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!’