The men were on horse and moving within ten minutes, most of that time taken with putting the tack on the horses. Then they were moving north on horseback between the trees of the forest, the bright light of the full moon making movement relatively easy. After a ride of several minutes they came to Offa’s Dyke. This deep ditch with the spoil piled on the eastern side had been constructed several centuries before by the Saxons to try to prevent Welsh raiding parties moving east. Without maintenance it had fallen into disrepair but it was still a considerable obstacle and the men had to dismount and lead their horses over a section where the ditch and wall had collapsed.
The scouts sent on ahead returned to advise that the Welsh had dismounted and left their horses in the trees just to the west of the village of Yazor, along with five attendants. Alan sent ten of his men who were foresters or poachers ahead and soon received the signal that it was clear to proceed. On arriving at the tree line he ignored a pair of booted feet projecting from behind a bush, other than to think that his men must have been busy- otherwise the boots would have been removed by now.
Screams and shouts could be heard from the village that lay just ahead.
“What men have we got?” Alan demanded of Brand.
“Thirty mounted men-at-arms and ten swordsmen. Twenty archers,” replied Brand.
“If we send them into the village, the villagers will attack us and we’ll be blundering about not knowing what we’re doing,” said Alan, expressing uncharacteristic caution.
“The best course is to stay here and wait for the Welsh to come back for their horses,” agreed Brand. “Of course, that doesn’t help the villagers!”
Alan grunted in reply and looked about. It appeared that Yazor had largely been spared the ravages of the summer invasion, which was presumably why the Welsh were paying their visit tonight. “They aren’t my villagers! There are several haystacks over to the north, just past those houses. Set fire to them. That should get the Welsh moving out of the village when it attracts their attention.”
It was Brand’s turn to grunt. “Probably,” he said. “But apart from our men at Staunton they wouldn’t expect to see a man-at-arms closer than Hereford, six miles away.”
“Do it! I don’t want to send my men into a confused fight to defend a village that isn’t my responsibility. If I do I’ll lose ten or fifteen men. I don’t intend to lose a single one,” instructed Alan.
Minutes later the haystacks burst into flame, like giant beacons drawing attention. Shortly afterwards the Welshmen appeared, either carrying sacks of booty or with a woman draped over their shoulder. After a brief discussion, they moved as a body towards the trees.
Alan was standing with the archers in the shadow of the trees. “Loose!” he instructed. At a range of barely thirty paces it was impossible to miss. Fifteen Welshmen fell riddled with arrows, several being double-targeted. “And again! Loose!” Another nine Welshmen fell and Alan instructed the swordsmen to take the few remaining survivors into custody.
Riding into the village Alan was unable to locate the village head-cheorl and after leaving a message he departed back to the camp at Mansell Gamage.
Of the Welshmen, 29 of the 42 raiders were dead, shot down by the archers in ambush. There were no wounded. The 13 survivors, hands bound, were marched under guard to the camp. The only English casualty was a swordsman who had tripped over a log in the dark and sprained an ankle.
While the dead Welshmen were collected and thrown into Offa’s Dyke, Alan and a dozen men escorted the bewildered freed captives back into the village and returned that part of the portable wealth of the village that the Welsh had stolen and which his men had not had the opportunity to purloin. In the dark they were still unable to locate the village headman. Whether dead, fled or in hiding nobody knew. Instead Alan spoke to several of the older cheorls. Several dead bodies were being brought out and taken to the church, presumably men who had shown resistance. Alan felt a pang of guilt about that but accepted Brand’s assurance that had he and his men rushed into the village with swords drawn it was most likely that even more villagers would have died, as both his men and the Welsh would have struck first and asked questions later. At least the firing of the haystacks had interrupted the Welsh and prevented them from burning down the village and killing all the livestock. Anyway, it wasn’t his village and they were not his geburs. Defending them was somebody else’s responsibility and getting his own men killed or injured unnecessarily was something to be avoided if possible.
