He was right.
The line of pontoons did not quite stretch all the way to the Isle’s shore, but came to an end around thirty or forty paces short, in the shallows rather than on dry land. Perhaps the recent rains had swelled the marsh-waters more than the king’s engineers had expected, or else the current had taken one or more of those floating platforms and carried them downstream. I didn’t know, and it hardly mattered. To reach the shore we would now have to fight our way through water that I reckoned would reach up to our mounts’ knees, if not even higher.
‘Keep going,’ I yelled. ‘We can make it!’
I sounded more confident than in truth I felt, but only because I knew we had no choice. Everything depended on us. We couldn’t give up now.
Barely three hundred paces ahead, the Norman shield-wall was beginning to break as the English ran amongst them, driving a wedge into their ranks, surging forward with shining blade-edges raised.
‘Faster!’ I yelled, knowing that if the enemy managed to rout our spearmen, they could hold the shore against us and drive us back into the marsh. With that in mind I spurred Fyrheard from a trot into a canter, which was as fast as I dared ride along those narrow platforms. ‘For Normandy!’
Indeed one flank of the Norman shield-wall had already collapsed, and a group of rebels perhaps two score strong was now racing through the shallows towards the pontoons with axes in hand, having spotted our approach and recognised the danger.
‘Faster!’ I repeated. ‘Ride harder!’
The bridge shook beneath the weight of the charge, and the timbers creaked. At any moment, I thought, they would give way, splinters would fly, and we would all, knights and banner-bearers, destriers and palfreys, be plunged into the fen. Surely it could not fail now, not when we were so close. Fewer than one hundred paces stood between us and the Isle. No Frenchman had managed to come so close in three months on this campaign.
Let the bridge hold, I prayed. Let it hold.
I clenched my teeth. Reed-banks and gold-glistening meres flew past on both sides. The thunder of iron upon timber filled my ears as Fyrheard’s hooves thudded in rapid rhythm upon the oak planking, so loud that I could hear nothing else. Not the shouts of the enemy or my companions. Not the screams of the dying or the clash and scrape of steel on steel up ahead, or the jangle of my mail, or the blood pounding in my skull, or the clatter of the chains anchoring the pontoons, or the creaking of timbers, or the whistle of arrows being loosed by the bowmen in the punts out on the marsh. Only the unrelenting thunder reverberating through my skull.
I was dimly aware of those two score rebels rushing to meet us, crashing thigh-deep through the marsh-waters with steel in hand and the promise of death in their eyes. My attention was fixed upon the bridge’s end, which was growing nearer with every stride. Like any good destrier, Fyrheard was trained to water, so I didn’t expect him to falter or to panic, but nevertheless I felt my stomach lurch and my breath catch in my chest as we galloped along the last pontoon, the final dozen strides, and I saw the marshes looming. My fingers tightened around the haft of my lance and the straps of my shield—
As Fyrheard leapt.