They rode west through the flat and almost featureless countryside to Cambridge, braving the cold and blustery weather, before turning north and joining the Roman Ermine Road. Swamps and fenlands were on their right to the east as they rode through long passages of wasteland interspersed with occasional villages and cultivated land. Other parties of armed men, both on horse and on foot, were moving north, along with slow-moving ox-drawn wagons carrying supplies and weapons.
With winter drawing in and with short hours of daylight it was the evening of the third day before they rode across the bridge at Lincoln and up Steep Hill to the castle. The city was crowded with armed men, much more so than when Alan had been here just a few weeks previously. The castle was packed with men and Alan was instructed to have his men set up their tents on the eastern side of the city, where a veritable canvas city had been created. The other Normans, being only men-at-arms and not knights, were directed to the camp without even the courtesy of riding into the castle.
Due to his position and influence, Alan was given a small room in the castle barracks which he was to share with three other Normans. After using a bucket of ice-cold water to wash off the sweat and grime from three days of travel, Alan dressed in a clean tunic and hose before venturing down to the Hall where the two Counts, Robert of Mortain and Robert of Eu, were sitting together with a dozen or so men. A map of the northern route to Durham was unrolled on the table before them, each corner being weighed down by a cup of wine.
“Ah, Sir Alan! Join us please!” exclaimed Robert of Mortain. “We’ve received some information from your men and are looking at how best to use it. I understand that you scouted the way north from here last year for the king, so you know the lay of the land?”
“In general terms,” replied Alan. “I know each bridge and defensible position, but not every tree or god-forsaken swamp.” He was handed a cup of wine and took a sip. “This is not a good map,” he commented after a close examination of the parchment. “What information do we have?”
“The Danes are to be here in two days time.” Robert of Mortain indicated a place on the map.
“Ashby,” said Alan. “South of the Humber and on the edge of the fens. They’re now camped on the Isle of Axholme. Why should they move?”
“Some sort of local celebration. I’m told it’s because the locals haven’t had to pay the royal taxes for two years. The Danes have been invited and it’s not very far from their base.”
Alan scowled, “That seems a weak excuse for them to be there, but knowing your sources the information is likely to be correct. I don’t know that area. It’s well to the east of the direct route to York. You’ll need to get some good local guides. How many men have you got?”
“I’m taking 2,000, and leaving 500 here,” replied the Count.
“And the Danes?”
“Probably about the same.”
“Then let’s pray for surprise, because the Danes are damn good fighters if you give them an even chance, and men on horse don’t perform very well in swamps,” said Alan with more than a hint of sarcasm.
“Amen,” muttered several around the table.
The men marched north well before dawn the next day. Lincoln to Ashby is thirty miles and that evening the army stopped five miles short of Ashby on one of the few patches of higher and relatively dry ground in a flat green landscape of marshes and fens. Numerous scouts were sent to both screen the army from prying eyes and to seek the enemy. Word was received that there was indeed a substantial gathering at Ashby. Late in the day came reports that the Danish ships were as expected at Axholme, not far to the north-west.
The Anglo-Norman army marched north in the fading moonlight, striking camp at three in the morning. An army of 2,000 men does not move quickly at any time, even if many are on horseback, and the darkness did nothing to speed their progress. However, when first light came at half-past seven they were where their generals wished, about a mile south of the village of Ashby- but they were strung out along the narrow and muddy track that led to the village.
The vanguard pushed forward to seize part of the hummock on which the village was built. The remains of numerous fires littered the Green, surrounded by large numbers of men who were just stirring from their blankets after what appeared to have been a night of heavy drinking. Shouts of alarm rose in the air as the approaching army was seen and suddenly the small and evidently poor village burst into activity as men seized weapons and gathered to face the Anglo-Normans who were now running up the road to get into formation.
