and I saw more than one axe-blade, of the kind that could fell a horse with a single blow. A few were carrying round shields, and they were crashing their weapons against them in an unearthly din, like the battle-thunder I had heard at H?stinges and at Dunholm, but somehow even wilder. For they were not beating all at once or even at the same speed, but, it seemed, simply trying to make as great a sound as possible.
‘
At first I thought this was the rebels’ army, come to take the city, but these did not look like men trained to war. There was not one mail hauberk between them, and only a few helmets. If they had a leader, I could not see him. These were not warriors, I realised, but the townsmen of Eoferwic, come together to stand against us.
Already some of the horses on our side were shaking their heads, fidgeting where they stood, but their riders kept them steady. I looked amidst the pennons for the black and gold I had spotted before, but I must have been mistaken, for I could not see Malet there. Instead, at the head of the conroi, flying from the end of one of the lances, I saw the red fox upon a yellow field that was the emblem of Gilbert de Gand. Even at such a distance and with his helmet on, I knew from his long chin and gaunt appearance that it was him. He rode up and down in front of the men, shouting at them to keep their lines: a deep-throated roar that belied his slight frame.
We made our way through the lines of horsemen, the press of bodies, towards the front, and then Gilbert saw us. At first he must have wondered who we were, for he came riding to challenge us, but then, as he approached, a look of recognition came across his face, followed by one of anger. He slowed before us and his mount whickered, plumes of mist erupting from its nostrils.
‘You,’ Gilbert said, his small eyes narrowing as he looked down at me. ‘You’re Earl Robert’s man. The Breton, Tancred a Dinant.’
‘Lord Gilbert,’ I replied, just as flatly.
He glanced at the others, standing beside me. ‘Wace de Douvres and Eudo de Ryes.’ He spoke their names slowly, and it was not hard to make out the contempt in his voice. ‘Have you come just to run from this fight, as you did at Dunholm?’
‘We want to help, lord,’ said Wace, with far greater respect than I might have expected from him. Usually he was never one to hide his contempt of those he didn’t like; his bluntness had often got him into trouble over the years. But this was no time for petty quarrels.
‘I don’t need help from you,’ Gilbert answered, his cheeks flushing red. He spat upon the ground. ‘I don’t need help from any of Robert’s men. Take your swords elsewhere.’
A great cry rose up from the English, and Gilbert’s head whipped around. ‘Stand firm,’ he called to the men in front of us. ‘Don’t let them through!’ He glared at us again but did not say anything more before galloping back to the rest of his knights.
Through the ranks of horsemen I could see little of the enemy, but I didn’t have to, to know that they were coming. In front of us some of the knights, over-eager for battle, raised their lances aloft and spurred their horses forward.
‘Hold the line!’ I heard Gilbert shout. But it was already too late, as all about him his knights broke ranks, and what just moments before had been an ordered battle-line descended into confusion. The screams of the dying filled the morning as English and Normans ran amongst each other.
Some of the townsmen had broken through, their weapons raised high. One came my way, his seax drawn as he screamed some battle-cry. I lifted my knife and parried his thrust, forcing the blade down as I clenched my free hand into a fist and smashed it into his jaw. His head wrenched back, his lower lip streaming with crimson, and as he struggled to regain his balance I followed through, stabbing my knife into his chest. He went down, the blood from his wound pooling and mixing with the dirt at my feet.
A spear belonging to one of the corpses lay in the mud. I snatched it up, passing my knife into my left hand as another Englishman came forward. He was as wide as he was tall, or so it seemed, but despite his size he was fast, deftly stepping to one side as I drove the spear towards his belly, before ramming his shield into my chest.
I stumbled backwards, but the weight was on my injured leg and suddenly I found myself falling. My back slammed into the hard earth and the taste of blood was in my mouth as the Englishman towered above me, raising his axe, and I knew I had to get away, but my limbs would not move. He lifted the blade above his head and I froze-
There was a flash of steel from behind him. Suddenly his eyes glazed over and the axe tumbled from his grasp as he collapsed forward. I came to my senses, rolling to the side as his large frame crashed on to the ground beside me. A bright gash decorated the back of his head where his skull had been shattered. I looked up, saw the sinewy frame of Eudo, who was grinning with the joy of battle. I did my best to smile back as I scrambled to my feet, spitting the dirt from my mouth. I knew how close that blade had come.
‘Hold the line!’ Gilbert yelled again, and this time his knights heard him, wheeling away from the slaughter to rally beneath the fox banner. We had lost perhaps a dozen men, I judged, though the enemy had lost far more. Those who faced us now had to make their way over the bodies of their fallen kinsmen first, but their anger appeared undiminished, for still they came. I gripped the hilt of my knife tightly.
From the direction of the minster I glimpsed a glint of golden thread in the noonday sun, and suddenly above the cries of all those fighting and dying came a single long note, deep but piercing, like the cry of some monstrous animal. The sound of a war-horn. A conroi came into sight, two dozen knights or perhaps even more: through the midst of so many men it was difficult to see.
‘For Normandy!’ they cried.
At their head, beneath the black and the gold that were his colours, rode the vicomte himself, his red helmet-tail flying behind him. He lowered his lance, couching it under his arm, as his horse started into a gallop and the horn blew again. Some of the enemy, realising the danger at their rear, began to turn to face them, but they were few. The rest saw their attackers coming from both sides and straightaway took to flight, making for the small alleys that branched off from the marketplace.
‘Kill them!’ Gilbert shouted to his knights as he raised his sword aloft. But the townspeople were already running and our men had little enthusiasm for the chase. Had this been the rebel army, I was sure they would not have hesitated, but it was not, and that made all the difference, since these were but peasants, and there was little glory to be had in killing them.
Corpses were strewn across the street, their shields and their weapons beside them. I was reminded of that night at Dunholm, except that this time most of the fallen were their men, not ours. Eudo wiped his blade across the tunic of a dead Englishman, smearing more blood over his back to accompany the wound that ran across his shoulders. I let the spear I had taken drop to the ground and returned my knife to its sheath.
After the rush and the noise of the battle, all was suddenly quiet, save for the bells of the minster church in the distance, their soft chimes carrying clearly to us as they rang for midday.
‘That was some fighting,’ Wace said with a grin as he placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Especially for a man who’s hardly picked up a blade in two weeks.’
I smiled back, though only weakly. The fight had drained more of my strength than I would have liked, and I could not shake from my mind how easily the fear had overcome me, nor how nearly I had succumbed to it.
On the other side of the marketplace, Malet passed his lance with its black-and-gold pennon to one of his knights. It was the first time that I had seen him equipped for battle, in mail and helmet and with a sword at his belt, though I had heard many tales of his prowess on the field at H?stinges: how he had rallied the duke’s men when they had all thought him dead; how he had led the counter-charge into the English lines and with his own hand slain one of the usurper’s brothers.
Gilbert shouted at his men to get out of his way as he threaded his way through their lines. He glared at the three of us as he passed, but this time he had no words for us. He rode to greet Malet and, still mounted, the two clasped hands and exchanged a few words, although I could not make out what they were saying. Then Gilbert raised his lance with its red fox pennon, signalled to the rest of his men and rode off, up the street that led to the minster, leaving Malet with his conroi.
‘Should we follow him?’ Eudo asked.
I did not answer, for even as the spearmen were beginning to march I saw Malet riding towards us, keeping his mount to a walk as he made his way over the corpses of those who had fallen. On each flank rode one of his knights: to his left, a stocky man with a bulbous nose that was only part hidden by his nasal-guard, while the one on his right appeared not much more than a boy. If he was a knight proper, as opposed to one still in training, then
