by Tim Severin
‘There’ll be many more waiting at whatever place they’ve selected for an ambush,’ he said calmly. He beckoned to Gerin to come to join us.
‘Patch tells me that there are Vascon watchers on the slopes above us,’ he told Gerin. ‘Is there someone who might know where their attack is likely to take place?’
Gerin signalled to one of the guards to join us. The man’s battered face with its broken nose seemed familiar. I recalled him as the Burgundian sergeant I had seen marching at the head of his troop on the way to Hispania. He had his short-handled axe slung from his belt. I wondered why he was now a mounted soldier and what had happened to the rest of his unit.
‘What’s your name?’ Hroudland asked him.
‘Godomar, my Lord.’
‘You came with Count Anselm?’
‘I did, my lord.’ The man spoke with an unnaturally husky voice and there was the scar of an old wound on his throat.
‘So you’ve travelled this road a couple of times,’ said Hroudland. ‘If you were to set an ambush, where would it be?’
‘About half a mile ahead, my lord,’ the Burgundian replied without hesitation. ‘The road runs through a small ravine, low cliffs on either side. Ideal spot.’
‘Any way we can avoid it?’
Godomar shook his head.
‘Gerin, I’m putting you in charge of the vanguard,’ said Hroudland briskly, ‘with Godomar as your second in command. You’ll have ten men.’ He sounded purposeful, almost eager. ‘Expect an attack. It’s likely to come from both sides — arrows and slingstones followed by a charge.’
The Burgundian’s eyes flicked to where Anselm stood with Eggihard. He was worried about taking orders directly from Hroudland.
The count noted his hesitation.
‘Godomar, the king appointed me to command the rearguard,’ he said firmly.
The veteran raised his hand in a salute and was about to leave when Hroudland warned, ‘The Vascons will try to block the road with boulders. Tell your men that they will have to clear away any obstacle. The treasure carts must get through, at whatever cost.’
As the Burgundian went off to carry out Hroudland’s instruction, Gerin’s mouth twisted in a sardonic smile.
‘Cavalry men won’t like getting off their horses in order to roll boulders around.’
‘By the time the Vascons have finished with us, we’ll be lucky if there are enough horses left for anyone to ride,’ retorted Hroudland grimly. He was in his element, issuing orders. ‘Berenger, I’m putting you and Patch on either side of the carts. I’ll assign five troopers to each of you. The enemy will try to cripple the draught animals. Your job is to protect the oxen.’
‘Where will you be?’ I asked him. My horse, the bay gelding, was tethered at the tail of a cart. I had left my sword for safekeeping with the carter.
‘At the rear with the rest of the troopers. That’s where the Vascons will concentrate their attack.’
The halt was over. The drovers were fussing around their oxen, getting ready to move off. Godomar was talking quietly to several of the troopers and they were mounting up and taking their position ahead of the carts.
Eggihard and Anselm sauntered across, making it obvious from their casual manner that they did not care much for Hroudland or his leadership.
Hroudland allowed his irritation to show.
‘It’s time you were mounted up. I’m assigning you to the rearguard,’ he snapped at them. He deliberately turned his back and put a foot into the stirrup of his roan, ready to climb into the saddle.
Eggihard paused for a moment. Then he observed in a voice loud enough for the nearest soldiers to hear him, ‘I would have despatched a messenger to the king by now.’
Hroudland’s back went rigid. He removed his foot from the stirrup and swung round to glower at Eggihard.
‘A messenger to say what?’ he demanded icily.
‘To ask the army to turn back and assist.’
Two red spots of anger appeared on Hroudland’s cheeks.
‘I have not the slightest intention of running to the king asking for help,’ he snapped.
Eggihard raised an eyebrow insolently.
‘And if we are outnumbered, what then?’
‘We fight our way through. That’s what the king expects of us.’ Hroudland pointedly allowed his gaze to settle on Anselm’s bulging waistline. ‘Unless you and your companion no longer have the stomach for it.’
Anselm looked as though he would explode with anger.
