A Tapestry of Dreams

by Roberta Gellis

  But Hugh’s mind, relieved of immediate concerns, had immediately brought up the basic terror he had buried under worry about Thurstan and the ill-equipped yeomen. “If we prevail,” he said, “is it decided what next to do? I mean, will the army follow David north to relieve the sieges on the royal castles? Or—”

  “You are worried about Jernaeve,” Sir Walter said kindly. “I know you need not be, but”—he smiled wryly—“my words cannot ease your heart, and I am sure I would feel the same if our positions were reversed.” He frowned and then added slowly, “No plans are made. Truly, from what I have gleaned about the size of the army descending upon us, I do not think there are many sieges under way. David’s army must contain all, or nearly all, the force he brought from Scotland. The question of what to do next was raised, but most thought we would need a day or two to lick our wounds and then we could decide.”

  Hugh said nothing, but his expression was bleak as they both dismounted and one of Sir Walter’s squires led the horses away. By habit, he held back for Sir Walter to enter the house before him, but he did not follow. Hugh knew there was a good chance that the army would simply disintegrate; some would pursue the Scots north; some would feel they had done their duty and, having aborted any danger of the invasion continuing south, would quietly go home. Only the troops bound to each major battle leader would wait for orders. Hugh did not have to wait; he was no longer bound by oath to Sir Walter, but to go without his master’s leave was still impossible to him—and all Hugh had was six men—if they survived.

  Instead of going through the door, however, Sir Walter turned to face him. “When the battle is done—one way or another,” he said, “do not wait for orders from me, but take my troop north to Jernaeve. You will not have enough men to drive off an army, but if you can find some fleeing Scots and herd them before you into the besiegers’ camp, they may cry of a great defeat and frighten the besiegers away.”

  And before Hugh could thank him, Sir Walter turned on his heel and strode into the dim room, shouting for meat and drink and to be freed from his armor. Hugh hesitated, fighting a chill. There had been something odd in his master’s face and voice. He thought for the first time with doubt of the huge army coming against them and of the first “case” Sir Walter had mentioned—that they might be buried by the sheer number of their enemies. A dreadful suspicion rose in his mind: had Sir Walter sent him to hold the far left not because he wished to be sure it would be well defended but because it was farthest from the Standard and nearest to the wood? Escape through the wood would be easy if their army were destroyed and holding his ground became pointless.

  Love and irritation warred briefly in Hugh, only to be replaced by frustration. If what he feared was true, there was nothing he could do about it. To protest would only earn him another clout on the head and an angry growl about being a fool. Sir Walter always managed to make his favors to Hugh seem a benefit to himself. Sighing, Hugh turned around and looked north. The low hill was not visible over the roofs of the houses, but Hugh could just make out a gleam of silver—the pyx—and below it the movement of the saints’ banners stirring in the breeze. He remembered the horrors he had seen along the Scots’ route down Dere Street. No, he told himself, we will not be the victims of God’s scourge. My father in God said we would be angels of vengeance. We will prevail.

  Chapter 28

  Comforted by his faith that God would support the army that the archbishop had gathered and blessed, Hugh had followed Sir Walter into the house, eaten with good appetite, and slept, as any soldier should whenever opportunity arises, until about two hours after midnight. He woke as he had set his mind to do, dressed quietly, saddled his horse, and rode out to the camp. The men were rolled in cloaks or blankets within feet of where they intended to fight. Fortunately on this August night the weather had been mild and dry. To Hugh’s relief, he was properly challenged several times; the sentries seemed to be awake. He did not speak more than to identify himself, but he learned later there was good reason for their watchfulness. The Scots had arrived and were very close.

  Nonetheless, when he found his tent, Morel reported that all was quiet; there had been campfires not more than half a mile away starting at dusk, first a few and then so many they seemed to light up the whole plain, but aside from a few clashes in the woods, there had been no fighting. Hugh was not worried about the Scots coming in force through the wood; a few men might get past to spy, but from where they were to the river, it was thick with yeomen. He did not put overmuch weight on Morel’s report about the numerous campfires either, reminding Morel how the besiegers of Heugh had tried to magnify their numbers by setting many fires and having servants run back and forth fueling them. But in the morning, as soon as there was enough light to see, he had to admit that had been a false judgment.

