by K. M. Ashman
‘This witch has deemed to think she can better us with naught but street vermin at her side,’ he shouted. ‘So let us show her what real warriors are capable of. Men of Flanders, advance!’
As one, the line of horsemen adjusted their grips on their lances, dug their heels into their horses’ flanks and advanced in line abreast to meet Gwenllian on the field of battle.
Across the frosty grass, Gwenllian could feel the blood racing through her veins and for the first time in years felt the familiar rush of excitement tinged with fear. With a deep breath she raised her own sword and sounded her own charge.
‘Men of Wales,’ she roared. ‘This is our day. For Deheubarth and for freedom. Advaaance.’
With an almighty roar the men spurred their own horses forward and galloped into the attack, each knowing that the odds were stacked heavily against them. Unlike the enemy, they had no lances or metal armour; all they had was their swords, their hearts and their inspirational leader.
Gwenllian galloped hard towards Wilhelm, sword in hand. She wore no helmet or coif and her golden hair flew out behind her like a pennant. Wilhelm singled out the leader and, anticipating a quick victory, met her gallop head on, his lance lowered and aimed directly at her heart.
With no lance of her own, Gwenllian knew she was out-powered, especially with a trained knight, but the last few days she had trained specifically for this moment. With everything depending on the next few seconds, she drove her horse even harder, knowing that speed and momentum were critical if she was to succeed. At full tilt, both leaders met at the centre of the field, and just as it seemed she would be impaled on Wilhelm’s lance, she lowered her sword arm and dropped her body tight to her horse. The lance sailed harmlessly over her back while at the same time she forced her sword upwards towards her opponent, resulting in a heavy blow under the knight’s forearm. Though there was no strength in the impact, her momentum meant the edge of the sword smashed through his chainmail into his flesh.
To either side, both lines crashed into each other with deadly effect. Many of the Welsh had deployed the same tactic but, though it had caught some of the Flemish unawares, the knights’ greater experience and training bore fruit and far more Welsh than English fell.
Shocked at the fact he had missed his target, Wilhelm continued riding through the Welsh lines before reining in his horse to turn for the follow-up assault.
‘Reform,’ he shouted at the rest of his men as they arrived. ‘And this time do not fall for their trickery.’ He discarded his lance and drew his sword. As he did, he felt the pain in his arm for the first time and looking down, saw the blood oozing between the broken links of his chainmail hauberk.
‘My lord,’ said one of his men, ‘you are injured.’
‘A scratch only,’ said Wilhelm, knowing full well that some of the links had been forced into the wound. ‘Reform the line and prepare to charge.’
In front of him, Gwenllian’s own riders had also turned to ride back into battle. In between them, several men of both sides lay dead or wounded on the freezing ground while others tried to limp away, nursing wounds or broken bones.
‘Those with lances to the fore,’ shouted Wilhelm. ‘The rest of you will ride behind and engage with swords. This time, we will not ride through but stay and engage what remains of her pathetic little army.’ He turned to look at one of his own men riding a bleeding horse towards him from the battlefield. ‘Are you wounded?’ he asked.
‘No my lord but . . .’
‘Then dismount,’ ordered Wilhelm. ‘Find another horse.’
‘Look, my lord,’ said the horseman, pointing to the ground beyond Wilhelm.
Wilhelm stared behind him, his heart sinking at what he saw. All along the shallow ridge where Gwenllian had first emerged, another line of riders had appeared, but this time they were obviously far better equipped and far better organised.
‘Who are they?’ asked one of the men as his horse fidgeted beneath him.
‘They fly no banners,’ said Wilhelm, ‘Welsh or English. I suggest they are mercenaries.’
‘My lord,’ said one of his officers, ‘we now have foe on both sides. What are your orders?’
