captain of his knights, whether his horse had stumbled or refused when it came to the water, but there was no time to dwell on that now. I couched my lance under my arm, levelling the point at the enemy. Seeing us charging through the marsh towards them, for the first time the rebels hesitated, unsure whether to attack or to flee.
In the end they failed to do either. I fixed my gaze upon the one who would be my first target, his beard sopping, his long hair clinging to the side of his face, and then it was just as if I were tilting at the quintain. He came to his senses and tried to get out of our path, but too late. Slowed by the water, he only managed to get a couple of paces before I was upon him, ramming my lance into his shoulder. It was only a glancing blow, but it was enough to knock him off balance and make him lose his footing. He sprawled forward into the water, falling under the surface, under Fyrheard’s hooves, and straightaway he was forgotten. Knee to knee, kicking up sheets of spray, we rode on, making space for those behind us to follow. In their desperation to reach the bridge, the enemy had abandoned their serried ranks and were now in disarray. We charged amongst them, filling the morning with the blade-song, freeing our weapon-arms, striking out to left and right as we carved a path through the shallows, making towards dry ground.
An Englishman came at my left flank, bringing his axe around in a wild swing that glanced off my shield- boss, denting the steel and sending a shudder through my arm all the way to my shoulder, only for Robert to ram his lance home into the man’s neck. Another, screaming in rage at the death of his friend, ran at my undefended right hand, aiming his seax at Fyrheard’s belly, but my weapon had the greater reach, and before he could come close enough to strike, I plunged my lance-head down, into his breast, twisting the weapon as it went in, until I felt the crack of ribs and knew I’d found his heart. I left the blade lodged in his breast and he collapsed with a splash, adding his corpse to all the others floating upon the surface. They bobbed on the waves, turning the surrounding waters a dirty crimson.
‘Normandy!’ I yelled, drawing my sword and raising it skywards, hoping to rally our spearmen, whose battle-line had been broken. With few places to go except back into the marsh, however, most of them were fighting on, albeit divided and surrounded. I only hoped that their doggedness would now be rewarded. The rest of Robert’s conroi was with us now, and others besides as rank upon rank of knights spilt from the bridge on to the Isle’s shore. They fanned out in pursuit of the kill, cutting down those who had broken from their shield-wall to come to challenge us, presenting the rebels with a decision: whether to throw themselves into the battle here, and try to drive us back into the marsh, or whether to return to the safety of their fortifications on the higher ground some three hundred paces or so to the north, where they could make a proper stand against us. Already some of their rearmost ranks had turned, preferring the latter, more sensible choice to death at our hands, and it looked as though the message was spreading to the others. They realised that the bridge was ours, that they’d lost that particular struggle, and so as one they were falling back.
At that sight I gave a roar of delight. The field was all but ours, because any moment now Morcar would show himself and give the word to his followers. They would turn on their countrymen, and then the real killing would begin. Against all expectations, we had done it. The bridge had held and we had led King Guillaume and his army to the Isle, and soon, if our luck held, to victory.
‘What’s Morcar’s device?’ I called to Pons and Serlo as we found ourselves briefly with space around us. They both looked back blankly. Glancing around, I found Robert not far off. His face was pale, his eyes wide, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was still alive.
‘Lord,’ I called, and repeated my question.
‘The white stag on a green field,’ he shouted in reply as his hearth-knights rallied around him.
I turned my attention back to the fleeing Englishmen ahead of us, some of whom were casting aside the shields and weapons encumbering them, others slowed by injury, hobbling on sprained ankles and wounded thighs, or bearing bright scarlet gashes to their chests and sides. The battle-joy surged through me, filling me with laughter as we raced from the shallows on to firmer ground, riding down our quarry. They looked back over their shoulders when they heard our hoofbeats upon the turf, closing in on them, and in the whites of their eyes I glimpsed their fear. But the ground was soft and uneven, with tussocks of tall grass everywhere, and bulges and dips and pools of stagnant water that were hard to spot from the saddle, all of which slowed us and meant that although we succeeded in killing a good few stragglers, most of the English were getting away, falling back towards their ramparts, which were now little more than a hundred paces away-
That was when I saw it. The white stag, that noble animal, flying proudly above those earthworks, along which were arrayed rows upon rows of spearmen in gleaming mail.
