James Aitcheson - The Splintered Kingdom

Women fled the houses: wives and camp-followers, slaves and whores alike, wrapping what they could salvage of their menfolk’s belongings inside cloaks, or else stuffing them into haversacks. A riderless horse, a mere shadow against the light, galloped towards the market square through streets filled with smoke. Roofs collapsed with a crash of timbers; clouds of still-glowing ash billowed up into the air where the strengthening breeze carried them from one building to the next. And still the rain of fire continued, as if the forces of hell had been unleashed upon this earth.

‘Shields up!’ I heard Eudo call, although in truth most of those arrows were falling far enough away that they posed little threat.

Then from beyond the palisade, over the cries of the wounded and the dying and the clash of steel upon steel, came the thunder of hooves and the familiar battle-cries: ‘For Normandy! For St Ouen and King Guillaume!’

The horns blew once more, this time in long bursts that sounded for all the world like the death throes of some forlorn and stricken beast: the command to retreat. No sooner had it died away than scores of men were pouring in panic through the town’s southern gates not a hundred paces away: Danes and English, I assumed, since I didn’t recognise the designs on their flags and their shield-faces, all retreating to the protection of the town. And then I saw the purple and yellow stripes of the?theling, and the raven and cross that belonged to King Sweyn. The two men were mounted next to each other, surrounded by their respective hearth-troops, trying to instil order in their ranks as men ran past to either side of them.

‘Attack these bastards, these filth-ridden dogs, these Devil-turds,’ Wild Eadric yelled in desperation. ‘Attack them now!’

But his orders fell on deaf ears. If his men had wanted to attack, they should have done so already, for their confidence had been allowed to waver and now their numbers were dwindling. Another wave of fire-arrows cascaded down upon the town, much closer this time, falling in the sheepfolds next to the paddock where we stood. That was too close in the eyes of many of the men. They turned and began to run, some seeking cover from those shafts of fiery death, others for safety in numbers beneath the banners of King Sweyn and the?theling, who even now were falling back, away from the walls and further into the town as they sent their spearmen and fyrdmen and axemen to try to hold the gates. For the enemy had been unable to close them in time to keep their attackers outside, and now a conroi of mailed knights burst through the gap between the ramparts, charging knee to knee in a wedge formation with lances couched under their arms, ready for the kill.

And at the head of that wedge rode the last man I would have expected to see. His banner, decorated in scarlet and blue stripes, marked him out, and even from such a distance, I recognised his stout frame instantly.

‘Berengar,’ I said under my breath, then to the others, almost laughing in surprise and relief: ‘It’s Berengar!’

There was no mistaking that standard. Quite why he had followed us to Beferlic, I had no idea, but it was a good thing he had, for the tide of battle was suddenly on the turn, and as dozens upon scores of Norman knights and foot-warriors flooded in through the gates, suddenly I felt my spirits lighten.

‘For Normandy,’ roared one of the charging knights, and it might even have been Berengar himself. They crashed into the half-formed battle-line, burying their lance-heads in the shields and the chests of the Northumbrians and Danes, riding over those who had fallen as they drew their swords and drove further into the enemy ranks. In their wake rode a dozen more horsemen, then a dozen more after that, and still they kept on coming as Eadgar and Sweyn were pressed ever further back.

Still fifteen or so of Eadric’s huscarls remained, enough to outnumber us, although they too had witnessed what was happening, and I could see their resolve breaking. My blood was running hot through my veins, and my sword-arm was itching as renewed confidence filled me.

‘Fight us,’ I challenged them, roaring as the battle-joy filled me once more and I pressed the flat of Eadric’s dagger against his neck. ‘Fight us!’

But concern for their own lives overcame that for their oaths and their lord, and they fled. Nor were they the only ones as more and more horsemen swept into the town, cutting down the enemy to left and right. Sweyn and Eadgar must have seen that all would soon be lost if they continued to battle any longer, and now they too were in flight, together with most of the rest of their host, abandoning the town and the monastery they had made their stronghold, making for the marshes and the river Hul where they knew our army would struggle to pursue them, leaving an unlucky few of their thegns and jarls to continue the struggle on foot and face the might of the Norman onslaught alone.

Then I saw Eadgar beneath his gilded helmet turning his mount and making to ride away, with Berengar and his knights in pursuit, and all sense left me. Already I’d let slip one chance to kill the?theling. Now that fate had brought us to the same place again, I was determined not to fail a second time. His death had been my goal for more than a year and the last thing I wanted was for Berengar to take that from me. Shoving Eadric to the ground, I turned to Pons and Serlo.

‘Make sure he doesn’t get away,’ I said. ‘Keep Beatrice and Lord Guillaume safe.’

I heard their protests but paid them no heed, instead waving for the others to come with me as I ran towards the heart of the melee, where what remained of the enemy rearguard was rapidly crumbling under the weight of the charge. My feet pounded the streets, which were slick with mud and the blood of the fallen. Once or twice I nearly stumbled over corpses that I did not see, for my mind was solely on keeping that gilded helmet in sight. As it receded into the distance, and as the enemy battle-lines collapsed and the rout began, however, it became ever more difficult to pick him out through the throng.

Ahead, a conroi of knights rode across our path. One of their number noticed us and gave a cry. Hurriedly I called out in French, giving our names so that they would know we were Normans like them. Often in the middle of the fray it can be hard to tell ally and foe apart, especially when ranks have broken and even more so at night. Men will kill before pausing to think, and only after they have struck their imagined adversary down will they realise they’ve spilt the lifeblood of one of their own closest comrades. I’d seen it happen more often than I cared to remember, and had no wish for us to end up impaled upon their lances that way. Not after all this. Thankfully the captain of that conroi heard me and they wheeled away, chasing a band of fair-haired Danes as they sought refuge with their womenfolk down a narrow alley between two large halls.

We ran on, through the market square and a great plume of black smoke that swirled and rolled across the way, stinging my eyes and burning my throat and my chest. Coughing, blinking to clear my vision, I kept on going. Men on horses raced past us with pennons in all colours flying proudly. They whooped with delight and the thrill of the slaughter, giving cries of Normandy, of God and of victory as they rode down those of the English and the Danes who remained. Others cast aside their spears in favour of brands drawn from the burning houses, with which they set fire to those buildings that had not yet felt the touch of the flames. As the smoke cleared I caught the briefest glimpse in the distance of Eadgar?theling’s gilded helmet, with Berengar and his men close behind, growing ever more distant with each beat of my heart. In the side streets the staunchest of the enemy still fought on, some preferring to die facing their killers than be struck down trying to flee, others seeking only to hold their ground for as long as it took for their thegns and jarls to mount horses and escape. They formed shield-walls across the ways, standing shoulder to shoulder several ranks deep, in groups as small as a dozen or as large as forty or more-