his body protected against the rain by a cloak of double thickness fashioned of the hairy wool preferred by the Danes.
'Stinking weather,' commented Aubert de Remy by way of greeting and accepted a bowl of the scalding mutton broth.
Rolf murmured assent and shifted along the bench to make room for the merchant. Two reconnaissance scouts on dark bay horses entered the fort at a rapid trot. Torchlight and rain gleamed on helms, harness and mail.
'Are you on duty tonight?'
Rolf shook his head. 'No, I've been on forage detail all day, but I doubt I'll sleep for all that. Do you think Harold will attack?'
Aubert pursed his lips. 'I doubt it. I believe he is planning to keep us penned up on the peninsula while he waits for more troops to arrive and strengthen his force. It is what I would do if I were him. Mind you, if I were him, I would have stayed in London and made William come to me.' He sleeved a drip from his nose and hunched his shoulders. 'Time is on Harold's side, not ours. He could have afforded to wait.'
'Not necessarily. The Pope has given his blessing to our cause. God is on our side. When word of that gets spread abroad, some of the English might not be quite so willing to fight.'
'Perhaps,' Aubert conceded with a shrug, 'but he could well have taken the risk for the sake of a few more days — could have waited until we had to move out in search of supplies.' He drank his broth and looked sidelong at Rolf. 'Tonight the priests and chaplains will be taking confessions and shriving those who desire it. It is more than possible that we'll march on Harold at dawn, providing that he does not march first. And as I have said, I think he intends to remain where he is.'
Rolf thought of the battle axe in his tent. He slept with it naked at his side like a mistress. It had become a talisman, his defiance of fear. Tomorrow he would be brought face to face with thousands like it, and if one even so much as caressed him in passing, he knew that he would die. Without conscious thought, his fingers curled around the comforts of the Cross of Christ and the hammer of Thor that hung upon his breast.
CHAPTER 12
'Ut, Ut, Ut!' howled more than seven thousand English throats. Spears hammered on shield rims in a pounding, relentless rhythm. 'Ut, Ut, Ut!'
Rolf stared at the seething host of warriors on the ridge, packed together twenty men deep; the bristle of spears, the metallic flash of sharp iron points and the death-smile curve of axe blades. His throat was as dry as chaff; to try and swallow was to choke. Cold sweat clammed his armpits and made his hands slippery upon Alezan's bridle. Norman battle cries retorted to the Saxon invective 'Dex aie! Thor aid' But it was like hurling peas at a sheet of beaten iron. The slope of the ridge was littered with the corpses of the Norman infantry who had rushed the Saxons in the wake of volleys of arrows from the Norman archers. No visible softening of the Saxon defences had occurred and now the cavalry was to go in against the great Danish axes.
'Christ on the Cross,' muttered Richard FitzScrob, his eyes on the Saxon line and the Norman dead littering the ground in front of it.
'Your ventail's undone,' Rolf said huskily.
'What?' Richard released his grip on the grey's reins and raised his hands to fumble with the loose mail flap which would protect his lower face from injury. It also made it considerably more difficult to breathe. Free of control the grey sidled, pressing up hard against Alezan. Rolf cursed as his leg was crushed, and the chestnut lashed out. A ripple shuddered down the line, as each horse and rider was forced to adjust. Richard snatched the grey's reins and brought him back under control, dragging the stallion's head down until its muzzle almost touched the tassels on the decorated breast band. 'I need four hands,' Richard gasped apologetically, and then, 'Jesu, I'm going to be sick.'
'Not now you've fastened your ventail, you'll choke! Pull yourself together, man!' Rolf's own voice cracked with strain. Grimly he adjusted his shield, which appeared to have a mind and mobility of its own, and shifted his wet grip on the shaft of his spear.
Richard gagged, glanced sidelong at Rolf, and clenched his jaw.
