Sworn Sword

Thirty-four

They beat their hafts and hilts against their shield-rims, filling the morning with their fury. Their banner displayed a black raven, a symbol much favoured by the Danes, and I saw that these must be the swords-for-hire that Robert had told us of. All were shouting, taunting us in their own tongue, inviting us to come and die on their blades.

Ahead, the king and his knights pulled to a halt, allowing some of the spearmen to rush forward through the ranks. They formed a line five deep across the road, standing shoulder to shoulder with shields overlapping to form a wall, and through the gaps in that wall they thrust out their spears, ready for the Danish charge.

‘Robert,’ the king shouted, and beneath his helmet his face was flushed. ‘Take your men through the side streets; try to outflank them!’

Robert raised his banner in acknowledgement and then turned to the rest of us. ‘Follow me!’ he said, raising his lance with its pennon high for all to see. Flanked by Ansculf and Urse, he spurred his horse down one of the narrow alleyways between the houses.

I gripped the haft of my lance tightly. So long as I held that, my shield and my sword, nothing else mattered. I checked who was alongside me, and was relieved to find Wace and Eudo. There were none whose sword-arms I trusted more.

Behind us rode another hundred horsemen, as more lords joined us. The thunder of their hooves resounded in the narrow way. I glimpsed torchlight ahead, saw a band of ten or more Englishmen running from us, but we were a tide of mail and hooves and steel rolling in upon them, our lances couched under our arms, sharp and glinting in the dawn, ready to send them to their deaths. They were burdened with shields and spears, whereas we sat astride swift animals trained to the charge, and they had nowhere to go.

I heard Robert shout something, though what it was I never knew, as he thrust his lance through a man’s shoulder, riding over him, and we were behind, cutting the enemy down. One caught his foot on a corpse while he ran and stumbled, falling to his knees, and as he tried to rise my sword-edge penetrated his skull. And then we were through, galloping on past grand timber halls and hovels of mud and straw. Dirt flew up from the hooves of those before me, landing on my cheek, my hauberk, my shield. The way turned sharply to the right, towards shouts and screams and crashes of steel, and as it opened out once more on to the main street, the Danish rear stood before us.

‘For Normandy!’ Robert shouted, and as one we returned the cry.

Some of the enemy heard our approach and were turning, their spears thrust out to try to deflect us. We were many, though, and they were few, and they had no time to come together — to form a shield-wall — before Robert and Ansculf and Urse were crashing into their first line, spearing into their midst, carving a space for the rest of us to follow.

We fell upon them without fear, without mercy. I was shouting, feeling the cold wind whip across my face. The first of the Danes stood before me, and my lance struck his shield, the force of the charge carrying it past the rim and into his chest. He crumpled and fell, face first, upon the mud, and I was pulling the point free, riding on, as we drove a wedge into the enemy ranks. Ansculf’s lance glanced off the helmet of another man, and as he staggered back, dazed from the blow, I drove the point of my spear through his ribs, until it found his heart, and I left it there as I drew my sword instead, hacking down upon the next man’s shield before backhanding a blow across his neck.

My mind was lost to the rhythm of the blade as it sliced across throats, pierced mail and cloth, the fuller flowing with blood. Another of the enemy charged at my right, swinging his axe, his face and hair spattered with mud, but Wace was beside me and he thrust his shield’s iron boss into the man’s nose, at the same time as I buried my sword in his chest. They moved so slowly, and I so fast, as I brought the blade down again and again and again. I leant back against the cantle as a spear jabbed towards my head, before slicing my sword-edge upon the hand of the one who held it.

But a conroi’s strength lies in its charge, when it can bring its speed and its force and its weight of numbers to bear, and as our charge slowed, so the enemy began to rally. Before us rose a wall of shields, each with the raven emblazoned upon it, and all of a sudden the enemy were forcing us back. Even a mount trained to battle will hesitate to go against such a wall, against so many blades, and I saw Robert’s horse rear up, tossing its mane from side to side. The enemy, recognising him as our leader, sensed their chance and suddenly surged forward, and for every one of them that he killed, it seemed that two more joined the wall.