‘I’ll hold my own against any man who cares to go against me,’ he spluttered.
‘Then I suggest you reserve your fighting prowess for the coming battle,’ snarled Hroudland. Without bothering to put a foot into the stirrup, he vaulted into the saddle. A moment later he was trotting off, shouting encouragement at the ox drovers, encouraging them to pick up the pace.
Riding beside the treasure carts brought back memories of the days when Osric and I had tramped along behind Arnulf’s eel wagon. There was the familiar farmyard smell from the oxen, and the four heavily laden carts rumbled along at the same sedate walking pace. The road surface was very rough, and their solid wheels juddered and shook as they rolled over small rocks or dropped into pot holes. Arnulf had handled his well-trained oxen by himself, but here in the mountains each cart needed two men, one walking beside the animals, the other seated on the cart and armed with a whip to urge the animals on. The axles worn down by months of travel produced a continuous, high-pitched squealing that announced our presence to anyone within half a mile and set one’s teeth on edge.
It was unnerving to know that the Vascon sentinels were watching our every step. I found myself wondering how often they had tracked the progress of other travellers labouring along the same narrow road. Perhaps this was how the stone platter and the little chalice had come into their possession, looted from victims of an ambush sometime in the distant past. I had no doubt that the Vascons knew about the ransom that Wali Husayn had paid. The bags of silver would be sufficient enticement for an attack, and Hroudland’s brutal sack of Pamplona had given the Vascons a powerful reason to wreak bloody revenge.
So, despite the blazing sunshine, I wore an iron helmet over a felt skull cap. The metal plates of a brunia protected my body. Thick, padded gauntlets covered my hands and forearms. Only my legs felt vulnerable. I sweltered in the searing heat and the perspiration ran down my body until my saddle was slippery with sweat. Like the troopers riding with me, I knew there would be no time to don our war gear when the Vascons chose to launch their assault.
It was the trooper just behind me who first spotted the danger. He gave a sharp cry of alarm and pointed up to our right. I swivelled in the saddle and looked up the steep slope of the mountain. The Vascons had struck early, well before we reached the gorge. The mountainside was sprouting men, a hundred or more. They had been lying in wait, concealed among the rocks. Now they rose from the ground and began to descend, leaping and slithering. As they advanced they raised a war cry, the most chilling sound I had heard. It was a terrible wolfish howl, mournful and without pity.
There was momentary panic along our line. The drovers struck out with their long whips. Troopers cursed as they swung their shields off their backs and slid their arms through the straps. Everyone grabbed for their weapons. Hroudland was bellowing at us to close ranks and keep moving and face the danger.
The Vascons had another surprise for us. We had expected their first attack to come as a hail of sling stones and arrows. But we had misjudged their ferocity. There was a clatter of slingstones, though only a few. At the same time a couple of dozen arrows fell among us without doing much harm, though a wounded horse screamed. It was the reckless savagery of the Vascon charge that was dismaying. They came seething down the hill in a surge of raw hatred and hostility. They were determined to engage us hand to hand. At that moment I knew for certain that it was not the wali’s ransom that drew them on but the burning desire to exact retribution for the destruction we had infli
cted on their city.
Their leading warriors had concealed themselves within a few yards of the track. They sprang up from the ground and lunged at our horses’ bellies with daggers and short swords. Few succeeded in reaching their targets. Our troopers spitted them on their lances. Their iron sword blades cut down through muscle and bone, severing outstretched hands and limbs. The Vascons wore no armour. They were dressed in jackets of wolfskin and leggings of coarse cloth, and they took fearful losses. The man who had selected my gelding as his victim scuttled out of the roadside ambush and came straight at me like a scorpion, dagger raised. I swung my sword at him and the well-balanced Ingelrii blade made an effortless arc. The razor edge lopped off the man’s dagger hand as easily as a woodsman prunes a small branch. The Vascon reeled away, leaving a smear of blood behind him.
