‘No,’ I said. I felt suddenly cold, as if my very soul had flown from my body. Words stuck in my throat, the breath torn from my chest. ‘It can’t be.’ I saw her face before me, her black hair running wild as she glared at me with her dark eyes, cursing in her English tongue.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mauger said.
‘No,’ I repeated. ‘She’s not dead. She’s not.’ I stared into his eyes, willing him to deny it, but I saw only his guilt. Guilt because he had failed me. I wanted to strike him for that failure, strike him from his horse to the street below, except that all the strength had left my limbs and I could not have done so even had I tried.
I heard Wace’s voice behind me, ordering the retreat, and the horn blowing from the direction of the marketplace, and the shouts of all those men, cheering, screaming, chanting, dying. Around me the smoke was growing thicker and blacker, swirling in my face, stinging my eyes. Sparks lifted into the air like a scattering of stars, flaring momentarily before one by one their lives were extinguished and they disappeared, swallowed up by the night.
Men rushed past me, on horse and on foot, and I heard their cries but knew not what they were saying as I sat frozen to the saddle. Behind me the drumming was closer and I imagined all those Northumbrians marching towards us, with nothing but murder in their hearts—
And I knew that Mauger was not the one to blame.
I yanked hard on the reins and Rollo reared up, but I no longer cared, for I had but one thing in mind.
‘Tancred!’ Mauger said, but I pretended not to hear as I turned back down the way between the houses, pressing my heels in harder than before, drawing every last fraction of speed from Rollo’s legs.
I pulled my sword free of its scabbard, flourishing it high above my head, just as the smoke cleared and then without warning the English were rushing towards me. I crashed into their first line before they could even come together and form their shield-wall: roaring, swearing death upon them all; slashing, scything, cleaving with my blade; and I was shouting in anger, shouting without words, shouting so that my voice would be the last thing they heard before I sent them all to hell.
There were others with me now as I tore into the enemy, but in truth I didn’t care whether or not they were there, for the bloodlust was upon me and there was nothing that could stop me. I heaved my sword up and across the back of a Northumbrian’s helm, and he fell under Rollo’s hooves. Straightaway I was turning, lifting for another stroke, using the full weight of the weapon to batter down another’s shield before drawing the point across his throat and up under his chin.
Beside me, a horse rose up on its hind legs; its front feet pawed at the air and the whites of its eyes gleamed in the darkness, before one of the Englishmen plunged his spear deep into the animal’s belly. It thrashed wildly, screaming in pain, and its rider was suddenly thrown from the saddle. The breath caught in my chest as I saw that it was Fulcher, but I was too far away to do anything. He was struggling to get to his feet when the same spearman thrust the point down, through his broad chest into his heart.
‘Fulcher!’ I shouted, and gritted my teeth, putting all of my strength into my sword-arm as I swung—
There was a flash of steel from below and pain seared down my lower leg. I clung on to Rollo’s neck even as I backhanded my blade across the chest of the one who had struck me, screaming to God and the saints, as the full agony overtook me.
‘Get back,’ someone said, and I realised it was Wace’s voice. Fire reflected in his sword as he brought it to bear upon the enemy. ‘Get back!’
It took me a moment to realise that he was shouting at me and not at the English, but in that moment the bloodlust faded and suddenly I found myself in the midst of more spears than I could count, with only Wace by my side. I looked to my left just as Gérard was dragged from his mount, and I sat rooted to my stirrups while the English set upon him with swords and knives and spears. Still he struggled, fending off the blows with his shield, until one of the enemy, taller than the rest, came forward with a long-handled axe and brought it down upon Gérard’s chest.
‘Go,’ Wace was shouting.
