Conquest 03 - Knights of the Hawk

by James Aitcheson

  I spoke slowly so that he did not mistake my words, addressing him as one might a child, and like a child he scowled. ‘Yes, lord.’

  I narrowed my eyes but said nothing more as I left him and his men to string their bows while I made my way along our line. I found Baudri crouching behind a fallen tree just a few paces from the edge of the copse, within clear sight both of the campfires and of the channel.

  ‘Do you see them?’ I asked. I could discern nothing amidst the night’s shadows, but his eyes were better than mine.

  ‘I see them.’ He squinted into the gloom. ‘Two dozen of them, by my reckoning. Possibly more than that; it’s hard to tell.’

  ‘Four of them to every three of us, then,’ put in Wace, who had been listening.

  Two dozen. More than I would have liked to face, although it was about what I’d been expecting.

  ‘We’ve faced far worse odds before, and still we live,’ Wace pointed out, possibly sensing my anxiety.

  He was right, of course, although we’d rarely done so out of choice; usually when the only alternative was certain slaughter. Wace knew as well as I did that this was a battle we didn’t have to fight. If we threw ourselves into this fray, then good men might lose their lives who did not deserve to. Enough people had died because of me in recent years, and I didn’t want to add to that tally if I could help it. We still had time to return to our boats and leave with our sword-edges unbloodied and ourselves unscratched; all I had to do was give the word. But then I’d have shown myself for a craven in front of not just my friends and my own oath-sworn hearth-knights, but also Hamo, who would quietly rejoice in my failure and, no doubt, make sure that all the other mercenary captains heard tell of it the moment we arrived back in camp.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ Wace asked, no doubt sensing my hesitation and perhaps some of the thoughts running through my mind.

  Wace was more even-tempered and less hasty than either myself or Eudo, and I could always rely on him to give me sound advice. If he had any misgivings about our plan, or considered it a risk not worth taking, he would tell me. I trusted his judgement, and he trusted mine.

  He and his knights were looking at me, waiting for my instruction. I felt the weight of expectation upon my shoulders. But we could hardly retreat now. Not after we’d come so far. I would not flee from this fight as I’d fled from Hereward.

  ‘We keep to the plan,’ I said. ‘But remember that the quicker we do this, the better. We’re stronger in numbers than we are if each man fights alone, so stay close to one another. That way we’re all more likely to make it through this with our heads still attached to our shoulders. I don’t want to be dragging anyone’s corpse back with me to Brandune.’

  ‘Nor I,’ Wace added. ‘So listen carefully, and heed what he says.’

  The wind gusted suddenly, rustling the branches above our heads, and from somewhere out in the darkness came the piercing kew-wick of an owl. Otherwise all was quiet.

  ‘Not a sound,’ I murmured to Wace. ‘Stay still, and don’t show yourselves until I say. We go together.’

  He nodded, and proceeded to pass the same message down the line. I knew well what the battle-rage could do to a man. Too many times in my life had I seen able and well-respected knights, many of them sword-brothers of mine, charge alone from their ranks on to the bosses and blades of an enemy shield-wall, abandoning reason and long years of training in a desperate moment of folly, deaf to the warning cries of their comrades, their heads filled with the bloodlust and with visions of glory. More than once I’d come close to doing the same. I didn’t want any of the men with me that night to end their lives that way, and so I gave them this reminder, regardless of whether or not they thought they needed it.

  Our fires still burnt, although not as fiercely as before. The wind, slight thought it was, was changing direction, blowing now from the south and sending thick swirls of smoke and ash towards us, making it difficult to see much farther than the circle of tents we’d set up. I raised a hand to cover my mouth, aware that any sudden noise now might give us away. Before long I began to make out what sounded like voices above the crackle of the flames, and shortly afterwards, through a gap in the grey tumbling coils, I spied the dark forms of men moving amongst the shadows of trees and reeds down by the channel, making their way, I guessed, by some of the secret paths that led from the Isle. They were about a hundred paces away now, which meant they were nearly within bowshot.

