Chapter
Nineteen
The
Battle of Hereford
Hereford, October 24th 1055
Ralph walked along the rampart of
his palisaded defences as the chilled late autumn morning swathed the burgh in
a cloak of mist. He was proud of his strong timber and earth castle that he had
built inside the burgh of Hereford not long after his uncle King Edward had
invested him with the office of earl four years ago. If he looked out over the
parapet on a clear day, to the north of the burgh, he would be sure to see any
sign of the enemy coming.
This
morning would be like any of the other mornings that had passed since, upon
hearing Burghred’s news, he had wasted no time in gathering his huscarles and
racing across the ancient tracks to the West Country, sending out summonses to
all the mounted men that Edward had commended to him. Looking out over the
fog-laden hills, he contemplated another morning of watching and waiting. Down
in the courtyard, his men would be on standby. He was proud of his
accomplishments in Hereford and fiercely proud of the mounted cavalry he had
trained. Some of the Englisc looked upon his ideas with derision, but he would
show them just what his mounted army could achieve. He had stubbornly refused
Harold’s offer to rally the Wessex fyrd to aid him, convincing everyone, except
for Harold, that he had no need of them. This was not, he had said, a matter of
national emergency. His mounted soldiers would be match enough for Alfgar and
Gruffydd, he had guaranteed them.
“Another
morning and still they do not come,” muttered William Malet, joining him in
leaning against the wooden barrier. Dressed and ready for battle, the men wore
their armour of little metal links skilfully chained together to form the hauberk,
the tunic of maille that protected
the length of their torso, arms and upper legs. Under them they wore a
padded jerkin which would stop the metal from chafing them, adding to the
protection that their maille already afforded them. “I am beginning to think
that they never will.”
“Oh, they
will come alright; your cousin Burghred was sure of it. It seems your uncle has
been collecting his forces all summer.” Ralph looked sideways at Malet. “And
when they do, Will, we shall be ready for them. Ha, we will soon have our
chance to prove to Godwinson that we are quite capable of sorting out our own
defences!”
“In
hindsight, do you think it was wise not to accept his offer to call out the
Wessex fyrd?” Malet asked retrospectively.
“What?
And have nice, golden, shiny Harold take all the glory? No, my friend, this one
is for us. Besides, it would be a great waste of manpower. Costly too. Our
combination of cavalry, light infantry and bowmen is the right formula needed
to win the battle against the Wéalas.”
Malet
looked a little sceptical and Ralph looked at him scornfully. “You do not doubt
that the victory will be ours, William?”
“No,
Ralph, I do not. It is just that—”
“I know
that perhaps it is hard for you to go to war against your uncle,” Ralph suggested
sympathetically.
Will
shook his head and replied firmly, “You know how I feel about that brainless
idiot! He has the intellect of a newt, uncle or not.”
“Then why
do you have that doubtful expression on your face?”
“I just
thought that perhaps it would have been advantageous to have the Wessex fyrd
here, just in case. After all, Harold is—”
“Harold
is not here!” Ralph responded angrily. “And what’s more, we do not need him!”
“But the
men are untried and inexperienced, Lord,” Malet gently argued.
“Are you
doubting me, Will?” Ralph thrust a disturbed look in his friend’s direction.
“No,
Lord. No…”
“You know
how I have been waiting for this chance to ingratiate the Witan, Will? And why
should I not? I have royal blood coursing through my veins. I am throneworthy!
An atheling!” He thumped the edge of the wooden strakes in earnest. “Why
should I work so hard all these years only to have Harold Godwinson come along
at the last minute and interfere in my command? This victory will gain me the
accolade that I deserve and put an end to the threat that comes swamping
over the marcher borders!”
“My Lord,
you are indeed throneworthy!” Malet said supportively. He frowned slightly, changing
his cynical expression to one of fervent loyalty.
“If only
the Witan would recognise me as so,” Ralph said regretfully. “Mon Dieu! They
send out to lands afar, searching for long-lost Englisc princes, doing deals
with that bastard in Normandy, dropping hints at Swein of Denmark and, all the time, here I am, a prince with
the blood of Alfred, right under their snotty noses! So what if I was born on
the distaff side of the royal line? I am just as much a contender, if not more.
The King, my uncle, loves me, does he not? And yet still I have to prove myself...and
prove myself I will!”
“My Lord,
we will win this. If they come today, I swear we will win this!” Malet replied
with genuine sincerity.
He was
standing in front of Ralph as the earl leaned with his back against the
parapet, the wind blowing his short dark hair forward. The Earl put a grateful
hand on Malet’s shoulder. “Thank you, Will. When I finally sit on the throne of
this damned kingdom, I will see that you are rewarded for your loyal service.”
“Good
God!” Malet interrupted. “Look, my Lord!”
“What?”
Ralph saw
that Malet was surveying the valley behind him intently. He swung round and
faced the view over the hills. He felt his stomach tighten as he realised what
his friend had been staring at: the fast moving shadow of a lone horseman,
galloping amidst the thick morning haze that drifted toward them across the
plain.
“It’s one
of your scouts, my Lord. Look, he holds your banner aloft. That means they are
coming…At last they are coming...”
“Then we must see that the men are ready. Fitzscrob!”
Ralph yelled loudly for his captain. He grabbed his helmet and shoved it onto
his head.
“Yes, my
Lord?” A small, lithe Norman dressed in maille came running up the wooden rungs
of the rampart to join them.
“See that
the men are armoured and the horses ready,” Ralph ordered. “Alfgar and Gruffydd
are on their way. We will ride out to engage them.” He felt a ripple of
excitement in his veins and a fluttering in his stomach. “Maintenant! Now,
Fitzscrob! Que vous attendez? What are you waiting for? Allez, allez!”
“Yes, my Lord,”
replied the little man dutifully as he turned and ran quickly down from the parapet.
Ralph
breathed in deeply as he secured the chinstrap of his helm. He had been waiting
for this moment and now it had arrived. At last he could show the world his
worth and that Edward and his Englisc subjects need not look to that far-off
place, Hungary, for their next king. He pictured himself sitting on the throne
in Edward’s Palace of Westminster with his wife Gytha by his side. Yes, now
his chance had come…