William FitzOsbern, commander of Rolf's section, rode his sweating stallion along their line, his standard bearer following on his heels, gold silk pennon snapping in the breeze. On their flank, Alain Fergant's Breton cavalry set their destriers at the ridge. Hooves thundered, the earth shook.
'God is with us!' roared FitzOsbern. Raising his mace on high, he faced the Saxon line and his lips contorted in a snarl. 'Laissez Cone!'
Rolf spurred Alezan. The Norman line surged up the hill, the knights thigh to thigh, keeping pace. Breath and hide steamed like hell-smoke. The ground was soft and he could feel Alezan's shoulders and quarters straining, the stallion's hooves gouging out great clods of earth. The vibration of the charge thundered up through Rolf's saddle and into his straining body. Beyond Alezan's pricked ears, he saw the packed rows of painted shields, some long and triangular like his own, others circular with half-globe iron bosses. And within the shield wall, the axe-wielding, mail-clad huscarls who dealt death to anyone who came within range of the sweeping arcs of their weapons.
Spear tips spiked the sky; a hail of stones, wooden staves and steel caltrops assaulted the charging horsemen. Rolf kept his shield high, his head down, and hoarsely called upon Christ and Thor to protect him. The stink of blood, excrement and sheer human terror fouled his nostrils; the battle din roared in his ears until he was deaf.
He clutched his spear, and prepared to hurl it as Alezan strained within range. To his left an axe flashed as a Saxon warrior struck. The dark brown horse of the knight next to Rolf pitched to its knees. Blood sprayed; a warm wetness spattered Rolf's face and he saw the man hit the ground, defenceless against the Saxon huscarl who, in one massive blow, spliced the knight as if he were a bacon pig. Rolf twisted hard on the bridle, and before the axe could rise and whirl again, rose in the stirrups and cast his spear at the huscarl with all the strength in his arm. The Saxon screamed and staggered, clutching at the shaft embedded through mail and gambeson in his side. Rolf yanked the reins, squeezed with his thighs, and hauled the chestnut away. They half-galloped, half-skidded down the slope, mud churning beneath the destrier's hooves, missiles singing after them, and turned once safe, to recoup. On Rolf's other side, Richard tore off his ventail with frantic fingers and leaned over Sleipnir's withers to vomit.
'They're not men, they're devils!' he gulped.
The yellow banner of FitzOsbern rippled and the commands roared out for the cavalry to close ranks and advance again. 'Estroitez I droit! Mettez en bandon!' Rolf snatched a spear from a convenient stack, fretted the chestnut on his hocks, and rejoined the assault.
This time, an axe man actually ran to meet Rolf as he rose in the stirrups to cast his spear. Rolf saw the deadly iron arc sweeping towards him and tried to stab the Saxon with the lance. The axe took off the spear head clean through the haft and continued to describe its deadly half-circle. In desperation Rolf tried to cover himself and the chestnut with his shield. The curved blade smashed through the linden planking and sank into the destrier's neck. The horse reared, and the Saxon's face beneath the nasal of his helm was suddenly a mass of red, shattered bone. Howling, a second axe man darted forwards. Rolf sawed on the reins, and spurred his wounded horse out of the melee.
Alezan carried him halfway down the hill and then the chestnut's legs buckled and Rolf was pitched headlong into the muddy grass. He lay bruised and winded. The thunder of the Norman charge and retreat surged in his ears. He could hear the triumphant Saxon roar of 'Ut, Ut, Ut!' Three knights galloped past him, their mounts flinging clods of soil. Someone was screaming in terror for a priest. Alezan kicked, shuddered, and died.
Rolf looked numbly at the blood-streaked golden-red hide. He had bred the stallion up from a foal, had exerted much time, effort and pride in his training. Now he was nothing but carrion for the ravens; a heap of meat among a thousand such heaps on this gory battlefield.
The screaming had stopped. Rolf pushed himself to his feet and guarding himself against the barrage of sling-stones with his broken shield, limped towards the Norman baggage station on Telham Hill to saddle up a
