‘Do not listen to him,’ ordered Magnus imperiously. ‘ I am your rightful king. Ulf lied to me and he will lie to you. You will all serve King Magnus!’
The Saxons were confused. ‘I thought we were going to kill Normans first and then choose our king,’ said Aelfwig. His habit was hitched up to his knees, and he carried a knife from the kitchen.
‘We are,’ said Magnus angrily. ‘Moreover, I sent a letter to Ulf forbidding him to join us. When I heard he was dead in Werlinges, I was very relieved, because there is certainly no room for him in my plans.’
‘And there is no room for you in mine,’ snarled Ulf, and there was an appalled silence from both sides as he thrust his sword into his half-brother’s chest. The silence continued long after Magnus had crashed to the ground.
As soon as Ulf had dispatched his querulous rival, the situation changed. More Saxons dropped their weapons and ran towards the gate, too many for Eadric to stop. He used the flat of his sword to beat some back, then killed two to make his point. The ploy failed – instead of encouraging them, it saw resolve crumbling among those who had been steady. Next to Ulf, Osbjorn raised an unsteady hand to wipe sweat from his pallid face. Geoffrey had seen enough.
‘Mount up,’ he said to Roger. ‘If we make a charge, most will scatter and slink away. They did not mind rallying for Harold, or even Magnus, but they do not want Ulf. Will you ride with us, Brother?’
Wardard climbed into the saddle of one of the better horses. Geoffrey and Roger took two more, and an ancient pilgrim called Hugh d’Ivry claimed the last. Hugh had not been young when he had fought in the original battle, and it took some time to hoist him into the saddle, accompanied by a medley of grunts, groans and gasps. Geoffrey was not sure how much use he would be, but the man had a sword and knew how to ride. The three mares were left for Ralph, Juhel and Galfridus.
Juhel had a sword, although it was clear he was happier fighting with knives. Ralph’s blood was up, and Geoffrey suspected he would be difficult to control. Galfridus was openly terrified and had only agreed to join them because Ralph told him he needed to set an example to his monks.
Geoffrey indicated that the door should be opened, and he rode out. He had expected more taunts when the Saxons saw that the Norman ‘cavalry’ comprised only seven horsemen, but there was only silence as they formed a line.
‘Now we shall see Norman blood!’ howled Ulf in delight. ‘We have waited almost forty years for vengeance and we begin today. We shall start by killing the monks and replacing them with Saxons. Who will accept the post of abbot of La Batailge, the first monastery to be freed?’
‘I would not refuse it,’ offered Aelfwig modestly.
‘I am sure you would not,’ yelled Ralph. ‘But you are not worthy, you Saxon pig.’
‘I am a damned sight more worthy than you or Galfridus,’ retorted Aelfwig angrily. ‘At least I do not stuff myself with carp every day and spend the abbey’s money on bad carvings. Nor do I sneak off at night for secret sessions with sheep.’
There was an uncertain smattering of laughter.
‘I was testing the quality of their wool,’ said Ralph to Galfridus, flushing scarlet. Mortified, he lashed out at Aelfwig again. ‘You are the son of a whore, and you are a terrible herbalist. Our graveyard is full of the people you have killed with your bumbling ministrations.’
‘Well, your mother was a witch and your father was a… a Norman!’ yelled Aelfwig, drawing appreciative cheers from the Saxons.
‘Lord!’ muttered Roger to Geoffrey, unimpressed. ‘Do we sit here all day and trade insults? Is that their idea of a battle?’
‘Let us hope so,’ said Geoffrey soberly. ‘Because these men are not soldiers. What a ridiculous state of affairs! Magnus and Ulf do deserve to die for initiating this.’
‘Vile, dirty pigs!’ yelled Ralph. ‘Cowardly, stupid oafs, who cannot even read!’
‘We do not want to read,’ said Osbjorn, galled into joining in. ‘Not if it will make us like you.’
‘Lovers of goats!’ came Ralph’s shrieked response. ‘And donkey bug-’
‘Ralph!’ snapped Galfridus, deeply shocked. ‘Please! This is an abbey!’
‘All Normans are slugs!’ shouted Aelfwig. His comrades regarded him with pained expressions, unimpressed by the quality of the rejoinder, so he added, ‘Uncultured ones.’
‘Do we ignore this abuse?’ demanded Hugh, keen for action now he had gone through the discomfort of loading his ancient bones with armour and being shoved on a horse.
‘Yes, we do,’ said Geoffrey quietly. ‘I do not want to kill such people, and I cannot imagine you do either.’
‘I do, actually,’ countered Hugh testily. ‘One of them just called me a maggot. Charge!’
And he was away, riding hard into the Saxons and slashing with his sword – until it became too heavy for him and he dropped it. Not wanting a seventh of his army to be cut down without support, Geoffrey had no choice but to follow. He drove his horse at the milling mass of humanity, but did not use his sword, which he held above his head. He was vaguely aware of Roger striking out with the flat of his, mostly terrifying his opponents into flight with a series of unnerving battle cries learned from the Saracens.
Geoffrey disarmed Aelfwig, who was causing as much damage to his friends as his enemies, then knocked a pitchfork from the hand of a groom. More Saxons shrank back in alarm when his horse, which had been well trained, reared and flailed with its front hooves. Suddenly, he found himself emerging at the back of the Saxon line, having ridden clean through it with virtually no resistance. Roger and Wardard were not far behind. When Eadric saw them, his jaw dropped in horror and he raced back to Ulf’s side.
‘I do not like this,’ said Roger in distaste. ‘It is like fighting nuns.’
Geoffrey saw he had grabbed Osbjorn as he had passed, and had the man slung over his saddle. The Saxon lord screeched his fury, but his struggles were to no avail as long as Roger’s powerful hand held him down.
‘They barely know how to hold their weapons,’ said Wardard, also disgusted.
Geoffrey glanced behind and saw that Galfridus had fallen off his mare and was riding pillion on Juhel’s, sketching benedictions in all directions. This threw Ulf’s troops into even greater confusion. Some bowed their heads to accept the blessings, while others stood uncertainly.
Ralph and Hugh were doing their best to make up for their comrades’ lack of aggression, though. The sacristan slashed wildly with his weapons, occasionally cutting his own mount as well as his opponents, while Hugh jabbed here and there with a dagger.
‘Perhaps it is just as well Breme did not deliver your message,’ said Wardard softly. ‘If royal troops had arrived, Werlinges would not have been the only place to suffer a massacre.’
Geoffrey agreed. ‘Run!’ he yelled, riding the warhorse at the Saxon line again. ‘Go home, before you are all in your graves.’
‘He is right,’ said one man, ducking away from one of Hugh’s blows. ‘It is too dangerous here.’
He turned and fled, and others joined him. Roger rode at a tight, bewildered pack of lay-brothers, who scattered in all directions, and then it was a case of driving others after them, much as dogs with sheep.
Ulf was livid and tore after his men, catching one a vicious chop between the shoulder blades. It served to drive even more of his followers towards the gate, and when Geoffrey yelled in the Saxon tongue that Ulf was defeated, the rout was complete. Ulf screamed that he was nothing of the kind, but his supporters had lost the stomach for their skirmish and preferred to believe Geoffrey.
Red with fury and frustration, Ulf charged back to a knot of his horsemen, who were milling about in hopeless confusion, and ordered them to take up formation around him. Then he bellowed an order, and the little cavalcade rode at a hard pace, not towards the gate, but to the ponds.
‘Who are those men?’ Geoffrey demanded of Osbjorn, who was still in an undignified heap over Roger’s saddle.