The blackened remains of the manor stood upon a low rise. As we climbed, it became clear that we were the only ones around. Anywhere that might have provided a hiding place for the enemy had been razed to the ground. Livestock had been slaughtered in the fields and the pens, while the corpses of men, women and children alike lay in the yards and the vegetable gardens, their clothes and hair congealed with blood. Feathered shafts protruded from the chests and backs of some, while others had gaping wounds to their necks and thighs, and bright gashes across their faces. No one had been spared. The stench of burnt flesh mixed with freshly spilt guts hung in the air: smells at which I might once have retched, but which by now had grown only too familiar. In the past few years I’d witnessed so many burnings of this kind that it was hard to be much moved by them. Still, it was rare that the enemy left so little in their wake.
‘They killed even their own kind,’ I murmured, scarcely able to believe it, though it wasn’t the first time I’d seen it happen. Usually the rebels would kill the lord and his retainers, if they happened to be French, but leave the English folk unharmed. Sometimes, though, their desire for blood consumed them, and they wouldn’t stop until all around was ruin and death. Perhaps the villagers had tried to fight back, or else the rebels had judged them guilty of falling subject to a foreign lord. I could only guess the reason.
Usually, though, there would be at least one person left alive. One to tell the tale. One to spread the news of what had happened here. One to foster fear of those who had done this. I knew because it was what I would have done.
We halted not far from what I guessed had once been a church, although there seemed to be little to distinguish it from the remains of the other hovels save for a waist-high stone cross that stood at its western end. One wall alone remained standing, but, as we dismounted, that too collapsed inwards, sending a great cloud of dust and still-glowing ash billowing up.
Beside me, Pons shook his head and muttered something that I could not entirely make out but which was most likely a curse.
Serlo turned to me. ‘Why do you think they did this, lord?’
To that question there was no simple answer. Even if the lord of this manor had been a Frenchman, as seemed likely, the people living here would have been kinsfolk of the enemy. And apart from a few sheep and goats and chickens, most of which they seemed to have killed rather than take with them, what could there have been in a place like this to make it worth attacking?
Only one explanation came to mind. ‘They wanted to send us a message,’ I said.
‘A message?’ Serlo echoed, frowning.
Slowly it was beginning to make sense. The reason why they had come to this place, so far from their encampment upon the Isle.
‘The enemy weren’t looking for plunder or captives,’ I said. ‘If they were, they could have chosen to attack any number of manors closer to Elyg.’
‘A show of force,’ Pons put in, understanding at last. ‘That’s what they wanted. The more damage they wreak and the more ruthless they appear, the more panic they spread.’
I nodded. ‘They want to prove that they don’t fear us. That they can strike anywhere, at any time.’
And that was a bad sign, for it suggested that they were not only growing in confidence but also that they had men to spare for such expeditions. Before, they had preferred to keep to their corner of the marshlands and wait for us to come to them, only raiding occasionally and even then in places where they judged the risks to be fewest. But no longer. Now they laid waste the land with impunity, taunting us, and all the while we were powerless to stop them.
I swore aloud. I’d hoped that we might find some of the enemy still here, but in fact they were probably several miles away by now, which left us nothing more that we could usefully do except return to Hamo and the carts. All we had accomplished was to waste an hour or more on our journey. Back at the king’s camp in Brandune the clerks would be waiting: pale, weasel-eyed men who recorded with quill and parchment every last crumb of bread and drop of ale that entered the storehouses and was distributed among the men. They wouldn’t thank us if we arrived late and they had to complete their work by candlelight. While I always took a certain enjoyment from annoying them – one of the few pleasures afforded by this escort work – it would mean that I’d have to put up with even more of their carping, and I wasn’t convinced it was worth it.
Fyrheard pawed restlessly at the ground. I shared his sentiment. I was about to give the order to turn back when amidst the calls of the crows, which had descended to pick at the bodies, came what sounded like a voice, not far off but weak and indistinct.
‘Did anyone else hear that?’ I asked.
‘All I heard was my stomach rumbling,’ muttered one of the archers, whose name I had forgotten but whose gaunt face and large ears I recognised. ‘The sooner we return, the sooner we can eat.’
‘You’ll be going hungry unless you keep quiet,’ I snapped. That prompted a snigger from the archer’s comrades, but they fell quiet the instant I glared at them, and it was as well that I did, or else I might have missed the voice when it came again: a low moaning, like someone in pain.
‘Over there,’ said Serlo.