The Warrior Princess

by K. M. Ashman

  Taliesin and Gwenllian marched back and forth behind the defences, barking orders and forming the men into a strong position. The human wall curved backwards on either end to protect their flanks and with the ground being unsuitable for cavalry, they knew that it was unlikely anyone would pass them by to attack their rear. As long as the road stayed unoccupied, they could focus their attention up the hill.

  Morgan and Maelgwyn stood shoulder to shoulder in the third rank, each with swords drawn. The noise from above was getting louder and they looked at each other nervously.

  ‘Look to your weapons,’ shouted Gwenllian again. ‘I know not what has happened up there but they will not find us unprepared. If they attack, lean into the shields with all your might. Archers, do not wait for any commands. If the enemy attack you are to loose your arrows as fast as you are able. Make every one count and when you have no more, join the rest of us in the struggle.’

  Taliesin ran over, his breath laboured after running along the lines.

  ‘How many do we have?’ asked Gwenllian quietly.

  ‘About two hundred,’ said Taliesin, ‘no more than that.’

  ‘It will have to do. You take the left, I will take the right.’ She looked around at the defensive line, now rock solid and silent in their demeanour, each man focussed on the slope above.

  ‘Listen,’ said Gwenllian. Taliesin turned to face the hill. Gradually the noise was dying down and though they could hear the commands of unseen men echoing through the trees, the sounds of battle had all but disappeared.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘I think we are in deep trouble,’ said Taliesin as one voice repeated itself over and over again on the hill, ‘because that man, whoever he is, is speaking in Flemish and if my poor command of the language serves me at all, he is readying his men for a second assault.’

  Gwenllian swallowed hard. If Taliesin was correct, then over half of her force must lie dead or dying high amongst the forest trees. ‘They must have taken them by complete surprise,’ she said eventually, ‘but they will find no such complacency here. Keep the men sharp, Taliesin, this is going to be the fight of our lives.’ She drew her own sword and walked along the rear of the defensive position, giving encouragement and advice, her words strong but calm. Taliesin did the same in the opposite direction. The unseen Flemish man’s voice eventually died away and soon quiet returned to the forest, an eerie, unnatural silence that promised many dreadful things.

  ‘Do you think they have gone?’ asked Maelgwyn.

  ‘No, lad,’ said Taliesin from behind, ‘they are up there and probably watching us as we speak. You just focus on what is expected of you.’

  Gwenllian stopped walking and looked back up the hill. Her attention had been caught by movement and as she stared, a fully armoured soldier walked into view, clad in a heavy chainmail hauberk, a coif and the sort of helmet favoured by the Norman knights. In his hands she could see a large sword, already bloodied from an unknown number of victims.

  As she watched, similarly clad men emerged from the trees to stand alongside him and soon there was over a hundred, each staring at the Welsh defensive line below. Further movement could be seen amongst the trees beyond and Gwenllian knew that her own men were probably vastly outnumbered.

  ‘Steady,’ she shouted to her lines. ‘Hold firm. There is no room for them to manoeuvre amongst the trees so they cannot all attack at the same time. Stay steadfast and we will prevail.’

  As every pair of Welsh eyes stared at the men forming up on the hill above, one of the enemy stepped forward and hurled something in the air to fly over the defensive lines and land at Gwenllian’s feet. When she looked down to see what it was, her heart sank as she recognised the severed head of Lord Bevan of Llandeilo. Feeling sick to her stomach, she turned and glared at the grinning knight above. A few minutes ago she had contemplated trying to negotiate a withdrawal but at the sight of her friend’s head on the floor of the forest, all such thoughts disappeared.

  ‘Stand firm, men of Wales,’ she shouted, still staring at the knight. ‘They bleed like any other men.’

  Up above, the Flemish knight raised his bloody sword and shouted his own commands. His warriors roared their support and banged their swords against their shields. The noise was intimidating and as they started to run down the hill, Gwenllian knew that the odds were stacked heavily against her own army.

  ‘Ready,’ she shouted.

