by Kevin Ashman
‘How ironic,’ said William, ‘the place where Madog will finally meet his demise already bears his name.’ He stood up and faced the men in the room. ‘This is it, gentlemen, our path is clear. Tomorrow morning Madog Ap Llewellyn pays the price for his traitorous rebellion. Form up the men, Henry, take us to Nant Moydoc.’
----
The following morning was overcast and a fine drizzle of rain fell on the encamped Welsh army. The sun still lay beyond the horizon and the mist lay heavy in the valley. One of the sentries yawned and pulled his cloak tighter around him, looking forward to the end of his guard duty when he could find some warm food and grab a few hours’ sleep in the back of a cart. Behind him, hundreds of worn tents were pitched haphazardly throughout the valley and he could see signs of life as yawning men started to appear from within the shelters to relieve their bladders and find what food had been brought up from the supply column in the rear.
Jon Evans looked up at the horizon, almost willing the first rays of sun to appear and signal the end of his duty. He yawned again, watching the patterns the mist made as it rose from the valley floor to disappear in the warmer air above, revealing the straight lines of small trees lining the far slopes.
He blinked hard and stood a bit straighter. Though they were yet indistinct in the remains of the mist, he was sure there were no trees on that slope yesterday, no matter how small.
As he strained his eyes, his heart beat a little faster as the swirling mist patches offered glimpses of what it concealed. Slowly, the mist lifted and he realised his worst nightmare had come true. Waiting patiently on the slopes was the biggest English army he had ever seen.
He stepped backward several paces, not believing his own eyes but within moments had turned to run as fast as he could down to the camp.
‘Alarm,’ he shouted,’ we are under attack, stand to your weapons.’
In an instant someone blew on a horn and the camp erupted into activity as men scrambled from their tents grabbing frantically for their weapons.
Madog’s eyes sprung open as he heard the horn, his tired mind struggling at first to recognise the significance but seconds later he sprang from the cot in the back of the wagon and jumped to the floor below.
‘Sergeants,’ he roared, ‘gather your men and someone tell me why the alarm has been sounded.’
‘English on the North Slope, Sire’ called a voice.
‘And on the east,’ answered another.
The prince pulled a cape over his head and grabbed a spear before running up onto a knoll at the centre of the camp. The mist had almost disappeared and he looked around in horror as he realised there was a strong enemy presence on three of the four sides.
‘Where do you want the lines, Sire?’ shouted Tarian.
For a few seconds Madog was at a loss, unsure from where the attack would come but he knew he had to provide an answer. Even if he was wrong, the men had to be led.
‘To the west,’ shouted Madog, ‘three lines deep, archers to the rear. Meirion, take your detachment and set up at the far side of the camp, watch we are not flanked. Keep close together and be prepared to support any line, move.’
The English army stood in silence watching the panic ensue, knowing they had their enemy trapped and though they would have been better served attacking while the Welsh were in disarray, William De-Beauchamp knew that no matter what they did, there was no way the enemy could escape the carefully laid ambush.
----
‘Sire, the men are ready,’ said Sir Henry minutes later. ‘Do you want me to give the command to advance?’
‘Yes, Henry,’ said William, ‘let’s show this upstart what a real army can do.’
The sounds of dozens of horns filled the air and the entire western slopes seemed to move as half of the Earl of Warwick’s army descended to engage the Welsh.
----
‘Here they come,’ shouted Meirion, ‘archers look to your bows, lancers to the fore.’
‘Men to my left,’ shouted Madog, ‘deploy to Tarian’s front, the threat is from the west.
Soldiers ran everywhere and no sooner had the lines been strengthened than the first of the arrows rained in on the defenders.
‘Archers return fire,’ roared Tarian from beneath his shield. For several minutes both sides exchanged volleys of arrows and though men fell on both sides, the numbers of English archers far exceeded those of the opposition and the Welsh fell in their dozens.
