still rose and fell, though so slightly as to be almost imperceptible. Between breaths he whispered something that I could not entirely make out, but which from a couple of Latin words I guessed was probably a prayer for the safekeeping of his soul. Not that he had the chance to finish it, for he was still in the middle of whatever he was uttering when a pained expression came across his face and a long groan left his lips. His eyes closed once more; moments later his chest ceased moving, and that was when I knew he had left this world and that he was, at last, with God.
I made the sign of the cross across my breast as I got to my feet, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Serlo and Pons do the same. Around us the houses still burnt. The wind was rising, tugging at my tunic, blowing the smoke towards us and causing tongues of vibrant flame to flare up amongst what remained of the smoking timbers, wattle and thatch.
‘What now?’ asked the archer with the gaunt face, his expression now devoid of humour.
‘We ride,’ I answered.
Hereward and his band couldn’t have got far in an hour. No doubt they would be making for wherever they had moored their boats. Since few vessels large and sturdy enough to carry a horse could navigate the marshes, I guessed they would most likely be on foot, which meant that we still had a chance of catching up with them.
Without delay we mounted up. I would have liked to bury the priest if only to save his body from the crows, but there was no time. Instead we left him by the haywain where he lay, his expression serene as if he were simply sleeping.
Only later, when the wreckage of the village was far behind us, did I realise that I hadn’t even learnt his name.
Two
The rebels had left few clear tracks, but there was only one path leading out of the village to the north, and so that was the one we followed. We rode swiftly, past stunted trees and the fallen-in roofs of cottages that were now abandoned, across rain-sodden earth and through shallow streams, our mounts’ hooves kicking up mud and stones and water. We were close, I knew, to the southern edge of the marshes, where the land ended and gave way to a broad expanse of sedges and reed-banks, of myriad channels and meres, which stretched all the way from here to the German Sea. It seemed a different world entirely from the March at the other end of the kingdom where my manor lay, with its high hills and moors, and its valleys rich and green. No one but fisherfolk and eel- catchers lived here in this desolate place, and even then they did not live well. Only the higher ground upon the Isle of Elyg had anything much worth defending, which was one of the reasons why the rebels had made it their stronghold, the other being the fens on all sides that rendered any approach impassable to horses and treacherous for anyone on foot who was unfamiliar with the safe passages.
The land fell away as we neared that marsh. The wind pressed at our backs and every gust pushed us ever onwards, ever faster, through fallow fields where the grass had grown tall and pasturelands that sheep and cattle had stripped almost bare of grass. With every furlong we covered I could feel the ground beneath Fyrheard’s hooves growing softer, until in the distance it was possible to see the fields giving way to bogs and river inlets that marked the beginning of the marsh. But that was not all I saw. Close by the water’s edge, amidst the reeds that rose up around those creeks, were the dark figures of several men unhitching packs from the panniers of two sumpter ponies, no doubt stolen from the village. The clouds were beginning to part, and as the first glimmer of evening light broke through, I spied the telltale glint of spearpoints and helmets that signified a war-band, and I knew we had found them.
There was no cover to be had anywhere, and across that flat land they saw us as easily and as surely as we saw them. They glimpsed our lances and our hauberks shining in the late sun, and all at once they began raising cries of alarm. Leaving the ponies behind, they made for one of the inlets, dragging what looked like small rowing boats out from their hiding places amidst the sedges and bushes and taking them down to the water. They knew that mailed horsemen meant trouble, and they had no wish to fight us and risk their lives if they could help it.
‘Faster,’ I urged the others. ‘Ride harder!’
My blood was up, the familiar battle-joy coursing through my veins as the seven of us raced across the water-meadows towards the enemy. I spurred Fyrheard on, drawing every last fraction of speed from his legs, trusting him not to stumble over the thick tussocks or falter in his stride across the damp earth. I controlled him now with my legs alone as I unslung my shield from where it rested across my back and worked my arm through the leather brases, clutching the crossed straps that ran behind the boss, while in the other hand I gripped the haft of my lance. On my flanks Pons and Serlo roared battle-cries of their own, but their exact words were lost amidst the rush of air, the thunder of hooves and the sound of my heartbeat ringing through my skull.
Already one boatload was getting away, using paddles and longer-handled oars to push their vessel away from the bank and out on to the open water. A few were still struggling to free their vessels from the undergrowth, while three, ignoring their kinsmen’s shouts of warning, had run back to the ponies as they tried to rescue more of their plunder. They fumbled at the buckles and straps of the harnesses, spilling the contents of the packs across the ground, where they fell amidst the tufts of grass and clumps of thistles. Desperately they scooped up armfuls of gilded plate and bronze candlesticks and shoved silver coin into their pouches before, at last, they turned in flight.
Too late. From above my head came a sharp whistle of air, quickly followed by another and another and another still. I looked up to see four goose-feathered shafts soaring towards the enemy, then glanced behind to see Hamo’s archers drawn up in a line. Without even dismounting they drew arrow after arrow from the bags at their sides, letting them fly no sooner than they had put them to their bowstrings. Most of those attempts overshot, either falling amidst the banks of reeds or else dropping into the mere beyond, but one found its target, burying itself square in the back of one of the greedier Englishmen as he scurried across the field towards the waiting boats. The force of the impact pitched him forward; the gathered plunder slipped from his grasp in a shower of gold.
To my right, Pons gave a whoop of delight, lifting his shield-hand to the sky as he drew ahead of myself and Serlo. The strength of the charge lay in weight of numbers, in massed knights riding knee to knee, and normally I would have shouted for him to keep formation, but the only thing that mattered now was speed. We couldn’t afford to let them get away, not this time. Not when fame was ours for the taking.
‘On!’ I yelled. The wind whipped against my cheeks and the black hawk pennon nailed below my lance-head fluttered. ‘On, on, on, for God and for Normandy!’
That single arrow-strike was all it took to spread confusion amongst the Englishmen. Those already afloat were paddling furiously to get out of bowshot, leaving behind the two boat crews still on land, who seemed to be confused as to whether they should carry on dragging their vessels down to the water, or else try to make a stand against us. All the while we were bearing down upon them, no more than half a furlong away now: a mere seven men sowing fear in the hearts of a force twice that number.
And then I saw him. He leapt down from one of the craft into the water, a bow slung over one shoulder and an arrow-bag over the other, and waded through the waist-deep waters towards the shore, berating the stragglers and gesturing towards their boats. A gangly, long-limbed giant of a man, he stood half a head above the tallest of his comrades. His mail shirt gleamed as if newly polished, but he wore no helmet to protect his head, and so I could clearly see the lank black hair hanging to his shoulders. There was purpose in his every movement, and even in that brief moment I had the impression of one well used to leading.
Hereward.
It could be no other. The last of his men had finally managed to cast off from the shore, leaving him alone to face us. Around him steel rained down as Hamo’s archers continued to let fly volley after volley, but he showed no sign of fear. He lifted his own bow from his shoulder, and in what seemed like a single movement he drew and loosed a single arrow.
It flew swiftly and it flew true, sailing just above the reed-heads. He watched it all the way, without even troubling to put a second to his bowstring, as if somehow he knew that one was all he would need. At first I thought he had misjudged the angle of the flight, for it seemed it would glide well over our heads, but then the wind must have caught it, for its silver-shining head suddenly turned earthwards towards us, the point glinting
