Robert and Ansculf and Urse were crashing into their first line, spearing into their midst, carving a space for the rest of us to follow.
We fell upon them without fear, without mercy. I was shouting, feeling the cold wind whip across my face. The first of the Danes stood before me, and my lance struck his shield, the force of the charge carrying it past the rim and into his chest. He crumpled and fell, face first, upon the mud, and I was pulling the point free, riding on, as we drove a wedge into the enemy ranks. Ansculf’s lance glanced off the helmet of another man, and as he staggered back, dazed from the blow, I drove the point of my spear through his ribs, until it found his heart, and I left it there as I drew my sword instead, hacking down upon the next man’s shield before backhanding a blow across his neck.
My mind was lost to the rhythm of the blade as it sliced across throats, pierced mail and cloth, the fuller flowing with blood. Another of the enemy charged at my right, swinging his axe, his face and hair spattered with mud, but Wace was beside me and he thrust his shield’s iron boss into the man’s nose, at the same time as I buried my sword in his chest. They moved so slowly, and I so fast, as I brought the blade down again and again and again. I leant back against the cantle as a spear jabbed towards my head, before slicing my sword-edge upon the hand of the one who held it.
But a conroi’s strength lies in its charge, when it can bring its speed and its force and its weight of numbers to bear, and as our charge slowed, so the enemy began to rally. Before us rose a wall of shields, each with the raven emblazoned upon it, and all of a sudden the enemy were forcing us back. Even a mount trained to battle will hesitate to go against such a wall, against so many blades, and I saw Robert’s horse rear up, tossing its mane from side to side. The enemy, recognising him as our leader, sensed their chance and suddenly surged forward, and for every one of them that he killed, it seemed that two more joined the wall.
‘On!’ I shouted, trusting in my horse not to falter. I saw Ansculf struggling to fend off those surrounding him, Urse’s horse shying away, and I remembered my oath to Beatrice and knew I had to get to Robert.
So blinded were the enemy in their desire for glory, in their desire to be the ones who killed our lord and leader, that, despite our shouts and the noise of hooves and our naked blades shining in the glow of the morning, they didn’t see us coming. I scythed my blade through leather and through flesh, tearing the point into one man’s throat before turning and stabbing it down into the back of the next. Blood, hot and sticky, trickled down my arm, over my sword-hand.
I looked up and saw Robert, face clenched in desperation as he swung at the head of one of his attackers. He missed by a heartbeat: his foe ducked low and thrust his spear up, striking Robert low on his sword-arm, below the sleeve of his hauberk, and he yelled out in pain as his weapon slipped from his grasp. The Dane started to come at him again, jabbing the point towards his breast, but he had not seen me. I slammed my shield into the side of his helmet, and he lost his footing, falling under my mount’s hooves.
‘Back!’ I shouted, hoping Robert would hear as the wind gusted from behind and I beat down upon the shields of the men before me. ‘Get back!’
Robert’s horse reared up and still the enemy pressed forward. It only needed for one thrown spear to catch him in the chest, and he would be dead. I had to get him away from there.
‘Lord,’ I said, trying to rouse him from his pain. Blood was flowing freely, staining his sleeve, but there was nothing that could be done about it, and he would lose more than his sword if he stayed here any longer. The Danish line still held, while more knights were coming to join the fray. They would hold the enemy back for a moment, but not for ever.
I called to Wace, who had found himself in space. Eudo was with him, and Philippe, and several others I did not know but recognised from Robert’s conroi.
‘Hold them off,’ I said, then without waiting for Wace to reply I turned, reaching over with my right hand and grabbing Robert’s reins, tugging on them at the same time as I dug my heels in.
A spear thrust up at my flank but I managed to fend it off with my shield, willing my horse faster. Men streamed past us, their spears draped with pennons I did not recognise, so soaked were they with the blood of our foes.
‘Hold the enemy off!’ I shouted at them, glancing at Robert beside me. He was leaning forward in his saddle, his face creased in pain. His horse’s eyes were white with fear.
