Beneath me Rollo was tiring: each step seemed slower, each breath more laboured than the one before. I knew how he felt. My own eyes were growing heavy, and my limbs were tiring, but I knew we had to keep going. Several times I heard a war-horn in the distance, its blast long and deep as it cut through the night, though whether it was theirs or ours, I could not tell. All I could do was keep riding, urging Rollo on, digging my heels in every time he slowed.
Ahead, Wace picked his way through the trees. In the darkness the deer-tracks were difficult to follow, forking and then forking again, often seeming to double back upon themselves. We had left the better-trodden paths behind us, which meant that if the enemy were in pursuit, there was less chance of them overtaking us. But I was not sure whether we were even riding in the right direction; the woods looked the same no matter which way I turned. All we knew was that the wind had been blowing from the north earlier, and so we kept it at our backs as much as we could, striking out south, in the direction of Eoferwic.
For if there were any others who had managed to get out of Dunholm, that was where we would find them. The city of Eoferwic, captured from the English the previous summer and since entrusted to Guillaume Malet, one of the most powerful lords in Normandy, and held in high esteem by the king. But it was at least three days’ ride away, and probably more if we kept off the main tracks, since the country was not known to us. The old Roman way, if we could find it, would be dangerous, though certainly quicker. That was the route we had taken on our march here, an army of nearly two thousand men under Lord Robert. I wondered what remained of that army now.
Shortly we came upon a clearing where a great oak had once stood, though now it was fallen: a victim of the recent winds, perhaps. At one end its splintered branches splayed out across the ground. At the other, its roots, clogged with dirt, hung over the rough pit where they had been ripped from the earth.
From somewhere in the distance came a shout and I froze, bringing Rollo to a halt. I turned, feeling myself tense, reaching for my sword-hilt, until I realised it wasn’t there. The voice had come from off to our right, but amidst the trees I could see nothing. I looked to Wace, but he did not appear to have heard, for he was riding on ahead.
‘Wace,’ I said, keeping my voice low.
He brought his horse to a stop. There was an impatient look in his eyes, but then again Wace rarely had much patience for anyone. His jaw was clenched, his ventail unhooked and hanging from the side of his coif.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘I heard someone,’ I said, gesturing in the direction that the shout had come from.
His face turned stern as he looked out through the trees. Around us the rain carried on falling. Otherwise all was quiet.
‘You’re mistaken,’ he said, and spurred his mount onwards again.
But then the same voices came again, two of them at least, calling to each other in words I did not understand, but which sounded like English. They could not have been far away, either; a couple of hundred paces at most, and probably less: sound did not carry far in the woods. Had they been following our trail?
Wace glanced at me over his shoulder, no doubt thinking the same thing. ‘Come on,’ he said as he made for the other side of the clearing. The track we had been following turned to the east here, back towards the river Wiire, but he was heading west, into the heart of the wood.
I pressed my heels in and Rollo started forward, moving quickly into a trot. I patted him on the side of his neck. He had worked hard already this night, but he could not rest yet.
We left the clearing behind us, pushing on through the trees. A layer of leaves and pine needles covered the ground, muffling the sound of our horses’ hooves. More than once a branch scraped against my wounded calf. I winced at the pain, but I could not think about it as we kept on going.
I heard the same voices again, behind us, laughing and calling to one another. I glanced over my shoulder, finding it difficult at first to make much out, but then I glimpsed the fallen oak, and beside it shadowy figures on horseback. Three of them in all. I held my breath as I watched them, not wanting to make any sound that might give us away. They dismounted and, still talking, staggered about the clearing. One of them began to sing, another joined in, and then they began to dance about in drunken fashion.
‘Sige!’ they shouted, almost as one, though whether it was meant for us to hear or not, I could not be sure. ‘God us sige forgeaf!’
I realised that Wace was already some way ahead of me, and kicked on again to catch him up. Branches crunched under Rollo’s hooves, and I hoped that they would not hear us, but the laughter and singing continued and I took that as a good sign. As we approached the top of the rise, gradually the shouts began to fade, and the next time I glanced back, the three figures were gone.