  ‘Wait,’ I said to Hamo, who was reaching for his arrow-bag. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I know,’ he replied irritably. ‘Do you take me for a dullard?’

  ‘Just make sure your men know it too.’

  A few members of his company – the younger and less experienced ones, from what I could see of their faces – were already nocking black-feathered shafts to their bows. The last thing I wanted was for their impatience to get the better of them. At this range the best we could hope for was one or two lucky kills, whereas what I wanted was to sow terror in the enemy’s hearts. To do that we needed to draw them in, where they would make easier targets. As soon as they saw those silver-tipped shafts bearing down upon them, they would know they’d walked into a trap, which meant that the longer we could delay our attack, the better.

  Cautiously they climbed the rise towards the tents and the campfires. Steel helmets shone in the dancing orange light. Few of them possessed mail that I could see, but instead wore lighter corselets of leather. From their belts hung sheaths for blades both long and short, while a few also hefted stout axes and broad-bladed spears. They looked a disparate lot, but that did not necessarily make them any less dangerous. They held their shields in front of them, moving ever more slowly as they approached, glancing all the time to left and right and behind. One shouted out an order in English, gesturing at his fellow warriors to keep close to one another. I’d hoped Hereward himself might come so that I’d have a chance to atone for my failure to kill him before, but this man was neither as lofty nor as imposing in stature. Nevertheless I guessed from his wargear that he was not only the leader of this scouting-band but also someone of considerable importance. His helm’s cheek-plates and nasal-piece were inlaid with gold, while glistering scarlet and azure stones were set into his scabbard. His hauberk shone, and he wore mail chausses in the manner of a Norman knight, all of which suggested he was a person of considerable means, and probably, although not necessarily, a more than competent fighter too.

  ‘I want their lord alive and unhurt,’ I murmured to those either side of me, and urged them to pass the message on. ‘Kill or maim the rest, but leave him for me.’

  They were nearly at the camp we had set up, a little more than fifty paces away: so close that I could almost smell them. The enemy had spotted the empty cooking-pots, the discarded wine-flasks and everything else we had laid out, and now their leader sent three men ahead to search the tents.

  ‘Wait,’ I repeated as Hamo rose and raised his bow into position. Concentration soured his expression as he fixed his gaze upon the enemy, no doubt choosing his first victim. ‘Wait until I give the word.’

  One of the Englishmen emerged and brandished a coin-pouch with a whoop of delight, and the other two shortly followed with their own finds held aloft. Inside those pouches was the last of the silver and gold that I’d brought with me on campaign, together with some more that Serlo and Pons, Eudo and Wace had lent me for the purpose. Altogether it was a considerable treasure, and enough to bring the rest of their band rushing forward. Some tried to snatch those purses away from their finders, whilst others fought over the wine-flasks, or to be the first inside the remaining tents. Exactly why they thought we’d abandoned our camp, I had no idea. Perhaps they reckoned we were away scouting the land, or that we had fled at the first sight of them approaching. Probably most didn’t care: they saw a chance to obtain easy spoils, and for most that was all that mattered. Most, that was, except for their lord – he of the chausses and the inlaid helmet – who was left stan
ding alone, bellowing for them to hold back, to stay close to him.

  But his warnings were in vain, and now his men would pay for their greed.

  ‘Now,’ I said to Hamo. No sooner had the command left my lips than he’d drawn back his bowstring and let his first arrow fly. With a sharp whistle of air it shot up into the darkness, closely followed by those of his comrades. A cluster of glittering steel points soared out from the trees across the open ground, vanishing briefly into the night before plunging earthwards once more, towards the campfires and the Englishmen squabbling amongst themselves.

  Too late they saw the arrows spearing down towards them. Too late a cry was raised. One man was struck between the shoulder-blades as he scrambled out from one of the tents, and he went down. Another, swigging from one of the leather bottles, took a shaft in the neck and fell backwards into one of the campfires, sending up a shower of sparks. Men were running, shouting, screaming as the silver-tipped shafts rained down in their midst. Volley followed upon volley as Hamo and his men drew the shafts from their arrow-bags. In all probably only three or four out of those twenty-odd foemen were killed, but it was enough to spread panic among their ranks.