‘There he is,’ I cried, pointing in its direction, and felt a surge of joy for I knew at that moment that the day belonged to us. ‘It’s him! It’s Morcar!’
Except that his troops were not moving to cut off their countrymen’s retreat, as we’d been expecting. Instead they seemed to be merely holding position, watching, waiting.
‘What’s he doing?’ Serlo shouted. ‘Why isn’t he attacking?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, as an anxious feeling gripped my stomach. Once our first conroi had crossed the bridge, he would turn his spears against his countrymen. That was what he had told us. That was what he had promised. He had given us his own nephew as hostage, as proof of his good faith. We had fulfilled our side of the agreement. We had crossed the bridge and captured the shore. All that remained was for him to make good on his word. What, then, was he waiting for?
That was when I realised. He had never meant to aid us. The rat-turd had pledged his support only so that he could lure us into a trap. Why hadn’t I seen this before now? How could any of us have thought that he, who had broken so many oaths before, should keep to this one?
And a trap it was, for our only hope of withdrawal rested with the bridge and the punts, and neither of those offered a swift escape. While some might get away, others would be left to hold off the enemy at our backs, and we would probably lose almost as many men that way as if we fought the enemy in open battle.
‘He lied to us,’ I said. ‘He betrayed us!’
My grip tightened around my sword-hilt. Without Morcar’s help, we faced an almost impossible struggle. For he held the higher ground, and to have a hope of defeating him, we would have to assault their defences, or else somehow draw them out, and I did not see how we could do either. The king’s plan, so carefully crafted, lay in ruins, and all because of Morcar.
Perhaps it was because my mind was filled with all these thoughts that I didn’t see the danger ahead, or perhaps it would have made no difference. My blood was up and I was thinking only of killing as many of the rebels as I could before they escaped to the protection of their ramparts. Between the grass-heads I managed to glimpse a band of them half running and half stumbling away from us, across the tussocks and through shallow, murky pools.
‘Kill them,’ I yelled to Pons and Serlo, and all those others who were with me, as we charged through the grass after them. ‘Kill them! Kill-’
I was still shouting when a shriek filled my ears and I found myself falling. Fyrheard’s forelegs gave way and I clung to his neck until I could hold on no longer and was pitched sideways. The ground rushed up towards me and I met it hard. My head rattled inside my helmet as I tumbled into a gully, where I found myself looking at the sky, with blood and dirt in my mouth and all the breath knocked from my chest. I was trying to work out what had happened when there came a second shriek, and a third, and suddenly horses were falling all about. I ducked just in time as hooves lashed out barely an arm’s length above my head. Clods of earth and wet turf showered my face.
Panicked shouts filled the air, and then not far off I heard the English battle-cry: ‘
Blinking, I raised myself to my feet. My shield was still on my arm, having somehow survived the fall, but my sword had slipped from my grasp. My head still spinning, I looked around, searching for my blade amidst the mud, and in so doing nearly missed the bearded, leather-clad foeman rushing at me from the side with a seax in hand, a smirk upon his face and victory in his eyes. I raised my shield just in time to meet his strike. He feinted low before thrusting forward over the top edge of my shield towards my face, but I was too quick for him, turning to one side, grabbing his arm in my free hand and twisting hard so that he dropped his weapon. He staggered forwards, howling in pain, and as he did so I landed a kick upon his backside, sending him sprawling.
‘Tancred!’
I looked up to see Wace wheeling about my flank with a spear in each hand. He tossed me one and I caught it, and as the bearded one tried to rise I used both hands to sink it into his thigh, before tugging it free and turning
