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 mêlée, 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!’
‘Back!’ I shouted after them, but it was in vain. Either they could not hear me, or they chose not to, for they did not stop.
Swearing aloud, I brought Nihtfeax to a halt. The princes’ retinue was too small to challenge the fresh troops headed by their foe and rival. Together we could hold our own, but divided as we were, defeat beckoned. All this because of their selfishness, their stupidity and recklessness.
‘Sons of whores,’ Pons said as he checked his destrier beside me.
On my other flank, Serlo’s expression was grim. ‘What now?’
In such moments did the fate of battles lie. Whatever decision we made now, it had to be made quickly, and there would be little chance of turning back from it.
‘We follow them,’ I said grimly as I dug my heels into Nihtfeax’s flanks. Ahead, the enemy were taunting us to come and die on their spears, but I turned Nihtfeax away to the right, towards the lion banner and the black-crested helmet bobbing beneath it. ‘We’ll take the battle to the enemy’s king!’
I fixed my eyes upon Rhiwallon ap Cynfyn as he and his men met the sons of Gruffydd, each side aiming their spearpoints towards the chests and helmets of their opponents to try to knock them from the saddle, or else cutting with the edges of their swords across the flanks of their mounts. Men on both sides fell on to the churned earth; splinters of wood flew as hafts snapped and shields were fractured. Those less badly injured rose to carry on fighting, joining their side’s foot-warriors who were throwing themselves into the struggle, while others less fortunate were ridden down or run through even as they tried to get to their feet or crawl out of danger.
Knee to knee we rode into the heart of that mêlée: through the rain, across a field strewn with corpses, through puddles made red where blood had run into the rainwater, up the hill. I no longer knew how many we numbered altogether; all I cared about was keeping that black crest and that scarlet lion in sight. All was chaos as the two groups of Welshmen rode amongst each other until I could barely tell ally from adversary. Neither side held its formations but instead struck out at whoever crossed their path, their patience spent and discipline forgotten as rage and years-old rivalries took hold.
‘Stay close,’ Wace called out to some of the knights on our left who were drawing ahead of the rest of us, fanning out in pursuit of the kill. ‘Stay with Lord Tancred!’
Then I saw them: the brothers Ithel and Maredudd with their nasal-pieces and cheek-guards inlaid with shining gold, riding alongside each other with swords raised high, making straight for the red-moustached King Rhiwallon, who somehow in the midst of all that butchery had found himself almost alone with only four of his retainers for protection. The two sides met and their blades shrieked as steel scraped against steel.
After that everything happened quickly; so quickly, indeed, that there was nothing any of us could have done. For one so slight, Rhiwallon was a more than able warrior, a good horseman and fast with his blade too. Ithel was the first of the princes to test his sword-arm against him, backhanding a wild swing at his head, but the king jerked his mount sharply to the left, at the same time leaning out of the way. The point missed his cheek by a hair’s breath, and as Ithel was recovering, raising his blade ready for another strike, Rhiwallon was already turning, slashing across the young man’s forearm, in one blow severing his hand with the fingers still clasped around the sword-hilt. Ithel yelled in agony and in horror at the bloody stump that was left.
‘Get back!’ I shouted, but it was too late; one of Rhiwallon’s men finished what the king had begun, thrusting the point of his blade under Ithel’s hauberk into his gut. The prince clutched at the wound with his one remaining hand, and as his mount reared up he tumbled backwards over the cantle of his saddle. His neck snapped back as he struck the earth.
‘Ithel!’ Maredudd screamed despairingly.
He wheeled around to face Rhiwallon, dug his spurs into his mount’s flanks and charged, followed by what was left of his teulu and his contingent of spearmen, with myself and my conroi trailing behind. Faced with so many adversaries, this time the King of Powys hesitated,
just for a fraction of a heartbeat, but it was a fraction too long. Uncertain whether to meet the prince’s charge or to seek safety behind the lines of his foot-warriors, in the end he did neither. Maredudd was upon him in an instant, battering down with his sword so hard that the yellow and scarlet painted hide fell away from Rhiwallon’s shield. But still the king did not retreat, even while his retainers on both flanks were being cut down and beaten back, and when Maredudd’s next strike missed and he left himself exposed, the king seized the opportunity, slashing across the prince’s unprotected thigh.
