Hereward 03 - End of Days (18 page)

And he no less than any other. For nine merciless winters that had turned his blood to ice, and nine unforgiving summers that had boiled his brain, he had set his life aside. Across the frozen north, and Flanders where the rain came like stones, and the steaming fenlands, he had walked with only one purpose: to slay Hereward in battle. Only that English blood would melt the shackles that bound Ivar, his friend, to this world; and his own shackles too. Then they would be free. Both of them. Perhaps all three of them. Nine long years. But it was nearly done. He could smell the ending on the wind. Death, and then freedom.

His gleaming black wings melted away, and he was back in the large crimson tent in the reek of sour ale and spilled wine. His fingers gripped the mead-cup so tightly his knuckles ached. He could hear men singing about a girl drowned at sea, and the tavern keeper calling his boy for more ale.

As his gaze focused once more on his surroundings, he pushed his head up and saw a face looking down at him. It was that strange knight. ‘Alive, then,’ he muttered, taking a swig of his drink.

‘You did not think me a ghost?’ The Norman warrior smiled.

‘I have seen ghosts. You are not one.’ He looked the other man up and down. ‘But you are a bedraggled rat. Sit. Drink, fill your belly and warm your heart. You will soon be back among the living.’ He called for some Frankish wine and stew.

‘Drinking with Normans,’ Deda said, pulling up a stool. ‘You have fallen lower than any man ought.’

‘I have drunk with thieves and murderers. A Norman makes little difference.’ Redteeth cocked his head to listen to the whispers of the
alfar
, then laughed long and hard.

Deda sipped his wine. ‘Your spirits are high.’

‘I have walked a long road, but now it is near the end.’ He finished his mead and roared for more. The drunken soldiers across the tent glared at him. He lifted up his axe, Grim, to show the other man. ‘Soon we will march on Ely, and the fight will be short, and sweet, and with this I will take Hereward’s head.’

‘I would think the king would want that honour. After he has tried to make Hereward beg for his life. And failed,’ he added after a brief thought.

‘If the king stands in my way, I will take his head first.’

Deda frowned, then laughed, unsure if the Viking was joking. ‘And then your head will sit beside the other two.’

‘So be it. Nothing means more to me than taking Hereward’s life. I have made an oath.’

‘Ah,’ the knight said, understanding.

‘When we first met, he was a wild beast. But he has grown, as have we all. He has honour. And courage. The English can be proud of him.’ Redteeth nodded. ‘But I will still take his head.’

‘Then let us drink to a good death.’

Redteeth gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘And when we are done drinking, let us find two whores and enjoy the comfort of their thighs.’

‘No. Not this night. Perhaps not for many nights.’ Though the Norman’s voice remained pleasant, Redteeth glimpsed something in his eye, a look both faraway and pained. The Viking’s gaze drifted down to the blue ribbon that the knight always wore tied around his left wrist. He saw some of the other man’s life then, and though it was only an impression, he understood.

‘You are the mad Viking,’ another voice said.

Harald looked round. A Norman soldier swayed beside him.
He was two heads taller and just as broad, with hands that looked as if they could crush a man’s skull.

‘What of it?’

‘Men say you worship the Devil, and speak to his imps.’

‘Aye, I do at that,’ Redteeth growled. Deda sighed. The Viking drained his cup and then looked up. ‘Still here?’

The warrior leaned in. The Viking could smell the ale on his breath. ‘We are godly men here,’ he snarled.

‘Then get back to your prayers.’

With one swipe of his huge hand, the Norman soldier knocked Harald’s cup from his fingers. It flew across the tent. Redteeth lashed out so fast the other man never had a chance to react. His nose crumpled under the blow, his jaw shattering. He flew back, trailing blood.

The roar that filled the tent sounded like a cave full of bears awakening. Six warriors stormed to the aid of their friend. Harald leapt to his feet, gripping his axe. But as the Norman soldiers drew their swords, Deda stepped beside him, his own blade levelled. The Viking eyed him, puzzled.

One of the soldiers waved his sword towards Deda. ‘You would stand with this heathen?’ he growled.

‘He is the wronged one here,’ the knight replied in an even tone. ‘Take our fallen brother and leave.’

