The soft-lit sun, often seen in late autumn in Flanders, was shining on the English right flank, like a white veil covering the horse-repellent stakes on the crescent-shaped dune heights. The sturdy central battle column glistened in this gray light, and the Earl of Lincoln, wearing a lion helmet on his head, bathed in this divine light, couldn't help but touch the cross on his chest with his hand armor.

“Drihten Wereda！” (Lord of Hosts!) ）

The Eastern Seans of Lincoln and Kent let out a battle cry in unison, and these sounds came from the inside of the steel helmet that had lowered its shield, like a dull thunderclap.

The warriors who had entered a state of war waited patiently for the iron cavalry under the hill to attack, and the archers on both wings also began to hook their thick arms to the bowstring, drawing arrows and catching bows, these were the Danes, Angles, Britons and Jutes of East Anglia, although they were light soldiers and light armor, but they were all long legs and height, and their leather helmets and Phrygian hard felt were scattered with long hair of various colors.

"Arras!" The roar of the Flemish people gradually came from the wind, the same they had fought in Kassel sixteen years earlier, and now the knights in armor were once again armed with spears and swords, and galloped in a large army.

"Arrows."

The longbowmen raised their warbows of different heights almost simultaneously, and the Flemish cavalry detachments were still in a tight horizontal formation, fearless of life and death.

"Shoot the arrows!"

The heavy warbow simply unleashed white-feathered arrows, these arrows were of the lighter type, the arrows were not really fine iron, most of them were as slender as needles, and some of the arrows were even slightly degummed, whistling and deflecting the trajectory of the off-string.

The Flemish horses were slightly loosened by the torrential rain, and the English bows soon spewed out heavy arrows that were thick and thin in front of them, and shot straight at the mounts of the Flemish knights, and the poor creatures neighed in pain, twisted and fell to the ground. The archers were still stringing their bows, and the tail feathers of the long arrows were almost attached to the side of the right ear, and with the sound of the strings, the flanks of the cavalry on the opposite side were stripped of a layer of shell as if they had been beaten with a long whip, and the sight of well-armored horseback men racing to fall to their deaths was a spectacular sight for a while.

Blood was soon pouring down the frosty white dunes, and Earl Lincoln, who had not yet seen an enemy, felt the urge to lift the lion's face.

"Hell!" Count Baldwin cursed in a low voice.

Beneath the hill opposite him, the Count of Flanders was witnessing this irritating quagmire, uttering the same curse.

The first thing Robert saw was that Anselm, the governor of Buchan, had been struck by a heavy hammer, and fell on the back of his horse, as if he were overwhelmed, and then a mist of blood rose into the air, and the great knight disappeared into the dust because of the stumbling of his mount. Behind him, knights from Ghent and Lille, including the reckless Gerbo, Roger the Spear Breaker, and the flag bearer Roger the Elder, all fell to the ground.

The Count of Flanders' vision became more and more blurred, but in the eyes of Baldwin on the top of the hill, the situation became clear, the entire Flemish left wing horizontal team had naturally formed three loose wedges, the courage of the Flanders was no longer the same, the cowardly naturally lagged behind, the brave were unaware, and the horses on both sides of their own side took advantage of the situation to introduce the three wedge-shaped riding formations into their own direction, which made a huge funnel appear on the top of the crescent-shaped hill, and the iron rain on both sides continued to pour into the left and right of each wedge-shaped "boar head".

"Come on!" The Earl of Lincoln roared, he finally saw the hope of victory, the singing of the Welsh north had turned into a howl of killing, and it was time for all the lines to make contact.

The spears were stabbed, the arrows were gathered, the silver and gold light of the plate armor were intertwined, the long-handled axes were slashed vertically from the direction of the shieldless, and the bird pecks of the axes and spears made the pointed helmets, round helmets, cuirasses and even iron boots clang, and there was the sound of bones shattering and cracking inside.

Roger the Elder, the Flemish flag bearer, had risen to join the infantry after falling from his horse, and the gray-haired old knight, having lost his spear and helmet, drew his sword from his waist and slammed it into the cheek of an enemy in chain mail.

He blinked, shook off the blood that was sticking to his eyelids, and instinctively stabbed the tip of his retracted sword at an enemy to his right, a true knight, not the clumsy novice he had just had, and Roger quickly realized this, wrapping his last remaining servant behind him, stepping forward alone, attacking first.

The swords on both sides arced perfectly, reflecting the light of the clutch, the ribbed armor skirts constantly struck on the leg armor, the back of the hand armor blocked the hilt, sometimes the blunt head of the sword was swung, sometimes the slender blade stabbed straight through, and on several occasions, Roger almost plunged the tip of the sword into the gap in the lion-helmet knight's face, but was deflected by the gauntlet that appeared from an incredible angle.

