat ahead.

  “Islands to port!” young Priddy sang out.

  Roland turned back to the front and saw two low rocky islands near the middle of the strait. This was where the locals had warned of whirlpools and shifting currents. He made his way back to the stern where Priddy stood at the helm like some ancient sea spirit, with his jaw set and his tangled grey hair glowing in the moonlight.

  “Oars up!” the old man shouted and the Invalids raised their blades from the water. The boat drifted silently forward. Priddy stared to the front as though trying to see beneath the water and Roland realized that the man did not know which channel to choose to safely pass the islands.

  “The locals…?” Roland began.

  “Never said which side of the damn islands was good water!” Priddy said. “Or, if they did, I’ve forgotten.”

  Roland looked astern and saw the second longship closing on them. He turned back to the man at the helm.

  “Pick a side, Master Priddy, before the ducklings ram your stern.”

  Priddy gave a grim nod and slid the steering oar hard to port.

  “Row now, lads!” he shouted and the Invalids leaned into the oars. The longship slid toward the mainland shore skirting the islands in the middle of the strait. As they passed the first and neared the second, Roland looked off to starboard and saw movement in the water. He moved to the rail and strained his eyes.

  It was a log—and other flotsam—swirling in a foaming circle between the islands and the Anglesey shore. As they glided far to port of the whirlpool he looked back at the helmsman and wondered if the old sailor had been wise or merely lucky. Either way, the man was earning his silver.

  Safely past the islands, the longship reached slack water, as the tide turned from flood to ebb. If they could follow the retreating sea, they would reach open ocean in but two more hours. But if luck had helped them avoid the whirlpools, it failed them with the winds.

  The voyage down the strait had been favoured by a light northerly breeze that gently drove the fishing boats southwards under reefed sails. Now the wind was turning southerly. Priddy was first to see the change.

  “Wind’s backing, lord,” he called to Roland. “Have to put in ‘fore my boats are blown back into those islands.”

  Roland made his way to the bow where Sir Roger, Declan and Griff were already gathered on the starboard side and staring at the Anglesey shore.

  “There! Is that a pier?” Declan said and pointed a quarter-mile ahead. Griff leaned out over the rail and strained to see. He then whirled around and looked back to port. He pointed to the mainland side of the strait.

  “Aye, and there’s another—with a barge tied up. It’s the ferry, by God!”

  Priddy called for the men to raise their oars.

  “My boats can’t manoeuvre into this wind,” he shouted at the men in the bow. “We’ll have to tow ‘em to the dock.”

  ***

  Put ashore on the ferry pier, Griff Connah summoned Roland, Sir Roger, Declan and Engard to a council of war, while Caradog Priddy used the two longships to deftly tow his fishing boats into the dock, one at a time.

  “We cannot continue blindly,” he said. “As soon as the horses are ashore, I will take Sir Roland, Sir Declan and two of my men who know Anglesey to see what has befallen the Prince. Sir Roger, if you please, get the mounted troops moving along the road to Aberffraw. I will leave you a guide who knows the way. Once we have found the Prince—for good or ill—we will meet you along the Aberffraw road.”

  As the gathering concluded, the first fishing boat reached the pier. Roland was relieved to see The Grey among the first horses unloaded and walked over to take the animal’s reins. The big gelding nickered and pricked up its ears as Roland led him off the pier.

  “What price would you put on that horse, English?” Griff asked.

  Roland rubbed the animal’s jaw.

  “He’s not for sale, Griff, but I appreciate you bringing him back sound.”

  “I guessed as much. Best horse I ever sat upon,” the Welshman said and picked out another mount as it bounded up on the pier. They waited for Declan and the two local Anglesey men to find mounts. Once all were saddled, the big Welshman looked up at the full moon, now directly overhead. “It’s good light for night riding, English,” he said. “Let’s go find my prince.”

  It was an hour before midnight.

  ***

  Lord Roderic pulled on his boots and yawned. He had slept soundly in his own bed at the royal Llys. He had seen no need to spend an uncomfortable night in a tent this near to his own hall. As ordered, his Seneschal had awakened him an hour past midnight. Low tide at Ynys Llanddwyn would arrive in two more hours and this unpleasant episode would be over.

  His men had taken heavy losses the previous afternoon, but the rebel lines had almost collapsed. Before the new dawn, he would crush Llywelyn. He wondered idly if his nephew would choose to die in battle or surrender. It hardly mattered. Llywelyn was too dangerous to let live.

  As he pulled his mail jerkin on over his head, the Seneschal returned to the subject of the unfaithful barons he’d railed about the day before when Roderic had reclaimed the Llys. The old man had told him that many of his liege men had sent younger sons to bend the knee to his rebel kin. Llywelyn had welcomed them all and had liberally dispensed silver to the young nobles from Roderic’s own treasury! Now the old man began reading off a list of offending barons he had compiled overnight. Roderic held up a hand. He would deal with the barons after he was finished with Llywelyn.