I found the same alleyway we had emerged from, drawing to a halt by the gable end of a merchant’s great hall, far enough from the enemy that we would be safe, for now at least. Others of his conroi had seen that he was injured and were riding to join us. I shoved my shield towards one of them; he took it without a word.
‘Show me your arm, lord,’ I said to Robert.
He shook his head. ‘It’s all right,’ he replied through gritted teeth, but I knew it was not, or he would still be fighting.
I took hold of it, peeling back the sleeve of his tunic, thankful for the faint light of dawn. He had been struck on the forearm; a long cut ran most of the way between his elbow and his wrist. The wound did not look deep; certainly I had seen far worse. Had it been his shield-arm he might have been able to carry on, but it was his sword-arm, and that made all the difference.
Others from his conroi were beginning to gather round, and among them was Ansculf. He still had his cloak wrapped around his shoulders. ‘Are you hurt, lord?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Robert, but the grimace on his face betrayed him. ‘I need a sword. I need to fight.’
I turned to Ansculf. ‘Give me your cloak,’ I said.
‘Why?’
I had neither the patience nor the time to explain. The screams of the dying echoed in my ears; the battle was still being fought, and we were needed there. ‘Just do it,’ I told him.
He unclasped it and handed it to me. It was not all that thick, but it would have to do. I drew my knife from its sheath and began to hack at the cloth, until I had a strip long enough that I could bind it around Robert’s wound. He winced as I did so, and tried to draw his arm away, but I held firm until it was tied. A monk or a priest might have done better, but it would serve for now to stop the bleeding.
A great roar went up, and I turned, fearing the worst. I was expecting to see our knights in flight, the rebels surging forward, their confidence renewed by Robert’s injury. Instead the Danish shield-wall was breaking and now they were in disarray, as our men and the king’s pressed their advantage, driving into their midst.
‘Stay with him,’ I told Ansculf. I signalled for my shield, passed the long strap around my neck and worked my forearm through the leather brases. I cast my gaze quickly over Robert’s conroi, or those at least who were there: more than twelve but fewer than a twenty. ‘With me,’ I shouted to them as I rode to their head.
‘These aren’t your men,’ Ansculf shouted after me. ‘You can’t just-’
‘Let me lead them,’ I said, cutting him off. ‘You make sure Robert’s safe. Get him away from the battle.’
I knew I had no right to ask such a thing, but my mind was racing, the blood running hot in my veins, and I could not stop myself. This was the chance I had been waiting for ever since Dunholm: the chance to prove myself, to atone for my lord’s death and make everything right.
Ansculf’s cheeks flushed scarlet with anger as he stared at me, but he said nothing, no doubt stunned by my nerve. In any case we had no time to argue, and so before he could answer I lifted my sword to the sky, digging my spurs in as I called again, ‘Conroi with me!’
‘Tancred!’ he yelled as I rode away, but I ignored his protests, glancing behind only to check that the rest of Robert’s men were following.
I led them back through the narrow alley, on to the main street, where the Danes had realised the fight was turning against them and so were fleeing. Of course they were paid warriors, not oath-sworn, and like all such men they were cowards: their only concern was for their purses and they had no wish to fight on till the last.
Beneath us the street lay thick with blood, thick with corpses. The stench of shit and vomit and fresh-spilt blood hung in the air. Not fifty paces away amidst the rush of men I glimpsed the raven banner, and beneath it the man whom I took to be the Danes’ leader. He was built like a bear, with fair hair down past his shoulders, and a beard that was stained with blood. On his arms he wore silver rings, and he bore a long-handled axe. He was bellowing to his men, waving down the main street in the direction of the river.
Men scattered from our path, both Danes and Normans; our own spearmen had come out from their wall to give chase to the enemy. I lifted my sword high for all Robert’s men to see, and spurred my horse into a gallop. There were barely a dozen men with me, whereas the Danish leader had more than thirty, but I knew it would be enough.
