feet were stained a brownish-crimson. He gave a moment’s shudder, then his sword slipped from his hand and he began to spew.
Still coughing up water, I hauled myself to my feet. Godric was shivering, though the day was far from cold. He had tasted the battle-rage for the first time, had taken his first steps upon the sword-path, and was not sure if he liked it. I understood the feeling well. It didn’t seem so long ago that I had been in his place, claiming my first kill. In fact twelve years had passed since then, but it could have been yesterday, so clearly was it fixed in my memory.
‘I’m sorry, lord,’ he said. ‘I should have listened-’
‘You don’t have to apologise,’ I assured him. ‘You did well. I owe you my life.’
At last a smile broke out across his face. A man always remembers his first kill, but few had such a glorious tale to tell as young Godric now did.
Some way along the marsh-passage to the north our war-horn sounded out: two short blasts that I recognised at once as the signal to fall back. Probably that meant Hereward’s men were at last beginning to rally. Of course they couldn’t know that it was too late to save their lord, but the last thing I wanted was to embroil myself in another mêlée.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘We have to go while we still can.’
Godric did not move. He stared, transfixed, at Hereward’s body lying face-down and motionless as his lifeblood seeped away into the fen, as if still not quite believing what he had done.
‘Now!’
At last he did as he was told, following me as I made back in the direction of the path, crashing through the reeds, trying to remember the way. I would have liked to bring Hereward’s corpse with us, or at least cut off his head so that we could take it back as our trophy, but we had no time, not if we wanted to be sure of getting away from this place with our lives. And so we left him. Perhaps his followers would find him in time and haul his bloated form from the bog, or perhaps his flesh would provide a feast for the eels and the worms. That would be no better a fate than he deserved.
Before long we found the path again, and Fyrheard, and the others, who were riding back from their pursuit of the rebels.
‘There are more of them up ahead,’ Wace said when he saw us. ‘Fifty, sixty, possibly more. They’re coming this way, but we can’t fight them all.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said as I let Godric take the saddle, whilst I sat behind him.
‘What happened?’ asked Pons, glancing first at me and then at the Englishman. I wondered what he must be thinking as he saw me drenched from brow to feet, with my hair clinging to my head and neck and tendrils of weed draped across my shoulders, clinging to my hauberk. ‘Where’s Hereward? Is he dead? Did you kill him?’
‘No,’ I replied, and grinned because it was the truth.
‘He got away?’
I shook my head, and suddenly, for the first time in what seemed like months, I found myself laughing.
‘What, lord?’ Serlo frowned.
‘First let’s leave this place. Maybe then Godric will tell you.’
‘Godric?’ Hamo asked. ‘The English runt? What do you mean?’
But we were already on our way, and I was whooping with delight, for the Isle was ours, England was ours, the sun was shining and all was well with the world. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I was happy, and in all the hours that it took us to journey back to Elyg, not once did I stop smiling.
Thus the Isle of Elyg fell.
I am far from the first to tell the tale, and doubtless many others will follow my example in the years to come, filling sheet after sheet of fresh-cut parchment with their delicate script, much more refined than my own scribbles, which are wiry and poorly formed as a result of my fading eyesight. They may compare the siege of the Isle to that of ancient Troy, and lavish praise upon King Guillaume for his strength of will, or else upon the rebels for having the courage to defy him for so long. And, as is the way of things, with every retelling some details of the story change.
Nowadays I often hear it said that Hereward escaped, that he and his loyal followers managed to flee uninjured from the Isle into the swamps, and from the swamps into the woods, and from there continued to harass his enemies for many summers to come. Wandering poets sing songs of his deeds, claiming that, were it not for the treachery of his own countrymen at Elyg, he would have driven us Frenchmen from England within another year. Across the marsh country of East Anglia, folk still revere him as a hero and a great war leader, even though he was no such thing. Children wield sticks in the manner of swords and make hiding places in the birch copses and the willow groves, and in that way relive some of those battles that we fought, as well as others that happened only in the imagination of certain chroniclers.
It doesn’t seem to matter that no one ever saw Hereward after that day, nor that he was but one of many who stood against us at Elyg, for the stories that people choose to remember are rarely those of what really took place, but rather the ones they would prefer to believe. Thus as the seasons turn and the years and the decades pass, the stories grow ever wilder, and the myths grow more powerful than the truth.
The truth, which few men alive these days know, or care to remember.
But I know, for I was there.
‘No one will believe me,’ Godric said glumly as the belfry of Elyg’s church came into sight. It was the middle of the afternoon and cloud had rolled across the sky, obscuring the sun, but that had done nothing to dampen my spirits. The monastery’s bell rang out across the fens, not in warning but in celebration of our victory.
‘Show them the blood drying on your sword and they’ll believe you,’ I answered. Out of gratitude to him, and in honour of his triumph, I had allowed Godric to ride Fyrheard, while I walked beside him. ‘If anyone still doubts you after that, challenge them to deny it through combat.’
Godric didn’t look reassured. ‘And what if they accept?’
‘They won’t.’
‘How can you know?’
‘Because you’re under my protection now, and they’ll know that if they so much as lay a finger upon you, they’ll have me to answer to. On that you have my oath.’
Godric’s eyes brightened. ‘Truly, lord?’
‘Truly,’ I replied. ‘Being a warrior is as much about how men see you as about the number of foes your blade-edge has claimed. If you believe in your own accomplishments, then others will believe them too.’
We reached Elyg soon after. That last mile seemed the hardest of all, for our horses were tired and thirsty, and so were we. Thankfully the ale was already flowing when we arrived. I was glad to see, too, that tempers had cooled in the hours we’d been gone, and that the quarrels that had been breaking out were now settled. Great fires had been lit and around them there was dancing and drinking, while elsewhere men were receiving treatment from leech-doctors for wounds taken in the battle.
I asked if anyone knew where we might find Lord Robert, since no doubt he would be wondering where we were. A gap-toothed boy, who was carrying pails of water on a yoke, nodded towards the monastery.
‘You’ll probably find him in the great hall with the other barons,’ he said, and went on to tell us that King Guillaume had returned to Wiceford, where he had received the formal submission of all the English leaders who had surrendered. Behind him he’d left several hundred knights to garrison Elyg, as well several hundred more who were already too insensible with drink to stand, let alone accompany him.
I thanked the boy and we hastened towards the monastery, where we rode through the great stone arch of the gatehouse and gave our weary mounts to the care of the stable-hands, who directed me towards a long stone building with high windows on the south side of the cloister.
A throng of men and shit-stinking animals filled the yard, but I forced my way through them.
‘If you’re looking for Lord Robert, you won’t find him there,’ someone called as I neared the hall’s doors. I turned to see a familiar figure waving in our direction.
‘Eudo!’ I said, at once forgetting why we were here, so glad was I to see him alive. He was sitting on a stool while a young woman dressed in drab, loose-fitting robes, who might have been a nun, wrapped a length of cloth around his forearm, but he rose to greet us, embracing Wace and myself in turn.
‘Is it bad?’ I asked, gesturing at the bandage.
He sat back down and gave a wince as the woman tied off the loose ends. ‘One of the bastards broke my