Sweat poured down off my brow into my face, mingling with my tears. I didn’t care whether I lived or died; all I wanted was to strike down the man who had killed Gérard. I charged forward before he could lift the weapon for another swing, turning my sword-hilt in my hand so that I held it instead more like a dagger. His eyes widened as he saw me coming, and he dropped the axe as he ducked to one side, but he was too slow and too tall and I was able to stab down, driving into his back so hard that the blade stuck as I tried to pull it free. The hilt was slick with the spilt blood of my foes and my own sweat, and I felt my hand slipping. I struggled to clutch on to it but my fingers found only air, and then I saw it falling behind me, tumbling point over hilt, glinting with the light of so many torches, before it thudded into the ground and fear overtook me.
Spears thrust up at me from my right and I leant back in the saddle, away from them, even as a forest of steel pressed in from my left; I could not see an end to the enemy. I clung to Rollo’s neck, keeping my shield by his flank, taking each blow that came. The dark shadows of the houses rose tall to either side.
‘Go,’ Wace said, alongside my exposed flank. ‘Faster; ride harder!’ His sword flashed and the enemy fell before us, and I was riding onwards, onwards, onwards.
And then we were past them and on the main street once again, except that the way to the stronghold was blocked and the enemy were streaming through the alleys with fire and steel in their hands, hacking down those few who remained. There were corpses everywhere and the earth was stained crimson. Above us, behind the palisade which crowned the promontory, the mead-hall was burning; great flames writhed up towards the clouds above, twisting around each other, quickly breaking out across the whole of the thatch as the wind gusted down from the north.
‘We need to find Lord Robert,’ I breathed, wiping my hand across my face, as if that might somehow dispel everything I saw before me. A fresh surge of pain coursed through my leg, but I bit it back. ‘We need to find Eudo.’
‘Not now,’ Wace said, and he tore the reins from my grasp, tugging Rollo away, towards the river and the bridge. For the enemy had spotted us and they were running towards us, sensing more blood. I sat frozen in the saddle, my whole body numb as I stared at them, scarce believing what was happening. I had no sword, the rim of my shield had split, my mount was almost spent, and I knew that all was lost.
‘Ride,’ Wace said, already spurring his horse on down the slope towards the bridge.
I looked back at the town, at the hordes of Englishmen who were giving chase, at the few Normans in the distance, still fighting desperately on. I heard the cries that came from the fastness, the scrape of steel upon mail, the roars of victory from the enemy, and the battle-thunder, which was louder than ever. A plume of smoke blew in front of me, blocking my sight, and then at last I turned, following Wace as he raced down towards the river. Hooves sounded hollow against stone as we passed across the bridge, over the cold black waters.
‘On,’ I told Rollo.
The cries still filled my ears but I did not look back, watching only where my mount placed his tired feet as we climbed up amongst the trees. Rain began to spit upon us once more, and as the drops grew heavier, slowly the noises from the town started to fade.
‘On,’ I whispered, to none but myself. The water ran off my nasal-guard, seeping inside my mail and my tunic, and the darkness closed in around us as we rode deeper into the woods, into the night.
Four
WE DID NOT stop until dawn. The woods were dense, the hills steep and the paths treacherous, but we pressed on nonetheless. The more miles we could put between ourselves and the enemy, the better. I didn’t know whether they might send riders out to chase down those who had fled, but I had no wish to find out.
The whole sky was covered in cloud; no stars or moon could be seen. Still the rain fell, the drops
bouncing off my helmet. Underneath I was soaked through, my tunic, shirt and braies all clinging to my skin as water mingled with sweat. My calf felt as though it were aflame, while each gust of wind was like a lance through my back. My cloak offered no protection, hanging damp and heavy around me, stained with the blood of my foes and some that might have been my own; I could not tell, and in truth I did not care. None of it mattered, for the battle had been lost, and Oswynn was dead.
If only I hadn’t left her. I should have stayed, or else taken her with us, for then she would have been safe. As I had ridden away to join the others I had not even looked back. But then I couldn’t have known that by leaving her there, I would be leaving her to her death.
I couldn’t have known, I kept telling myself, repeating the words over and over in my head. I couldn’t have known.
