Hereward 03 - End of Days (19 page)

As Herrig raced away, Hereward turned to Kraki and Guthrinc and whispered the bitter news. He commanded them to take the army back home, but he could see from their faces that they both realized their greatest hope for victory had been snatched away from them. He looked up to the sky and prayed this was not an omen for what lay ahead.

When he was alone, he crept through the woods until he could see Belsar’s Hill rising from the flat landscape. Guards ranged everywhere. Herrig had been speaking truly. Their army would not have got close enough to fire an arrow at the enemy. Crawling through ditches up to his neck in filthy water, rats swimming past him, he circled the hill until he found a spot where he could spy on the king’s secret camp. His chest tightened as he realized that what lay before him put the spear to any lingering hope he still held. An iron army of seasoned Norman warriors and axes-for-hire that dwarfed even the formidable English force. Siege machines. Wooden towers. And
another army of English men carrying spoil and timber to the real, and greater, causeway.

Their expectations of an easy victory had been dashed. Now they were in the fight of their lives.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-T
HREE

ELY WAS PREPARING
for war. Under clouds heavy with rain, folk laboured with shovels along the slopes beyond the walls, piling high bulwarks of peat reinforced with fresh-cut timber. The new ramparts were taller, wider. Into the hillside, platforms were being cut from where archers could take aim and javelins and missiles could be launched. Woodworkers barked orders to sweating men as they hauled oaken beams to buttress the very walls that had stood so long. And along the walkways boys heaved barrels of pitch up from the shipwrights’ stores, to be set alight and poured over the side if the Normans dared venture too close.

When Hereward emerged from the council of war in the minster refectory, he stood outside the enclosure and looked out over the frantic activity across the settlement. He had feared that heads would droop and fire in hearts would fade once the army had been turned back from its attack. But he and his trusted men had worked hard to keep spirits high. The tale told was of a simple change of tactics. That they were luring the Normans into a trap that would see most of the bastards lost in the bogs and lakes, the better to save English lives. He cocked his head, listening to the
full-throated singing from the labourers, and he was pleased.

The truth lay heavily upon him.

As he watched the work, children ran out from the homes and raced in circles around him. The boys carried wooden swords, every one named Brainbiter. The girls had spears fashioned from strips of wood. He smiled when he saw them play as fiercely as the lads. The wives brought cups of ale, and after a while he had to refuse their offers or he would have been drunk. The younger women came with tokens, lowering their eyes and smiling as they asked if they could tie their ribbons round his wrist. He grinned and winked and flirted to try to make them feel good, but he knew none of them would ever touch his heart.

When he was finally left alone, he wandered to the food stores beyond the refectory. As he examined their supplies, he saw the position was worse than he feared. The Norman blockade was taking its toll. They would not have enough to survive the winter, and once starvation began to carve its way into English hearts the rebellion would quickly crumble. Only one path to victory now remained: they had to defeat the Normans before the snows came.

He stepped outside the barn, licked his finger and raised it to the wind. How long did they have? Three weeks, perhaps a handful of days more? In the last few years, the snow had fallen heavily and early, another sign of the End of Days, so folk said. That may well be. All he knew was that their time was growing shorter.

Angry voices drifted on the wind. A man and a woman. They sounded familiar, and as Hereward walked among the minster halls he caught sight of Kraki and Acha arguing in the lee of the church. She had an arm full of firewood. Kraki was jabbing a stubby finger into her face. Hereward sighed. Surely the Viking should have learned by now that she would not respond kindly to that kind of treatment. Uncomfortable, he turned to go, only to hear a clatter and a roar. Acha had thrown the firewood at the warrior and stormed off.

Kraki turned and saw Hereward. A shadow of shame crossed his face, and then his anger surged once more as he marched over. ‘Never have I known a woman so wilful,’ he snarled. ‘She refuses to do what I ask – and it is for her own good.’

‘Would you have a Norman woman who bows her head to you and runs at your bidding like a whipped cur?’

‘Aye, sometimes.’

‘I think not.’

Kraki shrugged and stared at the floor. In that unguarded moment, Hereward glimpsed a look of pain that the other man had never shown from any battle-wound. He feared he was losing his woman.

Hereward rested a hand on the other man’s shoulder. ‘Acha has fire enough for ten men. That is why you took her.’

‘She has not been the same since this other woman came to Ely, this Rowena. She fills Acha’s head with too many thoughts. Of her home, and what she has lost.’

And Rowena has shown a fighting spirit that Acha realizes she has let fade, the Mercian thought. ‘Let her have her thoughts. There is no threat in them,’ he said. ‘And then she will remember the man she found in Eoferwic.’

Kraki nodded, but the words seemed to do little good. Hereward sensed that much he did not know lay between the Viking and Acha.

After he had sent Kraki to oversee the work on the ramparts, he slipped into the church. The grey day made it like night inside. Fat candles flickered along the walls and the air was heavy with the scents of tallow and incense. He wandered up to the altar and into the abbot’s rooms. Surprisingly, Thurstan was nowhere to be seen; in recent days the cleric had barely been off his knees. Monks hurried by him, barely giving him a glance. They muttered nothing but excuses in response to his questions.

Frustrated, he wandered to the shrine of St Etheldreda. He had found much comfort there in recent times. He remembered
Thurstan telling him of the saint’s trials here in Ely, and how she had refused to submit to an unjust king. God had blessed her, and He blessed all those who bowed their heads to her, so it was said. Hereward cast his eyes over the many offerings, the bread and salt, the scraps of linen, the rabbits’ feet and grain.

The door of the church slammed and he looked up. Head bowed in deep thought, Thurstan was making his way across the nave. Hereward saw that his shoes were filthy with mud and his chasuble dripped on the flagstones. He plucked at the wooden cross which hung round his neck, deep lines of worry drawn across his forehead. But when Hereward hailed him, he put on a bright expression and answered in a light tone.