‘Cavalry,’ shouted a man and Tarian looked up to see fifty horses galloping toward them.
‘Pike men, form a line,’ he roared and those regular soldiers who had trained for this sort of defence, rapidly swung around to provide a wall of steel, forcing William’s cavalry to swerve at the last moment rather than impale their mounts on the pikes.
At the far side of the camp, English infantry descended on Meirion’s lines and both sides fought ferociously at close quarters. Blood and bone flew everywhere and the morning air echoed with screams as steel and iron hacked into living flesh.
At first the fury of the Welsh ensured they were more than a match for the English but as each fresh attack came, the defenders tired while the soldiers of Warwick were regularly replaced with their reserves and thus were fresh for the fight. For many hours the waves of attacks came, interspersed with long periods of withdrawal but gradually the strength of the English army and constant attacks began to tell and the Welsh lines were forced backward. During a lull in the battle, Tarian took the opportunity to run over to the exhausted Madog.
‘Sire,’ he shouted, ‘over half of the men are dead or wounded, we can’t go on like this.’
‘We cannot surrender, Tarian, every man would be put to death and they do not deserve that. Better to die fighting for freedom than at the end of a rope.’
‘I do not advocate surrender, I suggest we break for the forest at the end of the valley.’
‘Don’t you think I have considered that?’ asked Madog, ‘if we break from here we will be run down by their lancers. At least here we have the comfort of broken ground.’
‘If we stay we will be slaughtered, Sire, can I suggest we form a Schiltron yet move whilst still in formation. If we can keep a tight wall we will be safe from his cavalry.’
Madog stared at Tarian, considering the proposal.
‘Tarian, my men are familiar with the formation whilst static but have never used it on the move. The slightest lapse in concentration will mean the ranks collapse and our whole force will be open to their cavalry.’
‘I know,’ said Tarian, ‘but if we stay here we die anyway. What have we got to lose?’’
‘So be it,’ said Madog, ‘task the men to gather every pike and spear they can and form the square. The English infantry could attack again at any moment.’
Soon, every man formed into a square with all the spears and pikes facing outward in an impenetrable defensive wall. Those men in the centre of the square held whatever shields available above the heads of the others, protection against the arrows that would inevitably follow.
‘Listen to me,’ shouted Tarian when they had formed up, ‘our target is the forest at the end of this valley. Once there we will disperse and rendezvous three valleys to the west. However, if any of us are to escape, we have to remain disciplined so heed my words, or we will fall as surely as leaves in autumn.’ For the next few minutes, Tarian explained the tactics while high on the hill nearby, William watched with interest.
----
‘What are they doing?’ asked William, ‘why have they formed a schiltron, surely he is not expecting relief?’
‘Perhaps he knows he is beaten and makes a last stand,’ said Sir Henry.
‘No, this man has tenacity and he doesn’t give up easily. Give the men a few more minutes rest then signal a fresh attack. Let’s see what this rebel has up his sleeve.’
----
‘Here they come,’ called a voice and Tarian looked over the front rank to see another attack racing across
the ground toward them.
‘Archers, use up what you have left,’ he shouted, ‘at least we can weaken their number.’
The last of the Welsh arrows flew through the air, most missing their targets but some hitting home and dropping a handful of enemy.
‘Present,’ shouted Madog from the centre of the square and hundreds of spears appeared over the shoulders of the front rank.
‘Brace,’ shouted Tarian and as the enemy crashed into the Welsh formation, they found a solid wall of steel and shields waiting for them. The pressure of those behind forced the front English ranks onto the spears and dozens were impaled onto the lethal spikes.
Within minutes it was clear the wall was too strong and an English command echoed across the field.
‘Withdraw a hundred paces and reform.’
The English walked slowly backward, leaving their dead and wounded behind them.
----
‘It worked,’ shouted Madog, ‘catch your breath and await my command, prepare to move.’
For a minute or so the Welsh watched the English withdraw and as soon as the enemy had turned their backs, Madog gave the order the Welsh lines had been waiting for.
