The Last Conquest

by Berwick Coates

  He mounted again and whispered in Sandor’s ear, ‘Come, and do as I say.’

  He edged his horse into the stream. ‘Who is with me, my dears?’

  The Breton line moved. The sergeants blinked in disbelief. Across the stream, the line slowed again.

  Taillefer swung and twirled his sword once more. It caught the sun again and held it. Men gasped and were dazzled. Taillefer’s wrist was the blurred centre of a circle of blinding light. Then they heard his voice again, strong and sonorous.

  Look hard, my sons, and there, before the van,

  You shall behold the gleam of Durendal.

  And hearken always, those of you who can –

  The horn of Roland sounds in Roncesvalles!

  Taillefer looked quickly at Sandor.

  ‘Blow! Blow!’

  Sandor fumbled with the ivory horn at his belt.

  ‘Now!’

  Sandor took a huge breath, which nearly lifted him off the saddle.

  The hollow boom echoed eerily across the Breton line.

  Brian, his face now suffused with blood, leaned forward, licking his lips. His chest was heaving.

  ‘Again!’ muttered Taillefer, watching him.

  It was like touching a spring.

  His eyes blazing, Brian leaped forward.

  ‘Rol - a - a - a - a - nd!’

  The whole Breton line answered him.

  ‘Rol - a - a - a - a - nd!’

  Taillefer was swept forward in the rush. Sandor was brushed aside. A human wave of screaming energy surged up the hill.

  ‘ROL - A - A - A - A - ND!’

  When it seemed that nothing could stop the onslaught, the English line erupted into activity.

  There was a mighty roar of, ‘Out! Out!’

  The sky darkened with missiles – spears, sticks, maces, clubs. A man beside Brian was felled by a flying axe.

  There was a great tramping and shouting and cursing, but Brian heard only the sound of his own voice.

  Taillefer could not control his terrified horse. Only the press of bodies on either side prevented its breaking away. With frantic neighing and staring eyes, it bore him, helpless, forward. His sword was knocked out of his hand.

  He had a vision of a rampart surmounted by tousled heads and whites of eyes. He tried vainly to draw a knife. A sharp stone on the end of a stick struck him on the temple and flung him backwards. His horse reared as it came up to some large stakes projecting from the ground. He fell out of the saddle, but was held dangling by one stirrup.

  Brian, his arm upraised, his lungs bursting, reached the English line. Mad with excitement, he began hacking blindly at a shield. As he raised his arm for the third or fourth time, a stocky peasant jabbed at his armpit with a pitchfork. The two prongs went either side of his flesh, but caught in the mail.

  He jerked to get away and the Saxon pulled to get his fork back. Almost weeping with frustration, Brian grabbed his end of the handle and gave a huge tug. The Saxon was dragged between two shields, pushing them aside, but would not leave go.

  Suddenly a sword swung past Brian’s face and severed the Saxon’s left arm. It was his cousin Geoffrey. Brian opened his mouth to say something, when Geoffrey collapsed under a hammer-blow to his helmet.

  Brian fell back, and saw to his horror that the bleeding hand and half its arm were still dangling from the fork handle. He flung it off with loathing, and at last dragged the fork free.

  In front of him the two shields lolled drunkenly. The earth was dark with the Saxon’s blood. Behind the wounded man another English face appeared. It was a round, well-filled face. The head above it was balding.

  Brian swung his sword again, but the distance was too great. As he braced himself to pull back, he felt something else curl round his arm. When he jumped back it slid down to his wrist and caught in the thong of his sword.

  A shepherd’s crook! Gasping with surprise and disbelief, he wriggled to dislodge it. Dear God – to die by a shepherd’s crook! The leather thong of the hilt snapped, and his sword clattered down inside the shields.

  Disarmed and unnerved, he sprang back, tripped over Geoffrey’s body, and fell.

  The fall saved his life.

  As he put up his arms to protect his face from the milling feet, he heard a roaring, followed by great noises – ringing blows of metal, hideous crunches, screams of mortal agony.