Wilhelm thought quickly. His men had suffered few casualties in the first encounter and the easier targets were indeed the Welsh, but he knew that even if they were routed in the second attack, he would still have to deal with the newcomers and he couldn’t risk losing any more men before then. Quickly he looked around, assessing the situation. Rowan was an experienced, battle-hardened commander and Wilhelm knew that he and his foot soldiers could easily deal with the Welsh, or at least hold them at bay for a while. That would leave his own men to concentrate on this new threat before returning to finish off the woman and her comrades. With no time left, he made his decision.
‘Reform,’ he shouted suddenly. ‘Face the rear. The Welsh can wait while we teach these newcomers a lesson and if they are still here when we return, we will cast them into the sea. On my command, advaaance!’
Back at the caravan, Gwenllian’s men were also reforming. With a sinking heart, she could see at least ten had fallen with several more bearing heavy wounds, some of them fatal. It had been a far costlier first encounter than she had wanted but now was not the time to mourn. In the distance she could see the Saxon mercenaries forming up to engage the Flemish and, with immense relief, she could see that Wilhelm had decided they were the greater threat. If he had made a different choice, then this fight would already be lost. She looked around and saw the English foot soldiers had formed a shield wall, ready to defend against her anticipated assault on the wagons.
‘Dismount and form up,’ shouted Gwenllian. ‘Wounded to the rear.’
The remainder of her command did as ordered and they formed a line facing the shield wall, a force of less than thirty against sixty.
‘They outnumber us at least two to one,’ said Taliesin. ‘If they decide to advance, we will have to retreat.’
‘Then let us even the numbers,’ said Gwenllian. She turned to a young man at her side. ‘Give the first signal.’
The man immediately lifted a horn to his mouth and sent a haunting tone through the air, the signal that a certain hidden warrior had been waiting for.
A hundred paces away, Dog grinned at the sound of the horn. He and his men had been waiting for hours, sitting on the ledges of the cliff above the sea like nesting gulls. He had been peering up over the cliff edge, watching the battle develop with increasing frustration and he knew his men were desperate to get involved.
‘That’s the signal,’ he hissed, turning to waiting men beneath him. ‘Prepare to move and I swear that if one man turns away in the assault I will kill him myself.’
The men climbed up over the edge of the cliff face and quickly formed up. In front of them they could see the wagons and the rear of the strong shield wall. As soon as they were ready, Dog drew his own sword. ‘They are distracted,’ he said, ‘and do not know we are here. Let’s keep it that way until the first of our blades tastes blood.’
In the English defences, Rowan crouched behind his men peering over the top of the shields. He was half expecting to see Gwenllian’s warriors leading an assault but she just stood there, a hundred paces away staring at the wall as if expecting something to happen.
‘What’s going on?’ asked one of his men after a few moments’ silence. ‘Why doesn’t she attack?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Rowan. ‘It doesn’t make sense, unless . . .’ He turned suddenly to look behind him and his face fell as he saw the swarm of Welsh warriors racing towards them, their faces full of rage.
‘Alarm,’ he screamed, raising his sword, but it was too late. Before any of the soldiers knew what was happening, Dog’s blade smashed into Rowan’s face, cleaving his head in two. Seconds later, the rest of the warriors fell on the panicking defenders, unleashing generations of pent-up aggression upon their terrified victims.
At the far end of the battlefield, Hein
rich had already lined up his Saxon mercenaries and lost no time in preparing his charge. He needed no rousing speech or fancy words for this was what they were paid to do, and after so long waiting in the Cantref Mawr, the chance to at last unleash their frustration on an enemy made their mouths water in anticipation. On top of that, the promise of rich pickings from the caravan made it a perfect opportunity.
‘Wedge formation,’ he ordered, seeing the Flemish knights coming at them in line abreast. ‘Present shields, advance.’ The riders kicked their horses into action. Every one of the mercenaries held a heavy shield in one hand and a sword in the other. Their preference was close-quarter battle but with an enemy who preferred the lance, the shields were necessary for the initial contact.
‘You know what to do,’ shouted Heinrich. ‘Take the blow and strike for the horses.’
