Serlo crouched beside me, holding a leather flask. ‘Ale,’ he said. ‘There’s not much left.’
‘It’ll be enough,’ I replied as I took it and removed the stopper. From the weight and the sound it made as I swirled the liquid about I reckoned it was probably about a quarter full. I turned back to the priest. ‘Can you sit up?’
He shook his head, teeth clenched in pain. His breath came in stutters, making it hard for him to speak. ‘I am beyond the help of ale. Besides, soon there will be no more pain. I shall be with God, and all will be well. There is only one thing you can do for me.’
‘What is it, father?’
He gave a great hacking cough, and as he did so his whole body shuddered. Thankfully the fit did not last long and, sighing wearily, he lay back once more, at the same time motioning with his fingers for me to come closer. I leant towards him. There were tears in the old man’s eyes, running down his cheeks.
‘Bring to justice the ones who did this,’ he said. ‘Their leader too, that spawn of the Devil. The one they call Hereward. Promise me that.’
‘Hereward?’ I repeated, wanting to make sure I had heard him rightly. ‘He did this?’
‘So they called him, yes.’
That name was well known to me, as it was to everyone in our army, but I hadn’t expected to hear it today, in this place. Hereward was one of the leaders of the rebels; it was he who had instigated this particular rising here in the fens. Some said he was a prominent thegn who had held land in these parts under the old king, Eadward. Others claimed he was a creature of the forest, abandoned at birth by his mother and raised by wolves, which explained his ruthless nature and his lack of Christian mercy. In truth no one knew where he had come from; his name had been first spoken only last autumn. While we had been campaigning with the king in the north, Hereward had raided the abbey at Burh, slain several of the monks and carried away all their treasures, including shrines and gilded crucifixes, richly bound and decorated gospel books and even, it was said, the golden crown that had rested upon Christ’s head on the rood beneath the chancel arch. With the help of some Danish swords-for-hire he’d torched the town and monastery, and afterwards had fled by ship across the marshlands to the Isle of Elyg, where he now chose to make his stand against us, bolstered by the hundreds of other English outlaws who had flocked to his banner.
It was because of him that we were here in this godforsaken corner of the kingdom. It was because of him that, barely half a year after we had defeated the Northumbrians and their Danish allies at Beferlic and sent the pretender Eadgar scurrying back to the protection of the King of Alba, we’d found ourselves once more summoned by the king to join him on another of his campaigns.
Yet if the old priest was right, and it was indeed Hereward who had done this, and if we could kill or capture him—
A new sense of purpose stirred within me. ‘How many of them were there?’ I asked.
The priest’s eyes were closed again, and his skin was as pale as snow. His time was near. But if I was to do what he had asked of me, he had to give me answers. I clasped his wrinkled, bloodstained hand, squeezing it firmly to try to keep him with us a little longer. At once he blinked and came to, a look of confusion upon his face, as if he did not quite know where he was.
‘How many, father?’ I said again.
He groaned as if with the effort of remembering, and after a moment managed to answer, ‘A dozen, perhaps fifteen. No more.’
Roughly two men to every one of us, then. Fewer than I had been expecting, but still more than I would have liked to face, especially when one of them was Hereward himself, whose sword-edge had already claimed countless victims, if the stories told about him were true. No warrior ever won himself great fame without some measure of risk along the way, however. The difficulty came in learning which risks to embrace and which to avoid, and this seemed to me one worth taking.
‘When did they leave?’ I asked the priest.
‘Not an hour ago,’ he said, his eyelids drooping. ‘They went …’
‘Where?’
At first I thought he was slipping away and that we wouldn’t get an answer, but then I spotted the faintest movement of his lips. I leant closer, having to put my ear almost to his mouth in order to hear him.
‘Promise me,’ he said, barely managing a whisper. ‘Promise me.’
‘I will bring them to justice, father,’ I said. ‘I swear it upon the cross. But you have to tell me where they went.’
‘North.’ The words came slowly now. ‘They went north. That much I know. Now, let me rest.’
