The Wolves of Westseaxna-a tale of Wessex
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If you are sad about celebrating your birthday you are doing it wrong. Happy birthday and stop worrying about getting updates out so quickly, your readers will all still be here even if you take a break.
Heh - not sad at all! Happy birthday
No worries. Have a happy birthday!
Many thanks to you all-seems like an age ago now though haha. Now I know I trailed the next chapter as being something of an end to an era...I was premature because it was too tempting to throw in this filler.
Hope you all enjoy it-I do like to write battle scenes
Chapter 34, Sonning Common, near the city of Reading, 19th April 951 AD
The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (Hereberht the Wake) 1220 AD: it was in the year 950 that the newly minted Duke of Mercia, one Hereberht Iceling, distant cousin to the Queen’s erstwhile Advisor, Æthelric, did arrogantly declare that Wulfryth harnessed overmuch power to her person. His demands stated that some such should be yielded to her Council so that only they may decide when the realm went to war and how its money was spent. He was aided in these peremptory actions by the queen’s kinsman, Duke Eormenric of Essex, son of Wulfryth’s cousin Leofflæd, who had died but one year previously whilst on the privy.
You cheeky pup-how very dare you!
Queen Wulfryth, now of fifty-eight summers and increasingly infirm of body though yet vigorous of mind, was said to have laughed in the faces of the messengers who brought the news crying ‘I have, all my life, resisted and bested over mighty lords of my realm, never reconciled to my womanly rule!’
Mayhap she was also cognisant of the recent setback her own Witan had dealt her when she had proposed to raise a higher levy in the Burgher tax…
But in no way dismayed by such sedition she flung back at her bold barons: ‘I will in no wise submit myself to further indignity at the hands of recalcitrant lordlings-here is my answer: we shall meet on the field of battle!’
You will soon feel MY power!
Wulfryth raised seven thousand to her banners and assigned command of her army to her Marshal, Mayor Wulfnoth of Southampton, a man, skilled in martial valour and the successor to her former paladin, Duke Cuthberht of Powys. His lieutenants were the veterans of the Breton and Welsh wars, Ælfnoth of Thetford and Wulfgar, a lowborn ceorl. To them she promised lands and titles aplenty, for why should she respect England’s magnates and noble mores if for her they had none!
The rebels were some six and a half thousand strong and immediately laid siege to the rich burgh of Oxford, quickly overcame its paltry defences and moved on Reading, some forty leagues to the south…
Let's see if they reckon on our allies eh?
The three riders surveyed the land to their fore, all grizzled, all ageing but with such determined mien that they could not be mistaken for anything other than what they were-commanders of the royal Fyrd. It mattered not that none were highborn for in Wulfryth’s England a man could reach for dizzy heights by the measure of their service and loyalty to the queen. Wulfnoth, a mayor was England’s High Marshal, had succeeded a Duke, whilst Ælfnoth, in the centre, but a gentleman, now tutored the queen’s grandson, second heir to the dragon throne, in martial endeavour and the final member of the party, Wulfgar was a lowborn serf who had somehow risen to high command within Wulfryth’s retinues.
They were looking due north, a brook and gently rolling country to their front, the mighty river Thames to their east and the city of nearby Reading off to their west. The siege had been raised by the rebels on the approach of the royal Fyrd and now they were arrayed somewhere to the north.
‘I see them not!’ Growled Wulfgar in anger through his bushy beard, reaching for a gourd of watered down mead for though the morn was chill he sensed it was to be a warm spring day. He took a long draught and offered it to his companions. All were dressed for battle, mail byrnies, helms and shields slung on their horses side. All wore great broadswords too-a badge of their rank, even if not their status.
‘Patience my old friend’ the leader said in measured tone. Wulfnoth, the Royal Marshal of England was not one for hurry, especially not in matters of reconnaissance. Suddenly a dust cloud in the distance, centred on a coppice some leagues hence.
‘Sonning Common…clever…’ Wulfnoth muttered, gimlet eyes scanning the army approaching. ‘It is what I would have done.’
‘Who commands them? Have we knowledge?’ Wulfgar enquired with curiosity.
The last of the commanders finally also spoke patting his skittish horse to calm it for it could sense the coming battle, ‘I know not this ground my friends. Why is Sonning so clever a place to deploy?’
