The Ransomed Crown

by Wayne Grant

  The heavy cavalry were now three hundred yards from the sharpened stakes in front of Marshall’s position. The men in the line could feel the ground tremble. Only a handful of them had ever faced such a charge.

  “Steady!” he heard Marshall call again.

  Roland saw a horse lose its footing on the slippery soil and go down, taking another animal with it. The riders disappeared under a blur of hooves as the irresistible momentum of the charge surged up the slope.

  At two hundred yards Roland heard Thorkell give his command and a black cloud of arrows arced overhead. A handful of riders toppled from their mounts, their horses continuing to bound, riderless up the slope. Other horses were struck and fell, disrupting the cohesion of the charge. It hardly seemed to matter. There was no turning back now. The riders came on.

  ***

  Sir Connaught Kilbride dug his spurs into the flanks of his charger as he felt the big beast begin to labour up the steepening slope. The tall Irish knight was in the front rank, just to the left of the Roman road. He had watched men on either side go down under the first storm of arrows and felt his gut tighten. He’d seen this before.

  He was no longer senior commander of the mercenary heavy cavalry. His failure to destroy the Danes as they fled from Derbyshire had left him in disgrace and cost him that position. Now he was just another hired sword. Kilbride had hoped to distinguish himself this day and win back a bit of his reputation. Now he simply prayed he would survive the fight.

  He looked up, trying to see when the next hail of arrows would descend on them, but the morning sun rising above the ridge line was blinding. He raised his shield above his head just as the second volley struck. He felt arrows shatter on the steel and all around him horses and men were hit. The horses squealed and fell or threw their riders. Men screamed as longbow shafts pierced their mail. Kilbride’s mind flashed back to a day in July when he had ridden over a field littered with the bodies of his men, most felled by these damned longbows.

  He looked down the line and saw other men—men who had faced these weapons before—raise their shields high. But that did not save their horses. He wanted to look over his shoulder—to see how many they had lost, but there was no time. The sharpened stakes and the line of men were less than a hundred yards away now. He lowered his lance and sent up a prayer.

  Swarm after swarm of arrows pelted the men charging up the slope, the incoming volleys nearly invisible as they dropped out of the bright glare of the morning sun. The ranks of horsemen were thinned—but still they came on. Behind the line of stakes, a man felt his bowels turn to water as this wave of steel and horseflesh drew near. A cry of pure terror escaped his lips and he broke for the rear, elbowing aside the men behind him. A man in the third rank clubbed him to the ground.

  “Lances!” Marshall commanded, and men drove the butts of their spears into the ground and lowered their points to join the sharpened stakes in front of the line. They braced for impact.

  ***

  Kilbride sensed that the decisive moment in the fight had come. Many of their men had gone down under the hail of arrows that had greeted them as they charged up the hill, but there looked to be more than enough left to smash right through the enemy line.

  He had seen the gap in the solid wall of stakes at the Roman road. Others saw it as well and riders to the left and right of the line began to angle in toward the centre. He knew the defenders would have their best men there to protect the gap, but no foot soldiers could possibly stand against the sheer impact of the cavalry charge thundering toward them. As he neared the gap he saw two score knights converging into a tightening wedge of steel. He found his place just behind the lead riders and felt his heart rise.

  Nothing could stop them.

  ***

  The horses were on them. They struck all along the line, some dying impaled on the stakes, their riders flung over their necks to land, stunned and helpless, on the ground in front of the waiting defenders. Those men died under a swarm of axes and long daggers that found gaps in their armour. Some of the horses and riders were pierced by the braced spears while others shied away at the last minute from the hedgehog of sharp steel.

  But many found gaps and slammed into the defensive line, trampling men under steel shod hooves. Off to Roland’s right, a knight wearing a long mail coat and an armoured breastplate drove his big black warhorse through all three lines of defenders and spurred toward the hated archers a few yards away. He never reached them, as men in the rear rank turned to drag him from his saddle and cut his throat.

