Conquering Passion (13 page)

“That’s called love, brother,” Antoine replied.

Ram’s spine stiffened. “I have no time for love.”

“You’re a fool if you drive her away,” Antoine said gently.

They talked for an hour about their father, their family, their castle, their orchards. Each swore to bring honour to the Montbryce name. Despite their earlier laughter, Hugh’s wide eyes, tense lips and crossed arms told Ram his brother was terrified.

“Hugh, there’s no shame in feeling fear. I’m afraid, as is Antoine. My gut is tied in knots. Any man who tells you he’s not afraid this night is a liar. The important thing is not to let the fear control you. Bravery is born of fear. Engrave our family motto on your heart, as it is on your shield,
Fidelity and Valour
.”

“I know. I can’t stop shaking but I’m not a coward.”

***

William ordered a Mass to be said, during which he placed around his neck the relics on which Harold had sworn his oath. He assembled his army, and informed them what was expected. Astride his destrier, William proclaimed, “It’s all or nothing. There’s no going back without a victory. We will win because we are the righteous side.”

He intoned a
laisse
of the Song of Roland to inspire his soldiers with that warlike example.

His castles all in ruin have you hurled,

With catapults his ramparts have you burst,

Vanquished his men, and all his cities burned.

The Normans set off from the coast in a long column, because of the forested terrain, their wagons loaded with sharpened weapons, armour and provisions. Startled birds took flight as the horde marched through the trees. No words were exchanged. Did each man ponder his future, or his past, hypnotised by the muffled sounds of horses’ hooves and leather booted feet, as they made their way to the inevitable horror ahead. Did each rider focus on the swaying tail of the horse ahead, as he did, sphincter muscles clenched?

They completed the nine mile march behind the Papal banner. William set up his command post behind the cavalry. Ram joined him astride Fortis.

“It’s as well the situation is coming to a conclusion. Morale is beginning to wane amongst the foot soldiers.” William confided. “They’re less concerned about moral crusades, and promises of wealth to the nobility, than staying alive.”

Ram quickly checked his equipment, the hooded hauberk and iron helmet, spear, shield and trusty sword in its scabbard. He smiled at a brief memory of Mabelle heaving
Honneur
into a muddy pond but quickly banished the thought. He couldn’t afford to be distracted from the dire business at hand. His hauberk, with three layers of metal circles, looped and soldered together, would give him good protection, especially with the extra rectangular breastplate of chain mail secured to protect his chest. The bottom of his hauberk tunic, split at front and back, covered his thighs like a skirt, and made riding more comfortable. He wished it covered the lower part of his long legs but would have to make sure the pointed end of his tapering wooden shield did that. He was proud of his leather covered shield, one of the few with a coat of arms.
Fide et Virtute
.

Vaillon had shaved the back of Ram’s head, Norman style. He would be doing a lot of sweating this day, and couldn’t afford to have his vision obscured. The nosepiece of his helmet, protecting his nose, and to some extent his eyes, was enough of a distraction.

William positioned his army looking towards Caldbec Hill. Ram’s gaze ranged slowly over the front ranks of archers, then to the six rows of infantry behind them, and then to the cavalry, the fearsome Bretons on the left, the Flemish contingent on the right, the Normans in the centre. As he surveyed the daunting sight, Rambaud de Montbryce knew with dire certainty this would be a different fight from any he’d been in before. It would be a mighty battle to the death that would change the course of history. His own, his country’s and his Duke’s
.

Immense pride and sheer terror coursed through his veins.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“We will meet his challenge,” Harold shouted decisively, seeing the Normans take up their position. “Move the men down from Caldbec Hill to within five hundred yards of the enemy. The Normans won’t deploy a shield wall.”

His
housecarls
were in the front rank and were responsible for forming the shield wall, developed by Alfred the Great and used ever since. This tactic was particularly effective against the initial onslaught in any battle. Behind the
housecarls
were the
fyrd,
or militia, ten deep, led by the thanes who carried swords and javelins. Many of the ordinary soldiers were armed with iron-studded clubs, slings, reaping hooks, scythes and haying forks. Harold set up his command post behind them, centrally positioned to give him an elevated view of proceedings. Confidence coursed through him, heating his warrior blood.

