a flock of chittering birds burst from a nearby tree, a shower of feathered arrows aiming at the sky. Ranulf gazed upward, following their soaring flight with the beginning of a smile. But then he saw Tegid, one of their guides. The young Welshman was staring up at the fleeing birds, too, and on his face was an expression of dawning horror.
“Rhagod!” Only Ranulf understood that hoarse cry, a warning of ambush come too late. The urgency in the guide’s voice needed no translation, though. Henry checked his stallion, starting to draw his sword from its scabbard. Tegid’s second shout was choked off as he was slammed backward, knocked from his saddle by the force of the spear protruding from his chest.
An arrow thudded into a tree trunk above Ranulf’s head. Another shaft found a target in flesh, and a knight slumped across his stallion’s neck, sliding to the ground as the horse reared up in fright. Then the killing began in earnest. With savage-sounding yells, the Welsh, charging from the woods on both sides of the road, sought to drag the English from their horses. The English in turn slashed and thrust with deadly effect in such close quarters, and blood splattered the combatants, the trampled grass, even the leaves of low-hanging branches.
Ranulf had passed some sleepless hours in recent weeks, envisioning a battle in which he found himself fighting against the Welsh. What if he saw someone he knew amongst them? Celyn, his brother-by-marriage? Hywel? Now that the dreaded moment was here, he had no time to spare for such fears. His only concern was defending himself against men set upon killing him, and when a Welsh soldier grabbed his arm, jerking to pull him from the saddle, he spurred his stallion into rearing up. His attacker lost his balance, falling in front of those flailing hooves.
A few feet away, Eustace Fitz John was not as lucky. His horse had bolted and a tree branch caught him in the throat. He crashed heavily to the ground and before he could regain his feet, a Welshman was astride him, plunging a spear downward. Ranulf tore his gaze away from the constable’s body, seeking his nephew. Henry was struggling to control his panicked stallion, while fending off a swarthy Welshman wielding a mace. His sword was already bloody, and as Ranulf watched, an arrow scorched past his face, almost grazing his cheek.
Before Ranulf could go to Henry’s assistance, he was again under attack himself. When at last he looked back at Henry, the young king was still holding his own. But then he saw the royal standard dip, disappear into the dust churned up by the thrashing horses.
The impact was immediate and devastating. “The king is dead!” The cry went up from a dozen throats, and Ranulf knew what would happen next. Believing that Henry was slain, his men would lose heart, think only of flight. Ranulf raced his horse across the clearing, leaned recklessly from the saddle and snatched up the fallen standard. Some of the English had already bolted, but the reassuring sight of that red and gold banner steadied the others, forestalling a rout.
“Sound the retreat!” Ranulf thanked God that his nephew had a voice made for shouting. Henry’s command rose above the din of battle, followed by the blare of trumpets. Bunching together, the English began an agonizingly slow-paced withdrawal, keeping their horses under tight rein though they yearned to spur into a wild gallop, knowing that such a flight would doom them all.
Ranulf had been in running battles before, but this one was night marish, for they were walled in by the dense woods, trapped on a winding trail that made speed impossible, and under unrelenting attack by the pursuing Welsh. They had to abandon their dead, even their wounded. But after several harrowing miles, they succeeded in fighting their way free.
The danger had eased, but not ended. Henry was too tempting a target for Welsh bowmen; they’d be back, and in greater numbers. The English rode
“Rhagod!” Only Ranulf understood that hoarse cry, a warning of ambush come too late. The urgency in the guide’s voice needed no translation, though. Henry checked his stallion, starting to draw his sword from its scabbard. Tegid’s second shout was choked off as he was slammed backward, knocked from his saddle by the force of the spear protruding from his chest.
An arrow thudded into a tree trunk above Ranulf’s head. Another shaft found a target in flesh, and a knight slumped across his stallion’s neck, sliding to the ground as the horse reared up in fright. Then the killing began in earnest. With savage-sounding yells, the Welsh, charging from the woods on both sides of the road, sought to drag the English from their horses. The English in turn slashed and thrust with deadly effect in such close quarters, and blood splattered the combatants, the trampled grass, even the leaves of low-hanging branches.
Ranulf had passed some sleepless hours in recent weeks, envisioning a battle in which he found himself fighting against the Welsh. What if he saw someone he knew amongst them? Celyn, his brother-by-marriage? Hywel? Now that the dreaded moment was here, he had no time to spare for such fears. His only concern was defending himself against men set upon killing him, and when a Welsh soldier grabbed his arm, jerking to pull him from the saddle, he spurred his stallion into rearing up. His attacker lost his balance, falling in front of those flailing hooves.
A few feet away, Eustace Fitz John was not as lucky. His horse had bolted and a tree branch caught him in the throat. He crashed heavily to the ground and before he could regain his feet, a Welshman was astride him, plunging a spear downward. Ranulf tore his gaze away from the constable’s body, seeking his nephew. Henry was struggling to control his panicked stallion, while fending off a swarthy Welshman wielding a mace. His sword was already bloody, and as Ranulf watched, an arrow scorched past his face, almost grazing his cheek.
Before Ranulf could go to Henry’s assistance, he was again under attack himself. When at last he looked back at Henry, the young king was still holding his own. But then he saw the royal standard dip, disappear into the dust churned up by the thrashing horses.
The impact was immediate and devastating. “The king is dead!” The cry went up from a dozen throats, and Ranulf knew what would happen next. Believing that Henry was slain, his men would lose heart, think only of flight. Ranulf raced his horse across the clearing, leaned recklessly from the saddle and snatched up the fallen standard. Some of the English had already bolted, but the reassuring sight of that red and gold banner steadied the others, forestalling a rout.
“Sound the retreat!” Ranulf thanked God that his nephew had a voice made for shouting. Henry’s command rose above the din of battle, followed by the blare of trumpets. Bunching together, the English began an agonizingly slow-paced withdrawal, keeping their horses under tight rein though they yearned to spur into a wild gallop, knowing that such a flight would doom them all.
Ranulf had been in running battles before, but this one was night marish, for they were walled in by the dense woods, trapped on a winding trail that made speed impossible, and under unrelenting attack by the pursuing Welsh. They had to abandon their dead, even their wounded. But after several harrowing miles, they succeeded in fighting their way free.
The danger had eased, but not ended. Henry was too tempting a target for Welsh bowmen; they’d be back, and in greater numbers. The English rode
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