Hardly believing I had survived, I scrambled to my feet, taking my place again in the wall, all the while expecting to find more spears thrust at me than I could count. But Eudo and Serlo were protecting my flanks, holding the enemy off, and for some reason the English seemed to be wavering, unsure whether or not to press their advantage, even though they must have seen that our numbers were dwindling. In battle even the slightest hesitation can prove fatal, as I had often seen, and I knew we had to seize this chance.
‘Forwards!’ I shouted, in spite of my splintered shield. My voice was hoarse as I raised my sword to the sky. ‘Forwards!’
The strength of the shield-wall lies in its numbers and its close-packed ranks, and yet for all that it is a fragile thing, for if those ranks are ever broken it can quickly collapse. And so it did then as we rushed forward, driving a wedge into the gap where the man whose foot I had severed had stood, and which the English had not yet filled. My sword had a life of its own as it struck out left and right, dancing from one foe to the next: parrying, carving, thrusting, cleaving a way through the enemy’s midst. This was the melee, the truest test of a warrior’s footwork and sword-skill, and we were winning: sending the English to their deaths, or else fleeing back towards their Welsh allies. We might have succeeded in fighting off the first few attacks, but as I surveyed our host, I saw what the cost had been. Dozens had been wounded and scores more lay dead. Their broken bodies lay sprawled in the mud, spears lodged in their bellies with pennons drooping limply from their hafts, their clothes and their faces plastered with a sticky red-brown mess. Some of those faces were ones that I recognised, men I had made conversation with over the last few days, spearmen and knights and other barons. We could not withstand another assault like that.
Except it seemed that the two lion banners were on the move. Rather than making their way down the hill to try to finish us, to my surprise the Welshmen were marching along the valley to the north, beyond the mill. Again the horns blew, and this time I realised where the sound was coming from, and what it meant.
Riding from out of the rain and the gloom to the north came conrois upon conrois of mailed horsemen, too many to count, kicking up mud and stones as they came. Held high above them, streaming in the wind, were black pennons and flags, and emblazoned in white upon each of them was a device that I recognised, in the shape of a wolf.
Earl Hugues had arrived.
Sixteen
There he was, surrounded by his knights, riding up the valley through the driving rain, between the copses and the briar patches and across the fields and the meadows towards us.
‘The Wolf!’ Eudo cried out, laughing and whooping with joy at the same time. ‘It’s him!’
Word must have reached him, and now he had come to give battle in person, together with his army of fifteen hundred men. In an instant our fortunes had turned, and now it was the Welsh who were shouting rallying cries, bellowing orders and trying desperately to encourage their men. Under the twin banners of the blue-tongued lion, they rallied against the greater threat coming from the north, and this time I could make out both their kings, Bleddyn and Rhiwallon, each on horseback and each surrounded by his teulu. Meanwhile the Englishmen who not so long ago had been throwing themselves in their scores against our shield-wall were now falling back, leaving their Welsh comrades to stand alone against the onrushing wave of Norman horsemen sweeping across the flood plain of the valley floor. Clods of turf and mud were thrown up by their passage, and their hundreds upon hundreds of hooves raised a thunder that resounded off the hills.
Above that din came a repeated cry, one that was taken up all along the line, until they were shouting with one voice: ‘Normandy!’
And then they were upon the enemy. Often horses will refuse to go up against a properly formed line bristling with spears firmly set against them, but equally a mounted charge is a terrifying thing to face, and any shield-wall lacking in either discipline or nerve will quickly crumble. So it was then, as the Wolf’s knights drove wedges into the massed shields of the Welsh lines. Like nails being hammered into timber they smashed through their ranks, skewering foemen on their lances and trampling their corpses into the dirt. The tide of battle was turning; suddenly the enemy were being pushed back towards the ridge, and all that lay between us and Earl Hugues was open ground, albeit open ground that was strewn with loose stones from the destroyed wall, with what remained of the carts, with broken bodies, snapped spears and splintered shields.
‘To horse,’ I said to Serlo and Eudo beside me, then called out for all to hear: ‘To horse!’
