The land fell away as we neared that marsh. The wind pressed at our backs and every gust pushed us ever onwards, ever faster, through fallow fields where the grass had grown tall and pasturelands that sheep and cattle had stripped almost bare of grass. With every furlong we covered I could feel the ground beneath Fyrheard’s hooves growing softer, until in the distance it was possible to see the fields giving way to bogs and river inlets that marked the beginning of the marsh. But that was not all I saw. Close by the water’s edge, amidst the reeds that rose up around those creeks, were the dark figures of several men unhitching packs from the panniers of two sumpter ponies, no doubt stolen from the village. The clouds were beginning to part, and as the first glimmer of evening light broke through, I spied the telltale glint of spearpoints and helmets that signified a war-band, and I knew we had found them.
There was no cover to be had anywhere, and across that flat land they saw us as easily and as surely as we saw them. They glimpsed our lances and our hauberks shining in the late sun, and all at once they began raising cries of alarm. Leaving the ponies behind, they made for one of the inlets, dragging what looked like small rowing boats out from their hiding places amidst the sedges and bushes and taking them down to the water. They knew that mailed horsemen meant trouble, and they had no wish to fight us and risk their lives if they could help it.
‘Faster,’ I urged the others. ‘Ride harder!’
My blood was up, the familiar battle-joy coursing through my veins as the seven of us raced across the water-meadows towards the enemy. I spurred Fyrheard on, drawing every last fraction of speed from his legs, trusting him not to stumble over the thick tussocks or falter in his stride across the damp earth. I controlled him now with my legs alone as I unslung my shield from where it rested across my back and worked my arm through the leather brases, clutching the crossed straps that ran behind the boss, while in the other hand I gripped the haft of my lance. On my flanks Pons and Serlo roared battle-cries of their own, but their exact words were lost amidst the rush of air, the thunder of hooves and the sound of my heartbeat ringing through my skull.
Already one boatload was getting away, using paddles and longer-handled oars to push their vessel away from the bank and out on to the open water. A few were still struggling to free their vessels from the undergrowth, while three, ignoring their kinsmen’s shouts of warning, had run back to the ponies as they tried to rescue more of their plunder. They fumbled at the buckles and straps of the harnesses, spilling the contents of the packs across the ground, where they fell amidst the tufts of grass and clumps of thistles. Desperately they scooped up armfuls of gilded plate and bronze candlesticks and shoved silver coin into their pouches before, at last, they turned in flight.
Too late. From above my head came a sharp whistle of air, quickly followed by another and another and another still. I looked up to see four goose-feathered shafts soaring towards the enemy, then glanced behind to see Hamo’s archers drawn up in a line. Without even dismounting they drew arrow after arrow from the bags at their sides, letting them fly no sooner than they had put them to their bowstrings. Most of those attempts overshot, either falling amidst the banks of reeds or else dropping into the mere beyond, but one found its target, burying itself square in the back of one of the greedier Englishmen as he scurried across the field towards the waiting boats. The force of the impact pitched him forward; the gathered plunder slipped from his grasp in a shower of gold.
To my right, Pons gave a whoop of delight, lifting his shield-hand to the sky as he drew ahead of myself and Serlo. The strength of the charge lay in weight of numbers, in massed knights riding knee to knee, and normally I would have shouted for him to keep formation, but the only thing that mattered now was speed. We couldn’t afford to let them get away, not this time. Not when fame was ours for the taking.
‘On!’ I yelled. The wind whipped against my cheeks and the black hawk pennon nailed below my lance-head fluttered. ‘On, on, on, for God and for Normandy!’
That single arrow-strike was all it took to spread confusion amongst the Englishmen. Those already afloat were paddling furiously to get out of bowshot, leaving behind the two boat crews still on land, who seemed to be confused as to whether they should carry on dragging their vessels down to the water, or else try to make a stand against us. All the while we were bearing down upon them, no more than half a furlong away now: a mere seven men sowing fear in the hearts of a force twice that number.
And then I saw him. He leapt down from one of the craft into the water, a bow slung over one shoulder and an arrow-bag over the other, and waded through the waist-deep waters towards the shore, berating the stragglers and gesturing towards their boats. A gangly, long-limbed giant of a man, he stood half a head above the tallest of his comrades. His mail shirt gleamed as if newly polished, but he wore no helmet to protect his head, and so I could clearly see the lank black hair hanging to his shoulders. There was purpose in his every movement, and even in that brief moment I had the impression of one well used to leading.
Hereward.
It could be no other. The last of his men had finally managed to cast off from the shore, leaving him alone to face us. Around him steel rained down as Hamo’s archers continued to let fly volley after volley, but he showed no sign of fear. He lifted his own bow from his shoulder, and in what seemed like a single movement he drew and loosed a single arrow.
It flew swiftly and it flew true, sailing just above the reed-heads. He watched it all the way, without even troubling to put a second to his bowstring, as if somehow he knew that one was all he would need. At first I thought he had misjudged the angle of the flight, for it seemed it would glide well over our heads, but then the wind must have caught it, for its silver-shining head suddenly turned earthwards towards us, the point glinting wickedly with its promise of death.
‘Shields,’ I cried as I raised my own to cover my face and upper chest, praying that the others heard my warning as for a moment I charged on blindly.
A violent shriek filled the air, and I looked up in time to see Pons’s destrier go down in a writhing mess of hooves, turf, mud and horseflesh. Pons himself was on the ground, yelling for help as he struggled to free his foot, which was trapped beneath the animal as it kicked and screamed, its eyes wide and white. Serlo brought his horse to a halt and leapt down to help him, but that was all I saw, for I had other concerns.
Barely fifty paces in front of me, Hereward stood alone, yelling vehemently as he waved back some of his comrades who were jumping from the boats to come to his aid — whether out of stupidity or arrogance, I couldn’t tell, and hardly cared. I stared at him, couching my lance under my arm, levelling the point at chest-height and imagining how I would drive it deep into his heart, twisting it so as to kill him all the quicker. Victory would be ours, and we would return to the king’s camp with his head as our prize. He returned my gaze, and as he did so I saw the determination in his dark eyes. Calmly, as if he were merely enjoying an afternoon’s practice at the butts, he drew another shaft from his arrow-bag, raised the bow into position, aimed it in my direction-