The Promises of a King, page 8
Further downstream, Aelfgar’s lancers thundered into the adjacent village, cutting down anyone trying to flee and torching the houses. The air was thick with smoke, and the screams of the innocent, as Gruffydd’s army took out their frustration after so many years of war. Men and women alike pleaded for quarter, but their cries were ignored, and all the remaining resistance crumbled before the brutal onslaught.
Eventually, the sounds of battle died away, replaced with the whimpers of the wounded and the prayers of those who waited to die. Seeing the battle was won, Gruffydd descended from the hill and walked between his cheering warriors. The battle had lasted less than an hour, but never in his wildest dreams had he expected such an overwhelming victory. Hundreds of men had been taken prisoner and now stood surrounded by Aelfgar’s lancers.
‘Where is Rhydderch?’ shouted Gruffydd, looking around the hundreds of corpses. ‘Someone show me his body.’
‘We are still looking for him,’ replied Macsen, wiping blood from his face with the sleeve of his gambeson. ‘Nobody has yet claimed the kill.’
‘We need to find him,’ said Gruffydd, ‘for if he is not dead, he may yet block my path to unite Wales.’
‘He cannot be far,’ said Macsen. ‘Aelfgar and the Irish have blocked all the roads out – there is no escape.’
‘I have no intention of escaping,’ said a voice, and everyone turned to see the King of Gwent emerge from a small building.
‘King Rhydderch,’ said Gruffydd as his adversary approached, ‘you are still alive. How unfortunate.’
‘King Gruffydd,’ said Rhydderch, ‘congratulations on your victory. I have to say, albeit grudgingly, that your tactics fooled me completely, and I stand before a worthy victor.’
‘Empty praise from a king who hid like a frightened child as his men died around him,’ said Gruffydd.
‘It is not a king’s place to die in war,’ said Rhydderch, ‘but to deal with the aftermath, as the victor or the vanquished. On this day, for me, it is the latter, but my men fought well, and there is no shame in defeat. We will lick our wounds and, in time, will emerge from this stronger.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Gruffydd. ‘Your army is nothing but a pile of corpses waiting to feed the crows. You have no more time.’
‘My army may be gone,’ said Rhydderch, ‘but I still have a kingdom to rule in the west. Name your price, and I will cede both Gwent and Morgannwg to you, a huge prize for a battle well fought. Not only this, but I will rule the rest of Deheubarth as a vassal king, serving you and Wales for the rest of my days. We are great kings, you and I, and are both feared by the English. But for too long, we have fought each other. So let us now become allies and send shivers of fear into the heart of the Palace of Westminster. Imagine it, one Wales ruled by two kings, equal in stature and feared by all.’
Gruffydd stared at Rhydderch for an age before slowly drawing his sword and resting the tip of the blade against his adversary’s stomach.
‘Do you really think that I will share anything with you,’ he said, ‘a man who has killed thousands of his own countrymen for no other reason than filling his own treasury?’
‘That is not true,’ said Rhydderch. ‘At all times I acted with the good of Wales my only thought.’
‘Tell that to all the people you raped, tortured and killed,’ said Gruffydd. ‘Your time here is over, Rhydderch, and I am going to send you to hell where you belong.’
‘Wait,’ said Rhydderch, his eyes widening with fear, but before he could continue, Gruffydd thrust his sword forward, sending it straight through his victim’s gut.
For the briefest of moments Rhydderch’s hands clasped around the blade, but as the pain kicked in, he collapsed to his knees. Gruffydd withdrew his sword and kicked the defeated king in the face with the heel of his boot, sending him crashing backwards to the ground. Throwing his sword to one side, Gruffydd dropped onto his victim’s chest and drew his knife before leaning over to stare into Rhydderch’s eyes, pausing to savour the moment.
‘This country will be a better place without you, Rhydderch,’ he said eventually, ‘and few will mourn your passing. But as a fellow king, I grant you the privilege of a quick death,’ and as the Gwent king looked up in terror, Gruffydd plunged his blade through the dying man’s heart.