  But the old counsellor now turned his venom on young Benfras, the court poet.

  “That snivelling bastard exalted Llywelyn and made jest of you, my lord!” he railed.

  “What jest?” Roderic had asked, mildly annoyed. He had liked the young poet’s way with a rhyme.

  “He…he called you a…horse turd, my lord!”

  Roderic sighed. Could no one be trusted beyond this dried up old scribbler of a Seneschal? He buckled on his sword belt

  “If the poet lives, Cadwalader, I will give him to you as a slave.”

  The old man bowed as Roderic walked out of the great hall. Four men of his bodyguard and his favourite ho
rse waited for him there. He mounted and rode out of the Llys, following the main road to the east. Ynys Llanddwyn lay southeast along the coast, but the land between Aberffraw and the island was a treacherous stretch of high dunes and impassable marshes. It would be safer to keep to the main road east, then turn south a little past the bridge over the Cefni River.

  As he rode, he looked up at the moon. Its light was bright enough to cast shadows as they followed the road east. It was a lovely night for a ride. In less than an hour, Roderic and his bodyguards clattered over the wooden bridge that spanned the small Cefni River, as a cloud blocked out the moonlight. The sudden loss of light slowed their pace to a walk as they searched for the smaller road that led down toward the army’s encampment opposite Ynys Llanddwyn. Roderic’s guards did not see the other riders until they were almost upon them.

  Roderic reined in. He was surprised to see men on the road at this hour, but they could only be some of his own. Why they were heading toward Aberffraw and not encamped with the army puzzled him. Perhaps one of his commanders, in an excess of caution, was sending out patrols in all directions. Whatever their purpose or destination, their presence was fortunate. They could surely lead them back to the turnoff. Roderic sent one of his bodyguards ahead to meet the newcomers. The man urged his horse into a trot, raising his arm as he hailed the approaching riders.

  “I ride with Lord Roderic.” he called out. “We seek the road to the army’s encampment.” He watched as the approaching riders slowed for a moment. Then, as the moon slid from behind the cloud, he saw a flash of steel as swords were drawn from scabbards. He turned in horror to shout a warning as the riders spurred their horses straight at him.

  ***

  Declan was the first to react when the rider identified his party. The Irishman spurred his horse forward as he drew his blade. He’d been told who the enemy was and this herald had as much as formally announced the man’s presence. It was all he needed to know. As the rider to his front drew his own sword, Declan stood in his stirrups and unhorsed the man with a single crushing blow of his broadsword.

  He did not stop, but plunged on toward the four riders still in the road ahead. One man turned his horse’s head around and fled back down the road, while the others closed ranks to meet his charge. The young knight sensed movement to his right and saw Roland on his big grey gelding drawing even with him. He tried to urge more speed from his own mount, but the horse was no match for The Grey, and Roland was first to strike the line of riders.

  It was here that his mount showed to best advantage. The Grey was no heavy warhorse, but the animal was taller and more muscular than most palfreys and would not shy away from contact if his rider did not. With Declan on his left, Roland aimed the horse to the right of the centre rider. The man seemed frozen as he watched these two unexpected enemies close on him. He swung his sword wildly at Roland’s head, but his horse was spooked by the charging animals to his front and bolted off the road. The man struck nothing but air and barely kept his seat. Roland had bent forward until his cheek touched the neck of The Grey. As the rider to his right lurched off the road, he rose up and made a straight thrust with his short sword at the rider to his left. The blade went in under the man’s armpit and he fell backwards from his saddle.

  Roland wheeled The Grey around to see the rider he had forced off the road whipping his horse and escaping on firmer ground to the north. Declan was bludgeoning the man on the far left with his heavy sword. The rider parried with his own blade but the force of the blow drove the flat of the sword back into his face, stunning him. He managed to jerk his reins to the right and spurred his horse off the road. He made it only twenty yards before the animal became hopelessly bogged down.

  With the road clear, Griff went pounding by in pursuit of the one man who had fled. Declan spurred after the Welshman, as the two men from Anglesey dismounted and closed in on the mired rider who was desperately trying to free his horse in the swamp. The man dismounted and flailed wildly at the two before losing his footing and falling backwards into the muck. He was not given a chance to regain his feet.

  Roland set out to follow Griff and Declan and did not have to ride far. He saw Griff coming across a small bridge, leading a horse by its reins, its rider sitting slumped in the saddle. Declan brought up the rear.

  The tall Welshman hailed him as they drew near.

  “English! I know now why Llywelyn thinks you lucky. Had you not thought to sail down the Menai, we would not have been on this road at this hour to meet the Prince’s favourite uncle!”

  Roland sagged in the saddle. He did not feel lucky. He felt so tired he could hardly stay atop The Grey.

