‘You wouldn’t dare kill me,’ Eadric said. ‘If you do, they will be upon you in less than a heartbeat. They will tear you apart and spit on your corpses.’
‘Shut up,’ I hissed. Step by step we retreated towards the safety of our shield-ring, where Robert set about relieving him of his sword-belt.
‘What do we do now?’ muttered Eudo. ‘Or is this as far as your plan goes?’
I didn’t answer. All I knew was that for the moment as least we held the advantage, and we had to make use of it while we could.
‘Make way,’ I shouted at Eadric’s men. ‘Make way!’
It was a long way from here back to the edge of the marshes, though, and even further from there back to the barn where Ædda was waiting with the horses. Even as the Englishmen and Danes cleared a path and we began to move, keeping our ring formation, I saw that we could not maintain this impasse for long. For they would follow us all the way, and sooner or later some of the more hot-headed among Eadric’s oath-warriors would decide to try their sword-arms against ours and attempt to rescue their lord. I knew because it was what I would do. When that happened I didn’t see how we could manage to fight them all off.
Already a few of them were growing restless, their hands going to the hilts and handles of their weapons as they closed upon us. Behind their shield-rims and their helmets and their long moustaches all I could see of their faces were their cold eyes staring back at me.
‘Stay back!’ Pons said. ‘Stay back or we kill your lord.’
It was an empty threat, and they knew it too, for they kept on coming, faster than we could retreat.
‘They are cowards,’ Eadric shouted in spite of the sharpened steel at his throat. ‘Watch how they run from you!’
And there was nothing more I could do.
‘Stop,’ I said to the others. We had made barely thirty paces from the spot where Eadric had first trapped us. We hadn’t so much as left the horse paddock. For all our efforts, our time had come. I for one would rather meet my maker with sword in hand than running like some pitiful craven. ‘We fight here.’
Eadric began to laugh, as well he might. A thundering, triumphant laugh that matched his byname, it seemed to resound off the surrounding buildings and rise to the cloudy heavens, filling the night. Victory belonged to him after all.
But as I cast my gaze around at my loyal companions in arms, I realised that was not the only sound I heard. From somewhere beyond the walls came what sounded like screams, and they were the kind of screams I’d heard many times in my life, for they were screams of pain, of slaughter and the dying. The enemy must have heard them too, for they halted, glancing uncertainly at each other even as I exchanged confused looks with my sword-brothers. Who could be attacking?
Lord Robert grinned. ‘When you said these were all the men you could muster, I knew it couldn’t be true.’
‘I wasn’t lying,’ I replied, but that was all I had time to say before the sound of war-horns cut me off: two sharp blasts given in quick succession. A signal to rally.
On the main streets all was confusion. Men were running back and forth, some carrying pails filled with water while others seemingly without any purpose at all. And then I realised why, as there was a rush of air from the direction of the walls and the night sky lit up with several long streaks of flame, too many to count, like shooting stars except much lower in the sky and burning more fiercely. They sailed over the top of the palisade: first one volley, then another and another still. Some fell harmlessly on to the mud in the middle of the street, but others landed upon the houses, which quickly caught fire. I glanced back in the direction we had come and saw the thatch of some of the workshops close by the monastery consumed by writhing tongues of red and orange and yellow.
Women fled the houses: wives and camp-followers, slaves and whores alike, wrapping what they could salvage of their menfolk’s belongings inside cloaks, or else stuffing them into haversacks. A riderless horse, a mere shadow against the light, galloped towards the market square through streets filled with smoke. Roofs collapsed with a crash of timbers; clouds of still-glowing ash billowed up into the air where the strengthening breeze carried them from one building to the next. And still the rain of fire continued, as if the forces of hell had been unleashed upon this earth.
‘Shields up!’ I heard Eudo call, although in truth most of those arrows were falling far enough away that they posed little threat.