Wulfnoth looked to the sky and the sun rapidly rising to their right. ‘ I reckon it is eight on the clock gentlemen. We have time yet.’ He turned to Wulfgar ‘The Bishop of Canterbury I am told is their leader today.’
‘No others?’ Wulfgar grunted. ‘I fought with him in the Welsh wars-a cunning battle commander that one…’
‘None that I know of my friend.’ A glance at Ælfnoth, ‘Sonning Common is bounded to its immediate flank on the east by the Thames. See there where the wooded line lies?’
Ælfnoth immediately guessed the import of such a move and whistled softly, ‘Ahhh we cannot flank him there then? Clever.’
‘Mayhap sir, mayhap not-let us see which of us has the more guile,’ was the cryptic reply.
Ælfnoth, who came from the flatlands of East Anglia was in no wise dismayed at what was going to be a slogging match between the two shield walls- he was to command the centre battle and all would hinge on what he did.
‘Come my friends I believe we will soon have visitors’ the Mayor opined and turned his horse around to start the walk back to their own lines. Before they had even gone half a league they were indeed intercepted by mud spattered riders in strange dress. They were very lightly armed, carried long eight foot spears and wore no armour at all. They all sported long drooping moustaches and strange, patterned braes.
Wulfnoth smiled in knowing greeting ‘gentleman I do believe our Welsh allies are come…’
I should think so tributary!
The other two men, who had known nothing about this, exchanged puzzled looks but realisation dawned when the leader of the little band bowed in his saddle and spoke in heavily accented Saxon ‘my lords, I bring word of my king’s arrival. We have travelled hotfoot from Bristol along the Swindon Road. My liege is certain we have evaded the scouts of the enemy.’
‘It is well done - well done indeed!’ Wulfnoth beamed slapping his thigh with exultation. ‘But now the hard part sir-take word to King Rædwald that I would have him move his battle behind ours. See the road will bridge the Thames at yon tree line? You have it sir?’
The scout was clearly experienced, battle hardened in wars against their own, against queen Wulfryth and against the heathen Bretons. He understood at once. ‘I have it my lord.’
‘I am no lord sir but good enough. Make haste sir – the road’s sunken aspect will mean you should not be seen – it is muddy too but that means no dust. Once over the bridge you are to follow the line of the river and look for a place to cross, anywhere that is shallow enough. If necessary find a local to help you lad-it is vital you cross back and join the fray for we will have urgent need of you.’
The scout whistled in appreciation ‘a wily plan for if we do, then we return to the battle to their rear at best, at worst on their left flank…’
‘You have it sir! Now go and for God’s sake tell your king to make all haste!’
The scout saluted, wheeled his horse and galloped off with his party leaving the three commanders to trot back to their own lines.
You can't beat a hardy Welsh warrior-avast me hearties!
‘The battle may go hardest for you both in the centre and on our right my friends…for the love of God do not yield or we will be finished-our numbers are roughly matched.’
‘Until the Welshmen arrive-how many are they?’ Asked Wulfgar pointedly.
‘We were told they march with over two and a half thousand.’
Both his companions whistled appreciatively and Ælfnoth added ‘they may be lightly armed but there will be something very compelling about such numbers suddenly crashing onto their rear or flank when the press of battle is at its most urgent.’
‘You have the right of it my friend-we must only hope they come…’ Wulfnoth said quietly ‘now Godspeed gentlemen-let us meet and toast to our victory at the end of the day for our righteous queen has promised us the riches of the realm if we prevail.’
‘Let none forget that Lord Beorhtric was raised up by her - came from lowborn state to rule o’er all in martial matters and Royal Advisor too! All is possible.’
‘I care not for baubles and titles,’ Wulfgar snapped ‘I live for war and the pell-mell of battle. Our queen may promise what she will-I would fight just as keenly for her anyway.’ He turned his horse, ‘come let’s away sirs, to fight like lions of England this day!’
‘The centre breaks my lord mayor!’ A desperate messenger arrived from Ælfnoth’s battle. Wulfnoth was huddled to the rear of his centre Shieldwall, his household warrior’s shields protecting him from stray arrows.
‘They must not boy! We are lost if they yield!’