  At first glance, Hugh thought there was a dip in the plain that was still in shadow; then he realized the ground was black with men. Instinctively, he turned his head to look at the Standard. The pyx had caught the first rays of the sun and burned red instead of shining silver, and the saints’ banners hung limp in the dead calm that often marked that hour of a summer morning. Then, softly, softly, almost like a murmur of love, a sound rolled toward him from the Scots. His head snapped around, but there was no movement yet. They must be cheering, he thought with an odd sinking at heart, and looked back at the pyx.

  It was still red as blood, but the banners were now snapping merrily in a rising breeze, and Hugh saw a brilliantly garbed form climbing into the cart, raising a crosier, blessing the flock. Thinly but clearly, above the sound from the Scots army, Ralph of Durham’s voice floated out over the troops he had blessed. Hugh could not make out the words, but he was well aware of what they must be. The bishop must be praising the past exploits of the Norman lords, listing the lands they had conquered, telling them that the Scots were cowards and fools, designed by God to be defeated because of the outrages they had committed.

  To confirm his thought, either the breeze shifted slightly or the bishop turned his head and words became audible: “…by divine permission… tell you that those… violated the temples of the Lord, polluted His altars, slain His priests, and spared neither children nor women with child shall on this soil… punishment… crimes. Rouse yourselves… bear down on an accursed enemy with courage… in the presence of God.”

  There was another period in which only the voice, rising and falling, could be made out. Possibly the men, some kneeling, some standing, all watching the bishop and the Standard above him with devoted attention, heard more; Hugh’s eyes were on the dark blanket that was the enemy army, which seemed to be heaving and twitching. They were forming to attack. A cry of warning rose to Hugh’s lips, but he stifled it. It was too soon. The bishop, atop the hill on the cart, could see better than he could, Hugh reminded himself.

  Words formed in the sound again: “Numbers without discipline… hindrance… often victorious when they were but a few against many… renown of your fathers, your practice of arms, your military discipline… make you invincible against the enemy’s hosts.”

  Hugh bit his lip; the whole black mass was stirring now, its forward edge raveling out as the swiftest and most eager surged ahead of the others. He turned his head to look at the bishop, suddenly wondering if Ralph of Durham was one of those who believed that since God foresaw all it did not matter how long he talked because they would be victorious if they were meant to be. But just then, Durham raised his crosier and pointed with it: “…perceive them rushing on… advancing in disorder… now avenge the atrocities committed in the houses of God against the priests of the Lord… should any fall in the battle, I, in the name of the archbishop, absolve them from all spot of sin, in the name of the Father, whose creatures the foe hath foully and horribly slain, and of the Son, whose altars they have defiled, and of the Holy Ghost, from whose grace they have desperately fallen.”

  The whole last passage, giving the defen
ders absolution, was clear. Durham must have been facing them, Hugh thought, and stole a glance toward the bishop from watching the blanket of enemies heave and roll toward him. He saw that Durham had not climbed down but still stood on the cart with the Standard, pointing his crosier at the Scots. His voice came faintly now, without words, and Hugh realized that Durham—either with natural courage or with the strength of faith—was repeating the absolution over and over in each direction so that every man in their force would hear and be shriven. One last time Hugh raised his eyes to the pyx and whispered his own brief prayer to Mary, begging the Mother of God to preserve and protect Audris and Eric if by the will of her Son he should not survive.

  From the look of the masses flowing inexorably toward them, it almost seemed as if all of them must be trampled down and overwhelmed. Yet the sound of his own men crying, “Amen, amen,” to Durham’s exhortation briefly drowned the shouts of the oncoming horde, and none of them flinched. A moment later, Hugh could make out the Scots’ answering challenge of “Alban! Alban!” He looked right and left along the line and drew his sword as he bellowed, “Archers! Ready and hold!” He could hear troop leaders down the line repeating his order and Sir Lucius some way behind him doing the same. But the force charging them was behaving oddly; the black wave was developing a definite point, curving away from his wing toward the hill on which Durham still stood. Sir Walter had been right; they wanted the Standard.

