Stewart Binns - Crusade

As Robert of Normandy and Philip of France rode along the lines encouraging their men, I checked on my companions. Edwin was steadfast on his mount, while Sweyn gripped his reins tightly and looked around confidently.

It was then that a sentry appeared and addressed me.

‘My Lord Prince, there is young knight at the picket lines. He asks to join your retinue.’

‘Does he have a name?’

‘He calls himself Alan of St Cirq Lapopie, my Lord. But he is clean-shaven and can’t be much more than a boy.’

Unable to resist the sarcasm, I smiled at Sweyn before replying.

‘Let him pass. I am always happy to have knights at my side, even if they haven’t started shaving.’

He and Edwin looked mortified, but did not say anything.

When, moments later, the knight appeared, I knew why. The knight in question presented himself with the usual courtesy of removing his helmet, only to reveal the tender skin and the soft, flowing locks of a young woman.

‘My Lord, forgive my deception, but I needed to get beyond your picket lines. I am Adela of Bourne.’

Edwin was furious.

‘Adela, this is unforgivable! I forbade you to come. Yet you appear, and in the garb of a knight.’

I was intrigued but, even so, this was not the time and certainly not the place to start recruiting women to the Order of Knights.

‘Madam, I am honoured that you would consider joining my retinue, but a more formal introduction, and in more relaxed circumstances than on the cusp of battle, might be more appropriate. May we discuss your request tomorrow? Sergeant, take our guest to the rear and see that no harm comes to her.’

The sergeant grabbed the bridle of Adela’s horse. As he did so, Adela drew her seax and had it at his throat in an instant.

‘Take your hand off my horse.’

Seeing the tenacity in her eyes, the sergeant relented.

‘Prince Edgar, I will leave the field at your request, but only if Sweyn leaves with me. He is like my little brother; we have been very close since our village was massacred. I will not see him in battle unless I am at his side. We learned to fight together and I am as good as he is.’

‘I have heard of the wretched circumstances of your encounter with Hereward and his companions.’

‘Sire, I was only a baby when Hereward left our village but, many years later, he saved me after my innocence was so cruelly stolen. I watched with delight as he exacted a terrible revenge on the Normans who defiled me. Ever since Ely, I have lived with his memory. Now, like Sweyn, I model my life on his. I am not a man and will never equal the feats of Hereward of Bourne, but I can follow his example.’

Edwin’s demeanour softened, and Sweyn looked proud of his sister-in-arms. I admired her resolve.

‘Very well, the battle will soon be upon us. Stay close to Edwin. Sweyn is under strict instructions not to engage the enemy unless his life is threatened. The same applies to you, is that clear?’

‘It is, my Prince. Thank you.’

‘Edwin, unfurl my standard.’

As he did so, tears welled in the eyes of Sweyn and Adela. My standard was the Wyvern of Wessex, the emblem of Harold at Senlac Ridge and of all the Cerdician Kings of England as far back as Alfred the Great.

A most bizarre sight then appeared on the battlefield. The Pythoness of Gisors was a peculiar creature, quite frail and slight, but with a shock of silver-grey hair and startling bright-green eyes which never seemed to blink. She wore a plain black cassock tied at the waist by a woven leather cord and carried a large staff elaborately carved in the shape of a serpent, replete with inset rubies for eyes and a forked tongue painted blood red. Around her forehead was a richly chased band of silver, also in the form of a serpent, the head of which ran down between her eyes and finished just above the bridge of her very large nose. She had marched out beyond William’s front line by at least twenty yards.

Philip looked bemused. It was left to Robert to provide an explanation.

‘She is a local sorceress from the Bastide of Gisors. Among my father’s many increasingly odd habits, resorting to seers and witches is one of the more harmless.’

‘Is she going to win the battle for him?’

‘Yes, she will cast a spell on us and damn us to Hell for eternity.’

The Pythoness began to chant and moan in what she called her ‘diabolic’ – her language of the dead – before scattering charms and potions on the ground.

‘Do you think my archers could put an end to this farce?’

‘Possibly… It’s worth a try.’

Philip summoned his master bowman and a company of his finest archers and gave the order.

To loud cheering from William’s army, the end of the witch’s performance saw her raise her python staff and damn us all to Hell, after which she turned her back, pulled up her cassock to bare her buttocks and proceeded to urinate profusely on the meadow.

But Philip’s archers had already taken deadly aim and their arrows were in flight, plummeting from the sky at a steep angle. From a distance of almost 200 yards, the arrows started to land all around her, striking deep into the ground. To the great amusement of our army, just as the old crone was concluding her stream of insults, one of the archers scored a bull’s-eye, impaling her in the top of her rump with a four-ounce arrow. Another struck home moments later, hitting her between the shoulder blades. It was the last spell she would ever work.

William, in a rage at the skewering of his favourite enchantress, ordered his cavalry to advance at the gallop and the infamous thunder of his conroi of destriers began. I gulped and prepared myself for the onslaught, casting one last glance at my companions. The Norman cavalry was a chilling sight, their ordered lines broken only by the dashing knights who led the charge, a glistening brown phalanx of equine muscle topped by armoured killers wielding finely honed swords and spears and massive cudgels and maces.

Robert knew his father’s tactics well and saw that on this occasion he had chosen the brute force of a massed attack by his horsemen. This played into the hands of Philip and his bowmen. Relying on Robert – who had ridden in many of his father’s charges – to judge the timing, Philip ordered his archers to launch their first onslaught on his ally’s signal. Many more followed in rapid volleys.

The missiles came out of the sun like hailstones, landing in lethal rhythmic waves; most hit the soft earth, penetrating to half their length, but tens of dozens hit human or horse flesh with devastating consequences. The tightly packed conroi was reduced to a mass of stricken bodies as horses and men hit the ground and careened into one another. The din was terrifying as men screamed and horses screeched in agony.

William had underestimated the power of Philip’s aerial assault, but instead of ordering a withdrawal to count his losses, he let his anger get the better of him. With himself at its vanguard, he called up his elite Matilda Conroi, committed his reserves of cavalry, ordered his infantry to attack in support and signalled his own archers to begin their onslaught. His entire force hurtled headlong into the fray.

For once, he had acted rashly and had seriously miscalculated.

Robert and I smiled at Philip. The French arrowsmiths and fletchers were busily unloading cartloads of arrows to replenish the spent quivers of the bowmen and archers, in order to continue the relentless barrage against the Normans. Philip offered Robert the chance to lead the allies’ charge, which he accepted with relish.

So, with Robert’s flamboyant battle cry ringing in our ears, we were off at a gallop. I stayed close to Robert, with Edwin close behind me. To our rear, only seconds later, Sweyn and Adela looked at one another and barely hesitated before donning their helmets in anticipation and joining the attack.