  Two Breton bodies fell on top of him; boots trod on his legs and passed over. The roaring went on.

  Brian squirmed out. He recoiled from contact with Geoffrey’s blood-soaked face, but instinct for survival made him prise open Geoffrey’s fingers and ease the sword-thong off his wrist.

  He struggled up to hands and knees, and saw that he was one of the few Bretons still alive near the English line.

  Just in front of him, a giant Saxon was swinging a huge farm axe. Swords and spears were swept aside by sheer animal strength; limbs were split and severed. On the return swing he used the back of it as a hammer to smash heads and ribs. Stupefied by terror and disbelief, men were falling like corn before the sickle.

  The survivors hung back out of range, while the giant, ringed by a rampart of writhing bodies, paused, for a moment baffled. He seemed as if he was looking for something.

  Brian dropped flat, and feigned dead. His cheek, he found, was against mail, through which blood had oozed. He fought down the nausea, and prayed that the giant did not turn and see him breathing.

  As he lay rigid, he fancied he heard a new sound. At first, he thought it was his own heartbeat.

  Gorm could not remember seeing the woman approach.

  He rested on his stick, wiped his face, lifted his eyes, and there she was.

  She looked neither tired nor fresh; neither hurried nor leisurely. Although she had drawn level with him, she offered no greeting, asked no question. She did not even turn her eyes towards him. He might as well not have been there.

  She wore only a shawl as a protection against outdoor conditions. She carried no load, yet she put one foot in front of the other as if pressed down with a great weight. For all that, there was a deliberation in her gait that told of total resolve; nothing would divert her from her destination.

  Gorm opened his mouth to ask his question – ‘Have you seen a big man, a man with a crutch?’ – when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw another woman, then another, and another.

  He turned round, and gasped. There were hundreds of them, scattered along the track the army had made. Some carried blankets, others baskets under white cloths. Many simply held their arms tight across their bodies, palms pressed to elbows. All moved as if sleep-walking, like spirits of the dead on clouds of Heaven.

  Despite his sweat, Gorm felt a chill to see this silent, floating pilgrimage of bereavement.

  Facing the trail again, he quickened his step, anxious to get away from them. Their deadness of countenance made him more fearful of what he might find. He became oblivious of the drummings in his head and the poundings in his chest.

  He heard something ahead that made him hesitate. Twice he paused, but the breeze seemed to have carried it away.

  Again he thought he heard it, and cocked his head in its direction – a vague, braying mixture of a sound – but perhaps his fatigue was playing him tricks.

  Then he saw a flicker of feeling on a woman’s face. He had not imagined it!

  Now he stopped completely, dropped his head, and strained his ears, grimacing with the effort of concentration.

  This time it reached him in fullest flood, and there could be no mistake. He had never heard a sound like it before, but he knew beyond any doubt what it was.

  He pressed forward to the next stretch of woodland, leaving the women behind. Sweat poured down his sagging cheeks.

  Dear God – Woden, Thor, Christ, Heaven, Valhalla, anybody – please let Godric be alive, alive to hear him and see him. Alive to recognise his existence.

  The Duke and his bodyguard knights splashed across the stream behind the B
retons.

  From the centre, Fitzosbern watched. Behind him, Eustace of Boulogne fidgeted with the Papal standard at his knee.

  ‘Is there danger, do you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fitzosbern. ‘That is why the Duke rides to quell it.’

  Eustace was not the first to feel annoyance at Fitzosbern’s refusal to show emotion. He looked up at the embroidered cross.

  ‘I should be where the Duke is.’

  ‘You should be where you are told to be,’ said Fitzosbern.

  Eustace pointed. ‘Even if the Duke changes his plans?’

  ‘Not a change; merely an adjustment. He leaves us here, and the banner, to show the army that all is well. Stillness at the centre is a great thing.’

  ‘I should be with him.’

  ‘Save your energy for obeying orders when they come.’

  Fitzosbern screwed up his eyes to make out what was happening on the left. Orders would come soon enough if Count Alan had fallen in the first attack.