Then from beyond the palisade, over the cries of the wounded and the dying and the clash of steel upon steel, came the thunder of hooves and the familiar battle-cries: ‘For Normandy! For St Ouen and King Guillaume!’
The horns blew once more, this time in long bursts that sounded for all the world like the death throes of some forlorn and stricken beast: the command to retreat. No sooner had it died away than scores of men were pouring in panic through the town’s southern gates not a hundred paces away: Danes and English, I assumed, since I didn’t recognise the designs on their flags and their shield-faces, all retreating to the protection of the town. And then I saw the purple and yellow stripes of the ætheling, and the raven and cross that belonged to King Sweyn. The two men were mounted next to each other, surrounded by their respective hearth-troops, trying to instil order in their ranks as men ran past to either side of them.
‘Attack these bastards, these filth-ridden dogs, these Devil-turds,’ Wild Eadric yelled in desperation. ‘Attack them now!’
But his orders fell on deaf ears. If his men had wanted to attack, they should have done so already, for their confidence had been allowed to waver and now their numbers were dwindling. Another wave of fire-arrows cascaded down upon the town, much closer this time, falling in the sheepfolds next to the paddock where we stood. That was too close in the eyes of many of the men. They turned and began to run, some seeking cover from those shafts of fiery death, others for safety in numbers beneath the banners of King Sweyn and the ætheling, who even now were falling back, away from the walls and further into the town as they sent their spearmen and fyrdmen and axemen to try to hold the gates. For the enemy had been unable to close them in time to keep their attackers outside, and now a conroi of mailed knights burst through the gap between the ramparts, charging knee to knee in a wedge formation with lances couched under their arms, ready for the kill.
And at the head of that wedge rode the last man I would have expected to see. His banner, decorated in scarlet and blue stripes, marked him out, and even from such a distance, I recognised his stout frame instantly.
‘Berengar,’ I said under my breath, then to the others, almost laughing in surprise and relief: ‘It’s Berengar!’
There was no mistaking that standard. Quite why he had followed us to Beferlic, I had no idea, but it was a good thing he had, for the tide of battle was suddenly on the turn, and as dozens upon scores of Norman knights and foot-warriors flooded in through the gates, suddenly I felt my spirits lighten.
‘For Normandy,’ roared one of the charging knights, and it might even have been Berengar himself. They crashed into the half-formed battle-line, burying their lance-heads in the shields and the chests of the Northumbrians and Danes, riding over those who had fallen as they drew their swords and drove further into the enemy ranks. In their wake rode a dozen more horsemen, then a dozen more after that, and still they kept on coming as Eadgar and Sweyn were pressed ever further back.
Still fifteen or so of Eadric’s huscarls remained, enough to outnumber us, although they too had witnessed what was happening, and I could see their resolve breaking. My blood was running hot through my veins, and my sword-arm was itching as renewed confidence filled me.
‘Fight us,’ I challenged them, roaring as the battle-joy filled me once more and I pressed the flat of Eadric’s dagger against his neck. ‘Fight us!’
But concern for their own lives overcame that for their oaths and their lord, and they fled. Nor were they the only ones as more and more horsemen swept into the town, cutting down the ene
my to left and right. Sweyn and Eadgar must have seen that all would soon be lost if they continued to battle any longer, and now they too were in flight, together with most of the rest of their host, abandoning the town and the monastery they had made their stronghold, making for the marshes and the river Hul where they knew our army would struggle to pursue them, leaving an unlucky few of their thegns and jarls to continue the struggle on foot and face the might of the Norman onslaught alone.
Then I saw Eadgar beneath his gilded helmet turning his mount and making to ride away, with Berengar and his knights in pursuit, and all sense left me. Already I’d let slip one chance to kill the ætheling. Now that fate had brought us to the same place again, I was determined not to fail a second time. His death had been my goal for more than a year and the last thing I wanted was for Berengar to take that from me. Shoving Eadric to the ground, I turned to Pons and Serlo.
