‘Lord-’ he began to protest, but I cut him off.
‘Enough,’ I said, and then pointed to the four of the archers nearest me: a full third of his company. ‘You’ll come with me.’
The four glanced at their leader, waiting for his assent. He said nothing but for a few moments held my gaze, resentment in his eyes, before nodding and gesturing for them to follow me. No doubt he would add this to his list of grievances, and find some way of using it against me, but I would worry about that another time. For now I had greater concerns.
‘Keep a watch out on all sides and have your bows ready,’ I said as we began to ride off. ‘We’ll be back before long.’
‘And if the enemy happen upon us while you’re gone?’ asked Hamo. ‘What are we supposed to do then?’
‘Kill them,’ I answered with a shrug. ‘Isn’t that what you have arrows for?’
It wasn’t much of a reassurance, nor did I expect it to be, but it was all the advice I had to offer. But then I doubted that Hamo and his men would choose to put up much of a fight. Rather, if it looked as though they were outnumbered they would probably turn tail at the first opportunity, abandoning the carts and their contents in order to save their own skins. If they did, they needn’t worry about ever showing their faces in our camp again, and at least King Guillaume wouldn’t need to keep wasting good silver on them. Although I respected their skills with bow and blade, I didn’t trust them, and I was far from the only one to share that sentiment. Sellswords were considered by many to be among the lowest class of men. Exiles and oath-breakers for the most part, they were entirely lacking in honour and scruple. Many would probably kill their own mothers if they thought they could profit from doing so.
With that we left Hamo and the rest of his company, and struck out across the flat country. Seven men did not make much of an army, especially when I was used to commanding scores and at times even hundreds, but it would have to do. Unlike their captain, the four archers were all young lads. A couple of them were taller even than myself, and I was not exactly short. Each was broad in the chest, with the sturdy shoulders and thick arms needed to draw a string of any great weight. I myself had never mastered the bow, instead preferring as most knights did to hone my skills with sword and lance. But I knew from experience the slaughter that well-trained bowmen could wreak. They had proven their worth in the great battle at Hæstinges, firstly by inflicting great casualties amongst the English ranks and softening them to our charge, and later, it was said, by wounding the usurper Harold Godwineson, who according to rumour had received an arrow in his eye shortly before he fell to Duke Guillaume’s sword. Whether that was true or not, no one knew for certain, although I’d met several men who claimed theirs was the arrow that had struck him.
That was five years ago. Since that day much had changed; I had seen friends and comrades die and gained others from unexpected quarters, had striven hard to win myself lands of my own only for them to be laid waste by my enemies, had found fame and honour and love and come close to losing it all.
One thing, though, remained the same, for even five years after we had triumphed at Hæstinges and King Guillaume had received the crown that belonged to him by right — the crown that had been promised him by his predecessor, King Eadward, and had been won with the Pope’s blessing — still many among the English refused to submit to him. And so we found ourselves here in this bleak corner of East Anglia, trying to snuff out the final embers of rebellion, so far without success. Already we had been in the field for more than two months, and what did we have to show for it? A mud-ridden camp in which half the king’s army was succumbing to fever and flux, while hundreds more lay dead after earlier attempts to assault the enemy upon the Isle of Elyg had ended in failure. Meanwhile the rebels continued to taunt us with their constant raids on the surrounding land. With every week they held out against us, scores more flocked to their banners, so that they had grown from a paltry couple of hundred to a host reckoned at nearly three thousand strong, and perhaps even larger than that. In truth no one knew for certain, and in the absence of any reliable information, the numbers grew ever wilder. Which meant that if we saw even the slightest chance to inflict some damage upon the enemy, we had to take it.
Keeping a careful watch out on all sides, we rode towards the source of the smoke. Soon I began to make out what only a short time ago would have been barns, hovels and cattle-sheds, though there was little left of them now. Amidst the fallen-in posts and roof-beams I spied glimmers of flame. Carrion birds cawed as they circled above the ruins in pairs and threes and fours; from somewhere came the forlorn bleating of a goat, although I could not see it. There was no other sound, nor any sign of movement, nor any glint of mail or spearpoints, which suggested the rebels had already left this place. Even so, we approached slowly. In my younger days my recklessness had often been my undoing, but experience had taught me the value of caution. The last thing I wanted was to rush in only to find ourselves in a snare, surrounded and outnumbered and with no hope of retreat. And so the four archers kept arrows nocked to their bowstrings, ready to let fly if they saw anything that looked like a foeman, while the rest of us gripped our lance-hafts firmly.
The blackened remains of the manor stood upon a low rise. As we climbed, it became clear that we were the only ones around. Anywhere that might have provided a hiding place for the enemy had been razed to the ground. Livestock had been slaughtered in the fields and the pens, while the corpses of men, women and children alike lay in the yards and the vegetable gardens, their clothes and hair congealed with blood. Feathered shafts protruded from the chests and backs of some, while others had gaping wounds to their necks and thighs, and bright gashes across their faces. No one had been spared. The stench of burnt flesh mixed with freshly spilt guts hung in the air: smells at which I might once have retched, but which by now had grown only too familiar. In the past few years I’d witnessed so many burnings of this kind that it was hard to be much moved by them. Still, it was rare that the enemy left so little in their wake.
‘They killed even their own kind,’ I murmured, scarcely able to believe it, though it wasn’t the first time I’d seen it happen. Usually the rebels would kill the lord and his retainers, if they happened to be French, but leave the English folk unharmed. Sometimes, though, their desire for blood consumed them, and they wouldn’t stop until all around was ruin and death. Perhaps the villagers had tried to fight back, or else the rebels had judged them guilty of falling subject to a foreign lord. I could only guess the reason.
Usually, though, there would be at least one person left alive. One to tell the tale. One to spread the news of what had happened here. One to foster fear of those who had done this. I knew because it was what I would have done.
We halted not far from what I guessed had once been a church, although there seemed to be little to distinguish it from the remains of the other hovels save for a waist-high stone cross that stood at its western end. One wall alone remained standing, but, as we dismounted, that too collapsed inwards, sending a great cloud of dust and still-glowing ash billowing up.
Beside me, Pons shook his head and muttered something that I could not entirely make out but which was most likely a curse.
Serlo turned to me. ‘Why do you think they did this, lord?’
To that question there was no simple answer. Even if the lord of this manor had been a Frenchman, as seemed likely, the people living here would have been kinsfolk of the enemy. And apart from a few sheep and goats and chickens, most of which they seemed to have killed rather than take with them, what could there have been in a place like this to make it worth attacking?
Only one explanation came to mind. ‘They wanted to send us a message,’ I said.
‘A message?’ Serlo echoed, frowning.
Slowly it was beginning to make sense. The reason why they had come to this place, so far from their encampment upon the Isle.
‘The enemy weren’t looking for plunder or captives,’ I said. ‘If they were, they could have chosen to attack any number of manors closer to Elyg.’
‘A show of force,’ Pons put in, understanding at last. ‘That’s what they wanted. The more damage they wreak and the more ruthless they appear, the more panic they spread.’
I nodded. ‘They want to prove that they don’t fear us. That they can strike anywhere, at any time.’
And that was a bad sign, for it suggested that they were not only growing in confidence but also that they had men to spare for such expeditions. Before, they had preferred to keep to their corner of the marshlands and wait for us to come to them, only raiding occasionally and even then in places where they judged the risks to be fewest. But no longer. Now they laid waste the land with impunity, taunting us, and all the while we were powerless to stop them.
