‘Kill them!’ I shouted. The street sloped down towards the river and I felt a fresh burst of speed. I found myself laughing as I saw the Danes in front of me, turning at last as they saw the danger coming from behind. Their leader roared in desperation as he rallied his men, but then they did something I did not expect, for all as one they came charging at us.
Whether the battle-rage had taken them, or whether they just wished for a noble death, I did not know; nor did it matter. One came at me, screaming, his face streaming with tears, and I raised my shield to fend off his spear, leaving him for Urse to finish as I arced my sword down into the path of another. And then I was turning, searching for the raven banner, for the Danes’ leader.
I did not have to look far, for at that moment he came at my flank, wielding his axe in both hands, hacking down upon my shield. The force of the blow sent a shudder through my arm, but the blade slid off its face, and as he readied himself for another strike, I thrust my elbow out, bringing the point of my shield up and into the side of his face, sending him backwards. Blood streamed from beneath his nasal-guard, spilling across his beard and his thick moustache, dripping on to his mail hauberk, but he did not seem to care. His eyes were blue fire as he came at me again, and again, and again, each strike ringing off the boss of my shield, each one pressing me further back. His friends were gathering around him, but I knew that if I could kill him, the rest would break.
He lifted his axe for another assault and I saw my chance, pressing my left heel into my horse’s flank. The animal turned sharply, bringing my undefended side to face him, and I saw the gleam in the Dane’s eyes as he lifted for his next swing, but my sword was quicker, driving up and into his shoulder. He reeled back, and as he did so I plunged the blade into his chest, driving the point between the links of his mail into his breast. I twisted my sword and he let out a gasp, and as I pulled it free he fell forward, already dead.
To one side was the raven banner, smeared with scarlet, and I saw Urse as he ran its bearer through, driving his lance into the man’s back. The banner fell to the ground under the hooves of Urse’s mount, and a roar erupted from the men behind me as it was trampled into the mud. The rest of the Danes were running.
‘Fight us, you sons of whores,’ someone shouted, and as I looked up I saw it was Eudo. He hacked at another of the enemy, his sword-edge ripping through the man’s arm, just below the sleeve of his hauberk. The bloodlust was in his eyes. ‘Fight us!’
Everywhere knights were giving chase: whole conrois darting down narrow ways, cutting the enemy down from behind, and I glimpsed the golden threads of the king’s lion banner glimmering in the half-light as he and his knights rode down a group of Danes. Some of our spearmen had stopped to strip corpses of their helmets, their mail, their swords and even their boots, and others were fighting them for the same things.
‘To arms,’ I shouted to them as I rode past. ‘To arms!’ For if they thought that the battle was won, they were wrong. From the east I could hear the battle-thunder, more distant than before, but present still. The rest of the enemy were rallying.
I sheathed my sword while I retrieved a lance from the chest of a fallen Dane, checking first that the haft was still intact, the head still firmly fixed. I lifted it to the sky. ‘Conroi with me!’
Eudo broke off from his pursuit to join us. His hands and the head of his lance were covered in blood, and his face bore a wide grin, which faded as he drew alongside me.
‘Where’s Robert?’ he asked between breaths.
‘He took a blow to the arm,’ I said. ‘He’s with Ansculf.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘He’ll live.’ And so he would, as long as Ansculf kept him from the fray, at least.
With Eudo were Philippe and some half-dozen more of Robert’s knights. Of Wace and Godefroi and Radulf there was no sign, and I could only trust that they were still fighting elsewhere.
As the ground began to fall away beneath my horse’s feet, I could see the river, sparkling under the brightening skies, with the bridge spanning it. And upon the bridge were men in helmets and gleaming mail, marching towards us, under a banner of purple and yellow stripes, and their shields were painted in the same colours.
The colours of the Aetheling.
My fist tightened around the haft of my lance. Eadgar. The man who called himself king; the leader of the rebels himself. The man who was responsible for the death of Lord Robert at Dunholm.
There he was, in the middle of the column, beneath the purple and yellow, with his gilded helmet that marked him out: a clear sign of his arrogance. Surrounding him were his huscarls, his household troops, with their axes slung across their backs, their scabbards swinging from their belts, their shields held before them.
I had pulled to a halt while the rest of my conroi gathered: almost twenty knights in all, including most of Robert’s men, though a few others who had become separated from their own groups were now joining me. I glanced to either side, as always checking to see who would be with me in the charge. On my left was Eudo; on my right, Philippe, and beneath his helmet I saw the same solemn look I remembered from when I first met him, though the youthful eagerness was gone now, replaced by a determination which I had not seen in him before.
The first of the enemy were almost across now, and following them was a column hundreds strong. I glanced over my shoulder; behind us all was confusion. By now some of the other lords had seen the Aetheling marching, and they were hesitating, uncertain whether to rally around the royal banner or to attack straightaway. But I knew that if we were to head the enemy off, we could not afford to delay.
‘For King Guillaume and Lord Robert!’ I said, trying to catch the attention of as many of the other lords as possible as I spurred my horse into a gallop once more. ‘For Malet, St Ouen and Normandy!’
And as the cry was taken up by those around me, I promised myself again that I would be the one who sent Eadgar to his death.
Thirty-five
‘With me!’ I roared, lowering my lance so that it pointed towards the enemy as I rode knee to knee with Eudo and Philippe. ‘Stay close; watch your flanks!’
We rode towards the dawn: some twenty knights and more, and I was at their head, leading them, leading the charge. Blood pounded in my ears, keeping rhythm with my horse’s hooves. Around a hundred of the enemy had now crossed the bridge, but these ones were lightly armed, with only spears and shields and helmets, and many with even less than that. They saw us bearing down upon them, and straightaway came to a halt. My limbs, which had been starting to ache, suddenly felt fresh; my spear and shield were light in my hands. For I knew that these were not trained warriors, but men of the fyrd, the peasant levy.
‘
They thrust their spears out towards us, the points shining silver in the dawn, as yet unbloodied. Above them, the sky was ablaze, the clouds lit with streaks of orange and yellow, and I thought of the mead-hall at Dunholm: of the flames rising up, engulfing the timbers and the thatch; of Lord Robert who had been inside; of the look of despair that had been on his face that last time I had seen him, branded forever in my mind.
I gritted my teeth, lifting my shield to protect my horse’s flank. The shield-wall wavered, the men glancing at one another. Already I had sighted the first one that I would kill, and as we closed upon the enemy I met his eyes and saw the fear that lay within. He froze where he stood, his spear-haft falling limp in his hands as he stared at me, open-mouthed, and then I was upon him. Too late he raised his spearpoint to fend me off; too late he remembered to cover his head with his shield as I buried my lance in his neck.
Beside me hooves were battering down upon limewood, crushing legs and skulls, and the enemy line was crumbling as we forced them back. Their thegn bellowed to them, but whatever he was saying, it was in vain as they fell before us, our blades ringing with the song of battle. More men were coming to join us, pennons flying, adding their strength to the charge, and all of a sudden we were driving the enemy back towards the bridge.
From where came a wall of huscarls, their spears and their axes defiant, even as before them the ranks of the fyrd were failing.
‘