The Danes, although numerous, were at a decided disadvantage. Taken by surprise they struggled to form a line, their leaders shouting for their own men to form up on them. They had come for a party and not a battle, so while all had their personal weapons at hand, none wore armour. This was a repeat of the mistake made by the Norwegians at Stamford Bridge. Just as the marshland surrounding the town and the narrow tracks to and from the village impeded the arrival of the Anglo-Normans, so the Danes were prevented from making an orderly withdrawal. However, their bellicose response to the approach of the Anglo-Normans indicated that whether they would have chosen to retreat was doubtful, with only a few men at the rear taking the opportunity to slip away along the tracks leading north.
Robert of Mortain was at the centre of the mainly Norman force as it formed line, mounted on his huge destrier and towering above the armoured men-at-arms that crammed on foot into the tiny battlefield that was barely 200 paces wide by 300 paces deep. The Danes stood in a haphazard manner in a line near one end of the battlefield, the line stretching from the swamp to the east to the swamp on the west.
The Norman and English men-at-arms, all with some form of armour and a shield, either round or of elongated kite-shape, formed up and began to hammer their shields with their swords or spears. Groups of Norman archers approached within 100 paces of the Danes and began to draw and loose their deadly barrage. The Danes fell where they stood, unable to reply as they fought only as infantry and with most today lacking shields they were unable to protect themselves from the arrows. After several minutes the Danes, seeing that they would be cut down if they stood, surged forward with a mighty roar, scattering the archers who slipped back through the Norman line and then took position behind. As the mass of Danes was about to hit their line, the Anglo-Norman men-at-arms braced themselves and stepped forward to close with the Danes to prevent them standing back to use their two-handed war-axes, pushing hard with their shields as they stabbed and cut with their swords.
Realising that mounted cavalry would be useless in such a confined battlefield, with no room to charge or manoeuvre, Alan ordered the Wolves to dismount and for Leof and a groom to lead the horses to the rear. Odin made clear his displeasure at missing the fight by tossing his head and sidling as he was led away. No order was given by Robert of Mortain, but about half of the 200 horsemen followed Alan’s lead, discarding lances and drawing swords, forming a reserve force behind the main shield-wall.
“Just like old times, killing Danes!” Edric shouted to Alan above the din of battle. From the shield-wall was heard the clash of weapons on shields, battle-cries and the screams of the wounded as they fell and were trampled underfoot. Edric was standing with his green-painted kite-shaped shield hanging by a leather strap from his left shoulder and resting his single-handed battle-axe on the other shoulder.
English and Norman foot-soldiers continued to stream up the muddy track and join the rear of the army, while a steady stream of the more prudent Danes continued to slip away along the narrow track on the other side of the village.
On foot it was difficult to see how the battle was progressing, which was no doubt the reason that the bulky shape of Count Robert continued to sit ahorse to be able to see over the heads of his own shield-wall. Weighed down by his chain-mail and leather knee-length hauberk and the padded gambeson worn underneath, Alan was sweating despite the cool overcast weather and gentle breeze. Not satisfied with the way that his helmet with its
typical Norman nasal guard was sitting on the mail coif that covered his head, he raised his right hand to adjust it so that it sat more firmly in place, although the weight and pressure on his head were giving him a headache.
Alan and his ten men were standing in a group about twenty paces behind the Norman shield-wall, which was five ranks deep and was being forced slightly backwards by the press of men ahead of it and the desire of the swordsmen to have firm footing and not be tripping over the bodies of the fallen.
Suddenly a group of about thirty Danes, led by two huge figures each powerfully wielding double-handed war-axes, broke through the shield-wall. The axe-men were striking massive blows with their weapons, smashing shields and sundering men in twain. The axe-men ripped the shield-wall asunder and allowed a small flood of swordsmen and spearmen to follow and attack the rear of the shield-wall on each side of the breach.
“Forward! Move!” shouted Alan, drawing his sword. The beautifully balanced and superbly forged and polished one-and-a-half-hand weapon, thirty-one inches in blade length, was a memento of that day three years previously at Caldbec Hill. “Advance in line! Keep your dressing and give mutual support! We fight as a team, not like this rabble!”
