The Last Conquest (54 page)

‘Suppose the English break at the first charge?’

Ralph grinned. ‘That will be the surprise I was talking about. Come. Let us find Bruno.’

As they cantered off, Ralph sighed at the irony. Gilbert was depressed because he did not understand everything clearly; he, Ralph of Gisors, the great scout, the great observer, was depressed
because he did.

A cloud moved across the sun.

The Norman archers looked faintly ridiculous as they skipped across the tussocks of grass, their quivers bouncing on their buttocks. In the stillness Edwin could hear the ratchets of the
crossbows being tightened.

A small group of horsemen cantered down from Telham Hill. Slightly ahead was a magnificent white charger.

‘There he is,’ said Wilfrid in Edwin’s ear.

A murmur of recognition ran along the line.

‘Steady, lads.’

Single housecarls stood at intervals behind the line on either wing.

The bowmen were across the stream now. Behind them, the blocks of French infantry edged towards the far bank.

Every eye on the field was now held by the figure on the white horse.

William turned to his groom and took his helmet. He looked to left and right as he fastened the chinstrap. Two heralds moved up, one on either side of him. He glanced up at the banner with the
embroidered cross, then took a lance that trailed a long pennon from behind its head.

‘Ready!’ said the archer sergeants.

Fingers curled round bowstrings.

William looked over his right shoulder. The straggling cloud moved away, and sunlight flooded the field. Right into the English eyes.

‘Now.’

He raised his lance, and his heralds put their trumpets to their lips. The thin, brassy braying floated towards the stream.

The lance dropped.

‘Fire!’

The volleys went humming and whistling up the hill.

‘Down!’ roared Wilfrid and a hundred others.

Every head in the English army vanished.

As he crouched and shivered, Edwin could hear the whizzing in the air and the thudding on the shields. Commands in French floated up the hill. A scattering of screams and curses broke out behind
him. The lonely archer trembled and muttered prayers.

Wilfrid nudged him. ‘Do you fancy the odds?’

The archer managed a sickly smile.

‘How long?’ said Edwin.

‘Till they run out,’ said Wilfrid.

A few foolish yokels put up their heads to have a look after the first volley, and died without striking a blow. Friends dragged them away, and broke off shafts that stuck from eyes and mouths
and windpipes.

On the right of the line, Gyrth peered through a slit between the shields.

‘Not long now, lads; then you can stretch.’

The sheepman found himself gazing into the face of his madman. True, the fellow had crouched when everyone else did, but he had done nothing to show that he was aware of the slightest danger. He
had taken up a place in the line – would that it had been any other – and had not uttered a word. Now he squatted with his face a few inches away, and gazed emptily at nothing. And,
great God! He was eating. Eating! Huge hands caressed the shaft of the axe.

It would drive a man off his head just watching him. The sheepman struggled to turn the other way. He put out his left foot to brace himself, and bellowed in pain. An arrow had found the small
gap between the narrow, tapering feet of two shields. It had not transfixed the flesh, but it had made a nasty cut in passing.

The sheepman tied up the wound as best he could, and stared at the vacant face before him. The man had not shown a flicker of emotion.

When the quivers were empty, the bowmen withdrew.

‘Steady, steady,’ warned the housecarls. One or two stepped out in front of the restless wings and held up axe-handles.

‘Quick,’ said Wilfrid to the archer. ‘Now is your chance.’

The man scrambled to his feet. Wilfrid eased back two shields.

‘Let them have it!’

With each arrow that flew after the retreating Normans the English cheered. When one stuck in the buttock of a burly Picard and made him fall in the stream, men roared with laughter. Ribald
advice was bawled down the hill at the two comrades struggling to fish him out.

Gyrth scanned the field. ‘A good start,’ he said.

‘They will be back,’ said Harold. ‘If I know William, he has wagons bursting with fresh arrows behind the brow. But we have respite, at least.’

‘So far, so good,’ said Leofwine.

Harold looked up at the two standards, and nodded at the two eager young bearers.

‘Give them a wave,’ he said.

When they saw the standards fluttering defiantly, the line cheered like thunder. They were mightily pleased with themselves. For a few heady minutes the bewildered, back-slapped archer was a
hero.