  In the front line now, the fighting was brutal. A burly knight on a grey charger picked his way through the stakes and spurred his horse at Roland, a mace in his right hand raised to strike. But the horse had lost momentum avoiding the sharp points and Roland grabbed its bridle, dodging to the right and coming up on the rider’s left. He drove his sword up under the man’s ribs and the mace fell limply to his side as he toppled backwards from the saddle.

  In the empty space left by the downed rider, he saw the mercenary infantry marching up the ridge to join in the fight. The foot soldiers were falling in bunches as the Danes continued their devastating volleys, but still they came on.

  “Down!” he heard Declan scream behind him. He dropped into a squat as a lance passed over his head and impaled the man behind him. Declan leapt forward. The mounted knight had dropped the lance and drawn his sword, but his parry had no chance against the speed of the Irishman. Declan’s broadsword sliced upwards through the man’s armpit and emerged bloody above the knight’s shoulder. He had to jerk the blade twice to withdraw it as the wounded man twisted off the horse and onto the churned up ground. All around them now was chaos.

  Half of the mounted men who had charged up the hill were down, killed by arrows or impaled on the stakes and spears at the defensive line. But the rest were now in among the defenders and nowhere was the fighting hotter than at the Roman road. The first riders through the gap impaled men with their lances, then drew swords and maces to hack at the defenders who pressed in from both sides. Warhorses reared and struck out with their massive hooves, crushing skulls and breaking limbs. They, in turn, went down as Marshall’s men struck back with spears and swords.

  More riders pressed into the gap, their horses leaping over the bodies of the fallen. The Earl of Chester managed to raise his shield an instant before a lance would have run him through. The impact knocked him to the ground and left his shield arm numb and useless. The man who had struck Ranulf spurred his horse forward, seeking to ride through the gap left by the downed nobleman.

  Sir Roger, seeing his liege lord down, stepped to his left and straddled the Earl. The charging rider saw the gap had closed. He stood up in his stirrups and raised a long handled axe over his head to clear the way. Sir Roger’s axe was quicker. The big knight leapt forward and swung it viciously, slicing through mail and muscle and into the rider’s rib cage.

  Roland had seen the Earl fall and Sir Roger defend the downed nobleman. He edged left over the bodies of two of the Invalids to cover his master’s flank. More riders, impeded by the sharpened stakes elsewhere along the line were pressing into the gap at the Roman road and the carnage there was appalling.

  The Invalids fought with their customary ferocity but were taking casualties and being pressed back by the sheer weight of the armoured knights pushing into the gap. Roland saw Sergeant Billy go down, dead or wounded he could not tell. Through the space where he’d fallen three riders burst through and into the rear of the formation.

  They made straight for the archers further up the slope. This time the men in the ranks were too hard pressed to come to their aid. Thorkell saw them break the line. It was a thing he had hoped not to see, but one he had prepared for.

  “Svein!” he shouted.

  Svein and ten other Danes dropped their bows and picked up the axes that had been used to cut stakes for the defensive line. They swarmed around the three riders on all sides. Four Danes died, but the three merce
naries joined them, brought down in a flurry of axe strokes. Thorkell ordered his men back into line and looked past the melee to the slope below.

  The mercenary infantry were now only one hundred yards from Marshall’s line. Scores of their bodies littered the hillside but they pushed on. Those that had shields held them aloft to ward off the longbow shafts. Thorkell directed his men to target the men struggling up the hill. If they reached the fight it could tip the balance.

  The Danish bowmen drew and loosed as fast as they could. The advancing foot soldiers looked as though they were leaning into a windstorm as they marched up the slope with shields up and heads down. The lines of foot soldiers grew ragged as men were hit or slipped and fell on the slippery ground that had been churned into a quagmire by the charging cavalry. More and more arrows got through, striking thigh and foot and arm. More men fell.

