Conqueror

XXIV

Orm saw William fall.

From his position at the centre of the withdrawing Norman line, Orm had a clear view of the cavalry charge, and the Breton collapse, and the pursuit by the English on their right. He saw William leading a unit of cavalry towards the Bretons, intending to rally them, or to scatter the English. The Bastard was quite unmistakable on his black Iberian charger, with his special hauberk with its mail leggings.

And when he fell Orm heard the murmuring. 'He is down! The Bastard is down!'

Orm knew this was the crux of the battle. With their leader fallen, their flank collapsing, the Normans were wavering. A bold thrust by the English now might win the day.

But there was still a chance to act.

Orm rushed out of the line, shield on arm, sword in hand, and sprinted to the left, over mud into which bodies had been pressed by the weight of fighting men. The Bretons were still retreating, and the English were falling on them, savage as wolves. Horses, mostly without riders, wheeled around this mob.

And Orm made out a glint of polished mail. It must be the Duke and his companions. They were surrounded by a ring of English, who roared and thrust at them.

Orm could not fight his way in there alone. He glanced around quickly, and found a Breton, a very young man, standing in the dirt. He was bewildered, but he was not running away like his countrymen. Orm shook his shoulder. 'You. You! What is your name?'

'Nennius.'

'You are a Breton?'

'Yes.'

'Why are you here?'

The Breton said slowly, 'My ancestors were British. I want a little revenge on the English for taking the Lost Land.' And he grinned.

'Good answer. And do you want to save the Duke?'

The boy's eyes widened. 'How?'

'Come with me. Back to back!'

They ran sideways into the mob of English who surrounded the Duke's party. One English fighter had lost his helmet, and Orm severed his head with a single blow, and ran forward through the warm fountain of his blood before the man fell, and then he took on the next, and the next. At his back Nennius fought too, less expertly but with just as much passion.

They reached the Normans who circled the Duke. William had indeed fallen, but his horse had been cut down, not him. Odo, bishop of Bayeux, was at his brother's side, fighting as hard as any man. He wore a bishop's white under his armour, and he sang psalms at the top of his lusty voice as his mace swung back and forth through English flesh – not a sword, for as a man of God he was forbidden to use a weapon that drew blood.

Robert of Mortain was here too. 'You took your time,' he shouted at Orm.

'So dock my wages. And I'll give you a bonus,' Orm growled at Nennius, 'if you can bring the Duke a horse.' He pushed the Breton away.

Then he stood with Robert and faced the ferocious, encircling English. They were fyrdmen, decently equipped, many of them strong and brave enough – and dangerous, as were all men with the stink of battle in their nostrils. The Normans had enough skill to hold them off, but not the strength to fight their way out of here. And one by one the Normans around William would fall.

Robert said, 'If Harold were to strike now we would be done for.'

'He hasn't yet,' Orm yelled. 'And until he does-'

Three English came at him at once. He drove his sword into the throat of the first, its hilt into the eye socket of the second, and slammed the boss of his shield into the face of the third.

On the ridge, Harold stood beneath his Fighting Man standard.

It was almost calm here, Godgifu thought, where the men of the shield wall, steely housecarls all, still held their line. But on the English right the carnage continued.

'We must strike,' Sihtric moaned. 'They say William is down. We must advance!'

But Harold stood alone, unspeaking, and his housecarls had not allowed the priest to approach him.

Everybody knew why. Not a full hour could have passed yet since the Normans began their advance, and yet already Harold had lost both his brothers. Just as he had lost Tostig at Stamfordbrycg, and his eldest brother Swein years before. Now, save for poor Wulfnoth who had spent a lifetime in Norman gaols, Harold was the only one of the brilliant Godwine sons left alive.

And, here at the cusp of this battle for England, as the future of the whole world pivoted around him, Harold hesitated.

Godgifu heard a great roar go up from the Normans. She turned to see.

The boy Nennius returned to Orm with a riderless horse. It had been a miracle he had led it through the turmoil of the rout. He grinned as he handed its bridle to Orm.

Grinned as an English lance plunged through his mail coat and out through his belly.

Grinned as Orm sent his murderer to follow his victim into another life.

William ran to the horse and leapt on to it, athletic for such a heavy man. He lifted his helmet off his head, and the horse bucked and snorted. 'To me! To me!' He immediately began fighting again, laying about him with his long mace, the saint's finger dangling at his neck. He was astonishing, unstoppable, apparently with no belief in his own mortality, and he hurled himself at the English like death itself.

A roar went up across the Norman lines as the news spread that William lived. Even the Bretons rallied. The English, dismayed, fell back.

Now more horns blew, and to a renewed thunder of hooves, cavalry units charged in from the left. Suddenly the English who had pursued the Bretons were cut off from the main body of their forces at the top of the ridge. And as Orm, Robert, Odo and the others fought their way back to the Norman lines with William, the English, isolated, were chopped down one by one.

Robert of Mortain found Orm. 'You earned your pay, you lucky whelp. And you won't even have to pay out to that kid with the horse.'

'What now? Do we advance again?'

'No. We let the archers and the cavalry do a bit of work for a change. We fall back, bring up fresh troops, rebuild the line. Then we attack again.'