Knights of the Hawk

Nine

I remember that night so clearly. I remember every such night before a battle, for always there is a keenness in the air, a mixture of anticipation and dread, of restlessness and anguish that is never voiced but is shared amongst all present, and that, once experienced, is never forgotten. And yet that night was different, for in all the seasons since first I rode under my lord’s banner into the fray, never had I felt such trepidation as I did in those few hours.

Even long after the sun had set and the clash of arms had faded and the soft-spoken Latin of the priests giving absolution had ceased, I found myself unable to settle. I wasn’t alone. Despite having spent most of the day in the practice yard, and notwithstanding our drooping eyelids and our heavy limbs, still none of us could sleep. There was nothing more for us to do: our blades were sharpened; our helmets and hauberks polished until they gleamed; our destriers fed and groomed. And so we sat cross-legged, huddled in our cloaks beneath the stars, and watched our cooking-fire dwindle while we recounted stories of battles past, of women we had known, of the marvels we had seen on our travels, of things that had happened when we were young and still in training, of fine weapons and horses, of sword-brothers long since fallen, of the various dreams and desires to which we all clung; and we revelled as much in the listening as in the telling.

We were men of all ages: seasoned fighters like myself, my friends and the Malets’ other vassals; a few young warriors of Godric’s age or thereabouts. For some this would be their first battle, while others had long lost count. But we were all equals that night, for when morning arrived and we rode out across that bridge, our fates would be bound together. Only Lord Robert wasn’t there, having preferred to spend the night by his father’s bedside. Still Malet succeeded in clinging to life, albeit barely. He could no longer raise himself from his bed without help, let alone walk or ride even the most docile of horses, and so a covered cart had been found in which he and his chaplain had travelled from Brandune. I had caught a brief glimpse of him, but that had been enough. His pallor was as grey as ash, like a fire that was all but spent; the faintest of sparks remained in his eyes, which were now mere hollows. His face was gaunt, his wiry hair straggling past his chin. Soon there would be nothing left of him, I thought.

‘He is in such pain,’ Dudo said when I was finally able to accost him that afternoon, in between bouts in the practice yard, and to ask how the elder Malet fared. The chaplain was as slippery as a toad, with a manner so quiet that one sometimes failed to notice him, and a habit of slipping away unseen when one wanted to speak with him, only to reappear later unannounced. ‘Every day he grows worse, and he only makes it harder for himself, too.’

‘How so?’ I asked.

The priest regarded me with a contemptuous look. Probably he had come to share his master’s dislike for me. ‘He remains as determined as ever not to commend his soul unto God until the rebels have fallen and the whole of England is ours.’

‘He might be waiting some time,’ I said, not in a flippant way but seriously.

‘Indeed. Every day I pray that he will allow himself to be received into our Lord’s arms soon, rather than continue to suffer as he does. I do what I can for him, as do the physicians and wise women, when he allows them to see him, but I fear that all our infusions and remedies are powerless to offer him any succour.’

All this he said without blinking, his beady eyes fixed unnervingly upon me. Even though there was compassion in his words, I couldn’t hear it in his voice. He seemed to me an unlikely sort of man to take priestly orders, although equally there were many I’d known and fought alongside whom I had considered unlikely knights when first I’d met them.

‘I understand that he might not wish to see me,’ I said. ‘Perhaps, though, you could tell him something for me.’

Dudo said nothing, and I decided to take that for his assent.

‘Tell him that I have never wished any ill upon him or his family. Tell him that in all the time I’ve been sworn to him and his son, I have only ever sought to serve him loyally, and that I ask for his forgiveness before it is too late. Can you do that?’

I didn’t really see that I had done anything needing of forgiveness, but the rancour that he reserved for me weighed heavily on my mind. Despite everything that had passed between us, I still had a certain respect for him and in particular for his determination to see out this war. If I were to meet my end in the battle tomorrow, I would rather go to the grave having dispelled that enmity, or at the very least knowing that I, for my part, had tried.

‘I will tell him, but I cannot promise anything more,’ the priest said.

I supposed that was the most I would get from him, and so I sent the toad on his way. Hours had passed since then and still I’d heard nothing in reply, and that was another reason for my disquiet that night, as I wondered whether the priest had even passed on my message at all. In the meanwhile I partook of the ale and wine that the king had ordered distributed to raise our spirits ahead of the fighting to come, although I made sure not to quaff too heavily. I was experienced enough to know that to fill one’s belly with drink the evening before a battle is never wise, for there is nothing worse than having to don mail and helmet, raise shield and sword, to run and turn and twist when one’s mind is hazy, one’s skull is throbbing and one’s belly is churning and threatening to empty its contents at any moment. I have succumbed to that folly, but it is not something I would ever counsel.

