Knee to knee we rode into the heart of that melee: through the rain, across a field strewn with corpses, through puddles made red where blood had run into the rainwater, up the hill. I no longer knew how many we numbered altogether; all I cared about was keeping that black crest and that scarlet lion in sight. All was chaos as the two groups of Welshmen rode amongst each other until I could barely tell ally from adversary. Neither side held its formations but instead struck out at whoever crossed their path, their patience spent and discipline forgotten as rage and years-old rivalries took hold.
‘Stay close,’ Wace called out to some of the knights on our left who were drawing ahead of the rest of us, fanning out in pursuit of the kill. ‘Stay with Lord Tancred!’
Then I saw them: the brothers Ithel and Maredudd with their nasal-pieces and cheek-guards inlaid with shining gold, riding alongside each other with swords raised high, making straight for the red-moustached King Rhiwallon, who somehow in the midst of all that butchery had found himself almost alone with only four of his retainers for protection. The two sides met and their blades shrieked as steel scraped against steel.
After that everything happened quickly; so quickly, indeed, that there was nothing any of us could have done. For one so slight, Rhiwallon was a more than able warrior, a good horseman and fast with his blade too. Ithel was the first of the princes to test his sword-arm against him, backhanding a wild swing at his head, but the king jerked his mount sharply to the left, at the same time leaning out of the way. The point missed his cheek by a hair’s breath, and as Ithel was recovering, raising his blade ready for another strike, Rhiwallon was already turning, slashing across the young man’s forearm, in one blow severing his hand with the fingers still clasped around the sword-hilt. Ithel yelled in agony and in horror at the bloody stump that was left.
‘Get back!’ I shouted, but it was too late; one of Rhiwallon’s men finished what the king had begun, thrusting the point of his blade under Ithel’s hauberk into his gut. The prince clutched at the wound with his one remaining hand, and as his mount reared up he tumbled backwards over the cantle of his saddle. His neck snapped back as he struck the earth.
‘Ithel!’ Maredudd screamed despairingly.
He wheeled around to face Rhiwallon, dug his spurs into his mount’s flanks and charged, followed by what was left of his teulu and his contingent of spearmen, with myself and my conroi trailing behind. Faced with so many adversaries, this time the King of Powys hesitated, just for a fraction of a heartbeat, but it was a fraction too long. Uncertain whether to meet the prince’s charge or to seek safety behind the lines of his foot-warriors, in the end he did neither. Maredudd was upon him in an instant, battering down with his sword so hard that the yellow and scarlet painted hide fell away from Rhiwallon’s shield. But still the king did not retreat, even while his retainers on both flanks were being cut down and beaten back, and when Maredudd’s next strike missed and he left himself exposed, the king seized the opportunity, slashing across the prince’s unprotected thigh.
It was the last blow that Rhiwallon would have the chance to land. Howling in pain and rage, Maredudd flung himself from the saddle at his foe, seizing him around his mailed chest and pitching them both flailing to the ground.
I didn’t get the chance to see what happened next. The king’s retainers were swarming forward again and the banner of the house of Cynfyn still soared, though not for long.
‘The lion banner,’ I yelled. ‘His weight in silver for the man who takes it!’
Such wealth was not mine to give, but that hardly mattered, for it was enough to encourage the men who were with me. Those who not much earlier had seen only defeat ahead of them suddenly glimpsed victory and glory. With renewed spirits they spurred their mounts onwards, riding harder and faster, and in the face of our charge the enemy crumbled. Perhaps having seen their king fall they no longer had any stomach for the fight, for suddenly we were scything our way through them as easily as a farmer cuts the wheat at harvest-time, losing ourselves to the wills of our blades, to the sword-joy. The hard struggle that we had experienced in the shield-wall seemed a lifetime ago. Then a cheer rose up and I saw one of our knights slice across the throat of the young man who had been carrying the enemy’s banner.
‘For Normandy,’ the knight cried as he leapt down from the saddle. With his knife he cut a long slash across the belly of the scarlet lion before raising it aloft and waving it for all to see. The rest of the enemy were running now and none dared challenge him. ‘For Fitz Osbern and for King Guillaume!’
That was when I recognised his pudgy face and his stout build. Berengar. It shouldn’t have mattered to me who had taken the flag, but somehow, even amidst everything else that was happening, it did. I only hoped he did not expect me to make good on my offer.
Having seen their banner and their king fall, Rhiwallon’s men were turning tail now, but they were not the only ones. Bleddyn and his retainers had driven deep into Earl Hugues’s ranks, and on all sides were cutting Normans down in their dozens. Blood sprayed and mailed knights toppled from their saddles, and suddenly those conrois were breaking. A horn blasted out: a single long note that was the signal to withdraw. The white wolf and the black and gold were turning, and suddenly along the whole battle-line knights were peeling off, taking to flight. Nor was this the feigned flight that we often practised, that had worked at H?stinges to draw the enemy out from their positions and help divide their forces. I had campaigned long enough to recognise panic, and theirs was real enough.
The Welshmen pursued them in their hordes, running through those who were too tired or injured to flee, with Bleddyn and his mounted bodyguard leading the massacre.
The battle was lost. After everything, we had failed, and now the field belonged to the enemy. Anger boiled within my veins.
Even as I sat there, my feet rooted to the stirrups, a red-faced Wace was shouting, not just to his men, but to everyone: ‘Retreat! Go north; follow the river!’
Similar cries were raised by the other barons, weary horses were spurred on again, and I had no choice but to follow. Around me men were running, abandoning their pursuit of the enemy, abandoning the fight as fear took hold of them.
Maredudd’s retainers helped him to his feet and on to his horse. His eyes were tight shut, his face contorted in agony, the thigh of his trews dark with blood. His men were gathering one by one, standing by their horses and watching, seemingly oblivious to what was going on around them, to the sound of the war-horns and sight of the men fleeing. I had seen men take worse injuries and live, but not often. And yet one thing was for certain: he would die if we did not get him away from there.
Not ten paces away lay Rhiwallon’s body, his eyes wide in death, his mouth hanging open as if gasping for breath. The black-crested helmet was still attached to his head, but even were it not, I would still have recognised him by his red moustache. His throat had been slit and Maredudd’s dagger with its gold-worked hilt left in his groin for good measure.
‘It is done,’ Maredudd said when I rode alongside him. ‘His life for my brother’s.’
His breath came in stutters and I could see it was hard for him to speak, let alone find the French words.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We have to get away from here while we can.’
Only too well did I understand his grief. And for all his arrogance, I had liked Ithel too. But there would be time enough for that later. Serlo was shouting at me, telling me to leave the Welsh whoresons behind; that if they wanted to stay and get themselves killed, that was their choice and not mine.
The chants of the enemy were growing ever louder, ever closer. I glanced once more across the muddied field towards those lines of brightly painted shields and shining bosses marching towards us, then I turned and spurred Nihtfeax on, following my conroi, thinking of nothing save pushing harder, riding faster. Hooves churned what was left of the turf into a quagmire as, with the enemy’s cries of victory lifting to the stone-grey heavens, we raced across the meadows, through the cold mist and the soaking rain, away from that place.