more relaxed circumstances than on the cusp of battle, might be more appropriate. May we discuss your request tomorrow? Sergeant, take our guest to the rear and see that no harm comes to her.’
The sergeant grabbed the bridle of Adela’s horse. As he did so, Adela drew her seax and had it at his throat in an instant.
‘Take your hand off my horse.’
Seeing the tenacity in her eyes, the sergeant relented.
‘Prince Edgar, I will leave the field at your request, but only if Sweyn leaves with me. He is like my little brother; we have been very close since our village was massacred. I will not see him in battle unless I am at his side. We learned to fight together and I am as good as he is.’
‘I have heard of the wretched circumstances of your encounter with Hereward and his companions.’
‘Sire, I was only a baby when Hereward left our village but, many years later, he saved me after my innocence was so cruelly stolen. I watched with delight as he exacted a terrible revenge on the Normans who defiled me. Ever since Ely, I have lived with his memory. Now, like Sweyn, I model my life on his. I am not a man and will never equal the feats of Hereward of Bourne, but I can follow his example.’
Edwin’s demeanour softened, and Sweyn looked proud of his sister-in-arms. I admired her resolve.
‘Very well, the battle will soon be upon us. Stay close to Edwin. Sweyn is under strict instructions not to engage the enemy unless his life is threatened. The same applies to you, is that clear?’
‘It is, my Prince. Thank you.’
‘Edwin, unfurl my standard.’
As he did so, tears welled in the eyes of Sweyn and Adela. My standard was the Wyvern of Wessex, the emblem of Harold at Senlac Ridge and of all the Cerdician Kings of England as far back as Alfred the Great.
A most bizarre sight then appeared on the battlefield. The Pythoness of Gisors was a peculiar creature, quite frail and slight, but with a shock of silver-grey hair and startling bright-green eyes which never seemed to blink. She wore a plain black cassock tied at the waist by a woven leather cord and carried a large staff elaborately carved in the shape of a serpent, replete with inset rubies for eyes and a forked tongue painted blood red. Around her forehead was a richly chased band of silver, also in the form of a serpent, the head of which ran down between her eyes and finished just above the bridge of her very large nose. She had marched out beyond William’s front line by at least twenty yards.
Philip looked bemused. It was left to Robert to provide an explanation.
‘She is a local sorceress from the Bastide of Gisors. Among my father’s many increasingly odd habits, resorting to seers and witches is one of the more harmless.’
‘Is she going to win the battle for him?’
‘Yes, she will cast a spell on us and damn us to Hell for eternity.’
The Pythoness began to chant and moan in what she called her ‘diabolic’ — her language of the dead — before scattering charms and potions on the ground.
‘Do you think my archers could put an end to this farce?’
‘Possibly… It’s worth a try.’
Philip summoned his master bowman and a company of his finest archers and gave the order.
To loud cheering from William’s army, the end of the witch’s performance saw her raise her python staff and damn us all to Hell, after which she turned her back, pulled up her cassock to bare her buttocks and proceeded to urinate profusely on the meadow.
But Philip’s archers had already taken deadly aim and their arrows were in flight, plummeting from the sky at a steep angle. From a distance of almost 200 yards, the arrows started to land all around her, striking deep into the ground. To the great amusement of our army, just as the old crone was concluding her stream of insults, one of the archers scored a bull’s-eye, impaling her in the top of her rump with a four-ounce arrow. Another struck home moments later, hitting her between the shoulder blades. It was the last spell she would ever work.
William, in a rage at the skewering of his favourite enchantress, ordered his cavalry to advance at the gallop and the infamous thunder of his conroi of destriers began. I gulped and prepared myself for the onslaught, casting one last glance at my companions. The Norman cavalry was a chilling sight, their ordered lines broken only by the dashing knights who led the charge, a glistening brown phalanx of equine muscle topped by armoured killers wielding finely honed swords and spears and massive cudgels and maces.