I nodded and squeezed the priest’s hand one last time, then rested it carefully back upon his chest, which 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 unhit
ching 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 wickedly with its promise of death.
‘Shields,’ I cried as I raised my own to cover my face and upper chest, praying that the others heard my warning as for a moment I charged on blindly.
A violent shriek filled the air, and I looked up in time to see Pons’s destrier go down in a writhing mess of hooves, turf, mud and horseflesh. Pons himself was on the ground, yelling for help as he struggled to free his foot, which was trapped beneath the animal as it kicked and screamed, its eyes wide and white. Serlo brought his horse to a halt and leapt down to help him, but that was all I saw, for I had other concerns.
Barely fifty paces in front of me, Hereward stood alone, yelling vehemently as he waved back some of his comrades who were jumping from the boats to come to his aid – whether out of stupidity or arrogance, I couldn’t tell, and hardly cared. I stared at him, couching my lance under my arm, levelling the point at chest-height and imagining how I would drive it deep into his heart, twisting it so as to kill him all the quicker. Victory would be ours, and we would return to the king’s camp with his head as our prize. He returned my gaze, and as he did so I saw the determination in his dark eyes. Calmly, as if he were merely enjoying an afternoon’s practice at the butts, he drew another shaft from his arrow-bag, raised the bow into position, aimed it in my direction—
When something happened that I was not expecting. Something that, even all this time later, I find myself ashamed to recount. Something that in all the time I’d travelled the sword-path had only happened once, when I stood with knife in hand facing the fishmonger in that Flemish town all those years ago. For as Hereward slowly brought the string back to his shoulder, as the feathered end brushed the skin upon his cheek and as he prepared to loose, a vision flashed through my mind. A vision that told me how that arrow would fly and where it would strike, how at this distance it would run through mail and flesh as easily as a needle through cloth.
I stared at that arrow-point and fear gripped me: a fear so powerful that I had never known its kind before. My stomach lurched; my breath caught in my chest. My blood was no longer pounding, filling my limbs with vigour, and I wondered if my heart had stopped. Like water being thrown on a fire, the battle-joy was extinguished. For the first time I could remember since that day when I was a youth, my nerve failed me in the heat of battle. I did not see victory before me now, but something else entirely.
I saw my death.
Why it happened and how it happened so quickly, I cannot say. All I know is that suddenly I was jerking sharply to one side, wheeling around, abandoning the charge, abandoning the fight, all the while expecting to feel a sudden strike between my shoulder-blades, or for Fyrheard to collapse beneath me and for me to be pitched from the saddle.
I never knew where that feathered sha
ft landed, or whether Hereward even loosed it at all. But I heard the jeers and laughter of the Englishmen in their boats. They taunted me in their own tongue, calling me a craven and many worse things besides, and an angry heat burnt inside me at the knowledge that they were right. I had fled from a fight, not because I was outnumbered or because sensible action had won out over blind rage, but because of fear.
Fear at the challenge. Fear for my life.
Floods of sweat rolled off my brow, stinging my eyes. By the time I had blinked the moisture away, wiped a sleeve across my face and turned to face the enemy again, it was too late to do anything. Hereward was wading back once more through the silt-brown marsh-waters to the cheers of his companions. Several of them helped to haul his mailed form aboard one of the boats, where he proceeded to stand up and grin at us, lifting his arms aloft and spreading them wide.
‘Hereward!’ his men cried as one. ‘Hereward!’
A few of them broke into song, raised their fists in the air or bared their pale arses at us, waggling them from side to side. Most, however, had picked up oars and were anxiously rowing as fast as possible. Hamo’s men continued to rain steel upon them, riding down right to the edge of the marsh so that they could get closer. One arrow struck a green-painted shield, but that was the closest any of their attempts came, the rest all dropping with splashes into the murky depths. Still they kept sending volley after volley up into the evening sky, although more in hope than in expectation, I sensed. All too soon the boats were beyond the range of even the most skilled archer in Christendom, and not long after that they had disappeared entirely into the marsh-mist.
Conquest 03 - Knights of the Hawk Page 4