face that was not covered in hair. But all he said was: ‘Too many fucking bastards, Sir Alan. Too many.’ Then, immediately: ‘Look yonder,’ and he nodded back down the length of the bridge. I turned and saw a mass of men swarming over the rail in the centre where I had begun the fight, a score, two score, a tide of humanity armed and angry, wild with fear and a lust for revenge on the bowmen who had galled them so from a distance, and yet more coming up from the crush of boats below. Despite the slaughter our arrows had wrought, we had hardly even slowed their attack. I could see no sign of Robin or his archers and my heart missed a beat. Surely they could not have been overrun already?
I did not have time to digest this terror: there were forty or fifty men-at-arms coming towards me, surging up the length of the bridge, swords and axes lofted. We closed up in a compact group, shields high, seven men about me, with Mastin behind, cursing steadily, filthily, and trying to restring his bow with trembling hands.
The enemy fell on us, a jostling mob hammering at us with a desperate hatred and cold hard steel. They screamed and shoved, blades licking out to clatter against helmet and mail. I took a solid blow on my shield and thrust Fidelity out in response to rip through thecheek of my attacker below his helmet rim. Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of my Westbury men, a fellow named Deakin, cut down by a pair of snarling, hacking foes. The sheer weight of enemies was pushing us back against the rail. We were surrounded; outnumbered five to one. My shield was trapped against my body. I bullocked forward, lunging repeatedly with Fidelity, short, straight strokes, and made myself a little space. But this could not last. An archer dropped to my left, choking, a crossbow quarrel through his cheek. Only five of us were standing now. Something smashed against my shoulder and I was pushed backwards; I thrust the cross-guard of my sword into a bawling mouth and felt the clean snap of teeth. I felt a knife blade probing against my ribs, grinding against me, driven by an unseen hand – and thanked God for decent mail. But we were going under. Time seemed to slow. Only three men and Mastin were still fighting. I could barely move my arms. A Fleming’s roaring face was inches from my own. I tried to bite his nose. Missed. Teeth snapping on air. A blow to my helm and I almost lost my footing. I could feel the hard wooden rail digging into the small of my back. I surged up and outwards, using my armoured weight and all the strength of both of my legs, knocking a man down and lashing out with Fidelity, finding contact. The jar of bone. A scream. My mail sleeve was drenched in red. Then an enormous buffet against my shield, a hammer blow that thrust me sideways against Mastin’s solid form. The shouting of the enemy was deafening. The smell of gore and sweat and opened bowels was a solid thing. My sword arm was trapped against my body. I could not move my shield. Hal, on my left, screamed and dropped to his knees, his neck pierced through with a thrown spear, the bright frothy blood bubbling from the wound. We were all dying. We were all dead men.
And then I heard the trumpets.
Lord Fitzwalter’s mounted men, a full
conroi
of thirty knights poured onto the bridge, thundering in from the southern side, horses at full gallop and lances couched. The whole structure shook with the force of their charge, the very planks bouncing beneath my feet. They smashed into the enemy and cut through their mass like a plough turning earth in the furrow, King John’s mercenaries leaping for the rail on either side, desperate to escape the deadly spear points of the pounding cavalry and willing to risk the river if it meant they would not be crushed to red offal beneath the churning hooves.
The trumpets sounded again.
The men in front of us were miraculously gone but Mastin, myself and the one surviving archer pressed ourselves back against