Essex and Wales March 1068
Alan had always prided himself on his self-control and temperament, but he did admit that on the very few occasions he lost his temper it was something memorable and spectacular.
On this occasion, after receiving a message passed on by his clerk Osmund, he was absolutely incandescent with anger. He was standing in the salle d’arms, the covered training room just off the armoury. Alan had been drilling five men in the large room with its dirt floor, with the assistance of Brand the huscarle and with the youth Leof observing and learning.
There were four oak posts, each six inches thick, set deep into the dirt floor. Two had straw dummies attached. Alan drew his sword in a flash and within moments had reduced each of the straw dummies to chaff. A double-handed backhand swipe at the next post had the sword penetrate half way before becoming stuck. Alan with a conscious effort opened his hands and released the hilt. He loved that sword and he wasn’t quite that angry that he wanted to break it. Snatching up a two-handed Danish war-axe from the rack of weapons, he reduced the fourth post to kindling in moments before standing with the axe-head on the ground, leaning against the haft and panting slightly.
Brand raised his eyebrows, dismissed the men and took the axe out of Alan’s unresisting hands, putting it back in its slot in the weapons rack. “Now that you’ve got that out of your system, let’s go inside and sort out what we need to do,” he said in a deliberately bland voice. He looked at Leof and pointed at the still-quivering sword embedded deep in the wood. “Get Aethelhard the blacksmith,” he instructed the youth.
They walked the short distance to the Hall. Anne sat in a chair near the fire, wearing a green velvet dress and a cloak lined with ermine fur, sewing some sort of garment. Her belly was by now slightly swollen, with her first child expected in the autumn. She gave a cheerful smile until she saw that Alan’s face was like thunder and asked, “What’s the problem?”
“The damned Welsh raided over the border again and burnt and sacked Norton Canon for the second time in six months,” explained Osmund quietly. “Robert’s messenger just arrived. As you know Alan was waiting until the spring crop sowing was over before he punished them for their last transgression. They beat him to it.”
Leof came into the Hall, carrying Alan’s sword which Aethelhard had extracted from the oak post in the salle d’arms. Alan saw him and handed over the baldric and scabbard for Leof to put the sword away.
It was Maunday Thursday, 20th March in the year 1068, Easter being very early that year.
“The Feast of the Annunciation on 25th March is on Tuesday next week, in five days. Another damn Quarter Day with taxes to be paid! I want two ox-carts with flour and seed grain on their way to Staunton tomorrow. Yes, I know that day is Good Friday, just do it! No, make that three carts and add some sacks of dried beans and barrels of dried or salted fish or beef. The Vale can’t support or feed our men. Brand, have ten huscarles ride on the wagons. The rest of us will leave on Wednesday, escort the taxes to Colchester and then proceed to Staunton. That’s a journey of four days if we push it, 225 miles. The ploughing here is complete. Any sowing or harrowing still needing to be done after Lady Day can be done by the women and children and those men left behind. I want all 30 of the mounted men-at-arms we have, the Wolves, and 40 of the 50 longbowmen. I also want 50 of the 63 infantrymen who answer to me. Put their armour and a supply of 2,000 arrows on the carts leaving tomorrow, so the men can march unladen. I’ll leave Hugh in charge here with Anne and a small force in case anything happens here. Contact the thegns and invite them to send along their mounted men-at-arms and huscarles, and pass word to the men of the fyrd that I’d welcome any trained man who wishes to march with us, paid at a penny a day.”
Alan then had an argument with Anne, who wanted to accompany the force, finally having to invoke his position as ‘senior partner’ to specify that somebody in Anne’s ‘delicate situation’ could not spend most of each day on a horse, covering 60 miles or more a day.
Despite the solemnity of the Easter season the estate began to hum with activity. The Mass commemorating the celebration of the first Eucharist by Jesus and the Disciples was conducted with a congregation that had many of its members with other things on their mind. The Gloria was sung, the church bell rang and fell silent, to so remain until Easter Day. The ceremony of the washing of the feet was neglected that day.
On Good Friday, as was normal, Eucharist was not celebrated. Instead the congregation gave penance, with a long line to see Brother Wacian for absolution- particularly those men due to march west a few days later. The Liturgy of the Word, the Veneration of the Cross and the Stations of the Cross were performed by the priest.
Holy Saturday was supposed to be a day of reflection and prayer. While those who were able did conduct themselves thus, for many others it was a time of frantic activity- shoeing horses, checking and repairing armour and sharpening swords. Alan’s personal army would be marching to visit God’s vengeance on the Welsh and they intended to be ready and leave nothing to chance.
