Lies, Damned Lies, and History(22)

I would soon find out. Time to earn my entirely inadequate pay.

I’ve watched many battles. It’s my job. And we don’t hang around at the back, either. Peterson and I were up with the archers at Agincourt. The Battle of Bosworth was practically fought around Markham and me. Being in a battle, surrounded by men with no thought other than to slaughter each other as quickly as possible, is terrifying. But not half so terrifying as having to sit, helpless and listen to one happen around you. Not to know what’s going on outside, or what’s happening to your friends. To listen to the war horns, the cries, the clash of swords, the shrieks of the wounded and dying. To be blind, vulnerable, powerless … I really don’t recommend it. I particularly don’t recommend the part where you sit helpless, locked in a hut for your own safety, listening to blood-crazed Saxons scrabbling at the thatch overhead, shouting to each other in anticipation of the treats in store for them – women, plunder, feasting – knowing that if they are here now, then it’s because everyone else out there is dead, or dying, or driven off; that the day is lost and the winners are here to claim their prize. That’s really not a good feeling at all.

First things first, however.

I turned my attention back to what was going on around me. As discreetly as I could, I recorded the enclosure, the people crowded at the walls, and got the best shots I could of the forces below us, still partly concealed in the morning mist.

I was certain that all the interesting stuff was happening in the other compound, but Peterson and the others would have all that under control. If they could spare the time from guarding all that strategic flour, of course.

On the ramparts, the big horn sounded again. Not in welcome this time. A warning. The mighty note rumbled on and on, deep and menacing in the mild, early morning air. At the same time, they ran up the standard. With a snap, the banner unfurled, revealing the Red Dragon, fluttering defiantly, and a roar went up around the fort.

We cheered too, our women and children’s voices pitched high over the masculine bellow as we shouted to give ourselves courage.

I know I’d speculated about the Saxons’ ability to fight after that long struggle up the hill, and I had looked forward to seeing it, but the chance came more quickly than I expected, because with a suddenness that took everyone by surprise, Old Faithful, that big, deep horn, rumbled again, and over the dramatic echoes a single voice was raised in command. The gates crashed open and the cavalry exploded out through them, headed by Arthur himself, bear pelt flying out behind him, wielding a sword in each hand.

The speed of the attack took my breath away. Whether the Saxons had reckoned on a moment or two to get their collective breath back was now unimportant, because they weren’t going to get it. They lifted their heads to see a wall of horses and swords thundering down the hill towards them.

For a moment, I wondered why on earth Arthur’s men would sacrifice the safety of the fort to engage the Saxons face to face, but it actually made perfect sense. Of course, Arthur couldn’t afford to be penned up inside a remote hill fort for weeks. That wasn’t his style. He moved fast – always appearing where and when least expected. Building the legend. He would never lose the initiative to the Saxons. He would take the fight to them. Of course he would.

He had the advantage of shock and awe. His horses had the advantage of a steep slope in their favour. They smashed into the Saxons at full speed. Men disappeared under hooves or were tossed aside by the impact. Those that didn’t fall under the horses were cut to pieces before they could get their shields up.

Arthur fought like a lion. Or a warrior. Or a hero. He fought with both hands, striking to the left and right simultaneously. When one sword shattered on a helmet, he pulled out his long-handled axe and continued to lay about him like a demon. His horse fought too, all red-rimmed nostrils and blood-flecked foam. Giant metal-shod hooves rose and fell as he kicked and trampled those around him.

The charge inflicted massive damage. In its wake, a small force of infantry followed on behind, mopping up the few who had survived that initial charge. With the Saxon army strung out down the hillside, the odds were in the defenders’ favour. A great hole opened up in the Saxon ranks.

Their momentum carried Arthur’s men straight through. For one moment, I thought they would be carried away, victims of their own speed and weight, but I had underestimated them. A horn sounded and they dragged their horses to a halt. Some nearly sat down in an effort to stop in time. As one, they turned, reformed their line, and charged again. Back up the hill this time. Caught between the cavalry and the foot soldiers, the Saxons wavered.