For a long, tense moment the two sides stood and faced one another. The Vascons brandished their weapons and shouted insults and threats in their outlandish language. We stood silent except for the occasional stamping of a restless horse. The wounded trooper on the cart next to me was mumbling some sort of prayer over and over again as some sort of lucky charm that would save him. The sun beat down and the heat reflected off the rocks. My head ached and I was parched with thirst. I licked my cracked lips and tasted the gritty road dust.
Vaguely I became aware of someone getting down from his horse. Then he was pushing through our front line and walking towards the enemy. It was Godomar, the veteran from Burgundy. He had taken off his brunia and his helmet and was wearing only a pair of loose trousers and a light jerkin which left his arms and shoulders bare. A strip of cloth held back his long, thick hair which was the colour of forest honey. In his right hand he held the short handled axe that usually hung from his broad leather belt. All of us, Vascons and Franks, looked on as Godomar strode out on to the open ground between us. Then, in a deep husky voice from his wounded throat, he began to recite what must have been a battle ode in some ancient tribal dialect. With each line he tossed his axe in the air so that it spun in a circle, and caught it with the opposite hand. Finally, as he declaimed the last words, his voice rose to a shout and he threw the axe, not to the other hand, but high in the air, towards the enemy. It spun round and round, and by the time it fell back, Godomar had run forward and was ready to catch its handle. He was no more than an arm’s length from the Vascon line. In a sudden blur of axe strokes he cut down three or four Vascons. Then they closed in around him, and he was gone.
His death broke the spell that had held us in our places. With a bellow of shock and anger the Vascons charged. They crashed into us, and there was pandemonium. Lances were useless at such close quarters. Troopers used their swords to hack and thrust at the men on foot surging around them. The Vascons ducked and feinted. They stooped to get in under the riders’ guard, and if close enough, they hacked and stabbed with their weapons. The bravest grabbed for the riders’ legs and tried to drag them out of the saddle.
Amid the curses and grunts, the clash of metal, the cries of anger and pain, the Vascons were badly mauled. Dozens of them died, their bodies overridden by the horses or trampled underfoot by their comrades. Yet they kept pressing forward, ignoring their losses. Charge after charge, they were like waves pounding on a rocky beach. With each attack they reduced our numbers. Our troopers went down one after another, hauled from the saddle or their horses were killed beneath them. Few survived for more than a moment if they were unhorsed. The Vascons swarmed over them and killed them. With their third headlong charge our line broke, and the Vascons were among the drovers and their oxen. With the expertise of butchers, they slit the windpipes of the cattle and brought the beasts to their knees. The drovers were massacred.
The press of the mob was so powerful that my mount was thrust back and pinned against the wheel of the nearest cart. I flailed with my sword, uselessly. Strong hands grabbed my leg and I was hauled to the ground. Without a rider, the horse kicked out and a hoof struck the forehead of the man who held me. I heard the crack of hoof on bone. He let go and I rolled away between the wheels of the cart. My attackers were obliged to stand back as the terrified animal reared up, then bolted through the mob. It gave me enough time to scuttle away on all fours to the far side of the cart and rise to my feet. I had lost my sword and I could think of nothing else to do but hoist myself up on the cart itself. From there I looked around and saw the carnage that had taken place. Only one man was still on horseback — Hroudland. His powerful roan was rearing and plunging, faced by a half circle of Vascons. They were being kept at bay by the lashing hooves and by Hroudland’s menacing sword blade. Every other Frank was on foot. They were drawn up in a compact mass behind Hroudland, their backs towards the carts. I estimated there were no more than a dozen of them. Berenger had lost his helmet and I recognized his head of tight curls. There was no sign of either Eggihard or Anselm. Their bodies would be lying among the ugly jumble of corpses in front of the Frankish position. Dead and injured Vascons were scattered everywhere, the ground streaked and splashed with blood.
Hundreds of Vascons still filled the roadway, and many more were poised on the slopes on each side of the road. With their next assault they would swamp us.
First, however, they dealt with Hroudland. A single Vascon stepped out from their ranks. He was a squat man of middle age, wearing a wolfskin cap and very broad across the shoulders and chest. He held a loaded sling which he began to whirl rhythmically around his head. He watched Hroudland, judging his moment. As the roan stallion turned towards him, the Vascon released a slingstone as large as a man’s fist. The stone travelled less than five paces and struck the roan between the eyes. I heard the thud from where I stood. At that short range the impact was spectacularly effective. The front legs of the horse buckled and the stunned animal tipped forward on to its knees and Hroudland just had time to leap clear. He landed on his feet and, sword in hand, ran back across the blood-soaked ground to join the other Franks. I noticed he was limping. Behind him, the dazed stallion stayed down for several moments, then groggily heaved itself back upright and wandered off.
The Vascons held back a little longer, waiting to see what we would do next.
I jumped down from the tail of the cart and picked up an abandoned sword from the ground. Berenger glanced at me over his shoulder. His red-rimmed eyes looked out from a mask of dust. His hair was sweat-soaked, and there was a rent in his brunia where several plates had been torn off. ‘This is where the fight gets interesting, Patch,’ he said to me with a tight smile, then turned back to ask Hroudland, ‘What are your orders?’
The count was so calm and self-possessed that I wondered if he appreciated the hopelessness of our situation.
‘We leave behind the carts. Looting them will delay the Vascons. It will give us time to make an orderly retreat.’
Even now a flicker of regret passed across his face. The idea of losing all the treasure still grated on him.
‘We take with us only what we value the most,’ he continued. He turned to me. ‘Patch, can you find the oliphant for me? It should not fall into the hands of the Vascons. Also the crystal salver from Wali Suleyman’s ransom. I still intend to give it to the king.’
I climbed back on the cart and searched. I came across the oliphant wrapped in a soft leather covering but the crystal salver must have been locked away in a treasure chest and I had no time to locate the key. Instead I picked up my most prized possession — the packet of loose pages of the translation of the Book of Dreams. Unlacing the side of my brunia, I slid them inside my armoured jacket.
By the time I rejoined the others, Hroudland had marshalled our few survivors into two ranks. There was only one direction for our retreat — deeper into the ravine. One rank was to stand firm while the other ran back a few yards, then turned to face the enemy and allow the first group to filter back among them before they again took up position. I remembered practising the same manoeuvre when I had first arrived in Aachen and joined the paladins in their war games. I had never expected to rely on it in real combat.