  Hugh sucked in a deep breath and shouted for the leftmost end of his line to come forward so they could shoot into the flank of oncoming men. A few minutes later what had seemed a solid, moving mass disengaged into individuals. Hugh took another breath and opened his mouth to order the archers to begin firing, but as the charging figures became clear, he was so surprised that the words hung unsaid for an instant.

  The Picts, the wild northmen, headed the charge, and the madmen had either discarded what little armor they had been wearing when Hugh saw them at Heugh or this was an even more barbaric group. Bareheaded, bare-chested—except that some of them wore what seemed to be a broad scarf of many-hued cloth—even barefooted, most without shields and armed with no more than a long spear, more fitted for hunting a defenseless doe than for attacking an armed soldier, they came running as if they were invulnerable.

  “Shoot!” Hugh roared, finding his voice although his mind was still fixed in a dizzy alternation of admiration for the insane courage and disbelief at the simple insanity of the attacking men.

  A cloud of arrows arced forward, not only from his men but all along the massed line as far as the base of the hill, beyond which Hugh could not see. Some figures stumbled and fell; others stumbled, righted themselves, and continued the charge. Hugh shouted again, a wordless paean to bravery, but his next cry was a warning to the swordsmen stationed among the archers. Although the main thrust of the attack was toward the hill, the sheer mass of oncoming men was forcing a substantial number outward toward the wings. Hugh risked one more glance at the center, knowing it would be the last he would have before he and his men were either buried in enemies or too busy fighting them to look elsewhere.

  The ground was littered with still bodies and struggling ones, but the movement forward seemed to be no slower. Hugh thought he could hear individual bellows now and again rising above the shouts of the attackers and defenders and the screams of the wounded, and he had a single glimpse of a long, bright sword held high, waving the enemy onward. Beyond, as Hugh’s eyes swept away from the front lines and outward, he saw two separate groups of men on horseback. Hugh dismissed them as not being any immediate threat. There was no way they could charge through the mass of footmen dividing them from the English.

  In the brief time he had looked elsewhere, his own flank had become a near-image of what he had seen in the center. The archers were taking a terrible toll, shooting, dropping the discharged crossbows, turning and reaching for a reloaded bow from a man—or more often a boy in training—crouched behind him. It was only when an archer two men down from him sprouted an arrow in his back that Hugh realized the Scots were shooting at them, too. But the bowman did not fall; he uttered a curse, reached back, and brushed the arrow away with one hand while he grabbed for his newly loaded crossbow with the other. At the distance the shortbow had not the power to pierce the hardened leather jerkins the archers wore; however, somewhere up Hugh’s line of men there was a shriek of pain. At closer range the shortbow could be effective—or if an arrow struck a man in the face or on an unprotected arm or leg.

  Still, compared with the crossbow, the shortbow was ineffective, and the closer the enemy drew, the more deadly the crossbow became as its accuracy increased. Now the attackers had to leap over dead or wounded comrades every second or third step, but they came on, seemingly fearless, shaking or stabbing with their long spears, screaming their war cries. Hugh’s heart lifted as he saw the Scots’ front rank decimated again and again and realized that he and his men would not be overwhelmed and killed, but under the relief was a tinge of horror at the numbers of fallen.

  The sense of dreadful waste increased as a few—so very few—of the incredibly brave men charging so hopelessly passed through the hail of shafts. One stabbed at Hugh with his spear. Hugh’s first blow cut the head from the weapon; his second cut the head from the man. He nearly wept as his enemy died, for he knew he had killed a hero—or a madman—and it was a pitiful thing for either one or the other to die so uselessly.

