The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett [279]
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.
One of William’s knights fell in front of him and suddenly he was in the midst of the fighting.
A beefy northerner with blood on his sword lunged at him. William parried the thrust easily: he was fresh and his antagonist was already tired. William thrust at the man’s face, missed, and parried another jab. He raised his sword high, deliberately opening himself to a stab; then, when the other man predictably stepped forward with another thrust, William dodged it and brought his sword down, two-handed, on the other man’s shoulder. The blow split the man