A Prince of Wales Read online

  A Prince of Wales

  The Saga of Roland Inness

  Book 5

  Wayne Grant

  A Prince of Wales, Copyright © 2017 by Wayne Grant.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  FIRST EDITION

  A Prince of Wales is a work of fiction. While some of the characters in this story are actual historical figures, their actions are largely the product of the author’s imagination.

  *Cover Art by More Visual, Ltd.

  For Tony and Artie

  There are no friends like old friends…

  Contents

  Prologue

  Treachery

  Danesford

  Chester

  Muster of the Invalids

  Crossing the Dee

  Eryri

  Fugitive at the Ford

  Dolwyddelan

  What to do with a Madawc

  No Simple Plan

  Opening Moves

  The Challenge

  Like Father

  Aberffraw

  The Longships

  Riders in the Night

  Down the Conwy

  Deganwy

  Affair of the Heart

  Haakon the Black

  The Gallows Tree

  The Uncles

  The Storm

  The Fifth Day

  Fire on the Mountain

  Thunder on the Plain

  The Strait

  Home

  Dreams

  Historical Note

  Prologue

  The boy should have been home by sunset. His father had demanded he muck out the cow’s pen before dark, but he would rather throw stones in the river. He climbed down the bank to the gravel bar and searched between the little fishing boats there until he found the perfect projectile. It was shaped like a flattened egg and had been worn smooth by the flow of the River Conwy for a thousand years. The boy hefted his prize and felt sure he could get a dozen skips or more from this beauty. He shifted weight to his back foot, extended his arm behind him, cocked his wrist—and froze.

  In the fading winter twilight, he saw boats on the river—ten of them. These were nothing like the little boats that belonged to the village fishermen. They were long and low, with a single row of oars on either side and a long, curved prow rising gracefully from the bow of each. He watched, mesmerized, as hundreds of oar blades moved as one, dipping into the dark water and propelling this flotilla upriver against the current.

  The boy had never seen boats such as these, but he knew what they were—had heard the terrifying stories passed down from father to son for generations. He reflexively looked toward the fortress across the river. The castle at Deganwy sat on a rocky crag looking down on the mouth of the river where it spilled into the Irish Sea. From this stone and timber fortress, the princes of Gwynedd had guarded a strategic avenue of invasion into the north of Wales for over five hundred years.

  There should have been a warning fire lit on the heights but the boy saw none. There should have been soldiers streaming down from the fortress to confront this horror, but he saw not a one! He dropped his rock and ran faster than he had ever done to the little house at the edge of the town. His father looked up, annoyed, as he burst through the door.

  “Yer late!” he said and reached for a strap, then noticed the terror on the boy’s face.

  “What is it lad? What’s put the fright into ye?”

  The boy stood there, bug-eyed and fighting for breath. Finally, he blurted out the terrible warning.

  “Northmen!”

  ***

  Haakon the Black watched the boy drop his stone and run away as though he’d seen the Devil. Snorri, his helmsman, gave a little laugh at the sight and nudged him.

  “Shit his pants, I’ll wager.”

  Haakon nodded. He’d seen this before.

  “The whole village will, once the boy spreads the word.”

  Snorri grunted. It was good to be feared. Frightened men put up less of a fight. He looked behind him at the longships that followed in their wake—ten crews in all, manned by four hundred mercenary Danes—something to be feared, indeed.

  These were the Dub Gaill, descendants of the Danish invaders who had dominated Ireland for two hundred years. The name was from the Gaelic and meant “dark foreigners.” Snorri glanced at the tall man standing next to him. Their leader fit that description well. He had fair skin, but coal-black hair, worn long and loose to his shoulders. There were blue rune signs tattooed on one cheekbone and bands of silver around heavily muscled arms. He was every inch the Viking.

  Haakon the Black.