The surrounding men fell deathly silent as they watched Rhydderch die. Despite the enmity between the two camps, it was still a sobering moment to witness the demise of a powerful monarch. When the body finally stopped convulsing, Gruffydd got to his feet and cast away the blade before facing the prisoners.
‘Do not spend any time on this man’s memory,’ he announced, ‘for he was a weak king hiding behind brutality to scare his people into servitude. Today, we have rid this country of the one obstacle to a united Wales. Rhydderch is dead, and by right, I claim kingship over all his lands and chattels. Those of you who wish to move on from the past and help me achieve that goal, step forward and declare your allegiance. You will be welcomed into our ranks with no question. Those who cannot make that step will die here today alongside your king. Choose now.’
For a few moments, nobody moved until gradually, one by one, the prisoners realised they had little choice and stepped forward to join Gruffydd. Eventually, only a dozen or so remained, each brandishing a sword to sell their lives dearly.
Gruffydd stared at the men and realised there was no point in trying to change their minds.
‘So be it,’ he said and turned to Macsen. ‘Cut them down.’
Seconds later, dozens of arrows flew through the air and as the last of Rhydderch’s loyalists died, Gruffydd realised the war with Gwent was finally over.
‘Make no mistake,’ he shouted, turning to face his own men. ‘There are still battles to be won and dissent to be put down, but that is for the morrow. Today, as promised, we will celebrate our victory, and I bid you all to seek whatever recompense you can from the town and surrounding villages. Take what is due, but harm no more innocents.’
The men roared their support, and the king raised his hand for silence.
‘Enjoy what is yours by right,’ he said, ‘but be back here by dawn, for tomorrow, as was my vow, we march on Hereford.’
This time there was no stopping the excitement, and as the men dispersed to seek whatever they could find, the king looked across to see Aelfgar staring at him.
‘Well,’ said the king, walking over, ‘does the day sit well with you?’
‘It is indeed a great day,’ said Aelfgar, ‘for never did I expect such a victory.’
‘God was with us,’ said Gruffydd, ‘and your men played their part to the full.’
‘So tomorrow we march on Hereford?’
‘That is what I promised,’ said Gruffydd, ‘and I am a man of my word. Get your men rested, Aelfgar of Mercia, because, within a few days, we will send a message to Edward that he will never forget.’
Chapter Nine
Archenfield, Late October, AD 1055
Several days after the victory in Skewett, Aelfgar of Mercia once again found himself surrounded by hundreds of dead and dying men. The place was Archenfield, just outside Hereford, and though Earl Ralf had amassed a sizeable army in defence of the city, they had been no match for the combined forces of Gruffydd, Aelfgar and the Irish mercenaries.
At first, the mobility of Ralf’s cavalry had gained the advantage, but it was soon clear that they were not experienced in such warfare and made the crucial mistake of allowing their ranks to break, a devastating error that allowed the heavily armed infantry to get amongst them. The attack from Ralf’s men quickly fell apart, and they became victims to the fury of a freshly bloodied army, desperate for more victory and more spoils. The slaughter had been unrelenting, with men and horses dying in their hundreds.
Again the cries of men facing their own death echoed across a blood-stained battlefield, and the killing continued long after Earl Ralf’s signallers sounded the retreat. Wounded men, unable to run and with little chance of surviving their wounds, were quickly despatched by spear and sword, while hundreds of others were taken prisoner to work as slaves back in the kingdom of Gwynedd.
Eventually, Gruffydd’s own signaller summoned his scattered army to reform, and having dealt with the only force between them and the city, turned towards Hereford.
‘This day is not yet done!’ roared Gruffydd from his horse. ‘The greater prize still lies before us. Savour the taste of victory, my friends, for this day will send arrows of fear right into the heart of the English king himself.’
With an almighty roar, the combined armies turned northward towards Hereford. For the next two days, the city was devastated by the rampant Welsh. Buildings were burned to the ground, common people slaughtered, and even the city’s motte-and-bailey castle totally destroyed. Aelfgar was shocked, for though this had been his plan all along, he had never realised just how devastating the outcome would be.