‘It does not seem to have done much,’ said Gilbert.

‘Pricking and probing,’ said Bruno flatly.

‘Every little counts,’ said Ralph. ‘As a mouse gnaws at a tree.’

While the archers replenished their quivers, it would be the turn of the infantry to probe with sword and spear. On the wings, where the enemy was weakest. It was sufficient to present only a
show of force in the centre just to keep the housecarls occupied – for the time being.

Behind the heavy contingents in the centre, Sir Walter Giffard flexed his toes in the stirrups and waited. He looked towards Fitzosbern and the Duke. Not that he expected an order yet to advance
in strength. Please God, the infantry must not do it at the first attempt, on their own!

‘There go the Flemings,’ said Gilbert, pointing to the right. ‘Look at them. Great Jesus, you have to hand it to Bloodeye.’

Bruno pointed to the Bretons on the left, who were stirring towards the stream. ‘Count Alan’s pride and joy.’

Ralph tensed in the saddle. ‘Who is that?’

The Breton line had halted on the very edge of the reeds and sandy patches. Sergeants were running about urgently. To the left again a man had appeared on a thin, rangy horse. He wore no
mail.

Gilbert gasped. ‘Taillefer!’

A small rider emerged on a light pony.

‘He has Sandor with him.’

‘I hope you are pleased now,’ grumbled Sandor. ‘To be close to the enemy like this.’

‘Not pleased,’ said Taillefer, ‘but content.’

He took an onion from his pocket and ate it.

A young soldier near the end of the line looked up at him. His face seemed familiar, though Taillefer could not place him at first. He knew he had not seen him strained like this.

‘I know you,’ he said.

‘That night in the hall, sir,’ said Brian. ‘The one with the carrot.’

‘Ah!’

The boy’s colour was awful. All down the line it was the same. Fear was spreading like spilled wine on a sloping table.

‘Prepare!’ bawled the sergeants.

Swords came out; thongs were fixed over wrists. Spears were couched.

‘At the walk – advance!’

Not a foot moved.

The sergeants, uneasy, gave the command again.

‘At the walk – advance!’

Another sickening pause.

Taillefer urged his horse forward. Sandor, alarmed, followed.

Taillefer dismounted in front of the Breton line.

‘So, my babies, today we walk to glory! ’Tis I, Taillefer, the Cleaver of Iron, who will be your guide. Behold the brand that will be your standard!’

He took out his sword and waved it above his head, well knowing how the sun would catch it.

The slightest of sighs ran along the line.

One of the sergeants swore, and moved to stop him, but another held him back.

‘No. Wait. You may witness a miracle.’

Taillefer flung his sword in the air and caught it. Then he flung it again, making it twist and turn and flash. He made it leap and somersault from hand to hand, and all the time he was chanting
names of heroes. ‘This sword has seen – the feats of – Rollo – and Richard the – Fearless – our first duke – of that name – and Charlemagne –
and Roland – and Oliver – and Arthur – and now . . .’ He caught it for the last time. ‘My sons – it leads you to glory eternal.’

He mounted again and whispered in Sandor’s ear, ‘Come, and do as I say.’

He edged his horse into the stream. ‘Who is with me, my dears?’

The Breton line moved. The sergeants blinked in disbelief. Across the stream, the line slowed again.

Taillefer swung and twirled his sword once more. It caught the sun again and held it. Men gasped and were dazzled. Taillefer’s wrist was the blurred centre of a circle of blinding light.
Then they heard his voice again, strong and sonorous.

Taillefer looked quickly at Sandor.

‘Blow! Blow!’

Sandor fumbled with the ivory horn at his belt.

‘Now!’

Sandor took a huge breath, which nearly lifted him off the saddle.

The hollow boom echoed eerily across the Breton line.

Brian, his face now suffused with blood, leaned forward, licking his lips. His chest was heaving.

‘Again!’ muttered Taillefer, watching him.

It was like touching a spring.

His eyes blazing, Brian leaped forward.

‘Rol - a - a - a - a - nd!’

The whole Breton line answered him.

‘Rol - a - a - a - a - nd!’

Taillefer was swept forward in the rush. Sandor was brushed aside. A human wave of screaming energy surged up the hill.

