Conquest 03 - Knights of the Hawk

by James Aitcheson

  Indeed one flank of the Norman shield-wall had already collapsed, and a group of rebels perhaps two score strong was now racing through the shallows towards the pontoons with axes in hand, having spotted our approach and recognised the danger.

  ‘Faster!’ I repeated. ‘Ride harder!’

  The bridge shook beneath the weight of the charge, and the timbers creaked. At any moment, I thought, they would give way, splinters would fly, and we would all, knights and banner-bearers, destriers and palfreys, be plunged into the fen. Surely it could not fail now, not when we were so close. Fewer than one hundred paces stood between us and the Isle. No Frenchman had managed to come so close in three months on this campaign.

  Let the bridge hold, I prayed. Let it hold.

  I clenched my teeth. Reed-banks and gold-glistening meres flew past on both sides. The thunder of iron upon timber filled my ears as Fyrheard’s hooves thudded in rapid rhythm upon the oak planking, so loud that I could hear nothing else. Not the shouts of the enemy or my companions. Not the screams of the dying or the clash and scrape of steel on steel up ahead, or the jangle of my mail, or the blood pounding in my skull, or the clatter of the chains anchoring the pontoons, or the creaking of timbers, or the whistle of arrows being loosed by the bowmen in the punts out on the marsh. Only the unrelenting thunder reverberating through my skull.

  I was dimly aware of those two score rebels rushing to meet us, crashing thigh-deep through the marsh-waters with steel in hand and the promise of death in their eyes. My attention was fixed upon the bridge’s end, which was growing nearer with every stride. Like any good destrier, Fyrheard was trained to water, so I didn’t expect him to falter or to panic, but nevertheless I felt my stomach lurch and my breath catch in my chest as we galloped along the last pontoon, the final dozen strides, and I saw the marshes looming. My fingers tightened around the haft of my lance and the straps of my shield—

  As Fyrheard leapt.

  All fell silent. For the briefest moment I had the sensation that we were flying. Beneath us was only air, but not for long, before Fyrheard’s hooves came down, and then suddenly there was water and mud all around. Showers of spray drenched my shoes and my braies and soaked through my mail to plaster my tunic against my arms and chest. Fyrheard was crashing on through the shallows, the marsh reaching as high as his forearm, but he didn’t seem to mind. On my flanks now were Serlo and Robert, and I wondered what had happened to the captain of his knights, whether his horse had stumbled or refused when it came to the water, but there was no time to dwell on that now. I couched my lance under my arm, levelling the point at the enemy. Seeing us charging through the marsh towards them, for the first time the rebels hesitated, unsure whether to attack or to flee.

  In the end they failed to do either. I fixed my gaze upon the one who would be my first target, his beard sopping, his long hair clinging to the side of his face, and then it was just as if I were tilting at the quintain. He came to his senses and tried to get out of our path, but too late. Slowed by the water, he only managed to get a couple of paces before I was upon him, ramming my lance into his shoulder. It was only a glancing blow, but it was enough to knock him off balance and make him lose his footing. He sprawled forward into the water, falling under the surface, under Fyrheard’s hooves, and straightaway he was forgotten. Knee to knee, kicking up sheets of spray, we rode on, making space for those behind us to follow. In their desperation to reach the bridge, the enemy had abandoned their serried ranks and were now in disarray. We charged amongst them, filling the morning with the blade-song, freeing our weapon-arms, striking out to left and right as we carved a path through the shallows, making towards dry ground.

  An Englishman came at my left flank, bringing his axe around in a wild swing that glanced off my shield-boss, denting the steel and sending a shudder through my arm all the way to my shoulder, only for Robert to ram his lance home into the man’s neck. Another, screaming in rage at the death of his friend, ran at my undefended right hand, aiming his seax at Fyrheard’s belly, but my weapon had the greater reach, and before he could come close enough to strike, I plunged my lance-head down, into his breast, twisting the weapon as it went in, until I felt the crack of ribs and knew I’d found his heart. I left the blade lodged in his breast and he collapsed with a splash, adding his corpse to all the others floating upon the surface. They bobbed on the waves, turning the surrounding waters a dirty crimson.