It was the last blow that Rhiwallon would have the chance to land. Howling in pain and rage, Maredudd flung himself from the saddle at his foe, seizing him around his mailed chest and pitching them both flailing to the ground.
I didn’t get the chance to see what happened next. The king’s retainers were swarming forward again and the banner of the house of Cynfyn still soared, though not for long.
‘The lion banner,’ I yelled. ‘His weight in silver for the man who takes it!’
Such wealth was not mine to give, but that hardly mattered, for it was enough to encourage the men who were with me. Those who not much earlier had seen only defeat ahead of them suddenly glimpsed victory and glory. With renewed spirits they spurred their mounts onwards, riding harder and faster, and in the face of our charge the enemy crumbled. Perhaps having seen their king fall they no longer had any stomach for the fight, for suddenly we were scything our way through them as easily as a farmer cuts the wheat at harvest-time, losing ourselves to the wills of our blades, to the sword-joy. The hard struggle that we had experienced in the shield-wall seemed a lifetime ago. Then a cheer rose up and I saw one of our knights slice across the throat of the young man who had been carrying the enemy’s banner.
‘For Normandy,’ the knight cried as he leapt down from the saddle. With his knife he cut a long slash across the belly of the scarlet lion before raising it aloft and waving it for all to see. The rest of the enemy were running now and none dared challenge him. ‘For Fitz Osbern and for King Guillaume!’
That was when I recognised his pudgy face and his stout build. Berengar. It shouldn’t have mattered to me who had taken the flag, but somehow, even amidst everything else that was happening, it did. I only hoped he did not expect me to make good on my offer.
Having seen their banner and their king fall, Rhiwallon’s men were turning tail now, but they were not the only ones. Bleddyn and his retainers had driven deep into Earl Hugues’s ranks, and on all sides were cutting Normans down in their dozens. Blood sprayed and mailed knights toppled from their saddles, and suddenly those conrois were breaking. A horn blasted out: a single long note that was the signal to withdraw. The white wolf and the black and gold were turning, and suddenly along the whole battle-line knights were peeling off, taking to flight. Nor was this the feigned flight that we often practised, that had worked at Hæstinges to draw the enemy out from their positions and help divide their forces. I had campaigned long enough to recognise panic, and theirs was real enough.
The Welshmen pursued them in their hordes, running through those who were too tired or injured to flee, with Bleddyn and his mounted bodyguard leading the massacre.
The battle was lost. After everything, we had failed, and now the field belonged to the enemy. Anger boiled within my veins.
Even as I sat there, my feet rooted to the stirrups, a red-faced Wace was shouting, not just to his men, but to everyone: ‘Retreat! Go north; follow the river!’
Similar cries were raised by the other barons, weary horses were spurred on again, and I had no choice but to follow. Around me men were running, abandoning their pursuit of the enemy, abandoning the fight as fear took hold of them.
Maredudd’s retainers helped him to his feet and on to his horse. His eyes were tight shut, his face contorted in agony, the thigh of his trews dark with blood. His men were gathering one by one, standing by their horses and watching, seemingly oblivious to what was going on around them, to the sound of the war-horns and sight of the men fleeing. I had seen men take worse injuries and live, but not often. And yet one thing was for certain: he would die if we did not get him away from there.
Not ten paces away lay Rhiwallon’s body, his eyes wide in death, his mouth hanging open as if gasping for breath. The black-crested helmet was still attached to his head, but even were it not, I would still have recognised him by his red moustache. His throat had been slit and Maredudd’s dagger with its gold-worked hilt left in his groin for good measure.
‘It is done,’ Maredudd said when I rode alongside him. ‘His life for my brother’s.’
His breath came in stutters and I could see it was hard for him to speak, let alone find the French words.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We have to get away from here while we can.’
Only too well did I understand his grief. And for all his arrogance, I had liked Ithel too. But there would be time enough for that later. Serlo was shouting at me, telling me to leave the Welsh whoresons behind; that if they wanted to stay and get themselves killed, that was their choice and not mine.
