The Last Conquest (62 page)

Edwin saw the group of Norman knights thrust in deeper than the rest. Then he had to turn to his front.

Wilfrid heaved his axe once more, his eyes staring.

‘Bastards!’

Eustace of Boulogne watched the small group of knights hacking their way.

‘They are through!’ he yelled. ‘They are through! They are through to the tree!’

As he spoke one of them disappeared into the surge of weapons round him.

Gilbert saw it too. Through a haze of sweat and double vision he saw the others press on, saw the English standards falter.

Grasping his sword and holding it high, he took a deep breath and shouted, ‘Victory!’ His throat responded with only a hoarse rasp.

He kicked frantically at his lathered horse.

Ralph, further back, saw his intention and tried to stop him. He would not survive in that carnage. How often had he told the boy to think first and rush second. A broken boar is a dangerous
boar. The English were broken but were not running yet.

He was too far away to shout. His horse was too tired to cover the ground between them. He looked round desperately. Sandor, with his light pony – Sandor could catch him. Sandor was yards
away the other side, screaming unearthly battle cries, cries that came straight from a Hunnish hell.

Ralph raged and swore.

A voice in his ear said, ‘Leave him to me.’

Bruno urged Sorrel after Gilbert. Ralph watched in a fever of anxiety. He remembered Gilbert bringing Bruno to a halt before the ravine. That had been a rapid, violent matter of thudding hooves
and flying turf. Now men and horses were moving like creatures in a cloudy dream – the sort of dream one had when arms and legs moved but no ground was covered.

It seemed minutes before Bruno reached out and caught Gilbert’s bridle. The shock of the sudden halt was too much for Sorrel’s front leg. It buckled, and Bruno was thrown from the
saddle. A snarling housecarl rushed forward with raised axe.

Gilbert, only a yard too far to help, turned his head in revulsion.

More Normans poured past him and overwhelmed the housecarl. After a brief hesitation and a last sickened glance at Bruno’s headless body, Gilbert spurred again and followed.

One of the English standards swayed and fell. The last defenders of the tree died where they stood, but took one more Norman with them.

Harold stood alone against the trunk, his arms at his sides, his axe propped against his thigh.

The four remaining Normans paused. Harold raised his head. His face was running red, staining his moustache.

He fumbled for the handle of his axe, but was barely able to lift it. He stepped forward to challenge, and collapsed to his knees.

Capra and Pomeroy raised their swords and yelled in fury. Giffard dug his spurs, but Montgomery caught his bridle.

‘No, Walter. No honour lies there. Beaumont would not regard you for that.’

When Gilbert arrived he saw two men stabbing and hacking like madmen at something on the ground. One of them was so possessed that he was also slashing indiscriminately at the tree.

Eustace of Boulogne snatched the Dragon standard and held it aloft, and a scattering of wild-faced horsemen reined in around him to form an escort.

Crazed with elation, Gilbert made his way through piles of dead to join them. Curiosity took him past the apple tree. He looked down to see what it was that they— and nearly vomited where
he sat.

Were it not for a bloodstained bandage, a dented helmet, and shreds of wet mail, he would barely have recognised it as a body.

Edwin put his hands under Wilfrid’s armpits and heaved. The strength was not there.

‘You must get up. Help me. Up, man!’

Wilfrid, his helmet gone, shook his head dizzily. His right arm hung useless. His axe was broken.

‘I should die here. With my king.’

Edwin tried to rouse him by shouting in his ear. ‘The King is dead. The standards are gone. It is all over.’

Wilfrid only half heard him. He looked round for a weapon.

‘I must stand in front of my king. It is my duty.’

Edwin shook him. ‘Wilfrid! The King is dead. The Normans are all round the tree. The Duke’s banner is there. They are all cheering. Listen.’

A steadily swelling press of Normans and Frenchmen jostled one another around the apple tree. In the centre, William held his sword high. Turstin of Bec held aloft the Papal banner and Eustace
waved the Wessex Dragon. There was a great shouting. Many were weeping; some were crying aloud.

‘See, Wilfrid. They are not even bothering to fight us now. We are too few. You must get up. Do you want to wait for the scavengers to come in the evening and cut your throat?’

Wilfrid screwed up his eyes against the setting sun, then groped for a spear.

‘I am a housecarl,’ he mumbled.

