could see nothing.
A war-horn sounded out across the hills: two sharp blasts that pierced the night air. A signal to rally.
Suddenly the ground fell away and I was racing down the hill towards the river. I neared the edge of the trees; the three stone arches of the bridge came into sight. The wind tugged at my cloak as it swept down from the north, and carried on that wind came a faintly rippling beat: the sound made when a hundred spear-hafts drummed against a hundred shield-rims. A sound I knew only too well. It was one I had first heard at H?stinges, when I had stood at the bottom of the hill and gazed up at all those thousands of Englishmen lined with their shields and their weapons along its crest, each one ready for us to charge up towards them, each one taunting us to come and die on their blades.
It was the sound of the battle-thunder, meant to intimidate, and even after all my years of fighting it still did. My heart thumped in time with the beat.
For Lord Robert had been right, and the Northumbrians had come.
Two
We galloped down towards the bridge, leaving the woods behind us. I looked out across the river towards the town: a crowd of timber and thatch buildings interwoven by narrow streets, with the tower of St Cuthbert’s church rising tall above them. Orange light flickered across its stone face and, in the distance, I could see flames amidst the houses. They licked at the sky, sending up great plumes of black smoke, together with still-glowing ashes which lit up the starless night. Again I heard shouts, although these were no longer shouts of joy but cries of pain, the screams of slaughter. And over those voices, almost drowning them out, came the drumming, steady and ceaseless.
Eudo cursed as he drew up beside me, and I realised I had come to a halt.
Underneath my helmet my brow was covered in sweat. A drop trickled down in front of my eyes; I wiped it away as I reached down my shirt and pulled out the little silver cross which hung around my neck day and night.
‘Christ be my shield,’ I said, and I kissed it, as I always did before battle, before tucking it back under my shirt. Whatever lay ahead, I trusted that God would see me through safely.
‘Watch your flanks; don’t rush ahead or dawdle behind,’ I shouted to the others. ‘Stay together; stay with me!’ I raised my ventail up over my throat and chin, hooking the chain flap into place, and passed my forearm through my shield’s leather brases, gripping the topmost cross in my hand.
I kicked on, controlling Rollo now with my legs alone. Iron clattered against stone as we rode across the bridge, over the fast-flowing Wiire and on to the rutted street which passed below the bluffs and the fastness’s high palisade. Gobs of mud flew up as I splashed through a long puddle, spattering over my hauberk and my face, but I did not care. Houses streaked past on either side. We were going into the wind and the raindrops were hard as hailstones as they smacked into my chest and my cheeks, but my heart was pounding and all I could think about was riding harder, harder.
And then I saw them, a hundred paces ahead: a host of shadows rushing on foot through the darkened streets, spearpoints and axe-blades glinting in the light of their torches, round shields upon their forearms, long hair flailing behind them as they ran. Beyond them stood a line of Normans, a mere dozen men without mail or helmets, armed only with spears, and the enemy, two score and more, were charging towards them.
‘On!’ I shouted to the rest of my men, and I lowered my lance before me, gripping it tightly in my hand. ‘For King Guillaume and Normandy!’ The white pennon whipped up with the passing air, wrapping around the haft.
We fell upon the enemy like the hawks we bore on our shields, swooping down on their rear almost before they knew that we were there. I drove my lance into an Englishman’s back, letting it go as he fell forward, then I drew my sword as another half turned to face me. I cut the blade down hard across his chest and blood sprayed forth, but I was already riding on through, not looking behind to see whether he was dead, for I had seen my next victim. He screamed as he came at my right, his face red with anger, his hair flying from beneath the rim of his helmet, his spear held before him. He thrust it forward and I fended it away with my sword. As he overbalanced, I struck down hard across the back of his neck, ripping through flesh and through bone, and he went down. To my left an axe bore down on my flank, but I took its brunt on my shield, and while its wielder struggled to recover for his next attack, I smashed the iron boss into his face. He staggered back, his face streaming with crimson, just as Eudo came forward and slashed across his throat. The Englishman had no time even to let out a cry as his eyes widened and he sank to his knees.
The rest, seeing the danger from their rear, were beginning to turn, but we were amongst them now and they were in disarray. The battle calm was upon me and time itself seemed to slow, each heartbeart a fresh surge of vigour through my veins as we tore into their lines.
‘Kill them!’ I roared, and my cry was taken up by some of the Normans on foot.
‘Kill them!’ they shouted, the few of them that they were, and they pushed their shield-wall forward, driving into the dwindling English ranks.
When a line breaks it is almost never a gradual thing but rather happens all at once, and it was no different then. Pressed from both front and rear, the enemy crumbled, and suddenly on all sides there were men fleeing. One stumbled back into the path of my sword, and he was dead before he hit the ground. Another tried to raise his spear to defend himself, but he was too slow and my blade tore into his throat. Yet another tripped as he ran, falling face down into the mud, and he was struggling to get to his feet when Ivo rode him down, his mount’s hooves trampling across the man’s back, crushing his skull.
The Northumbrians were running now. Gerard and Fulcher were pursuing them, but we were few and I did not want us to get separated from one another, in case there were more of them on their way.
‘To me!’ I called, sheathing my sword and going to recover my lance, which still protruded from the back of the first man I had killed. It took some effort to pull it out: I had driven it deep through his torso, but I twisted the head about and eventually it came free. The head and top part of the shaft were streaked with his blood, and where before the pennon had been white, it was now pink.
Gerard and Fulcher rode back to rejoin us, and we were five once more. Four of the dozen spearmen lay dead in the street, but there was no time then to feel sorry for them. I rode up to those who remained. Some leant on the top edges of their shields while they recovered their breath; others staggered about amongst the corpses, retching by the side of the street, and I supposed those ones were drunk. If they were, it was something of a miracle that they were still alive.
‘Where’s Earl Robert?’ I asked those who looked the most sober, but they looked blankly at each other.
‘We don’t know, lord,’ said one. His eyes were bleary and he smelt of cattle dung.
I was about to correct him, for I was not a lord, but evidently he had seen the flag attached to my lance and it was easier to let him assume that I was. I let it pass.
‘Go back up the hill,’ I told them. ‘Back to the fastness.’ I did not know where the earl would be rallying his men, but eight warriors on foot were unlikely to accomplish much here on their own.
A flash of silver caught my eye further along the street and I saw a conroi of knights — at least a dozen, perhaps as many as twenty — charging down the road from the stronghold, towards the town square. I couldn’t see any banner, but a few were carrying torches and the flame streaked behind them as they galloped past.
‘Go,’ I said again to the spearmen, then I waved to Eudo and the others to follow me, and we rode on.
The road was strewn with corpses both Norman and English, but far more of them were Norman; this I could tell because their hair, rather than running long and loose, was cut short at the back in the French fashion. There were corpses with spears through their chests, corpses missing arms and some missing heads. One lay sprawled forward, his face deep in the mud, a great gash across the back of his neck.
The road branched to the left, down the hill towards the north, and we turned to follow the conroi I had seen, which was some way ahead of us, already passing the tower of the church, disappearing around the bend that led down to the square. One of the lords had joined them from somewhere, for I saw a banner flying over their heads, though I did not recognise the colours: two thin green stripes on a red background.
‘With me,’ I said. I noticed Ivo was beginning to lag behind, and thought he shouldn’t be tiring so quickly, but then I saw that he was clutching one hand to his side, close to his waist, and I realised that he had been
