Knights of the Hawk c-3

by James Aitcheson

  Breathing hard, I found myself with space around me. The rest of the Englishmen were fleeing northwards along the track, following their womenfolk, abandoning the fight.

  I checked Fyrheard by the path’s edge. ‘Go,’ I yelled to the others, my voice hoarse and hurting. ‘After them!’

  ‘With me,’ said Wace. ‘Conroi with me!’

  He and Pons and Serlo and Tor and the Gascon flashed past, and they were followed by Hamo and half a dozen of his men, who had cast aside their bows and drawn swords and axes and knives. Cries of delight went up as they sensed plunder at hand.

  But I had more important things in mind. I glanced about, searching for Hereward. For his corpse was not among those strewn along the path.

  And then I saw him, striking out from the path across the mud, crashing through the sedge and the reeds towards a stand of alders an arrow’s flight away, hobbling as he went owing to his injured ankle. Godric was pursuing him, swearing as he struggled over the soft ground, while by the willow trees on the island one of the remaining archers — a squat, square-faced lad — had an arrow upon his bow. Already he had drawn the string back and his eyes were narrowed as he took his aim.

  ‘Leave him,’ I called, and thankfully the lad heard me and lowered his bow. ‘He’s mine!’

  If ever there was one kill I wanted, it was this one. I would not let Hereward escape my sword, as Eadgar Ætheling and Wild Eadric and Bleddyn ap Cynfyn had done. I wanted to be known as the man who had slain the scourge of the fens, who had gone toe to toe with him in single combat and had bested him. His death would be just reward for all the hardships we had suffered, on this campaign and in the past five years.

  Freeing my shield-arm from the leather brases and leaving Fyrheard behind, I headed off in pursuit of the Englishman, charging across the quagmire as best I could manage. The ground sucked at my boots; before long my trews were soaked and clinging to my legs as high as my knee, weighing my tired legs down further, but I clenched my teeth and kept going, hacking at the reeds with my sword as I desperately tried to clear a way through.

  I saw Godric ahead of me and called to him. Mud caked his clothes, his tunic was torn, his arms were cut and his cheek was grazed where he had fallen, and all he had with which to defend himself was his sword.

  ‘Go back,’ I told him. ‘This isn’t your fight.’

  ‘Lord-’

  ‘You’ve done enough,’ I said, more forcefully this time. ‘Now, go.’

  His face fell, but I didn’t have time to argue with him as I crashed on, further into the bog.

  ‘Hereward,’ I yelled. ‘Come and fight me!’

  Soon I was wading through water that was knee-deep, and I was wet up to my chest from the splashing, but still I pressed on in the direction he’d been heading, until I found myself gazing out across a sun-sparkling mere, some fifty paces wide and more.

  I’d lost him.

  ‘Hereward!’

  No reply came. I swore violently, and again, and again. All that could be heard was the swish of the breeze amongst the reeds, and the gentle, rhythmic whistle of a heron’s wings as it flew overhead, and the distant cries of alarm as my sword-brothers chased the enemy down.

  He was gone.

  The bloodlust faded and I was standing alone, panting, feeling the cold waters swirl around my toes and sweat trickle down from my brow. Marsh-grime covered my hauberk and chausses and there were strands of weed tangled around my sword-hand and around my blade. There would be no glory. Not this time.

  I was returning my sword to its scabbard when behind me there was a sudden splash, and I half turned, thinking that Godric had decided to follow me after all-

  Not a moment too soon. Hereward, his damp hair flailing, heaved his seax around, aiming for my head. Instinctively I ducked, but in doing so I found myself struggling for balance. My foot had become trapped in the mud and I couldn’t move it quickly enough. With a crash of spray I toppled backwards, plunging into the marsh, my mail dragging me down, and there was water in my mouth and in my nose and in my throat, and I was choking and swallowing and gasping for breath all at the same time, trying somehow to raise my head above the surface, but there was a weight on my chest, holding me under, and my limbs were flailing and my lungs burning, and I could see nothing except white stars dancing in my eyes.

  Then there was a hand on my collar, pulling me free of the marsh’s grasp. I inhaled deeply, thankful to find air at last even if only for a moment, and I saw my enemy standing over me, his yellow teeth bared, and in his stone-grey eyes was hatred such as I had never seen.

