‘There are rather a lot of them,’ I observed, trying to keep my voice calm.
‘Many,’ he agreed.
The infantry alone outnumbered us by at least three — possibly four — to one. Eight to ten thousand men, battle-hardened and accustomed to victory.
I wondered how the battle would start. For here we were, all of us in a summer meadow, standing silently staring at one another. It seemed so unlikely that we were all about to be embroiled in a bloody fight to the death.
A herald rode from the Angostin camp, galloping his horse to within twenty paces of our centre. There was no breeze to speak of, and the herald’s words carried to every man in the front ranks.
‘The Lord of the Land demands that you lay down your weapons. He further insists that the rebel leaders Jarek Mace, Brackban and Owen Odell are to be detained and delivered to him. Failure to comply with these orders will result in the extermination of every man who holds arms against the King. You have one hour to make your decisions. If the men named are brought before the Lord Edmund within that time, no action will be taken against you.’
Tugging on the reins, the rider galloped back to the Angostin lines, leaving a silent army behind him.
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.
It widened, becoming a gateway arched by a glorious rainbow. And through the gateway rode a single knight on a huge white horse.
‘The Morningstar!’ I yelled, breaking the silence.
His armour was gold and he wore no helm upon his head. In his right hand he carried his black longsword, in his left a spiked ball of iron on a length of chain. I smiled, remembering his first description of the weapon. Jarek Mace had arrived for the battle carrying a morningstar.
Touching spurs to the stallion, he charged at the enemy cavalry.
‘Morningstar! Morningstar!’ went up the roar from the Highlanders, and they surged forward at the bemused infantry before them. Stunned by this sudden attack, the Angostins fell back in disorder.
I did not join the rush of fighting men. I stood with Piercollo beside me and watched the last ride of Jarek Mace.
His horse reached the bottom of the hill and several knights rode against him. His sword lanced out, spilling the first from the saddle; the second fell, the spiked ball crushing his skull. The third thrust a lance into Mace’s side, but a disembowelling cut from the black sword clove through the knight’s belly.
On rode the Morningstar, cutting and killing, blood streaming from cuts on his face and arms.
Edmund drew his own sword and spurred his mount to the attack. There were blades all around the Morningstar now, hacking and slashing, but somehow he stayed in the saddle and the giant white stallion bore him on.
Edmund galloped his black horse alongside Mace and plunged his sword into the Morningstar’s belly. I saw Mace’s face twist in pain and then the spiked ball swung through the air, crashing into Edmund’s helm. The King swayed in the saddle, losing his grip on the sword which still jutted from Mace’s body. Now it was the Morningstar who lifted his sword one last time, slamming the blade forward into Edmund’s neck. Blood gushed — and the King fell.
With the Angostin infantry streaming from the field, the knights were in danger of being surrounded. Several of them tried to recover the King’s body, but they were cut down by Raul Raubert and his men, who had forced their way through to the Morning-star.
The white stallion, its chest pierced by many blades, suddenly fell, pitching Mace to the ground. I dropped my sword and ran towards him, dodging and swerving among the knights and their maddened mounts.
One knight with lance levelled rode at me, but a second inadvertently got in his way, the two horses colliding shoulder to shoulder. Then I was past them and running towards where Mace lay.
He was still alive when I reached him. Raul was kneeling beside him, holding his hand.
‘Get me… to the… forest,’ whispered Mace.