‘On!’ I shouted, trusting in my horse not to falter. I saw Ansculf struggling to fend off those surrounding him, Urse’s horse shying away, and I remembered my oath to Beatrice and knew I had to get to Robert.

So blinded were the enemy in their desire for glory, in their desire to be the ones who killed our lord and leader, that, despite our shouts and the noise of hooves and our naked blades shining in the glow of the morning, they didn’t see us coming. I scythed my blade through leather and through flesh, tearing the point into one man’s throat before turning and stabbing it down into the back of the next. Blood, hot and sticky, trickled down my arm, over my sword-hand.

I looked up and saw Robert, face clenched in desperation as he swung at the head of one of his attackers. He missed by a heartbeat: his foe ducked low and thrust his spear up, striking Robert low on his sword-arm, below the sleeve of his hauberk, and he yelled out in pain as his weapon slipped from his grasp. The Dane started to come at him again, jabbing the point towards his breast, but he had not seen me. I slammed my shield into the side of his helmet, and he lost his footing, falling under my mount’s hooves.

‘Back!’ I shouted, hoping Robert would hear as the wind gusted from behind and I beat down upon the shields of the men before me. ‘Get back!’

Robert’s horse reared up and still the enemy pressed forward. It only needed for one thrown spear to catch him in the chest, and he would be dead. I had to get him away from there.

‘Lord,’ I said, trying to rouse him from his pain. Blood was flowing freely, staining his sleeve, but there was nothing that could be done about it, and he would lose more than his sword if he stayed here any longer. The Danish line still held, while more knights were coming to join the fray. They would hold the enemy back for a moment, but not for ever.

I called to Wace, who had found himself in space. Eudo was with him, and Philippe, and several others I did not know but recognised from Robert’s conroi.

‘Hold them off,’ I said, then without waiting for Wace to reply I turned, reaching over with my right hand and grabbing Robert’s reins, tugging on them at the same time as I dug my heels in.

A spear thrust up at my flank but I managed to fend it off with my shield, willing my horse faster. Men streamed past us, their spears draped with pennons I did not recognise, so soaked were they with the blood of our foes.

‘Hold the enemy off!’ I shouted at them, glancing at Robert beside me. He was leaning forward in his saddle, his face creased in pain. His horse’s eyes were white with fear.

I found the same alleyway we had emerged from, drawing to a halt by the gable end of a merchant’s great hall, far enough from the enemy that we would be safe, for now at least. Others of his conroi had seen that he was injured and were riding to join us. I shoved my shield towards one of them; he took it without a word.

‘Show me your arm, lord,’ I said to Robert.

He shook his head. ‘It’s all right,’ he replied through gritted teeth, but I knew it was not, or he would still be fighting.

I took hold of it, peeling back the sleeve of his tunic, thankful for the faint light of dawn. He had been struck on the forearm; a long cut ran most of the way between his elbow and his wrist. The wound did not look deep; certainly I had seen far worse. Had it been his shield-arm he might have been able to carry on, but it was his sword-arm, and that made all the difference.

Others from his conroi were beginning to gather round, and among them was Ansculf. He still had his cloak wrapped around his shoulders. ‘Are you hurt, lord?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Robert, but the grimace on his face betrayed him. ‘I need a sword. I need to fight.’

I turned to Ansculf. ‘Give me your cloak,’ I said.

‘Why?’

I had neither the patience nor the time to explain. The screams of the dying echoed in my ears; the battle was still being fought, and we were needed there. ‘Just do it,’ I told him.