Gritting his teeth, the warrior swung his sword towards the Viking and jabbed. Deda clattered the weapon aside with a flick of his wrist, then whipped the tip of his blade up to the other man’s neck. He raised the soldier’s head an inch and said again, with emphasis, ‘One more time. Walk away.’

‘You are no brother of ours.’ The warrior took a step back and spat on the mud between them. ‘Watch your back from this day on.’ Two of the Normans grabbed the arms of their unconscious brother and dragged him out of the tent. The other four followed, casting black looks over their shoulders.

‘Come back and I will cut your balls off and eat them,’ Redteeth called after the men.

‘I would know how you have lived to this ripe old age,’ Deda said, sheathing his sword.

‘A thick head and a sharp axe.’

‘The first one, I agree. The second we shall see, when we face the English at Ely.’

Harald grunted. He had thought he had started to get the measure of the knight, but now he was not so sure.

The tent flap whipped open and a young messenger ran in, red-faced. He looked around, saw the two men and darted over.

‘What is it?’ Harald growled.

The boy leapt back as if the Viking was about to savage him.

Deda clapped a hand on the lad’s shoulder and said with warmth, ‘My friend is a wolf with no fangs. Speak. What message have you?’

‘Ivo Taillebois has sent word,’ the boy said, his eyes still flickering towards Harald. ‘He has work for you. A witch, there is, roaming in the fenlands. He would have you … and … and your friend bring her here. Or kill her if she will not come.’ The lad crossed himself and ran out.

Redteeth glowered. ‘A witch. Mark my words, we will be toads before morn.’

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-T
WO

THE REEDS WERE
rustling but there was no wind. Under a silver sky, the rooks swooped up from the stark trees, shrieking in warning. A man stepped out from the vast reed-beds and looked across the mirrored meres of the wetlands. The whole world had turned silver. He carried a spear and a circular shield with a white cross on a red background, still smelling of fresh paint. His face was grey with ashes so that it resembled a skull.
Death
, it whispered to his enemies.
Death is coming
.

Another man stepped out beside him, and then another, and another. Ten. Twenty. A multitude. In those last days before the clutch of winter, the fenlands were waking.

Hereward felt calm. He was ready. His devil had not stirred, his anger remained unawakened. Alric had counselled him long and hard before they had set off from Ely. Here was purpose that would bring succour to the ache he felt in his heart. Here was God’s plan. He would bring freedom to the oppressed English, and any pain was worth that prize. Any amount of blood.

‘We are ready.’ Kraki came to a halt at his side, a mountain of fur and leather, his iron mail fresh cleaned in a bag of sand
so that he too gleamed. He scowled, flexing the jagged battle-scar that ran from his forehead to the edge of his wild beard. ‘After all the hunger and the want, the doubt, and the sweat, and the fear, finally we are ready.’

Hereward glanced back at his army as they moved out of the rushes and into the wildwood. The Normans would see a Devil’s Army, skulls floating out of the half-light under the trees, mud-streaked bodies rising from the ditches and the cold lakes and the bogs like the dead emerging from their graves. He saw them through his enemy’s eyes, these ghastly revenants sweeping down in silence on every side, bloodlust etched into their features. What terror they would strike into the hearts of the Norman bastards.

He watched as they surged through the sea of brown bracken, reaching deep into the woods. His chest swelled with pride. He glimpsed eyes bright with hope, and confidence forged by long days of battle-play under Kraki’s cold tutorage. No leader could have hoped for better men at his back. ‘We will fall on the Normans like wolves,’ he said.

‘Good. My axe is thirsty for blood.’ Kraki shook his weapon as he marched.

Guthrinc ran up, his great feet thrumming on the soft floor of the wood. He grinned. ‘Earl Morcar’s messenger has brought word. His men are in place.’

Hereward caught the hunting horn that swung on a leather thong round his neck. ‘Here is the sound of doom for our enemies. One blast will signal their days are over.’

The Mercian recalled how their plans had been turned over time and again through the long night. Nothing had been left to chance, and every man knew the part he had to play. When the horn sounded, the full force of the English would sweep in, half from the north, the others from the south, and the Normans would be caught as if by a smith’s tongs, ready to be crushed by the hammer on the anvil.