  That name marked his reputation more than his colouring. Operating out of Dublin, Haakon was a throwback to an earlier time when Viking longships ruled the northern seas unchallenged. He was a pitiless warlord whose band of hardened warriors struck fear from Cornwall to the Orkney Isles. Now they had come to Gwynedd.

  He was here at the behest of his old patron, Ragnvald, King of the Isles, who ruled a domain from the Hebrides to the Isle of Man. But it was not Ragnvald who was paying for his services. The King had family connections in Wales and it was they who had promised silver for his Dub Gaill swords—a lot of silver.

  Haakon looked up at the castle on the hill. It had been built there to guard against ships such as these and men such as those he led, but he could see that no alarm had been raised. He expected none. He had been assured that the garrison at Deganwy Castle would let them pass unmolested up the River Conwy and into the very heart of Gwynedd.

  As the longships slid quietly by the fishing village, Haakon watched its inhabitants streaming out of the tiny hamlet and running for the surrounding hills. Upstream, the river narrowed, and the longships fell into a single line with Haakon’s in the lead. As full night fell, torches were lit and a lookout perched at the bow watched for shallows and sandbars, calling directions back to Snorri at the helm.

  For twelve miles, the boats moved against the current, until rounding a bend, they saw a bonfire on the bank and a wide bar where they could safely ground the boats. One by one, they slid up on the gravel of the bar like hunting hounds, come to sit at the feet of their master. Haakon leapt onto the gravel, sword in hand, and strode up toward the fire. Waiting there was a tall man with a short black beard and fine clothes. He was surrounded by a score of warriors in mail.

  In the glow of the bonfire, Haakon could see a huge herd of horses grazing in the meadow that spread back from the river’s edge. He nodded in satisfaction and bowed to the man by the fire. This was the man who would pay them their silver.

  “Lord Roderic, King Ragnvald sends his regards,” Haakon the Black announced in serviceable Welsh. He had made it a practice to learn the tongues of the peoples who bordered the Irish Sea. It was good for business.

  “Lord Haakon, you are most welcome here,” Roderic said, stepping forward and offering his hand. “When next you greet my father-in-law, give him my fond wishes, but first, I have some Welshmen I need for you to kill.”

  Treachery

  The ravens that circled above the far ridge were the first warning. Wherever these scavenger birds gathered, there was death. The birds had likely been drawn to the valley beyond the ridge by a dead deer or some other forest creature that had perished in the cold. It had been a hard winter after all, but Griff Connah knew that men had a way of dying in the forests of Gwynedd at any time of year. A day ago, they had left a score of their men camped in the valley beyond the ridge where the carrion birds circled. And ravens would feast on dead men as happily as dead game.

  He scanned the ridg
eline, searching for any hint of trouble, but saw none. He glanced at the rider to his left. His companion was a striking young man, handsome after a fashion—or at least the women seemed to find him so. He was a big man with a russet beard and sat his horse with an easy grace. Even after a long day in the saddle, he rode erect, like the prince that he was, a thick mane of brown hair whipping behind him in the freezing wind. He was Llywelyn ap Iowerth, rebel leader and one day, God willing, Prince of Gwynedd.

  They were returning from a parlay with Llywelyn’s uncle, Daffyd ap Owain, the man Llywelyn had been in rebellion against for seven long years. Lord Daffyd had ruled Gwynedd east of the River Conwy for twenty years, but had been unable to snuff out Llywelyn’s growing strength in the backcountry. The invitation to talk had come from Lord Roderic, Llywelyn’s other uncle and Daffyd’s younger brother. Roderic, who ruled Gwynedd west of the Conwy had offered to serve as intermediary between the warring parties and had pledged hostages to guarantee the safety of both men.

  Now the talking was done and the hostages returned. Like all land east of the river, the land they now rode through was claimed by Daffyd, though the wilder parts of Gwynedd were under no firm control. And whatever peaceful overtures had been made at the talks, the bloody civil war was far from over. He saw that Llywelyn’s eyes were also fixed above the ridgeline ahead. He had seen the birds too.

