‘Wait,’ I repeated as Hamo rose and raised his bow into position. Concentration soured his expression as he fixed his gaze upon the enemy, no doubt choosing his first victim. ‘Wait until I give the word.’
One of the Englishmen emerged and brandished a coin-pouch with a whoop of delight, and the other two shortly followed with their own finds held aloft. Inside those pouches was the last of the silver and gold that I’d brought with me on campaign, together with some more that Serlo and Pons, Eudo and Wace had lent me for the purpose. Altogether it was a considerable treasure, and enough to bring the rest of their band rushing forward. Some tried to snatch those purses away from their finders, whilst others fought over the wine-flasks, or to be the first inside the remaining tents. Exactly why they thought we’d abandoned our camp, I had no idea. Perhaps they reckoned we were away scouting the land, or that we had fled at the first sight of them approaching. Probably most didn’t care: they saw a chance to obtain easy spoils, and for most that was all that mattered. Most, that was, except for their lord – he of the chausses and the inlaid helmet – who was left standing alone, bellowing for them to hold back, to stay close to him.
But his warnings were in vain, and now his men would pay for their greed.
‘Now,’ I said to Hamo. No sooner had the command left my lips than he’d drawn back his bowstring and let his first arrow fly. With a sharp whistle of air it shot up into the darkness, closely followed by those of his comrades. A cluster of glittering steel points soared out from the trees across the open ground, vanishing briefly into the night before plunging earthwards once more, towards the campfires and the Englishmen squabbling amongst themselves.
Too late they saw the arrows spearing down towards them. Too late a cry was raised. One man was struck between the shoulder-blades as he scrambled out from one of the tents, and he went down. Another, swigging from one of the leather bottles, took a shaft in the neck and fell backwards into one of the campfires, sending up a shower of sparks. Men were running, shouting, screaming as the silver-tipped shafts rained down in their midst. Volley followed upon volley as Hamo and his men drew the shafts from their arrow-bags. In all probably only three or four out of those twenty-odd foemen were killed, but it was enough to spread panic among their ranks.
And into that throng we charged, filling the night with our fury. We fell upon them before they could recover their wits and work out what was happening, before they could come together and form a shield-wall to fend us off. Usually I find that those final few moments before battle is joined are when my mind is clearest, and that I’m aware of the slightest details, from which way the wind was blowing to the sound of my own heartbeat resounding through my body. But not this time. Exactly when I gave the order to break from our hiding place, or what battle-cry I roared, I cannot recall. The next thing I remember is seeing the first of the foemen standing before me, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, unslinging his red-painted shield from where it hung by its long strap across his back. I lifted my blade high, then struck down so quickly and with such force that it sliced through his leather sleeve into his shoulder. He bent over, yelling out in agony; I brought my knee up into his groin and buried my sword-point in his gut, twisting it so as to finish him all the quicker, then wrenching it free. The steel glistened crimson in the firelight. My first kill of the night.
We tore into the enemy, bringing weeks of pent-up anger to bear. Steel clashed upon steel, ringing and shrieking like the dissonant cries of some hellish beast. The hail of arrows had ceased and Hamo and his company were running to join us, adding their strength to ours, hurling themselves into the fray with knives and hand-axes and all manner of weapons: men both young and old eager to prove their worth alongside trained knights like myself. I raised my shield to deflect a spear, then twisted away and landed a blow across the back of a foeman’s head, and he was dead before he hit the ground. These were stout warriors we faced, and not lacking in skill at arms, but for all that they were ill disciplined and no match for knights of Normandy.
‘For St Ouen and King Guillaume!’ someone roared, and it might even have been me, except that the words seemed somehow far away, and I didn’t remember having willed myself to speak.