  ‘Normandy!’ I yelled, drawing my sword and raising it skywards, hoping to rally our spearmen, whose battle-line had been broken. With few places to go except back into the marsh, however, most of them were fighting on, albeit divided and surrounded. I only hoped that their doggedness would now be rewarded. The rest of Robert’s conroi was with us now, and others besides as rank upon rank of knights spilt from the bridge on to the Isle’s shore. They fanned out in pursuit of the kill, cutting down those who had broken from their shield-wall to come to challenge us, presenting the rebels with a decision: whether to throw themselves into the battle here, and try to drive us back into the marsh, or whether to return to the safety of their fortifications on the higher ground some three hundred paces or so to the north, where they could make a proper stand against us. Already some of their rearmost ranks had turned, preferring the latter, more sensible choice to death at our hands, and it looked as though the message was spreading to the others. They realised that the bridge was ours, that they’d lost that particular struggle, and so as one they were falling back.

  At that sight I gave a roar of delight. The field was all but ours, because any moment now Morcar would show himself and give the word to his followers. They would turn on their countrymen, and then the real killing would begin. Against all expectations, we had done it. The bridge had held and we had led King Guillaume and his army to the Isle, and soon, if our luck held, to victory.

  ‘What’s Morcar’s device?’ I called to Pons and Serlo as we found ourselves briefly with space around us. They both looked back blankly. Glancing around, I found Robert not far off. His face was pale, his eyes wide, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was still alive.

  ‘Lord,’ I called, and repeated my question.

  ‘The white stag on a green field,’ he shouted in reply as his hearth-knights rallied around him.

  I turned my attention back to the fleeing Englishmen ahead of us, some of whom were casting aside the shields and weapons encumbering them, others slowed by injury, hobbling on sprained ankles and wounded thighs, or bearing bright scarlet gashes to their chests and sides. The battle-joy surged through me, filling me with laughter as we raced from the shallows on to firmer ground, riding down our quarry. They looked back over their shoulders when they heard our hoofbeats upon the turf, closing in on them, and in the whites of their eyes I glimpsed their fear. But the ground was soft and uneven, with tussocks of tall grass everywhere, and bulges and dips and pools of stagnant water that were hard to spot from the saddle, all of which slowed us and meant that although we succeeded in killing a good few stragglers, most of the English were getting away, falling back towards their ramparts, which were now little more than a hundred paces away—

  That was when I saw it. The white stag, that noble animal, flying proudly above those earthworks, along which were arrayed rows upon rows of spearmen in gleaming mail.

  ‘There he is,’ I cried, pointing in its direction, and felt a surge of joy for I knew at that moment that the day belonged to us. ‘It’s him! It’s Morcar!’

  Except that his troops were not moving to cut off their countrymen’s retreat, as we’d been expecting. Instead they seemed to be merely holding position, watching, waiting.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Serlo shouted. ‘Why isn’t he attacking?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, as an anxious feeling gripped my stomach. Once our first conroi had crossed the bridge, he would turn his spears against his countrymen. That was what he had told us. That was what he had promised. He had given us his own nephew as hostage, as proof of
his good faith. We had fulfilled our side of the agreement. We had crossed the bridge and captured the shore. All that remained was for him to make good on his word. What, then, was he waiting for?

  That was when I realised. He had never meant to aid us. The rat-turd had pledged his support only so that he could lure us into a trap. Why hadn’t I seen this before now? How could any of us have thought that he, who had broken so many oaths before, should keep to this one?

  And a trap it was, for our only hope of withdrawal rested with the bridge and the punts, and neither of those offered a swift escape. While some might get away, others would be left to hold off the enemy at our backs, and we would probably lose almost as many men that way as if we fought the enemy in open battle.

  ‘He lied to us,’ I said. ‘He betrayed us!’