Still, I understand why others do it. They do it to escape the fear: the fear that comes from anticipation, which is the part of a warrior’s life that I have always liked the least. For it is in those final hours, when the prospect of battle has become real and the time for hard spearwork is suddenly close at hand, that a man feels most alone, and when doubt and dread begin to creep into his thoughts. No matter how many foes he has laid low, or how long he has trodden the sword-path, he begins to question whether he is good enough, whether he can maintain the strength of will necessary to see him through, or whether, in fact, his time has come.

That was why we talked about the things we did: not out of boastfulness, although a few of the younger ones among Robert’s knights were only too eager to impress us with tales of their feats of arms and their various conquests, which seemed to grow wilder with every passing hour. Rather, we talked to distract ourselves and each other from the task at hand and, in so doing, to keep those fears from entering our hearts for a few more hours. After a while some of the others went to seek distraction in the arms of their women, and later they returned to join us by the fire, sidling up close to one another and sharing in the meagre warmth. We talked and we laughed and we ate and we drank and we talked some more, and when there was nothing left to say and our sides were hurting and we had each eaten and drunk all that we could stomach and the fire had all but died and silence reigned, Eudo brought out his flute from his pack. He put the beaked end to his lips, closed his eyes and, after a deep intake of breath, began to play.

At first I didn’t recognise the song, which started soft and slow, as Eudo’s fingers stepped gently and with precision from one hole to the next, lingering on each note, adding from time to time a wistful flourish that spoke somehow, in a way that I couldn’t quite explain but simply felt deep within my soul, of faded glories, of yearning and of home. My thoughts turned to my manor at Earnford. I wondered how Ædda and Father Erchembald and Galfrid were faring, and everyone else I’d left there. And I thought of my Oswynn, a captive in some unknown, far-off place, and wondered if she were thinking of me too. What small hope I’d held out of ever finding her seemed even smaller now.

Before I could lose myself in self-pity, the tune erupted like a tree blossoming into colour. Eudo wove sharp flurries and trills in between the longer notes, his hands running up and down the length of the pipe, and suddenly from out of that cautious and brooding song emerged one more familiar, that even in those days was popular in the halls and palaces and castles of France, from farthest Gascony in the south to Normandy and Ponthieu and Flanders. It was a tale of noble deeds and fearless sacrifice, which gave inspiration to all, from the lowliest hearth-knight to the greatest of barons. At once I forgot everything troubling me and instead found myself smiling. Men began to clap their hands upon their knees, keeping time with the rhythm set by Eudo as it rose once more both in speed and in vigour, his brow furrowed in concentration, until abruptly he broke off and began to sing the words that were so familiar:

The king our emperor Charlemagne

Has battled for seven full years in Spain.

From highland to sea has he won the land;

His sword no city could withstand.

It was a lay that every Frenchman who lived by the sword knew well: the Song of Rollant, the knight who, some three hundred years before our time, had given his life in the service of his king, defending to his dying breath the narrow mountain pass that they called Rencesvals against the vengeful pagan hordes.

Keep and castle alike went down

Save Sarraguce, the mountain town.

The King Marsilius holds that place,

Who loves not God, nor seeks His grace:

He prays to Apollo, and serves Mahomet;

But they saved him not from the fate he met.

But for the difference of a few words, Eudo could have been singing of King Guillaume and his struggle against the rebels holding out on the Isle. But whether the court poets would praise our names and set out lays of our deeds three centuries hence, were we to prove victorious tomorrow, or even were we each to meet a death as noble as Rollant’s, I very much doubted. More likely our names would not go recorded in any chronicle or verse, and if we were remembered at all in the years to come, it would be merely for being the first unfortunates to have our blood spilt in this great folly. On such things I tried not to dwell. There was nothing more that could be done or said about the king’s strategy and our place within it. God had already chosen my destiny, whatever that might be, and I could not escape it. I would not run from this fight, nor would I abandon Robert, my lord. He needed me, as he needed all of us.

Thus tomorrow we would ride, to glory or to death. For good or for ill, tomorrow we would fight.

Eventually I managed to sleep, though by the time I did finally close my eyelids there could have been only a couple of hours until first light. In my dreams I was Rollant, gazing down from the mountain pass towards the plains where the enemy massed beneath their banners: a horde of snorting horseflesh, painted shield-faces and gleaming steel; thousands upon thousands of men, together raising a clamour loud enough to raise the dead from their graves. In my hand was Durendal, the sharpest sword in all of Christendom, and hanging at my side was the Olifant, the great gilded war-horn that Charlemagne himself had gifted me, carved from the tusk of an elephant. And then came the foe, marching in a single column up the winding and stony road, steadily growing nearer, until their conrois broke free, their riders raising a battle-cry to the heavens as they dug their heels in and couched their lance-hafts under their arms, with every stride gaining in speed, gaining in confidence-

I never found out what happened next, for at that moment I was brought from my dream by a voice at the opening to my tent. It was not yet day, but as the flaps parted I caught a glimpse of the skies outside, which already were turning from black to grey, and in that faint light I made out Robert’s face.