‘Make sure he doesn’t get away,’ I said. ‘Keep Beatrice and Lord Guillaume safe.’
I heard their protests but paid them no heed, instead waving for the others to come with me as I ran towards the heart of the mêlée, where what remained of the enemy rearguard was rapidly crumbling under the weight of the charge. My feet pounded the streets, which were slick with mud and the blood of the fallen. Once or twice I nearly stumbled over corpses that I did not see, for my mind was solely on keeping that gilded helmet in sight. As it receded into the distance, and as the enemy battle-lines collapsed and the rout began, however, it became ever more difficult to pick him out through the throng.
Ahead, a conroi of knights rode across our path. One of their number noticed us and gave a cry. Hurriedly I called out in French, giving our names so that they would know we were Normans like them. Often in the middle of the fray it can be hard to tell ally and foe apart, especially when ranks have broken and even more so at night. Men will kill before pausing to think, and only after they have struck their imagined adversary down will they realise they’ve spilt the lifeblood of one of their own closest comrades. I’d seen it happen more often than I cared to remember, and had no wish for us to end up impaled upon their lances that way. Not after all this. Thankfully the captain of that conroi heard me and they wheeled away, chasing a band of fair-haired Danes as they sought refuge with their womenfolk down a narrow alley between two large halls.
We ran on, through the market square and a great plume of black smoke that swirled and rolled across the way, stinging my eyes and burning my throat and my chest. Coughing, blinking to clear my vision, I kept on going. Men on horses raced past us with pennons in all colours flying proudly. They whooped with delight and the thrill of the slaughter, giving cries of Normandy, of God and of victory as they rode down those of the English and the Danes who remained. Others cast aside their spears in favour of brands drawn from the burning houses, with which they set fire to those buildings that had not yet felt the touch of the flames. As the smoke cleared I caught the briefest glimpse in the distance of Eadgar Ætheling’s gilded helmet, with Berengar and his men close behind, growing ever more distant with each beat of my heart. In the side streets the staunchest of the enemy still fought on, some preferring to die facing their killers than be struck down trying to flee, others seeking only to hold their ground for as long as it took for their thegns and jarls to mount horses and escape. They formed shield-walls across the ways, standing shoulder to shoulder several ranks deep, in groups as small as a dozen or as large as forty or more—
And I stopped. Mounting a horse behind one of those shield-walls was a face I had never expected to see. Not here.
Not anywhere.
The whole world seemed to slow, and all sense of where I was deserted me. My throat dry, I stood transfixed whilst a spectre rose before me, as if from some half-remembered dream, from a time that had long ago faded into memory. For she was dead.
Her back was turned as she climbed into the saddle, but I knew her nonetheless. Her head was uncovered and her long hair unbound just as I remembered, falling loosely across her shoulders and down her back: as black as jet, black as the night when the moon is new and cloud obscures the stars. It billowed in her face and all around her as the wind caught it. She turned for a moment, and I glimpsed her face.
Oswynn.
It couldn’t be, and yet it was. Somehow I had to be imagining this, but for all that I blinked to dispel the image, it would not vanish. My head felt light, my breath caught in my chest, and I felt a chill come over my entire body from my head down to my feet.
She hadn’t yet noticed me. Beside her a greying but powerfully built man vaulted into the saddle of a white stallion. Broad-chested, his straggling hair was tied in a braid, while around his arms were rings like mine, made from rods of gold twisted around one another. Upon his shield and those of his hearth-troops was emblazoned a black dragon with eyes of fire and an axe in its claws.
‘Oswynn,’ I called. ‘Oswynn!’
I untied my chin-strap, letting my helmet fall to the ground so that she could see my face. Over and over and over I shouted her name, my throat raw and my voice hoarse, drowned out by the battle-cries and the clash of steel that was all around, and I was beginning to lose hope, when at last she saw me.
