Sworn Sword (50 page)

‘And I will kill you too,’ Eadgar snarled, and thrust forward. The sun was in my eyes again, but I managed to parry his blow, gripping my hilt in two hands, using the strength of both my arms to force him back.

‘Your mother was a whore,’ I spat. ‘Go back to her teat where you belong.’

He rushed at me, and this time I didn’t wait for him to strike: instead I attacked first, swinging the point of my sword towards his neck, aiming for the gap between his helmet and his hauberk. It met his cheek-plate; he gave a yell and staggered back. There was blood streaming down his face, and I saw that I had cut him.

He screamed in anger and charged forward again, seeking revenge, and now his men were behind him, with their spears and their axes, and I realised that I was one man against half a dozen. Fear gripped my stomach and I steeled myself, praying to God as Eadgar rushed towards me—

A blur of brown and silver flashed past, and above a clatter of hooves and the crash of steel I heard Eudo’s voice crying out: ‘For Lord Robert!’

He drove his lance into the arm of the ætheling, who staggered back, blood streaming down the sleeve of his mail as the rest of his men closed around him, forming the shield-wall. Beside Eudo was Philippe, and after them came Urse and several others, with lances couched and swords drawn, and straightaway they were pushing the enemy back.

For a moment I could only stand there, dazed by what had happened, but then I recovered my wits.

‘Kill them!’ I shouted, and I was running to join Eudo and the others, pressing the attack, throwing myself into the fray, hacking down upon the purple-and-yellow shields before me, bringing the full weight of my blade to bear.

A spear struck the helmet of one of Robert’s knights, the impact knocking him from the saddle, and he was pitched into the river below. There was a splash, followed by a cry for help as he struggled to keep his head above the water, but it did not last long as he was dragged down by his hauberk and chausses. His horse, now riderless, reared up, lashing out with its hooves at the heads of the Englishmen in front.

And then horns were blasting out, cutting across the sound of the killing, and the enemy hesitated. For at the top of the hill to
the east flew two new banners, with hundreds of mounted men gathered beneath them. The first was the white wolf on crimson that belonged to Fitz Osbern, while beside it, glistening in the dawn, was the black and gold that had become so familiar to me.

Malet.

Which meant that the castle garrison had sallied, and now the rebels were being attacked from two sides. His knights and Fitz Osbern’s poured down from the east, and in that moment everything turned, as the English host, seeing the threat from behind, suddenly crumbled.

‘For Lord Guillaume!’ Philippe yelled, as he finished an Englishman on his lance. Eadgar had been dragged from the mêlée by a group of his huscarls and now they were retreating across the bridge, back towards the rest of their host. Some still remained, holding us off whilst their lord retreated, but they were few and we were many, streaming towards them on horse and on foot with sharpened steel in our hands. The bridge belonged to us, the enemy were in disarray, and I knew that victory was close at hand.

I ran to the horse that had lost its rider, vaulting up into the saddle, working my feet into the stirrups, pressing my spurs into his flank as I joined the pursuit, riding the enemy down. But though I saw my sword flash, saw it strike, for some reason I could not feel it, as if it were somehow without weight, with a mind that was all its own, and it were the one controlling me. Around me men were dying on its edge and its point, breathing their last, and I was riding through them as the rest of the king’s host followed: a tide of men rolling across the bridge.

Horns blew again – long forlorn blasts, like the dying wails of some monstrous beast – and suddenly everywhere in their dozens and their scores the English were turning, abandoning their shield-walls, abandoning the fight. Some were fleeing into the side streets while others were turning to the wharves, making for their ships, and among the latter I saw the ætheling with around fifty of his household warriors, his face and mail smeared crimson. In their attempt to reach the boats they were cutting down men on all sides,
and they seemed not to care whether it was French or English that they killed, for all were falling to their blades.

‘With me,’ I said, raising my sword for all to see: not just my conroi but all the others were now joining us. I could feel my mount beginning to flag: every time I lifted the spurs he was slowing, but he had to keep going, and so I forced the steel points into his flesh as we chased the enemy on to the wharves. ‘With me!’