‘It’s time,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Wake the others. Dawn is nearly upon us.’

As quickly as he had appeared, he was gone. Hurriedly I shook myself free of the coarse woollen blankets in which somehow I had become entangled, pulled on a tunic over my shirt, took a swig of ale from the flask at the foot of my bedroll to moisten my parched throat, and then scrambled out into the half-light. Across the camp men were stirring and dressing for battle, taking whatever food they could stomach and mounting up. Bleary-eyed, I went to Serlo and Pons’s tents and roused them, before donning hauberk and chausses and coif, fastening my helmet-strap, buckling my scabbard upon my waist, checking that both my sword and knife slid easily from their sheaths, and going to help the servant-boys saddle Fyrheard and the other horses.

We led the animals to our conroi’s arranged meeting place by the twisted stump of a wide-bellied oak. There we waited for the rest to assemble. First came Wace together with his three men, and he was soon followed by Eudo, who was doing his best to prise himself free from the grasp of Sewenna, much to the amusement of his knights. Her face was streaming with tears, her hair was loose, and in her eyes was such anger as I had never seen before. With one hand she clung to his arm, while with the other she kept trying to strike him, though he was able to bat each blow away easily, until another of the women — a fair-haired Danish beauty who had pledged herself to one of Eudo’s men — at last spoke some words in her ear and managed to tear her away, upon which the Englishwoman turned and, wailing, fled back towards the tents. Eudo bit his lip as he watched her go, but did not make any attempt to follow her.

‘What happened?’ Wace asked.

Eudo let out a weary sigh. ‘She said that before I rode into battle, we ought first to be wed, as I’d vowed. That way if I happened to die today, at least our souls would find each other in heaven. She even went this morning to find a priest.’

I understood. ‘But you couldn’t.’

He shook his head sadly. ‘You were right. I’ve been a fool. She claims that I misled her with false promises, but it’s not true. I loved her, only not as much as I thought.’

I rested a hand on his shoulder in sympathy, but only for a moment, since Robert’s vassals were almost all assembled, which meant that we were ready to ride. Among them I spied the ruddy-faced Guibert, who had spoken so loudly against the king in the hall at Brandune so long ago it seemed like months, though in fact it was only a week. Whatever ill feeling he might have held towards anyone as a result of that clash was now dissolved, or else buried deep. We could not afford to let petty quarrels divide us. Not now.

Robert himself was the last of all to arrive, flanked by ten of his sworn swords and one of his stable-hands, who bore the banner I had grown to know almost as well as my own: the same banner beneath which for two whole years and more I had rallied, charged and served. It was divided into alternating stripes of black and yellow, and the yellow was shot through with threads of gold so that it would catch the light and be more clearly recognisable in the midst of battle.

Robert passed his lance to one of his retainers, before dismounting and making towards me. His expression was solemn as he extended his arm in greeting. I gripped his wrist, and he mine, and then he embraced me, not as a lord might embrace a vassal of his but rather as if I were of his own kin.

‘I want you to know that you have my gratitude for all that you have done in my name and that of my family,’ he said. ‘I only pray this is not the last time we ride together.’

‘And I, lord,’ I replied. ‘A better lord I have never served.’

The falsehood tasted sour upon my tongue as I remembered some of the grievances I’d uttered against him recently, but what else was I supposed to say?

He attempted a smile, but it was a weak attempt and I knew his heart was not really in it. As nervous as I felt, he looked to me a dozen times worse. He was dressed like the rest of us, but somehow the helmet appeared to sit uneasily upon his head, as if it were too large for his brow, and the hauberk seemed to weigh heavily upon his shoulders. He had never looked entirely at ease in a warrior’s garb, and he looked even less comfortable then.

‘May God be with us, Tancred,’ he said, and with that he left me, mounting up and riding to the head of the conroi while I took my place with my knights. Everyone fell quiet as he unlaced his ventail, letting the flap of mail hang loose by his neck.

‘I’ve just had word that our foot-warriors have set out for the Isle,’ he said, raising his voice so that all could hear. ‘The moment we receive the signal that their attack is under way, we will begin crossing the bridge. From then on there will be no turning back.’ He paused to allow the import of that to settle, before continuing: ‘In all my years I have never known warriors more valiant than you. Regardless of what fate awaits us, I consider it the greatest honour to ride amongst you today, and to fight by your sides. May God and the saints bring us victory, and lend us the courage and the fortune to see this day through.’

