Wace and Eudo lined up on either side of me, shields overlapping, feet set to receive the charge, with Malet’s three men behind: all of them so close that I could smell their sweat, the blood of the enemy soaking into their mail. The sound of their breathing filled my ears.
‘Let’s kill the bastards,’ Eudo shouted as he banged his sword against his shield. ‘Let’s kill them!’
Not that we needed any encouragement, since they were upon us, the bosses of their shields crashing against our own. I staggered back under the force of the attack, but Radulf was behind me and our short line held firm.
Before me an Englishman bared his broken teeth, his breath reeking in my face as he tried to swing at my legs, but I met his blow on the point of my shield, trapping his seax, and brought my sword down upon the back of his bare head. He fell at my feet, though I had no time for celebration as another man stepped over his corpse to take his place in the wall. This one was taller, and had a helmet as well. He lifted his spear high and stabbed down, and I raised my shield to defend it, realising too late that I had left myself open from below as one of his friends thrust forward. I was lucky, for it was a weak strike which glanced off my chausses, but it could have been worse.
‘We can’t hold them,’ Radulf said. ‘There are too many!’
‘Hold the line,’ I shouted over him, drowning his voice out. ‘Stand firm!’
But I knew he was right, as together the enemy roared, and then all at once they began to push against our shields. We lacked the numbers behind us, and suddenly were being driven back, beneath the gatehouse.
‘Stand firm!’ I said again, but it was to no avail, for they had dozens of men and we did not have the strength to check them. I gritted my teeth, putting all my will into my shield arm, but even then it was not enough. We were losing ground, losing the gates, losing the battle-
The tall Englishman started to raise his spear, ready to stab down again, but this time I would not fall for the same trick, and kept my shield where it was, instead thrusting forward with my sword, up and into his face. He was not expecting it, and as I struck his helmet he staggered back, dazed, into the midst of his comrades, and the enemy halted for a moment.
Once more the horns sounded: two sharp blasts that were the signal to rally. By now the English would surely be gathering against Fitz Osbern, and whatever advantage he might have gained by the surprise attack would soon be lost. Sickness swelled in my stomach. We had failed.
It was then I noticed that some of the enemy, at least among the front ranks, had stopped driving forward, but were just standing there, as if unsure whether to keep attacking or whether to flee. The horns came yet again, and this time I realised they were not coming from inside the city, but from behind us.
I risked a glance over my shoulder, between the heads of Radulf and Godefroi. Mail and spearpoints gleamed in the moonlight, and there were pennons flying, horses galloping, and as I turned back to face the enemy, suddenly I found myself laughing, my arms filled with renewed vigour.
‘Forwards!’ I shouted.
The enemy wavered. Those in the shield-wall at the front had noticed what was happening and were hesitating, but those at the back could not see and they were still trying to push forward. In such moments of indecision did the fate of battles lie, and I knew that we had to take this chance.
I charged, hoping that Eudo and the others would follow, swinging my blade into the shield of the tall man before me. The blow shuddered through my arm as the edge cut through the leather rim, digging into the wood. He gave a cry as he stumbled back, still holding on to the shattered shield though it was now all but useless, and I pressed the attack, ramming the point of my blade towards his chest. He tried to block but it was in vain, as the steel broke through the wood and found his heart.
The sound of hooves could be heard now, drumming upon the earth, and it seemed that more of the enemy had spotted the danger, for some of those further back were abandoning their comrades, turning and running.
Their shield-wall was breaking, and even though we were but six men, we were amongst them, tearing into their ranks, exulting in the joy of the fight, the glory of the kill, challenging those who remained to stand against us, to meet their deaths on our sword-edges. Then, almost as one, they fled, making for the safety of the side streets, for the bridge, for anywhere they could hide.
The gates belonged to us, and through them now came a column of horsemen, lances couched and ready to strike, riding at full gallop, kicking up dirt and stones as they went, and I saw on their pennons the familiar gold lion upon a scarlet field.