  And into that throng we charged, filling the night with our fury. We fell upon them before they could recover their wits and work out what was happening, before they could come together and form a shield-wall to fend us off. Usually I find that those final few moments before battle is joined are when my mind is clearest, and that I’m aware of the slightest details, from which way the wind was blowing to the sound of my own heartbeat resounding through my body. But not this time. Exactly when I gave the order to break from our hiding place, or what battle-cry I roared, I cannot recall. The next thing I remember is seeing the first of the foemen standing before me, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, unslinging his red-painted shield from where it hung by its long strap across his back. I lifted my blade high, then struck down so quickly and with such force that it sliced through his leather sleeve into his shoulder. He bent over, yelling out in agony; I brought my knee up into his groin and buried my sword-point in his gut, twisting it so as to finish him all the quicker, then wrenching it free. The steel glistened crimson in the firelight. My first kill of the night.

  We tore into the enemy, bringing weeks of pent-up anger to bear. Steel clashed upon steel, ringing and shrieking like the dissonant cries of some hellish beast. The hail of arrows had ceased and Hamo and his company were running to join us, adding their strength to ours, hurling themselves into the fray with knives and hand-axes and all manner of weapons: men both young and old eager to prove their worth alongside trained knights like myself. I raised my shield to deflect a spear, then twisted away and landed a blow across the back of a foeman’s head, and he was dead before he hit the ground. These were stout warriors we faced, and not lacking in skill at arms, but for all that they were ill disciplined and no match for knights of Normandy.

  ‘For St Ouen and King Guillaume!’ someone roared, and it might even have been me, except that the words seemed somehow far away, and I didn’t remember having willed myself to speak.

  ‘God aid us,’ another shouted. The traditional war-cry of Normandy, it was quickly taken up, until we were all roaring as if with one voice: ‘God aid us!’

  The battle-calm was upon me; everything was as simple as practising sword-cuts against the stake in the training yard. Time seemed to slow: each moment stretched into an eternity, and I knew every movement of my foes before it even happened. From their stance and the way they held their weapons I knew whether their next strokes would be low or high, feint or parry or thrust or cut, and armed with that knowledge I lost myself to the will of my blade, striking out to left and right, feeling free in a way that I hadn’t in longer than I could remember, all my earlier anxiety having fled. Dimly I was aware of Serlo and Pons on either side of me, protecting my flanks, but I didn’t care whether or not they were there, for I was laughing with the ease of it all as we scythed a path through the enemy towards their lord.

  He stood beyond the fires, trying desperately to rally his troops, but for the most part his orders fell on deaf ears. All around him was confusion. The enemy were in disarray, in two minds whether to retreat or to hold their ground, whereas we were united in our desire to spill enemy blood. A few of the thegn’s more steadfast warriors chose to stand by him, but already a large number were making as fast as they could manage for the safety of the marsh-channel, some limping with gashes to their sides and thighs where they had been struck, others clutching their arms or shoulders, fleeing out of fear for their lives, and I knew we had to take full advantage of this moment.

  ‘Kill them,’ I cried. ‘No mercy!’

  After that it was all over so quickly. One instant I was in the midst of battle, leading the attack against the few who bravely fought on, and the next I was looking into the eyes of the thegn himself. I rushed him with my shield, slamming the boss into his chest and jerking the iron rim upwards into his jaw. The force of the blow sent him stumbling backwards, his mouth and chin running with blood. His sword slipped from his grasp and he lost his footing on the muddy ground. The weight of his mail did the rest, bringing him crashing down on to his back. Breathing hard, I looked up, expecting to find his companions coming to his aid, but they were all on the ground, either finished on the blade-edges of my knights or else writhing in pain and desperately calling out for help that wouldn’t come.