The chants of the enemy were growing ever louder, ever closer. I glanced once more across the muddied field towards those lines of brightly painted shields and shining bosses marching towards us, then I turned and spurred Nihtfeax on, following my conroi, thinking of nothing save pushing harder, riding faster. Hooves churned what was left of the turf into a quagmire as, with the enemy’s cries of victory lifting to the stone-grey heavens, we raced across the meadows, through the cold mist and the soaking rain, away from that place.
Seventeen
THE ENEMY DID not pursue us. No doubt Rhiwallon’s death had shaken them, and left them without the stomach for a long chase. It was small relief. Our raiding-army – the one that not much more than a week ago had ridden to war dreaming of blood and of glory – was all but shattered. Of the five hundred with which I’d begun that day, less than half now remained. Nor had Earl Hugues’s host fared any better, as I saw when eventually we caught up with him. He’d left Scrobbesburh at the head of fifteen hundred fighting men, but whereas his spearnen were still for the most part fresh, having never had the chance to face the enemy, easily half his knights – his best fighters – now lay dead.
In all it was a sorry band of warriors that we were left with: spent, bruised and broken, in spirit if not in body; limping, leaning on the hafts of their spears and shoulders of their friends for support; their faces smeared with dirt, their tunics soaked in vomit and their trews reeking of piss and shit. Many were grievously wounded, soon to leave this world for whatever fate awaited them beyond, comforted in their final moments by their companions.
Among those left behind was Turold. He had clung to life as long as he could, they said, but the spear that had pierced his side had been driven deep, and the wound was too severe. His final breath had left his lips moments after he had been dragged from the fray.
‘He was a good fighter,’ Serlo said once the priest had left us. The big man was not usually one to show his emotion, but I saw the lump in his throat as he swallowed.
Pons’s head was bowed towards the ground. ‘A good fighter,’ he echoed, more solemnly than I had ever heard him speak. ‘And a good friend.’
I nodded silently; there was nothing more I could add. Turold had been the first of my knights to enter my service, mere days after Lord Robert had granted me Earnford. The only son of a wine merchant from Rudum, when I met him he had been begging outside the alehouses of Lundene, having been cast out by his drunkard of a father not long before. Three boys his age had taken a dislike to him for whatever reason: perhaps he had insulted them, or else they were simply looking for a fight, for they had set upon him. For a while he held them off, wrestling one to the ground, biting the arm of another and kneeing him in the groin, and bloodying the nose of the third. Eventually, however, they got the better of him, and he was pinned against the wall. Had I not frightened them away then he would prob
ably have ended up with broken bones, or worse. Still, for one who had never had any training he had proven himself a ferocious fighter, and I saw that his youthful appearance belied a quick temper and a stout heart.
Perhaps it was because I was sorry for him, or because he reminded me in some small way of myself at that age, but I took him in. It was often said among men of noble birth that if a boy had never ridden a horse or begun to practise sword- and spearcraft by the age of twelve, then he was fit only to be a priest. That said, I was into my fourteenth summer when I started on that path, and things had not turned out badly for me. Turold was seventeen, he reckoned, though he did not know exactly. Despite that he was a sturdier lad than I had been, and already a talented horseman, with a natural affinity for the animals: a more accomplished rider, in fact, than many men twice his age. Eager to learn and to please, he spent hours each day in the training yard, practising his cuts and strokes at the pell. Within months he was using the skills he had learnt on the Welsh bands who came raiding across the dyke.
It all seemed so long ago. In fact I had known Turold little more than a year, hard though that was to believe; it felt like much longer. But while Pons and Serlo both seemed to take his death hard, I could feel only numbness.
Our host finally halted some hours later. Thankfully there had been no sign of enemy scouts following us, and so we had some respite while we decided what to do next. Still, we were in a low-lying position in open farmland that afforded little protection; the only reason we had stopped was because so many were collapsing from exhaustion. The sooner we could move from here, the better.
I went to seek out the black-and-gold banner. Lord Robert and his knights had survived for the most part with little more than cuts and grazes, together with a few broken teeth. Nonetheless, they were decidedly fewer than when I had last seen them in Scrobbesburh.
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