It wasn’t the most rousing battle-speech I had ever heard, but it was heartfelt, and powerful for that alone. In any case it would have to do, for the skies were quickly growing lighter, the stars fading, which meant that the time for words had passed. Robert led us from the shadow of the guardhouse, its high ramparts and the crowning palisade, down to the flat stretch of land beside the marsh, where dozens upon scores upon hundreds of horsemen were already gathered, their many-coloured banners and pennons barely fluttering in the still air, their horses tossing their heads and pawing restlessly at the turf. Their exact number I could not say, though it was probably close to a thousand, with more arriving still. These were some of the finest knights ever to ride in the name of Normandy.

And we would be leading them all in the charge. Had someone told me when I was a youth and a warrior in training that such an honour would one day be mine, I wouldn’t have been able to stop laughing. Even now I scarcely believed it. Yet here I was.

I half expected to find Atselin and his clerks overseeing the muster, tallying up knights on his wax tablet, but if he was there I could not spot him. It was hard to miss King Guillaume, though, surrounded as he was by his household guards, his helmet adorned with a tail formed from two scarlet strips of cloth that marked him out, lest anyone lose sight of him in the fray. Holding the banner bearing the lion of Normandy in one hand, he galloped up and down the ranks of horsemen, bellowing instructions, drawing the assembled host into ordered ranks and grouping smaller bands of four and five into larger conrois of twenty, thirty, forty. A few glanced up as we passed on our way to the front of the column, and someone must have recognised our banner, for I heard him call out Robert’s name, and then a cheer went up, and a hundred men and more were raising fists and weapons to the sky. Hearing the commotion, the king turned and watched us for a long while, though he did not speak. His mouth was set firm, his countenance betraying no feeling, and at that moment I glimpsed with my own eyes the iron resolve for which he was renowned. Never once had he failed in any task he took upon himself, and in the same way I understood that he would not fail now. For five years he had striven to defend his right to this kingdom. This would be the morning when he would finish what had begun with the slaying of the usurper at Hæstinges. This would be the morning of his victory. Whatever misgivings the rest of us had, he truly believed it.

We took our positions at the head of the column. Behind us lay an army to wreak terror in the hearts of all but the most hardened of foes. Ahead lay only the fen, with the so-called bridge winding its way towards the Isle, with small pinpricks of light dotted along its length where watch-fires had been set to ward off any would-be attackers. Of the fleet of boats and punts carrying our foot-serjeants, or the opposite shore, the enemy behind their walls, I could see nothing.

I turned to Robert, who was alongside me. ‘What now?’

‘Now we wait for the signal.’

As a conroi we had rehearsed the sequence of events over and over the previous afternoon, committing it all to memory so that every man knew exactly what he was to do and when. We had been told what that signal would be, and what pace we would set across the bridge so that our host did not bunch together and at the same time did not become too stretched out. But sitting there in the saddle, waiting for the word to be given and the attack to begin, suddenly I wanted to hear it all again.

Enough, I told myself. I knew what needed to be done. I closed my eyes, breathing slowly and deeply, as I imagined our charge upon the enemy battle-lines and how I would drive my lance-head home, how I would bring my sword-edge to bear, how we would drive them back and cut them down and turn the Isle’s earth crimson with their lifeblood.

‘There it is,’ said Robert suddenly, with something like excitement in his voice, and I opened my eyes in time to see a trail of flame shooting high up into the grey skies to the north, a mile or so away. A single fire-arrow: the sign that our spearmen and foot-serjeants were beginning their attack. It made a great arc above the marsh before plunging out of sight into the all-enshrouding mist, and at the same time the bellow of the rebels’ distant war-horns sounded out: two sharp blasts that were the usual signal to rally.

And so it began.

‘Stay with me,’ Robert yelled for his whole conroi to hear. ‘Watch your flanks when we arrive upon the Isle. Remember who’s alongside you; don’t pull ahead and don’t fall behind!’ He kicked back, spurring his destrier onwards. ‘For St Ouen, for King Guillaume and Normandy! God aid us!’

‘God aid us,’ we all answered with one voice, and the chant echoed through the ranks: God aid us! God aid us!

We followed Robert out on to the bridge. Hooves clattered upon timber, and I whispered a prayer that the men who had built it had done their work well. We kept close rank, riding knee to knee, three abreast, for that was as many as the roadway would allow. To my right was Robert, while on his other flank was the captain of his household guard. Behind us were Pons, mounted upon a bay that Lord Robert had gifted him to replace the one killed by Hereward’s arrow, and alongside him Serlo. My sworn swords, the two of them had served me unfailingly these last two years, had followed me in every desperate charge, had given their all for my sake. Behind them were Wace and Eudo and their knights, then the rest of Robert’s hearth-troops and vassals, so that there were more than fifty of us in that leading conroi, all united under the Malet banner.

I had fought in some desperate struggles in my time, but this would be one of the most desperate of all. This was the hour of our reckoning.

We were knights of the black and gold, and we were riding to battle.