Elizabeth Chadwick - The Conquest

'Ut, Ut, Ut!' howled more than seven thousand English throats. Spears hammered on shield rims in a pounding, relentless rhythm. 'Ut, Ut, Ut!'

Rolf stared at the seething host of warriors on the ridge, packed together twenty men deep; the bristle of spears, the metallic flash of sharp iron points and the death-smile curve of axe blades. His throat was as dry as chaff; to try and swallow was to choke. Cold sweat clammed his armpits and made his hands slippery upon Alezan's bridle. Norman battle cries retorted to the Saxon invective 'Dex aie! Thor aid' But it was like hurling peas at a sheet of beaten iron. The slope of the ridge was littered with the corpses of the Norman infantry who had rushed the Saxons in the wake of volleys of arrows from the Norman archers. No visible softening of the Saxon defences had occurred and now the cavalry was to go in against the great Danish axes.

'Christ on the Cross,' muttered Richard FitzScrob, his eyes on the Saxon line and the Norman dead littering the ground in front of it.

'Your ventail's undone,' Rolf said huskily.

'What?' Richard released his grip on the grey's reins and raised his hands to fumble with the loose mail flap which would protect his lower face from injury. It also made it considerably more difficult to breathe. Free of control the grey sidled, pressing up hard against Alezan. Rolf cursed as his leg was crushed, and the chestnut lashed out. A ripple shuddered down the line, as each horse and rider was forced to adjust. Richard snatched the grey's reins and brought him back under control, dragging the stallion's head down until its muzzle almost touched the tassels on the decorated breast band. 'I need four hands,' Richard gasped apologetically, and then, 'Jesu, I'm going to be sick.'

'Not now you've fastened your ventail, you'll choke! Pull yourself together, man!' Rolf's own voice cracked with strain. Grimly he adjusted his shield, which appeared to have a mind and mobility of its own, and shifted his wet grip on the shaft of his spear.

Richard gagged, glanced sidelong at Rolf, and clenched his jaw.

William FitzOsbern, commander of Rolf's section, rode his sweating stallion along their line, his standard bearer following on his heels, gold silk pennon snapping in the breeze. On their flank, Alain Fergant's Breton cavalry set their destriers at the ridge. Hooves thundered, the earth shook.

'God is with us!' roared FitzOsbern. Raising his mace on high, he faced the Saxon line and his lips contorted in a snarl. 'Laissez Cone!'

Rolf spurred Alezan. The Norman line surged up the hill, the knights thigh to thigh, keeping pace. Breath and hide steamed like hell-smoke. The ground was soft and he could feel Alezan's shoulders and quarters straining, the stallion's hooves gouging out great clods of earth. The vibration of the charge thundered up through Rolf's saddle and into his straining body. Beyond Alezan's pricked ears, he saw the packed rows of painted shields, some long and triangular like his own, others circular with half-globe iron bosses. And within the shield wall, the axe-wielding, mail-clad huscarls who dealt death to anyone who came within range of the sweeping arcs of their weapons.

Spear tips spiked the sky; a hail of stones, wooden staves and steel caltrops assaulted the charging horsemen. Rolf kept his shield high, his head down, and hoarsely called upon Christ and Thor to protect him. The stink of blood, excrement and sheer human terror fouled his nostrils; the battle din roared in his ears until he was deaf.

He clutched his spear, and prepared to hurl it as Alezan strained within range. To his left an axe flashed as a Saxon warrior struck. The dark brown horse of the knight next to Rolf pitched to its knees. Blood sprayed; a warm wetness spattered Rolf's face and he saw the man hit the ground, defenceless against the Saxon huscarl who, in one massive blow, spliced the knight as if he were a bacon pig. Rolf twisted hard on the bridle, and before the axe could rise and whirl again, rose in the stirrups and cast his spear at the huscarl with all the strength in his arm. The Saxon screamed and staggered, clutching at the shaft embedded through mail and gambeson in his side. Rolf yanked the reins, squeezed with his thighs, and hauled the chestnut away. They half-galloped, half-skidded down the slope, mud churning beneath the destrier's hooves, missiles singing after them, and turned once safe, to recoup. On Rolf's other side, Richard tore off his ventail with frantic fingers and leaned over Sleipnir's withers to vomit.