‘Aye,’ shouted the men in response and as one they kicked into their horses’ flanks again to increase speed.
The two lines of horsemen thundered across the battlefield, each force supremely confident in their own abilities. Seconds later, they clashed at full speed with horses and men falling on both sides. Flesh and bone were torn apart as Flemish spears and lances ripped through the Saxon armour and the air was filled with the sounds of battle intertwined with cries of pain. The Flemish impact had been brutal but they did not have it all their own way. The Saxon tactic of targeting the horses paid immense dividends and more than half of Wilhelm’s men were unhorsed, with many crashing into the floor as their mounts were mortally wounded or killed outright.
The animals’ screams of pain and fear mingled with the cries of wounded men. Wilhelm turned to see the Saxons had dismounted and were closing in on his comrades. Knowing that to go back in on horseback meant risking the last of the mounts they had, he ordered his own men to dismount and raced into the battle on foot. Within moments, Flemish and Saxon warriors clashed in a brutal struggle between equally matched forces. Tall, strong warriors, used to the brutality of warfare, were hacked down with blows from double-handed swords, their chainmail hauberks little defence in such close quarters. Blood and flesh flew everywhere and, though the Flemish were better trained, the mercenaries had fought in far more battles and employed every dirty trick they knew to their advantage. The battlefield was swiftly becoming a scene of depraved brutality and unrelenting carnage.
Back at the wagons, some of the English foot soldiers had managed to break from the doomed shield wall and were now fighting for their lives with the less-experienced Welsh warriors. Dog fought like a demon at the battle’s midst, his very appearance and manner striking fear into any man who came close: friend or foe. His eyes had glazed over and he killed indiscriminately, his blade responsible for the deaths of many men.
Despite their surprise attack, the Welsh had since lost the advantage and it was obvious that the English could well carry the day against such an inexperienced foe. Gwenllian spotted the risk and turning to Taliesin, ordered the last of her men into attack.
‘My lady,’ said Taliesin, ‘we should hold back. If the mercenaries are defeated, then we will be needed against the English horsemen.’
‘Taliesin,’ shouted Gwenllian, ‘those men have great hearts but little experience. They need good leadership and not that maniac you call Dog. If we hold back, they are at risk of being bettered. Stay if you will but I am not going to let that happen.’ Without another word, she ran across the open ground and drawing her sword, hurled herself deep into the midst of the battle, hacking at any Englishman who came within range.
For a few moments her men were dumbstruck at the sight. For the first time since she joined the rebellion, they now witnessed how effective Gwenllian was with a sword and they had seen few men better skilled.
‘Well,’ shouted Taliesin suddenly, ‘are we going to let a woman show us how it’s done?’ He drew his own blade and raced after Gwenllian, closely followed by the rest of the men.
Over the next few minutes the battle swung both ways but with Gwenllian taking command, the Welsh quickly regained dominance and the few remaining English foot soldiers threw down their weapons in an act of surrender. Some of the Welsh forced them to the floor, making them lie face down in the mud with the points of bloodied swords resting against the backs of their necks.
‘Give the word, my lady,’ shouted Taliesin, ‘and I will have them run through right here.’
Gwenllian stared at the men lying in the mud, each one shaking in fear as they contemplated their imminent death. She had sworn no quarter would be given but the blood lust was receding quickly and she saw no further need for killing.
‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘Let them live.’
‘But I thought you said . . .’
‘I know what I said, but we are freedom fighters not murderers. To execute these men in cold blood makes us no better than them. Tie them up and I will deal with them later.’
The men holding the swords backed away and soon the prisoners were tied back-to-back on the ground.
‘My lady, you are wounded,’ said one of the warriors.
Gwenllian looked at him confused and he pointed at her face. She lifted her hand to her cheek and saw it was smeared with blood. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘Just a glancing blow. How goes the other fight? Is it over?’