At last, the fury eased, and as the exhausted warriors wandered back to their camps outside the destroyed city walls, Aelfgar walked towards the one building dominating the skyline, the magnificent stone cathedral built under the auspices of the current bishop, Athelstan.
As he arrived, his face fell as he saw dozens of Gruffydd’s men standing before the entrance, each holding a burning torch. Laid out in a straight line were the bodies of several canons who had fought to the last to defend the cathedral from the marauding Welsh. In front of the bodies stood three men, King Gruffydd, Macsen and Bishop Athelstan, the last bound with his hands behind his back.
‘Your grace,’ shouted Aelfgar, pushing his way to the front of a crowd of onlookers, ‘wait, what are you doing?’
Gruffydd turned and saw Aelfgar being restrained by two of his guards.
‘Let him through,’ he said, ‘he should witness this.’
Aelfgar ran forward and stood before Gruffydd.
‘Your grace,’ he said, ‘what is going on? Surely you don’t mean to burn down the cathedral?’
‘Why not?’ asked Gruffydd. ‘It is the one thing that makes this city stand out amongst so many others. Hereford now belongs to me, and it is up to me to do with it as I wish.’
‘But why?’ gasped Aelfgar. ‘The battle is won. Let the killing and destruction now stop.’
Gruffydd’s eyes hardened, and he stared at Aelfgar.
‘When you asked for my help,’ he said, ‘there was no talk of quarter or mercy. All you were interested in was sending a message to the king about some petty argument. Well, you have your message, Aelfgar of Mercia, and Edward cannot fail to see the implications.’
‘But this is too much,’ said Aelfgar, ‘this is a house of God. We will all surely burn in hell for such an act.’
‘What about the hundreds of houses burned along the border by Ralf and his men over the past few years?’ interjected Macsen. ‘They may have been of willow and mud, but those who lost their homes, or were killed for no more reason than being born on the wrong side of a river were just as godly as any man who set foot inside this monstrosity, no matter how gaudy their clothing.’
Aelfgar stared at the bound bishop as he realised what was about to happen.
‘Stop your whimpering,’ said Gruffydd to the bishop, ‘and start praying we do not place you inside when we put it to the torch.’
‘Your grace,’ said Aelfgar, ‘I beg of you. Yes, I needed your help, but if I had known this would be the result, I swear I would never have pressed my request. Please don’t do this, it is a step too far.’
‘Save your pleas, Aelfgar,’ said the king, ‘the decision is made.’ With a nod to one of the nearby sergeants, he sent the row of men into the cathedral to set their fires. As they did, the bishop dropped to his knees and wailed in torment.
‘Shut him up,’ said the king.
Macsen walked over and punched the bishop hard across the jaw, sending him sprawling onto the ground.
‘Do you want him carried inside?’ asked Macsen, looking at the king.
‘No,’ sighed Gruffydd, ‘let him live to report what he has seen here today. They need to know exactly what they are dealing with.’
Macsen nodded and, as two of his men at arms dragged the bishop away, returned to stand alongside the king and Aelfgar. A few moments later, the men tasked with setting the fires came back and watched as smoke started billowing from the doorways and windows.
Aelfgar’s heart sank as he realised there was nothing more he could do and, as Gruffydd and his men walked away to start their victory celebrations outside the city, he fell to his knees, watching with despair as Hereford Cathedral was destroyed.
* * *
Several leagues away, Harold and his army marched towards Hereford, painfully aware that the whole mobilisation process had taken far longer than expected. At first, the recruitment had gone well, but when it became clear that Gruffydd was allied with Aelfgar of Mercia, the situation had become complicated. Aelfgar’s father, Leofric, despite being a loyal servant to the king and in command of a strong standing army, refused to muster any of his men against his own son. Similarly, other nobles, friendly with Leofric, also refused to offer any military support, especially as they knew that the king himself was not at risk.