The air whistled overhead as a flight of arrows soared across the river, spearing down into the ranks of the fleeing rebels. Some of the ships were already casting off from their moorings, though they were still only half full, and some even less than that. But in their haste to escape the enemy had cast down their shields in favour of oars, and now they were dying under a shower of steel.

‘Eadgar,’ I shouted over the din of battle as we closed on him and his men. ‘Eadgar!’

My throat was raw, my voice hoarse, but they must have heard me, for some were rallying, turning to face us. We were on the wharves now, where the way was narrow and, just as on the bridge, it would only take a few men to hold us. I wondered where Fitz Osbern and Malet were, why they were not riding to close the rebels off from the other side, to prevent them from escaping. The ætheling wasn’t far from his ships, and I knew that once he was out upon the river, we would be unable to catch him.

More arrows rained down, thicker than before, this time landing just a short way in front of us. Our archers were arrayed all along the length of the bridge. Together they raised their bows, drawing back their strings and letting fly, before notching fresh shafts as fast as they could draw them from their arrow-bags.

We were amongst the enemy now, and what had been a battle became a slaughter. I hefted my sword, summoning all the strength I had left, hacking it down upon them, using the full weight of the steel, and this time it was Oswynn’s name that I was calling. Every man I slew was for her, and yet there was one I wanted to kill more than all the rest together.

Already he was climbing on to his longship, some of his men hacking through the ropes which bound them to the quayside, even
as others leapt to take up the oars. But there were so many men before me that I could not break through, only watch as the ætheling’s ship pushed off, surging forward with oars thrashing, its high prow cutting like a knife-blade through the water.

‘Eadgar!’ I roared as at last I found space for myself. Wooden piers jutted out into the river and I rode down one of them. To either side corpses floated in water stained red with their blood. Feathered shafts protruded from their chests and their backs.

I untied my chin-strap, letting my helmet fall with a clatter to the pier below. I wanted the ætheling to see me clearly, so that he would remember the face of the man who had wounded him. The man who would one day send him to his death.

‘Eadgar!’

Some of his men had spotted me, for they were pointing, directing their lord’s attention. And then finally he turned, to gaze at me from beneath the golden rim of his helmet.

‘I will kill you, Eadgar,’ I shouted, hoping that he could hear. ‘I swear I will kill you!’

He held my gaze for a while, but he said nothing in return, and then he turned his back and strode towards the bows. And I was left to watch as with every stroke the ship grew smaller and smaller. Behind me cries of victory rose up; men banged their weapons against their shield-rims, or else hammered the hafts of their spears against the earth, sending the battle-thunder back to the fleeing English. Eoferwic, at long last, was ours.

I shielded my eyes as I gazed into the rising sun, watching the ætheling’s ship as it shrank to a black dot in the distance. The wind buffeted against my cheek, like icy teeth biting into my flesh, wounding deep. Inside I felt empty, as all strength fled from my limbs. My heart slowed as the battle-fury subsided.

And still I watched, until at last the ship slipped away into the river-mist beyond the city, and I could no longer see it.

Thirty-six

I FOUND EUDO
and together we made our way back towards the bridge and the rest of the army. The sun had risen above the houses, above the mist, but I could not feel its warmth.

In the streets men were slapping each other upon the back, cheering, revelling in our rout of the rebels, in our capture of the city. Some, exhausted from the fighting, had collapsed upon the ground amidst the wounded and the slain. Others were grieving, offering prayers for their fallen comrades. A great press of men was gathered around the lion banner, and I sat tall in the saddle, straining my neck to see over their heads as we came closer.

‘Normandy,’ they chanted. ‘King Guillaume!’

In the centre, under the golden lion, was the king himself, and before him knelt his namesake Fitz Osbern. Some of the other lords were there as well with their banners, but I could not see Robert or any of his men, and I only hoped that he had not been so foolish as to return to the fray.

‘This way,’ I said to Eudo as I tried to move around the edge of the crowd, retracing our path up the main street, up the rise. My shoulder throbbed with pain, though the bleeding had stopped. I was lucky, for Eadgar’s blade had not penetrated all that deep, and yet had he struck me a fraction lower he might have found my heart. I shivered at the thought.

