the most powerful lords in Normandy, and held in high esteem by the king. But it was at least three days’ ride away, and probably more if we kept off the main tracks, since the country was not known to us. The old Roman way, if we could find it, would be dangerous, though certainly quicker. That was the route we had taken on our march here, an army of nearly two thousand men under Lord Robert. I wondered what remained of that army now.
Shortly we came upon a clearing where a great oak had once stood, though now it was fallen: a victim of the recent winds, perhaps. At one end its splintered branches splayed out across the ground. At the other, its roots, clogged with dirt, hung over the rough pit where they had been ripped from the earth.
From somewhere in the distance came a shout and I froze, bringing Rollo to a halt. I turned, feeling myself tense, reaching for my sword-hilt, until I realised it wasn’t there. The voice had come from off to our right, but amidst the trees I could see nothing. I looked to Wace, but he did not appear to have heard, for he was riding on ahead.
‘Wace,’ I said, keeping my voice low.
He brought his horse to a stop. There was an impatient look in his eyes, but then again Wace rarely had much patience for anyone. His jaw was clenched, his ventail unhooked and hanging from the side of his coif.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘I heard someone,’ I said, gesturing in the direction that the shout had come from.
His face turned stern as he looked out through the trees. Around us the rain carried on falling. Otherwise all was quiet.
‘You’re mistaken,’ he said, and spurred his mount onwards again.
But then the same voices came again, two of them at least, calling to each other in words I did not understand, but which sounded like English. They could not have been far away, either; a couple of hundred paces at most, and probably less: sound did not carry far in the woods. Had they been following our trail?
Wace glanced at me over his shoulder, no doubt thinking the same thing. ‘Come on,’ he said as he made for the other side of the clearing. The track we had been following turned to the east here, back towards the river Wiire, but he was heading west, into the heart of the wood.
I pressed my heels in and Rollo started forward, moving quickly into a trot. I patted him on the side of his neck. He had worked hard already this night, but he could not rest yet.
We left the clearing behind us, pushing on through the trees. A layer of leaves and pine needles covered the ground, muffling the sound of our horses’ hooves. More than once a branch scraped against my wounded calf. I winced at the pain, but I could not think about it as we kept on going.
I heard the same voices again, behind us, laughing and calling to one another. I glanced over my shoulder, finding it difficult at first to make much out, but then I glimpsed the fallen oak, and beside it shadowy figures on horseback. Three of them in all. I held my breath as I watched them, not wanting to make any sound that might give us away. They dismounted and, still talking, staggered about the clearing. One of them began to sing, another joined in, and then they began to dance about in drunken fashion.
‘
I realised that Wace was already some way ahead of me, and kicked on again to catch him up. Branches crunched under Rollo’s hooves, and I hoped that they would not hear us, but the laughter and singing continued and I took that as a good sign. As we approached the top of the rise, gradually the shouts began to fade, and the next time I glanced back, the three figures were gone.
There was no more sign of the enemy that night, and for that I thanked God. Several times one of us thought we had heard a sound, but it could only have been an animal, or the wind in the pine branches, for we never saw anything.
We continued west for some while, until we had put enough distance between ourselves and the Englishmen to feel safe. Then we turned to the south once more, or at least what we thought was south. It was becoming harder to tell; the wind was easing, and without the moon or the stars to guide us, we could only strike out and hope for the best.
Before long we came once more to the banks of what must have been the river Wiire. The waters were fast and black as pitch, tumbling and frothing over rocks so jagged they seemed to me like the teeth of some immense beast. There was no chance of us being able to ford it, and so we had no choice but to carry on following it upstream, keeping to the trees as much as possible, in case anyone was watching from the opposite shore.
The first bridge we passed had fallen into ruin, its two stone piers all that remained; another we found in better repair, but the country on the other side lay open, and even in the dark we judged it better to stay in the cover of the woods. It could have been as much as an hour, and perhaps even more, before at last we came upon one we could cross. Beyond it on the other bank the woods continued, and it seemed that they were even thicker than before, if that were possible. The land rose steeply here, the paths slippery with mud and loose stones, and we had to dismount to lead the horses up it, or else risk falling and breaking our own necks as well as theirs.
I staggered up after Wace, my leg paining me more and more with every step. But I knew that if I stopped to rest I would not want to move again, and so I forced myself to carry on, trying to put my weight on my good leg. Behind me, Rollo followed meekly, his head bowed low. I trudged on, concentrating on placing one foot ahead of the other, hardly daring to look towards the summit, but before long I was falling behind again.
‘Don’t stop,’ Wace called back down to me. He was perhaps twenty paces ahead, already close to the top of the rise. ‘We need to keep going.’
‘It’s my leg,’ I said, grimacing as another bolt of pain shot through the wound.
He left his horse and descended the path once again, taking care over the many roots and stones protruding from the ground.
‘I hadn’t realised,’ he said when he reached me. ‘Is it bad?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I was struck during the battle. It wasn’t so bad while we were riding.’
He knelt down to examine it, and I watched the expression on his face, though it revealed nothing. ‘It’s hard to see,’ he said. ‘But we can’t stop here. It’s not much further to the top. Then we can ride again.’
He placed his arm around my back and under my shoulder, helping me as I limped up the slope. While I regained my breath he went back down for Rollo. I waited, gazing up towards the skies, which were beginning to clear. The rain was easing, now little more than a drizzle.
Soon, though, we were back in the saddle. Even as far as we had come, we could not afford to stop, and so we rode on through the darkness, hour after hour. I had almost begun to think that this night would never end, when at last the skies began to lighten, and as the first rays of sunlight began to break over the horizon, we found ourselves atop a ridge on the edge of the woods. Open country lay to the south, wide and flat all the way as far as I could see, until in the very distance the horizon was lost in the haze. A spire of smoke rose from a farmstead, a small black dot on the plain: the only sign of life.
‘We should rest here,’ I said. ‘It’s sheltered, and we’ll be able to see anyone coming.’
‘From the south, maybe,’ Wace replied, his expression stern. ‘It’s those coming from the north I’m worried about.’
But it was not as if we had much choice, for the horses were spent: we had ridden them hard all the way from the battle, and they would surely not be able to go on much longer, even if we ourselves wanted to. And I could see the tiredness in Wace’s eyes — both his good one and the other — as much as I felt it in my own.
Not far off I could hear the trickling of a small stream, and we led our mounts to it. We unsaddled them and let them drink before tying the reins to a nearby birch, where there was enough grass around for them to eat: although if they felt anything like I did, they would not be hungry.
I lay down upon the soft earth, doing my best to ignore the pain. A gust of wind rustled the branches and I shivered, pulling my cloak closer, though it did not offer much protection. Only the night before last I had been sharing my tent with Oswynn, feeling the warmth of her embrace, the tenderness of her touch, and all had been as it should be.
The wind gusted again. I closed my eyes, seeing her face rise before me, and as I lay there on the damp ground, at last the tears began to flow. My breath came in stutters, catching in my chest, pulling at my heart, and my mind was filled with thoughts of her as I told myself over and over: I could not have known.
But none of it helped. For she was dead, and I had killed her.
I slept after that, though it could not have been for long, for the sun was not yet at its highest when I woke,