  William looked up the slope at the confusion above the stream. The first impetus had gone, and too many sergeants had been lost. There was not enough leadership near the English line to create a second onset.

  Count Alan was yelling himself hoarse, but the fighting had degenerated into scrappy dog-fights.

  William swore at the count, who had allowed himself to be drawn too far into the battle in his attempt to save the honour of his own countrymen. He should now be back with the reserve cavalry, waiting to time the second attack.

  Alan saw the error at once, and galloped back with William, furious at the failure and at his own mistake. He careered towards the waiting cavalry, their reins tight with suspense, and came to a halt in a flurry of foam and flying mud.

  ‘The cavalry will advance upon the English positions – now!’

  From behind Count Alan came William’s harsh voice.

  ‘Take them up, my brothers, and good grace attend you. I shall be watching from the standard. Hard now!’

  Odo gazed up at the shield wall. It was broken in only one or two places. Near one breach was a sickening pile of Breton dead. A huge Saxon was standing over them and waving an axe; he was shouting at the top of his voice and trying to get at those retreating, but appeared to be wounded in the leg. A group of frenzied English were trying to drag him back to the line.

  Odo glanced at his brother, Robert of Mortain, and raised his mace.

  ‘Right, my lads – for God and the Bastard! God help us! Diex aie!’

  The trumpets blared. Spurs dug in.

  ‘Diex a - a - i - i - i - e - e - e!’

  The Bretons rallied, waited for the horses to come level, and ran in again at their tails. Count Alan, still smarting from the Duke’s tongue, watched from behind, near the reserve squadrons. It was agony for him.

  William Capra and Ralph Pomeroy found their new mounts difficult to control. The noise, the confusion on the slope, the mixture of infantry with cavalry, were too much for them. They began to go faster.

  On the slope below the English line, Taillefer’s horse was at last free from the press of the first attack. It galloped wildly downhill. Taillefer’s body, still held by the stirrup, bounced along like a broken doll. The horse did not pause till it reached the Norman side of the stream.

  ‘Look!’ shouted Gilbert from Telham. ‘Sandor has seen him.’

  Capra and Pomeroy, to their alarm, found that their horses were taking them out into the lead. They reached the Saxon line first, and were appalled at the forest of spears, clubs, and staves above the surging ranks in front of them. They hurled their spears blindly and turned away to find space to draw a sword.

  Bretons rushed past them, and were flung back again by a hail of missiles.

  Capra’s horse took a spear in its neck, and rolled to the ground. Capra wriggled out from under it, and looked for his brother.

  He heard a roar, and saw the shield wall part to let out a large Saxon with an axe. Capra stared. God! It was the giant from the mill. Capra’s mouth went dry. The man was limping! It made the whole scene devilish. This wild cripple broke swords, smashed horses’ legs, split skulls, and created a humming ring of death within the circle of his arms.

  Capra felt naked without a saddle beneath him. He got up, and ran. He heard brother Ralph call after him, but did not stop.

  Breton and Angevin footsoldiers were now running too. He passed one man, staggering drunkenly down the hill, still clutching the broken haft of a spear sticking out of his midriff.

  William turned to Fitzosbern. ‘Stay here. I am taking Montfort’s men. Contain it here – just contain it.’

  Fitzosbern did not have to answer. From their central position the situation was all too obvious. The shock of impact had caused recoil. The slope was also making men run. The left was peeling away from the shield wall. It was like a piece of cloth being torn in two. Unchecked, the rent would go along the entire line, and the disengagement would become a rout.

  William galloped to the left for a second time. He bawled orders over his shoulder at de Montfort and his men.

  ‘Round them up. Get them back. Hold them.’

  William himself rode right into the fleeing infantry. He shouted and swore at them. They barely heard him. From his rear position, Count Alan of Brittany looked at his broken countrymen and wept with impotent rage and frustration.

  William snatched a broken spear from the hand of a frightened Poitevin and began belabouring the fugitives.

