Free Crusade by Stewart Binns

not let you down.’
    By late morning both armies were in position. The vibrant mingling of kings’ standards, lords’ gonfalons and knights’ pennons along neat rows of men and horses made a vivid spectacle, the pageantry of which was only a masquerade for the mayhem that was about to ensue. Soon there would be but a single dominant colour – the red blood of the fallen.
    As Robert of Normandy and Philip of France rode along the lines encouraging their men, I checked on my companions. Edwin was steadfast on his mount, while Sweyn gripped his reins tightly and looked around confidently.
    It was then that a sentry appeared and addressed me.
    ‘My Lord Prince, there is young knight at the picket lines. He asks to join your retinue.’
    ‘Does he have a name?’
    ‘He calls himself Alan of St Cirq Lapopie, my Lord. But he is clean-shaven and can’t be much more than a boy.’
    Unable to resist the sarcasm, I smiled at Sweyn before replying.
    ‘Let him pass. I am always happy to have knights at my side, even if they haven’t started shaving.’
    He and Edwin looked mortified, but did not say anything.
    When, moments later, the knight appeared, I knew why. The knight in question presented himself with the usual courtesy of removing his helmet, only to reveal the tender skin and the soft, flowing locks of a young woman.
    ‘My Lord, forgive my deception, but I needed to get beyond your picket lines. I am Adela of Bourne.’
    Edwin was furious.
    ‘Adela, this is unforgivable! I forbade you to come. Yet you appear, and in the garb of a knight.’
    I was intrigued but, even so, this was not the time and certainly not the place to start recruiting women to the Order of Knights.
    ‘Madam, I am honoured that you would consider joining my retinue, but a more formal introduction, and in more relaxed circumstances than on the cusp of battle, might be more appropriate. May we discuss your request tomorrow? Sergeant, take our guest to the rear and see that no harm comes to her.’
    The sergeant grabbed the bridle of Adela’s horse. As he did so, Adela drew her seax and had it at his throat in an instant.
    ‘Take your hand off my horse.’
    Seeing the tenacity in her eyes, the sergeant relented.
    ‘Prince Edgar, I will leave the field at your request, but only if Sweyn leaves with me. He is like my little brother; we have been very close since our village was massacred. I will not see him in battle unless I am at his side. We learned to fight together and I am as good as he is.’
    ‘I have heard of the wretched circumstances of your encounter with Hereward and his companions.’
    ‘Sire, I was only a baby when Hereward left our village but, many years later, he saved me after my innocence was so cruelly stolen. I watched with delight as he exacted a terrible revenge on the Normans who defiled me. Ever since Ely, I have lived with his memory. Now, like Sweyn, I model my life on his. I am not a man and will never equal the feats of Hereward of Bourne, but I can follow his example.’
    Edwin’s demeanour softened, and Sweyn looked proud of his sister-in-arms. I admired her resolve.
    ‘Very well, the battle will soon be upon us. Stay close to Edwin. Sweyn is under strict instructions not to engagethe enemy unless his life is threatened. The same applies to you, is that clear?’
    ‘It is, my Prince. Thank you.’
    ‘Edwin, unfurl my standard.’
    As he did so, tears welled in the eyes of Sweyn and Adela. My standard was the Wyvern of Wessex, the emblem of Harold at Senlac Ridge and of all the Cerdician Kings of England as far back as Alfred the Great.
    A most bizarre sight then appeared on the battlefield. The Pythoness of Gisors was a peculiar creature, quite frail and slight, but with a shock of silver-grey hair and startling bright-green eyes which never seemed to blink. She wore a plain black cassock tied at the waist by a woven leather cord and carried a large staff elaborately carved in the shape of a serpent, replete