The battle had been raging for some hours now and the initial stalemate, such as it had been, was now shifting decisively in favour of the rebels. The wily Bishop of Canterbury had placed his right battle at a juncture where once they were locked it had been very difficult for Wulfnoth to shift because of the peaty terrain. This negated the mismatch in numbers, for Gyrth of Canterbury had also thinned out his right flank to provide an overmatch on his centre and left such that both Ælfnoth in the centre and Wulgar on the right were now at a desperate pass. The grizzled commander wracked his brains: where could he find the men? He looked at his own battle-hard pressed and stuck, to the rear: no reserve, a mistake. But wait! There was a reserve of sorts! He had assigned a company of Huscarls as liaison to the Welsh, had travelled with them and had remained in the rear when battle was joined. They were few in number but might make all the difference.
‘Quick men to me!’ He shouted above the din. He grabbed a messenger ‘tell the captains to hold-I go to fetch the reserve!’
The boy nodded in confusion and then span off to find the captains. Wulfnoth and his household warriors moved back and after an interminable time broke free to the rear of the wall. They were in clear space now and moving with difficult over the peaty ground they made for the rear. If only the Huscarls had remained where he had placed them.
After an exhausting trot they found the place but of Huscarls there were none. Despairingly Wulfnoth despatched two of his men to the trees behind. He squinted towards the battle where all he could see on the centre were the rebel banners flying proudly and those of Ælfnoth of Thetford yielding inch by desperate inch.
Just then a shout to his rear and one of his men came trotting back. With him the Huscarls. God be praised!
‘How many of you are there sir?’ He addressed their Captain.
‘We are fifty my lord commander’
‘Good well you are fresh sir-let’s at them. The centre is where we aim at! Are you with me?’
A grim nod of the head and they headed off at a run for the now fraying centre. Wulfnoth appraised the situation and could see several gaps had opened up in one part of his friend’s line-as they approached could indeed espy Ælfnoth fighting like a madman whirling his shield and a spear and baying like a beast. Many of his immediate bodyguard were down-his shieldwall almost spent. Aiming his new band at this spot they hit the rebels like a well-aimed arrow that takes down a rushing berserker. The triumphant enemy advance came to a juddering halt when faced with the wrath of the Huscarl.
Wulfnoth thundered in and swatted aside a spear thrust, the soldier at the other end a beardless boy. Swiftly moving to one side he cut down and away lopping the lad’s spear hand clean off. Back on his feet and he locked swords with a more hardy opponent. Parry and thrust, block with his shield, then the man was felled by an axe that split his helm and head in two-the wielder one of the giant Huscarls.
The enemy were now respectful and paused long enough for the cry to go back up from their own side: ‘shieldwall! Reform the shieldwall!’
The battered remnants of the centre battle gathered themselves, training overriding fear and slowly but surely came together and reconstituted, such that by the time Gyrth once more ordered the attack they were met once more with resolution. It was again the hard press and Wulfnoth knew not how long they could stand-God alone knew what was happening to Wulfgar’s flank on the right.
‘Stand! You must stand!’ He cried with desperation only vaguely registering the news, brought by another harried emissary that Ælfnoth was felled. There was, as yet, no sign of the Welsh. A few more moments and the battle would be lost.
Then a great cry went up from the enemy and there was a shudder of the lines, an easement of the pressure. What was happening? Wulfnoth gestured to the men to right and left to cover him for his household were gone. He peered up and all across the front and right the enemy were breaking. He squinted further and could see in the far distance the gold rampant lion banner on scarlet of the men of Deheubarth. A cry went up ‘the Welsh have come! Our friends are come!’
And then the press was gone as their enemy disengaged to rout leaving the exhausted men, spent and too tired to chase. Wulfnoth leant on his sword, tears flowing freely from his eyes for never had he been so grateful or pleased to see Welshmen – they who had been his avowed enemies two decades before. After a time and having drunk greedily from an offered gourd of ale he composed himself and went to find out whether his friends or companions yet lived or had died…
The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (Hereberht the Wake) 1220 AD: the revolt lasted another year but after the momentous battle of Reading the back of the revolt had been broken as throughout the summer and autumn Marshal Wulfnoth and King Rædwald pursued the remaining rebels across Mercia. The final victory was won in April 952 and Dukes Hereberht and Eormenric were dragged in chains to the waiting queen in Winchester.