He unclasped it and handed it to me. It was not all that thick, but it would have to do. I drew my knife from its sheath and began to hack at the cloth, until I had a strip long enough that I could bind it around Robert’s wound. He winced as I did so, and tried to draw his arm away, but I held firm until it was tied. A monk or a priest might have done better, but it would serve for now to stop the bleeding.

A great roar went up, and I turned, fearing the worst. I was expecting to see our knights in flight, the rebels surging forward, their confidence renewed by Robert’s injury. Instead the Danish shield-wall was breaking and now they were in disarray, as our men and the king’s pressed their advantage, driving into their midst.

‘Stay with him,’ I told Ansculf. I signalled for my shield, passed the long strap around my neck and worked my forearm through the leather brases. I cast my gaze quickly over Robert’s conroi, or those at least who were there: more than twelve but fewer than a twenty. ‘With me,’ I shouted to them as I rode to their head.

‘These aren’t your men,’ Ansculf shouted after me. ‘You can’t just-’

‘Let me lead them,’ I said, cutting him off. ‘You make sure Robert’s safe. Get him away from the battle.’

I knew I had no right to ask such a thing, but my mind was racing, the blood running hot in my veins, and I could not stop myself. This was the chance I had been waiting for ever since Dunholm: the chance to prove myself, to atone for my lord’s death and make everything right.

Ansculf’s cheeks flushed scarlet with anger as he stared at me, but he said nothing, no doubt stunned by my nerve. In any case we had no time to argue, and so before he could answer I lifted my sword to the sky, digging my spurs in as I called again, ‘Conroi with me!’

‘Tancred!’ he yelled as I rode away, but I ignored his protests, glancing behind only to check that the rest of Robert’s men were following.

I led them back through the narrow alley, on to the main street, where the Danes had realised the fight was turning against them and so were fleeing. Of course they were paid warriors, not oath-sworn, and like all such men they were cowards: their only concern was for their purses and they had no wish to fight on till the last.

Beneath us the street lay thick with blood, thick with corpses. The stench of shit and vomit and fresh-spilt blood hung in the air. Not fifty paces away amidst the rush of men I glimpsed the raven banner, and beneath it the man whom I took to be the Danes’ leader. He was built like a bear, with fair hair down past his shoulders, and a beard that was stained with blood. On his arms he wore silver rings, and he bore a long-handled axe. He was bellowing to his men, waving down the main street in the direction of the river.

Men scattered from our path, both Danes and Normans; our own spearmen had come out from their wall to give chase to the enemy. I lifted my sword high for all Robert’s men to see, and spurred my horse into a gallop. There were barely a dozen men with me, whereas the Danish leader had more than thirty, but I knew it would be enough.

‘Kill them!’ I shouted. The street sloped down towards the river and I felt a fresh burst of speed. I found myself laughing as I saw the Danes in front of me, turning at last as they saw the danger coming from behind. Their leader roared in desperation as he rallied his men, but then they did something I did not expect, for all as one they came charging at us.

Whether the battle-rage had taken them, or whether they just wished for a noble death, I did not know; nor did it matter. One came at me, screaming, his face streaming with tears, and I raised my shield to fend off his spear, leaving him for Urse to finish as I arced my sword down into the path of another. And then I was turning, searching for the raven banner, for the Danes’ leader.

I did not have to look far, for at that moment he came at my flank, wielding his axe in both hands, hacking down upon my shield. The force of the blow sent a shudder through my arm, but the blade slid off its face, and as he readied himself for another strike, I thrust my elbow out, bringing the point of my shield up and into the side of his face, sending him backwards. Blood streamed from beneath his nasal-guard, spilling across his beard and his thick moustache, dripping on to his mail hauberk, but he did not seem to care. His eyes were blue fire as he came at me again, and again, and again, each strike ringing off the boss of my shield, each one pressing me further back. His friends were gathering around him, but I knew that if I could kill him, the rest would break.