  It was probably a dead animal—nothing more, but they had not survived seven years as rebels in this wilderness by ignoring warning signs. The prince edged his mount close to Griff.

  “See anything?” he called, just loud enough to be heard over the horses’ hooves. No one in Wales had keener eyes than Griff Connah.

  “Just the ravens.”

  “Worried?” Llywelyn asked.

  “Always.”

  ***

  Griff had been with Llywelyn since shortly after the young nobleman arrived in Gwynedd at the age of fourteen to claim his share of an illustrious, and dangerous, inheritance. The boy’s grandfather, Owain, Prince of Gwynedd, had been the ruler of this region of northern Wales for over thirty years, controlling much of the rest of the country as overlord to lesser princes. The old man had seven acknowledged sons, Llywelyn’s father, Iowerth, being the second oldest. He also sired countless bastards and died without officially naming an heir. It was a failure that would drench his patrimony in blood across two generations.

  The killing began within months of the old Prince’s death. Daffyd and Roderic, sons of Owain’s second wife, killed Hywel, Owain’s oldest son, in battle. They would surely have done the same to Llywelyn’s father, Iowerth, who was next in line of seniority, had he not retreated to his fortress at Dolwyddelan, deep in the towering peaks of Eryri.

  There he stayed, far from the intrigues of his half-brothers, and there he sired a son, Llywelyn. But the fortress proved no refuge for Iowerth, or his family. In a calamity for his line, Iowerth died of a fever, leaving only his wife and infant son to face the ambitions of Daffyd and Roderic. The wife was no fool. She fled east to Powys, the land of her kinsmen, and raised Llywelyn there, safe from the boy’s ruthless uncles.

  While Daffyd and Roderic split Gwynedd between them, Llywelyn lived as an exile in Powys. There, the boy was raised to understand his noble heritage and to hate the men who had stolen it from him. For, by right of primogeniture, Llywelyn had a legitimate claim to the rule of all Gwynedd. His line, through Iowerth back to Owain, was senior to that of the brothers Daffyd and Roderic, but in the brutal world of northern Wales, rules of succession bought the boy little.

  As he grew older, Llywelyn chafed in exile and dreamed of glory. When he was fourteen, he gathered a small band of maternal cousins and, against his mother’s entreaties, rode west into the land of his father to claim his inheritance. He was not warmly received.

  Llywelyn had been hunted relentlessly for months by his uncle Daffyd when he stumbled wet and exhausted into Griff Connah’s village. He had only one man with him, his cousins having fled back into Powys. The young noble’s cause seemed hopeless, but Griff had seen something in the gangly boy, a burning intensity in his eyes, that had drawn him to this royal pretender.

  Connah became one of Llywelyn’s first adherents and, in the hard years that followed, rose to become the rebel prince’s most trusted lieutenant. He was tall and lean, with heavily muscled shoulders that marked him as a bowman. He commanded the archers of the small but growing rebel army that had come to dominate the wilder tracts of land east of the Conwy River—the part of Gwynedd claimed by Daffyd.

  In the past year, Daffyd’s forces had retreated to the coastal plain, leaving the hinterland to his nephew. Llywelyn used his light cavalry and archers to control the narrow roads and forested hills inland, but dislodging Daffyd from the richer lands on the coast had proven to be another matter. Llywelyn had neither the force to assault nor lay siege to the string of fortresses that protected the lowlands.

  And so there had been stalemate.

  The first snows brought an end to the seventh year of campaigning and both sides settled into winter quarters. Then the unexpected offer of parlay arrived during Christ’s Mass. Surprisingly, the message had come not from Daffyd, but from Roderic. The messenger said that Daffyd was ready to recognize Llywelyn’s claim to some part of Owain’s old domains and had enlisted Roderic as a go-between. Roderic had agreed to arrange a meeting between his brother and his nephew and guaranteed the safety of both men.

