My hand and wrist was tingling from the shock of the blow, and I was gasping for breath as I turned to face my next attacker. Beneath me the mare was weaving unhappily from side to side, wanting to turn and flee. I knew she would be overtaken in a few strides so I struggled to keep her head toward the remaining Saracens. There were four or five of them – it was all happening too quickly for me to be sure exactly how many – and they had reached the far edge of the clearing. After witnessing the fate of their comrade, they were getting ready for their next attack. One man turned and handed his lance to a comrade, then drew a short, wide-bladed sword. For an unsettling moment, I had a vision of my family’s final battle. The shape of the Saracen’s weapon recalled the seaxes that my father’s followers had held when they faced King Offa’s warriors. I saw dark, bearded faces beneath their helmets, faces set in grim calculation. The trooper with the drawn sword rode forward a pace or two, and was joined by a companion who had kept his lance. Now I saw what they intended to do. One would ride at me on my left hand side with his lance, and while I fended off his attack with my shield, his companion would cut me down on my exposed side.
The two troopers took their time. I heard them exchange a few words and then they edged their horses sideways to increase the gap between them and make it harder for me to defend myself against their double-pronged assault. Now they settled in the saddle, adjusted reins, and prepared to charge. I saw the horses gather their hind legs under them, ready to spring forward. I knew I was finished.
At that moment, another Saracen rode out from the tree line. He was dressed like the others in flowing gown and metal helmet, but he carried a short staff instead of a spear. I guessed he was some sort of officer for he barked an order, and, to my relief, the two who had been preparing to charge me pulled back their mounts, and resumed their places in the line. I sensed that they were disappointed at being denied their victim.
My relief was short lived. The officer gave a second order, and one of the other troopers reached behind his saddle and produced an object I recognized. It was a curved bow, the twin of the one that I had learned to use in Aachen. Still mounted the archer strung the bow, then reached into a quiver hanging from his saddle and drew out an arrow. I sat there helplessly, thinking back to what Osric had told me in Aachen and I had scarcely believed: at seventy paces distance a mounted Saracen was expected to hit a target of less than three spans across.
The bowman facing me was no more than half that distance away. The Saracen officer saw no point in risking further loss to his men. He preferred that I was despatched like a mad dog.
For a brief moment I wondered about turning my horse and trying to flee. But it was hopeless – I could not outrun the arrow.
So I sat on the mare without moving. I stared at my executioner, wondering what was going through his mind as he drew back the bowstring and took aim.
I saw the arrow fly. It was no more than a very brief, dark blur and then, appallingly, I felt it thump into the target. It was not my chest. Beneath me the mare quivered as if she had been struck with a hammer, and her forelegs buckled as she collapsed on the ground. As I flew over her head I realized that the Saracens did not want to kill me. They wanted to take me alive.
I landed on soft ground, sprawling awkwardly. My sword flew from my hand, and I felt a sharp pain in my elbow as the shield straps held firm, twisting my arm sideways.
Dazed, I struggled up on all fours and managed to haul myself upright, my pride forcing me to remain facing my enemies. The mare was on the ground next to me, her legs kicking feebly. I saw the ribs heave one last time and heard a hollow grunting sigh emerge from her throat. Then she lay still. The mounted officer gave his reins a gentle flick and his mount, a particularly fine stallion, stepped delicately towards me. His expression framed by the rim of the iron helmet and its two metal cheek guards was of cold, bleak certainty.
He had no need to tell me what to do. I pulled my left arm free of the shield straps and let the shield fall to the ground. Then I reached up and began to unfasten my helmet, which had somehow remained in place.
I was fiddling with the lacing knot when something flew over my head from behind me. It smashed into the chest of the officer and the impact threw him backward over his horse’s haunch. He flung up his arms and, as he fell, I had a momentary glimpse of the butt end of a heavy spear buried in his chest. The next instant I heard a full-throated whoop of triumph that I had heard on my first full day at Aachen, and many times on the training ground below Hroudland’s great hall. It was the yell of victorious pleasure that the count released whenever he scored a direct hit on his target.