Get your own Free HomepageYoung Peredurus had not ridden so hard since he was sixteen. The rain in his eyes and the darkness lent an air of unreality to the last few miles of the journey. Presently the road crested one of the low hills surrounding the large Roman town of Shrodus. At first it seemed as though the town were burning, but as the cavalry squadron drew nearer, the blaze separated into a multitude of campfires and torches, and a coarse chant floated on the night wind to the Britons ears. The warriors of Anglia were feasting on British mead, served by British women and sleeping in British beds for the last time, the hero of the Irish wars thought. Rumours had reached him that the older, more experienced general Galahad had been elevated to Dux Bellorum of the British host by the new king, Ambrosius. Galahad had been Ambrosius´ teacher when the boy had been young. "Of course the pup would raise his idol above me!", muttered Peredurus to himself. His bodyguard of cavalry glanced at each other uneasily. There would be dissension in the British camp tonight.
" There can be no failure this time!", Galahad addressed the assembled British officers. " Our new ruler has entrusted me with overall command of our field army, and now we shall crush the Angles once and for all! Gawain, you will command Arturus´ legacy, the lancers, and some of the Welsh horse and levies to secure our camp. Caius, you will delay the Angles on our right, beyond the marsh with your veterans from Armorica, and some of my cavalry. Sian, time to earn your pay. You will move your warriors in to the bog, and draw the Angles there piecemeal. I will secure our center with my spear, supported by the archers. And your rabble 'o saint' (he referred to Caius), will stay at the back, and not hamper our forces one whit, or I´ll send them on a pilgrimage to deepest Alba!"
" And what of me, o mighty commander? What is my role in your auspicious plan?". The throng of officers was struck silent by the malice in Peredurus´voice, as he strode out from the shadows and into the centre of the circle of light cast by the campfire. " Ah, Peredurus. I honour your achievements against the Irish in the past (there was a growl from Sian and his nobles), and understand how you must feel. But if we are to sweep the Angles into the sea, then we must be united. And Ambrosius is our only hope now that his great father is gone. We shall resolve our dispute in the future, but tomorrow we _must_ be united! If we fail now, the light of civilization on this out of the way island shall be extinguished once and for all! You will take most of the shield wall, and take and hold the hill on our left. You will anchor our left flank, while Gawain´s clibanarii shatter the Anglian center. We will speak more of rank and honour on the morrow." With a few curt orders issued to the officers of the battle line, the generals saluted the commander, and retired for the night.
The Anglian army had marched south from Shrodus under cover of darkness, and was drawn up in a great shield wall opposite the British host. Galahad surveyed the ground with satisfaction. On the British left flank there were two gently sloping hills, which would offer a great advantage to the Britons when the shield walls would clash. The road to Shrodus ran through a reeking mire in the middle of the battlefield, with the main strength of the Angles deployed behind it, straddling the road. On the Anglian left there was a great forest, in which a whole host of Angles could hide, and it was against this that the flank of the Anglian army was secured. Sian´s warband was drawn up behind the marsh, with the young men of his tribe skirmishing in front of them. Caius and his medium cavalry waited to the right of the Irish, partly securing that flank, partly making sure that the wilful chieftain would commit his forces.
Galahad himself had deployed his archer-supported shield wall on the centermost of the two hills, and Peredurus placed his men behind the leftmost one. Gawain and his host of clibanarii were positioned in reserve behind these two shield walls. The British camp was situated behind the marsh, on the road, with the eager pilgrims taking care of it.
Immediately as the sun rose, the British trumpets blared their signals,
and the shield walls surged forward to secure the hills. Sian took his
men into the marsh as ordered, but soon found out that it was impossible
to impose any kind of control on his men in the thick vegetation. Shouting
their war-cries, the men of Dal Riatha charged out of the bog, straight
at the Anglian centre. Stupefied, Galahad ordered Gawain´s lancers
forward, to take advantage of the disorder in the Anglian lines caused
by Sian. The fleet footed Irish skirmishers were the first to make contact
with the Angles. They showered the enemy with their javelins, but the Angles
merely closed the shield wall, and charged the hapless youths. In a few
short heartbeats they were running straight back at their Irish brethren,
hopelessly breaking their formation. The Irish warriors broke on the Saxon
shields like the tide does on the rock of Cornwall, and after fifteen minutes
of desperate struggle, they were in full rout. Only Sian himself held firm,
and fought fiercely to buy time for his kin to escape. Sadly the Irishman
perished after a long struggle, surrounded by Saxon warriors,
singing his death-song in the midst of the enemy.
The British left had been quietly waiting the Anglian attack, which never came. The enemy opposite the two hills was commanded by Kerrick Whitefoot, known as "the craven", and stood timidly waiting for the British to make the first move. The Saxon center was now pursuing the fleeing Irish with great vigour, and Caius ordered his squadrons forward to take advantage of the situation. It was then that Redway Ragehead and his warriors burst out of the great forest, threatening Caius´ flank! The martyr of Armorica despatched a few squadrons to hold Redway back, and proceeded with the attack. As the pilgrims following the celtic saint heard the sounds of battle, all thoughts of holding the camp were driven from their heads. They burst through the British rear guard of spears, and headed eagerly for the bog.
Seeing how Caius was outnumbered on the left, Galahad desperately ordered
Gawain to charge Kerrick on the right. The screen of Saxon missilemen was
quickly ridden down, and Gawain led the charge against Kerrick himself.
For a few minutes the Saxons held against the fierce Britons, but then
Gawain and his chosen companions burst through the Saxon center, and the
knights to this right and left widened the gap and swept aside the disordered
enemy. As the Angles´ line wavered, a young Briton by the name
of Aquila spitted Kerrick himself on his kontos, as the cowardly general
made ready to flee. This pushed the Saxons over the edge, and soon the
whole of their
right flank was in rout.
Meanwhile the Saxon center had been drawn close to the bog, where the remaining Irish skirmishers and some light horse from Gawains command held them up. But on the British left things were starting to look grim. Caius was enveloped on all sides by heavily armoured Saxons, and his losses soon mounted so high, that the cavalry turned tail and fled. Caius was, again, spared from death although he fought a heroic rearguard action to cover his troops´ retreat.
It took nearly an hour for Galahad´s clibanarii to extract themselves from the pursuit, and reining their horses into formation, they charged the jumbled Saxon center. The thunder of their hooves filled the Saxons with dismay, and like a thunderbolt sent by God they cleaved through the heathen warriors. This was too much for the remaining warbands, and seeing their right flank empty and their center in tatters, they lost heart and fled from the field. The valiant clibanarii had routed the Saxon host of 30 000 strong, for the loss of a single squadron of 250 men.
The streets of Shrodus were lined with cheering citizens, and the main road leading to the despoiled forum was strewn with all the flowers of spring, as Galahad led his host through the main gates. Leading the way were Gawain with his squadrons of lancers, with a young warrior called Aquila being carried in triumph by his sword-brothers. The cheering of the crowd drowned out the occasional scream from the hills, as a Saxon straggler was ridden down, or a desperate shield-burg was breached. Britain belonged to the Britons once more.
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