The following morning the Vigil was performed before dawn, followed by the service for Easter Day. Within the crowded church the Paschal Candle was lit and the Exultet chanted. The congregation heard readings from the Old Testament, the singing of the Gloria and Alleluia and the Gospel of the Resurrection. The sermon given by Brother Wacian was specially written by him to provide comfort and reassurance to the warriors going to war, promising eternal life for all who truly repented and believed. Baptisms were performed and the congregation renewed their baptismal vows. The afternoon was spent in feasting and drinking, the village celebrating the end of the privations imposed by Lent.
Alan and his men marched on Wednesday 26th March, the day after the Solemnity of the Annunciation of the Lord. With the coming of spring each day was now over 12? hours long and Alan expected to cover a substantial distance each day. His force of 30 mounted men-at-arms, 50 infantrymen and 40 longbowmen were gathered at Wivenhoe, together with another 23 mounted men, thegns and their retainers, and 89 fyrdmen. The Hundred men were coming along out of a sense of adventure and wanted to put their newly-acquired fighting skills to the test.
Including his men already in Herefordshire, or recently dispatched thereto, Alan would be able to field over 250 swords. The Hundred men and Alan’s foot-soldiers marched out together as the day was dawning. The mounted men-at-arms would accompany the slower ox-carts carrying the taxes to Colchester and then catch up with the others later in the day. Alan had sent Osmund, Leof and half a dozen riders on ahead the day before to make arrangements at each of the places Alan intended to stay overnight, Stevenage, Oxford and Gloucester, for food and accommodation to be available- which was no small undertaking given the size of the force mustered.
After safely delivering the taxes and leaving Wybert, Anne’s steward at Wivenhoe, to attend to obtaining the necessary receipts, Alan and the mounted men caught up with the foot-soldiers at Bishop Stortford in the afternoon. The men were in good heart, singing as they marched. They carried only their weapons and a few personal items, usually wrapped in a blanket draped over their shoulders.
After ‘roughing it’ at Stevenage for the first night, the following night was spent in relative comfort at Oxford. Alan received a message from the sheriff requesting a visit the next day to explain why he had brought a small army into the city. He penned a polite note back, declining to attend and saying he and the ‘army’ would be marching west at dawn.
On arriving at Gloucester the following evening Alan was greeted at the city gates by the sheriff of that shire, with a similar query. Clearly a rider had been dispatched from Oxford. As his tired men straggled to a halt behind him, glad to be finished marching for the day, Alan replied briefly, “Reinforcements for William fitzOsbern. Trouble on the Welsh border with raids and so on.”
Alan was a little surprised at how much attention he was drawing, but on reflection would have to agree that if somebody led over 200 armed men into Essex he would have some concerns and want to know where they were going and what they would do when they arrived. “Brand, move the men through. It’s nearly dark and the gates will be closing soon. Get them to their lodgings and get them fed.”
“Does Earl William know you’re coming?” asked the sheriff with annoyance, as the few men he had standing in front of the gate were shouldered aside.
“Possibly, but I’m sure we’ll be welcome when we arrive,” said Alan vaguely. “Now, please excuse me, Sir! I’m tired, dirty, hungry and thirsty. I’ll proceed to my lodgings.” He made a mental note that if he needed to move men around in the future it would be in smaller groups of 20 or 30 at a time, so as not to attract attention.
When the next day they crossed the bridge over the River Wye in the early afternoon, Alan turned the force west along the road leading up the Wye River valley and towards the border instead of proceeding into the city of Hereford.
Near Byford, about two miles east of Staunton, they came across Osmund and three men sitting alongside the road under a tree which was just bursting into leaf. Osmund rose to his feet and walked the few paces to the road where Alan was at the head of his men. “Good afternoon, my lord,” said Osmund, as if the meeting were occurring in Alan’s Hall instead of the wilds of Herefordshire. “The mens’ weapons are in a clearing in the trees just to the north,” here he nodded towards a large stand of trees on the hills by the farm of Mansell Gamage. “There’s provender also. I bought that yesterday in Hereford and brought it here this morning. There are cooked cold meats, beef and swine; bread; cheese; boiled vegetables; fruit and ale. There’s fodder for the horses and a stream with fresh water for man and beast. There are more than enough provisions- although they cost a small fortune!”
“No questions were asked?” queried Alan.
