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But these were no ordinary soldiers. These men were proud horse warriors, Sir Ralph Murdac’s hand-picked men-at-arms, feared in two counties, disciplined by hours of practice with horse and lance and sword and shield. The arrows were still scything into them but the men-at-arms had their shields up and were steadying their horses with their knees, pushing them back into some semblance of formation. The two knights, gaudy plumes nodding madly, were rallying the conroi with shouts and threats. And then I watched, heart in my gorge, as they ordered their ranks, turned their huge horses towards us and charged. The horsemen levelled their lances and began to gallop across the glade, bunching as they thundered across the grass, their massive hooves making the world vibrate, heading straight for our feeble defensive ring.

‘Fast. . and loose,’ said Robin. And the steel-headed arrows, once again, slashed across the field to slam a foot deep into the charging horses. Two men were hurled backwards out of their saddles, as if their bodies had been attached to a rope tied to a tree. ‘One more volley, boys, then we run. Stand fast. . and loose.’ Robin pulled a hunting horn from his belt and blew two short blasts, high and clear, and then a long one. The final handful of arrows drove into the charging conroi as it reached the alder bush and then we were all scrambling, breathless, tripping, terrified, back, back into the defensive circle of wagons. I ran, too, clutching my sword, as if the Devil were on my tail — I ran fit to burst my heart. It was only a short distance, perhaps thirty yards, but the horsemen were nearly upon us. I imagined I could feel the hot breath of an enormous beast and his steel-faced rider, the hooves crushing me; I could almost feel the pricking of the steel lance head between my shoulder blades. . and then I was at the circle and sliding, sliding on the grass under the wheels of the nearest wagon — and into the legs of the blacksmith, still clutching his huge hammers, who peered down at me and said: ‘All right there, son, you seem a bit out of breath.’ And he winked at me.

The conroi was checked by the wagon circle. It was too big an obstacle for the horses to jump and, in frustration at missing the archers, the riders milled around the outside, leaning out of their saddles and stabbing with their long lances at our folk inside the ring, who dodged and parried and retreated out of reach. Robin’s horn sounded again; two short notes and a long one, and out of the green wall of the forest our own blessed horsemen erupted.

They were a beautiful sight: a dozen mailed cavalrymen perfectly aligned in a single row, galloping towards our defensive ring. Hugh was in the centre with the white wolf banner fluttering above his head as his men swept across the glade. Their lances were couched, tucked under the arm and held parallel to the ground, aimed at the foe, spear points lusting for blood. One of Murdac’s men had just time to shout a warning and then Hugh’s men crashed into the scattered ranks of the enemy, spearing men and horses as they smashed through the milling throng, scattering the sheriff’s troop like wolves running through a herd of sheep.

Robin’s horn sounded again, three rising notes that set the hairs on my neck standing erect: ta-ta-taaa, ta-ta-taaa. ‘Come on, then, lad,’ said my blacksmith friend. ‘That’s the attack, that is.’ And he leapt up on to the wagon and over the other side, swinging his two great hammers, surprisingly nimble for such a big man. Once out of our cart-ring he gave a passing enemy horse a great smash on the forehead and the poor animal tottered and sank to its knees. Quick as a weasel the smith was on his rider, even as the animal was sinking, pounding with both the great lumps of metal in turn at his square helmeted head. He must have smashed through the helmet and into the brain because, suddenly, there was a great gout of blood and greyish pink matter that splashed the front of his chest. He saw me watching, appalled at this savage display, and he smiled an enormous, battle-mad grin and shouted: ‘Don’t gawp, boy, get stuck in, get stuck in. .’

Robin was to my right, standing on a wagon with another archer; both of them calmly shooting arrow after arrow into the enemy horsemen. I turned to my left and there was Little John, outside the circle, swinging his enormous axe with murderous skill. I saw him hack into the back of a rider and cut straight through his mail, severing the spine. As he tugged the double-blade loose, the man fell forward, limp as a doll, his head almost touching his foot in the stirrup as a scarlet fountain from his partially severed waist shot straight into the air.

Everywhere I looked there were Robin’s followers, men, and some women too, on foot, some armed only with quarterstaves or stones, some with hoes or scythes, surrounding isolated riders and smashing them and their mounts with a near-berserk fury. A body of horsemen, disciplined and armed with the long lance, can destroy a crowd of infantry in moments; but when the horseman is alone and surrounded by a pack of blood-crazed peasants with a chance to wreak vengeance for the crimes committed against them, and their forebears, by that mounted symbol of Norman power, it’s like watching a crippled spider being overrun by a pack of maddened ants. The horses were hamstrung, quick-smart, with long, sharp knives; the unfortunate man-at-arms’s legs seized by many hands. He was yanked, tugged alive, from the saddle to be pulverised to bloody ruin on the steaming earth. Pounding metal, blunt tools punched into living flesh; screaming man and horse, and hot, squirting blood.

But it was not all going our way: one of the plumed knights was wreaking havoc on our people. His reins dropped over his saddle horn and controlling the horse only with his knees, he laid about him with sword and spiked mace, smashing skulls and severing arms. As I watched an arrow slammed into his thigh, and he wheeled away with a curse.

The blacksmith just in front of me had stopped hammering at his foe’s mashed skull and was watching Little John, who sank his huge axe-blade with a graceful backhand into the throat of a passing horse. The unfortunate animal, spraying gore, reared with the last of its strength and dislodged the rider, who lay winded on his back on the life-drenched ground. Within a heart-beat, he was surrounded by a swarm of hacking, gouging peasantry. ‘That’s the way, lad,’ the blacksmith grinned at me, ‘no lollygagging, get stuck in.’ And then his mad, happy face suddenly changed shape, paled and he sank to his knees. From the centre of his chest the bloody tip of a steel lance was protruding. He looked down in disbelief and his huge body juddered and jiggled as the man-at-arms on the other end of the spear tugged at the weapon to release it from his sucking flesh.

An image of my father’s distorted hanged face leapt into my mind and I found myself screaming ‘Noooo. .!’ My naked sword was in my fist and I was up and had leapt over the wagon before I could think. I charged at the rider, whose lance was still trapped in the smith’s body, and swung my weapon at his leg, crazed with red fury. The blade slammed into his mailed calf and the man shouted in pain but the blow did not break through the chain armour. The man dropped the lance and swung at me, left handed, across his body, with a huge war axe. I dodged, and then another horse barged into the back of his and he staggered in the saddle, both arms flailing, the axe hanging from its strap on his left wrist. I grabbed the mailed sleeve of his right arm, my mind boiling, heaved and, with a rattle and a crash he thumped down on to the turf, his helmet knocked off, wheeling away.