  Sweat dripped from my brow, stinging my eyes, and the blood of my enemies, warm and sticky, streamed down my sword-hand. A few of the Englishmen still lived, but not many. Having seen their leader fall they knew better than to continue the struggle, and now they too were turning in flight, pursued by Eudo and Wace and their knights. This was the first chance any of us had had to exercise our sword-arms in a long while, to wreak our vengeance upon the rebels, and they seized the opportunity to quench their bloodthirst, whooping with delight at the chase and the glory of the kill.

  The thegn tried to get up, scrabbling beside him for his weapon, but I kicked the hilt away before he could reach it. It spun away across the stony ground. I levelled the point of my sword towards the bare skin at his neck and straightaway he stiffened. Beneath his helmet his eyes opened wide, the whites reflecting the moonlight.

  ‘Move and I’ll slit your throat from ear to ear,’ I said, hoping he would understand me. My blood was still up and it was hard to think of the right English words, and so I spoke in my own tongue instead.

  He swallowed. His face carried few scars of the sort that I knew from my own reflection, and that was when I saw him for the youth that he was, no more than seventeen or eighteen summers, by my reckoning, and possibly younger even than that, stoutly built and round of face, with a brace of golden rings on each hand. Clearly he was wealthy, and used to fine living, and yet I doubted if he had won that wealth through battle. Not if his sword-skills were anything to judge by, and while it was fair to say that some men were better leaders than they were fighters, I found it hard to imagine a mere pup such as him inspiring much confidence in anyone.

  ‘Hwæt eart thu?’ I barked. Who are you?

  At last he found his voice. ‘Spare me, lord.’ He stumbled a little over the words as he replied in French, trying to appease me, I supposed. ‘Please, take my rings, anything you wish, but have mercy, I beg of you.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Godric,’ he said as tears welled in his eyes. ‘Thegn of Corbei and son of Burgheard.’

  I’d never heard of a place called Corbei, or of his father Burgheard, but that did not particularly surprise me. I was beginning to build an impression of Godric. A petty landholder with pretensions to grandeur, he equipped himself as handsomely as he could to disguise his lowly status. I recognised his kind.

  ‘I’m not going to kill you,’ I assured him. ‘But you can give me your rings. I’ll have those. Your helmet and scabbard too.’

  Godric glanced around him, but he was surrounded by Fren
chmen and there was no way he could escape.

  ‘Do it,’ I said.

  Reluctantly he divested himself of his helm and weapons, laying them down carefully on the ground beside him. I stood over him, my sword still drawn, watching carefully in case he possessed any hidden blades – knives on a belt underneath his tunic, perhaps – and was foolish enough to try to use them. As soon as he’d removed them all, I instructed Hamo and his men to carry them to our boats, together with as much as they could carry of the goods we’d brought with us. We didn’t have time to take away everything, or to strip the corpses of their possessions. Already what I thought was a faint smear of grey was beginning to appear on the horizon. It might have been my imagination, but I wasn’t willing to take that chance. I wanted to be well away from here by the time day was upon us.

  ‘A few of them managed to get away,’ Eudo told me when he and Wace returned from their pursuit. ‘They fled into the marsh-channel where we couldn’t follow them.’

  Another reason to leave this place as quickly as possible. Soon they would rouse their countrymen and return, no doubt in larger numbers. Indeed reinforcements might already be on their way. The clash of steel and screams of the dying would carry easily across the marshes. If there were any sentries on watch on the other side of the channel, they would surely have heard us.

  Wace handed me the coin-pouches that had formed part of our bait, which he and his knights had managed to recover from where they’d fallen amongst the enemy dead.

  ‘It’s mostly all there,’ he said. ‘We might be a few pennies short, but not many.’

  Probably some had been spilt during the fight. Their loss didn’t concern me all that much. Our capture of the Englishman ought to bring us reward enough to pay for everything this expedition had cost us, hopefully with a good amount left over too, although the king’s treasurers weren’t known for their generosity.

  ‘On your feet,’ I told him. At first he did not respond, and it took Pons striking him across his shoulder-blades with a spear-haft to jolt him into doing as instructed. I wished I’d thought to bring some rope with which to bind his wrists, but he didn’t look the sort who was likely to put up much of a fight. Not after seeing so many of his countrymen cut down before his eyes.