  ‘Aye,’ roared her men in response.

  ‘Then let this be the day we change our world,’ roared Gwenllian. ‘Lock shields.’

  The front wall of Welshmen locked together as tightly as they could and as each said a silent prayer, the front wave of the enemy smashed into them like the winds of a winter storm.

  The Carmarthen Road

  February 17th, AD 1136

  ‘Hold firm,’ roared Gwenllian as the force of the assault pushed the Welsh line back. ‘Rear ranks, add your weight.’

  All along the defensive line, men leaned their shoulders against the backs of those before them, locking their legs against the frozen ground, desperate to provide a solid buttress, but the attackers already impaled on the Welsh lances proved their undoing and those coming behind used their bodies as macabre ramps to leap over the front line and land amongst those at the rear. Others just smashed straight through the shield wall, carried by their momentum and aided by the relative inexperience of the defenders.

  Immediately Gwenllian knew they faced vastly experienced and battle-hardened men, and as the Welsh swordsmen turned to defend their backs, one-on-one fights broke out all along the line. The immediate weakening of the shield wall meant even more attackers broke through and within moments the lines collapsed and the fighting turned into a full-scale battle between two desperate armies, one brutally efficient, the other, inexperienced and fighting for their lives.

  Gwenllian raced into the fray, lashing out at the unprotected faces of the Flemish warriors. Her sword cleaved its way through flesh and bone and she fought ferociously beside Taliesin. Her fervour inspired fresh efforts from those around her and men stunned by the initial ferocity of the enemy assault found renewed strength. Inspired, they followed their leader in a counter-attack, their initial shock being replaced with the pent-up anger and frustration from so many years of depravation.

  All along the forest edge, warriors fought to the death and blood flew everywhere as antagonists fought without quarter. For several minutes the battle was shapeless with no side taking overall advantage. The attack of the Flemish had been ferocious with the added momentum of the downhill assault but the Welsh defensive line, despite its disintegration, had served its purpose and had absorbed much of the initial impact.

  Gwenllian ducked to avoid a swinging blow from a Flemish axeman and swung her sword in an arc, slashing through the tendons at the back of both his knees. The attacker screamed in agony and collapsed like a felled tree amongst the blood-sodden undergrowth. Taliesin jumped to Gwenllian’s aid and stamped his heavy boot over and over on the wounded man’s face until the skull collapsed beneath his brutal onslaught.

  Gwenllian got to her feet and looked around for her sons.

  ‘Where are they?’ she shouted, wiping a stream of blood from her face.

  ‘Over there,’ replied Taliesin, and Gwenllian saw Morgan and Maelgwyn fighting alongside each other. Others fought at their sides and she could see their formation was tight, keeping many of the enemy at bay. For the first time in several minutes her hopes soared, for the enemy had lost all momentum. If she and her men could regain a structure, the day may not be lost.

  ‘We are too fragmented,’ she shouted. ‘Pass the word to reform. Use Morgan’s position as the centre for a new line.’

  Taliesin rallied the men as Gwenllian ran back into the fight. The battle was fragmenting into isolated pockets, and as men heard the message they broke off to run back towards Morgan’s position. Within minutes the Welsh had reformed into another defensive l
ine albeit a poor semblance of what they had been before.

  ‘Is this it?’ asked Gwenllian, looking at her decimated army.

  ‘It’s all I could find,’ gasped Taliesin. ‘We have lost over half.’

  ‘We will lose the rest if we remain here,’ said Gwenllian, hearing the enemy commanders shouting throughout the trees in the distance. ‘It sounds like they are reorganising for another attack.’

  ‘We can’t go back up the hill,’ said Taliesin. ‘Our men are already exhausted and the Flemish have the advantage of the high ground. We have to go down onto the road, at least we will have more options.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Gwenllian. ‘To retreat to the road leaves us with no cover and there will be no coming back.’

  ‘We have no other option,’ replied Taliesin. ‘Staying here will get us all killed. At least on the road we will have room to manoeuvre.’

