And the Rest Is History(73)

There are all sorts of stories, of course. Some say that Harold survived the battle and went abroad. Others that he remained in England but lived out his days as a hermit. Although looking at the state of him, my guess was that if he wasn’t dead now then he very soon would be. I’d seen Harold Godwinson in his prime and I couldn’t believe that, while he had breath in his body, he would not have come back to fight the usurper William every inch of the way. The crown of England would have sat very uneasily on William’s head. My guess was that he would die this night.

On the other hand, there are those stories…

So now what?

We had an uncomfortably large number of swords pointing at us. They weren’t going to run the risk of us giving them away. We were going to die.

The silence just dragged on. I could hear the horse breathing. I could certainly hear my own heart pounding away.

And then, not too far away, a horse neighed. Two men immediately muffled the farm horse with their cloaks. It shifted uneasily but remained calm. I could hear voices – Norman voices – and the sounds of undergrowth being beaten down.

The escort glanced nervously over their shoulders. The riders were very close. What could they do? Any attempt to move would be heard. Staying put would lead to their discovery. Someone should do something.

Yes, well, we all know who that’s going to be, don’t we?

I put out both my hands, palms outwards, in the traditional ‘Stay where you are,’ gesture.

They stared but stayed.

I said to Evans, ‘Get yourself back to the pod.’

His response was unrepeatable, but the gist was that that wasn’t going to happen.

I made one final ‘Stay here and stay quiet,’ gesture and turned to run.

‘This way,’ said Evans.

Always run downhill. Especially when you’re trying to get away from a bunch of men on horses. We fled down the hill, making as much noise as we could. Which was a lot. We crashed through the undergrowth, snapping twigs and small branches as we went.

I enquired where we were heading to.

‘As far away as possible,’ he panted. ‘Australia, perhaps.’

Wherever we were going, it was working. I heard shouts behind us, and a second later, the sound of hooves. Evans picked up the pace.

As far as I could tell, we were heading in a south-westerly direction, with the Andredsweald Forest behind us and to our right, into which, I hoped, Edith Swanneschals and her entourage were now disappearing as fast as they could go. I knew there was a stream somewhere around here and a lot of boggy ground nearby. If we could get to that then we might yet escape the horsemen.

Fat chance. Another group of them where thundering up the hill towards us. We were pushed northwards. Uphill. And now it was dark. I could barely see a thing.

‘Keep going,’ panted Evans. ‘We’ll get back into the woods and climb a tree.’

They were gaining on us. The hooves sounded very close now. I heard a shout. They’d seen us.

We veered off left again. It was uphill and hard work. I could feel my breath rasping in my throat. My lungs were on fire. This was all Clive Ronan’s fault. If I’d completed my run that day – and the next day, and so on – instead of having him crash into my life and throw everything into chaos, then today I’d be lithe, svelte, fit, athletic, whatever.

I fell over. I know – such a cliché. In films, when running from peril, it’s always the silly little heroine who trips over her own feet. Sadly, life imitates art and I went down with a bloody great crash.

Evans screeched to a halt, whispering, ‘Max?’

‘Keep going, you pillock,’ I said, struggling to disentangle my foot from something or other. ‘Don’t stop.’

He completely ignored me, turning back to kneel beside me.

And suddenly there were horses everywhere.

I pulled him down beside me. They had torches, but there was a slight chance they might miss us in the dark. We lay in the long, coarse grass, breathing into our sleeves so they wouldn’t hear us panting.

I heard shouts of recognition as the two groups caught sight of each other and they both turned towards us.

‘Shit,’ whispered Evans.

Spurring their horses, they moved uphill, strung out in a long line that left us nowhere to go, all ready to flush us out.

‘Shit,’ said Evans again.

Now what? Did we stand up and run? Where to? Did we stand and fight? With what? Did we crouch and hope they’d miss us in the dark? I’ve heard that horses won’t willingly stand on a human being, but with our luck, these horses would be ancestors of the infamous Turk, the horse allocated to me for side-saddle training, whose relationship with his rider included biting, kicking, rolling on, crushing, attempted drowning – and trampling.

I could hear the horses snorting as they increased their speed. They couldn’t see us. Yet

We began to inch our way backwards. The torches were less than twenty yards away. They would be on us in seconds.

We were concealed by long grass and some of the prickliest brambles in south-east England, but they didn’t have to see us to run us down. Which was probably what they intended to do. Yes, we both had stun guns, but frankly, who wants a stunned horse and its rider crashing down on top of them in the dark?

‘Come on,’ said Evans. ‘We have to make a run for it. Stay with me.’