  The meeting would be held in an open field on the eastern bank of the River Conwy, a few miles upstream from the castle at Deganwy. This was Daffyd’s land and his men garrisoned the castle, but Roderic had substantial forces just across the river and had promised to provide hostages to insure there would be no treachery on either side.

  “Why would Daffyd offer a deal now?” Griff asked after the messenger had left their camp. “I don’t like it.”

  Llywelyn shrugged.

  “Perhaps he grows weary of the fight. He’s no longer young and I hear he’s grown fat. He knows we are winning.”

  Griff gave a quiet hoot.

  “Your uncle is feasting before a roaring fire this Christ Mass, snug in his fortress at Rhuddlan, while we huddle in these timber huts against the cold. I’m not sure it looks like we are winning.”

  Llywelyn laughed and shook his head.

  “True enough. Perhaps he will offer me half of his lands and name me his heir so he can live out his life in peace.”

  Griff shook his head.

  “I don’t think his son, Owain, would appreciate that!”

  Llywelyn laughed again.

  “No, I suppose not. Owain bears my grandfather’s famous name and I hear he harbours ambitions to one day rule himself. Alas, he has not the brains or the balls to do so.”

  The two grew quiet for a long moment watching the snow fall around the primitive hill fort that was their winter quarters. Finally, Griff spoke.

  “So, my lord, in the unlikely event Daffyd should offer you half of his land now and all upon his death—in return for peace—would you accept?”

  Llywelyn grinned and swung his arm in an arc taking in the cold grey woods around them.

  “And give up all this, Griff?” He paused and looked at his friend and follower. “Perhaps I would.”

  ***

  Two weeks later, they made the hard, two-day ride from the hill fort to the edge of the high country that looked down on the coastal plain. Llywelyn left a score of his personal guard behind in a sheltered valley and rode on with only six men, all that either party was allowed to bring to the parlay. As they approached the meeting place, two riders came out to meet them, one of middle years and one a mere boy of no more than six years—though he sat his horse as though born to it.

  The older rider greeted Llywelyn.

  “My lord, I am Andras, sworn man of Roderic, Prince of Aberffraw and Lord of Anglesey and Eryri. He bids me welcome you to this parlay, which he prays will bring peace to Gwynedd and his own dear family.�
��

  Llywelyn reined in his horse and gave a quick nod to the man.

  “We all hope for peace,” he said blandly, then turned to the boy. “What is your name, lad?”

  The older man started to speak, but Llywelyn cut him off.

  “I’m addressing the boy, not you. Let him answer.”

  The boy was fair-haired and a bit wide-eyed, but he spoke up readily enough.

  “I am Rhun ap Thomas ap Roderic, my lord,” he announced proudly. “I am your hostage. Are you Llywelyn?”

  “Prince Llywelyn to you, lad. Roderic is your grandsire?”

  “Aye, Llywelyn…Prince Llywelyn. He is my father’s father.”

  Llywelyn turned back to the older rider.

  “Tell your master the hostage is acceptable.”

  The rider turned his horse’s head to go, but Llywelyn spoke again.

  “And tell him my man will slit the boy’s throat if there is treachery.”

  The messenger gave a grim nod and rode off. Llywelyn pointed to one of his men who rode up next to the boy and took the horse’s reins in his hand. Llywelyn spurred his mount and followed Roderic’s man along with Griff and his four remaining men. The boy watched them go, then turned to his guard.

  “Did he mean that? If things go wrong…you’ll kill me?”

  The man thought to frighten the lad, but saw the boy was frightened enough already.

  “No, lad. No need to fear. Prince Llywelyn does not kill children, but I hope your kin folk don’t know that.”

  The boy sat silently contemplating his situation for a bit.

  “I hope they don’t either.”

  ***

  The parlay was held in a large white tent erected in the centre of a broad meadow that sloped down to the river. Behind the tent were half a hundred well-armed men, brought by Roderic to ensure there would be no mischief at the gathering. As Llywelyn rode up, he saw Daffyd and his entourage sitting their horses near the tent.