  Gwenllian stared at Taliesin, her mind working furiously. A few hours ago they had both agreed that the road was a killing zone with little chance of escape, yet here they were contemplating it as their only hope.

  ‘And what about their archers?’ she asked. ‘Once we are down there they can pick us off like rats in a barrel.’

  ‘They can’t if we are not there,’ said Taliesin. ‘Once we hit the road, we must head east as fast as we can.’

  ‘You mean run away?’ asked Gwenllian. ‘We did not come here to flee, Taliesin, we came to fight, remember?’

  ‘That option has gone,’ shouted Taliesin. ‘Their army has already taken us by surprise and half of our men lie dead amongst the trees. If you want the rest to join them then, fine, we will stay here and fight to the death for that is what will happen, Gwenllian, make no mistake about it.’

  She looked at the men behind her, each looking to her for guidance and leadership. Many already carried wounds and she knew they were in no state for a full-scale battle.

  ‘Gwenllian,’ said Taliesin, his voice lowering, ‘there is no shame in withdrawing. We have been bettered but that is what happens in war. It is what you do now that will decide if this day is wasted. If we all die then it will all have been in vain but if we can save these men then they will live to fight again, possibly alongside your father’s army. Stay or go, the command is yours to give but whatever it is, give it soon before it is too late.’

  ‘So be it,’ she said and she turned again to the men. ‘Get down to the road,’ she ordered. ‘Take the walking wounded with us. The rest of you, take whatever weapons you can find from amongst the fallen, I suspect they will be needed before this day is done.’

  The last of her army turned to scramble down the bank and out onto the Carmarthen Road. Gwenllian followed but as she reached the frozen ruts of the well-travelled highway, her heart sank as one of her men called out. ‘My lady, look.’

  Gwenllian looked along the road and saw dozens of English also climbing down the bank to the east, effectively blocking their escape route. She spun around only to find a similar situation to the west. They were hemmed in with no route to escape. Taliesin came sliding down the bank along with the rear guard.

  ‘They are coming,’ he gasped. ‘We have to move.’

  ‘We have nowhere to go,’ said Gwenllian. ‘Look.’

  Taliesin looked along the road in both directions, taking in the situation, before gazing out over the open field. In the distance he could see a rise in the ground, the site of an ancient burial mound.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘The rear of the mound will protect us from archers and if it comes to a fight at least we will have the higher ground.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ replied Gwenllian. ‘We will be exposed.’

  ‘Gwenllian,’ shouted Taliesin, ‘we are out of options. Our plan centred on us being the ambushers with our quarry upon the road. Now that role has been reversed and we are hemmed in on three sides. To stay here is to die; at least out there we have a chance, no matter how slight.’

  Gwenllian hesitated a moment more. Despite her concerns, she knew she had no other options. With a deep breath she turned to the remainder of her army. ‘Head to that mound,’ she shouted, ‘and form a shield wall along the top.’

  ‘You heard the Princess,’ roared Taliesin. ‘Get moving or die where you stand.’

  Exhausted, the men staggered across the field towards the burial mound. Behind them the rest of the Flemish army emerged from the forest but stopped on the road as their archers sent volley after volley after the Welsh.

  ‘Keep moving,’ shouted Gwenllian as men fell all around her. ‘The mound is our only hope.’

  Minutes later the remainder of her devastated army collapsed behind the burial mound in exhaustion. The rain of arrows had stopped but they were in a terrible state. Another fifty or so men had fallen during the flight and of those that remained, another dozen or so had been hit by arrows.

  For a while nobody spoke, they just lay on the damp grass trying to regain their breath. Eventually Taliesin crawled back up to the top of the mound to see what the enemy were doing.

  ‘Well? ’ asked Gwenllian.

  ‘They’re just waiting there,’ said Taliesin. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Surely they can see what state we are in.’

  Gwenllian joined him and stared over to the enemy reforming on the road. She did a quick head count and was surprised how few there actually were.

