A new sense of purpose stirred within me. ‘How many of them were there?’ I asked.
The priest’s eyes were closed again, and his skin was as pale as snow. His time was near. But if I was to do what he had asked of me, he had to give me answers. I clasped his wrinkled, bloodstained hand, squeezing it firmly to try to keep him with us a little longer. At once he blinked and came to, a look of confusion upon his face, as if he did not quite know where he was.
‘How many, father?’ I said again.
He groaned as if with the effort of remembering, and after a moment managed to answer, ‘A dozen, perhaps fifteen. No more.’
Roughly two men to every one of us, then. Fewer than I had been expecting, but still more than I would have liked to face, especially when one of them was Hereward himself, whose sword-edge had already claimed countless victims, if the stories told about him were true. No warrior ever won himself great fame without some measure of risk along the way, however. The difficulty came in learning which risks to embrace and which to avoid, and this seemed to me one worth taking.
‘When did they leave?’ I asked the priest.
‘Not an hour ago,’ he said, his eyelids drooping. ‘They went …’
‘Where?’
At first I thought he was slipping away and that we wouldn’t get an answer, but then I spotted the faintest movement of his lips. I leant closer, having to put my ear almost to his mouth in order to hear him.
‘Promise me,’ he said, barely managing a whisper. ‘Promise me.’
‘I will bring them to justice, father,’ I said. ‘I swear it upon the cross. But you have to tell me where they went.’
‘North.’ The words came slowly now. ‘They went north. That much I know. Now, let me rest.’
I nodded and squeezed the priest’s hand one last time, then rested it carefully back upon his chest, which still rose and fell, though so slightly as to be almost imperceptible. Between breaths he whispered something that I could not entirely make out, but which from a couple of Latin words I guessed was probably a prayer for the safekeeping of his soul. Not that he had the chance to finish it, for he was still in the middle of whatever he was uttering when a pained expression came across his face and a long groan left his lips. His eyes closed once more; moments later his chest ceased moving, and that was when I knew he had left this world and that he was, at last, with God.
I made the sign of the cross across my breast as I got to my feet, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Serlo and Pons do the same. Around us the houses still burnt. The wind was rising, tugging at my tunic, blowing the smoke towards us and causing tongues of vibrant flame to flare up amongst what remained of the smoking timbers, wattle and thatch.
‘What now?’ asked the archer with the gaunt face, his expression now devoid of humour.
‘We ride,’ I answered.
Hereward and his band couldn’t have got far in an hour. No doubt they would be making for wherever they had moored their boats. Since few vessels large and sturdy enough to carry a horse could navigate the marshes, I guessed they would most likely be on foot, which meant that we still had a chance of catching up with them.
Without delay we mounted up. I would have liked to bury the priest if only to save his body from the crows, but there was no time. Instead we left him by the haywain where he lay, his expression serene as if he were simply sleeping.
Only later, when the wreckage of the village was far behind us, did I realise that I hadn’t even learnt his name.
Two