‘Aye it is,’ said Taliesin joining them, ‘and a more brutal battle no man has ever seen.’
‘Did we prevail?’
‘The mercenaries took the day, but not without serious casualties. We will offer aid to their wounded.’
‘No,’ said Gwenllian. ‘Those Saxons are a strange race and have their own traditions outside of our understanding. If they want us they will send for us.’ She turned to one of the sergeants. ‘Have our men see to our own wounded. If any are beyond help, then use your blade to send them on their way with a prayer. I would rather see them die quickly than spend their last few hours in pain.’
‘Well,’ said Taliesin, when the sergeant had gone, ‘shall we see if your source was correct?’
Gwenllian nodded and they walked over to the first wagon. They opened the rear flaps and saw the inside was piled high with sacks of food including flour, onions, beets and whole sides of smoked ham wrapped in linen.
‘A goodly haul,’ said Gwenllian. ‘Our supplies are running low.’ They walked back to the second wagon and peered inside. This time, Gwenllian’s eyes lit up as half of the wagon was taken up with weapons of all sorts, from pikes and swords to unstrung bows and barrels of arrows. The rest of the cart was full of hauberks and coifs, the chainmail armour so desperately needed by the rebels.
‘It seems your source is good,’ said Taliesin. ‘This is indeed a treasure, but where’s the money?’
They walked to the third wagon and were about to open the flaps when Taliesin’s hand shot out and he dragged Gwenllian back away from the cart.
‘Wait,’ he said, noticing the flaps were already untied. ‘There’s somebody in there.’
Gwenllian drew her own sword and faced the cart.
‘Whoever you are,’ she said, ‘come out and you will be spared.’
When there was no answer Taliesin stepped forward.
‘You heard the lady,’ he said. ‘Throw out your weapons and come out slowly. Refuse and we will burn the cart from beneath you.’
Someone moved inside the cart, and both Gwenllian and Taliesin braced as they waited for the guard to emerge. The flaps opened but to their surprise it was not an armed guard but a young boy of about ten years old.
‘Please don’t kill me,’ he said, looking between them both. ‘I have no weapons.’
For a few seconds, they both stared in shock but then burst into laughter. Gwenllian sheathed her sword and beckoned him forward.
‘Wait,’ said Taliesin, sheathing his own sword, ‘let me just check.’ He walked forward and searched the boy for any knives. ‘We can’t be too careful,’ he said.
‘What were you doing in there?’ asked Gwenllian.
Gwenllian glanced at Taliesin who shrugged his shoulders. ‘We don’t know who is alive and who is dead yet, boy,’ he said, ‘but you will find out soon enough.’ He turned to one of his men. ‘Take this boy away and watch over him.’
‘Find him some food and water,’ added Gwenllian as the warrior led the boy away, ‘and keep him safe until I send for him. We wouldn’t want any evil witches to cause him any harm.’
When he was gone, Gwenllian and Taliesin walked back to the cart and peered inside. At first they could only see some sacks, each tied tightly. The warrior pulled his knife from his belt and slit one open, standing back as the contents spilled onto the floor. Gwenllian squatted down, picking up some of the many fabulously decorated items at her feet.
‘What are all these?’ gasped Taliesin. ‘And where have they come from?’
Gwenllian picked up a bejewelled goblet and a crucifix. ‘I think they are sacred items looted from churches and manors across Deheubarth,’ she said. ‘They must fear for their security at Pembroke and are transferring them to Kidwelly.’
‘There are another six such sacks,’ said Taliesin. ‘And look, there is a chest.’
He climbed aboard the cart and tried to open the lock but it was solid. Not to be thwarted he dragged the small chest from the cart and with some of the men gathering around, picked up a bloodstained pike from the floor.
‘Stand back,’ he said, and with an almighty swipe smashed the heavy blade down onto the timber around the lock. The wood splintered but did not give way.
‘Hit it harder,’ laughed one of the men. ‘Imagine it is an English skull beneath your blade.’