‘If it is, it wouldn’t be before time,’ I muttered. ‘Ask her how long ago she saw them, if she knows how many they numbered, and whether she remembers what their banners were.’
He did so, and returned with the answer: ‘This happened but two days ago. She says they bore many banners, in all manner of colours and with various beasts emblazoned upon them, but chief among them was the golden lion upon a scarlet field.’
That was what I had been hoping to hear. ‘The lion of Normandy.’ So the king was indeed marching, though inwardly I couldn’t help but wonder if it were too late. ‘And their numbers?’
‘At least a thousand, she says, though how many more than that she couldn’t tell me. She claims she only saw them from a distance, and dared not approach any closer for fear of her life.’
Probably Mildburg had done the right thing, but it frustrated me that she was unable to tell us more. As it was, I had an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. One thousand men would not be nearly enough if we were to drive the enemy out of England and back across the dyke. I only prayed that the real number was much larger, or else that the alewife had merely glimpsed the vanguard or an advance party.
The further we travelled, the more survivors joined us, until our ragtag group had swollen to a band of nearly fifty men, women and children. With every new group of followers came more news; like many hands working together to spin a tapestry, their stories intertwined. Each thread combined with those that had gone before it, so that they often crossed over one another. Some added new colours to the weave or picked out details that the others had missed, until gradually an image began to form in my mind. An image in yellow and orange, brown and black and red. An image of blood; of a kingdom in flames.
Across the rest of Mercia towns were rising in support of the enemy; in many places there had been fighting between English and French and the streets had flowed with blood. In the shires the leading thegns were variously taking up arms in the name of Eadric, the ?theling, or the king, roaming the countryside at the head of their small armies. Travellers were being waylaid on the roads; castles and halls had been burnt to the ground. From the south came stories of a rebellion sweeping through the southern shires of Cornualia, Defnascir and Sumors?te towards the strongholds of Execestre and Brycgstowe, while from the east flew rumours that the Danish fleet, strengthened by swords-for-hire from Frisia and Flanders, had arrived upon these shores and had raided along the coast, sacking every port between the Temes and the Humbre and leaving only corpses in their wake.
But even that was not the worst part of it. From north of the Humbre came tales that were as bad as anything I had envisioned in my darkest nightmares. Eoferwic had fallen to the ?theling with the help of King Sweyn, the two men having for the moment at least forged an uneasy alliance. The two castles and the great minster church had been put to the torch and the entire city consumed by a raging fire that had blazed for three days and nights. Nearly every one of the Normans, Bretons and Flemings had been cut down in the battle or else had been taken by the flames.
‘It’s said that those who were spared can be counted on a man’s fingers,’ said the man who had brought us this news, a travelling monk by the name of Wigheard who hailed from the town of Licedfeld not far to the north and east. He had been on his way to carry the same tale to his brothers in Wirecestre. He recognised my name when I gave it and was familiar with many of the tales that had been told about me, and therefore was only too eager to ingratiate himself and offer what information he could.
‘What do you mean, spared?’ I asked.
‘Taken captive by the Northumbrians and the Danes,’ Wigheard explained. ‘The rest were killed; none were allowed to escape.’
The Danes were renowned for their ferocity and for the fact that they rarely, if ever, took prisoners. So far as I could see, the only reason they might have for doing so was if these were persons of some standing, whose safe return they could offer to King Guillaume in return for a ransom of silver or some other form of riches.
‘Do you know their names of these captives?’
Wigheard shook his head. ‘No, lord. I only know what I have heard from others.’
Perhaps it was too much to ask; from what the monk had said it sounded like a massacre. In all likelihood that meant Robert and Beatrice had been killed along with the rest of the garrison in the city. I hoped it was not true, but too often of late had I clung on to faith only to see it dashed.
And so I did the only thing that I could, and prayed.