We sheathed our swords and hurried back down, taking care not to slip where the sentry I had killed had fallen. His bowels had emptied and the steps were slick with his blood and his shit.
The night was filled with the screams of the dying. Radulf sliced his blade across a Northumbrian’s throat; Philippe kicked the brazier into the path of another man, and as it overturned, spilling hot coals across his lower half, he ran him through. The rest of the enemy had taken flight, for the moment at least, but there were shouts not far off and the torchlight was drawing closer. Godefroi seemed to be nursing a wound to his shield-arm, though it did not look serious, while Wace had turned his attention to moving the great oak bar that held the gates in place, and we joined him. It was far heavier than I had imagined and straightaway I felt the strain upon my shoulders, but together we managed to lift it, setting it down on the ground before turning our attention to the gates themselves.
Godefroi gave a shout and I glanced across my shoulder, down the street. Little more than a hundred paces away a horde of Englishmen were rushing at us with seaxes and spears and shields: more than I could count at first glance.
‘Get these gates open!’ I said, pulling harder on the iron rungs that were set into the timbers, but even with two of us on this door, and three on the other, it seemed that nothing was happening. I saw the enemy growing closer, and knew that if we did not do this now, then the battle would be lost before it had begun. At last with a great grinding noise, the gate began to move.
‘Keep pulling,’ Wace shouted. ‘All the way!’
The grinding ceased and I felt the gate begin to swing open. Behind me I could hear the cries of the English growing louder, closer, but I did not dare turn my head as I concentrated all my strength. My arms burnt with pain, and I wanted to stop, but I knew that I could not. Gradually the gap grew wider, so that first one, then two men might pass through easily, and wider still, until we stepped aside and, with resounding crashes on both sides, the timbers struck against the walls of the gatehouse.
If ever the king needed a signal to begin his attack, that was surely it. We had done what was asked of us, and the gates to Eoferwic lay open.
But for now we had our own battle to fight, as the enemy in their dozens came like a torrent towards us, their faces white in the moonlight, the steel of their blades reflecting their fury.
‘Shield-wall,’ I shouted, gripping tightly the straps of my own shield. ‘Hold the gates!’
I retreated until I stood just beneath the arch of the gatehouse itself. It was a narrow space, wide enough for only three men to fight alongside one another, or six men split into two ranks. At the very least we could not be out-flanked, although as I saw again the enemy’s numbers, despair clutched at my stomach. I glanced over my shoulder, hoping to see mailed knights charging from out of the night, but there was nothing, only blackness. And so it was upon us to hold out here. We had no choice, if we were to succeed.
Wace and Eudo lined up on either side of me, shields overlapping, feet set to receive the charge, with Malet’s three men behind: all of them so close that I could smell their sweat, the blood of the enemy soaking into their mail. The sound of their breathing filled my ears.
‘Let’s kill the bastards,’ Eudo shouted as he banged his sword against his shield. ‘Let’s kill them!’
Not that we needed any encouragement, since they were upon us, the bosses of their shields crashing against our own. I staggered back under the force of the attack, but Radulf was behind me and our short line held firm.
Before me an Englishman bared his broken teeth, his breath reeking in my face as he tried to swing at my legs, but I met his blow on the point of my shield, trapping his seax, and brought my sword down upon the back of his bare head. He fell at my feet, though I had no time for celebration as another man stepped over his corpse to take his place in the wall. This one was taller, and had a helmet as well. He lifted his spear high and stabbed down, and I raised my shield to defend it, realising too late that I had left myself open from below as one of his friends thrust forward. I was lucky, for it was a weak strike which glanced off my chausses, but it could have been worse.
‘We can’t hold them,’ Radulf said. ‘There are too many!’
‘Hold the line,’ I shouted over him, drowning his voice out. ‘Stand firm!’
But I knew he was right, as together the enemy roared, and then all at once they began to push against our shields. We lacked the numbers behind us, and suddenly were being driven back, beneath the gatehouse.