I did not so much as bother to wipe my blade clean as I sheathed it, then made for the field by the river behind our lines, where the beasts had been corralled. My arms felt heavy, weary from so much killing and weighed down by mail and shield, and my legs protested, but I knew this fight was far from over yet. Snocca and Cnebba brought me Nihtfeax and I mounted up, though not before untangling my forearm from the straps attached to the ruined piece of wood and leather, and casting the thing aside. A broken shield was about as much use as none at all, or perhaps even worse, for it was a burden that offered no protection.
‘Sceld,’ I said to the boys. ‘Bringath me sceld.’
Cnebba hurried away while Snocca passed me a wooden bottle filled with water. I took it and drank as quickly as I could manage; the liquid spilled down my chin and the front of my hauberk, and when I’d finished I tossed the empty vessel aside.
Knights flocked to their lords’ banners, their horses snorting impatiently. Among them were men of all ages: some so young they must have only recently taken their oaths, their eyes eager and filled with the battle-hunger; a few much older than myself, many of whom were missing ears or fingers and whose faces were lined with the scars of campaigns past.
‘What’s your plan now?’ a familiar voice growled. I turned; it was Berengar. His face was flushed and he was nursing a fresh cut, bright and glistening, that ran across his cheek just above the line of his jaw. At least that showed he had been making himself useful, rather than hiding behind the spear-arms of other men.
‘Now we take the fight to them.’ Waving to those men who had been with me in the charge earlier, or as many of them as were left, I shouted with hoarse voice: ‘Conroi to me!’
As they were driven back to the slopes beneath the ridge, however, the Welshmen began to rally. The strength of the charge lies mainly in its speed and the sudden force it can bring to bear, but against a tightly packed formation it can quickly fail. Having recovered from the shock of the opening collision, the enemy now closed ranks and locked shields against Earl Hugues’s knights, forcing them to abandon the attack lest they became surrounded. The Normans peeled off, back down to the level ground on the valley floor, to where the Wolf was marshalling the rest of his host: his five hundred knights, to which we could now add the fewer than three hundred that at a glance I reckoned I had left to me. Eight hundred at most, then, against an enemy numbering probably twice as many. Somewhere amongst them had to be Lord Robert. I wondered where all the Wolf’s foot-warriors were, and then glanced to the north and saw ranks upon ranks of shield-bosses and spears coming to join us, albeit still more than a mile off. The enemy must have seen them too, and realised that they had to make use of their advantage now if they were to stand a chance of defeating us. Once more they came, this time hurling their entire force into the fray, spilling down the hill in pursuit of Hugues’s knights as they broke off from their charge.
‘Defend the wolf banner,’ I cried. ‘Go, go, go!’
What remained of our raiding-party had marshalled by then, and I waved to them, urging them on, directing them towards the left wing of the Wolf’s army where the lines looked thinnest and in desperate need of reinforcement.
I was about to spur Nihtfeax on and follow them when out of the corner of my eye I saw Maredudd and Ithel riding towards me, having gathered together those of their hearth-troops that were left. Both looked weary; their faces an
d hair were streaked with dirt and spattered with the blood of their foes and some that might have been their own, but there was a determination in their eyes that I had not seen before.
‘Stay together,’ I said. Men raced past us on both sides and I had to raise my voice to make myself heard above their shouts and the hammering of hooves. ‘As long as we manage that, we stand a chance of making it through this day with our heads still attached to our necks.’
Ithel shook his head fiercely. ‘We will not get a better chance than this to slay the usurpers, those defilers of law and of the Church, those stealers of kingdoms. They have denied us our birthright for too long!’
‘No,’ I said. ‘If you and your retainers break away to go after Rhiwallon and Bleddyn, you’ll not only be riding to your own deaths but risking our skins too. All we need to do is hold off the enemy until Earl Hugues’s spearmen arrive to bolster our ranks.’
‘We came seeking the help of your earl, Fitz Osbern, to drive them out of our lands, out of Wales,’ Maredudd put in, his tone less impassioned than his brother’s, though he sounded no less determined. ‘This is the day for which we have been praying for seven long years. We will not be denied.’
