Stewart Binns - Anarchy

A slaughter ensued; all Stephen’s previously brave and loyal senior men deserted him and galloped away, leaving him to stand alone at the front of his knights. Our advance had taken us within fifty yards of him. Robert and I were at the front of our men; by then, we were sinking up to our knees in mud.

I turned to Robert.

‘He faces annihilation; we should offer him surrender.’

‘I agree.’

But before we could call a halt to our advance, Stephen let out a mighty cry and ran towards us waving his sword in great arcs to encourage his followers. We were hit by a wave of sound as the whole of his central column rushed towards us in a frenzy.

Robert and I had no choice but to respond in the same vein. The two columns of men, at least ten deep, closed on one another at alarming speed. Our column was 600 strong; Stephen’s contained perhaps 100 fewer. His desperate tactic was both brave and his only possible salvation. His one chance was to break through our centre like a battering ram and destroy our High Command.

The clash of sword on shield was deafening, the screams of dying men terrifying. The hand-to-hand fighting was ferocious; men swung their weapons wildly, often hitting friend and foe alike. It was difficult to find room to use tried and tested training techniques, the pressure of men from behind making such discipline impossible. The only effective method was to move forward like a Roman legionary, deploying the shield as a bludgeon, and using the sword to make short stabbing thrusts.

When men fell, they were trampled underfoot by wave after wave of the massed ranks moving forward. The mud changed colour from brown to a bloody purple, with countless distorted bodies protruding from the mire like broken dolls. I looked up as often as I could to see that our line was gradually eating up the ground towards the walls of the castle, leaving no space into which Stephen could retreat.

I felt no fear. I had been in too many battles; I was hardened to warfare and, like all seasoned warriors, I relished the primordial thrill of combat. There was always anxiety before an encounter and afterwards always reflection, usually tinged with regrets. But during the heat of battle there was only the crude thrill of warfare, and pride in the supreme skills of the professional soldier. Many men fell before me and I despatched them without mercy. There was no other way. In battle, there is no room for sympathy – a moment’s hesitation could cost you your life.

I caught sight of Stephen several times, no more than five yards away. He had lost his sword, but was wielding an English battle-axe to awesome effect. I saw him turn towards the western gate of the city and lead away those close to him. The weight of their numbers managed to force the gate open and more than a hundred men poured into Lincoln’s narrow streets. But they were unable to close the gate behind them, and we followed them into the burgh.

The fighting spread to all corners as Stephen’s men tried to find an escape route. Now civilians were caught up in the maelstrom, and the cries of women and children were added to the cacophony of battle. Fires broke out and smoke started to fill the air. Many of our troops, including the Welsh mercenaries, flooded into the burgh and began looting.

Robert tried to issue the order to desist. But it was to no avail; bloodlust had taken over.

Eadmer saw Stephen first. He was surrounded by fewer and fewer knights, and was trying to lead his men up the steep ground towards the cathedral and the main gate of the castle.

Robert of Gloucester had taken a heavy blow to his side and sank to his knees. He grabbed for my hauberk and entreated me urgently.

‘Go after him! He won’t get into the castle, he’ll go for the cathedral. Don’t let him reach it – we don’t want blood spilled on consecrated ground.’

With Eadmer at my shoulder and a posse of knights behind me, I headed up the hill. We had to battle our way through several ranks of Stephen’s knights, but Eadmer and I had developed a powerful close-quarters battle technique. We soon reached the small plateau in the shadow of the great western front of the cathedral. Stephen was on top of a mounting block, circled by a dozen knights. It looked as if he had chosen his ground for a final redoubt.

Held by his giant bearded standard-bearer, and flying proudly above him, was his war banner – a golden manticore with a hunting bow. His azure shield with argent bend signified his home in Blois, while to honour his wife’s county he flew the gonfalon of Boulogne – three roundels in gules on a field of gold.

He was breathing heavily. His armour and cloak were dripping with blood – as were his face and beard – though none of it seemed to be his own. The ground around him began to clear as people rushed towards the cathedral for sanctuary. I ordered several knights to place a cordon around the area to make sure none of our marauding Welsh troops made a crazed dash for Stephen.

I stepped towards him, my knights a pace behind. Eadmer whispered to me as we walked.

‘Be very careful. This is a proud brave man, and he’s about to lose a kingdom.’

Stephen caught my eye, and put out his hand to calm his men.

I called out to him.

‘Stephen of Blois, I am Harold, Earl of Huntingdon! On behalf of the Empress Matilda, I offer you quarter.’

Enraged by the fighting, his chest was heaving with anger and exertion. He cried out in an anguished voice.

‘I am Stephen, King of England, Duke of Normandy and Count of Boulogne! And you, sir, are a traitor! My sources tell me that you are also my cousin’s tup, and that you are cuckolding the Count of Anjou.’

I tried to remain calm.

‘I offer you quarter and the mercy of Matilda for the last time.’

Stephen still sounded desperate, like a man in a bear trap.

‘You are a knave! I believe you claim to be the bastard son of King Henry Beauclerc. But Hugh Bigod, Earl of Norwich, tells me that your family name is Harold of Hereford and that the King once ordered your arrest for the murder of one of his men.’

‘Attempting to provoke me will change nothing. Will you surrender or not?’

‘Not even to an earl, and certainly not to the likes of you!’

Stephen jumped down from the mounting block and hurled himself across the ten yards that separated us. He held his axe two-handed, high above his head, poised to strike me as soon as I came within range. He was so overcome by his emotions, he was oblivious to danger. But it was a futile attack; he was exhausted and outnumbered.

When he got within striking distance, he unleashed a fearsome lunge at my helmet, but I easily parried it with my shield. I hit him in the face with the gauntlet of my right hand, which was firmly coiled around the pommel of my sword, knocking him to the ground. This time the blood on his face was his own; his nose was split and there was a deep gash to his cheek.

He tried to get up, but I put my foot on his chest while Eadmer put his foot on his axe. Stephen’s knights moved to come to his aid, but did so half-heartedly. They were surrounded, their brave retreat over.

Stephen continued to struggle on the ground and had to be restrained by several knights. His taunts and insults were endless, and he tried to break free at every opportunity. Eventually, we had to bind and hood him and tie him on to the back of a cart, but still he cursed and strained at his ropes.

I ordered that he be treated with respect and asked Miles of Gloucester to take him in hand so that Eadmer and I could assess the situation on the battlefield and in Lincoln. I suddenly realized that it was still raining heavily; I could now hear the rain lashing the ground and the wind swirling around the tall towers of the cathedral.