Of mercy and understanding from Wulfryth there was likely to be very little…
That sound you hear is the sound of my satisfaction - to the oubliette!!!
The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (Hereberht the Wake) 1220 AD: it was in the year 950 that the newly minted Duke of Mercia, one Hereberht Iceling, distant cousin to the Queen’s erstwhile Advisor, Æthelric, did arrogantly declare that Wulfryth harnessed overmuch power to her person. His demands stated that some such should be yielded to her Council so that only they may decide when the realm went to war and how its money was spent. He was aided in these peremptory actions by the queen’s kinsman, Duke Eormenric of Essex, son of Wulfryth’s cousin Leofflæd, who had died but one year previously whilst on the privy.
You cheeky pup-how very dare you!
Queen Wulfryth, now of fifty-eight summers and increasingly infirm of body though yet vigorous of mind, was said to have laughed in the faces of the messengers who brought the news crying ‘I have, all my life, resisted and bested over mighty lords of my realm, never reconciled to my womanly rule!’
Mayhap she was also cognisant of the recent setback her own Witan had dealt her when she had proposed to raise a higher levy in the Burgher tax…
But in no way dismayed by such sedition she flung back at her bold barons: ‘I will in no wise submit myself to further indignity at the hands of recalcitrant lordlings-here is my answer: we shall meet on the field of battle!’
You will soon feel MY power!
Wulfryth raised seven thousand to her banners and assigned command of her army to her Marshal, Mayor Wulfnoth of Southampton, a man, skilled in martial valour and the successor to her former paladin, Duke Cuthberht of Powys. His lieutenants were the veterans of the Breton and Welsh wars, Ælfnoth of Thetford and Wulfgar, a lowborn ceorl. To them she promised lands and titles aplenty, for why should she respect England’s magnates and noble mores if for her they had none!
The rebels were some six and a half thousand strong and immediately laid siege to the rich burgh of Oxford, quickly overcame its paltry defences and moved on Reading, some forty leagues to the south…
Let's see if they reckon on our allies eh?
The three riders surveyed the land to their fore, all grizzled, all ageing but with such determined mien that they could not be mistaken for anything other than what they were-commanders of the royal Fyrd. It mattered not that none were highborn for in Wulfryth’s England a man could reach for dizzy heights by the measure of their service and loyalty to the queen. Wulfnoth, a mayor was England’s High Marshal, had succeeded a Duke, whilst Ælfnoth, in the centre, but a gentleman, now tutored the queen’s grandson, second heir to the dragon throne, in martial endeavour and the final member of the party, Wulfgar was a lowborn serf who had somehow risen to high command within Wulfryth’s retinues.
They were looking due north, a brook and gently rolling country to their front, the mighty river Thames to their east and the city of nearby Reading off to their west. The siege had been raised by the rebels on the approach of the royal Fyrd and now they were arrayed somewhere to the north.
‘I see them not!’ Growled Wulfgar in anger through his bushy beard, reaching for a gourd of watered down mead for though the morn was chill he sensed it was to be a warm spring day. He took a long draught and offered it to his companions. All were dressed for battle, mail byrnies, helms and shields slung on their horses side. All wore great broadswords too-a badge of their rank, even if not their status.
‘Patience my old friend’ the leader said in measured tone. Wulfnoth, the Royal Marshal of England was not one for hurry, especially not in matters of reconnaissance. Suddenly a dust cloud in the distance, centred on a coppice some leagues hence.
‘Sonning Common…clever…’ Wulfnoth muttered, gimlet eyes scanning the army approaching. ‘It is what I would have done.’
‘Who commands them? Have we knowledge?’ Wulfgar enquired with curiosity.
The last of the commanders finally also spoke patting his skittish horse to calm it for it could sense the coming battle, ‘I know not this ground my friends. Why is Sonning so clever a place to deploy?’
Wulfnoth looked to the sky and the sun rapidly rising to their right. ‘ I reckon it is eight on the clock gentlemen. We have time yet.’ He turned to Wulfgar ‘The Bishop of Canterbury I am told is their leader today.’
‘No others?’ Wulfgar grunted. ‘I fought with him in the Welsh wars-a cunning battle commander that one…’
‘None that I know of my friend.’ A glance at Ælfnoth, ‘Sonning Common is bounded to its immediate flank on the east by the Thames. See there where the wooded line lies?’