One of the Danish axe-men fell, pierced by three arrows from the Norman archers behind the line. Alan strode towards the other axe-man, his mind clear and focused. Suddenly the sword felt feather-light and he rose onto the balls of his feet like a dancer, ready for quick foot movement. Alan was tall at over six feet in height. The Dane was huge, over seven feet tall with a strongly-built body from his bull-like neck to his muscular thighs. He was unarmoured, wearing a hastily fastened tunic which indicated that minutes before he had been asleep, and his long matted and filthy brown hair hung lankly. There was an unholy gleam in his eyes as he saw Alan approach, noting the thigh-length sleeved hauberk and the nasal guard on the helmet that marked him as a Norman knight. Alan had chosen his opponent, knowing that he himself was the best swordsman in his band and this was the most dangerous foe.
Alan paused, two paces from the giant, who roared something unintelligible, spittle flying from his mouth as he stepped forward. Unable to get inside the blow, Alan stepped lightly back, looking for an opportunity to attack. As he did so, his back foot slipped in the mud and he dropped to one knee. With another roar the Dane unleashed a smashing back-hand blow, which Alan parried by thrusting out his left arm and the shield that was strapped to the forearm.
Alan’s judgment had been good and the axe crashed into the metal boss in the upper centre of the shield, preventing the huge blow from sundering both the shield and his chest. He felt a wave of pain as his left arm was broken like a stick, and instantly knowing that he would be unable to wield his shield further, he opened his left hand to let go the handgrip and turned the arm to allow the shield to drop free from the two leather straps on his left forearm, suffering another wave of pain as he did so. He then bunched his legs under himself, ready to thrust upwards towards the belly of the Dane, but as he did so Edric’s axe appeared from the left and thumped into the Dane’s chest with the dull sound like wood being chopped. Blood flew from the mouth of the Dane and he collapsed sideways. Unfortunately, Edric’s axe had stuck fast in the Dane’s chest, pulling Edric to one side as his opponent collapsed and left Edric open to a thrust of a spear to the throat by another Dane. Edric fell with a gurgling cry.
Alan rose and in two quick steps closed with the spearman and with a back-handed swing from just below shoulder height avenged his friend, the sword striking the Dane in his left armpit and biting deeply into his unarmoured body. Alan felt a blow on his left side, now unprotected by shield, the sword failing the penetrate his chain-mail armour and the force of the blow dissipated by the padded gambeson, but a sharp pain in his chest as he drew breath indicated he probably had several broken ribs. Other Norman men-at-arms were hurrying to the breach, and as they arrived Alan staggered backwards as he felt a sharp burning pain in his right thigh as a spear-thrust came up under the tail of the chain-mail hauberk and slashed upwards, tearing flesh as it went. Alan collapsed and a wave of darkness washed over him.
He awoke to see the face of Guy of Lyons, Robert of Mortain’s French churgeon, bending over him. “Still in the land of the living, with God’s good Grace and with the luck of the Devil, I see,” commented Guy. “Well, I’m afraid that your luck has run out and I’m going to have to take off that leg.”
“Be damned to that!” retorted Alan. “Lift me up so I can see and get a mirror.” He nearly passed out as he was levered into a sitting position, the person on the left grasping his arm. “Sweet Jesus! My left arm is broken, so leave it alone! So are my left ribs. Get me my satchel. Right, mix one spoonful of this powder into a cup of wine and give it to me to drink to dull the pain. It’s dried juice of poppy. Guy, nobody’s going to cut my leg off until it’s green and mouldy. Follow my instructions.”
Following Alan’s instructions Guy treated the thigh injury, tied off cut veins, cleaned the wound and dressed it with Alan’s antiseptic and anti-bacterial medicines before suturing the bone-deep eight-inch long gash closed with cat-gut. “Interesting,” commented Guy. “We’ll see if that works or if you are the architect of your own death. I still believe the leg can’t be saved. Now as for the arm and ribs, those are easy…”
When he recovered consciousness several hours later Alan instructed Leof and one of his men to ride to the caves at Flamborough and instruct one of the ships to proceed up the river. They were 30 miles from Lincoln and 180miles from Thorrington. It would be a journey of ten days by jolting ox-cart which the three wounded men from his party were unlikely to survive- but they were only a mile from the river.