As they marched, he peered over the black smudge of trees
into the grey distance. Belsar’s Hill was still half a day away. Night would be falling when the English spectres crept out of the gloom. The enemy would be drunk, or sleeping. They would not be ready. How many Normans would be waiting, he wondered. He had sent Herrig the Rat ahead to see if, this time, he could get close to the enemy camp without getting his head lopped from his shoulders. But the only word that had come back from the villages on the edge of the fens was that the king’s levy was still failing. Kraki believed that most of the king’s men had been used to close the circle around Ely, to the south and west.

‘No word from William the Bastard,’ Guthrinc said as if he could read his leader’s thoughts. ‘Can we trust that knight, Deda, to have passed on your message?’

‘He would. He is a man of honour. If the king has not responded, it is because he hopes we are scared rabbits who will not attack the wolf. Or he believes God will help him smite down any enemy that comes before him.’

Soon they would know for certain. And soon, God willing, they would have reclaimed the crown.

Through the woods the English army ghosted, by the edge of glassy lakes and stinking bogs. When their scouts caught sight of the king’s guards roaming along the old straight tracks, the Devil’s Army cut their foes down before the alarm could be raised. The bodies were thrown in the marshes. The Normans would not know what was upon them until the English were at their very gates.

When Hereward could smell the stink of Belsar’s Hill on the breeze – smoke, shit and cooking meat, and other, bitter smells that he could not quite identify – he raised one hand to slow his men. Word rustled out along the lines. They crouched behind their shields, waiting. Not even the birds would have known they were there.

Kraki narrowed his eyes, then pointed. ‘That is a lot of smoke.’

Hereward scanned the pall that hung above the treetops. He
began to feel uneasy. Kraki and Guthrinc both eyed him, but could read no clue to his thoughts.

A whistle rang out.

The Mercian stiffened. A friend approached, probably one of the scouts.

Herrig skidded down a muddy track. His face was drawn and worry had etched deep lines into his forehead. He was not alone.

‘The ravens take my eyes,’ Kraki exclaimed when he saw Acha. ‘Have your wits leaked out of your ears?’

The black-haired woman flashed a murderous glare at him that would have turned another man’s blood to ice. Turning her back on the Viking, she marched up to Hereward who saw Rowena was trailing in her wake. The woman looked like a spectre. She stumbled along the path as if dazed, her face bloodless, her unblinking eyes staring. When Kraki began to growl, Acha knitted her brow and nodded to Herrig. The scout led Rowena to one side. He smiled and whispered comforts, but she seemed not to hear. Acha flapped a dismissive hand at Kraki and turned to Hereward. ‘Before you give me the edge of your tongue, yes, we are wilful children,’ she snapped. ‘We left Ely and went to Belsar’s Hill.’

‘Are you mad?’ But the Mercian knew she was only giving him half a tale, and he felt proud of her for that. Acha would never have ventured into the enemy’s camp of her own volition. She had accompanied Rowena. As her eyes flashed in annoyance, he held up his hand in apology and added, ‘Your friend went in search of her husband.’

Acha nodded. ‘And much good it did her.’ She glanced back at the other woman who stood with her head bowed, her lank hair falling across her face.

Hereward could see the story writ large there. ‘He is dead.’

She nodded. ‘The Normans took his head.’

Remembering the moment he had heard of Turfrida’s murder, Hereward knew every emotion that devastated Rowena, the grief sharper than any sword wound, the shock,
the rage, and all for naught, for nothing could bring the lost ones back.

‘There is more,’ Acha said, lowering her voice so the men could not hear. She told him of all they had seen in the enemy camp, and the scale of the force that had been hidden in the vale on the far side of the hill. As he realized how close he had come to leading the English to destruction, Hereward felt a cold settle deep into his bones. He beckoned to Herrig. ‘Is this true?’ he hissed.

The Rat bowed his head. ‘I crept as close to the camp as I could, in days gone by,’ he stuttered. ‘Only this day could I find a way past the guards, and then only at great risk …’

The Mercian held up his hand. It was not Herrig’s fault. The failure to recognize the full extent of the king’s cunning rested with him alone. He would never make that mistake again. ‘Fly to Morcar as fast as your feet will carry you,’ he ordered. ‘Warn him before he risks an attack, or is discovered. Tell him to return to Ely. We must make new plans.’