ants.
As Hamelin tried to reach Henry, a Welshman sprang into his path, armed with a round shield and a nailed club. Hamelin pivoted his stallion and struck with his sword. His shield took the blow of the club and his enemy fell away with a howl. That was one disabled, he thought grimly, and spurred forward, chopping down at another bare-legged snarling warrior. Aware of another Welshman attacking from his left, he twisted to strike, but there was no need because William de Boulogne had already felled the man with a well-aimed back-swipe.
Before them they saw Eustace FitzJohn dragged from his horse and speared through the chest and throat by three of the enemy with javelins. There was no sign of the constable and a Welshman had seized the standard and was wafting it with fierce triumph. Henry’s big bay was bleeding profusely and, as Hamelin reached Henry, the horse’s legs buckled. Henry fought free of the saddle and avoided being crushed by a hair’s breadth. His complexion was bone-white save for a blood spatter across one cheek, and his eyes glittered with fear and rage as he hefted his shield and raised his sword. The Welshmen who had slaughtered FitzJohn advanced on him, javelin points thirsty for another kill. Hamelin spurred his stallion into them, striking and trampling. The hot tang of blood and spilled guts permeated the humid air. William de Boulogne dealt with the second warrior, and Henry fought off the third, ramming his sword under the Welshman’s ribs. Hamelin seized the reins of FitzJohn’s big black and handed them to Henry who grabbed them and hauled himself into the saddle. Roger de Clare had retrieved the standard and was bellowing at the knights to hold hard and rally round the King.
For a time the fighting intensified but Henry’s mauled troop, fighting cohesively now, seized the advantage and turned on their attackers, who started to melt away into the forest.
‘Hold!’ Henry roared as some of the knights spurred in pursuit. William de Boulogne grabbed the hunting horn on his saddle and let out three sharp blasts to sound the recall. They could not go on, but had to retreat as swiftly as they could and rejoin the safety of the main army, their plan in tatters.
The dead were hastily thrown across riderless horses and the troop turned back through the forest. Hamelin rode as close to Henry as the trail allowed, protecting him with his shield and his body. The Welsh might still rally and pursue, hoping to pick off a few more as they retreated, and it only took a single arrow to strike home.
Eventually they slowed their pace to conserve the horses. Their scouts had died in the first rush of the attack, but the trail back was marked by broken branches and the imprint of shod hooves in the soft mulch. Another hour of riding brought them into thinner tree cover and the heavy, humid scent of foliage became mingled with the smell of the sea. A sudden movement through the trees ahead sent hands to weapons again, everyone fearing that Owain Gwynedd had in his turn come round and encircled them, but then a hunting horn blew a sequence of recognised blasts and the knights slumped in their saddles with relief. William de Boulogne took his horn and raised it to answer with three powerful notes.
An instant later, soldiers from the rearguard of the army appeared on the path, together with the constable Henry of Essex whose expression was a mingling of horror, shame and relief. ‘Thank Christ, thank Christ you are alive, sire!’ he said hoarsely. ‘I thought you had been killed. I rode to bring help!’
‘Indeed I am alive, but no thanks to those who did not stand,’ Henry replied with icy rage. ‘FitzJohn and de Courci are dead, and many other good men besides.’
‘Traitor!’ spat Roger de Clare. ‘You sought to save your own skin, didn’t you, and let us bear the brunt!’
A red flush burned the constable’s cheekbones. ‘I did not! I rode to raise the alarm. I am no traitor and you
As Hamelin tried to reach Henry, a Welshman sprang into his path, armed with a round shield and a nailed club. Hamelin pivoted his stallion and struck with his sword. His shield took the blow of the club and his enemy fell away with a howl. That was one disabled, he thought grimly, and spurred forward, chopping down at another bare-legged snarling warrior. Aware of another Welshman attacking from his left, he twisted to strike, but there was no need because William de Boulogne had already felled the man with a well-aimed back-swipe.
Before them they saw Eustace FitzJohn dragged from his horse and speared through the chest and throat by three of the enemy with javelins. There was no sign of the constable and a Welshman had seized the standard and was wafting it with fierce triumph. Henry’s big bay was bleeding profusely and, as Hamelin reached Henry, the horse’s legs buckled. Henry fought free of the saddle and avoided being crushed by a hair’s breadth. His complexion was bone-white save for a blood spatter across one cheek, and his eyes glittered with fear and rage as he hefted his shield and raised his sword. The Welshmen who had slaughtered FitzJohn advanced on him, javelin points thirsty for another kill. Hamelin spurred his stallion into them, striking and trampling. The hot tang of blood and spilled guts permeated the humid air. William de Boulogne dealt with the second warrior, and Henry fought off the third, ramming his sword under the Welshman’s ribs. Hamelin seized the reins of FitzJohn’s big black and handed them to Henry who grabbed them and hauled himself into the saddle. Roger de Clare had retrieved the standard and was bellowing at the knights to hold hard and rally round the King.
For a time the fighting intensified but Henry’s mauled troop, fighting cohesively now, seized the advantage and turned on their attackers, who started to melt away into the forest.
‘Hold!’ Henry roared as some of the knights spurred in pursuit. William de Boulogne grabbed the hunting horn on his saddle and let out three sharp blasts to sound the recall. They could not go on, but had to retreat as swiftly as they could and rejoin the safety of the main army, their plan in tatters.
The dead were hastily thrown across riderless horses and the troop turned back through the forest. Hamelin rode as close to Henry as the trail allowed, protecting him with his shield and his body. The Welsh might still rally and pursue, hoping to pick off a few more as they retreated, and it only took a single arrow to strike home.
Eventually they slowed their pace to conserve the horses. Their scouts had died in the first rush of the attack, but the trail back was marked by broken branches and the imprint of shod hooves in the soft mulch. Another hour of riding brought them into thinner tree cover and the heavy, humid scent of foliage became mingled with the smell of the sea. A sudden movement through the trees ahead sent hands to weapons again, everyone fearing that Owain Gwynedd had in his turn come round and encircled them, but then a hunting horn blew a sequence of recognised blasts and the knights slumped in their saddles with relief. William de Boulogne took his horn and raised it to answer with three powerful notes.
An instant later, soldiers from the rearguard of the army appeared on the path, together with the constable Henry of Essex whose expression was a mingling of horror, shame and relief. ‘Thank Christ, thank Christ you are alive, sire!’ he said hoarsely. ‘I thought you had been killed. I rode to bring help!’
‘Indeed I am alive, but no thanks to those who did not stand,’ Henry replied with icy rage. ‘FitzJohn and de Courci are dead, and many other good men besides.’
‘Traitor!’ spat Roger de Clare. ‘You sought to save your own skin, didn’t you, and let us bear the brunt!’
A red flush burned the constable’s cheekbones. ‘I did not! I rode to raise the alarm. I am no traitor and you
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