"Look," said Anlaf, the guide, "at that sloping ground which rises to
the northwest. There the Welsh (Britons) stood, formed in nine strong
battalions. In that hollow they placed their archers, and here their
javelin men and cavalry were arranged after the old Roman fashion. Our
Englishmen were all in one battalion, and charged them fiercely, when
they were thrown into confusion by the cunning tricks of the Welsh, who
made up in craft what they wanted in manly courage.
"Look at this brook which flows to the river, it was running with blood
that evening, and our men lay piled in huge heaps where they tried to
scale the hill which you see yonder."
"And did the Welsh gain the day so easily?" said Elfric, sorrowfully.
"I don't wonder; they were fighting for their lives, and even a rat will
fight if you get him into a corner; besides, they had all their best men
here."
"Do you know where Sebbald fell?" said Elfric, referring to his own
ancestor.
"Just under this hillock, close by King Cynric, who fought like a lion
to save the body, but was unable to do so. The Welsh were then gaining
the day. Still, even his foes respected his valour, and gave your
forefather a fair and honourable burial."
Leaving the battlefield, they entered the Saxon town, which was defended
on one side by the Cherwell, on the other by a mound and palisade, with
an outer ditch supplied by the river.
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