  My grip tightened around my sword-hilt. Without Morcar’s help, we faced an almost impossible struggle. For he held the higher ground, and to have a hope of defeating him, we would have to assault their defences, or else somehow draw them out, and I did not see how we could do either. The king’s plan, so carefully crafted, lay in ruins, and all because of Morcar.

  Perhaps it was because my mind was filled with all these thoughts that I didn’t see the danger ahead, or perhaps it would have made no difference. My blood was up and I was thinking only of killing as many of the rebels as I could before they escaped to the protection of their ramparts. Between the grass-heads I managed to glimpse a band of them half running and half stumbling away from us, across the tussocks and through shallow, murky pools.

  ‘Kill them,’ I yelled to Pons and Serlo, and all those others who were with me, as we charged through the grass after them. ‘Kill them! Kill—’

  I was still shouting when a shriek filled my ears and I found myself falling. Fyrheard’s forelegs gave way and I clung to his neck until I could hold on no longer and was pitched sideways. The ground rushed up towards me and I met it hard. My head rattled inside my helmet as I tumbled into a gully, where I found myself looking at the sky, with blood and dirt in my mouth and all the breath knocked from my chest. I was trying to work out what had happened when there came a second shriek, and a third, and suddenly horses were falling all about. I ducked just in time as hooves lashed out barely an arm’s length above my head. Clods of earth and wet turf showered my face.

  Panicked shouts filled the air, and then not far off I heard the English battle-cry: ‘Godemite!’

  Blinking, I raised myself to my feet. My shield was still on my arm, having somehow survived the fall, but my sword had slipped from my grasp. My head still spinning, I looked around, searching for my blade amidst the mud, and in so doing nearly missed the bearded, leather-clad foeman rushing at me from the side with a seax in hand, a smirk upon his face and victory in his eyes. I raised my shield just in time to meet his strike. He feinted low before thrusting forward over the top edge of my shield towards my face, but I was too quick for him, turning to one side, grabbing his arm in my free hand and twisting hard so that he dropped his weapon. He staggered forwards, howling in pain, and as he did so I landed a kick upon his backside, sending him sprawling.

  ‘Tancred!’

  I looked up to see Wace wheeling about my flank with a spear in each hand. He tossed me one and I caught it, and as the bearded one tried to rise I used both hands to sink it into his thigh, before tugging it free and turning it upwards, driving underneath his jerkin and into his groin. He bellowed out in agony, and I plunged the steel deeper and deeper still, twisting so that it went in all the further, until his cries trailed off and I was sure he was dead.

  All was confusion. The rebels, who until a few moments ago had been fleeing, were suddenly turning upon their pursuers, reinforced by a line, three ranks deep, of helmeted and mailed spearmen, who must have been hiding in the long grass, for I could see nowhere else they could have come from. Horses screamed as a forest of blades sprang up towards their bellies; those that were not impaled reared up and kicked their hooves and tossed their heads in terror, only to turn and find themselves with nowhere to go, trapped between the English spears and the rest of the oncoming Normans. Into that chaos the enemy piled themselves. They buried their steel in the animals’ bellies and dragged knights from the saddle, setting upon them with knives and seaxes.

  ‘Fall back!’ Wace was shouting, though no one but me seemed to hear him.

  I looked around for Fyrheard and saw him scrambling out of the gully, which was half as deep as a man was high, and thirty paces from end to end. The rebels had dug ditches amongst the tussocks so as to break up our charge, overlaying them with branches and reeds so as to disguise them, and into those same ditches we had ridden blindly, like fools.

  From every direction came cries of alarm and of pain. I left the spear in the bearded Englishman’s groin, for I had at last spotted my sword, and recognised it for mine because of the turquoise stone that I’d had set into its pommel. I sheathed it, hauled myself from the ditch and ran to Fyrheard. His eyes were wide, and on seeing me approach he tensed, but then he recognised me. The fall had clearly shaken him, but he looked unhurt, and for that I thanked God as I glanced around and saw those that had been less lucky, flailing in the gullies and struggling to stand on broken legs. I rubbed the side of his neck in reassurance, but knew we could not tarry here. The stench of death was everywhere, and it was the stench not just of blood and spilt innards, but of piss and shit and vomit too. The corpses of our fallen countrymen and their steeds lay strewn across the field, along with many more who were not yet dead but whose end was near, desperately crying out for help in French and in English.