‘For Normandy and King Guillaume!’ I said, pointing my sword to the sky, and Eudo and Wace took up the cry, followed by Radulf and Godefroi and Philippe, all of us roaring as one.
I sheathed my sword and untied my helmet, pulling back my coif while I wiped the sweat from my brow. I looked for the king, or Robert, or any other lords I might have recognised, but they were not there, or at least not in the vanguard. For still the column of knights continued. I had forgotten how many men we had in our army, but they all came now: knights to begin with, then spearmen and archers. And then I saw King Guillaume, resplendent in his mail, his helmet-tail flying behind him, with one of his retainers alongside, bearing the same banner that just a few hours ago had been soaring over the camp. And not far behind him was the vicomte’s son, alongside Ansculf and Urse and all the rest of his men, and with them they had brought six mounts without riders.
‘Lord,’ I called to him, waving to catch his attention. ‘Robert!’
His gaze found me, and he rode to where we were standing by the side of the street, his men releasing the reins of our horses and handing them down to us. I looked for the white diamond on the forehead that marked mine out, and swung myself into the saddle.
‘It’s good to see you, Tancred,’ Robert said.
‘And you, lord.’
I noticed he was carrying two lances, one of which he tossed across to me. I caught it comfortably, before he gave a tug on his reins and rode to the head of the conroi. I understood: this was no time for conversation. The night was not over, the fight for Eoferwic not yet won. We had to get to the bridge before the enemy’s leaders realised that we had entered the city and sent men to hold it against us.
Already other lords were passing us. We were at risk of being left behind, and I wanted to get as close as I could to the front of the charge when it met the enemy lines. For my heart was pounding, no longer with fear but rather with exhilaration. It was a long time since I had felt so free. Revenge and victory were at hand; I could sense it in the air.
‘For Lord Robert,’ Wace called out, and I knew he didn’t mean Malet’s son, but the man who had led us at Dunholm and through so many battles before. He was the one we were fighting for, as we had always fought: not for the vicomte, nor the king, nor anyone else.
Eudo hooked his ventail into place over his chin and neck. ‘For Robert,’ he said.
‘For Robert,’ I agreed. I pulled my coif over my head once more, retied my helmet-strap, then I turned and spurred my horse on.
‘With me!’ Malet’s son shouted from the head of his conroi. His lance with its black-and-gold pennon was pointed towards the sky. ‘With me!’
There was light on the horizon now, the stars fading as black gave way first to purple, then to blue. We rode down the curving main street as Englishmen fled in every direction. Houses and churches flashed past on either side, and then for the first time that night I heard the battle-thunder. For as we rounded the bend, there, marching in their dozens and their scores, came the enemy.
Thirty-four
They beat their hafts and hilts against their shield-rims, filling the morning with their fury. Their banner displayed a black raven, a symbol much favoured by the Danes, and I saw that these must be the swords-for-hire that Robert had told us of. All were shouting, taunting us in their own tongue, inviting us to come and die on their blades.
Ahead
, the king and his knights pulled to a halt, allowing some of the spearmen to rush forward through the ranks. They formed a line five deep across the road, standing shoulder to shoulder with shields overlapping to form a wall, and through the gaps in that wall they thrust out their spears, ready for the Danish charge.
‘Robert,’ the king shouted, and beneath his helmet his face was flushed. ‘Take your men through the side streets; try to outflank them!’
Robert raised his banner in acknowledgement and then turned to the rest of us. ‘Follow me!’ he said, raising his lance with its pennon high for all to see. Flanked by Ansculf and Urse, he spurred his horse down one of the narrow alleyways between the houses.
I gripped the haft of my lance tightly. So long as I held that, my shield and my sword, nothing else mattered. I checked who was alongside me, and was relieved to find Wace and Eudo. There were none whose sword-arms I trusted more.