'They're not men, they're devils!' he gulped.

The yellow banner of FitzOsbern rippled and the commands roared out for the cavalry to close ranks and advance again. 'Estroitez I droit! Mettez en bandon!' Rolf snatched a spear from a convenient stack, fretted the chestnut on his hocks, and rejoined the assault.

This time, an axe man actually ran to meet Rolf as he rose in the stirrups to cast his spear. Rolf saw the deadly iron arc sweeping towards him and tried to stab the Saxon with the lance. The axe took off the spear head clean through the haft and continued to describe its deadly half-circle. In desperation Rolf tried to cover himself and the chestnut with his shield. The curved blade smashed through the linden planking and sank into the destrier's neck. The horse reared, and the Saxon's face beneath the nasal of his helm was suddenly a mass of red, shattered bone. Howling, a second axe man darted forwards. Rolf sawed on the reins, and spurred his wounded horse out of the melee.

Alezan carried him halfway down the hill and then the chestnut's legs buckled and Rolf was pitched headlong into the muddy grass. He lay bruised and winded. The thunder of the Norman charge and retreat surged in his ears. He could hear the triumphant Saxon roar of 'Ut, Ut, Ut!' Three knights galloped past him, their mounts flinging clods of soil. Someone was screaming in terror for a priest. Alezan kicked, shuddered, and died.

Rolf looked numbly at the blood-streaked golden-red hide. He had bred the stallion up from a foal, had exerted much time, effort and pride in his training. Now he was nothing but carrion for the ravens; a heap of meat among a thousand such heaps on this gory battlefield.

The screaming had stopped. Rolf pushed himself to his feet and guarding himself against the barrage of sling-stones with his broken shield, limped towards the Norman baggage station on Telham Hill to saddle up a remount. After five paces he stopped in mid-stride and stared, his blood freezing. A riderless grey destrier stood trembling beside a body. The stallion's withers and neck were saturated in blood, but Rolf could tell that the horse was not injured.

'God's sweet life!' he muttered through his teeth and ran to catch the bridle. Another knight had the same idea, but Rolf arrived first, and snarled him off. Then he knelt beside the fallen man.

'Richard? Richard, Christ, man, get up!' He shook his friend's shoulder.

Richard FitzScrob's reply was silent. His head lolled beneath the vigorous demand of Rolf's hand, revealing the shattered throat where his unfastened ventail had exposed him to a blow from a nail-studded club.

Fury pierced Rolf's numbness. He had a savage desire to leap astride the grey, hurl himself at the Saxon line and kill every last warrior. Pushing himself to his feet, he exchanged Richard's undamaged shield for his own, jammed his foot into the stirrup and mounted up. 'Alliez!' he urged the stallion and dug in his spurs.

It was about noon when the Breton left flank, unable to take any more punishment from the English battle axes, broke and fled, leaving the remainder of the Norman army dangerously exposed. The centre drew back and the right flank wavered. The Bretons were heatedly pursued by triumphant English fyrdmen, and the two forces joined battle again in the marshy ground at the foot of the ridge. The Saxons had the advantage. Panicking, floundering, all the Bretons desired was to escape with their lives.

Rolf felt the infection of fear pierce his own exhaustion, but he held his place in the line. Where was there to go? Back to the ships in disordered confusion to be killed ignominiously on the shore? Even as these thoughts bolted through his mind, the impetus of the Norman assault wavered. A knight cried to him that Duke William was nowhere to be found, that he was down, that he was dead. Rolf found himself facing the line of shields and axes with no-one to either side of him. Wrenching Sleipnir's bridle, he turned back.

'Stand firm!' roared William FitzOsbern to the men of his command. He rose in his stirrups, his usually impassive features brimming with rage. 'Are you no better than the Bretons that you run like cowards?' He levelled his mace at a young knight. 'Do your duty to your sworn liege lord, or by God I'll kill you myself! Until you hear the command to retreat given from my own lips, you will assault that shield wall. Now get back up there and win this damned battle for Normandy!'