Consequently, Harold had found that recruiting an army strong enough to face the Welsh took far longer than anticipated, and by the time they neared the city, his scouts had already reported back that it was too late. Hereford had been razed to the ground.
Worried about what he was marching into, he stopped the army two leagues east of the city before joining his scouts to ride forward to see the devastation for himself.
Although all the fires were out, the smell of burning still filled the air, and a haze of smoke hung above the city as if lingering to enjoy the result of its efforts. Hundreds of people camped outside the ruins, using whatever they could as shelter against the elements, while others walked through the ash, trying to salvage anything that had survived the flames. But above all else, what caused him the most despair was the sight of what remained of the cathedral. What had once been an extraordinary building was now blackened with smoke, every window devoid of the wonderful glass that had graced them. The magnificent wooden spire that had for so long reached upwards as if towards God’s heaven was now no more than a pile of burnt timber and rubble heaped at the base of the building.
Harold stared in horror. He had prepared for war; indeed, he had actually been looking forward to making his name in battle at the behest of the king, but his thoughts had been focused on the fighting, the combination of strategy and bravery that separated victor from vanquished. Never had he given thought to scenes such as this.
‘Where is Lord Ralf and his men?’ he asked quietly, realising that there was no sign of any military personnel.
‘We do not know,’ said one of the scouts, ‘but I have been told by one of the survivors that they were last seen fleeing eastward.’
‘They did not fight?’
‘Oh, they fought, my lord, and what remains of Ralf’s army now lies rotting just two leagues from here. My men counted over a thousand bodies, most of them ours.’
‘It sounds like a slaughter,’ said Harold.
‘It was,’ said the scout. ‘But what is strange is that there are so many dead horses. Lord Ralf was not known as having any significant cavalry, but it looks like he tried to fight the Welsh with mounted men.’
‘That man is dangerous,’ said Harold, ‘and has caused the unnecessary death of many in his time.’
‘Does the king know of his incompetence?’
‘Aye, he does, but Ralf is the king’s nephew, so Edward brushes away any criticism. Is there any sign of Aelfgar?’
‘We think he is in Archenfield. The town also fell to the Welsh, and though there was a lot of damage, it was not burned. We saw hundreds of men fortifying the defences, so it looks like they are going to make a stand there.’
Harold nodded and stared down at what remained of Hereford city. It had once been a strong outpost on the edge of Wales, a base from which the king’s men could control marauding Welsh patrols. Now it was no more than a pile of burning wood and collapsed stone buildings.
‘What do you want to do, my lord?’ said the scout. ‘Do we march on Archenfield?’
‘No,’ said Harold eventually. ‘Send men to bury the dead to the south. The rest of us will go to the city to see what we can do to help. I want patrols sent to collect food from any nearby towns and villages. These people will be hungry, and we do not carry enough supplies to feed them all.’
‘As you wish, my lord,’ said the scout.
‘We are being watched,’ said Owen of Hereford, at Harold’s side, and nodded towards a group of mounted riders about half a league away.
Harold stared at the watchers. He could not make out much detail but had no doubt they would be scouts from Gruffydd’s army.
‘Do you want us to run them down?’ asked one of his officers.
‘No,’ said Harold. ‘Tell our men to set up camp here, on the slopes above Hereford. I want our strength to be seen by friend and foe alike. Let Gruffydd see exactly what he is up against.’
* * *
Over the next few days, Harold’s men did what they could to help the people of Hereford. Any buildings able to be repaired were prioritised, and the people brought back into the city, tempted by the cauldrons of hot soup provided by the army of cooks brought along to feed Harold’s men. Many of the foot-soldiers, as well as any healthy civilians who had survived the attack, set about building fortifications around the city, a mixture of hastily erected palisades and piles of rubble joining together to form protection against any further attack.
Within two weeks, despite the obvious devastation, the city gained a semblance of normality, carefully governed by Harold’s officers. Outlying farms and villages brought what they could spare, and gradually, an air of stubbornness filtered throughout all those that had survived.