Ælfnoth immediately guessed the import of such a move and whistled softly, ‘Ahhh we cannot flank him there then? Clever.’
‘Mayhap sir, mayhap not-let us see which of us has the more guile,’ was the cryptic reply.
Ælfnoth, who came from the flatlands of East Anglia was in no wise dismayed at what was going to be a slogging match between the two shield walls- he was to command the centre battle and all would hinge on what he did.
‘Come my friends I believe we will soon have visitors’ the Mayor opined and turned his horse around to start the walk back to their own lines. Before they had even gone half a league they were indeed intercepted by mud spattered riders in strange dress. They were very lightly armed, carried long eight foot spears and wore no armour at all. They all sported long drooping moustaches and strange, patterned braes.
Wulfnoth smiled in knowing greeting ‘gentleman I do believe our Welsh allies are come…’
I should think so tributary!
The other two men, who had known nothing about this, exchanged puzzled looks but realisation dawned when the leader of the little band bowed in his saddle and spoke in heavily accented Saxon ‘my lords, I bring word of my king’s arrival. We have travelled hotfoot from Bristol along the Swindon Road. My liege is certain we have evaded the scouts of the enemy.’
‘It is well done - well done indeed!’ Wulfnoth beamed slapping his thigh with exultation. ‘But now the hard part sir-take word to King Rædwald that I would have him move his battle behind ours. See the road will bridge the Thames at yon tree line? You have it sir?’
The scout was clearly experienced, battle hardened in wars against their own, against queen Wulfryth and against the heathen Bretons. He understood at once. ‘I have it my lord.’
‘I am no lord sir but good enough. Make haste sir – the road’s sunken aspect will mean you should not be seen – it is muddy too but that means no dust. Once over the bridge you are to follow the line of the river and look for a place to cross, anywhere that is shallow enough. If necessary find a local to help you lad-it is vital you cross back and join the fray for we will have urgent need of you.’
The scout whistled in appreciation ‘a wily plan for if we do, then we return to the battle to their rear at best, at worst on their left flank…’
‘You have it sir! Now go and for God’s sake tell your king to make all haste!’
The scout saluted, wheeled his horse and galloped off with his party leaving the three commanders to trot back to their own lines.
You can't beat a hardy Welsh warrior-avast me hearties!
‘The battle may go hardest for you both in the centre and on our right my friends…for the love of God do not yield or we will be finished-our numbers are roughly matched.’
‘Until the Welshmen arrive-how many are they?’ Asked Wulfgar pointedly.
‘We were told they march with over two and a half thousand.’
Both his companions whistled appreciatively and Ælfnoth added ‘they may be lightly armed but there will be something very compelling about such numbers suddenly crashing onto their rear or flank when the press of battle is at its most urgent.’
‘You have the right of it my friend-we must only hope they come…’ Wulfnoth said quietly ‘now Godspeed gentlemen-let us meet and toast to our victory at the end of the day for our righteous queen has promised us the riches of the realm if we prevail.’
‘Let none forget that Lord Beorhtric was raised up by her - came from lowborn state to rule o’er all in martial matters and Royal Advisor too! All is possible.’
‘I care not for baubles and titles,’ Wulfgar snapped ‘I live for war and the pell-mell of battle. Our queen may promise what she will-I would fight just as keenly for her anyway.’ He turned his horse, ‘come let’s away sirs, to fight like lions of England this day!’
———————————————————-
‘The centre breaks my lord mayor!’ A desperate messenger arrived from Ælfnoth’s battle. Wulfnoth was huddled to the rear of his centre Shieldwall, his household warrior’s shields protecting him from stray arrows.
‘They must not boy! We are lost if they yield!’
The battle had been raging for some hours now and the initial stalemate, such as it had been, was now shifting decisively in favour of the rebels. The wily Bishop of Canterbury had placed his right battle at a juncture where once they were locked it had been very difficult for Wulfnoth to shift because of the peaty terrain. This negated the mismatch in numbers, for Gyrth of Canterbury had also thinned out his right flank to provide an overmatch on his centre and left such that both Ælfnoth in the centre and Wulgar on the right were now at a desperate pass. The grizzled commander wracked his brains: where could he find the men? He looked at his own battle-hard pressed and stuck, to the rear: no reserve, a mistake. But wait! There was a reserve of sorts! He had assigned a company of Huscarls as liaison to the Welsh, had travelled with them and had remained in the rear when battle was joined. They were few in number but might make all the difference.