There was a confusion of shouting and the clash of steel from where Gerin was in charge of the vanguard. Near me the trooper who had first seen the Vascon ambush was swearing steadily as he tried to wield his sword and at the same time bring his mount under control. The howls of the Vascons and the smell of blood had panicked the animal. It was skittering from side to side, trying to bolt, hooves scrabbling on the rocky surface of the road. The trooper was roaring angrily and, unbalanced, he failed to connect as he cut at a Vascon lunging at him with a spear. The point of the weapon gouged a deep gash in the horse’s hindquarters before the trooper recovered himself enough to make a backhanded sword swing and hack the man to the ground. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a lad dart past me. He could not have been more than ten years old. He headed for the nearest ox cart and had a small knife in his hand. Before I realized what he was doing, he stabbed the blade into a full water bladder that hung from the side of the cart. Quick as a weasel, he dived under the cart and escaped. Behind him a jet of fresh water sprang from the punctured water bag and splashed to the ground.
All the while the oxen plodded on. Heads held low, they ignored the chaos of battle. Their huge dark eyes were intent on the road immediately ahead of their hooves. Long, glistening strings of drool hung from their muzzles. They toiled forward against the slope, goaded by their frightened drovers.
Gerin was managing to keep the road clear ahead of us. Whenever numbers of Vascons blocked the path, his Frankish lancers formed up and charged. They swept aside the men on foot, killing or wounding those who were too slow to run back up the hillside. Then the troopers reined in, turned and trotted back to resume their station in the vanguard. Each charge left a handful of Vascon corpses on the ground.
‘They’re out of their minds!’ Berenger yelled across to me. He was on the far side of the cart, riding escort. He had seen little action yet because the Vascons had launched their ambush from our right.
‘Hroudland ought to send a messenger to summon help from the main army,’ I shouted back. ‘This is just the first attack.’
Berenger laughed aloud and I heard a note of battle frenzy in his response.
‘Not a chance! The count is much too proud. We can fight our way past this rabble.’
I glanced over my shoulder. The Vascons were concentrating their attack on the rear of our little column. Hroudland and the rear guard were engaged against a grey-clad mob of the enemy. Eggihard and Anselm were mounted on tall, powerful horses so they were very visible. They had been reluctant to take orders from Hroudland, but in battle they were proving fearsome. Both men were using their long swords with deadly effect, slashing and thrusting, forcing back the attackers. A few yards away, Hroudland sat on his roan, roaring encouragement to his troopers as they drove off the Vascons.
It was impossible to tell how long the fury of the initial assault lasted. Eventually the Vascons saw how effectively we resisted and they began to withdraw, though only for a few yards up the mountainside where they were safe from our cavalry. There they kept pace with us, moving across the slope as our column crept forward.
To my surprise Hroudland took advantage of the lull in the fighting to ride up and congratulate me. His face under the rim of his helmet was running with sweat, and his eyes were bright.
‘Well done, Patch!’ he exclaimed. ‘You and your men held our flank.’
‘The enemy are only biding their time,’ I answered.
‘Then we’ll drive them off again and again until they learn that they can’t defeat well-trained cavalry,’ he assured me.
‘We’re not yet at the place Godomar thought suited for an ambush,’ I reminded him.
Hroudland was not to be put off.
‘Then that’s their mistake. They’ve thrown away the advantage of surprise.’
‘Maybe the Vascons are planning to delay us or to wear us down,’ I objected.
Hroudland drew his eyebrows together in a scowl. He did not like his judgement to be questioned.
‘What makes you such an expert soldier, Patch?’ he demanded, his congratulatory tone suddenly gone.
‘One of their lads slipped through our defence earlier. He put a hole in that waterskin over there,’ I said and nodded to where the punctured waterskin hung limp from the side of the cart.
Hroudland shrugged.
‘So we’ll be thirsty for a while,’ he said, though I noted that his eyes flicked towards the other carts. Several of their waterskins were also dangling empty.
I lowered my voice so that no one else could hear.
‘The next water source is the far side of the summit ridge.’
