'What you brung this time?' he demanded in heavily accented French.
Rolf held out his hands to the warmth of the fire. The smell of the bubbling, rich stew teased his nostrils and his stomach growled. 'Enough to keep your cauldron simmering for another day at least,' he said as he handed the man his wooden eating bowl, and sat down on the crude bench at the side of the cooking pot. Unbidden there came to his mind's eye a vision of the angry, bewildered peasants from whom the supplies to feed the Norman army had been reaved. He saw their village burning orange beneath the grey October sky, inhaled the dark coils of smoke, heard the wails of the women and children, the furious despair of the men.
The ravaging had been a deliberate ploy of the Duke's, an attempt to lure Harold onto the Hastings peninsula and there force him to do battle, William wisely did not want to move too far from his own precarious supply lines. He reasoned that when Harold heard of the destruction of estates whose earl he had once been, he would take it as a personal insult and his impetuous nature would bring him roaring down to the south coast, intent on throwing the Normans back into the sea. It was William's plan to persuade Harold to give battle before his troops were rested and back up to full strength after their hard battle in the north. Tonight it seemed as if that plan had worked.
The Fleming leaned over the stew to ladle a generous portion into Rolf's bowl and hand it back to him. There were greasy chunks of mutton floating in it, and a mish-mash of vegetables. Rolf cupped his hands around the bowl, savouring the heat, and sipped. A comforting warmth reached his vitals and began to thaw his limbs.
Outside the shelter the rain started to thud down hard, filling the hollows in the churned mud of the bailey floor. A boy ran across the courtyard with a torch in his hand, and disappeared into the wooden keep. Another foraging party rode in with a milch cow and bellowing calf, and a packhorse laden with sacks of flour and strings of onions. The men were swearing roughly in Flemish, cursing the foul English weather, but their manner was jovial. They had also raided a barrel of mead which Rolf knew would never find its way to the quartermaster.
Another man trudged across the courtyard towards the cauldron, his hood drawn up around his face and his body protected against the rain by a cloak of double thickness fashioned of the hairy wool preferred by the Danes.
'Stinking weather,' commented Aubert de Remy by way of greeting and accepted a bowl of the scalding mutton broth.
Rolf murmured assent and shifted along the bench to make room for the merchant. Two reconnaissance scouts on dark bay horses entered the fort at a rapid trot. Torchlight and rain gleamed on helms, harness and mail.
'Are you on duty tonight?'
Rolf shook his head. 'No, I've been on forage detail all day, but I doubt I'll sleep for all that. Do you think Harold will attack?'
Aubert pursed his lips. 'I doubt it. I believe he is planning to keep us penned up on the peninsula while he waits for more troops to arrive and strengthen his force. It is what I would do if I were him. Mind you, if I were him, I would have stayed in London and made William come to me.' He sleeved a drip from his nose and hunched his shoulders. 'Time is on Harold's side, not ours. He could have afforded to wait.'
'Not necessarily. The Pope has given his blessing to our cause. God is on our side. When word of that gets spread abroad, some of the English might not be quite so willing to fight.'
'Perhaps,' Aubert conceded with a shrug, 'but he could well have taken the risk for the sake of a few more days — could have waited until we had to move out in search of supplies.' He drank his broth and looked sidelong at Rolf. 'Tonight the priests and chaplains will be taking confessions and shriving those who desire it. It is more than possible that we'll march on Harold at dawn, providing that he does not march first. And as I have said, I think he intends to remain where he is.'
Rolf thought of the battle axe in his tent. He slept with it naked at his side like a mistress. It had become a talisman, his defiance of fear. Tomorrow he would be brought face to face with thousands like it, and if one even so much as caressed him in passing, he knew that he would die. Without conscious thought, his fingers curled around the comforts of the Cross of Christ and the hammer of Thor that hung upon his breast.
CHAPTER 12
'Ut, Ut, Ut!' howled more than seven thousand English throats. Spears hammered on shield rims in a pounding, relentless rhythm. 'Ut, Ut, Ut!'
Rolf stared at the seething host of warriors on the ridge, packed together twenty men deep; the bristle of spears, the metallic flash of sharp iron points and the death-smile curve of axe blades. His throat was as dry as chaff; to try and swallow was to choke. Cold sweat clammed his armpits and made his hands slippery upon Alezan's bridle. Norman battle cries retorted to the Saxon invective 'Dex aie! Thor aid' But it was like hurling peas at a sheet of beaten iron. The slope of the ridge was littered with the corpses of the Norman infantry who had rushed the Saxons in the wake of volleys of arrows from the Norman archers. No visible softening of the Saxon defences had occurred and now the cavalry was to go in against the great Danish axes.
'Christ on the Cross,' muttered Richard FitzScrob, his eyes on the Saxon line and the Norman dead littering the ground in front of it.
'Your ventail's undone,' Rolf said huskily.
'What?' Richard released his grip on the grey's reins and raised his hands to fumble with the loose mail flap which would protect his lower face from injury. It also made it considerably more difficult to breathe. Free of control the grey sidled, pressing up hard against Alezan. Rolf cursed as his leg was crushed, and the chestnut lashed out. A ripple shuddered down the line, as each horse and rider was forced to adjust. Richard snatched the grey's reins and brought him back under control, dragging the stallion's head down until its muzzle almost touched the tassels on the decorated breast band. 'I need four hands,' Richard gasped apologetically, and then, 'Jesu, I'm going to be sick.'
'Not now you've fastened your ventail, you'll choke! Pull yourself together, man!' Rolf's own voice cracked with strain. Grimly he adjusted his shield, which appeared to have a mind and mobility of its own, and shifted his wet grip on the shaft of his spear.
Richard gagged, glanced sidelong at Rolf, and clenched his jaw.
William FitzOsbern, commander of Rolf's section, rode his sweating stallion along their line, his standard bearer following on his heels, gold silk pennon snapping in the breeze. On their flank, Alain Fergant's Breton cavalry set their destriers at the ridge. Hooves thundered, the earth shook.
'God is with us!' roared FitzOsbern. Raising his mace on high, he faced the Saxon line and his lips contorted in a snarl. 'Laissez Cone!'
Rolf spurred Alezan. The Norman line surged up the hill, the knights thigh to thigh, keeping pace. Breath and hide steamed like hell-smoke. The ground was soft and he could feel Alezan's shoulders and quarters straining, the stallion's hooves gouging out great clods of earth. The vibration of the charge thundered up through Rolf's saddle and into his straining body. Beyond Alezan's pricked ears, he saw the packed rows of painted shields, some long and triangular like his own, others circular with half-globe iron bosses. And within the shield wall, the axe-wielding, mail-clad huscarls who dealt death to anyone who came within range of the sweeping arcs of their weapons.