‘Eadgar!’ I roared as at last I found space for myself. Wooden piers jutted out into the river and I rode down one of them. To either side corpses floated in water stained red with their blood. Feathered shafts protruded from their chests and their backs.
I untied my chin-strap, letting my helmet fall with a clatter to the pier below. I wanted the ?theling to see me clearly, so that he would remember the face of the man who had wounded him. The man who would one day send him to his death.
‘Eadgar!’
Some of his men had spotted me, for they were pointing, directing their lord’s attention. And then finally he turned, to gaze at me from beneath the golden rim of his helmet.
‘I will kill you, Eadgar,’ I shouted, hoping that he could hear. ‘I swear I will kill you!’
He held my gaze for a while, but he said nothing in return, and then he turned his back and strode towards the bows. And I was left to watch as with every stroke the ship grew smaller and smaller. Behind me cries of victory rose up; men banged their weapons against their shield-rims, or else hammered the hafts of their spears against the earth, sending the battle-thunder back to the fleeing English. Eoferwic, at long last, was ours.
I shielded my eyes as I gazed into the rising sun, watching the ?theling’s ship as it shrank to a black dot in the distance. The wind buffeted against my cheek, like icy teeth biting into my flesh, wounding deep. Inside I felt empty, as all strength fled from my limbs. My heart slowed as the battle-fury subsided.
And still I watched, until at last the ship slipped away into the river-mist beyond the city, and I could no longer see it.
Thirty-six
I FOUND EUDO and together we made our way back towards the bridge and the rest of the army. The sun had risen above the houses, above the mist, but I could not feel its warmth.
In the streets men were slapping each other upon the back, cheering, revelling in our rout of the rebels, in our capture of the city. Some, exhausted from the fighting, had collapsed upon the ground amidst the wounded and the slain. Others were grieving, offering prayers for their fallen comrades. A great press of men was gathered around the lion banner, and I sat tall in the saddle, straining my neck to see over their heads as we came closer.
‘Normandy,’ they chanted. ‘King Guillaume!’
In the centre, under the golden lion, was the king himself, and before him knelt his namesake Fitz Osbern. Some of the other lords were there as well with their banners, but I could not see Robert or any of his men, and I only hoped that he had not been so foolish as to return to the fray.
‘This way,’ I said to Eudo as I tried to move around the edge of the crowd, retracing our path up the main street, up the rise. My shoulder throbbed with pain, though the bleeding had stopped. I was lucky, for Eadgar’s blade had not penetrated all that deep, and yet had he struck me a fraction lower he might have found my heart. I shivered at the thought.
Most of the rebels who remained were fleeing through the side streets. A few fought on, but in vain, and they did not last long as, outnumbered, they were cut down or run through. One lay on his back, still alive, coughing up blood, shouting out in his own tongue for help that would not come, until a knife was drawn across his throat and he fell silent.
And then I spotted Wace. He was kneeling on the ground, his shield with its familiar black hawk resting against the trunk of a tall elm. He saw us and waved us over, a look of concern upon his face. Beside him was Godefroi, though it was from his build that I recognised him rather than his face, which was turned away from us, towards the ground and another man lying there.
My first thought was that it was Robert, and sickness swelled in my stomach as again I remembered the oath I had sworn to Beatrice. But none of his knights were there, and as we rode closer I saw that it was not him, but Radulf.
He lay unmoving upon his back, his head resting against the roots of the tree, facing the sky. His face was plastered with mud, and there was a bright gash along the line of his cheekbone. But I could see his chest slowly rising and falling; he was alive.
Hastily I dismounted and knelt down beside him. Godefroi was murmuring a prayer. Radulf’s hand was pressed against the lower part of his chest. Blood covered his fingers, stained his tunic and indeed was coming still. In all the years I had been campaigning I had seen many injuries, some worse than others, and I knew at once that this one was bad. Whatever had struck him had gouged deep into the flesh, perhaps piercing the gut: a spear most likely, to judge by the roundness and the depth of the wound, though it did not matter now.
‘Radulf,’ I said, and swallowed. I did not know what to say. ‘I’m sorry.’
He turned his head to the side, not wishing to look at me. ‘What do you care?’ His voice was weak, hardly more than a whisper, but there was bitterness in it. ‘You always hated me.’