Winter of Discontent

In the Paris salle de’armes Alan had been trained to maintain peripheral vision by having men hit him with sticks from the side while he was fencing against the Sword master. That skill saved him now, as he saw from the corner of his left eye a blade rise above eye-height on his left, previously unengaged, side. Alan slightly raised the shield strapped to his left arm and ducked his head fractionally, causing the sword to deflect off the top of the shield. The opponent on Alan’s right had seen the blow coming and had paused to watch the outcome. That pause cost his life as, without taking his eye off his opponent, Alan swept his sword aside and lunged, putting six inches of steel into the Welshman’s belly. He then spurred Fayne forwards and in the one motion pulled his sword clear, swiveled in the saddle to face his left, brought the sword across, raising it slightly so that it cleared Fayne’s pricked ears, rose in his stirrups and swung the blade with all his weight behind it. The opponent on the left was unbalanced after his own blow had unexpectedly missed and held his small shield several inches too low. Before the Welshman could realise his danger Alan’s blow had passed over the top of the shield and struck off his head.

As Alan had intended, the spurs had caused Fayne to take a convulsive leap forward, clear of the immediate scrimmage, and Alan took a quick look around. His troop had achieved near parity with the number of horsemen they faced, the Welsh having been whittled down from about fifteen to ten. However, another two of the Wolves were down and another was reeling in the saddle. A few paces away Edric was engaging two Welshmen, keeping them at bay with mighty swings of the single-handed axe that was his preferred weapon- the movements of his axe being surprisingly subtle for such a weapon. Alan used the pressure of his knees to have Fayne move to Edric’s assistance and plunged his sword into the unprotected back of one of Edric’s assailants. Edric quickly finished off the other one, axe smashing aside the shield and then sweeping back in a butterfly motion to strike his opponent in the chest, and then nodded his thanks to Alan.

A gaggle of foot-soldiers ran past, making for the trees to the west. Edric turned to dispatch several, and as the Welshmen flowed around the Englishmen Fayne suddenly screamed and then reared before crashing down backwards, as a Welsh swordsman had cut the hamstring on one of the horse’s hind legs. As Fayne fell, Alan slipped his feet from the stirrups and threw himself sideways to the left, away from the falling and thrashing horse, casting aside his shield, so that he could protect himself by rolling as he hit the ground. The contact with the earth drove the air from Alan’s lungs. As he rolled he knocked the legs out from under a Welsh spearman, who fell backwards with Alan on top. Alan’s sword was caught underneath the Welshman, held in place by their combined weight and unable to be retrieved. As he lay face to face with his foe, Alan felt the scrape of steel on steel as his opponent sought to use the knife now in his right hand to find a weak spot or join in the armour. The knife was uncomfortably close to one of the buckles under Alan’s left armpit. Alan grabbed the man’s knife-hand with his own left hand and released his grip on his now useless sword. He tried to punch his adversary, but as he was lying partly on his right side he was unable to get any power into the blows. Then he saw a pair of booted feet walk into his limited field of vision and waited for a blow to his unprotected back. There was a swish, a blur of movement and his foe’s head flew away. Blood fountained, spraying over Alan and the legs of his saviour.

Alan rolled to his right, pulling his sword out from under the still twitching body, as Edric offered him a hand and helped him to his feet. “That accursed unges?lig ruined my trews!” said Edric looking at his blood-drenched legs.

“I owe you a flagon of ale, Edric.”

“Well, I thought that for a wealh you aren’t a bad herer? swa. The Welsh have all pissed off into the trees, so lets get the men together,” replied Edric.

Alan used his sword to quickly dispatch the still kicking and struggling Fayne and took possession of one of the chargers that was wandering ownerless on the battlefield. Seven of his eleven men were still in the saddle, elated at their first taste of victory in a serious fight. They retraced their path to find the missing four men, two of whom were dead and two injured, one severely as he had received a spear in the belly.

FitzOsbern had some men repairing the bridge and soon the dead and injured Anglo-Normans were able to be taken back to the village. Within minutes the dead of both sides had been stripped of anything useful- armour, weapons, jewellery and occasionally clothes and boots. The remaining villagers who had not had the opportunity to flee were instructed to cross the river and gather up the Welsh dead, under careful guard to ensure that they didn’t collect any weapons that may be found in the long grass.