‘We will drive our swords into their bellies and rip the hearts from their chests,’ Ithel added before I could so much as get a word in. ‘We will throw their corpses to the dogs to feed on and carry their heads as trophies to show to their vassals in Mathrafal. We have vowed to kill them and we will do it today, in this valley, here in Mechain!’ He turned to his retainers. ‘Ni ae lad wynt!’
The Welsh horsemen, of which there were perhaps two dozen, roared as one. Perhaps some of them had been drinking in the lulls between the fighting, or perhaps their blood was already up after the killing of their fellow warriors, but whatever he had said, it was enough to stir the battle-rage within them.
‘No,’ I said sharply, grabbing Ithel’s shoulder and forcing him to turn and face me. ‘Listen to me.’
In an instant he had twisted free. ‘Take your hands-’
‘Shut up and listen,’ I interrupted him. ‘If we’re to succeed and see this day through, I need you and your men to stay with me.’ Desperately I met Maredudd’s eyes. Being the older of the two, I thought he would be more likely to see reason. ‘Surely you understand this?’
‘Lord,’ said Serlo. He was pointing upriver to the south, from where the party of foot-warriors that the enemy had sent to cut off our escape was beginning to march, looking to bring their weapons to bear. And then I glimpsed cloth flying, with what looked like a crude depiction of a boar being speared embroidered upon it.
‘That’s Wild Eadric’s flag,’ said Maredudd. ‘I have seen it before.’
To whom it belonged to hardly mattered, although I confess that upon hearing those words a shiver ran through me. If we did not ride soon, Earl Hugues and his men would quickly find themselves overwhelmed and all would be lost.
‘I want your oaths that you’ll stay with the rest of us,’ I said to the two princes.
His expression a mixture of anger and disbelief, Ithel stared at me. ‘You want us, the sons of Gruffydd, the rightful kings of Wales, to give you our oaths?’
‘I want you both to swear it.’
They exchanged words in their own tongue that I could not understand. Maredudd placed his hands on his brother’s shoulders, trying to calm him down, but Ithel shook him off, pointing a finger angrily at me. His cheeks even redder than usual, he uttered a series of short words that I could only guess were curses, but then the elder one’s tone grew sharper and Ithel, shaking his head, backed down.
‘We swear it,’ Maredudd said solemnly, and Ithel shrugged. Whether that was meant as defiance or as grudging agreement I couldn’t be sure, though it seemed that was the best I was likely to get from him. I only hoped he would not do anything foolish. He seemed a dependable enough warrior, a better swordsman than most from what I’d seen, and certainly he was eager. Still, all that would count for nothing if he lacked the temperament to match: if he allowed his desire for revenge to get the better of him.
‘Remember who’s beside you,’ I added, calling this time to my knights as well as to Maredudd and Ithel, who in their own tongue repeated what I hoped were the same orders to the mounted men of their teulu. ‘Don’t lose sight of them. They will protect your flanks as you protect theirs. Keep formation and above all stay together!’
I exchanged a final look with Serlo and Pons, then glanced further down the line to Eudo and Wace. Their eyes were fixed, unwavering, on the enemy masses gathered under the twin lion banners, possibly picturing what they would do when we met their lines, rehearsing in their minds the slash and drive and cut of their sword-arms. Then Eudo crossed himself, something I rarely saw him do before battle, and suddenly knowing his fear made me more nervous too.
Trying to rid myself of such doubts, I wheeled about, freeing my sword from its sheath and pointing it towards the heavens. ‘For St Ouen and for God; on, on, on!’
‘Cymry,’ I heard the princes shout, and the cry was taken up by their retainers: ‘Cymry, Cymry!’
With that I dug my heels into Nihtfeax’s flanks and drove him into a canter. Our fates were no longer in our hands but those of God, and I prayed that He would see us safely through.