Behind us rode another hundred horsemen, as more lords joined us. The thunder of their hooves resounded in the narrow way. I glimpsed torchlight ahead, saw a band of ten or more Englishmen running from us, but we were a tide of mail and hooves and steel rolling in upon them, our lances couched under our arms, sharp and glinting in the dawn, ready to send them to their deaths. They were burdened with shields and spears, whereas we sat astride swift animals trained to the charge, and they had nowhere to go.
I heard Robert shout something, though what it was I never knew, as he thrust his lance through a man’s shoulder, riding over him, and we were behind, cutting the enemy down. One caught his foot on a corpse while he ran and stumbled, falling to his knees, and as he tried to rise my sword-edge penetrated his skull. And then we were through, galloping on past grand timber halls and hovels of mud and straw. Dirt flew up from the hooves of those before me, landing on my cheek, my hauberk, my shield. The way turned sharply to the right, towards shouts and screams and crashes of steel, and as it opened out once more on to the main street, the Danish rear stood before us.
‘For Normandy!’ Robert shouted, and as one we returned the cry.
Some of the enemy heard our approach and were turning, their spears thrust out to try to deflect us. We were many, though, and they were few, and they had no time to come together — to form a shield-wall — before Robert and Ansculf and Urse were crashing into their first line, spearing into their midst, carving a space for the rest of us to follow.
We fell upon them without fear, without mercy. I was shouting, feeling the cold wind whip across my face. The first of the Danes stood before me, and my lance struck his shield, the force of the charge carrying it past the rim and into his chest. He crumpled and fell, face first, upon the mud, and I was pulling the point free, riding on, as we drove a wedge into the enemy ranks. Ansculf’s lance glanced off the helmet of another man, and as he staggered back, dazed from the blow, I drove the point of my spear through his ribs, until it found his heart, and I left it there as I drew my sword instead, hacking down upon the next man’s shield before backhanding a blow across his neck.
My mind was lost to the rhythm of the blade as it sliced across throats, pierced mail and cloth, the fuller flowing with blood. Another of the enemy charged at my right, swinging his axe, his face and hair spattered with mud, but Wace was beside me and he thrust his shield’s iron boss into the man’s nose, at the same time as I buried my sword in his chest. They moved so slowly, and I so fast, as I brought the blade down again and again and again. I leant back against the cantle as a spear jabbed towards my head, before slicing my sword-edge upon the hand of the one who held it.
But a conroi’s strength lies in its charge, when it can bring its speed and its force and its weight of numbers to bear, and as our charge slowed, so the enemy began to rally. Before us rose a wall of shields, each with the raven emblazoned upon it, and all of a sudden the enemy were forcing us back. Even a mount trained to battle will hesitate to go against such a wall, against so many blades, and I saw Robert’s horse rear up, tossing its mane from side to side. The enemy, recognising him as our leader, sensed their chance and suddenly surged forward, and for every one of them that he killed, it seemed that two more joined the wall.
‘On!’ I shouted, trusting in my horse not to falter. I saw Ansculf struggling to fend off those surrounding him, Urse’s horse shying away, and I remembered my oath to Beatrice and knew I had to get to Robert.
So blinded were the enemy in their desire for glory, in their desire to be the ones who killed our lord and leader, that, despite our shouts and the noise of hooves and our naked blades shining in the glow of the morning, they didn’t see us coming. I scythed my blade through leather and through flesh, tearing the point into one man’s throat before turning and stabbing it down into the back of the next. Blood, hot and sticky, trickled down my arm, over my sword-hand.
I looked up and saw Robert, face clenched in desperation as he swung at the head of one of his attackers. He missed by a heartbeat: his foe ducked low and thrust his spear up, striking Robert low on his sword-arm, below the sleeve of his hauberk, and he yelled out in pain as his weapon slipped from his grasp. The Dane started to come at him again, jabbing the point towards his breast, but he had not seen me. I slammed my shield into the side of his helmet, and he lost his footing, falling under my mount’s hooves.
‘Back!’ I shouted, hoping Robert would hear as the wind gusted from behind and I beat down upon the shields of the men before me. ‘Get back!’