I felt tears welling up inside but tried to hold them back. I should have left her in the south. Instead, by bringing her to this godforsaken place, I had failed her, just as I had failed Fulcher and Gérard. I had known those two for so many years; together we had fought through so much, away from the field of battle as well as on it.
I closed my eyes. Gérard, Fulcher, Oswynn: all of them now dead. And I was the one who, through my foolishness, had killed them.
I swallowed, wiping a hand across my eyes, brushing away the moisture that I could feel forming. I wondered what had happened to Eudo and Mauger, Ivo and Hedo and all the rest of my conroi, and prayed that they too had managed to get away: that they and Lord Robert were all safe.
Beneath me Rollo was tiring: each step seemed slower, each breath more laboured than the one before. I knew how he felt. My own eyes were growing heavy, and my limbs were tiring, but I knew we had to keep going. Several times I heard a war-horn in the distance, its blast long and deep as it cut through the night, though whether it was theirs or ours, I could not tell. All I could do was keep riding, urging Rollo on, digging my heels in every time he slowed.
Ahead, Wace picked his way through the trees. In the darkness the deer-tracks were difficult to follow, forking and then forking again, often seeming to double back upon themselves. We had left the better-trodden paths behind us, which meant that if the enemy were in pursuit, there was less chance of them overtaking us. But I was not sure whether we were even riding in the right direction; the woods looked the same no matter which way I turned. All we knew was that the wind had been blowing from the north earlier, and so we kept it at our backs as much as we could, striking out south, in the direction of Eoferwic.
For if there were any others who had managed to get out of Dunholm, that was where we would find them. The city of Eoferwic, captured from the English the previous summer and since entrusted to Guillaume Malet, one of the most powerful lords in Normandy, and held in high esteem by the king. But it was at least three days’ ride away, and probably more if we kept off the main tracks, since the country was not known to us. The old Roman way, if we could find it, would be dangerous, though certainly quicker. That was the route we had taken on our march here, an army of nearly two thousand men under Lord Robert. I wondered what remained of that army now.
Shortly we came upon a clearing where a great oak had once stood, though now it was fallen: a victim of the recent winds, perhaps. At one end its splintered branches splayed out across the ground. At the other, its roots, clogged with dirt, hung over the rough pit where they had been ripped from the earth.
From somewhere in the distance came a shout and I froze, bringing Rollo to a halt. I turned, feeling myself tense, reaching for my sword-hilt, until I realised it wasn’t there. The voice had come from off to our right, but amidst the trees I could see nothing. I looked to Wace, but he did not appear to have heard, for he was riding on ahead.
‘Wace,’ I said, keeping my voice low.
He brought his horse to a stop. There was an impatient look in his eyes, but then again Wace rarely had much patience for anyone. His jaw was clenched, his ventail unhooked and hanging from the side of his coif.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘I heard someone,’ I said, gesturing in the direction that the shout had come from.
His face turned stern as he looked out through the trees. Around us the rain carried on falling. Otherwise all was quiet.
‘You’re mistaken,’ he said, and spurred his mount onwards again.
But then the same voices came again, two of them at least, calling to each other in words I did not understand, but which sounded like English. They could not have been far away, either; a couple of hundred paces at most, and probably less: sound did not carry far in the woods. Had they been following our trail?
Wace glanced at me over his shoulder, no doubt thinking the same thing. ‘Come on,’ he said as he made for the other side of the clearing. The track we had been following turned to the east here, back towards the river Wiire, but he was heading west, into the heart of the wood.
I pressed my heels in and Rollo started forward, moving quickly into a trot. I patted him on the side of his neck. He had worked hard already this night, but he could not rest yet.
We left the clearing behind us, pushing on through the trees. A layer of leaves and pine needles covered the ground, muffling the sound of our horses’ hooves. More than once a branch scraped against my wounded calf. I winced at the pain, but I could not think about it as we kept on going.