It was still early in the morning. He ordered the signal to be given. His standard bearer raised the Wessex Wyvern dragon and waved it proudly. Suddenly on the air came the Saxon battle cries, “
Godemite
”, “
Oli Crosse
”.

The Normans responded with a plea for God’s help, “
Que Dieu nous aide
.”

Trumpets sounded. The pivotal battle began.

“What’s that fool doing?” screamed William, as one of his men broke ranks to rush forward
alone
, juggling swords, to attack the Saxons. He was quickly cut down, after managing to slay a standard bearer of the astonished Saxons.

“Loose the arrows,” William commanded. The Norman archers let fly their arrows in a concentrated barrage. This had limited success against the shield wall. A serious problem soon became apparent to Ram. “Your Grace,” he shouted breathlessly, when he arrived back at the command post. “I’m not sure why, but the English are not using archers, and we require an exchange of arrows to keep the ammunition levels up. We’ll soon run out.”

William cursed. “If that happens, our archers are not trained for hand to hand fighting. Bring forward the crossbows.”

Ram shook his head. “But, your Grace, the Pope has forbidden the use of crossbows. We’re fighting Christians.”

William clenched his fist. “We must win. We must defeat Harold. That’s our only concern, and crossbow bolts are more effective against shields.”

“
Oui
, your Grace.”

With prearranged hand signals, William ordered his foot soldiers forward. The English responded. The quiet of the countryside soon filled with the clang of swords, the sickening thud of clubs on helmets and bone, the battle cries of the living, and the groans of the dying. Iron helmets and weapons clashed. The English on the high ground had the advantage. The Saxon line remained virtually untouched, the arrows having done little damage to the impenetrable armoured monster. The barrage of traditional weapons as well as anything that could be collected in the vicinity, including rocks from homemade slingshots, caused serious problems to William's men.

“We’ll need the cavalry earlier than I would have wished,” William shouted. “Too many heavy casualties.” He turned, looking for someone. “Montbryce,” he yelled, as Ram galloped into view.

“Your Grace?”

“Order the cavalry to charge on the shield wall, before it advances much further.”

Ram rode at full speed into the bloody mayhem, to deliver the order to the cavalry. Both his beloved brothers were among the mounted Norman ranks. He encouraged his horse, knowing the weight, speed and impact of Fortis might prove to be his best weapon against the unmounted Saxons. Secure in the large saddle, raised front and back to give him a solid seat, he used his spurs sparingly on the beloved horse. “I’m thankful it’s you beneath me, Fortis. Many questioned the wisdom and necessity of bringing horses on the ships, but I would wager they see the right of it now. You could be the difference between victory and defeat.”

Why is the English army not using its horses? Perhaps neither the horses nor the men are trained to fight as cavalry.

As a youth he’d learned to fight from horseback as a noble pursuit. The idea of a mounted elite was a heroic notion in Normandie and Bretagne, as Mabelle had rightly observed. But now, hard as the Normans tried, they couldn’t break down the shield wall. The Saxons brought down riders and horses with a single blow of their lethal Danish battle axes. The slope, quickly becoming a muddy slide, made a speedy ascent difficult for the horses. Fortis struggled as Ram swung and hacked with his sword, severing limbs and heads.

He noticed suddenly that the much feared Bretons, on the left, were having a particularly difficult time. They retreated back down the hill, and Ram watched in horror, left with no alternative but to go back to the command post. The corded muscles of his sword arm were on fire, his face spattered with blood and muck. His heart raced. He turned back to look at the scene of chaotic terror. He caught sight of another Montbryce shield, the knight carrying it still mounted, and breathed a sigh of relief.

Hugh or Antoine?

“The retreat of the Bretons leaves us vulnerable to a pincer attack,” William bellowed. “Our men are panicking.” He cursed and Ram sensed he could see his dreams of taking the English throne in serious jeopardy. Ram thought he might never see Mabelle again.

