‘I cannot tell you when he will return because that will depend on the King, but he will live to bring you his sack full of dirty baggage, steal the bedclothes in the middle of the night and make you wonder why you ever worried!’
Isabel put on a brave smile. ‘I will hold that thought in mind whenever I turn foolish and begin to brood, especially the dirty baggage,’ she said, but her eyes remained haunted.
Hamelin’s shoulders prickled as if his mail shirt was lined with tiny thorns facing inwards and stabbing through his gambeson. The stifling August heat was cooking him inside his armour, but his discomfort was also caused by an acute sense of unease. Henry had taken a mounted contingent on a shortcut through the forest of Cennadlog, leaving the main army and baggage train to follow the coast road. His intention was to come up behind Owain Gwynedd’s Welsh forces at Basingwerk, encircle them, and force a swift surrender.
Their Welsh guides, enemies of Owain, were leading them along little used forest trails, narrow and winding. Oppressive August heat bore down on them like an extra weight. The deep green light was suffused with sudden slashes of gold where fallen trees opened up a shaft to the sky and fresher air. It was almost otherworldly, and although Hamelin was accustomed to hunting through dense forests, this felt different, and dangerous.
In front of Hamelin, Henry’s big bay destrier swished its black tail against the irritation of numerous blood-sucking flies. Sweat dripped from its hide and frothed along the line of the rein. Henry’s constable, Eustace FitzJohn, rode at Henry’s left-hand side, holding his skittish black stallion on a tight rein. FitzJohn turned frequently in the saddle, his vision hampered because he only had sight in one eye. Ahead and to one side rode Henry of Essex, bearing the royal standard.
Close to Hamelin, William de Boulogne leaned over to rub his bad leg. ‘The Welsh have an affinity for forests,’ he said with a grimace. ‘They are certainly more at home in them than I am.’
‘You have fought them before?’ Hamelin blotted his face on his gambeson cuff.
‘No, but people talk of them around the fire, and the border barons employ Welsh archers and mercenaries in their retinues. They do not have great cities; they live on their herds – on milk and meat. They will not stand and fight because they do not have the weight and power we do. Instead they are wraiths with arrows. They are knives in the dark.’
Hamelin arched his brow at William’s poetic turn of phrase. ‘And we are swords in the sunlight,’ he replied with a fierce smile. ‘We are the weight of powerful warhorses and castles of stone.’
‘Indeed, and I shall be glad when we are within our walls of stone, because this is their domain.’
A sudden crashing sound from the trees ahead had everyone reaching for their weapons, but then Henry burst out laughing and pointed to a pair of mating pigeons thrashing about in the leaves of an ash tree. The men relaxed, puffing out their tension, chuckling and exchanging relieved, sheepish glances. The laughter was still on their faces as with a swift singing of air an arrow punched into the face of Eustace FitzJohn, shattering his cheekbone and spraying blood. The scout who had been leading them screamed and fell, a shaft quivering in his chest. Another dart thudded into a tree, narrowly missing de Boulogne, and causing his stallion to rear and plunge.
Hamelin scrabbled for his shield and brought it on to his left shoulder while drawing his sword, and felt the impact of two shafts thudding into the linen-covered wood. Arrows sang all around like angry hornets, creating destruction and mayhem. Following that onslaught, the Welsh came in swiftly on foot armed with javelins and long stabbing knives, aiming to hamstring the horses and bring the knights down. Warriors leaped out of the trees, howling their battle cries, landing on saddles, swarming like
Isabel put on a brave smile. ‘I will hold that thought in mind whenever I turn foolish and begin to brood, especially the dirty baggage,’ she said, but her eyes remained haunted.
Hamelin’s shoulders prickled as if his mail shirt was lined with tiny thorns facing inwards and stabbing through his gambeson. The stifling August heat was cooking him inside his armour, but his discomfort was also caused by an acute sense of unease. Henry had taken a mounted contingent on a shortcut through the forest of Cennadlog, leaving the main army and baggage train to follow the coast road. His intention was to come up behind Owain Gwynedd’s Welsh forces at Basingwerk, encircle them, and force a swift surrender.
Their Welsh guides, enemies of Owain, were leading them along little used forest trails, narrow and winding. Oppressive August heat bore down on them like an extra weight. The deep green light was suffused with sudden slashes of gold where fallen trees opened up a shaft to the sky and fresher air. It was almost otherworldly, and although Hamelin was accustomed to hunting through dense forests, this felt different, and dangerous.
In front of Hamelin, Henry’s big bay destrier swished its black tail against the irritation of numerous blood-sucking flies. Sweat dripped from its hide and frothed along the line of the rein. Henry’s constable, Eustace FitzJohn, rode at Henry’s left-hand side, holding his skittish black stallion on a tight rein. FitzJohn turned frequently in the saddle, his vision hampered because he only had sight in one eye. Ahead and to one side rode Henry of Essex, bearing the royal standard.
Close to Hamelin, William de Boulogne leaned over to rub his bad leg. ‘The Welsh have an affinity for forests,’ he said with a grimace. ‘They are certainly more at home in them than I am.’
‘You have fought them before?’ Hamelin blotted his face on his gambeson cuff.
‘No, but people talk of them around the fire, and the border barons employ Welsh archers and mercenaries in their retinues. They do not have great cities; they live on their herds – on milk and meat. They will not stand and fight because they do not have the weight and power we do. Instead they are wraiths with arrows. They are knives in the dark.’
Hamelin arched his brow at William’s poetic turn of phrase. ‘And we are swords in the sunlight,’ he replied with a fierce smile. ‘We are the weight of powerful warhorses and castles of stone.’
‘Indeed, and I shall be glad when we are within our walls of stone, because this is their domain.’
A sudden crashing sound from the trees ahead had everyone reaching for their weapons, but then Henry burst out laughing and pointed to a pair of mating pigeons thrashing about in the leaves of an ash tree. The men relaxed, puffing out their tension, chuckling and exchanging relieved, sheepish glances. The laughter was still on their faces as with a swift singing of air an arrow punched into the face of Eustace FitzJohn, shattering his cheekbone and spraying blood. The scout who had been leading them screamed and fell, a shaft quivering in his chest. Another dart thudded into a tree, narrowly missing de Boulogne, and causing his stallion to rear and plunge.
Hamelin scrabbled for his shield and brought it on to his left shoulder while drawing his sword, and felt the impact of two shafts thudding into the linen-covered wood. Arrows sang all around like angry hornets, creating destruction and mayhem. Following that onslaught, the Welsh came in swiftly on foot armed with javelins and long stabbing knives, aiming to hamstring the horses and bring the knights down. Warriors leaped out of the trees, howling their battle cries, landing on saddles, swarming like
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