Alan arrived back at the camp shortly before dawn, feeling weary and fatigued. Baldwin the Norman man-at-arms and Ranulf the Saxon huscarle had tried to question the Welsh captives without success. The latter were pretending they spoke only Welsh. Alan chose not to disclose that he had some knowledge of the Celtic language, learned as a child from a Celtic-speaking nursemaid from Brittany, and dispatched a man to Staunton to summon two or three interpreters, and to advise Robert that the foray intended for that night would be delayed to allow his men to rest. The 42 captured Welsh hill-ponies were fed, watered and allocated to some of those who had hitherto traveled on foot.
At dawn two days later Alan, in full chain-mail harness, was sitting astride his warhorse Odin outside the village of Talgarth in Welsh Brycheiniog. The village of Hay-on-Wye, eight miles to the north-west and just on the Welsh side of the border, had been sacked but not burned the evening before as the raiding party had moved west following the path of the river. This provided much easier movement in a landscape of steep barren hills and mountains cut by deep fertile river valleys.
Alan expected that the other half of his force under Robert and Brand should be at Builth Wells to the north-west after an overnight march of nineteen miles. He looked to check that the men surrounding the village were in place and standing in plain view, an archer every thirty paces and three groups of armoured foot-soldiers. Thirty mounted men-at-arms and mounted thegns were at his back. Turning he looked to the north-west and could in the distance see the gray pall of smoke now issuing from Hay-on-Wye.
The village was stirring, men and women emerging from their ramshackle thatched cottages. After a few moments the villagers saw first one then another of the English soldiers and shouts of alarm could be heard. Men ran to the lord’s Hall, a long building near the middle of the village. Apart from the church it was the only substantial building in the village. There was a palisade of sorts around the Hall, built of wood posts and piles of thorn branches.
The church bell began to peal a warning. Odin fidgeted, tossing his head, and Alan leaned over to pat his neck. Several messengers could be seen running back from the Hall to the thirty or so huts and cottages that comprised the village and after a few moments men, women and children began to hurry to the Hall, glancing fearfully over their shoulders at the silent and still warriors surrounding the village.
After a pause of perhaps fifteen minutes a small group appeared from the Hall. Two were mounted on hill ponies and another six marched behind on foot. Their leader, a stockily-built man with mid-length dark hair was wearing a chain-mail byrnie and woolen trews, with a sword at his belt. The others were armed with swords, but unarmoured. The six men on foot were clearly warriors and Alan assumed that the other mounted man, thin and elderly, was an adviser.
The Welshman’s eyes cast about, taking in the fact that the archers carried longbows and were dressed in uniform padded armour, the uniform equipment and clothing of the men-at-arms, and the more motley appearance and equipment of the thegns and their retainers. He also noticed that all the mounted soldiers facing him were horsed on big strong animals totally unlike the small hill-pony he rode. Their appearance clearly marked them as English. “God hael!” he said in Anglo-Saxon English as he halted some five paces from Alan.
“You are Idwallon ap Gryfydd?” demanded Alan, in the Celtic tongue. The Welshman nodded in reply. “Then I bid you greeting, Prince of Brycheiniog,” continued Alan, switching to Anglo-Saxon English as he was more comfortable wi
th that language. “I am Sir Alan of Thorrington and Staunton.” Idwallon took in the full-length sleeved hauberk, the Norman-style helmet with nasal guard that was placed on the saddle pommel and the massive destrier on which Alan was mounted. Alan continued abruptly, “I bring you a message in several parts.”
Here he threw a sheathed sword to Idwallon, who caught it. After a brief look the Welshman’s already strained face blanched. “That is the first part. The second is the smoke rising over there at Haye-on-Wye,” Alan indicted with a jerk of his head before looking up at the rising sun and then continuing, “And also the smoke which you will shortly see rising from the north-west, where as we speak most of my men will be sacking Builth Wells. In a few minutes my men will enter your village and strip it bare. I see all your people are in the Hall. As long as you and they stay there until I say they may leave, which will probably be in two days, they will not be interfered with. This time. I give the people of your village more consideration than your men showed my people either last summer, or those at Norton Canon a few weeks ago. This time. My local vassal, Robert of Staunton, who is currently visiting Builth Wells, wanted to be less generous and to mutilate every man caught in Brycheiniog by removing his index finger so he could not hold sword or bow. I said no. This time.