  ‘Unless there are more amongst the trees then it seems we have acquitted ourselves well,’ she said. ‘Our numbers look about even.’

  ‘They still have the advantage,’ said Taliesin. ‘We have many wounded and they have the road. Even if we wanted to counter-attack, we have too much space between us.’

  ‘We should have stayed where we were,’ said Gwenllian, ‘at least the odds were even.’

  ‘There was no way to know their strength,’ said Taliesin. ‘Still, at least we are safe here for a while. Even if they decide to follow up their advantage, they will have to cover the open space and the threat from our own archers.’

  Gwenllian looked around. ‘We have no more than a handful left alive, and their arrow pouches are almost empty.’

  ‘Agreed, but they don’t know that. The longer they wait the closer night-time gets,’ he continued, ‘and if we can last until then, we can slip away under the cover of darkness.’

  Gwenllian nodded. It was an ambitious goal but at least it gave them something to hope for. She turned to the men. ‘We will go firm here and make the best defensive position that we can. Get the shields to the top as well as whatever lances we have left. Archers, share your arrows between you. The rest of you – do what you can for the wounded and see what we have to drink. You have fought well, every last one of you, but I ask just a few more hours. Do this and we can be back in the Cantref Mawr by nightfall tomorrow. Be of stout heart, my friends, this day is not yet lost.’

  The men rallied to the inspiration of her voice and soon they had yet another defensive position along the brow of the mound.

  ‘It’s the best we can do,’ she said to Taliesin a few minutes later. ‘All we can do now is wait.’

  Kidwelly Castle

  February 17th, AD 1136

  Nesta was sitting in Marion’s quarters along with her hostess and two of the other castle ladies. The mood was jovial and they were listening to one of the bards regaling them with a song about the excesses of London life when the door burst open and one of Marion’s maids ran in unannounced.

  ‘My lady,’ she gasped with a quick curtsey. ‘You should come quickly. There is a battle under way on the northern fields.’

  ‘What? ’ said Marion, getting to her feet.

  ‘It’s true,’ said the maid. ‘Everyone is gathering on the palisades as we speak to get a better view.’

  Nesta swallowed hard. She had an idea as to what might be going on, but she had never guessed any confrontation would take place so near the castle.

  ‘We should also go to the palisades,’ said one of the women, ‘and see what unfolds.’


  ‘No, I’ve got a better idea,’ said Marion. ‘There will be a clearer view from the keep roof. Come, grab your cloaks.’

  The women followed Marion out of her quarters and hurried up the stairs to the top of the keep. They ran over to the castellated wall and stared across the fields.

  ‘Look,’ gasped one of the women. ‘There is an army encamped on Arthur’s Mound.’

  ‘Who’s army?’ asked Marion. ‘I see no colours.’

  ‘It must be the Welsh,’ replied the first woman, ‘for the others fly the flag of England.’

  ‘Oh my,’ said one of the women. ‘How exciting.’

  ‘There’s nothing exciting about men dying,’ said Nesta coldly, ‘no matter whose banner they fight beneath.’

  ‘No, I only meant . . .’ started the woman, but her words fell away in silence.

  ‘Be careful with your words, Elisabeth,’ said Marion, ‘for, don’t forget, our guest here is from Welsh stock.’

  ‘I know,’ replied Elisabeth, ‘but surely not from those monsters. She is royal born, a true princess.’

  Nesta glared at Elisabeth but did not respond. Instead she peered at the Welsh lines, desperate to see if her brother was amongst them.

  ‘My lady,’ said another voice from the side of the keep, ‘look down in the bailey.’

  The women ran across the tower and peered down. The courtyard was a hive of activity as men prepared their horses. Sergeants barked their orders and men raced to collect their weapons and equipment as the garrison responded to the developing events out on the battlefield.

  ‘What are they doing?’ asked Elisabeth. ‘Surely they should be manning the walls?’

  ‘We are not under threat here,’ said Marion, ‘and unless I am mistaken, it looks like they are heading out to join the fight.’