The village head-man decided that the Welsh dead would be buried in a common grave-pit near the church. A similar pit was dug for the Anglo-Normans, again using the villager’s labour. There were about 250 Welsh dead, and about 50 wounded- probably about half the number that had been in the field that day. Nearly 100 Anglo-Normans were dead, mainly from the cavalry that had borne the brunt of the fighting, and 30 seriously wounded.

FitzOsbern had won his battle over the Welsh king, but at a high price. Fully one third of his cavalry, the cream of his army, was dead or wounded- and this despite the fact that the Anglo-Norman surprise attack, being on one flank of the Welsh army and accordingly meaning that only a part of the Welsh army was able to fight the Normans at any one time, had been made under the most advantageous conditions possible.

The Welsh women of the village were instructed to care for the wounded, which they did conscientiously and without apparent favour.

The battle had taken less than an hour from start to finish and had started very early. It was still only mid- morning when fitzOsbern called into the Cantref Hall where the injured were being treated. He was still in armour when he entered, walking with a slight limp, dirty, disheveled and covered in blood. Some was his own blood from cuts to his cheek from an arrow and his thigh from a spear. He moved amongst the wounded, dropping onto one knee next to each Norman or Englishman with words of encouragement and thanks, before approaching Alan, who was assisting the village wise woman to tend a severe arm wound suffered by a Welshman.

“Warm work this morning, Sir Alan!” commented fitzOsbern. “Those Welsh buggers fought damn well, considering the tactical disadvantages they had.”

Alan nodded and replied, “Nobody has ever doubted their courage or skill, just their lack of training. Fuck!” he exclaimed as a ligature slipped and blood spurted from the arm he was working on. “I don’t think this man is going to make it. Can you get the village priest in here? There are quite a few men who need to be shriven before they die, and I’m sure our men would rather be prayed over than not- even if the prayers are in Welsh.”

“He’s doing burials at the moment,” replied de Neufmarche, who had followed fitzOsbern into the Hall.

“The dead can wait. They have all eternity. Just get him!” instructed Alan. De Neufmarche nodded and gave instructions to one of his men.

“We managed to get the attention of the ship that we had arranged go to Abergele, as it was sailing past,” commented fitzOsbern. “It’s unloading some supplies near the bridge at the moment.”

Alan nodded and suggested, “Get the less badly wounded men taken on board and have the ship sail back to Chester. They’ll probably get there by tonight and it’ll be much easier for the injured than traveling on a bumping wagon on a rutted dirt track. If we get two ships tomorrow, we can send back the more seriously injured once they’ve had a chance to stabilize, and also the captured weapons and armour. If we send that booty back by road the Welsh will almost certainly take it back,” he suggested.

“Good idea,” replied fitzOsbern. “How long until you are finished here? The men will be resting for the day and tonight.”

“Another couple of hours. I’ll have something to eat then,” said Alan.

“Good. I’ve got a few flagons of fairly indifferent wine we found here in the Hall. It’s probably Bleddyn’s. We’ll drink that over roast swine and boiled beef. The cooks are busy with some of the fresh meat from the village’s herds.”

“Isn’t it Friday?” asked Alan.

FitzOsbern frowned in concentration for a moment. “Possibly. I’m not sure just what day it is. But I don’t hold with that on campaign anyway. Just call it Thursday!”

****

Alan washed himself at the horse-trough outside the tavern after stripping off his sweaty and river-sodden armour and padded gambeson. Then, free of sweat, blood and grime, he donned a clean rough tunic and trews without armour. He was confident that there was no chance of an attack by the Welsh for the next few days.

FitzOsbern had taken over the tavern as his headquarters. None of the soldiers were unhappy about that as they knew that they’d cleaned out all of the ale barrels before the commanders took possession. FitzOsbern, Guy de Craon, Raoul Painel, Osmond Basset and Bernard de Neufmarche were seated; all were still wearing armour, although all appeared to have at least washed their heads and hands. Aubrey Maubanc was amongst the seriously