The Welshmen, meanwhile, were lost in the mechanical action of unleashing their bombardment upon the hated invader of their lands. The marksmen did not even require order from their leader, but nocked and loosed arrow after arrow wherever a target presented itself. Some had even emerged from the forest and had turned their backs on the buildings where Raymond’s men were hidden in order to get a better shot at Sir William’s men.
Raymond turned on his heels and looked beyond his warriors, huddled behind him, and back over the thatched roofs. On the low ridge a quarter of a mile away, he spied Harald and his macabre column moving slowly away. He knew that the Welsh leader – perhaps Lord Seisyll for all Raymond knew – would’ve posted men to keep an eye on the smaller group of Normans while he destroyed William de Braose. He urged the Welsh scouts to spot his feint and to respond to it in an aggressive manner.
‘Come on, see Harald. Move,’ he whispered towards the woods which hid the archers. Moments later Raymond smiled as the Welshmen did exactly what he had hoped: believing the threat of the cavalry to be gone, they ran out of the trees to take up a better position to finish off Sir William de Braose and the men of Abergavenny.
‘This is it lads,’ Raymond whispered to his troops. ‘We go forward quickly and quietly in two ranks. Do not stop or they will cut us down with their arrows.’ Each of his men nodded their assent, their fingers dancing on their crossbow triggers.
The fields stretched southwards for less than a half mile to where began the forested pass back to Striguil. Thirty long-haired Welshmen streamed out of the forest into the meadow and began to loose their arrows again. From amongst the trees, screams sounded, more frequent than they had before.
The Welsh were now between Raymond de Carew’s men and their home, but they had become completely distracted by their desire to destroy Sir William de Braose and were unaware that there were still Normans behind them; Normans who were now fast approaching their vulnerable backs. Raymond’s men advanced quickly, hidden behind their teardrop shields, weapons in hand and their thigh muscles burning due to the crouched stance which took them forward. Only fifty paces remained between the Striguil men and their targets.
‘Saesneg!’ shouted a Welsh archer in the rear rank of their number. Immediately twenty bows swung around to point at the men of Striguil.
‘Brace,’ Raymond shouted to his men, all subterfuge forgotten. ‘St Maurice will protect us!’
Behind him he heard men begin to inhale heavily in anticipation of what was to come. The first Welsh arrows flew in their direction with a sharp whistle of goose feathers. They smashed into the small Norman force.
‘Faster,’ he shouted, ‘keep tight.’ Raymond chanced a fleeting look over the rim of his shield but was forced to duck down when another arrow skimmed off his helmet. A grunt behind him told him that someone had sustained a wound from the glancing blow. The captain did not stop to check but dragged his men forward towards Seisyll’s arrows.
‘Hold your shape,’ he roared. Another flight whistled as they arced towards the Normans. At thirty yards, the arrows partially punched through the wooden shields. Two steel arrowheads poked through close to Raymond’s face, causing him a great deal of surprise. He knew that soon their shields would offer no shelter from the powerful Welsh longbows.
‘Halt,’ he shouted. All his men obeyed the order and then copied their captain, driving the pointed tip of their shields into the soft soil. ‘Prepare,’ Raymond commanded and watched as the men on either side removed their arms from the leather straps of their shield so that they could heft their crossbow in both hands.
‘Aim for their guts!’ he called and leaned over his shield. Dead ahead he saw a Welshman, his long brown shirt reaching to his bare knees as he stooped to pull an arrow from the ground. Raymond squeezed the trigger and felt the stock jump as the bolt disappeared and the bowstring snapped forward. All around him the staccato slap sounded as his men unleashed a volley of bolts towards the Welsh. Unlike the Normans, the enemy did not have shields and a clutch of men tumbled to the ground, including the man at whom Raymond had been aiming. Moments later their screams began to echo around the meadow.
‘Shields,’ Raymond called to his milites. He dropped his crossbow on the ground and drew his sword from his scabbard. ‘Quickly we cannot allow them to reform.’ Almost immediately he felt a shield rim lock with his own and he turned to see Borard on his right, a hand axe ready. A second thump made him turn. Dependable Bertram d’Alton had taken up position on his left and beyond him Walter de Bloet, with a sullen look upon his face, made sure his shield overlapped that of his fellow miles.
