You could feel the tension in every man. Ahead of us was a
mighty foe – unbeaten, seemingly invincible. Fear swept through our ranks like a mist – cold, strength-sapping.
But as the fear swelled a single voice broke out in song. It was Piercollo and he was singing an old and famous Highland battle hymn – a deep, rolling ballad, slow and martial. It was called ‘The Shield-bearer’, and it told of a boy going to war for the first time.
Around me I saw warriors looking at the giant Tuscanian, then several voices joined in, thin and piping against his deep tenor. And the sound swelled, the power and pride of the lyrics expelling all fear, until the entire army of the Highlands was singing the battle-song. I looked to Brackban and he grinned, the tension and weariness falling from him. Then he too began to sing and the sound filled the meadow, sweeping out to envelop the enemy army.
At the final verse Piercollo raised his axe above his head, the sunlight gleaming from the huge curved blades. Swords flashed up into the sunlight, and the song was replaced by a deafening roar of defiance.
Edmund did not bother to wait for the hour to pass. A trumpet note blared out and the cavalry thundered down from the hills.
Raul Raubert led his men to meet them and Wulf and the archers drew back on their bowstrings, sending a black cloud of shafts into the enemy horsemen. The knights fell in their hundreds.
A roll of drums sounded and the enemy infantry, lances levelled, began to walk towards us. The drums increased in tempo, the walk becoming a run, becoming a charge.
And the day of blood began, the screams of the dying, the clash of swords and spears, the neighing of horses, the pounding of hooves upon the grass. Chaos and terror, fury and death flowed around me as I stood in the fifth rank. In front of me Piercollo fought like the giant he was, his great axe rising and falling to smash men from their feet. The lines bent and gave and I found myself drawn into the madness of the battle where I stabbed and thrust, parried and countered, desperately fighting to stay alive within the swirl of war.
I don’t know how long the initial fighting went on, but it seemed to be hours. Finally the Angostins pulled back, re-forming their lines for a second charge. We had lost more than half our men, and
many of the others now carried wounds. It took no military mind to realize that one more charge could finish us. Yet no one ran, nor cried out for mercy. We stood our ground as men.
‘Now would be a good time for magic,’ said Wulf, easing himself alongside us, his arrows gone. He drew his two short swords and sniffed loudly.
‘I do not think my illusions would hold them for long,’ I told him.
‘You should have studied better,’ was Wulf’s caustic reply.
I saw the enemy King mount his black stallion and ride out to join his cavalry. They gathered around him, listening to his exhortations.
Glancing to my left, I saw Raul Raubert, his armour drenched in blood, calling his own knights to him. There were scarce sixty left, but they gathered around him. I felt shame then for doubting them.
The enemy cavalry formed a line and swept down towards our flank. There were no arrows left now and Brackban tried to set up a shield-wall to oppose them. Raul spurred his horse forward, his men around him in a tight wedge. Instantly I guessed his plan: he was trying to force his way through to Edmund.
The Angostins were ready for such a move and several hundred knights galloped ahead of the King, blocking Raul’s path.
The infantry swept forward.
The battle was almost over . . .
A rolling boom of thunder broke above our heads, a jagged spear of lightning flashing up from the hill-top to the east. But instead of disappearing the lightning held, frozen, white-gold from earth to sky. The charging Angostins faltered, men turning to watch the light.