Edwin came round in front of him, stooped, and slapped him hard across the face.

‘Wilfrid, the King is dead. The cause is dead. Remember what you said. Even you have no duty now.’

Wilfrid blinked. Edwin tried another idea.

‘Besides, I need you. You said you owed me something.’

Wilfrid put out his unbroken arm. Edwin heaved and hoisted. Wilfrid used the spear to help his twisted ankle. Edwin tugged anxiously.

‘Hurry. Before they begin a pursuit. Back to the ravine. Everyone is going there. The Normans will find it dangerous to follow us there.’

Wilfrid’s mind began to work clearly again.

A deep ravine . . . the last thing those bastards would expect on a pursuit would be an ambush . . .

Gilbert sheathed his sword, took off his helmet, and shook his head in relief. He looked round for someone he knew; he was too full to keep it all to himself.

Kicking his steaming horse, he pushed his way out of the cheering, chanting crowd and picked a path down the hill again. Behind him he could hear Eustace, still wild with excitement, calling for
volunteers for the pursuit.

‘On, on, on! Who is with me?’

Gilbert came upon Ralph faster than he had expected, and reined in violently.

‘Just listen to that!’ he shouted, gesturing with the hand that held the helmet. ‘The Duke has turned them loose.’

Ralph made no move. ‘I hear it.’

Gilbert saw the expression on his face, and tried to calm down.

‘Did you – did you see?’

‘Yes.’

Gilbert spread his hands. ‘There was nothing I could do. He went down so fast, and that Saxon was on him before I could—’

‘Go away.’

Gilbert blinked. ‘Ralph, I said I am sorry. I was just too far. He was dead before—’

‘Go away from me.’

Gilbert frowned. ‘Why was he trying to stop me? We broke through. We reached the standards. I was at the tree itself. Are you not pleased?’

Ralph swore. ‘What do I care about you? Or your stinking standards? Bruno is dead.’

Gilbert swallowed. ‘I know, and I am sorry. Really I am. But I told you—’

‘And he died saving your life.’

‘What?’

‘How long would you have survived with so little battle experience? He could see that. You were blind to everything. It was your precious honour that nearly did for the army. Now it is
your filthy little bit of glory that has done for Bruno.’

Gilbert went pale. Ralph fought to keep control.

‘Now you strut among the bodies and boast of victory. And my friend Bruno is dead. And you ask me to cheer. Do you understand? My friend is dead – my friend. Not my kennel boy, my
novice, my substitute brother. My friend.’ His voice broke completely. ‘Go and get your glory. Go anywhere. Only get out of my sight!’

Gilbert, his face haggard, flung down his helmet and pulled out his sword. He wrenched his horse’s head round and kicked it into action once more. Back up the hill, after Eustace and his
yelling companions.

Already they were beyond the summit and galloping down the northern slope towards the forest, hacking in the half-darkness at anything that showed itself in front of them.

‘Now!’

The archer let fly, and struck the leading Norman in the neck. He fell into the brambles on the lip of the ravine. He was the lucky one.

His companions plunged yelling into a void. The wild neighing of terrified horses, and the crashing and thudding of bodies, made a sound as fearsome as that of the battle itself.

Horses floundered with smashed legs, and rolled on screaming men who were writhing with broken backs. Behind them the second wave of pursuers crashed through undergrowth, toppled over the edge,
and fell on to them.

‘Ambush!’

In the panic and shadows, survivors struck blindly at each other.

Above, on the rim, a third group of pursuers saw the accident, and swung to the left.

‘Here! Here is a way!’

The leaders found the old causeway and thundered on to it.

Under their combined weight and impact, the ancient structure crumbled like dry sand. Amid roars of bafflement and fear, more bodies were hurled into the seething mass at the bottom of the
ravine, followed and smothered by cascades of earth and stones.

Bellowing at the top of their voices, Saxons leaped onto riders and mounts alike, clawing at them with their bare hands. Owen the archer fired as fast as he could at the screaming shadows below.
Aim was barely necessary.

Wilfrid limped about, stabbing at fallen, winded men with his spear in one good hand. He was roaring and swearing as loudly as ever.

Edwin snatched a sword from a dying Frenchman, and slashed at horses’ legs. Eight hours ago, he could never have brought himself to consider it.

