Knights of the Hawk (Conquest #3)

As it was, we would be hard pressed to catch them. Our quarry had a good lead on us already, and even though we were mounted, whereas it sounded as though they were travelling on foot, this was difficult country for horses. Still, I would rather make the attempt and fail than not try at all.

I searched about for the black-and-gold banner and Lord Robert, but couldn’t find him anywhere. Bands of men on horseback and on foot rushed past on both sides, most making for the monastery, while a few were tearing thatch from nearby hovels in search of treasures that the folk who lived there might have hidden before they took flight. All was disorder, as our proud and noble army dissolved into packs of wolves.

I saw Wace with the Gascon and Tor, and called to them, waving for them to follow me. ‘Wace!’

‘Where are you going?’ Wace shouted back.

‘After Hereward!’

He looked at me as if I had lost my wits, and perhaps I had, although the wildness that possessed me was of a different sort to that which had seized the rest of our army. A confidence burnt inside me that I could not account for. Suddenly anything seemed possible.

‘You’re going after Hereward?’ he asked, and wiped another trickle of blood from his cheek.

‘Why not?’ I replied.

To him this no doubt sounded like a fool’s errand, but I knew otherwise. For I wasn’t only thinking of the oath I had sworn. I was also thinking that here was our chance to do something worthy of the king’s attention, something that the chroniclers would write of when, in years to come, they came to lay quill to parchment about the battle for the Isle. Whether they admitted it or not, fame was what all those who made their living by the sword craved, more than silver or gold or fine-wrought blades or horses with jewel-studded harnesses or land or power. I was no different. I longed to restore my dwindling reputation, and I saw in Wace’s eyes that he had the same hunger.

‘Why not, indeed?’ he said with a smile, and I grinned too, because I’d known he wouldn’t refuse.

‘Do you really think we can catch them, lord?’ asked Pons.

‘Maybe not,’ I said. ‘But we can try.’

No one noticed as, led by young Godric, we slipped away from the rest of King Guillaume’s host, leaving behind us the clash of steel, the shouts of triumph and of pain, as we rode in pursuit of Hereward.

And glory.





Twelve

WE RODE HARD, following winding, flint-studded paths so narrow and treacherous that in many parts we were forced to go in single file. Reeds flashed past on both sides as we skirted stagnant pools and leapt fast-trickling rivulets, trusting in our steeds not to falter over the soft ground. In every direction a wide expanse of bog stretched to the horizon, broken occasionally by dense copses of birch and elm, above which jackdaws circled, cawing loudly as if warning those ahead of our approach. I only hoped the enemy weren’t lying in wait for us there, since we would make easy targets if they were. I watched the trees carefully as we passed, expecting at any moment to see a flurry of silver-shining arrowheads flying forth from out of those yellow-green leaves, soaring over the reeds, glinting with the promise of death.

But no arrows came. Fyrheard was flagging, his head bowing, but I coaxed him on. In some places the path had fallen away into one of the countless channels that crossed the land, and we had to dismount in order to lead the horses through the muddy waters. Every so often we would spy footprints, and by the number of them and the way the mud had been churned we could tell that a significant number of men had travelled this way. Whether those prints had been set down recently, though, none of us could say for sure. I wished then that we had ?dda with us. My stableman and the ablest tracker in all of the Welsh Marches, he was also my closest friend among the English, but he was back at Earnford. In his absence we had no choice but to follow Godric, and trust that he knew what he was doing. Every so often the path would seem to fork and he would come to a halt, his young brow furrowed while he looked for tracks upon the ground and gazed about the surrounding swamp for landmarks that showed we were on the right course.

‘Are you sure you know where you’re going?’ Wace asked when, for the fourth time that hour, Godric paused. The morning was wearing on and the sun was growing high in a cloudless sky, beating down upon our backs. There was no shade to be found anywhere; beneath my mail my arms and chest were running with sweat, and my tunic and shirt were clinging to my skin. Flies buzzed in front of my face and I tried to swat them away, but they kept returning.

Three ways presented themselves. One continued straight ahead, leading due north, while the others branched out to the east and the north-west.

‘Not all of them necessarily lead anywhere,’ Godric explained. ‘Not anywhere we want to go, at least. Some look safe, but if you aren’t careful you can find yourself cut off when the tide rises. Many men have lost their lives that way.’

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