‘Forward!’ Raymond commanded.
It was a tiny shieldwall, but it was strong and two ranks thick. Yet Raymond knew that he had to close the gap between his men and the Welsh or the next flight of arrows would cause casualties. He dared not raise his head to look at the enemy for fear that an enemy marksman pierce his eye with his sharpshooting. He knew that an archer could shoot an arrow every five seconds and he knew that if it was to come, the next flight would be soon. Raymond took a deep breath in anticipation and muttered a short prayer to the soldier’s saint.
But the enemy’s arrows never struck home. Instead a thunder of hooves and a cry of dread caused Raymond to call his conrois to a halt, earning him a questioning look from Borard. Gingerly, both men glanced over the rim of their shields.
A hoot of relief escaped Raymond’s lungs as he watched the Welsh dashing towards the woods. Sir William, nestling in the forest, had watched Raymond’s brave advance and, feeling the arrow storm lessen as the Welsh had turned to combat the more immediate threat from the men of Striguil, had charged the enemy position, scattering the bowmen. Few were quick enough to outpace Sir William’s vengeful horsemen and, as Raymond watched, a number were crushed beneath their charge.
‘Let’s get them,’ exclaimed Denis, pointing his lance at the fleeing Welsh.
‘No,’ Raymond countered. ‘Remain in order. We retreat back to the houses. And keep your eyes on them ‘uns from Abergavenny.’ He did not want to get caught in the open by the horsemen who, although fighting beside the men of Striguil now, would certainly ride them down if they saw that they had the opportunity. For the moment Sir William’s men were venting their aggression on the Welsh.
As his warriors edged backwards, Raymond watched the Abergavenny horsemen, so different to the style of his own milites. Strongbow’s warriors, like all men of the Welsh March, valued flexibility and speed whereas those led by Sir William put more stock in a knight’s ability to keep a secure seat, wield a heavy blade and crush his opponent. And what an adversary Sir William looked as he rode down the archers! A Welshman tumbled below his destrier and the young lord did not even break stride. After he had abandoned his twelve-foot lance in another bowman’s spine, Sir William drew his broadsword, cleaving a man’s head in two with a single sweep. After him came his milites and they tore into the scattered Welsh like bears.
Raymond’s men retreated to the farmstead as the first Welsh survivors of Sir William’s charge made it to the relative safety of forest. Raymond was sure he saw Seisyll’s bearded face amongst those men, but he could not be sure. It would be a shame if the Welsh chieftain was dead, he thought. The few times they had met, Seisyll had proved a jovial companion, ready to make fun of one and all around him; a good man whether at wine or war.
‘What is our condition?’ he asked Borard as he entered the farmstead.
His friend didn’t answer at once, instead nodding towards the wall of one of the houses where Harald of Wallingford sat propped up, his chin on his chest and his hands limp and bloody on his lap.
‘He was dead by the time we made it back,’ Borard told his captain.
‘Well, at least he died a hero,’ Raymond said as he returned his sword to its scabbard. A Welsh archer lay on his back in the middle of the nameless farmstead, a crossbow bolt standing tall in his chest. The bowman, it seemed, had fled the slaughter of the batt
lefield and made his way to the village where he had been shot by Harald’s crossbow. ‘We will write a song about his brave end when we get back to Striguil.’
‘It wasn’t Harald who killed him,’ Borard said, lifting his chin towards the horses. Dead dead Welsh bodies still slumped upon their backs. Tending to the coursers was the girl who had been tied up in the village. Harald’s crossbow was strapped across her back. She was stroking the coursers’ muzzles and speaking to the frightened horses in soothing tones.
‘Seems Harald knew that he hadn’t much time left and that he couldn’t defend our horses. He cut the woman free when he saw the Welshman headed this way,’ Borard continued. ‘She shot him dead. We found her there, standing over the body laughing and trying to reload.’ He lowered his voice. ‘She is pretty, there is no doubt about it, but she is possessed of the Devil,’ he said with all the certainty of a bishop speaking of Christ’s miracles.
‘Madam,’ Raymond addressed the woman, ignoring Borard’s last comment. She immediately brought the crossbow up and pointed the weapon at his chest.
‘We didn’t mess with her,’ Borard whispered from behind him, ‘and neither should you.’
