On the other hand, perhaps Richard would be killed today. What a stroke of luckthatwould be. William lusted for it more than he had ever lusted for a woman.
He looked to the west. The enemy was closer.
Philip was on the roof of the cathedral, and he could see Lincoln laid out like a map. The old city surrounded the cathedral on the hilltop. It had straight streets and neat gardens and the castle in the southwest corner. The newer part, noisy and overcrowded, occupied the steep hillside to the south, between the old city and the River Witham. This district was normally bustling with commercial activity, but today it was covered with a fearful silence like a pall, and the people were standing on their rooftops to watch the battle. The river came in from the east, ran along the foot of the hill, then widened into a big natural harbor called Brayfield Pool, which was surrounded by quays and full of ships and boats. A canal called the Fosdyke ran west from Brayfield Pool—all the way to the River Trent, Philip had been told. Seeing it from a height, Philip marveled at how it ran straight for miles. People said it had been built in ancient times.
The canal formed the edge of the battlefield. Philip watched King Stephen’s army march out of the city in a ragged crowd and slowly form up in three orderly columns on the ridge. Philip knew that Stephen had placed the earls on his right for they were the most colorful, with their tunics of red and yellow and their bright banners. They were also the most active, riding up and down, giving orders and holding consultations and making plans. The group to the king’s left, on the slope of the ridge that went down to the canal, were dressed in dull gray and brown, had fewer horses, and were less busy, conserving their energies: they would be the mercenaries.
Beyond Stephen’s army, where the line of the canal became indistinct and merged with the hedgerows, the rebel army covered the fields like a swarm of bees. At first they had appeared to be stationary; then, when he looked again after a while, they were closer; and now, if he concentrated, he could just discern their motion. He wondered how strong they were. All indications were that the two sides were evenly matched.
There was nothing Philip could do to influence the outcome—a situation he hated. He tried to quiet his spirit and be fatalistic. If God wanted a new cathedral at Kingsbridge, he would cause Robert of Gloucester to defeat King Stephen today, so that Philip could ask the victorious Empress Maud to let him repossess the quarry and reopen the market. And if Stephen should defeat Robert, Philip would have to accept God’s will, give up his ambitious plans, and let Kingsbridge once more decline into sleepy obscurity.
Try as he might, Philip could not think that way. He wanted Robert towin.
A strong wind buffeted the towers of the cathedral and threatened to blow the more frail spectators off the leads and hurl them to the graveyard below. The wind was bitterly cold. Philip shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around him.
The two armies were now about a mile apart.
The rebel army halted when it was about a mile from the king’s front line. It was tantalizing to be able to see their mass but not make out any details. William wanted to know how well armed they were, whether they were cheerful and aggressive or tired and reluctant, even how tall they were. They continued to advance at a slow creep, as those in the rear, motivated by the same anxiety that William was suffering, pressed forward to get a look at the enemy.
In Stephen’s army the earls and their knights lined up on their horses, with their lances at the ready, as if they were at a tournament and about to begin the jousting. William reluctantly sent all the horses in his contingent to the rear. He told the squires not to go back to the city but to hold the horses there in case they were needed—for flight, he meant, although he did not say so. If a battle was lost it was better to run than die.
There was a lull, when it seemed as if the fighting would never begin. The wind dropped and the horses calmed down, although the men did not. King Stephen took off his helmet and scratched his head. William became fretful. Fighting was all right but thinking about it made him feel nauseated.
Then, for no apparent reason, the atmosphere became tense again. A battle cry went up from somewhere. All the horses suddenly turned skittish. A cheer began, and was drowned, almost instantly, by the thunder of hooves. The battle was on. William smelled the sour, sweaty odor of fear.
He looked around, trying desperately to figure out what was happening, but all was confusion, and being on foot he could see only his immediate surroundings. The earls on the right seemed to have started the battle by charging the enemy. Presumably the forces opposite them, Earl Robert’s army of disinherited nobles, were responding in like manner, charging in formation. Almost immediately, a cry went up from the left, and William turned to see that the mounted men among the Breton mercenaries were spurring their horses forward. At that, a bloodcurdling cacophony arose from the corresponding section of the enemy army—the Welsh mob, presumably. He could not see who had the advantage.