  “Does this mean your war is over?” he asked

  Griff looked back at Lord Roderic who sat with his head hung low.

  “I believe it does, English.”

  ***

  Llywelyn rose slowly to his feet. It took an effort of will to do so, as duty overcame weariness. All around him men lay motionless on the sand. He looked up at the bright full moon and guessed from its position in the sky that it would be low tide in less than an hour. He had placed lookouts on the bluff, but he expected they were no more alert than the men scattered around him. He walked slowly through the sleeping mass of men, rousing his sergeants where he found them.

  They rose, out of duty and habit, and began rousing the men around them. Slowly, men stumbled to their feet. Those up first helped others to rise. Llywelyn saw his poet, Benfras, shake himself and use his sword like a cane to rise shakily from the sand. He walked over to the young man.

  “You can stay with the archers,” he said.

  Benfras shook his head.

  “If your line breaks, Lord Prince, will the archers not die?”

  “I expect they will,” Llywelyn replied.

  “Then why draw things out?” said the poet as he jammed on his helmet and hoisted his shield, its face studded with broken off longbow shafts.

  “Do you have a rhyme for me, court poet?” Llywelyn asked as he slid his arm through the grip of his shield. “One to fit the occasion?”

  Benfras cocked his head and squinted his eyes as though searching for words, any words, that might be worthy of what was about to happen. Then he straightened himself and spoke in that same clear high voice of his.

  “A Prince and a poet marched down to the sea

  To find in battle what glory there’d be

  They found none at all, but the way that they fell

  Gave poets and bards glorious tales for to tell”

  For a moment, Llywelyn stood silent. Then he leaned in and touched his helmet to the poet’s.

  “It’s a shame if the world should lose your rhymes, poet.”

  “It’s a shame if Wales should lose its Prince, my lord.”

  The two men trudged over the bluff and took their place in the line to wait for the onslaught. Men sat down on the sand and leaned on their shields as they waited, in dread, for the last of the sea to ebb away. Little by little, the sand began to appear, as the waves retreated.

  “Up!” Llywelyn shouted and his men rose to their feet staring at the far shore. Then a lone rider appeared, riding slowly toward the island.

  It was Griff Connah.

  ***

  In the aftermath of Lord Roderic’s capture, resistance to Llywelyn collapsed. With their master in custody, many of Roderic’s men happily came over to serve the Prince as did most of the Anglesey barons. In exchange for his life, Roderic agreed to abdicate his claim to the throne of Gwynedd and accept banishment. Within a day, he was put aboard a ship bound for the Isle of Man and exile.

  Llywelyn did not dwell at Aberffraw long. He paid off Caradog Priddy who gladly transported the new ruler of Gwynedd and his troops across the Menai Strait to Caenarfon. After a few hours of dickering, that mighty fortress opened its gates and hailed their new Prince.

  Having secured Llywelyn’s crown, Roland led the Invalid Company back to Deganwy. He was joined there by the Prince, fr
esh from taking possession of Caenarfon Castle. Together, the two men walked alone through the ruins of the burnt fortress on the two hills.

  “Your plan worked, Sir Roland,” said the Prince. “I am grateful.”

  Roland stopped at the centre of what had been the bailey and felt a tightness in his chest. The turned-up earth from the graves there still looked fresh.

  “By the end, it didn’t much resemble my plan,” he said and nodded toward the graves, “and the price was high.”

  Llywelyn squatted on his haunches and picked up a handful of the dirt.

  “Your Invalids are hard men to kill, Sir Roland. I regret that some were lost, but ending this war will stop a great many other deaths.”

  Roland said nothing. He had heard others speak the same words, but had yet to decide if they were true.

  “I will hope for that, my lord, most sincerely.”

  Llywelyn let the grave dirt slip through his fingers and stood up.

  “Sir Roland, I have a new realm to rule and the barons here have, only lately, been forced to acknowledge my right to the crown. Time will tell which of these I can trust. At the moment, I trust none of them.” Llywelyn turned and fixed Roland with a stare. “A prince needs men close to him he can rely on. Can I trust you, Sir Roland?”

  Roland was startled by the question.

  “I would not play you false, my lord, but I am Earl Ranulf’s oath man.”

  Llywelyn nodded.

  “Aye, and loyal, no doubt. But what if I make it worth Ranulf’s while to release you from your oath? Would you join me—help me govern Wales, in peace if we can? If you will be my liege man, I will give you Deganwy and all the land attached to it. You would be a wealthy man, Sir Roland, and a trusted friend to a prince. What say you?”

  Roland looked at Llywelyn. The man had only grown in stature since he had first met him as a young rebel in the wilderness. He was the kind of man that destiny smiled upon—a bit like England’s own king—and a man that other men were drawn to. Were things different, he might gladly follow such a man, but he had his own star to guide on and that star was in a modest fort on the banks of the River Weaver.