Raymond raised one hand in the air and smiled. For a long time he said nothing, but simply stared at the woman amongst the coursers. Eventually Dreigiau walked away from the conrois and nuzzled at his master’s hand, encouraging affection and Raymond to hand over a treat.
‘Who are you?’ the woman suddenly spoke. She did not lower the crossbow.
‘I am Raymond.’
‘Are you with Sir William?’ she asked, shoulder tightening on the crossbow stock. ‘If not then why did you help him?’
Raymond looked straight at her. ‘He is from England and they,’ he pointed a thumb in the direction of a scream which sounded behind him by the forest, ‘are Welsh. One is my enemy while the other is merely a rival. Thank you by the way,’ he added quickly.
‘Thank me for killing that cur?’ Her anger was vicious as she kicked the dead Welshman, still lying in the pathway. ‘I thought he was one of Sir William’s men. You all deserve worse than death.’
‘Well, you did me a great service,’ Raymond said with a smile so wide it matched her fury, ‘and I thank you. Our horses are more important to us than anything else.’ He rubbed Dreigiau’s back. He knew why the woman was angry. It was a common enough occurrence on both sides of the Welsh-Norman conflict. ‘And because of that service I will not stop until I have repaid my debt to you. Anything you ask of me, I will do.’ The crossbow dropped an inch as Raymond pushed Dreigiau in the woman’s direction. Obediently, his courser walked over to her and pushed his head into her shoulder, forcing her to set down the crossbow and stroke his face with both hands.
‘My name is Alice,’ she finally admitted, ‘and he,’ she indicated towards the insensible young man still staked to the ground, ‘is Geoffrey, my brother. We are from Abergavenny, but we can never go home while William de Braose is alive.’
More questions were raised in Raymond’s mind but he had more pressing matters than interrogating the woman. One thing he was sure of, though: she and her brother were the only people left alive in the village, and that meant that they were valuable to William de Braose and thus worth taking back to Strongbow.
‘You should see to your brother. But will you also keep my horses safe again for me, Alice of Abergavenny?’ he asked. She nodded blankly and watched suspiciously as he bowed before her and left her amongst the coursers.
William de Vale was complaining and that was a good sign in Raymond’s estimation. The esquire was propped up against the wall of a house on the far side of the compound. ‘It hurts, it hurts, its hurts. Don’t bloody touch it, you bastard,’ he shouted at Walter de Bloet who prodded at the arrow shaft which poked from his shoulder.
‘Stop bleating like a baby,’ Walter replied. ‘It was a deflection and it hasn’t hit anything major. I have cut off the barb so we may as well get it out now. Grit your teeth and I will give it a tug.’
‘You’ll do no such thing until I get a mug of mead in my belly,’ replied William.
‘How is he?’ Raymond asked Walter.
‘He won’t let me pull the arrow out, but you possess medical skills beyond mine,’ Walter said as he climbed to his feet and walked away. ‘So you can deal with it.’
Raymond ignored Walter’s ire and knelt down beside the esquire to examine the wound. ‘What’s today’s forfeit for losing the spurs?’
William’s face dropped as if he was threatened with another arrow to the shoulder. ‘Oh no,’ he said and began desperately searching his clothes with his uninjured hand.
‘Head shaved into a Benedictine tonsure, isn’t it? Bertram is a right bastard for suggesting that penalty,’ Raymond said as he produced the spurs from his own pocket. He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. ‘But I think that you can do without the forfeit this one time. It’ll be our secret.’ He held out the spurs to William. As the esquire leaned forward to take them Raymond shot his hand out and tugged the arrow shaft from his shoulder in one swift movement. William screeched and leant forward, holding his wound and cursing the woman who had given Raymond de Carew life.
‘Good lad,’ Raymond said, giggling at the esquire’s expletive tirade. ‘Get someone to clean it and bind it.’ He turned to Walter, standing a little way off and watching him. ‘Get those bodies down off the coursers. I suggest that you don’t annoy the woman,’ he warned, lifting his chin in the direction of Alice of Abergavenny.