  Near the top of the slope, the fighting on the Roman road was a nightmare of blood and death. Exhausted men hacked at one another. Horses stumbled over the dead bodies of the fallen. Men screamed and cursed and prayed to God, but they fought.

  Connaught Kilbride drove his sword into the neck of a man who tried to drag him from his saddle with bare hands. A tall knight swung at him with a wicked axe, forcing him to throw himself backwards to avoid the arc of the blow. He saw three of his comrades finally break through to the rear, only to be hacked to pieces by men with axes.

  The vee formation that had been waiting for them as they burst through the gap in the stakes was now a bulge barely holding back the mass of armed horsemen within it. One more push and they would be through! He drove his heels into his mount and charged toward a singular figure in gleaming mail standing in the middle of the road.

  William Marshall saw him come and did not wait to be ridden down. Before the man’s horse could gain any speed, he darted forward and slashed the animal across its nose. There was mail there, but the blow stunned the beast and it reared back. Kilbride tried to keep his saddle, but the horse lost its balance and fell backwards over its hind legs. The Irish mercenary flung himself to the side as his horse toppled onto its back. He found himself atop a pile of dead men and horses.

  He lurched to his feet and saw the tall knight coming for him. Even brave men have their breaking point. He turned and ran, scrambling over the dead and wounded as he fled back toward the gap. Other men who had lost their mounts saw him and the contagion began to spread. Panicked men tried to turn their horses and some succeeded. Others dismounted and ran for the gap. Below, the foot soldiers were still slogging uphill under the galling rain of arrows when Kilbride, trailed by five unhorsed comrades, came staggering down the hill. Men saw them come and hesitated. If the armoured cavalry was in retreat, then what were they to do?

  Veteran sergeants screamed at the men, ordering them to advance, but the contagion of fear could not be contained. Men in twos and threes began peel off to follow the knights back down toward the ford. As he passed through the line of foot soldiers and saw the ford beckoning ahead, Connaught Kilbride tried to get control of his terror. On the far side of the river, Pieter Van Hese would be waiting and he would need a good explanation for why he had fled the battle.

  He began to think furiously of what he would say to the grim one-eyed commander. But his thoughts were cut short when a longbow shaft struck him between the shoulder blades and penetrated his heart. He fell face-first into the mud and thought of Ireland as he died.

  ***

  High on the ridge, men sensed the battle turning. The scores of mounted mercenaries that had forced their way into the deadly vee at the Roman road were packed so tightly together that it made it difficult to bring their weapons to bear. As the foot soldiers down the hill began to break and turn back toward the river, the Danes turned all of their fury on the mounted men only fifty yards to their front. They made easy targets.

  Roland and Declan stood beside Sir Roger. All were gasping for breath. Earl Ranulf had regained his feet and, for the moment, no riders pressed them. Sir Roger moved forward to where the Justiciar stood alone in the centre of the road and the men who had once been his squires came with him. Marshall’s beautiful coat of mail was spattered with mud and gore and his sword was bloody. When Sir Roger reached him, he cleared his throat and shouted above the din.

  “They are breaking!”

  Marshall saw it too. In front of them, more riders were wheeling their horses around to join the growing rout. He turned and saw Roland Inness.

  “Sir Roland, get the Invalids to the horses! I don’t want these bastards to escape to trouble us further.”

  “Aye, my lord!” Roland shouted back. He backed off the line and screamed at the top of his lungs.

  “Invalid Company! To me!”

  Men all along the centre of the line had been standing, exhausted, watching the mercenary tide recede. Roland’s call snapped them back to attention. As he ran to the rear with Declan at his side, the Invalids fell in behind him, stumbling in their fatigue. They did not have to be told where to go. The enemy had broken and was fleeing the field. It was time to pursue.

  The last of the mercenary infantry had reached the ford when the Invalid Company came over the crest of the ridge. They trailed horses for Marshall, Earl Ranulf and Sir Roger. The three mounted hastily and joined the pursuit as Roland and Declan led the column through the gap at the Roman road and down toward the ford.

