It was while they were all inside the church that we took our chance. I gave the signal to ?dda and to Galfrid, who were a little behind me, and they passed it on to the rest of the men. As one we rose and dashed across the bridge, which rattled beneath the rush of feet. One group I sent to capture the Welshmen’s ponies, which they had left untethered close by the pig-pens. Those who had weapons I took in the direction of the church, breaking into a run across the damp grass and vaulting the low dry stone wall that marked the bounds of the churchyard. Half of them, led by Galfrid, went around the other side of the building while I and six others took up position beside the doorway so that when the enemy came out we could cut them down from both sides.
After that everything happened so quickly that it was almost a blur. Within a few heartbeats the first of the Welshmen emerged, a broad grin upon his face as he dropped a silver candlestick into a sack, and he looked up just in time to see my sword-edge smash into his face and to feel it bite through his skull. Seeing this, the others rushed out with weapons drawn, but we outnumbered them by four to one, and they stood no chance. Despite being dressed for war, they had not come here expecting much of a fight, while we were hungry for blood, hungry for the kill. We tore into them, stabbing and hacking and thrusting, filling the morning with our fury, with their cries and their spilt guts, and when all was done we stripped their limp and battered corpses and flung them into the stream, letting the waters run red so that they carried the evidence of our work here downstream as a warning.
Only when it was clear that we meant them no harm did the villagers approach once more. We returned to them the goods the Welshmen had taken and lifted the priest, a lean, ancient man with a shock of snowy hair, out of the dung-heap where he lay, dazed and somewhat shaken.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, still eyeing us nervously in spite of our kindness.
‘Friends,’ I answered simply, though he did not look reassured by that. I supposed he had a right to be nervous, for he had just witnessed four armed warriors slain in quick and brutal fashion on the doorstep of his church and their lifeblood shed over consecrated ground. He had no way of knowing that having dispatched them we wouldn’t now turn on him and his people too, and finish what the Welshmen had begun. Only when the rest of our party arrived and he saw that we too had a priest with us was he finally convinced that we did not mean to kill him.
We asked around in case any of the villagers had heard anything of Bleddyn or Eadric’s movements, or indeed of King Guillaume’s army, which could not be far away either, but met without luck, and I regretted having killed all of the foemen without taking the chance to question them first. Still, we now at least had a little more hope of being able to defend ourselves. To add to the weapons we already possessed, we now had four new round shields, and the same number of spears and knives and leather jerkins of varying sizes reinforced with steel studs, and one sturdy helmet with a chain curtain to protect the neck that I claimed for myself. With us too we took the four ponies. All were headstrong and determined but hardy beasts that I reckoned might well have seen battle before. And so, mounted and armed, we began to look like something resembling a war-band.
Having warmed to us, the old priest bade us stay and share a repast, but I declined. The days were growing shorter, I explained, and we needed to make the most of the light while we had it if we were to catch up with the king and his host. He understood, although he still insisted we take something in return for our good work. Thus we left that place, our packs filled with rounds of cheese and bundles of salted mutton and fish, while their thankful cries rose to the heavens behind us.
But food was not foremost in my mind. No, what I hungered for was the sword-joy, the thrill of battle. This morning had only given me the briefest taste, and I was still far from sated.
We ventured north in search of the ancient trackway known to the English as W?clinga Str?t, where Mildburg had seen the royal army. Of the people we met along the way few knew anything of the king’s progress from Lundene. Occasionally we would find someone who claimed to have glimpsed such a host within the last week, or knew someone else who had, though whether it was Welsh or English or Norman they could not say. Like Mildburg they hadn’t dared to approach too closely, but at least she had managed to tell me roughly how many they numbered and the colour of their banners, none of which they knew. I was beginning to think she was the bravest person in all of Mercia, for she had managed to bring us more useful news than anyone.
We reached W?clinga Str?t late that afternoon and immediately saw the churned-up turf where many hundreds of hooves and feet had passed.
‘How recently were they here?’ I asked ?dda.
‘It’s hard to say,’ he replied with a shrug as he crouched down and examined some of the tracks. ‘As much as a week ago, possibly more.’ He rubbed his fingers in a trampled mound of horse shit and then wrinkled his nose as he sniffed at them. ‘By the smell of it I’d say this is already several days old.’ He glanced about at some of the gouges that the horses’ shoes had cut in the mud. ‘Whoever came this way, they came upon large animals; you can tell from the depth of the hoof-marks here that these were no mere ponies.’ He gestured at the animals we had captured earlier that day. ‘Not like those.’
‘You think this was King Guillaume’s host?’