Osmund gave him a look so ‘old-fashioned’ that its bones were bare, which expressed his disapproval. “I purchased from over a dozen different suppliers. I used our own carts. It took all fucking day!” he said sourly.
The men and horses disappeared into the trees. Firm instructions were given that no fires were to be lit. The infantry collected their armour, or in the case of the archers their extra sheaves of arrows, and set up the leather ten-man tents that Alan had provided. Guards and scouts were set for the first time on the expedition. The men ate as darkness gathered before heading to their tents. Alan met with Robert and the three spies who had been surveying the Wye valley on the Welsh side of the border for several months, gathering the information Alan needed. He intended to rest the men and horses all of the next day and to use the light of the full moon to move into position to attack the following night.
He had hardly seemed to close his eyes when Alan woke with his shoulder being shaken. “What the fuck…?” he queried as he sat up with the blanket draped over him falling away.
Brand was bending over him. “The scouts to the north report movement. Thirty or forty men moving towards Yazor on horseback.”
“Shite!” Alan said as his brain snapped into action “Get the men-at-arms awake. There’s no time to put on harness, so we’ll fight without armour. Get the archers and some infantry on the backs of the extra horses- all are to be my men, no fyrdmen.” Alan looked longingly at his rolled up chain-mail hauberk and instead quickly pulled on his padded jacket with sewn-in metal plate inserts, acknowledging that donning mail armour took at least fifteen minutes- which time he didn’t have.
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 with 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.
“Hardly an army,” replied Alan. “And it’s no longer in Herefordshire. My manor of Norton Canon was raided and burnt a few weeks back and I brought some of my men to deliver… chastisement. I invited the freemen of my Hundred to come along and join in if they had nothing better to do. Most of them will be half way back to Essex by now.”
FitzOsbern frowned. “So quickly? What changed your mind? Did you decide it was too difficult?”
Alan laughed. “Not at all,” he replied. “They’d done their job. It’s never a good idea to have armed men sitting idle as they get into trouble, so I sent them home. Staunton now just has its usual garrison of twenty men.”
Even more confused, fitzOsbern gestured for Alan to continue.
“We crossed the border and sacked Hay-on-Wye, Builth Wells and Talgarth. You’ll have little trouble from the Welsh in Brecon for the next year or so. We passed on a very strong message to stay at home, killed a lot of warriors, and took every horse and animal we could find. We recovered a total of 37 English captives taken last summer. The lords of Brycheiniog now understand what the outcome will be if they cross the border again. I explained it to Idwallon myself at the same time I advised him we had killed one of his sons,” explained Alan.
“You had Idwallon in your hands and let him go?” asked fitzOsbern incredulously. “How much ransom did he pay?”
“Nothing. I didn’t ask for any ransom. Judging by the state of his village he wouldn’t have had two marks to rub together. And we took every animal they had. Every cow, pig and sheep- down to the last chicken. What wealth he and his Cantref had was in those animals.”
“How many men did you lose?” queried fitzOsbern.
“We had nine dead and seventeen wounded- eight seriously,” answered Alan.
FitzOsbern shook his head in wonder. “Every time my men cross the border we achieve nothing, as was the case with the English before us. The Wesh won’t stand and fight, disappear into their hills and kill us from ambush. They have a man with a bow behind every fucking bush. How did you do it?”
Alan had no intention of telling one of the foremost knights in Christendom, who had commanded the Norman right wing at Hastings, how to fight a battle. “Speed, strength, planning and intelligence,” he commented. “The Good Lord was kind to us in our endeavour.”
FitzOsbern frowned. Alan realised after a moment that the other had misunderstood what he meant. “By ‘intelligence’ I meant information,” he hurriedly explained. “I knew what Welshmen were where. We struck unexpectedly, with stealth and speed like the Welsh do when they attack us. Now, Lord William, I really must be on my way if I’m to be in Gloucester before they close the gates this evening.”
FitzOsbern waved a hand in dismissal. “I presume I’ll be seeing you again in about two weeks,” he said. “The king will be sitting at London on Ascension Day on the 1st of May, and Duchess Matilda is to be crowned as queen on 11th May. King William has called a meeting of the Curia for the 5th of May, two days after the Feast of the blessed Apostles St Philip and St James. You’ll probably find your Summons waiting for you at home.”
“Ah! The king has finally brought Duchess Matilda to England? Excellent! I’ll look forward to seeing you then, Lord William,” said Alan before taking his leave from the second most powerful man in the land.