remount. After five paces he stopped in mid-stride and stared, his blood freezing. A riderless grey destrier stood trembling beside a body. The stallion's withers and neck were saturated in blood, but Rolf could tell that the horse was not injured.
'God's sweet life!' he muttered through his teeth and ran to catch the bridle. Another knight had the same idea, but Rolf arrived first, and snarled him off. Then he knelt beside the fallen man.
'Richard? Richard, Christ, man, get up!' He shook his friend's shoulder.
Richard FitzScrob's reply was silent. His head lolled beneath the vigorous demand of Rolf's hand, revealing the shattered throat where his unfastened ventail had exposed him to a blow from a nail-studded club.
Fury pierced Rolf's numbness. He had a savage desire to leap astride the grey, hurl himself at the Saxon line and kill every last warrior. Pushing himself to his feet, he exchanged Richard's undamaged shield for his own, jammed his foot into the stirrup and mounted up. 'Alliez!' he urged the stallion and dug in his spurs.
It was about noon when the Breton left flank, unable to take any more punishment from the English battle axes, broke and fled, leaving the remainder of the Norman army dangerously exposed. The centre drew back and the right flank wavered. The Bretons were heatedly pursued by triumphant English fyrdmen, and the two forces joined battle again in the marshy ground at the foot of the ridge. The Saxons had the advantage. Panicking, floundering, all the Bretons desired was to escape with their lives.
Rolf felt the infection of fear pierce his own exhaustion, but he held his place in the line. Where was there to go? Back to the ships in disordered confusion to be killed ignominiously on the shore? Even as these thoughts bolted through his mind, the impetus of the Norman assault wavered. A knight cried to him that Duke William was nowhere to be found, that he was down, that he was dead. Rolf found himself facing the line of shields and axes with no-one to either side of him. Wrenching Sleipnir's bridle, he turned back.
'Stand firm!' roared William FitzOsbern to the men of his command. He rose in his stirrups, his usually impassive features brimming with rage. 'Are you no better than the Bretons that you run like cowards?' He levelled his mace at a young knight. 'Do your duty to your sworn liege lord, or by God I'll kill you myself! Until you hear the command to retreat given from my own lips, you will assault that shield wall. Now get back up there and win this damned battle for Normandy!'
'Yes, my lord.' The young man's face was bone-white beneath his helm.
And then the Duke himself strode into their midst, his helm thumbed back and his ventail unfastened to show himself to his frightened men. Apart from a thin stone-cut down one cheek, he was unharmed. He was also horseless. 'You, de Brize, give me that grey,' he demanded.
Inwardly cursing, but leaping from the saddle with alacrity, Rolf presented William with Sleipnir.
'You won't go unrewarded,' said the Duke as he gained the saddle. 'I always honour my debts.' And then he was gone, smacking Sleipnir's rump with his sword blade, plunging through the melee and rallying his troops. Rolf wondered gloomily if he would ever see the grey again.
The battle continued, each foothold bitterly contested in blood. Harold's brothers Gyrth and Leofwin were killed. The English who had charged down the hill in pursuit of the Bretons were cut to pieces by William's cavalry, and the Normans were able to gain the ridge and begin eating their way to the core of the English defences. Gaps appeared in the shield wall and the less well armoured men in the ranks behind had to step forward and bear the brunt of the Norman assault. As the light began to fade towards dusk, the Duke employed his archers again, instructing them to fire high and aim for the rear of the Saxon lines where Harold's standards flew: the bold red dragon of Wessex, and the equally impressive silks of his Fighting Man banner.
Rolf, astride a third horse now, was one of the first Normans onto the ridge. His sword arm was aching, his borrowed shield was battered almost to pieces, his mind was made of wool. They were close to victory, so close, and yet it still lurked just out of their grasp, and if they had not managed to seize it by the time that dusk fell, it would never be theirs. Empty-handed except for their dead, they might as well return to their ships.
An anguished howl swelled from the rear of the Saxon line. Moments later, the determination of the shield wall wavered and contracted. The less well armed English began to flee the field. FitzOsbern's yellow banner ploughed a path through the Saxons. Rolf followed, hacking with his sword, defending with his shield. The peasants were easy meat for they wore no armour and were inexperienced with their weapons. Rolf lost count of the number he cut down. His horse stumbled on bodies, and sometimes they screamed.