Why do my thoughts go to her?

Rumour started to spread along the ranks that William had been killed. Panic was widespread amongst the Normans. The Bretons were in full retreat back down the hill but were slowed down on the lower slopes by the stream and marshy ground below, giving the Saxons more opportunity to inflict casualties on them.

The rumour of his death reached William and infuriated him. “I am not dead yet,” he shouted in loud disgust, pushing his helmet to the back of his head. He rode along the ranks that still stood to dispel the rumour. “Look at me! There is no way back. You are fighting for your lives.”

“You’re Grace,” Ram panted, swallowing hard. “Look. Eude is rallying the cavalry.” Two of William’s commanders, his half brother, Bishop Eude, and Eustace of Boulogne, had indeed seen the action on the left flank, and were rallying their confused cavalry. They rode to the area the Saxons had advanced to. Seeing the horses approaching, the Saxon infantry broke off battle and tried to return to their lines. The uphill trek proved to be too far, and they were cut down by the Norman cavalry. Ram suddenly saw his gentle brother Hugh viciously strike down an enemy soldier, but then lost sight of him.

“Harold has seen the advance on the Saxon right,” William cried. “I wager he didn’t order it. It was undisciplined, and against all military strategy. He’s hesitating to take up the challenge of a full frontal assault. We have a chance to regroup, re-arm and take food and drink. Montbryce, order Pierre de Fleury to take a party of men to remove our wounded from the field. Harold’s men are taking advantage of the break in the hostilities to do the same. Tell de Fleury they must put the wounded horses out of their misery.”

What of the men’s misery?

“The cursed Saxons will win if they hang on until dark. We can’t stay here all night. We would have to retreat, and retreat means defeat.” William seemed to be at his lowest ebb, trying to plan a new tactic to break down the Saxon defences. “The terrain makes it difficult,” he shared with his commanders gathered around him. “We can’t try a flanking movement, because of the trees and marshes on either side. Harold chose this place well. We can’t break the shield wall. Perhaps we can feign a retreat and draw the Saxons forward?”

Most of his commanders were doubtful it would work, but Ram, wiping the spatters of blood and brains from his face, urged, “It’s our only chance. We need to draw the Saxons forward by giving the impression it’s a genuine retreat, and not a tactic. Normans have used it successfully before, at Saint-Aubin against Walter Giffard. Ask him yourself, he’s on our side now, and is fighting with us today.”

William thought for a while, shifting impatiently in his saddle. “Feigning a retreat worked for us in Sicily, not long ago. We’ll resume the battle. Montbryce, order the infantry to advance, and then lead the cavalry, at speed, up the hill behind the infantry. Engage the Saxons, and then turn around and make it appear we’re running. You’ll have to choose the moment carefully, so as not to arouse their suspicion it’s a trick.”

Ram rode back into hell, his blood pumping so fast his heartbeat echoed in his ears, in time with his steed’s hoof beats. The sound had an oddly comforting cadence to it, “Ma-Belle, Ma-Belle, Ma-Belle.”

Thanks be to God, Fortis still lived. The Duke had already lost three horses in the melee. He clutched the leather straps of his shield tightly, couched his spear like a lance, and leaned into his horse.

The infantry advanced with limited success. Ram regretted he couldn’t inform them of William’s plan. Most of them would be killed, sacrificed for the greater good. Shouting the battle cry
Fide et Virtute
, he led the cavalry at a gallop up the hill and engaged the Saxons, narrowly avoiding being decapitated by a gigantic Saxon, wielding a battle axe. He felt the cold draft of the huge weapon as it swung close to his ear, heard the
whoosh
. For a moment, he couldn’t understand why he wasn’t looking at his own bloodied head on the ground, instead of into the startled, disembodied gaze of the Flemish knight who’d ridden at his side. He thrust his spear into the Saxon’s throat, then had to pull hard to retrieve it. He looked back over his shoulder. Judging the moment to be right, he shouted the order to turn, giving the impression they were retreating. He shifted his shield to cover his back.