Sanglant ducked under the broken remains of his shield, then grabbed the hilt of his sword and brought it up hard. He wasn’t sure what he hit; blood had got in his eyes, but he tumbled sideways as the horse stumbled to the ground and when the rider pitched forward Sanglant took him under the arm, cutting into the unprotected armpit.
“The crown of stars, the crown of stars!” The cry rose up from the Saony milites who hemmed them in, yet his countrymen seemed hesitant to strike down one of their own. The imperial banner had fallen and was lost from view.
Of his own soldiers he saw none, only a crowd of unfamiliar tabards and sharp blades. He jumped forward, lashing out first to his left and then to his right to keep them off-balance. His shield was shattered and his body pierced by inconsequential cuts, but he fought on.
Checkmate, his father would say.
He sensed it coming, but in his fatigue he was slowed. He spun to parry, but he was late. The point had just tipped his mail below the heart, inevitable in its trajectory, when it went flying as if by magic and the rider who wielded it was carried backward off his horse. The butt spike on the shaft of the imperial banner had taken the man down, and grasping this most noble of spears was Wichman, dragging the huge banner and its brilliant crown of stars in the dust.
With a smile, blood leaking from his lips, he spun the shaft in his hands to lift the fabric off the ground. “I win!” Wichman shouted.
They stood in an eddy, in that moment cut off from the ring and hue surrounding them, locked in a silence and stillness that captured them within its net.
Wichman laughed. In truth he blazed, shining in his glory, and the enemy scattered and shrieked, scrambling backward as the sun itself plummeted to the battlefield, so bright Wichman had to shield his eyes against its unexpected glare and Sanglant stepped back as the downrush from their wings struck him.
When the griffins landed, the earth shook. Their feathers gleamed even through the swirling dust that coated every man, every horse, and every weapon.
They pounced, falling upon the nearest men as hawks would upon a nest of baby mice. Their talons, and the touch of their feathers, shredded flesh and metal. Undone by this assault, many soldiers—ai, God, his own countrymen—fell to their knees to pray while others dropped their weapons and ran.
Sanglant sheathed his sword and shook the remnants of his shield off his arm.
“Wichman! Follow me!”
He ran for Domina and leaped up onto her back, swinging a leg over and pushing himself up onto her shoulders. His armor saved him from the worst lacerations, but he bled all over her feathers from a hundred tiny gashes, and where his blood touched her plumage, it sizzled and gusted as tendrils of steam. Wichman ran for Argent, but it leaped skyward before he could reach it, and Domina with a harsh cry launched herself awkwardly at the same time, legs dragging as she thrashed to gain height with so much weight bearing her down.
The wings beat dust into his face. He lost sight of Wichman and the banner as the griffin rose into the air although he heard the duchess’ son cursing, and he almost lost his seat as she swayed and plunged and rose again. Arrows chased them into the sky.
Below, the field of battle was chaos, obscured by dust so thick that he couldn’t tell where his line ended and Henry’s army began. It was quieter along the camp’s inner siege wall, but Adelheid’s defenders were firing blazing arrows into the ground in front of the line of wagons. Small fires scorched the dry grass, sending up billows of smoke, but the fires didn’t threaten the wagons. Not yet. Behind the worst of the dust, the reserve held its ground, waiting for a signal.
It was a bumpy ride, nothing like a horse and far less comfortable. He had never been so frightened in his life, wondering if he were going to pitch right off and fall to his death, and although his gaze took in the scene below he found he could not utter a single word or call out to those below, so choked was he with fear.
At last, as the griffin circled in toward Fulk’s position in the center rear, Sanglant caught sight of Henry’s banner. It had moved far to the left, heading toward the woods. About ten centuries of cavalry rode with his father, a substantial force. Through the heat haze he saw the front rank of Liutgard’s troops moving slowly up and over the wooded bluff. They hadn’t yet negotiated the steeper downward slope on the western side. He couldn’t count her forces because the trees concealed their numbers.
Ai, God! Taillefer’s banner had been a feint all along. Henry played chess with a subtle mind and a strong will. He would never let himself be taken easily, but he had taken his own son for a fool and dangled a line and caught him.