“This time we are stripping the Wye Valley clean, the proceeds of which will be given to those in my villages in Staple Hundred which have suffered the depredations of your people. If there is a next time, we will totally depopulate the Valley and kill or enslave every man, woman and child. This… little exercise… is a friendly warning. I know that you Welsh take pride in your raiding and see it as youthful fun, a manly activity. Your land is poor and your men gain some profit from raiding their richer neighbors.”
Alan pointed at the sword held by Idwallon. “It is an activity with some risk both to those involved and to their kin, and now has no profit. Ah! My men have arrived at Builth Wells.” Alan pointed to a thick cloud of smoke starting to rise in the distance to the north-west. “If Brycheiniog still had a king, I would be making that point to him, rather than the lord of Cantref Selyf. Your men are skilled raiders, and the local English tell me the Welsh are renowned for their ability to catch their enemy in ambush.” Alan paused, pointed at the squadron of Wolves sitting silent and menacing on their horses, before continuing, “I don’t think you would want them to visit again, next time with all restraint removed. Sow the wind and you will reap the whirlwind. Let not one of your men set foot in Staple Hundred. Also, every captive taken from England is to be delivered here within the hour.”
“The village?” asked the old man next to Idwallon.
Alan looked calculatingly at the ramshackle collection of huts, cottages and sheds. “Your people are poor enough. I’ll instruct my men not to torch the village. This time.”
“And my son?” asked Idwallon, looking at the sword in his hand.
“Lies in a ditch near Yazor,” replied Alan.
“What of Twedr ap Rhein?” queried the old adviser.
“The son of your brother Rhein ap Grfydd, lord of Cantref Twedos?” asked Alan addressing Idwallon. “I know not. If he’s not in the ditch, he’ll shortly be arriving at York on his way to Northumbria to be sold as a slave. Nobody of that name introduced themselves after they were captured.”
Idwallon asked, “My son’s body. May I recover it?”
Alan gave him a piercing look and then nodded. “I’ll give you that courtesy. Also that of Twedr ap Rhein, if he’s also in the ditch. Provide two unarmed men who knew them both and I’ll have them escorted to Yazor and then back to the border.”
“And the other bodies?” asked the adviser.
“Don’t push me too far, old man,” replied Alan. “I’m showing some courtesy to the lords of Selyf and Tewdos. The others stay in the ditch to be eaten by the crows as the carrion they are. If there is a next time, they’ll be joined in hell by hundreds of their countrymen. You may leave.”
Every horse, cow, pig and sheep in the village and from the surrounding hills was gathered up and driven down the valley towards Staunton, together with the bags of flour from the granary. Alan left some sacks of grain seedstock, and the village had sprouting crops in its few fields. Fourteen English who had been held captive as slaves, five men and nine women, were received, questioned and escorted away towards home. The men ate the village chickens as they waited to hear that the force sent to Builth Wells had successfully withdrawn, which took two days as the animals and wagons seized from that village were driven down the winding and often overgrown and marshy valley. The Welsh sat quietly behind the wooden palisade, offering no resistance and no offence. The English set a strong guard and slept in the cottages vacated by the Welsh.
Alan and the thegns hunted the next day in the overgrown valley with its ancient trees and tangled thickets, bringing back deer, boar and wild cattle for the men to eat. No alcohol was permitted and the few barrels of ale or mead in the village had been broached and the contents spilled on their arrival. Rigorous discipline was imposed, something that some of the Anglo-Saxons, particularly the thegns and their retainers, had some difficulty in accepting.
Alan noted the very different nature of the countryside. On the Welsh side of the border the land was very hilly and in places mountainous. The hills were bare and barren with poor soil, but supported large herds of cattle and to a lesser extent flocks of sheep, now all on their way east. The river valleys were fertile, cut deep and wide, but farmed only half-heartedly. The Welsh preferred a semi-nomadic life in the hills and looked with contempt at those who farmed the valleys. The nature of the land and their preferred lifestyle condemned the Welsh to a relatively poor existence.