The survivors were totally unnerved. In the fading light, the last thing they had expected was resistance. Few were wearing helmets; some had slipped off their mail coifs and rode
bareheaded.

They shouted and swore and struck at anything moving in front of them, forgetting all formation, skill, and training. One dismounted knight, bellowing with rage, was pulling at a man’s
hair.

The English, with the chance of one last blow at the enemy they had withstood so well all day, fought with bitter strength.

Eustace of Boulogne snatched at a stray bridle, flung himself into the saddle, and bawled, ‘Back! Back! It is a trap. It is their reinforcements. Get back!’

He kicked the terrified horse towards the other end of the ravine, away from the crumbling causeway and the churning mass of tumbled bodies. Other Normans staggered after him. A few tried to
claw their way up the side of the ravine down which they had fallen.

Jubilant fyrdmen, growling through bared teeth, ran and clambered after them. They hauled on thrashing legs, tore away earth-filled fingernails, and flung screaming bodies on to the thudding
billhooks below.

Eustace, sweating and panting, picked his way out of the mouth of the ravine to the east, swung round to the south, and headed back to the battlefield. He ran into the Duke himself, who was
leading more men in the pursuit.

‘Get back, sir, get back! It is a trap!’

Behind him, a bristling housecarl swung a stick with a stone fitted on the end. It was a long shot, but he had nothing to lose and it was his last chance.

The weapon struck Eustace squarely between the shoulder blades as he raised his arm to point to the ravine. The thud was clearly audible. Blood poured from his nose and mouth.

The Duke caught him as he fell forward, splattering blood over the mail on his forearms.

‘Take him, you two. The rest – follow me. This way – to the east. We find a way to outflank them. Come!’

In the ravine’s shadows, Wilfrid put his arm on the archer’s shoulder.

‘Well, you struck the first blow, and now you have helped us to strike the last. Not a bad day’s work, eh?’

Owen nodded wearily.

Behind them the Saxons resumed their retreat. The sheepman paused to pick up a severed axe-head, then heaved himself on to a riderless horse, wincing as his wounded foot found the stirrups. They
faded into the evening murk.

Edwin suddenly heard a crashing sound. He looked up. Another horse and rider were falling down. The man was flung free, and came sliding and tumbling towards him. The thong on his wrist snapped,
and his sword flickered away. Brambles wrenched at his mail coif; he wore no helmet.

Wilfrid limped up behind Edwin as the body rolled free. The Norman was clearly terrified and half winded.

Edwin stepped forward and lifted his sword. The Norman pulled out a knife. Their eyes met.

‘Gilbert!’

‘You!’

‘Finish him, man. Finish him!’

Wilfrid pushed past and thrust straight into Gilbert’s stomach. Because the spear was in his left hand it had not gone in as far as Wilfrid had hoped. He wrenched it out and poised it
again.

‘No, Wilfrid, no! He is my friend.’

Wilfrid stared in disbelief, but allowed Edwin to push down the spear.

‘Help me, Wilfrid. Get him hidden, in case our men come back again.’

Wilfrid bent unwillingly. Gilbert made no protest or sound. ‘’Tis we who will be hiding soon, I think. The next men down here will be Normans.’

While they laid Gilbert as comfortably as possible, they heard other riders picking their way down the wreckage of the collapsed causeway.

‘What did I tell you?’ said Wilfrid. ‘And my spear is out there, thanks to you.’

‘Sssh!’ said Edwin. ‘He is calling.’

Edwin listened, grimacing at Wilfrid to stop growling.

‘Gilbert! Gilbert!’

‘It is Ralph,’ said Gilbert softly, through pain-closed eyes. ‘The senior scout – remember?’

Edwin nodded.

Wilfrid frowned. ‘How do you come to know half the Norman army?’

Edwin did not answer. He burst out from the bushes.

‘Ralph! Sandor! It is Edwin, remember? Gilbert is wounded. Here.’

Ralph came warily forward. He stopped when he saw Wilfrid’s height loom up behind Edwin.

‘It is all right,’ said Edwin. ‘He will not fight.’

Ralph looked at Wilfrid’s twitching hand.

‘Have you told him that?’

‘What are you doing speaking French?’ demanded Wilfrid. ‘What is going on?’

‘Wilfrid, trust me, please. I have not failed you all day, have I?’

‘We have been killing Normans all day. Why stop now?’