Hroudland recovered his poise.
‘Then all the more incentive to fight our way there,’ he retorted.
While we had been speaking the column had advanced perhaps a hundred paces. I wondered how many more hours it would be until we were out of danger.
The Vascons attacked us twice more before the sun was directly overhead. Each time we succeeded in driving them off though we lost a dozen horses, lamed or disembowelled. Their riders now walked or, if they had been wounded, they rode on the carts. We had not suffered a single death and I began to think that Hroudland was right; we would manage to force our way along the road until we were safely over the pass.
Two miles later everything changed.
Gerin rode back past me, his face grim. He was on his way to report to Hroudland. I was close enough to overhear him say to the count, ‘We’re in sight of the ravine now. It looks very narrow. A dangerous place.’ There was a short pause, and then Gerin added, almost apologetically, ‘We could always leave the carts behind. We still have enough horses to carry everyone to safety if they double up. I’m confident we could slip through.’
Hroudland’s answer was delivered in a harsh whisper.
‘I thought I made it clear: I have no intention of abandoning the treasure we have won. Have the enemy blocked the roadway?’
‘Apparently not, though there’s a bend in the road and I can’t see the full length of the ravine,’ said Gerin.
‘Then the passage lies ahead, and we take it,’ Hroudland confirmed.
‘I will do my best, my lord. But I fear that is what the enemy want us to do,’ Gerin said. He spoke in a flat, resigned tone in contrast to his usual air of steely competence.
He returned past me, looking distracted and chewing his lip. I had a queasy feeling that he was right. We were doing what the Vascons had planned for us. Only Hroudland’s absolute self-confidence kept driving us forward.
The enemy left us alone for the time it took us to reach the point where the road narrowed to no more than four or five paces width, just before entering the ravine itself. To the right was a low cliff, not more than fifteen feet high. To the left a steep broken slope covered with rocks and small loose stones extended all the way up to the mountain ridge. I noticed the troopers casting worried glances from side to side. We were roasting in the summer heat and my mouth was dry. I summoned up some saliva and swallowed in an attempt to moisten my throat.
Two of Gerin’s troopers accompanied by Godomar broke away from the vanguard and went forward at a trot, presumably to scout th
e passage. They were gone for several minutes. When they returned and delivered their report, Gerin rose in his stirrups, turned and called back to the drovers behind him, ‘Close up! Keep moving! The road is partially blocked by a barrier of boulders at the far end. My men will clear the way for you.’
We continued forward, our little column more compact now as we reduced the distance between each cart. The narrowness of the roadway obliged the flanking cavalrymen to close in. My knee was almost touching the wooden wheel of the nearest cart.
‘Maybe we’ve reached the boundary of their territory,’ Berenger called across to me. He nodded toward the Vascons on the hillside who had been keeping pace with us. They had halted, and were standing and watching us leave.
‘Or they know that there’s a relief force on its way back from the main army,’ I said hopefully, though I did not believe it. There was something unnerving about the way the Vascons were holding themselves in check.
As Gerin and the vanguard entered the ravine, I paid close attention to the top of the low cliff to our right. I was expecting to see Vascon slingers or archers appear there at any moment.
I was looking in the wrong direction.
After the first of our carts entered the ravine, I heard a gasp. It came from a wounded trooper riding on the cart next to me. He was looking up the long, steep slope to our left. I followed his gaze. It was as if the mountainside was sloughing off its grey skin. The entire slope was alive and moving. Grey-clad men, hundreds of them, covered its surface and they were swarming down towards us. They were not hurrying, but picking their way purposefully among the boulders, converging on the roadway. They held spears and swords, and they moved with deadly earnest.
My guts turned to water as, behind us, the massed wolf-like howl we heard when the Vascons first attacked rose again. I swung round. The men who had been tracking us had now descended into the roadway. They were blocking any attempt at retreat.
‘Face left! Keep moving!’ Hroudland was bellowing. Most of us were still gaping at the sheer number of fighting men the Vascons had assembled.