Robert’s horse reared up and still the enemy pressed forward. It only needed for one thrown spear to catch him in the chest, and he would be dead. I had to get him away from there.
‘Lord,’ I said, trying to rouse him from his pain. Blood was flowing freely, staining his sleeve, but there was nothing that could be done about it, and he would lose more than his sword if he stayed here any longer. The Danish line still held, while more knights were coming to join the fray. They would hold the enemy back for a moment, but not for ever.
I called to Wace, who had found himself in space. Eudo was with him, and Philippe, and several others I did not know but recognised from Robert’s conroi.
‘Hold them off,’ I said, then without waiting for Wace to reply I turned, reaching over with my right hand and grabbing Robert’s reins, tugging on them at the same time as I dug my heels in.
A spear thrust up at my flank but I managed to fend it off with my shield, willing my horse faster. Men streamed past us, their spears draped with pennons I did not recognise, so soaked were they with the blood of our foes.
‘Hold the enemy off!’ I shouted at them, glancing at Robert beside me. He was leaning forward in his saddle, his face creased in pain. His horse’s eyes were white with fear.
I found the same alleyway we had emerged from, drawing to a halt by the gable end of a merchant’s great hall, far enough from the enemy that we would be safe, for now at least. Others of his conroi had seen that he was injured and were riding to join us. I shoved my shield towards one of them; he took it without a word.
‘Show me your arm, lord,’ I said to Robert.
He shook his head. ‘It’s all right,’ he replied through gritted teeth, but I knew it was not, or he would still be fighting.
I took hold of it, peeling back the sleeve of his tunic, thankful for the faint light of dawn. He had been struck on the forearm; a long cut ran most of the way between his elbow and his wrist. The wound did not look deep; certainly I had seen far worse. Had it been his shield-arm he might have been able to carry on, but it was his sword-arm, and that made all the difference.
Others from his conroi were beginning to gather round, and among them was Ansculf. He still had his cloak wrapped around his shoulders. ‘Are you hurt, lord?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Robert, but the grimace on his face betrayed him. ‘I need a sword. I need to fight.’
I turned to Ansculf. ‘Give me your cloak,’ I said.
‘Why?’
I had neither the patience nor the time to explain. The screams o
f the dying echoed in my ears; the battle was still being fought, and we were needed there. ‘Just do it,’ I told him.
He unclasped it and handed it to me. It was not all that thick, but it would have to do. I drew my knife from its sheath and began to hack at the cloth, until I had a strip long enough that I could bind it around Robert’s wound. He winced as I did so, and tried to draw his arm away, but I held firm until it was tied. A monk or a priest might have done better, but it would serve for now to stop the bleeding.
A great roar went up, and I turned, fearing the worst. I was expecting to see our knights in flight, the rebels surging forward, their confidence renewed by Robert’s injury. Instead the Danish shield-wall was breaking and now they were in disarray, as our men and the king’s pressed their advantage, driving into their midst.
‘Stay with him,’ I told Ansculf. I signalled for my shield, passed the long strap around my neck and worked my forearm through the leather brases. I cast my gaze quickly over Robert’s conroi, or those at least who were there: more than twelve but fewer than a twenty. ‘With me,’ I shouted to them as I rode to their head.
‘These aren’t your men,’ Ansculf shouted after me. ‘You can’t just-’
‘Let me lead them,’ I said, cutting him off. ‘You make sure Robert’s safe. Get him away from the battle.’
I knew I had no right to ask such a thing, but my mind was racing, the blood running hot in my veins, and I could not stop myself. This was the chance I had been waiting for ever since Dunholm: the chance to prove myself, to atone for my lord’s death and make everything right.
Ansculf’s cheeks flushed scarlet with anger as he stared at me, but he said nothing, no doubt stunned by my nerve. In any case we had no time to argue, and so before he could answer I lifted my sword to the sky, digging my spurs in as I called again, ‘Conroi with me!’
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