‘Quick men to me!’ He shouted above the din. He grabbed a messenger ‘tell the captains to hold-I go to fetch the reserve!’
The boy nodded in confusion and then span off to find the captains. Wulfnoth and his household warriors moved back and after an interminable time broke free to the rear of the wall. They were in clear space now and moving with difficult over the peaty ground they made for the rear. If only the Huscarls had remained where he had placed them.
After an exhausting trot they found the place but of Huscarls there were none. Despairingly Wulfnoth despatched two of his men to the trees behind. He squinted towards the battle where all he could see on the centre were the rebel banners flying proudly and those of Ælfnoth of Thetford yielding inch by desperate inch.
Just then a shout to his rear and one of his men came trotting back. With him the Huscarls. God be praised!
‘How many of you are there sir?’ He addressed their Captain.
‘We are fifty my lord commander’
‘Good well you are fresh sir-let’s at them. The centre is where we aim at! Are you with me?’
A grim nod of the head and they headed off at a run for the now fraying centre. Wulfnoth appraised the situation and could see several gaps had opened up in one part of his friend’s line-as they approached could indeed espy Ælfnoth fighting like a madman whirling his shield and a spear and baying like a beast. Many of his immediate bodyguard were down-his shieldwall almost spent. Aiming his new band at this spot they hit the rebels like a well-aimed arrow that takes down a rushing berserker. The triumphant enemy advance came to a juddering halt when faced with the wrath of the Huscarl.
Wulfnoth thundered in and swatted aside a spear thrust, the soldier at the other end a beardless boy. Swiftly moving to one side he cut down and away lopping the lad’s spear hand clean off. Back on his feet and he locked swords with a more hardy opponent. Parry and thrust, block with his shield, then the man was felled by an axe that split his helm and head in two-the wielder one of the giant Huscarls.
The enemy were now respectful and paused long enough for the cry to go back up from their own side: ‘shieldwall! Reform the shieldwall!’
The battered remnants of the centre battle gathered themselves, training overriding fear and slowly but surely came together and reconstituted, such that by the time Gyrth once more ordered the attack they were met once more with resolution. It was again the hard press and Wulfnoth knew not how long they could stand-God alone knew what was happening to Wulfgar’s flank on the right.
‘Stand! You must stand!’ He cried with desperation only vaguely registering the news, brought by another harried emissary that Ælfnoth was felled. There was, as yet, no sign of the Welsh. A few more moments and the battle would be lost.
Then a great cry went up from the enemy and there was a shudder of the lines, an easement of the pressure. What was happening? Wulfnoth gestured to the men to right and left to cover him for his household were gone. He peered up and all across the front and right the enemy were breaking. He squinted further and could see in the far distance the gold rampant lion banner on scarlet of the men of Deheubarth. A cry went up ‘the Welsh have come! Our friends are come!’
And then the press was gone as their enemy disengaged to rout leaving the exhausted men, spent and too tired to chase. Wulfnoth leant on his sword, tears flowing freely from his eyes for never had he been so grateful or pleased to see Welshmen – they who had been his avowed enemies two decades before. After a time and having drunk greedily from an offered gourd of ale he composed himself and went to find out whether his friends or companions yet lived or had died…
The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle (Hereberht the Wake) 1220 AD: the revolt lasted another year but after the momentous battle of Reading the back of the revolt had been broken as throughout the summer and autumn Marshal Wulfnoth and King Rædwald pursued the remaining rebels across Mercia. The final victory was won in April 952 and Dukes Hereberht and Eormenric were dragged in chains to the waiting queen in Winchester.
Of mercy and understanding from Wulfryth there was likely to be very little…
That sound you hear is the sound of my satisfaction - to the oubliette!!!
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So the queen provokes another rebellion by being arrogant, arbitrary and insulting, this leads to another civil war started by bone headed lords who can't count, the net result of which is huge numbers of people getting killed for no real change.