  ‘You Frenchmen stole my lands,’ he said, and he was sobbing as he spoke. Tears streamed down his face. ‘You killed my men. Now I’ll kill you!’

  I tried to struggle, but couldn’t find the strength. I had just enough presence of mind to take another breath before Hereward let go of my collar and stamped down upon my chest. I could make out his shadowy form standing over me, and the bright spot of the sun behind him, but all my kicking and waving was to no avail, and that was when the fear took me.

  Fear, because I knew that this was it. My time had come, and all I could think was how stupid I had been, and how for that stupidity I would now pay with my life.

  My mind began to cloud. With every last beat of my heart I could feel my strength failing, the darkness encircling me, closing in-

  When suddenly the weight on my chest was no more. Summoning every last ounce of will that was left to me, I raised myself up, struggling against the weight of my hauberk, gasping desperately for air that at first would not come, but which, when it did, was as sweet as heaven. I blinked as I inhaled, scarcely believing that I was still alive.

  Sunlight pained my eyes, making it difficult to see, but as the brightness faded I saw Hereward. He staggered a couple of paces backwards, staring stupidly down at me as if in surprise, his jaw hanging open as if he were about to say something. Whatever that might have been, though, he never had a chance to utter. His legs gave way; he toppled forwards, and I caught a glimpse of the gash decorating the back of his skull as his limp corpse fell with a crash into the water.

  And I found myself looking upon the face of the man to whom I owed my life.

  Godric.

  Thirteen

  He stood, breathless, his eyes wide and his face deathly pale as he gazed down at Hereward’s body. His hand and the fuller of his weapon were running with his foe’s glistening blood, while the swirled waters around his 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 h
e 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 finger and laid a cut here. His axe came down on my shield and smashed straight through. It could have been worse, I suppose. At least it wasn’t my sword-hand.’

  ‘We didn’t know what had happened to you,’ Wace said. ‘We feared the worst.’

  ‘Likewise,’ Eudo said. ‘So where have you been?’

  ‘Ask Godric,’ I said. ‘He’ll explain.’ Eudo gave me a questioning look, but before he could say anything, I asked him: ‘Where’s Robert?’

  ‘He rode back to camp. His father isn’t long for this life, or so we heard. A message arrived from his chaplain a couple of hours ago. He left straightaway.’

  We’d all known that Malet’s days were few, and yet somehow I’d never actually believed that his time would come so soon. Not on this, our day of victory.

  ‘He’s returned to Alrehetha?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ Eudo said. ‘Why?’

  I started back towards the gates. ‘Because that’s where I need to go.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  It was ha
rd to explain. I was stubborn in those days, and rarely cared what others thought of me, and yet for some reason it felt important that I should have Malet’s forgiveness before he left this life behind him. Whether that was simply because he had once been my lord and I had been oath-sworn to him, or because he had given me new purpose and offered me a chance for redemption at a time in my life when all seemed dark, I couldn’t say exactly.

  I only hoped I was not too late.

  The sun was growing low in the sky by the time I arrived at Alrehetha and rode through the gates of the guardhouse, which was where Malet was quartered. A handful of sentries were posted on the gate, but when I told them why I’d come they let me pass and directed me to a large timber-built hall, a fine place which had existed before the ditches and banks and palisades had been built, and which had been appropriated for the comfort of the king and his household. Certainly it was a more fitting place for a baron of Malet’s standing to live out his final hours than the hovel at Brandune in which he’d spent all those weeks. I took that as a sign that the king’s feelings towards the family were at last softening. It was about time, too, considering everything we and Robert had done for him of late.

  At the hall I gave my weapons to the steward, who directed me along a narrow passage. At its end, guarding the door, stood a man whom I recognised for one of Robert’s hearth-knights.

  ‘Is he-?’ I asked.

  ‘Still with us, if only barely,’ the man replied. ‘I can’t let you go in, though. Not unless Lord Robert says so.’

  ‘Then why don’t you ask him?’ I suggested.

  I waited while he went inside. After a few moments he returned and with a nod of his head motioned me through.