  ‘Get back, you swine. Get back!’

  A great cheering broke out above him. He looked up and saw that his impetus had taken him through his own retreating troops, and he was now approaching spear range of the English line. Worse, the shield wall had opened, and men were pouring in pursuit down the hill.

  Wrenching at the bridle, William turned to escape. He had hardly gone a few steps when he felt his mount struck.

  Almost before he hit the ground a group of Maine and Bessin knights had placed themselves round him. Two of them dismounted and helped him to his feet.

  Without pausing for thanks, William demanded a horse from one of the Manceaux. The man hesitated. William struck him with his gloved hand and seized the bridle.

  Already the word was spreading – ‘The Duke’s horse is down!’

  It surged like fire in dry thatch.

  ‘The Duke is down!’

  ‘The Duke has fallen!’

  William rode frantically to and fro, yelling at the top of his voice. ‘I am here! I am here!’

  Away in the centre rear, Fitzosbern stood intently in his stirrups. He had seen the white charger disappear in a sea of flailing bodies. He sighed with relief when he saw the familiar tall figure reappear, waving to stem the tide of retreat. Men still spewed downhill from the gap in the shield wall.

  From where he was placed, Fitzosbern could see that William would, with luck, contain the trouble on the left, but he would need help. The centre and the right were holding.

  ‘Warenne – take your men and get down there. Round them up. If any Breton tries to get past you, kill him.’

  ‘With the greatest of pleasure,’ said Warenne, glancing at Walter Giffard, who was already glaring in disgust at the cowardice of infantry.

  Fitzosbern turned to Eustace of Boulogne and gestured at the banner. ‘Take that to the Duke.’

  Eustace stared. ‘But you told me to keep it here. So did the Duke.’

  ‘Now it has changed. He needs you down there. Move!’

  Fitzosbern watched them go. He could feel Giffard fuming beside him.

  ‘If you say “I told you so”, Walter, I shall strike you.’

  Giffard held his tongue, just. If they had put the knights at them in the first place . . .

  As soon as Warenne and his contingent arrived, William bawled at them. ‘Tell them I live. Tell them!’

  They galloped everywhere, feeling like untrained shepherd boys after wayward sheep.

  William, furious and red in the face,
cursed men, struck them, ran them down – anything to stop the panic. One man grabbled his ankle, looked up at him, and yelled, ‘The Duke is dead!’

  By this time, they were back across the stream, away from the English. William spurred ahead of the leading fugitives, and turned in front of them, so that they could get a good view of him in the open. He pushed back his helmet, straining the strap under his neck. Wrenching at his mail coif, he stood bareheaded in the stirrups.

  ‘Look at me. I am alive. I live! We shall win!’

  Between them Montfort and Warenne and their men rounded up enough fugitives to halt the full retreat. Odo and Mortain rallied the shreds of the first cavalry assault group. Eustace of Boulogne brought the holy banner.

  Many Bretons and Angevins now stood round William’s horse, looking sheepishly at each other. Count Alan rode up, his face stained with tears of shame.

  William looked over their heads at where the English pursuers had reached the bottom of the hill. Their impetus had taken them up a small grassy knoll near the stream. There they stood, puffed and uncertain, deprived for the moment of an adversary. A few random flurries of fighting continued, but the initiative seemed to have eluded both sides.

  William seized it.

  He gestured to Montfort. ‘Get your men between the knoll and the hill – now!’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘You?’ William looked at Eustace and nodded at the standard. ‘Keep that with me.’

  He turned back to the growing crowd of foot soldiers. Odo brought back the remains of his group. Ralph Pomeroy looked desperately for his brother.

  William gazed at the upturned faces around him.

  ‘You infants. You squealing, frightened dogs. You – you women!’

  They wilted.

  ‘Look to the centre,’ bawled William. ‘Do you see it out of formation? Look to the right? Do you see Montgomery’s men running? Or Sir Robert of Beaumont’s?’

  Heads hung. William flung a hand towards the knoll where the English were being cut off by Montfort’s knights.