‘Ready,’ he called, ‘now!’
Instantly the whole Schiltron formation broke up and as a man, the Welsh army turned to run as fast as they could down the valley.
----
‘What are they doing?’ shouted William, ‘the Welsh are escaping, sound the recharge.’
A horn echoed across the valley but the soldiers below looked up in confusion at the contradictory command, their Sergeants were organising a withdrawal yet the horns sounded the advance. For a few moments, confusion reigned until the realisation dawned and they turned to see the retreating Welsh.
‘After them,’ shouted a Sergeant, ‘don’t let them get away.’
By now the Welsh had managed over half the distance to the trees and kept running as the English pursued. Tarian looked over his shoulder, waiting for the right moment and as the English closed in, he gave the fresh command.
‘Form up,’ he screamed, ‘Schiltron formation.’
Immediately the fleeing men stopped and reformed the square they had been in only minutes earlier. Again the English fell upon the well-formed walls and once more men fell needlessly at the impregnable defence. The attackers withdrew again, realising they were in an impossible situation.
‘Ready,’ shouted Madog, ‘same again, break!’
The formation scattered again and fled further down the valley, making good ground as the English ran in pursuit.
----
‘Oh he’s good,’ said William in admiration, ‘he knows our men can’t breach that wall and gains every yard he can between attacks.’
‘Send the cavalry, Sire.’
‘Even horses will baulk at the lances, Henry.’
‘Yes but at least it will stop them fleeing. If the Welsh break formation my lancers can run them down.’
‘Agreed but send in the archers as well.’
‘The archers may be found wanting, Sire for by the time they form their ranks the Welsh will move on and if my cavalry ride amongst them, our arrows will not discern between friend or foe.’
‘Tell them not to form ranks but to join the assault as individuals, mingling with our infantry.’
‘Sire, is that wise? Everyone knows that arrows are more effective when fired in volleys.’
‘The ground dictates the tactics, Henry and at the moment their bows are useless to me. At least amongst the fray their weapons may add to our strike. Tell them to get as close as they can amongst our infantry and seek out individual targets at close range.’
‘So be it,’ said Henry and turned his horse to ride down into the valley.
----
By the time the English cavalry had reformed and raced back into the valley, Madog’s men were within five hundred paces of the treeline. They were once more formed up into a Schiltron though by now it was significantly smaller due to the amount of men they had lost. Tarian looked up in dismay as the riders came into sight.
‘Sire, he deploys his riders once more. Once they engage we will no longer be able to break out without being run down.’
‘Agreed,’ shouted Madog, ‘this is as far as we can go with this tactic.’ He looked around desperately, knowing that safety was so near yet too far to reach in formation. Finally he took the only option left to him if any of his command was to survive.
‘Men of Wales,’ he called, ‘together we have thwarted the might of the English for despite their strength we are still here. Your valour does you great credit and your names will be spoken by the bards for years to come but this is where it ends. If we stay, we will die it is as simple as that and there are many amongst us who yearn to see their families once more so my decision is this. Upon my command, we will break for the last time and seek the sanctuary of the trees but this time there will be no call to reform. Every man is to do whatever he can to save himself for I have no doubt that the English will be amongst us as wolves amongst sheep but do not hesitate, the dream of liberty still lives on but right here, upon this field, our day is done. Men of Wales, it has been an honour to serve you.’
As the remainder of his army cheered, Madog turned to Tarian.
‘Give the order, Tarian, send them home.’
‘Men of Wales,’ roared Tarian for the last time, ‘to the trees and may god be on our side…Advance!’
The ranks of the Chiltern broke up and most of the men ran as fast as they could toward the safety of the tree line. Many discarded their heavy weapons whilst others stood their ground to face the pursuing enemy. Within moments the English infantry were amongst them, cutting down the stragglers with impunity as their fresher legs carried them amongst the exhausted Welsh.