  Another and then another came and died—ill armed and unarmored, they had no chance at all. Nor was Hugh alone in what he felt. The cheers and jeers that had rung out from the men-at-arms as the first Scots fell began to change into angry shouts of warning. They could not stop killing, for to do so meant that they themselves would be killed, but many were revolted at the defenselessness of their enemies.

  Time stretched as it does when one’s task becomes more and more unpleasant. Hugh’s long shield and tight, thick rings of mail were invulnerable to the Scots’ spears, whereas the short, round shields some of them carried were useless in opposing his long blade. Hugh felt as if he had been lopping off limbs and heads for hours. As the main body of the enemy army reached them, many more escaped the archers, and Hugh often had two and sometimes three to fight at a time. He never felt in any danger, even when the clever ones recognized that they could do him no harm by stabbing at his armored body and went for his face and feet. It was too easy, too pitifully easy, to foil those attempts. He only felt sick and sicker as more escaped his killing blows and lay nearby or writhed away, moaning or screaming or silent, to die slowly. Hugh had fought in large and small wars often, but never before had he felt like a killing machine, a butcher.

  Later—Hugh had no idea how much later—the sound of the battle changed. He had no clue to what it meant, for the words, if they were words, were meaningless, and he did not dare turn his head from the three men advancing on him. “Look at your dead!” he bellowed. “Go back! Courage alone cannot pierce mail.” And while he shouted he raised his bloody sword; his throat was sore with shouting those words or similar ones with no effect. But this time there was no need to strike. Those coming at him had paused, turning toward the hill of the Standard, where a strange, wordless wail that sent chills up Hugh’s back had burst out. His head turned also—the sound was weirdly compelling.

  In the brief time Hugh dared look, the scene at the base of the hill seemed unchanged, except for larger heaps of dead, but even as he pulled his eyes away, an afterimage struck his mind. The long, flashing sword no longer waved. An unreasonable pang of sorrow made Hugh lower his own weapon; he knew a great leader had been struck down. Lament, he thought, that was the cry—and then jerked his sword up and focused his eyes, thinking, they will need to cry one for me if I do not mind my own affairs. But the men who had been ready to attack a moment earlier only shrieked some gibberish—curses, perhaps—and ran away. All along the left wing that same cry was rising, and most of the Scots were ret
reating. But the English line was buckling in response, bulging outward as the men-at-arms moved to pursue those who fled.

  “Stand!” Hugh roared. “Stand! Archers, forward. Stand and shoot! Drive them on. Swordsmen stand.”

  Up and down the line the command was repeated, and the bulging stopped. Only a few swordsmen, caught up in the lust of killing, followed. They were soon lost among those they pursued, except for one or two who turned back. The men had been warned of the danger, but it was no surprise to Hugh that they needed a reminder that a withdrawal might be no more than a feint to destroy the line that the huge army arrayed against them had been helpless to break by force. Another time he might have been surprised that so few had rushed in pursuit, but he was sure that some of the men-at-arms were as sick of killing as he was and that the others did not wish to waste energy in following naked savages who were not worth looting.

  The thoughts did not interfere with the sweeping glances Hugh cast around the area of his responsibility. Their own force was thinned, and moans and cries of pain came from behind the English lines as well as in front of them. Scots arrows had struck home, and lances and swords were more effective against the short leather tunics and round shields of the men-at-arms than they had been against Hugh’s long-sleeved, midcalf-length hauberk. Still, the losses were not dangerous. They could withstand another wave, although that did not seem a danger in the immediate area. But there was a bulge in the wood to the left that troubled Hugh. The Scots might be reorganizing behind it.

  He shouted his concern to Sir Lucius, who had moved into the front rank farther to the left as losses brought his men forward, but the young knight responded with a yell of excitement and pointed urgently to the right. Hugh looked toward the hill and saw the mounted reserve coming full tilt down and around it, waving their swords and shouting for the men on foot to make way. As his eyes took that in, Hugh’s head was already turning to seek the cause, which was coming across the plain—more than twenty, perhaps fifty, mounted men flanked and followed by several hundred footmen.