The Scots heard the screams, felt the tremble and those who knew warned the others to brace, brace.
‘Hold to the line,’ screamed Gilbert de la Haye and, since he was commander here, the King’s bodyguard planted themselves like the trees in front of them and braced, the armoured front rank bent at one knee, the second rank, equally mailled, shouldering their long spears and planting one foot firmly on the spear butt dug into the ground in front of them.
A man ran out of the trees, looking frantically behind him and carrying a bow; he turned to see where he was running, spotted the massed ranks of spears and skidded to a halt, screaming. There was a pause, and then he hurled himself at the feet of the astonished front ranks and started to wriggle between the forest of legs, until one of the lurking knifemen in the dark of that sweating thicket grabbed him by his hair and cut the Welsh shrieks from his throat.
They were still echoing when the first elements of the English horse plunged out of the trees, chasing panicked Welshmen out of the dim and into the sunlight. Blinded by the transition, horses and riders balked and wavered, but the next wave was thundering on after them and horses collided, screaming and snapping.
Forced forwards, eyes scarred by light, the leading horses rode up to the ranks of spearmen at no better than a trot, with half of them trying to veer right and left, banging shoulder to shoulder with others. The ones at the fringes discovered the Scots archers on the flanks of the spearwall and the first to find them was Gloucester.
An arrow hit him on the placket, a reeling clang on his breastbone that drove the wind from him, made him jerk the rein and tear his horse’s head back. Half-blind, half-mad and totally confused, the animal veered sideways and ran on to a knot of sharp points and glaive blades, worked by furious-elbowed men with screaming mouths and desperate eyes.
The horse’s shriek was even louder and the young Earl felt it go, felt the sickening plunge of dying animal and tried to kick free. He only half succeeded – the horse fell and rolled, kicking and shrieking, tangling itself in the long, golden tippets trailing from its rider’s helm.
Gloucester rolled free – was snatched up short, as if grabbed by his hair, and collapsed back choking as the helmet thongs dug under his chin. Frantically, howling with frustration and anguish, he wrenched at the great helm, as if the padded gryphon was a living beast which had seized him in its claws.
He saw the adder-tongue flick of spears kill the horse, saw the horror of how close he was to the spear ranks: the legs like a tangled copse; mailled braies, leather shoes, bare horny feet and filthy calves. Scuttling from the dark, fetid depths of them came the dirk men on all fours, moving like mad-grinning spiders to finish him.
He bellowed and tugged, but the helm stayed on and the treacherous tippets chained him to the dead horse; he fumbled frantically for his sword.
Thweng saw it in the instant he broke from cover, saw the dead horse, the shackle of tippets, the frantic struggles of the man, the dark vengeance scrambling out towards him. He bawled at Badenoch and waved his sword in case he could not be heard and plunged forward into the haze of dust and grass motes chewed up from the dry earth by hundreds of hooves.
The darting little figures scampered back under the protective hedge of spears, which started to stab at this new warhorse. Thweng let Garm rear and strike, the neck stretching like a snake as he snapped and squealed; Sir Marmaduke felt the impact of the spears on the padded barding and saw the straw wisp out from the ruin of it, then he threw his lance into the grimace of faces and hauled out his sword.
He slashed once, twice, and the Earl staggered as the tippets parted and freed him. Then, as Badenoch and others rode forward, pressing and cavorting against the wicked hedge which stabbed and slashed at them, Thweng flung one leg over the front cantle of the saddle and slid to the ground, feeling the jolt on his knees. Too old for this, he thought …
He cut backwards and forward with his sword, keeping the spears away from him – though one clattered and skidded off his shield as he grabbed the Earl and flung him towards the plunging Garm who remained, obedient and blowing, near his master.
Dazed, fevered, frantic, the Earl knew what Thweng was doing and clambered up into the saddle, sobbing with relief. Thweng flung him the rein, slapped Garm on the neck and the pair of them were suddenly gone from him.