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 he 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.