You'd think at some point the queen who learn even basic manners, but then you'd think by now the barons would have learnt basic counting and not rebel when they lack the numbers. Bite your tongue, give the queen a couple of years to offend, belittle and enrage the entire country and they'd win easily. Constant small little revolts are counter-productive. Essentially they are all idiots who deserve one another.
You'd think at some point the queen who learn even basic manners, but then you'd think by now the barons would have learnt basic counting and not rebel when they lack the numbers. Bite your tongue, give the queen a couple of years to offend, belittle and enrage the entire country and they'd win easily. Constant small little revolts are counter-productive. Essentially they are all idiots who deserve one another.
Wulfryth is canny in raising men who then owe their position and titles to her. And in preparing a tributary who can provide arms to tip the balance.
Another rebellion, another victory. I suspect Wulfryth's headsman shall be busy soon...
I may have said it before, but I'll say it again: One thing I've always liked about your writing, @Asantahene, is the way you write up your battles, from the character revealing pre-battle banter to the chaotic din of battle in the engagement itself. There's always that measure of uncertainty and suspense, even in what would appear to be on paper a straightforward engagement, that keeps one on edge and eager to see what's going to happen next.
I may have said it before, but I'll say it again: One thing I've always liked about your writing, @Asantahene, is the way you write up your battles, from the character revealing pre-battle banter to the chaotic din of battle in the engagement itself. There's always that measure of uncertainty and suspense, even in what would appear to be on paper a straightforward engagement, that keeps one on edge and eager to see what's going to happen next.
The Lords of Mercia always seem to be a problem of one sort or another. Many rebellions have that one battle and then it is a series of sieges to finish them off. Curious to see what Wulfryth's vengeance will be against the rebellious lords.
Great battle scene! And I see where El Pip is coming from re Wulfryth on one level, and (poor rebel maths skills aside) from a modern perspective. That bit of me agrees.
But in-game and measured against the mores and practice of the time? Go Wulfryth! When will these disloyal wretches learn that any sign of disobedience or over-weaning pride will be met with a steely sword and even steelier Royal resolve (or wilful intransigence, depending on your perspective)? That kind of arrogance is the province of the monarch!
But in-game and measured against the mores and practice of the time? Go Wulfryth!
When will these disloyal wretches learn that any sign of disobedience or over-weaning pride will be met with a steely sword and even steelier Royal resolve (or wilful intransigence, depending on your perspective)? That kind of arrogance is the province of the monarch!
That's not stupidity, it's strategy! Keep pissing off just enough vassals to have them every so often rebelling in small numbers so you can gut down your string vassals a little bit more. If she let off, they'd still try to rule through her or attack her in strength. This way, she's actively strengthening her grip on the country and ensuring that rebelling is becoming a discredited tactic.
So long as she can keep it up, it's genius.
I think you’re being over-harsh my friend. The queen didn’t provoke this war but she’ll give as good as she gets and then some. However you’re right about the counting...to a point. The rebels probably banked on no tributaries being called. Stupid because even if without them the treasury was full enough to provide a sizeable number of mercs. Anyway I don’t throw these things in. I just go where the game wills me
you have that very right indeed. For every revolt there are several titles she can revoke and hand out to more lowly but extremely loyal courtiers, soldiers and vassals.
why thank you good sir! That compliment makes me very happy indeed as I do love writing up these battle scenes. Such praise means an awful lot believe me as I know that what I’ve written has landed correctly.
oh you’ll see it alright and you’re absolutely right about Mercia. It has been a thorn in the crown’s side since it was assimilated by Wessex. The ruling Iceling family seem to have a permanent animus against our rulers. Annoying (but makes for great writing though)
see what I said to @tpmcinty
absolutely. I think after 3 decades on a throne meant for men that she’s earned the right to be prideful, stubborn and intransigent. Surely?Great battle scene! And I see where El Pip is coming from re Wulfryth on one level, and (poor rebel maths skills aside) from a modern perspective. That bit of me agrees.
But in-game and measured against the mores and practice of the time? Go Wulfryth!
absolutely spot on my friend. You have summed her up entirely. I’ll do the next post from her perspective so we can all get a better feel for her machinations and motivations over the years.
All: I’m at Thanksgiving this weekend (my American foster family) so don’t expect a new post until next weekend. To all you Americans out there have a wonderful thanksgiving holiday.