Ambush!...

January, 1067

“I hate this bloody country.” Henri muttered petulantly as he flexed his numb fingers. The bitter cold had leached all sensation from them, making his hands thick and clumsy. He stopped, briefly removing his helmet as he bent down to rip strips from his surcoat to bind about his fists. Guillaume waited with his friend, watching the progress of the other knights who continued to march into the forest. As Henri straightened he bumped against a tree, which revengefully deposited its heavy burden of snow upon his head.

“That’s it. I really hate this country.” Tiny clumps of ice tumbled uncomfortably down his neck. “Here we are with no horses and forced to trek, for only God knows how far, through this forest. We’re knights, not common brigands.” Guillaume’s lips curled with amusement at the antics of his friend. There was no chance that Henri’s sharp aristocratic features could be conceived as remotely common. Their situation was indeed bad fortune, but they were less than two days march from the closest of the new wooden fortress thrown up by their fellow countrymen. Guillaume remarked as much, provoking a sigh of weary resignation from Henri. As the pair set off towards the other knights, he winked cheerfully at his friend.

“It may be the common brigand who women invite to their beds, but when morning comes I dare say they want them to pay like a knight.” Henri’s bark of laughter was cut off sharply and his eyes glazed in confused shock. Guillaume covered the space between them in a heartbeat. His arms gripped the shoulders of his friend as his knees buckled sending them both to the ground. The arrow stuck out of his neck at a grotesque angle, piercing the soft skin of his momentarily unprotected neck. Blood bubbled from the wound coating Guillaume’s hands. The end was mercifully quick, Henri’s features shuddering and turning waxen as the final vestiges of life ebbed from the wound. Guillaume allowed himself only a second of grief, before shoving the body from his lap and rising to his feet. Drawing his blade from its sheath he ran towards the rest of the knights.

“Saxons!” He yelled at the figures in the distance. “Saxons! Ambush!” At any moment he expected to feel an arrow pierce his back, penetrating the mail with deadly force. The shot never came, however, and he traversed the snow covered earth unimpeded. As he reached the band of knights he was admitted into their line, sympathetic eyes flickering to the blood which streaked his face like tribal war paint. There was little opportunity to plan or make speeches as the Saxons began to charge in from all sides, taking advantage of their knowledge of local topography. The Normans formed a circle, each face implacable under the rim of their helmet.

“Diex Aie!” Guillaume roared powerfully, his breath clouding before him as he raised his sword, counting the beats as the Saxons approached. The knights returned the call, their shouts mixing with the Saxons own guttural cries. Guillaume calculated that they were outnumbered, the Saxons having at least three men to each knight. Whilst the knights were better trained and armed, the Saxons had the element of surprise and the deep-rooted passion to win. In battle he knew these could well tip the balance between victory and defeat.

There was no time for further reflection as Guillaume was abruptly forced to parry a blow wildly aimed at decapitating him. The Saxon grunted as Guillaume hefted his shield forward, knocking the air from his opponent’s lungs. He took advantage of the stumbling Saxon and stabbed his sword forward. Withdrawing the blade he hacked at the man who immediately took the Saxon’s place. The moment stretched out in a seemingly endless pattern of hack, parry and retreat. Guillaume’s arms grew fatigued from the effort of wielding his weapon, whilst his chest burned from the frigid air that entered his body with every gasping breath. He could not tell who was winning. The fallen created a dense carpet of groaning and twitching. Above the sounds of battle which clashed with the pounding of his heart, the dreadful cacophony of the dead and dying drowned out all his other senses.

Caught unawares Guillaume fell to the ground under the hard impact which struck across his helmet. He stared disorientated at the Saxon’s boots covered in white dust and red gore. He heard the whirring of the air about him as the weapon descended again. Instinct taught him to roll, kicking out at his enemy’s feet, dislodging his balance. Guillaume searched blindly, blood and sweat trailing across his eyes and making it impossible to find his weapon in the snow. The Saxon launched towards him without warning, pinning him to the ground and squeezing at his windpipe. Guillaume clawed at the earth, kicking his feet in a useless attempt to dislodge the heavyset Saxon. With the last reserves of his strength he prised a rock from beneath the snow and scraped it across the Saxon’s face. The man shrieked, impulse causing his hands to reach up and protect his eyes. Guillaume pulled the short blade from the Saxon’s waist and thrust it upwards. The Saxon gave a huge bellow, pulling desperately at the weapon in an attempt to dislodge its fatal path.

When it was finally over Guillaume sagged against the frozen ground breathing heavily and gathering his wits. Trembling with relief and revulsion he pushed the Saxon’s body from his own before crawling to his knees. As the haze gradually cleared from his vision he could see that the innocence of the fresh snow around him had been tainted by the accusing crimson paint of battle.