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.’