‘Horseman approaching!’ The warning came from the edge of the settlement and it prevented Walter from arguing with his captain. Raymond walked slowly towards the rattle of hooves which came from beyond the farmstead’s limits. The noise slowed as the rider came close and, as he cleared the buildings, Raymond was able to see that it was an esquire in the livery of Abergavenny who approached the settlement. Three more men waited outside crossbow range for permission to approach. Raymond, chainmail hauberk hood down on his shoulders, stepped out and nodded to the youngster, letting him know that it was alright for his master to approach. The lightly-armed boy turned around and cantered back towards his comrades with his answer. Moments later, Raymond met Sir William de Braose for the second time that day.
‘Sir William,’ Raymond reached up and took his destrier’s bridle in his hand as he acknowledged the knight. Two warriors were with the young lord, still with Welsh blood wet upon their weaponry.
‘Raymond,’ Sir William jumped down from his steed, ignoring the captain’s outstretched hand, staring instead into the heart of the farmstead. ‘I owe you thanks, I suppose, despite you being a callous breaker of the peace. Still, you did save us from Seisyll’s tricks,’ he said and finally greeted Raymond by shaking his hand. In spite of his smile, there was something in Sir William de Braose’s eyes that Raymond did not trust. He eyed the nobleman’s two men-at-arms who had remained in the saddle and shifted uncomfortably. Raymond wondered why they were so nervous. Sir William’s attempt to appear friendly was even more concerning, but he was not about to start another fight with the Abergavenny men, not unless it was unavoidable. He still needed a way back to Striguil.
‘Can I offer you some mutton?’ Raymond asked, inviting him to join him on a bench outside one of the buildings. ‘My men have rounded up the animals that belonged to this farmstead. I suspect that their former owners will no longer need them.’
‘Perfect. I’m famished. Killing Welshmen does build up a mighty hunger.’
Nodding despite his disgust, Raymond leant in close and whispered into Borard’s ear. The miles, who had followed him to the parley, then walked back into the farmstead to organise food while his captain offered Sir William a stool in the shade of the houses. ‘We had best sit outside the walls,’ he told his guest, ‘the stink in there is unimaginable.’ He indicated back towards the centre of the village where his men were removing the dead Welsh bodies from the back of their coursers. Sir William looked momentarily disco
mfited, but Raymond quickly changed tack. ‘So old Seisyll got away?’
‘He did,’ William de Braose replied. ‘If I had been able to lay my hands on him I would have been awfully popular with my mother.’
Raymond laughed politely. It was said that Seisyll had murdered William’s uncle, the former Lord of Abergavenny, Henry de Hereford, some years before and as Sir William reminded him of the story Raymond studied the young nobleman. A favourite of King Henry, Raymond remembered hearing, and heir to one of the most powerful barons in England. His mother had brought the powerful Welsh fiefs of Abergavenny and Brecon to her marriage bed and it seemed that her son had taken control of those lands in her name. What possible reason had brought William de Braose on this unimportant raid into Strongbow’s lands, Raymond could not imagine. He suspected that it involved Alice of Abergavenny and her brother, Geoffrey, but as yet he did not know how they fitted into that story.
‘Good, good,’ Sir William smiled at Borard who returned a little while later with bread and mutton in carved wooden bowls. As they ate, the two men swapped news from around Wales and England. The biggest gossip was that Prince Owain of Gwynedd had died and his son, Hywel, was facing rebellion by his stepmother and half-brothers.
‘I hear that Hywel has been forced to flee to Ireland by the savage woman and that she keeps her sons prisoner,’ Sir William told Raymond with a laugh. ‘Speaking of Ireland - what about that scoundrel Robert FitzStephen and decrepit old Maurice FitzGerald? I hear that they have done exceedingly well for themselves. They’ve managed to get their hands on a Norse town. I may put together an adventure of my own and get a bit of this land across the sea that seems so easy to take.’
Raymond nodded and smiled. It was obvious that Sir William did not realise that he was talking to the nephew of both men. He also knew that his reason for coming back to the farmstead was not to talk about mercenaries in distant Ireland. He waited for an opportune pause in conversation. ‘So what can I do for you, Sir William? You are free to leave, or track Seisyll at your leisure. I am sure that you don’t need my help for that.’ He lifted the bony remnants of lamb from his own dish and pointed at the forest. ‘But in case you do, he went that way.’
Lord of the Sea Castle Page 4