Most of the rebels who remained were fleeing through the side streets. A few fought on, but in vain, and they did not last long as, outnumbered, they were cut down or run through. One lay on his back, still alive, coughing up blood, shouting out in his own tongue
for help that would not come, until a knife was drawn across his throat and he fell silent.

And then I spotted Wace. He was kneeling on the ground, his shield with its familiar black hawk resting against the trunk of a tall elm. He saw us and waved us over, a look of concern upon his face. Beside him was Godefroi, though it was from his build that I recognised him rather than his face, which was turned away from us, towards the ground and another man lying there.

My first thought was that it was Robert, and sickness swelled in my stomach as again I remembered the oath I had sworn to Beatrice. But none of his knights were there, and as we rode closer I saw that it was not him, but Radulf.

He lay unmoving upon his back, his head resting against the roots of the tree, facing the sky. His face was plastered with mud, and there was a bright gash along the line of his cheekbone. But I could see his chest slowly rising and falling; he was alive.

Hastily I dismounted and knelt down beside him. Godefroi was murmuring a prayer. Radulf’s hand was pressed against the lower part of his chest. Blood covered his fingers, stained his tunic and indeed was coming still. In all the years I had been campaigning I had seen many injuries, some worse than others, and I knew at once that this one was bad. Whatever had struck him had gouged deep into the flesh, perhaps piercing the gut: a spear most likely, to judge by the roundness and the depth of the wound, though it did not matter now.

‘Radulf,’ I said, and swallowed. I did not know what to say. ‘I’m sorry.’

He turned his head to the side, not wishing to look at me. ‘What do you care?’ His voice was weak, hardly more than a whisper, but there was bitterness in it. ‘You always hated me.’

I was about to say that it wasn’t true, but I knew that he would not believe me. In any case this was not the time for arguments. ‘You fought well,’ I said instead.

‘How would you know? You weren’t even there.’ He began to laugh, a thick rasp that was as painful to hear as no doubt it was for him to make. It descended into a cough, and then his whole
body was shaking as he began to choke, and there was blood in his mouth, blood spilling on to the ground.

‘Here, sit up,’ Godefroi said. ‘Tancred, help me.’

He took hold of one of Radulf’s arms, and I the other, and together we dragged him closer to the tree, so that his back rested against the trunk. He shut his eyes and almost succeeded in biting back a yell, but not quite. I felt a stab of guilt, but at the same time knew that nothing we could do for him now would take that pain away.

Godefroi produced a wineskin from beside him and took out the stopper. He lifted the flask to Radulf’s lips and he gulped at it, spluttering, groaning with every swallow. A flash of mail caught my eye and I turned to find a conroi of horsemen riding past. They were laughing, punching each other on the shoulder, raising their pennons to the sky.

‘Normandy!’ they shouted, all together. They sounded drunk, and perhaps they were, if not yet on ale and wine then certainly on the thrill of battle, on English blood.

‘Can you hear that?’ I asked. ‘That’s the sound of victory. The enemy have fled. The city is ours.’

‘It is?’ Radulf said. He had finished drinking and his eyes were closed once more, his breathing all of a sudden becoming shallower. He was not long for this life.

‘It’s true,’ Godefroi put in. ‘We showed them slaughter such as they had never seen.’

Radulf nodded, and there was for a moment a trace of a smile upon his lips, so slight as to be barely noticeable, but it quickly vanished as his face contorted in pain again.

‘Where’s Lord Guillaume?’ he croaked.

I hadn’t yet seen the vicomte; indeed in the midst of the battle and everything else I had almost forgotten that he was the reason we were here. I glanced at Godefroi, who looked blankly back at me, then at Wace and Eudo, who offered only a shrug.

‘He’ll be here,’ I said. ‘You served him well.’

Radulf nodded again, more vigorously, and now at last the tears began to flow, streaming down his cheeks as his breath came in
stutters. He raised his bloodied hand to his face, as if trying to hide his sobs from us: his palm covering his mouth, his fingers splayed in front of his eyes.