  ‘Withdraw,’ cried a familiar voice. The gold threads of the Malet banner glinted away to my right, and beneath it Robert was waving, trying to attract the attention not just of his conroi but everyone else who was with us. ‘Withdraw towards the shore, back towards the lion banner!’

  Turning, he pointed his sword back in the direction of the bridge and spurred his steed into a gallop. Around a third of our horsemen, I reckoned, had made the crossing by then: some three hundred knights marshalling beneath the colours and devices of their lords. King Guillaume himself rode up and down the battle-line, bellowing exhortations to them and to those of our foot-warriors who still remained.

  The enemy were swarming forward like carrion birds around a corpse, taking advantage of the confusion they had wrought. On either side of us Normans were fleeing on horseback and on foot, running, riding, limping, a few being helped along by their comrades. Doing their best to cover their retreat, around fifty paces away, were Serlo and Pons, Eudo and his knights, and I recognised them by the emblems on their shields, but even at a glance I could see they were outnumbered and close to being outflanked. For the conroi’s strength lies in its swiftness and in the weight of the charge, but once its force has been met and its drive is halted, it becomes vulnerable, and I knew that they couldn’t stand toe to toe for long against all those English spears.

  Robert was already riding back to join the rest of our host, but Wace still lingered, along with his hearth-knights: the quiet-spoken Gascon whose name I still hadn’t learnt, and a dark-haired lad not much older than Godric but almost twice the size, who was known to everyone as Tor, which in the French tongue means Tower.

  ‘Wace,’ I yelled, and as soon as I had his attention: ‘We have to get to Eudo!’

  He nodded breathlessly. His right cheek, I saw, was streaming with crimson where a fresh cut had been laid across it, to add to those he had taken at Hæstinges, although I wasn’t sure if he realised it.

  Without further hesitation, I leapt up into the saddle and dug my heels in. Sweat rolled off my brow, stinging my eyes, and for a few moments all I could see was a watery blur, but still I pounded on. Already the enemy had surrounded Eudo and the others, and I knew we didn’t have much time. The ground had been trampled flat by the passage of so many feet and hooves, which meant that we could see the ditches easily now, and we swerved around them.


  ‘Normandy!’ I cried, hoping to catch the attention of some of those Englishmen, to draw them away, but my voice was hoarse from so much shouting, and they didn’t seem to hear me.

  In fact it was probably a good thing that they didn’t, since it meant that they knew nothing of our charge until we were upon them. With weapons drawn and gleaming in the morning light we fell upon them, throwing our sword-edges and our lance-points into the fray, losing ourselves to the wills of our blades as we struck and struck again, laying about with sharpened steel, roaring as one, clearing a path through their lines, swearing death upon them all, smashing our shield-bosses into their brows, burying steel in their backs, piercing mail and cloth and flesh, riding them down so that their skulls and ribs were crushed beneath the charge, doing our best to drive them back.

  Eudo risked a glance towards us, and I saw the desperation in his eyes. His shield was splintered and the hide, emblazoned with the tusked boar that was his device, had half fallen away from the limewood boards, rendering it all but useless.

  ‘Retreat!’ I yelled to him and Serlo and Pons and the dozen or so others who were with them, and hoped that they heard me above the clash of arms and the shouts and the screams.

  ‘Back to the lion banner!’ Wace was shouting.

  For suddenly there was open space at our backs, offering a way out of that mêlée, and I knew we had to seize this opportunity while we could. Our charge was beginning to slow; the enemy were regrouping as warning shouts echoed through their ranks and they turned to face the new threat, and with every heartbeat their numbers were swelling. If we were to beat our retreat, now was the time.

  ‘With me,’ I said. ‘With me!’

  I clattered the flat of my blade against an Englishman’s helmet and wheeled about, looking to escape the fray—