Her dark eyes widened as recognition flickered across her face. Open-mouthed, she stared at me, and I at her, as much in joy as in shock that she still lived. For what seemed like an eternity we held each other’s gaze, though it could only have lasted a few fleeting moments, since before she had a chance to say anything in reply, the man on the white stallion had grabbed hold of her reins and they were riding away through the alleyways towards the smouldering remains of the ships and the safety of the marshes beyond them. Before I lost sight of her she glanced once more over her shoulder. Her lips moved, and even though her voice was lost amidst the din, there was no mistaking what she was calling.
Tancred.
And then she was gone. Men ran past on all sides; the last of the enemy fled or met their deaths at the touch of Norman steel. Chants of victory rose to the heavens. Beferlic belonged to us.
Drained of all strength, I sank to my knees and closed my eyes, breathing deeply, listening to the heavy beat of my own heart. The bitter easterly wind cut through my corselet and tunic as the rain began to fall harder, lashing my cheeks, biting into the flesh and wounding deep.
I felt a hand upon my shoulder and opened my eyes to find Eudo standing next to me.
‘I saw her,’ I said simply. Even as the words issued from my lips I could barely believe them. ‘I saw Oswynn.’
‘It wasn’t her,’ Eudo replied, and he spoke softly, which after the noise of battle was strange to hear. ‘It couldn’t have been. She’s dead and has been for more than a year.’
So I had thought too. Wasn’t that what I’d been told at Dunholm? And yet my own eyes had shown me that was not true. All this time I had thought her murdered, when in fact she lived.
‘It was her,’ I said through clenched teeth.
‘Tancred—’
‘I know what I saw.’ I tore my arm away from him and rose to my feet. My patience was worn thin, and the words came out more harshly than I meant. I was tired, my limbs were aching, and I was in no mood to argue.
My woman was alive. And yet she was the captive of another man, and no matter how much I tried, I could not rid the image of him from my mind.
Thirty
BEFERLIC BURNT AND we fled.
Those of the enemy who had remained with their ships further up the river Hul were now on their way, sailing downstream and marching across the open country to the aid of their leaders. The last thing we wanted was to end up trapped between the fields and the marshes in a half-destroyed town, whose very walls were aflame and collapsing around us, and so the order was given to retreat. We made for the abandoned barn where Ædda was waiting with our horses, then rode harder than we had ever ridden before to catch up with the rest of the Norman raiding-army as it made its withdrawal across the wolds.
W
e’d left the town not a moment too soon. Even as we in the rearguard climbed into the hills and slipped away into the night, I looked back and glimpsed the first band of battle-fresh foemen, their spears as yet unbloodied, arriving upon the smouldering remains of what had once been the camp to find their kinsmen slain in their dozens and their hundreds.
Sweyn and the ætheling had managed to disappear into the marshlands. Berengar and his conroi had pursued them for a while, but had struggled to follow them through the maze of paths across that treacherous ground, and had been forced to give up. Which meant Eadgar was still out there somewhere. I couldn’t help but feel that if it had been myself chasing him down, he would not have got away. The moment that thought crossed my mind, I censured myself for it, and for my lack of gratitude. I’d never thought it would happen, but Berengar had come to my aid.
‘Why?’ I asked when our paths crossed some hours later. ‘You risked your life for the sake of me, my friends and our lord.’
For once his persistent scowl was gone, and in its place was a broad smile.
‘After what you managed at Eoferwic last year, did you think I’d let you claim all the glory a second time?’ he asked. ‘If you were prepared to venture into the heart of the enemy camp with a band of just ten men, I reckoned four hundred ought to be enough to do battle with them.’
Even hours after the clash of steel had ended, Berengar’s face was still flushed with the exhilaration of battle and the knowledge that he had taken the fight to the ætheling and the Danish king and bested them both, spread panic amongst their troops and forced them to flee, driven them into the swamps and laid waste their only stronghold this side of the Humbre. All with the mere four hundred knights that Fitz Osbern had entrusted to his command: a force barely half the size of the enemy’s.
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