His tone was not grudging, but sincere. He smiled, and it was a smile of relief as much as anything else. Relief at having survived this day. Relief that justice, at long last, had been done.
We ventured back towards the rest of our host. Some of the enemy still lived, but not many. Magnus’s huscarls remembered only too well how Haakon had betrayed their lord, and held anyone who had thrown in their lot with him in the lowest contempt, while the men that Wace and Eudo and Aubert had brought with them had been told of the Dane’s part in the massacre of near two thousand Normans at Dunholm, and were not inclined to show forgiveness. And so the slaughter still went on as our men set about pursuing the enemy, cutting them down from behind and decorating the backs of their skulls with bright gashes. A handful had fled on to the sands, perhaps hoping to reach their ships drawn up further along the shore and make an escape by water. When they realised how few they were in number, though, they abandoned their weapons and whatever armour they possessed, deciding instead to try to swim across the bay to safety. They waded out from the shore, crashing through the waves, but they didn’t get far before our men were upon them, staining the foaming sea-froth pink with Danish blood.
‘No mercy!’ I heard a familiar voice shout from across the field, and saw Eudo on a horse that he must have seized from one of Haakon’s hearth-troops. In one hand he held a bloodied spear, while his banner was in the other. Gradually those around him took up the cry, until a dozen Normans were chanting as if with a single voice: ‘No mercy!’
Wace was with him, albeit on foot, and Tor and the Gascon and Serlo too, all charging behind the tusked boar, filling the air with their battle-joy, delighting in the glory of the kill.
With those roars and chants ringing out, Magnus and I trudged across a meadow trampled flat by the passage of hundreds of feet. Men cheered as they recognised us, and yet I hardly heard them, for my mind was elsewhere. I glanced about, searching for Godric, ?lfhelm and Oswynn. Until I knew she was safe, I would not celebrate. But amidst everyone running back and forth, amidst all the panicked horses, I couldn’t spot them, and the longer I kept searching, the more my concern grew. I could feel it stirring in my breast, clutching at my heart, and I tried to bury it, not wanting to let even the possibility enter my thoughts. She was safe, I told myself. She had to be.
To left and right, English and French were throwing their arms around one another, slapping each other on the back, punching their comrades on the shoulders, lifting fists to the sky, sharing in the delight of a hard-earned victory, celebrating together as allies and brothers in arms. I had seen some strange sights in my years, but never any as strange as this.
‘Lord!’
Over the laughter and the singing and the whoops of joy, I made out Eithne’s voice. She stood amidst a crowd of men, perhaps a hundred paces away, close to a jagged outcrop of dark rock, waving both her arms, trying to attract my attention, and at once I felt my worries easing, my heart lifting.
But only for an instant.
‘Lord!’ she cried again, as she beckoned me over, and this time there was no mistaking her tone, which was insistent rather than jubilant. With her, crowded close, were Godric and ?lfhelm, who was nursing a wound to his shoulder, his fellow huscarls Dweorg and Sceota, and Pons too. Of Oswynn, however, there was no sign.
And I knew.
My skin turned to ice. My heart all but stopped, and the breath caught in my chest. No longer were all those men shouting and rejoicing; or perhaps they were, but I did not hear them. Around me the whole world seemed to slow.
‘Lord!’ Eithne was shouting still, her voice desperate, as I pelted towards her as fast as my legs could carry me, nearly tripping over the corpses in my way but somehow managing to stay upright.
‘Where is she?’ I roared as I grew nearer. ‘What happened?’
She stared, terrified, at me, but though her mouth opened, no words came out. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, she and the others simply stepped to one side, making way and allowing me to see for myself.
Oswynn, my Oswynn, lay on the ground, her head of pitch-black hair resting upon a bundle of folded cloaks, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling. Her breath misted in front of her face, but there was so little of it, and it came only in stutters.
‘No,’ I said, barely able to manage even a whisper, so numb, so devoid of strength, so helpless did I feel. ‘No.’
Eanfl?d, the English girl, knelt beside her, pressing a bloodied cloth against Oswynn’s lower torso, whilst at the same time stroking her brow. Her eyes were red and her cheeks wet with tears. No sooner had she noticed me approaching than she rose to her feet and made way.