‘I wasn’t lying,’ I replied, but that was all I had time to say before the sound of war-horns cut me off: two sharp blasts given in quick succession. A signal to rally.
On the main streets all was confusion. Men were running back and forth, some carrying pails filled with water while others seemingly without any purpose at all. And then I realised why, as there was a rush of air from the direction of the walls and the night sky lit up with several long streaks of flame, too many to count, like shooting stars except much lower in the sky and burning more fiercely. They sailed over the top of the palisade: first one volley, then another and another still. Some fell harmlessly on to the mud in the middle of the street, but others landed upon the houses, which quickly caught fire. I glanced back in the direction we had come and saw the thatch of some of the workshops close by the monastery consumed by writhing tongues of red and orange and yellow.
Women fled the houses: wives and camp-followers, slaves and whores alike, wrapping what they could salvage of their menfolk’s belongings inside cloaks, or else stuffing them into haversacks. A riderless horse, a mere shadow against the light, galloped towards the market square through streets filled with smoke. Roofs collapsed with a crash of timbers; clouds of still-glowing ash billowed up into the air where the strengthening breeze carried them from one building to the next. And still the rain of fire continued, as if the forces of hell had been unleashed upon this earth.
‘Shields up!’ I heard Eudo call, although in truth most of those arrows were falling far enough away that they posed little threat.
Then from beyond the palisade, over the cries of the wounded and the dying and the clash of steel upon steel, came the thunder of hooves and the familiar battle-cries: ‘For Normandy! For St Ouen and King Guillaume!’
The horns blew once more, this time in long bursts that sounded for all the world like the death throes of some forlorn and stricken beast: the command to retreat. No sooner had it died away than scores of men were pouring in panic through the town’s southern gates not a hundred paces away: Danes and English, I assumed, since I didn’t recognise the designs on their flags and their shield-faces, all retreating to the protection of the town. And then I saw the purple and yellow stripes of the ?theling, and the raven and cross that belonged to King Sweyn. The two men were mounted next to each other, surrounded by their respective hearth-troops, trying to instil order in their ranks as men ran past to either side of them.
‘Attack these bastards, these filth-ridden dogs, these Devil-turds,’ Wild Eadric yelled in desperation. ‘Attack them now!’
But his orders fell on deaf ears. If his men had wanted to attack, they should have done so already, for their confidence had been allowed to waver and now their numbers were dwindling. Another wave of fire-arrows cascaded down upon the town, much closer this time, falling in the sheepfolds next to the paddock where we stood. That was too close in the eyes of many of the men. They turned and began to run, some seeking cover from those shafts of fiery death, others for safety in numbers beneath the banners of King Sweyn and the ?theling, who even now were falling back, away from the walls and further into the town as they sent their spearmen and fyrdmen and axemen to try to hold the gates. For the enemy had been unable to close them in time to keep their attackers outside, and now a conroi of mailed knights burst through the gap between the ramparts, charging knee to knee in a wedge formation with lances couched under their arms, ready for the kill.
And at the head of that wedge rode the last man I would have expected to see. His banner, decorated in scarlet and blue stripes, marked him out, and even from such a distance, I recognised his stout frame instantly.
‘Berengar,’ I said under my breath, then to the others, almost laughing in surprise and relief: ‘It’s Berengar!’
There was no mistaking that standard. Quite why he had followed us to Beferlic, I had no idea, but it was a good thing he had, for the tide of battle was suddenly on the turn, and as dozens upon scores of Norman knights and foot-warriors flooded in through the gates, suddenly I felt my spirits lighten.
‘For Normandy,’ roared one of the charging knights, and it might even have been Berengar himself. They crashed into the half-formed battle-line, burying their lance-heads in the shields and the chests of the Northumbrians and Danes, riding over those who had fallen as they drew their swords and drove further into the enemy ranks. In their wake rode a dozen more horsemen, then a dozen more after that, and still they kept on coming as Eadgar and Sweyn were pressed ever further back.