When Robert rode in to advise that the last of the carts and animals from Builth Wells were nearing the border, Alan withdrew his men and they cautiously marched north-east towards England. The valley ahead was well-scouted and men had been placed to guard all likely areas of ambush.
Once back over the border and in England Alan, Robert and the thegns rode ahead to Staunton. They passed herds of cattle, sheep and pigs being driven along the road, riding around each to avoid dispersing them and causing unnecessary work for the herders.
When they arrived Staunton had the air of a giant livestock market. The villagers of Norton Canon, Mannington and Byford, which together with Staunton had been devastated by the Welsh invasion of the previous summer, were collecting the livestock allocated to their villages. Some of the livestock were probably being taken back home after being stolen by the Welsh the previous year.
Most important were the oxen and seedstock. It was getting late in the season, but the villagers would now be able to plough and sow their crops, which most villages had not yet been able to do as the Welsh had the previous summer taken or destroyed their oxen and seed. Alan was also providing some relief for nearby Bobury, Yarsop, Yazor, Bishopstone and Bridge Sollers, even though they were not his villages, and had suggested that the oxen and ploughs from his villages be loaned to those villages when their initial work was done at home.
After a rest of two days Alan began to dispatch his men back to Essex in groups of twenty or so, again with the heavy equipment and armour being transported by wagon to make the march easier. The fyrdmen and thegns should be back attending to their spring farming duties and Alan knew it is never good to have a large number of armed men sitting idle. Each group was led by a suitable sergeant who carried funds to cover food and accommodation on the more leisurely march east. The men were told they were expected to be home within five days.
Alan spent several more days with Robert, sorting out details and checking progress with his villages, before intending to ride east with Osmund and the thirty Wolves. Unfortunately, before he left he received an instruction from William fitzOsbern, the former co-Regent, that Alan attend on him at Hereford as soon as possible. Alan swore long and loud, while recognising his temper was getting worse. He had hoped to slip into Herefordshire and back
out without being noticed. Had fitzOsbern been at the northern end of his fiefdom at Leominster, twelve miles north of Hereford, he may well have achieved it- but not when the earl was at Hereford, which lay right in Alan’s path.
Alan left his men and horses at an inn near the castle and walked the remaining short distance together with Osmund and four huscarles. He was dressed well, but not ostentatiously and was shown immediately into the castle Hall, where fitzOsbern was sitting at a table near the fire and doing business with a well-dressed Englishman, seemingly a merchant, with an elderly man in a monk’s habit sitting nearby and scribing onto pieces of parchment with a small quill pen. Immediately Earl William had dealt with the matter before him his steward had a word in his ear and came to usher Alan before the Lord of the Western Marches. Osmund followed and stood by Alan’s shoulder.
Alan was surprised that fitzOsbern, the king’s cousin, rose to clasp his hand in greeting and say, “Welcome, Sir Alan! Please sit and take a cup of wine. How fare your manors in Staple Hundred?”
“Much better now, thank you Lord William. We’ve overcome many of the problems caused by last year’s invasion and the geburs are sowing this year’s harvest as we speak. They had ploughed some land by hand, but now have oxen.”
FitzOsbern raised his eyebrows in surprise. “It was a bad thing when the Welsh king Bleddyn and his half-brother Rhiwallon led his men across the border in force. Not so much an invasion, as there was no attempt to hold onto any land they occupied, but a massive raid. They devastated nearly every damn village and manor from the border to the River Lugg. It was so bad that King William has granted a relief from taxes for three years, reduced the Heriot Redemption fee for the English to a quarter of the usual rate and deferred even that for three years- and William doesn’t give away a single penny unless he has to. The English have had the same problem for hundreds of years and we’re no closer to an answer. Now I hear that you have brought an army to Herefordshire. May I ask what you intend to do with it?” fitzOsbern asked.
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