‘Trust me,’ I shouted back, and then to the withdrawing archers: ‘Form a line in front of the trees. Wait for my signal!’
Hamo must finally have used all his arrows, for only now did he follow the rest of his company. His cheeks were even redder than usual and his face showed a smirk of satisfaction as he rode past.
I checked Fyrheard about fifty paces from the enemy lines, raising my hands in the air, away from my body, to show that I had not come to fight but to speak.
‘Sheathe your swords,’ I said in the English tongue. I was aware that I was taking a chance, but I reckoned that they would be intrigued enough to want to hear what I had to say. ‘I’ve come to speak with your lord.’
I’d lost sight of him among the ranks of his men, but I knew he had to be there somewhere.
‘Where are you, Hereward?’ I shouted. ‘Come and show your face!’
My heart was beating fast. This all depended on my sounding confident, but I was not confident at all. One arrow was all it would take, if Hereward decided to use this opportunity to finish what he had begun one week ago.
His men broke ranks and I saw him. He handed his bow to one of his retainers and strode forward, stepping over the corpses as easily and indifferently as if they were fallen branches.
He stopped about ten paces from me, removed his helmet and that was when I saw him properly for the first time. The man who by his sword-edge had probably accounted for more Normans than any other single Englishman had managed in the last five years. The man who had defied us all these months. But if his pride was at all wounded by being betrayed by his allies, by having to flee the place that for so long he had helped defend, it was not apparent in his demeanour. He was probably around the same age as myself, if the number of cuts and scars decorating his face was anything to judge by. Certainly he looked no younger. There was a hardness in his eyes, and a firmness in his stance that gave the impression of someone who didn’t know the meaning of defeat. He dressed not in mail but in an archer’s leather corselet, reinforced with iron studs that would deflect a glancing blow but little more.
‘Have you come to parley or just to gawp?’ he asked.
‘I’ve come to talk,’ I answered.
‘Then talk.’
His voice was strangely measured and even, not at all what I had been expecting after everything I’d heard about him.
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘You know you can’t run. We can easily outpace you and pick you off, one by one, until you decide to surrender.’
Hereward shrugged. ‘We might not be able to run but we can still fight. You’ll run out of arrows eventually and I doubt your men have the same stomach for a fight as mine. We have numbers on our side.’
I forced a laugh, and hoped it sounded convincing. ‘You think we’re the only men that King Guillaume has sent?’
‘You tell me.’
‘There’s a whole raiding-party four hundred strong following behind us,’ I said, hoping that he would fall for the lie. ‘King Guillaume is scouring the marshes with fire and sword to try to find you. He has put a price on your head of one hundred silver marks, and he doesn’t care whether you’re brought to him alive or dead.’
It sounded believable enough that even I was convinced. With any luck he would swallow the morsel whole, and we wouldn’t have to risk another battle.
‘What, then?’ Hereward countered. ‘You would have me give myself up to you?’
‘That’s right. If you do that, and freely offer your submission, then the king might just be willing to show you clemency. There is no other choice, if you want to live.’
He snorted. ‘There is always a choice.’ He turned his back and made to return to the shield-wall.
‘You can’t escape your fate,’ I called after him. ‘Your rebellion is finished. The Isle belongs to us. Your allies have forsaken you, as has your cherished saint, ?thelthryth. She heard your prayers and she laughed at them. She spits on your dreams. Do you hear me?’
He rounded on me. ‘What would you know of St ?thelthryth?’
‘Only what Godric tells me,’ I replied. ‘To think that the feared Hereward, the scourge of the fenlands, was reduced to begging for a woman’s help to win his wars!’
‘Godric?’ he asked, frowning. ‘You mean Morcar’s nephew?’
‘Didn’t you know?’
I called the boy’s name and he came forward, tentatively at first, but I jerked my head and he quickened his pace.