Then the fighting changed and grew hard again. The peasants were gone, and in their place were heavily mailed huscarls wielding swords and axes. These were the professional backbone of Harold's army, the men who fought for a living and were fiercely loyal to the house of Godwinson.
An enormous huscarl planted himself across Rolf's path. The warrior was standing over the cloven body of one of his companions, and tears were streaming down his face. He howled words that Rolf did not understand and swung his axe in a glittering arc. For the third time that day Rolf lost a horse. The force of the fall knocked the sword from his hand and the helm from his head. He tasted mud, and the salt of his mount's blood. A spear leaned half-upright in the trampled ground beside him. Rolf rolled over, wrenched it free, and thrust it with the last of his strength into the body of the warrior swinging the axe.
He felt the point of the spear tip grinding through mail to reach the vulnerable, soft core. Above him the huscarl screamed, staggered, and toppled, the spear shaft snapping off as he crashed forwards. The deadly axe carved a long gouge in the trampled ground beside Rolf's head. Shuddering, clawing at the buried shaft, the Saxon rolled over. Utterly spent, Rolf stared into still lucid, but dying blue eyes. The huscarl had a luxuriant beard and moustache, the colour of ripe barley, but close up Rolf could see that he was scarcely out of adolescence. A boy, younger than Richard by several years. The eyes held his like a curse while death rattled in the young warrior's throat. The stare fixed upon Rolf and dried. Rolf crawled away from the corpse.
A Norman warhorse leaped over him, its rider spurring hard towards the core of the melee. Rolf covered his head with his hands, but his reactions were slow with exhaustion and pain. The tip of a hind hoof struck the side of his head, and like Thor's great hammer, the darkness smashed him down.
When he came to his senses, it was full dark and nearby someone was grunting with effort. Beside him the dead Saxon was as cold as stone. The warrior's axe head and hauberk gleamed with a dull, blue light, and his mouth was frozen open in its final death snarl. The grunting came from a figure who was bending over the corpse of another soldier next to the young huscarl. Rolf almost cried out for help, thinking it was a priest, but then he heard the tug of a knife severing a leather cord, heard the jingle of money in a pouch and realised that he was watching a looter at -work. And if the looter was English and discovered a living Norman during his search, that knife would be employed to more deadly intent than simply cutting purse strings.
Pain hammered through Rolf's head and the accompanying feeling of nausea threatened to overwhelm him. Hampered by concussion, his mind floundered. The scavenger abandoned the corpse and moved on to stand over the Saxon at Rolf's side. The looter muttered to himself as he worked, his breath an intermittent cloud of white vapour in the dank air.
Rolf wondered if he should lie very still and permit himself to be robbed, but almost immediately abandoned the thought. His body would be too warm, and it would be all too quick and easy for the looter to slit his throat. A silver cross flashed as it was ripped from around the Saxon's neck. Decorated arm bracelets were tugged off the wrists. A finger was hacked to obtain a ring. That final act finished any thoughts Rolf had still harboured about lying passive. In one movement he rolled over, grabbed the axe halfway down the haft, and swayed to his feet. His vision kept blurring, the pain in his skull was vicious, but he clung grimly to consciousness. The looter, a scrawny, pale specimen, leaped away from the huscarl, his knife brandished to defend himself, his left hand clutching the corpse's jewellery.
'Get you gone!' Rolf snarled, lifting the axe.
The looter sidled, and Rolf had to turn to keep him in sight. He could feel the strength draining from his legs, and knew that in a moment he was going to fall. Like a buzzard, the looter backed off, waiting his moment.
Over to his right, Rolf thought that he saw the glimmer of torches and heard the sound of voices speaking in French. 'Ho!' he bellowed, putting all of his failing strength into his voice. 'Help me!' He keeled to his knees. The looter darted at him. Rolf struck out, the axe held short in his hand. His adversary easily avoided the weapon, but instead of making a kill, leaped over Rolf and melted rapidly away into the night.
Breathing harshly, Rolf hung his head. The torchlight wavered nearer and soon he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder.
'My son, you are wounded,' said an anxious man in priest's robes. The light shone on his tonsure. Rolf
