Chapter 47: Irish Campaign (3)

Following behind the Norman knights were the Irish nobles skilled in melee combat and close-quarter grappling. They boasted rich battle experience and unparalleled combat coordination. However, this time, these Irish nobles found that their fighting skills seemed useless. Faced with the dense spear formations, they were completely at a loss, unsure how to advance and engage the enemy before them. Their proud melee techniques were utterly ineffective.

"This isn't right, this isn't right!"

High King Roderick erupted into another fit of hysteria. The Norman knights under Decusis failed in their charge, and his noble warriors couldn't break through the enemy either. He played his strongest cards, but received no corresponding gains.

Could he still rely on the two flanks?

Seeing the dim and unclear situation ahead, Roderick felt anxious but utterly helpless.

This stalemate situation clearly favored John's side.

The situation on the right flank had already collapsed; the Irish were in disarray, and John's only task now was to regroup his forces and fold them into the center.

Red-nosed Hugo rallied the knights, "Everyone, gather around me! Knights of Gloucester!"

Compared to the knights of Gloucester, William's Royal Guards managed by Guillame were obviously inferior. These chosen men of labor had no complaints and regrouped under the banner of the Golden Eagle King.

"Stop shouting, Hugo." John shouted at Red-nosed Hugo, "We need to move quickly and do it now!"

The flying dust obscured the view, and the battlefield was noisy, making John's voice fragmented in the air. But Hugo still heard the crucial words.

Quickly, now.

"Follow me! Follow me!"

Red-nosed Hugo raised his flag again, the white and blue diagonally striped flag symbolizing Gloucester.

The knights gathered again spontaneously, forming ranks and moving towards the flank of the enemy's center. The enemy's central forces were still entangled and unable to break free quickly.

In this situation, Roderick's goal was to pull out a detachment and throw them into the flank. Even if he could delay for a while.

But at this moment, a new army appeared once again.

The town militia from Watford infiltrated the front lines, gradually taking over the combat duties from the Norwegian warriors. While lacking strong melee capabilities, they excelled in maintaining formation and advancing steadily.

"Forward! Forward!" Broucton bellowed hoarsely.

Short, sharp commands echoed, and the soldiers marched in step, advancing steadily. The advancing spear formations forced the Irish nobles to retreat, but pressed from behind, they could only step back a few paces before having no more room to maneuver.

The nobles at the front watched in horror as the spear tips drew closer.

"Make way! Retreat!"

"Back up!"

But no matter how loudly they shouted, the nobles in the rear ranks couldn't hear them. Mechanically, they continued to push forward, sending their comrades into hell.

One by one, the long spears pierced into the bodies of the enemy. After the nobles at the front fell in agony, those in the rear ranks finally saw the horrifying scene before them, akin to a hellish tableau.

Moreover, the town militia filled the gaps between the formations, further restricting the movement of the Irish nobles.

"Look left! Look left!"

Roderick's messenger suddenly appeared, shouting orders. His command redirected the attention of the nobles to the left, where they witnessed an even more terrifying sight.

A large group of Norman knights was slowly advancing, indicating that their left wing had completely collapsed.

Everyone knew that if those Norman knights launched an attack, everyone present would be doomed. But who would organize the defense on the left? The ragtag volunteer warriors? Or the Norman knights who had lost Decusis?

This was it. All hope was lost.

Almost all the Irish nobles had the same thought. They began to retreat uncontrollably, each one raising their hands in surrender.

The situation quickly became irreparable, with the morale of the Irish collapsing as swiftly as an avalanche on a mountaintop, crumbling all at once.

Escape, quickly escape.

That was the only lingering thought in every Irish noble's mind. They still had families at home, wives and children—they couldn't die here. The continuation of their lineage, their own lives...

John, leading his knights, watched as the enemy crumbled, yet he hadn't even led his men into battle. The once tight formation of Irish nobles now resembled effervescent tablets thrown into water, gradually collapsing and disappearing.

"Charge freely, knights," John ordered.

In this situation, rather than maintaining formation, it was better for them to unleash their expertise. After all, their sole pursuit was efficient slaughter.

The Norman knights, upon receiving the command, roared and instantly transformed into a pack of wolves, pouncing on the enemy. Their speed was akin to raiding for plunder rather than slaughter.

Indeed, if they could cut down a few more, there would be more spoils after the battle.

The infantry couldn't hold back either, breaking ranks to chase after the fleeing Irish. Everyone forgot how exhausted they had just been in battle; now they surged with adrenaline, chasing the routed enemy.

John watched as King Roderick's banner once again fled, but he didn't care anymore. For him, Roderick had now suffered two consecutive defeats under his command, and surely more losses would follow.

The only concern was the left wing.

Les had launched several attacks but failed to break through on the left, leaving him burning with impatience. Reports of victories from the right wing and the center only fueled his frustration.

How could his own knights be so incompetent?

But he quickly realized that two knights carrying white flags approached him. These knights were sent by Count Tormond, likely to negotiate directly on the battlefield.

"My lord, we come on behalf of Count Tormond to request a ceasefire," one of the knights stated, not particularly respectful but also not overly formal.

Infuriated, Les retorted, "You rebels dare to talk peace now? Look around you; your allies are all but finished."

Although spoken in anger, Les's words held truth. Count Tormond seeking peace now seemed too late.

If he had approached earlier, before the outcome was clear, Les might have considered agreeing. But now, with such a significant advantage on his side, why should he entertain Tormond's terms?

"We mean no offense..."

"Arrest them, now," Les ordered his nearby knights.

Knights from both sides moved in and seized Count Tormond's messengers, despite their struggles. It was clear their mission had failed.

Les surveyed the enemy before him, feeling a headache coming on.

Count Tormond's army was indeed formidable. Their shield wall of heavy infantry was as impenetrable as iron, and Les hesitated to commit his knights to heavy casualties. Yet, the advantage was that Count Tormond's forces, cumbersome as they were, couldn't flee.

Their few remaining cavalry had been swiftly dispatched in the brief clash with Les's knights, becoming fodder for the Normans.

Maybe he should wait for the prince to handle this.

That thought flashed through Les's mind.

Not long after Les entertained his thought, John appeared on the left flank with the royal guards. Their bodies were covered in blood and dust, obscuring their radiance but revealing they had just emerged victorious.

"What's the situation here, Les?" John asked, tightening the reins and calming his steed.

Les gestured towards the formidable shield wall before them, composed of soldiers brought by Count Tormond. "These are Count Tormond's men. Their shield wall is too strong for us to break through."

John observed the shield wall formed by Norsemen and understood why Les was struggling to advance. It truly resembled an impenetrable fortress.

"But they sent messengers earlier, expressing a desire for peace talks," Les added nervously, fearing John's reaction.

Upon hearing this, John's expression showed confusion rather than anger, resembling a perplexed elderly man staring at a smartphone.

"Has Count Tormond lost his mind?" John frowned. "Send their messenger back. Tell him if he doesn't surrender today, his head will stay right here."

"Yes, Your Highness," Les acknowledged promptly.