Robert knew his father’s tactics well and saw that on this occasion he had chosen the brute force of a massed attack by his horsemen. This played into the hands of Philip and his bowmen. Relying on Robert — who had ridden in many of his father’s charges — to judge the timing, Philip ordered his archers to launch their first onslaught on his ally’s signal. Many more followed in rapid volleys.
The missiles came out of the sun like hailstones, landing in lethal rhythmic waves; most hit the soft earth, penetrating to half their length, but tens of dozens hit human or horse flesh with devastating consequences. The tightly packed conroi was reduced to a mass of stricken bodies as horses and men hit the ground and careened into one another. The din was terrifying as men screamed and horses screeched in agony.
William had underestimated the power of Philip’s aerial assault, but instead of ordering a withdrawal to count his losses, he let his anger get the better of him. With himself at its vanguard, he called up his elite Matilda Conroi, committed his reserves of cavalry, ordered his infantry to attack in support and signalled his own archers to begin their onslaught. His entire force hurtled headlong into the fray.
For once, he had acted rashly and had seriously miscalculated.
Robert and I smiled at Philip. The French arrowsmiths and fletchers were busily unloading cartloads of arrows to replenish the spent quivers of the bowmen and archers, in order to continue the relentless barrage against the Normans. Philip offered Robert the chance to lead the allies’ charge, which he accepted with relish.
So, with Robert’s flamboyant battle cry ringing in our ears, we were off at a gallop. I stayed close to Robert, with Edwin close behind me. To our rear, only seconds later, Sweyn and Adela looked at one another and barely hesitated before donning their helmets in anticipation and joining the attack.
Our force was much more colourful than the Normans’. Philip had attracted knights from many parts of France, Flanders, Anjou, Brittany and beyond. In the bright sun of a clear winter’s morning, their standards were a rich medley of colours, their shields an array of fanciful designs. It was a stirring sight, and exhilarating to ride in the midst of it.
William’s archers were much less effective than Philip’s and by the time the two vanguards of cavalry met, our force outnumbered the Normans three to one. We scythed through the Matilda Conroi with ease, scattering men across the battlefield. Many were caught by the French infantry, pulled from their mounts and cut to pieces.
For my part, my only encounter with bloodshed was brief but fortuitous. Edwin and I and several of Robert’s knights were in pursuit of a group of William’s cavalry when they suddenly turned to make a stand. My pace took me into the midst of them, slightly ahead of the others, and for a few moments I was heavily outnumbered. Blows were aimed at me from left and right and my sword and shield had to parry several assaults. Thankfully, Edwin and the others soon joined the fray, easing the pressure. However, just at the moment when I began to think the worst was over, a Norman lance whistled past my ear and struck one of Robert’s knights behind me full in the face.
Vinbald, a young man from Evreux much admired by his peers, was killed instantly. Hurled with venom from only a few feet away, the lance was meant for me, but a slight movement of my head had been sufficient to remove me from its deadly trajectory. Even so, I felt it cut through the air next to my cheek before it smashed into Vinbald’s skull, entering through his eye socket. The impact was such that, when the missile exploded from the back of his head, it took his helmet with it. It was one of the worst things I ever saw on a battlefield.
The horror of Vinbald’s demise filled us with rage and we waded into William’s cavalry in a frenzy. For the first time in battle, the dread of injury or death left me and I went about the business of war like a savage beast.
William, a small group of his knights and his personal conroi tried to form a phalanx to force a way through our onslaught, but they were too few to make an impact.
His elite horsemen had never been punished like this before. As he surveyed the field, all he could see was his army in disarray. Finally, he issued the order to retreat.
Robert heard the horn sound the withdrawal and saw his father pull his war horse round. His blood was up and he meant to rub yet more salt into his father’s already painful wounds. He signalled to us with his sword and we were off in pursuit.
When William saw that it was his own son giving chase, he turned to face him, but few of his knights and