Sven arrived near noon the following day, the ship having rowed past the main force of the Danes and their ships at Axholme without being challenged due to their disguise as Danes. Alan, the two other wounded men Cuthbert and Leofwine, and the corpses of Edric and Wulfnoth, were carried carefully on stretchers to the ship, the wounded placed on straw-filled palliasses on a grate that had been positioned to keep them dry from the several inches of bilge-water which slopped about in the bottom of the ship. Alan explained to Leof how to change the dressings on the wounds, apply the antiseptic and healing salves and to make an infusion of chamomile, comfrey, ivy, marigold and yarrow mixed with sea salt and boiled water- the latter to act as a mild pain killer and aid in repair of fractures and wounds.
The ship was rowed downstream and with a favourable northerly wind arrived a day and a half later at Alresford Creek, just a few hundred paces from home. Despite the relatively gentle motion of the ship on the short voyage compared to the long jolting journey they would have had by wagon along the rutted and unpaved roads, Alan was in a deep fever and unconscious when he was carried on his palliasse from the ship to his bed in the bedchamber at the New Hall.
Anne and most of the household met the ship and she held the hand of Alan’s uninjured arm as he was carried home, the other arm being strapped to his chest. In the bedchamber she had him stripped and herself sponged the dirt, sweat and blood from his body. Cuthbert and Leofwine were placed on beds in the barracks and assigned a nurse, neither man being married. The corpses of Edric and Wulfnoth, wrapped in sheets, were placed in coffins in the Nave of the church ready for burial. Cuthbert died that night, finally succumbing to the massive injuries wrought by a heavy blow to the chest that had stove in most of the ribs on one side of his chest, the broken ribs piercing the lung and eventually caused him to drown in his own blood. He was placed with the others in the church.
Three days later, a week before Christmas, Alan emerged from his delirium, opening his eyes to see in the candlelight that Anne was slumped in a chair next to the bed. “My lady!” said Synne, who been sponging the sweat from Alan’s forehead. Anne woke and bent over Alan, giving him a kiss.
“Praise be to the Lord! Blessed Lord Jesu and Mary have answered my prayers! Don’t ever do that to me again!” she instructed.
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br /> “What?”
“Get carried home on a stretcher. How do you feel?”
“Better to be carried on the sheet than be wrapped in it- and with God’s good Grace I hope to avoid that and keep the leg. Mortain’s churgeon, Guy of Lyons, wanted to cut it off. By the Rood, I’m weak, tired and thirsty!” He shifted slightly on the bed and gasped in pain before adding, “And I hurt all over.” He noticed he was lying naked on the bed, a thick and absorbent cloth under him soaked with sweat and a brazier with burning charcoal stood in the corner of the room, supplementing the heat radiating from the inner brick wall that was part of the hypocaust system that took the chill off the air in the Hall during winter.
“Leof has been tending you and seems to have a real skill for it. He’s been following Brother Alwyn’s instructions regarding the dressings and the medicines and we’ve been spooning that and chicken broth into you. Here’s a cup of the herbal infusion, now turn your head and drink this while I send Synne to heat a pint of chicken broth.”
When several hours later Alan again awoke it was daylight. Brother Aldwyn, the infirmarer of St Botulph’s Abbey at Colchester, had been called to attend and he was demonstrating to Leof how to make a poultice of comfrey, ivy and yarrow, and how to very carefully make a pain-killing tincture of the boiled bark of white willow. Alan at first declined a dose of poppy-juice, aware of the dangers of addiction, but relented and swallowed a dose after Leof had unwrapped the bandage on his leg, the sharp stabbing pain each time the leg was moved proving too much for him. He called for a mirror and inspected the wound himself. “Not too bad. I may yet prove Churgeon Guy wrong and keep the leg! It has only a little inflammation, thanks be to God! Thank you, Brother Aldwyn. You’ve done a good job, Leof! Now apply this unguent and then the poultice and loosely bind the bandage. It doesn’t need to be tight because I’m not going anywhere. Erghh!”
Winter of Discontent nc-2 Page 37