A wounded soldier on the ground suddenly drew his short knife, lifted Roger's iron boots, and thrust them into the pointed ends of the beak-shaped leather boots.

The old knight finally lost his balance, and the knight in the lion's helmet made a gesture, and the surrounding Theon swarmed up and tied him to the back of the position.

Axes and spears were hooked or smashed, crows pecked violently, cracking steel sounded, Danish axes hung upside down on the necks of wounded horses, and large chunks of blood covered the narrow heights.

"Arras!" The Flemish knights were still pouring in, and one by one they dismounted their horses, regrouped into battle columns, and continued their assault on the high ground with a dense stream of spears, while others tried to rush into the middle of the flanks and slaughter the long-haired savages who relied on their arcs.

When the sun reached overhead, the dunes were covered with slaughter, the iron light and blood flowers fascinated the eyes of all the samurai, and the colored pennants and long-handled spears were surrounded by corpses, like rocks in the waves.

"What a people of war." The Earl of Rodrigo lamented in the Welsh formation, "like a herd of wild boars." ”

The Moorish proverb says that cats are used to look down on humans, dogs are used to look up at humans, and only pigs are used to looking down at humans.

In the middle of this bloody sand dune and moor, the Flemish proved themselves to be warriors equal to the English.

The flag of the Count of Flanders suddenly moved!

Count Rodrigo saw from afar the warlord under the banner wearing a black horned helmet, straddling the back of a red horse with gold and silver ornaments, and leaping out of battle with his spurs.

"Is this going to be a bet?" The Spaniards suddenly became excited, and the most critical moment was about to come!

My position was too thin, the whole left flank had been beaten backwards, and the connection with Lincoln's main line was particularly dangerous, and the Count of Flanders was bound to take advantage of this weakness.

Rodrigo glanced at Alva, who immediately understood and rushed to the south with the mercenaries from southern Wales.

If we don't keep the obstacles, we'll be stuck in a quagmire or swept to the surface of the sea, and none of us will be able to escape.

Rodrigo let out a long sigh, and behind him, more than seven hundred knights stood like huge Celtic stone pillars, towering in the sea breeze, motionless.

Lincoln had broken four of his enemy's wrists, and he violently slammed the Flemish man's face with the top of his hard helmet, and the steel lion's teeth were all deformed under such a violent impact, and his longsword gauntlet was bent to the side like a silver serpent with a coiled head.

"Where is that Spaniard?" Baldwin roared angrily, the Flemish silver lion was already the target of the Flemish siege, all weapons slashing at his location.

On the battlefield, where there was nowhere to escape, the Count of Flanders finally opened a gap, and only thanks to Alva's timely arrival did not continue to penetrate into the rear, but the signs of central collapse became more and more obvious.

"For Lord Hereward!" After Baldwin was rescued by a group of knights, a deafening roar suddenly sounded from the direction of the blood-soaked hillside.

"It's Peterborough bastards!" The eastern militia cheered, and everyone continued to resist with all the remaining weapons, and the longbowmen who had been slaughtered by the armor were the first to be supported by the Peterborough militia, and these berserkers who emerged from the swamp once again showed their ability to plunder lightly, shooting the Flemish in the back with javelin bows, and then rushing into battle with the momentum of a wild beast, dragging the knight off his horse, and lifting the helmet as he had done with the Normans, lifting the helmet and stabbing him in the face with his Saxon sword.

The Flemish left flank, swept away by this raid, became on the defensive side, but hundreds of Peterborough men were still unable to reverse the rout in the other direction.

Rodrigo stared at the blue-gray north, his face solemn as if in prayer. Slow-moving waves constantly appeared in the deep sea, forming a huge circumferential slope, farther and slower, like the last echo of a storm somewhere behind the waves.

The waves continued to roll one after the other in a regular manner, without stopping, without stopping, repeating in futile efforts, spreading over some beaches, drowning the same sand.

The atmosphere was strangely quiet, not in harmony with the chaotic killing fields below, but the huge water that seemed to overflow from the seabed and encroached on the beach was rising smaller and smaller, farther and farther away, and finally disappearing.

"Thank God!" Count Rodrigo let out a sigh of relief.

The tide is attracted by a magnet and recedes from the edge of the circumference of the sea, revealing a large white sand beach – a large open space.

A terrible gap appeared in the direction of the coast.

"For the king!" Rodrigo finally let out his own battle cry.

A full seven hundred cavalry, diagonally onto the new beach, and then, with the techniques they had painstakingly honed on the training ground, they rotated neatly to the right, and a horizontal column of cuirasses and iron helmets appeared neatly and breathtakingly in the rear of the Flemish people.