He had lost sight of Richard.
Dozens of arrows rose like a flock of birds from behind the enemy lines and began to fall all around. William held his shield over his head. He loathed arrows—they killed at random.
King Stephen roared a war cry and charged. William drew his sword and ran forward, calling his men to follow. But the horsemen on his left and right had fanned out as they charged forward, and they came between him and the enemy.
On his right, there was a deafening clash of iron on iron, and the air filled with a metallic smell he knew well. The earls and the disinherited had joined battle. All he could see was men and horses colliding, wheeling, charging and falling. The neighing of the beasts was indistinguishable from the men’s battle cries, and somewhere in that noise William could already hear the bone-chilling, dreadful screams of wounded men in agony. He hoped Richard was one of those screaming.
William looked left and was horrified to see that the Bretons were falling back before the clubs and axes of the wild Welsh tribesmen. The Welsh were berserk, yelling and screaming and trampling one another in their eagerness to get at the enemy. Perhaps they were greedy to loot the rich city. The Bretons, with nothing more than the prospect of another week’s pay to spur them on, were fighting defensively and giving ground. William was disgusted.
He was frustrated that he had not yet struck a single blow. He was surrounded by his knights, and ahead of him were the horses of the earls and the Bretons. He pushed forward, slightly ahead and to one side of the king. There was combat all around: fallen horses, men fighting hand to hand with the ferocity of cats, the deafening ring of swords, and the sickly smell of blood; but William and King Stephen were, for the moment, stuck in a dead zone.
Philip could see everything, but he understood nothing. He had no idea what was going on. All was confusion: flashing blades, charging horses, banners flying and falling, and the sounds of battle, carried on the wind, muted by distance. It was maddeningly frustrating. Some men fell and died, others overcame and fought on, but he could not tell who was winning and who losing.
A cathedral priest standing nearby in a fur coat looked at Philip and said: “What’s going on?”
Philip shook his head and said: “I can’t tell.”
But even as he spoke he discerned a movement. To the left of the battlefield, some men were running away down the hill toward the canal. They were drab-dressed mercenaries, and as far as Philip could tell, it was the king’s men who were fleeing and the painted tribesmen of the attacking army who were in pursuit. The victorious whooping of the Welsh could be heard from here. Philip’s hopes lifted: the rebels were winning already!
Then there was a sea change on the other side. To the right, where the mounted men were engaged, the king’s army seemed to be falling back. The movement was at first slight, then steady, then rapid; and even as Philip watched, the retreat turned into a rout, and scores of the king’s men turned their horses and began to flee from the battlefield.
Philip was elated: this must be God’s will!
Could it really be over so quickly? The rebels were advancing on both flanks, but the center was still holding steady. The men around King Stephen were fighting more fiercely than those to either side. Would they be able to stem the flow? Perhaps Stephen and Robert of Gloucester would fight it out personally: single combat between two leaders could sometimes settle the issue regardless of what was happening elsewhere on the field. It was not yet over.
The tide turned with horrifying speed. At one moment the two armies were even, both sides fighting fiercely; and at the next, the king’s men were falling back fast. William was deeply disheartened. On his left, the Breton mercenaries were running away down the hill and being chased into the canal by the Welsh; and on his right, the earls with their war-horses and banners were turning from the fight and trying to escape back toward Lincoln. Only the middle was holding: King Stephen was in the thick of it, laying about him with his massive sword, and the Shiring men were fighting like pack-wolves all around him. But the situation was unstable. If the flanks continued to retreat the king would end up surrounded. William wanted Stephen to fall back. But the king was more brave than wise, and he fought on.
William felt the entire battle take a lurch to the left. Looking around, he saw the Flemish mercenaries coming from behind and falling on the Welsh, who were forced to stop chasing the Bretons down the hill and turn to defend themselves. For a moment there was a melee. Then Ranulf of Chester’s men, in the middle of the enemy front line, attacked the Flemish, who now found themselves squeezed between the men from Chester and the Welsh.
Seeing the rally, King Stephen urged his men to press forward. William thought Ranulf might have made a mistake. If the king’s forces could close with Ranulf’s men now, Ranulf would be the one who was squeezed on two sides.