‘ROL - A - A - A - A - ND!’

When it seemed that nothing could stop the onslaught, the English line erupted into activity.

There was a mighty roar of, ‘Out! Out!’

The sky darkened with missiles – spears, sticks, maces, clubs. A man beside Brian was felled by a flying axe.

There was a great tramping and shouting and cursing, but Brian heard only the sound of his own voice.

Taillefer could not control his terrified horse. Only the press of bodies on either side prevented its breaking away. With frantic neighing and staring eyes, it bore him, helpless, forward. His
sword was knocked out of his hand.

He had a vision of a rampart surmounted by tousled heads and whites of eyes. He tried vainly to draw a knife. A sharp stone on the end of a stick struck him on the temple and flung him
backwards. His horse reared as it came up to some large stakes projecting from the ground. He fell out of the saddle, but was held dangling by one stirrup.

Brian, his arm upraised, his lungs bursting, reached the English line. Mad with excitement, he began hacking blindly at a shield. As he raised his arm for the third or fourth time, a stocky
peasant jabbed at his armpit with a pitchfork. The two prongs went either side of his flesh, but caught in the mail.

He jerked to get away and the Saxon pulled to get his fork back. Almost weeping with frustration, Brian grabbed his end of the handle and gave a huge tug. The Saxon was dragged between two
shields, pushing them aside, but would not leave go.

Suddenly a sword swung past Brian’s face and severed the Saxon’s left arm. It was his cousin Geoffrey. Brian opened his mouth to say something, when Geoffrey collapsed under a
hammer-blow to his helmet.

Brian fell back, and saw to his horror that the bleeding hand and half its arm were still dangling from the fork handle. He flung it off with loathing, and at last dragged the fork free.

In front of him the two shields lolled drunkenly. The earth was dark with the Saxon’s blood. Behind the wounded man another English face appeared. It was a round, well-filled face. The
head above it was balding.

Brian swung his sword again, but the distance was too great. As he braced himself to pull back, he felt something else curl round his arm. When he jumped back it slid down to his wrist and
caught in the thong of his sword.

A shepherd’s crook! Gasping with surprise and disbelief, he wriggled to dislodge it. Dear God – to die by a shepherd’s crook! The leather thong of the hilt snapped, and his
sword clattered down inside the shields.

Disarmed and unnerved, he sprang back, tripped over Geoffrey’s body, and fell.

The fall saved his life.

As he put up his arms to protect his face from the milling feet, he heard a roaring, followed by great noises – ringing blows of metal, hideous crunches, screams of mortal agony.

Two Breton bodies fell on top of him; boots trod on his legs and passed over. The roaring went on.

Brian squirmed out. He recoiled from contact with Geoffrey’s blood-soaked face, but instinct for survival made him prise open Geoffrey’s fingers and ease the sword-thong off his
wrist.

He struggled up to hands and knees, and saw that he was one of the few Bretons still alive near the English line.

Just in front of him, a giant Saxon was swinging a huge farm axe. Swords and spears were swept aside by sheer animal strength; limbs were split and severed. On the return swing he used the back
of it as a hammer to smash heads and ribs. Stupefied by terror and disbelief, men were falling like corn before the sickle.

The survivors hung back out of range, while the giant, ringed by a rampart of writhing bodies, paused, for a moment baffled. He seemed as if he was looking for something.

Brian dropped flat, and feigned dead. His cheek, he found, was against mail, through which blood had oozed. He fought down the nausea, and prayed that the giant did not turn and see him
breathing.

As he lay rigid, he fancied he heard a new sound. At first, he thought it was his own heartbeat.

Gorm could not remember seeing the woman approach.

He rested on his stick, wiped his face, lifted his eyes, and there she was.

She looked neither tired nor fresh; neither hurried nor leisurely. Although she had drawn level with him, she offered no greeting, asked no question. She did not even turn her eyes towards him.
He might as well not have been there.

She wore only a shawl as a protection against outdoor conditions. She carried no load, yet she put one foot in front of the other as if pressed down with a great weight. For all that, there was
a deliberation in her gait that told of total resolve; nothing would divert her from her destination.