Spear tips spiked the sky; a hail of stones, wooden staves and steel caltrops assaulted the charging horsemen. Rolf kept his shield high, his head down, and hoarsely called upon Christ and Thor to protect him. The stink of blood, excrement and sheer human terror fouled his nostrils; the battle din roared in his ears until he was deaf.
He clutched his spear, and prepared to hurl it as Alezan strained within range. To his left an axe flashed as a Saxon warrior struck. The dark brown horse of the knight next to Rolf pitched to its knees. Blood sprayed; a warm wetness spattered Rolf's face and he saw the man hit the ground, defenceless against the Saxon huscarl who, in one massive blow, spliced the knight as if he were a bacon pig. Rolf twisted hard on the bridle, and before the axe could rise and whirl again, rose in the stirrups and cast his spear at the huscarl with all the strength in his arm. The Saxon screamed and staggered, clutching at the shaft embedded through mail and gambeson in his side. Rolf yanked the reins, squeezed with his thighs, and hauled the chestnut away. They half-galloped, half-skidded down the slope, mud churning beneath the destrier's hooves, missiles singing after them, and turned once safe, to recoup. On Rolf's other side, Richard tore off his ventail with frantic fingers and leaned over Sleipnir's withers to vomit.
'They're not men, they're devils!' he gulped.
The yellow banner of FitzOsbern rippled and the commands roared out for the cavalry to close ranks and advance again. 'Estroitez I droit! Mettez en bandon!' Rolf snatched a spear from a convenient stack, fretted the chestnut on his hocks, and rejoined the assault.
This time, an axe man actually ran to meet Rolf as he rose in the stirrups to cast his spear. Rolf saw the deadly iron arc sweeping towards him and tried to stab the Saxon with the lance. The axe took off the spear head clean through the haft and continued to describe its deadly half-circle. In desperation Rolf tried to cover himself and the chestnut with his shield. The curved blade smashed through the linden planking and sank into the destrier's neck. The horse reared, and the Saxon's face beneath the nasal of his helm was suddenly a mass of red, shattered bone. Howling, a second axe man darted forwards. Rolf sawed on the reins, and spurred his wounded horse out of the melee.
Alezan carried him halfway down the hill and then the chestnut's legs buckled and Rolf was pitched headlong into the muddy grass. He lay bruised and winded. The thunder of the Norman charge and retreat surged in his ears. He could hear the triumphant Saxon roar of 'Ut, Ut, Ut!' Three knights galloped past him, their mounts flinging clods of soil. Someone was screaming in terror for a priest. Alezan kicked, shuddered, and died.
Rolf looked numbly at the blood-streaked golden-red hide. He had bred the stallion up from a foal, had exerted much time, effort and pride in his training. Now he was nothing but carrion for the ravens; a heap of meat among a thousand such heaps on this gory battlefield.
The screaming had stopped. Rolf pushed himself to his feet and guarding himself against the barrage of sling-stones with his broken shield, limped towards the Norman baggage station on Telham Hill to saddle up a remount. After five paces he stopped in mid-stride and stared, his blood freezing. A riderless grey destrier stood trembling beside a body. The stallion's withers and neck were saturated in blood, but Rolf could tell that the horse was not injured.
'God's sweet life!' he muttered through his teeth and ran to catch the bridle. Another knight had the same idea, but Rolf arrived first, and snarled him off. Then he knelt beside the fallen man.
'Richard? Richard, Christ, man, get up!' He shook his friend's shoulder.
Richard FitzScrob's reply was silent. His head lolled beneath the vigorous demand of Rolf's hand, revealing the shattered throat where his unfastened ventail had exposed him to a blow from a nail-studded club.
Fury pierced Rolf's numbness. He had a savage desire to leap astride the grey, hurl himself at the Saxon line and kill every last warrior. Pushing himself to his feet, he exchanged Richard's undamaged shield for his own, jammed his foot into the stirrup and mounted up. 'Alliez!' he urged the stallion and dug in his spurs.
It was about noon when the Breton left flank, unable to take any more punishment from the English battle axes, broke and fled, leaving the remainder of the Norman army dangerously exposed. The centre drew back and the right flank wavered. The Bretons were heatedly pursued by triumphant English fyrdmen, and the two forces joined battle again in the marshy ground at the foot of the ridge. The Saxons had the advantage. Panicking, floundering, all the Bretons desired was to escape with their lives.
Rolf felt the infection of fear pierce his own exhaustion, but he held his place in the line. Where was there to go? Back to the ships in disordered confusion to be killed ignominiously on the shore? Even as these thoughts bolted through his mind, the impetus of the Norman assault wavered. A knight cried to him that Duke William was nowhere to be found, that he was down, that he was dead. Rolf found himself facing the line of shields and axes with no-one to either side of him. Wrenching Sleipnir's bridle, he turned back.
'Stand firm!' roared William FitzOsbern to the men of his command. He rose in his stirrups, his usually impassive features brimming with rage. 'Are you no better than the Bretons that you run like cowards?' He levelled his mace at a young knight. 'Do your duty to your sworn liege lord, or by God I'll kill you myself! Until you hear the command to retreat given from my own lips, you will assault that shield wall. Now get back up there and win this damned battle for Normandy!'
'Yes, my lord.' The young man's face was bone-white beneath his helm.
And then the Duke himself strode into their midst, his helm thumbed back and his ventail unfastened to show himself to his frightened men. Apart from a thin stone-cut down one cheek, he was unharmed. He was also horseless. 'You, de Brize, give me that grey,' he demanded.
Inwardly cursing, but leaping from the saddle with alacrity, Rolf presented William with Sleipnir.
'You won't go unrewarded,' said the Duke as he gained the saddle. 'I always honour my debts.' And then he was gone, smacking Sleipnir's rump with his sword blade, plunging through the melee and rallying his troops. Rolf wondered gloomily if he would ever see the grey again.
The battle continued, each foothold bitterly contested in blood. Harold's brothers Gyrth and Leofwin were killed. The English who had charged down the hill in pursuit of the Bretons were cut to pieces by William's cavalry, and the Normans were able to gain the ridge and begin eating their way to the core of the English defences. Gaps appeared in the shield wall and the less well armoured men in the ranks behind had to step forward and bear the brunt of the Norman assault. As the light began to fade towards dusk, the Duke employed his archers again, instructing them to fire high and aim for the rear of the Saxon lines where Harold's standards flew: the bold red dragon of Wessex, and the equally impressive silks of his Fighting Man banner.
Rolf, astride a third horse now, was one of the first Normans onto the ridge. His sword arm was aching, his borrowed shield was battered almost to pieces, his mind was made of wool. They were close to victory, so close, and yet it still lurked just out of their grasp, and if they had not managed to seize it by the time that dusk fell, it would never be theirs. Empty-handed except for their dead, they might as well return to their ships.
An anguished howl swelled from the rear of the Saxon line. Moments later, the determination of the shield wall wavered and contracted. The less well armed English began to flee the field. FitzOsbern's yellow banner ploughed a path through the Saxons. Rolf followed, hacking with his sword, defending with his shield. The peasants were easy meat for they wore no armour and were inexperienced with their weapons. Rolf lost count of the number he cut down. His horse stumbled on bodies, and sometimes they screamed.