‘God aid us,’ another shouted. The traditional war-cry of Normandy, it was quickly taken up, until we were all roaring as if with one voice: ‘God aid us!’
The battle-calm was upon me; everything was as simple as practising sword-cuts against the stake in the training yard. Time seemed to slow: each moment stretched into an eternity, and I knew every movement of my foes before it even happened. From their stance and the way they held their weapons I knew whether their next strokes would be low or high, feint or parry or thrust or cut, and armed with that knowledge I lost myself to the will of my blade, striking out to left and right, feeling free in a way that I hadn’t in longer than I could remember, all my earlier anxiety having fled. Dimly I was aware of Serlo and Pons on either side of me, protecting my flanks, but I didn’t care whether or not they were there, for I was laughing with the ease of it all as we scythed a path through the enemy towards their lord.
He stood beyond the fires, trying desperately to rally his troops, but for the most part his orders fell on deaf ears. All around him was confusion. The enemy were in disarray, in two minds whether to retreat or to hold their ground, whereas we were united in our desire to spill enemy blood. A few of the thegn’s more steadfast warriors chose to stand by him, but already a large number were making as fast as they could manage for the safety of the marsh-channel, some limping with gashes to their sides and thighs where they had been struck, others clutching their arms or shoulders, fleeing out of fear for their lives, and I knew we had to take full advantage of this moment.
‘Kill them,’ I cried. ‘No mercy!’
After that it was all over so quickly. One instant I was in the midst of battle, leading the attack against the few who bravely fought on, and the next I was looking into the eyes of the thegn himself. I rushed him with my shield, slamming the boss into his chest and jerking the iron rim upwards into his jaw. The force of the blow sent him stumbling backwards, his mouth and chin running with blood. His sword slipped from his grasp and he lost his footing on the muddy ground. The weight of his mail did the rest, bringing him crashing down on to his back. Breathing hard, I looked up, expecting to find his companions coming to his aid, but they were all on the ground, either finished on the blade-edges of my knights or else writhing in pain and desperately calling out for help that wouldn’t come.
Sweat dripped from my brow, stinging my eyes, and the blood of my enemies, warm and sticky, streamed down my sword-hand. A few of the Englishmen still lived, but not many. Having seen their leader fall they knew better than to continue the struggle, and now they too were turning in flight, pursued by Eudo and Wace and their knights. This was the first chance any of us had had to exercise our sword-arms in a long while, to wreak our vengeance upon the rebels, and they seized the opportunity to quench their bloodthirst, whooping with delight at the chase and the glory of the kill.
The thegn tried to get up, scrabbling beside him for his weapon, but I kicked the hilt away before he could reach it. It spun away across the stony ground. I levelled the point of my sword towards the bare skin at his neck and straightaway he stiffened. Beneath his helmet his eyes opened wide, the whites reflecting the moonlight.
‘Move and I’ll slit your throat from ear to ear,’ I said, hoping he would understand me. My blood was still up and it was hard to think of the right English words, and so I spoke in my own tongue instead.
He swallowed. His face carried few scars of the sort that I knew from my own reflection, and that was when I saw him for the youth that he was, no more than seventeen or eighteen summers, by my reckoning, and possibly younger even than that, stoutly built and round of face, with a brace of golden rings on each hand. Clearly he was wealthy, and used to fine living, and yet I doubted if he had won that wealth through battle. Not if his sword-skills were anything to judge by, and while it was fair to say that some men were better leaders than they were fighters, I found it hard to imagine a mere pup such as him inspiring much confidence in anyone.
‘Hw?t eart thu?’ I barked. Who are you?
At last he found his voice. ‘Spare me, lord.’ He stumbled a little over the words as he replied in French, trying to appease me, I supposed. ‘Please, take my rings, anything you wish, but have mercy, I beg of you.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Godric,’ he said as tears welled in his eyes. ‘Thegn of Corbei and son of Burgheard.’
I’d never heard of a place called Corbei, or of his father Burgheard, but that did not particularly surprise me. I was beginning to build an impression of Godric. A petty landholder with pretensions to grandeur, he equipped himself as handsomely as he could to disguise his lowly status. I recognised his kind.