‘Remember who’s beside you,’ I added, calling this time to my knights as well as to Maredudd and Ithel, who in their own tongue repeated what I hoped were the same orders to the mounted men of their teulu. ‘Don’t lose sight of them. They will protect your flanks as you protect theirs. Keep formation and above all stay together!’
I exchanged a final look with Serlo and Pons, then glanced further down the line to Eudo and Wace. Their eyes were fixed, unwavering, on the enemy masses gathered under the twin lion banners, possibly picturing what they would do when we met their lines, rehearsing in their minds the slash and drive and cut of their sword-arms. Then Eudo crossed himself, something I rarely saw him do before battle, and suddenly knowing his fear made me more nervous too.
Trying to rid myself of such doubts, I wheeled about, freeing my sword from its sheath and pointing it towards the heavens. ‘For St Ouen and for God; on, on, on!’
‘Cymry,’ I heard the princes shout, and the cry was taken up by their retainers: ‘Cymry, Cymry!’
With that I dug my heels into Nihtfeax’s flanks and drove him into a canter. Our fates were no longer in our hands but those of God, and I prayed that He would see us safely through.
Often in battle there are times when instinct takes over and it is a struggle afterwards to recall exactly what happened, and this was one of those times. I remember the foul smell of the fresh-spilt guts rising from the bodies strewn across the meadows, the burning in my chest as I took each breath, the cold wind piercing my mail and my tunic, the feel of the rain, iron-hard, striking my cheek, the stinging as the water mixed with the sweat upon my brow and ran into my eyes, the thunder of hooves, the blood-stained grass flying beneath us as we broke into a gallop. Not far off to our right hand I glimpsed the black-and-gold banner belonging to Lord Robert, and for some reason that sight filled me with renewed confidence.
Swarming down the slopes before us were a horde of Welsh and English, so many that I could not count them, throwing themselves against the Wolf’s knights. The lion banners of Rhiwallon and Bleddyn held the centre, leading their mounted hearth-troops into the heart of the melee, while the rest — the more lightly armed spearmen, lacking even helmets or leather corselets to defend themselves — came around Hugues’s flanks in an effort to hem him in.
Into that tumult we rode. Like a wave breaking upon the shore we crashed into their ranks, sweeping foemen before us. Hooves battered upon limewood, sending Welshmen sprawling, smashing ribs and limbs and skulls, and my blade flashed silver as I heaved the edge across shoulders and necks, buried its point in faces and chests. And still we drove on, further and further, until we were amongst them, spreading out to wreak our fury more widely, our swords ringing with the sound of slaughter. Some stood against us with spears or wood-axes; others launched javelins; while the few who were armed with bows held their lines further up the slope towards the ridge, raining barbed arrows down upon us. So scattered were we that most of those missiles failed to strike, lodging harmlessly in the turf, but more than once I had to duck suddenly and raise my shield to prevent sharpened steel finding my neck.
‘They’re coming!’ Wace bellowed from close by my flank, and I turned to see one of the two lion banners making its way in our direction. Their king and his teulu, some fifty or sixty strong, were riding in our direction to bolster the failing ranks of foot-warriors, to rouse their spirits, to bring the fight to us and cut us off.
‘Riwallawn Urenhin,’ they chanted. Above the crash of steel and the screams of the dying I could only just hear their voices and those two words: ‘Riwallawn Urenhin!’
The name I recognised, and I had heard enough of the Welsh tongue to know what that meant. King Rhiwallon. This, then, was the man who was responsible for the raids on Earnford. For despoiling my manor and killing my people. For killing Lyfing. I could barely make him out amidst his retainers, so tight was their formation. Shorter and slighter of stature than I might have expected, he did not look the most formidable of men, but then appearances could easily deceive. A red moustache adorned his face, and across the top of his helmet ran a crest of black feathers, no doubt to mark him out to his men.
It seemed to work, for as they caught sight of their king riding to their aid, throwing himself into the fray, the enemy began to recover their confidence. They stiffened their ranks in the face of our attack and rallied their shield-wall. With every moment the noose was closing around our necks. Again I glanced to the north, where our foot-warriors were closer than before but not yet close enough, being still half a mile away and more. At this rate they would never reach us in time. Unless we did something soon, we would find ourselves trapped once more, with death the only way out. Earl Hugues and Lord Robert were struggling to hold back the flood of foemen, and I knew that the only way we could hope to stand fast until those spearmen reached us was if we all kept together, kept formation.
‘With me!’ I called to the thinly spread men of my raiding-band, trying to rally them around me. ‘Conroi with me!’
Quickly the message was passed on, to Wace and Eudo and Berengar and the other barons, to our Welsh allies under the princes Maredudd and Ithel-
Who were not there. It took me but a heartbeat to spot the serpent banner across the field of corpses, and in that heartbeat my gut twisted. They had ignored my instruction, broken their oaths, and instead of following us they were charging, in spite of their meagre numbers, towards Rhiwallon and his bodyguard, roaring to the heavens as they drew their swords, their expressions twisted in hatred of their enemy.
‘Cymry!’ they called as one. The cry was echoed by their archers, who having spent their arrows now lent their support and the weight of their massed bodies to their princes’ charge. ‘Cymry, Cymry, Cymry!’
‘Back!’ I shouted after them, but it was in vain. Either they could not hear me, or they chose not to, for they did not stop.
Swearing aloud, I brought Nihtfeax to a halt. The princes’ retinue was too small to challenge the fresh troops headed by their foe and rival. Together we could hold our own, but divided as we were, defeat beckoned. All this because of their selfishness, their stupidity and recklessness.
‘Sons of whores,’ Pons said as he checked his destrier beside me.
On my other flank, Serlo’s expression was grim. ‘What now?’
In such moments did the fate of battles lie. Whatever decision we made now, it had to be made quickly, and there would be little chance of turning back from it.
‘We follow them,’ I said grimly as I dug my heels into Nihtfeax’s flanks. Ahead, the enemy were taunting us to come and die on their spears, but I turned Nihtfeax away to the right, towards the lion banner and the black-crested helmet bobbing beneath it. ‘We’ll take the battle to the enemy’s king!’
I fixed my eyes upon Rhiwallon ap Cynfyn as he and his men met the sons of Gruffydd, each side aiming their spearpoints towards the chests and helmets of their opponents to try to knock them from the saddle, or else cutting with the edges of their swords across the flanks of their mounts. Men on both sides fell on to the churned earth; splinters of wood flew as hafts snapped and shields were fractured. Those less badly injured rose to carry on fighting, joining their side’s foot-warriors who were throwing themselves into the struggle, while others less fortunate were ridden down or run through even as they tried to get to their feet or crawl out of danger.