He lifted his axe for another assault and I saw my chance, pressing my left heel into my horse’s flank. The animal turned sharply, bringing my undefended side to face him, and I saw the gleam in the Dane’s eyes as he lifted for his next swing, but my sword was quicker, driving up and into his shoulder. He reeled back, and as he did so I plunged the blade into his chest, driving the point between the links of his mail into his breast. I twisted my sword and he let out a gasp, and as I pulled it free he fell forward, already dead.

To one side was the raven banner, smeared with scarlet, and I saw Urse as he ran its bearer through, driving his lance into the man’s back. The banner fell to the ground under the hooves of Urse’s mount, and a roar erupted from the men behind me as it was trampled into the mud. The rest of the Danes were running.

‘Fight us, you sons of whores,’ someone shouted, and as I looked up I saw it was Eudo. He hacked at another of the enemy, his sword-edge ripping through the man’s arm, just below the sleeve of his hauberk. The bloodlust was in his eyes. ‘Fight us!’

Everywhere knights were giving chase: whole conrois darting down narrow ways, cutting the enemy down from behind, and I glimpsed the golden threads of the king’s lion banner glimmering in the half-light as he and his knights rode down a group of Danes. Some of our spearmen had stopped to strip corpses of their helmets, their mail, their swords and even their boots, and others were fighting them for the same things.

‘To arms,’ I shouted to them as I rode past. ‘To arms!’ For if they thought that the battle was won, they were wrong. From the east I could hear the battle-thunder, more distant than before, but present still. The rest of the enemy were rallying.

I sheathed my sword while I retrieved a lance from the chest of a fallen Dane, checking first that the haft was still intact, the head still firmly fixed. I lifted it to the sky. ‘Conroi with me!’

Eudo broke off from his pursuit to join us. His hands and the head of his lance were covered in blood, and his face bore a wide grin, which faded as he drew alongside me.

‘Where’s Robert?’ he asked between breaths.

‘He took a blow to the arm,’ I said. ‘He’s with Ansculf.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘He’ll live.’ And so he would, as long as Ansculf kept him from the fray, at least.

With Eudo were Philippe and some half-dozen more of Robert’s knights. Of Wace and Godefroi and Radulf there was no sign, and I could only trust that they were still fighting elsewhere.

As the ground began to fall away beneath my horse’s feet, I could see the river, sparkling under the brightening skies, with the bridge spanning it. And upon the bridge were men in helmets and gleaming mail, marching towards us, under a banner of purple and yellow stripes, and their shields were painted in the same colours.

The colours of the Aetheling.

My fist tightened around the haft of my lance. Eadgar. The man who called himself king; the leader of the rebels himself. The man who was responsible for the death of Lord Robert at Dunholm.

There he was, in the middle of the column, beneath the purple and yellow, with his gilded helmet that marked him out: a clear sign of his arrogance. Surrounding him were his huscarls, his household troops, with their axes slung across their backs, their scabbards swinging from their belts, their shields held before them.

I had pulled to a halt while the rest of my conroi gathered: almost twenty knights in all, including most of Robert’s men, though a few others who had become separated from their own groups were now joining me. I glanced to either side, as always checking to see who would be with me in the charge. On my left was Eudo; on my right, Philippe, and beneath his helmet I saw the same solemn look I remembered from when I first met him, though the youthful eagerness was gone now, replaced by a determination which I had not seen in him before.

The first of the enemy were almost across now, and following them was a column hundreds strong. I glanced over my shoulder; behind us all was confusion. By now some of the other lords had seen the Aetheling marching, and they were hesitating, uncertain whether to rally around the royal banner or to attack straightaway. But I knew that if we were to head the enemy off, we could not afford to delay.

‘For King Guillaume and Lord Robert!’ I said, trying to catch the attention of as many of the other lords as possible as I spurred my horse into a gallop once more. ‘For Malet, St Ouen and Normandy!’

And as the cry was taken up by those around me, I promised myself again that I would be the one who sent Eadgar to his death.