I heard the same voices again, behind us, laughing and calling to one another. I glanced over my shoulder, finding it difficult at first to make much out, but then I glimpsed the fallen oak, and beside it shadowy figures on horseback. Three of them in all. I held my breath as I watched them, not wanting to make any sound that might give us away. They dismounted and, still talking, staggered about the clearing. One of them began to sing, another joined in, and then they began to dance about in drunken fashion.
‘Sige!’ they shouted, almost as one, though whether it was meant for us to hear or not, I could not be sure. ‘God us sige forgeaf!’
I realised that Wace was already some way ahead of me, and kicked on again to catch him up. Branches crunched under Rollo’s hooves, and I hoped that they would not hear us, but the laughter and singing continued and I took that as a good sign. As we approached the top of the rise, gradually the shouts began to fade, and the next time I glanced back, the three figures were gone.
There was no more sign of the enemy that night, and for that I thanked God. Several times one of us thought we had heard a sound, but it could only have been an animal, or the wind in the pine branches, for we never saw anything.
We continued west for some while, until we had put enough distance between ourselves and the Englishmen to feel safe. Then we turned to the south once more, or at least what we thought was south. It was becoming harder to tell; the wind was easing, and without the moon or the stars to guide us, we could only strike out and hope for the best.
Before long we came once more to the banks of what must have been the river Wiire. The waters were fast and black as pitch, tumbling and frothing over rocks so jagged they seemed to me like the teeth of some immense beast. There was no chance of us being able to ford it, and so we had no choice but to carry on following it upstream, keeping to the trees as much as possible, in case anyone was watching from the opposite shore.
The first bridge we passed had fallen into ruin, its two stone piers all that remained; another we found in better repair, but the country on the other side lay open, and even in the dark we judged it better to stay in the cover of the woods. It could have been as much as an hour, and perhaps even more, before at last we came upon one we could cross. Beyond it on the other bank the woods continued, and it seemed that they were even thicker than before, if that were possible. The land rose steeply here, the paths slippery with mud and loose stones, and we had to dismount to lead the horses up it, or else risk falling and breaking our own necks as well as theirs.
I staggered up after Wace, my leg paining me more and more with every step. But I knew that if
I stopped to rest I would not want to move again, and so I forced myself to carry on, trying to put my weight on my good leg. Behind me, Rollo followed meekly, his head bowed low. I trudged on, concentrating on placing one foot ahead of the other, hardly daring to look towards the summit, but before long I was falling behind again.
‘Don’t stop,’ Wace called back down to me. He was perhaps twenty paces ahead, already close to the top of the rise. ‘We need to keep going.’
‘It’s my leg,’ I said, grimacing as another bolt of pain shot through the wound.
He left his horse and descended the path once again, taking care over the many roots and stones protruding from the ground.
‘I hadn’t realised,’ he said when he reached me. ‘Is it bad?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I was struck during the battle. It wasn’t so bad while we were riding.’
He knelt down to examine it, and I watched the expression on his face, though it revealed nothing. ‘It’s hard to see,’ he said. ‘But we can’t stop here. It’s not much further to the top. Then we can ride again.’
He placed his arm around my back and under my shoulder, helping me as I limped up the slope. While I regained my breath he went back down for Rollo. I waited, gazing up towards the skies, which were beginning to clear. The rain was easing, now little more than a drizzle.
Soon, though, we were back in the saddle. Even as far as we had come, we could not afford to stop, and so we rode on through the darkness, hour after hour. I had almost begun to think that this night would never end, when at last the skies began to lighten, and as the first rays of sunlight began to break over the horizon, we found ourselves atop a ridge on the edge of the woods. Open country lay to the south, wide and flat all the way as far as I could see, until in the very distance the horizon was lost in the haze. A spire of smoke rose from a farmstead, a small black dot on the plain: the only sign of life.
Sworn Sword Page 4