In amongst the English, individual archers paused their advance to pick off those escaping the pikes and swords of the infantry and their arrows cut men down with lethal efficiency. Horses galloped past the foot soldiers and decimated the Welsh army but though hundreds fell, many still reached the trees to stumble gratefully through the undergrowth.
Madog crashed through a thicket and paused for breath behind the trunk of a tree, gasping for breath after the exhausting run. Some men still stood upon the battlefield, making a last stand against the enemy but within moments the last had fallen to English steel. He looked around and could hear the sound of those who had survived the run crashing through the trees and he knew that though the situation was far better than moments earlier, the day was still not over.
----
Up on the ridgeline, William De-Beauchamp looked down in satisfaction. The Welsh army had been routed and after today, would no longer be a major threat. As he watched, a rider galloped toward him before reining in and giving the Earl the customary salute.
‘Sire, I ride on behalf of Sir Robert Greenwood. He sends his regards and tells me to inform you that at dawn this very morning the Welsh supply column was ambushed and engaged as requested. Our casualties are minimal while the enemy was routed with extreme savagery. The column was taken, Sire, victory is ours.’
Sir William smiled and looked back down into the valley as the last of the enemy were struck down. At long last, Madog Ap Llewellyn had been defeated and even though he may regroup elsewhere, it was only a matter of time before the rebellion collapsed completely.
----
Further south, Garyn Ap Thomas grew weaker and Geraint sat alongside him in the cart, the two brothers alone deep in the heart of the Welsh countryside. As promised, the physician had been sent back to Cynan along with the sword of Macsen and the remains of the Emperor and though he had been gone for almost three days, Fletcher was nowhere to be seen.
Geraint talked quietly, recalling the shared memories from their childhood. He knew his brother’s life could be measured in hours and he wanted it to be as gentle a passing as it could be. The potions from the apothecary numbed his brother’s pain but were useless a
gainst the poisons that now flowed through Garyn’s veins. Garyn’s eyes closed once more and for a second Geraint though that he had finally died but with relief he felt the slightest of breaths upon his hand. He pulled the sheepskin cover closer about his sleeping brother but looked up suddenly at the noise of someone crashing through the undergrowth.
‘Geraint,’ called a voice, ‘it’s Fletcher, tell me he still lives.’
The Fletcher appeared on his horse closely followed by two other riders.
‘He does,’ said Geraint, ‘but his light fails as we speak, I fear he has hours only.’
Fletcher dismounted and climbed into the cart.
‘Garyn,’ he said quietly, ‘wake up, I have someone here to see you.’
Garyn’s eyes fluttered open and he looked up, his eyes glazed through pain and tiredness.
‘There you are,’ said Fletcher, ‘look who’s here.’
He moved aside and Garyn gazed into the eyes of Elspeth Fletcher, the woman he had loved all his life.
‘Oh Garyn,’ said Elspeth quietly, ‘taking his hands in hers, what have they done to you?’
‘Elspeth,’ said Garyn, ‘how are you here?’
‘My father came for me,’ she said, ‘and told me of your plight. He has told me everything, Garyn. About how you left all that time ago, simply to protect me. All these years and I have thought you a rogue, yet little did I know you did it because you loved me.’
‘And still do, Elspeth,’ said Garyn, ‘I have never stopped loving you.’
‘Oh Garyn,’ said Elspeth, ‘the tears running down her face, ‘I am so sorry, I should never have doubted you.’
‘Don’t be sorry, Elspeth, be happy for me. I am going to see my family at last and will dwell alongside them in paradise.’
‘Garyn,’ said Elspeth through her tears, ‘listen, we have little time and there is something you should know. Do you recall the last time we spoke back in the castle a few months ago? When I told you my son was not yours, that he was sired by another?’ She paused as she brushed a lock of hair from his face, ‘well I lied, Garyn, he is indeed your kin. You have a son, my love, a fine boy called Thomas and you would be very, very proud of him.’