Often in battle there are times when instinct takes over and it is a struggle afterwards to recall exactly what happened, and this was one of those times. I remember the foul smell of the fresh-spilt guts rising from the bodies strewn across the meadows, the burning in my chest as I took each breath, the cold wind piercing my mail and my tunic, the feel of the rain, iron-hard, striking my cheek, the stinging as the water mixed with the sweat upon my brow and ran into my eyes, the thunder of hooves, the blood-stained grass flying beneath us as we broke into a gallop. Not far off to our right hand I glimpsed the black-and-gold banner belonging to Lord Robert, and for some reason that sight filled me with renewed confidence.
Swarming down the slopes before us were a horde of Welsh and English, so many that I could not count them, throwing themselves against the Wolf’s knights. The lion banners of Rhiwallon and Bleddyn held the centre, leading their mounted hearth-troops into the heart of the melee, while the rest — the more lightly armed spearmen, lacking even helmets or leather corselets to defend themselves — came around Hugues’s flanks in an effort to hem him in.
Into that tumult we rode. Like a wave breaking upon the shore we crashed into their ranks, sweeping foemen before us. Hooves battered upon limewood, sending Welshmen sprawling, smashing ribs and limbs and skulls, and my blade flashed silver as I heaved the edge across shoulders and necks, buried its point in faces and chests. And still we drove on, further and further, until we were amongst them, spreading out to wreak our fury more widely, our swords ringing with the sound of slaughter. Some stood against us with spears or wood-axes; others launched javelins; while the few who were armed with bows held their lines further up the slope towards the ridge, raining barbed arrows down upon us. So scattered were we that most of those missiles failed to strike, lodging harmlessly in the turf, but more than once I had to duck suddenly and raise my shield to prevent sharpened steel finding my neck.
‘They’re coming!’ Wace bellowed from close by my flank, and I turned to see one of the two lion banners making its way in our direction. Their king and his teulu, some fifty or sixty strong, were riding in our direction to bolster the failing ranks of foot-warriors, to rouse their spirits, to bring the fight to us and cut us off.
‘Riwallawn Urenhin,’ they chanted. Above the crash of steel and the screams of the dying I could only just hear their voices and those two words: ‘Riwallawn Urenhin!’
The name I recognised, and I had heard enough of the Welsh tongue to know what that meant. King Rhiwallon. This, then, was the man who was responsible for the raids on Earnford. For despoiling my manor and killing my people. For killing Lyfing. I could barely make him out amidst his retainers, so tight was their formation
. Shorter and slighter of stature than I might have expected, he did not look the most formidable of men, but then appearances could easily deceive. A red moustache adorned his face, and across the top of his helmet ran a crest of black feathers, no doubt to mark him out to his men.
It seemed to work, for as they caught sight of their king riding to their aid, throwing himself into the fray, the enemy began to recover their confidence. They stiffened their ranks in the face of our attack and rallied their shield-wall. With every moment the noose was closing around our necks. Again I glanced to the north, where our foot-warriors were closer than before but not yet close enough, being still half a mile away and more. At this rate they would never reach us in time. Unless we did something soon, we would find ourselves trapped once more, with death the only way out. Earl Hugues and Lord Robert were struggling to hold back the flood of foemen, and I knew that the only way we could hope to stand fast until those spearmen reached us was if we all kept together, kept formation.
‘With me!’ I called to the thinly spread men of my raiding-band, trying to rally them around me. ‘Conroi with me!’
Quickly the message was passed on, to Wace and Eudo and Berengar and the other barons, to our Welsh allies under the princes Maredudd and Ithel-
Who were not there. It took me but a heartbeat to spot the serpent banner across the field of corpses, and in that heartbeat my gut twisted. They had ignored my instruction, broken their oaths, and instead of following us they were charging, in spite of their meagre numbers, towards Rhiwallon and his bodyguard, roaring to the heavens as they drew their swords, their expressions twisted in hatred of their enemy.
‘Cymry!’ they called as one. The cry was echoed by their archers, who having spent their arrows now lent their support and the weight of their massed bodies to their princes’ charge. ‘Cymry, Cymry, Cymry!’
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