  Ahead, a cry of alarm went up as the men crowding down toward the ford saw the horsemen coming. Some plunged into deeper water to escape the crush of men in the shallows. Their mail dragged them under. A few of the foot soldiers, with no hope of gaining the far bank, turned to face the oncoming men of the Invalid Company. They too died.

  On the far side of the ford there was bedlam as men bolted in any direction that might offer escape from what was coming. These men had pursued many a routed enemy in their day and they knew that to falter meant death. They whipped their horses in a frenzy to stay ahead of the pursuit.

  ***

  “What…?”

  William de Ferrers had trouble forming his question. The thing he was seeing on the far ridgeline did not seem possible. The force that had been sent against Marshall’s thin lines should have broken through easily. Instead, he saw men running back toward the ford. As he watched, the trickle of fleeing mercenaries turned into a flood.

  He felt a hand grip his arm and he flinched. It was Van Hese.

  “I suggest you leave the field, my lord. The day is lost.” He said this in the same flat tone he might have used if he was discussing the weather.

  “Lost? How can it be lost?” de Ferrers demanded, feeling the panic start to rise in his chest.

  “It’s a battle,” Van Hese sneered. “One side always loses. Today we have lost. Do you see those men coming down the ridge there, my lord? They are coming to kill us.” With that, the man turned his horse’s head around and slapped its flank with the loose end of his reins. The horse headed northeast, away from the river—away from the death.

  De Ferrers watched him go. He wanted to follow, but seemed rooted to the spot. Then he heard a man down by the river scream in agony and the panic that had been building in him took control. Nothing mattered now, but to get as far away from this disaster as possible. Leicester lay to the northwest and Derby only thirty miles further on. He spurred his horse and headed up Watling Street.

  ***

  Roland and Declan hit the ford side by side and splashed through it. Ahead of them riders and men on foot were scattering in every direction. His own men were veterans and knew what had to be done to crush a defeated army. They peeled off, a dozen or more to a group, and thundered after the fleeing mercenaries. Roland reined in near the centre of the deserted camp, Declan beside him. Near the finest tent in the encampment flew a banner—a white shield with six horseshoes. Both men knew the banner of the Earl of Derby.

  “De Ferrers!” Roland spit out the name. He looked around frantically. The entire camp was abandoned. He turned to Declan.


  “He’ll head for Derbyshire!”

  “Then so shall we!” Declan cried.

  They kicked their horses into motion and headed up Watling Street. Somewhere along that ancient road was William de Ferrers.

  ***

  William Marshall and Sir Roger de Laval splashed across the ford in time to see Roland and Declan spurring their horses up the road to the northwest, though most of the mercenaries were fleeing to the east. Sir Roger saw the banner of the Earl of Derby fluttering in the abandoned camp and knew in an instant what was drawing his former squires away from the battlefield. He dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks and started after them. He had his own accounts to settle with William de Ferrers. The man had to answer for Alwyn Madawc.

  The roads the Romans left behind were still the best in Britain eight hundred years after the last centurion climbed aboard ship to sail for Gaul. But they were not immune to the ravages of time and Watling Street was no exception. A mile from the field of battle, the flat pavement was missing a stone and William de Ferrers, made incautious by fear, did not see it. He was whipping his horse and looking over his shoulder when the animal stepped in the hole in the pavement. The horse’s foreleg snapped and de Ferrers was pitched forward into space.

  Luck was with the Earl of Derby on this otherwise unlucky day. He landed hard, but just missed the stones of the roadway. He lay on the verge, stunned and gasping for air while his unfortunate horse flailed a few feet away. Catching his breath, he staggered to his feet. Nothing seemed broken, but in the distance he heard a sound that chilled him. Horses were coming—and fast.

  He looked around frantically. There were open fields on both sides of the road, but a small strip of woods ran beside the river just fifty yards away. He ran for the concealment of the trees. He was less than halfway there, when two riders came around the bend.