‘No prayers today, Father?’ the warrior asked.

‘I have been walking the shores of this isle, spreading God’s word to all who would listen.’

‘That is good. They need to know that God is on our side. It will keep the fire in their hearts when the days seem darkest.’

‘And dark days are coming, are they not?’ Thurstan fixed an eye on him.

‘We always knew that this fight would be hard, Father. But we are far from done. We have only delayed our strike against the Norman bastards. Once we are sure that folk here in Ely are safe, we will march out again with a new plan, a better one.’

‘And what is that plan?’ the abbot asked, barely concealing his doubt.

‘That will have to wait, Father, until I am returned.’

Thurstan frowned. ‘From where?’

‘From the very heart of our enemy’s camp. I go to see with my own eyes the king’s weaknesses.’

The abbot gaped. Hereward could see the churchman thought him mad, but he had the wherewithal to keep his tongue still. Instead he smiled. ‘I will pray for you. I will call
upon the Lord for all the aid that He might give.’ His final words remained unspoken:
for you will never return alive without His help
.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-F
OUR

ACHA JERKED AWAKE
in the dark. A scratching echoed from the door, as if some rat scrabbled to get in. She shook herself alert. Since she had been stolen from her home those long years ago, she rarely slept deeply. Pulling herself up, she flopped one hand on to the straw of the bed beside her. The space was cold and empty. No doubt Kraki was drunk and snoring in the tavern.

‘Who goes?’ she called.

A dim voice floated back: ‘It is I, Rowena.’

Acha sighed, but after all the woman had endured she could not turn her away. Though a few embers glowed in the hearth, she shivered in the deep chill of the hut. Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she padded across the cold mud floor.

‘What is wrong?’ she asked as she swung open the door. The sky was clear and sprinkled with stars, and her breath steamed.

‘A word,’ Rowena said. She had pulled her green cloak tightly around her. ‘A farewell.’ She slipped inside, but Acha felt surprised to see that she smiled and there was a spring in her step.

‘You return to your village?’ she asked.

The other woman squatted by the hearth and blew on the
embers, dropping straw and kindling on them until the flames crackled and licked up. In the dancing light, Acha could see that the ravages of grief had indeed fallen from her features. That was far sooner than she had expected. For a time, she had worried that it might never happen.

Rowena smiled. ‘I am to be a whore.’

Acha flinched, sure this must be some bitter joke. When she saw in the other woman’s eyes that it was not, she dropped to the hearth beside her and insisted, ‘Do not say such things. Your husband is not here to work the fields, I know, but there is food enough here in Ely for all.’

‘There is not, as you know well,’ Rowena replied, still smiling. ‘Every loaf is precious. No, this is not about food, or surviving the winter.’

‘What, then? Why would any woman choose to whore herself?’

For a moment, sadness filled Rowena’s face, but she pushed it aside and revealed the fire that had warmed Acha from the moment they had first met. ‘I am here to say farewell because you have shown me much kindness during my days in Ely. I planned to slip away in the night so none could stop me – I know Hereward watches me like a hawk – but I would not have you worrying about my safety.’ She paused, moistening her lips. ‘My husband is dead. I have prayed long and hard for him, but I cannot change that. Nor can I console myself with the knowledge that he only rests before he is called to heaven on Judgement Day, which will come soon enough. No, he is food for the ravens—’

Acha grasped the other woman’s arm, urging her not to punish herself so.

‘My life ended the day I knew my husband had died. I cannot go back. I cannot move forward.’ She rested her hand on the backs of Acha’s fingers. Her skin was unbearably cold. ‘I cannot bring Elwin home to me,’ she murmured. ‘But I can seek vengeance for his unjust death.’

‘When the Normans die on the ends of English spears, there will be vengeance enough for all.’

Rowena shook her head. ‘Not for me. This night I travel to Belsar’s Hill, and I will join the women who serve. And I will offer my thighs to any Norman who will have me.’

Acha felt sickened by her friend’s matter-of-fact tone. She wondered if grief had driven the woman mad, but she had never seemed so sane.

‘And I will fuck them well. I will fuck my way into their hearts and their trust.’ Rowena’s eyes blazed. ‘And each day that passes, I will move closer to the king. And when I am ready, I will kill him.’

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-F
IVE

UNDER THE RUDDY
glare of the torches, the witch walked through the gates. She spat three times and circled her fingers around her right eye. Her dancing shadow seemed to claw at the Norman soldiers who had gathered to see her arrival at Belsar’s Hill. Almost as one, they crossed themselves. She looked like a wildcat, hands hooked and teeth bared, and she snarled at anyone she caught staring at her. So filthy was she with mud and lichen stains that she could only have been living in the ditches and woods, Redwald thought as he watched her wander through the drifting smoke of the campfires. Behind her strode her captors – or guards, he wasn’t quite sure. Deda the knight seemed amused by her reception. Harald Redteeth looked as fierce as ever. Redwald didn’t like either man.

Trying to ignore the choking stench of shit and rotting food, he pushed his way back through the tents. When he was in the employ of Harold Godwinson, he had never been forced to endure such privations. But his discomfort was a small price to pay. He smiled to himself. He had already begun to inveigle his way into the king’s confidence. Day by day he was dragging his way up to the position he deserved.

Edoma waited for him by the gate to the castle ward. He thought how beautiful she looked. Her blonde hair gleamed in the torchlight and her skin was as pale as snow. She was a prize worth having, he supposed. He looked her over and nodded, pleased that she had recovered from the burn he had inflicted on her in Lincylene. She had forgiven him. What else could she do? Now the only blemishes she sported were the bruises from his fists during their lovemaking.

‘I saw the witch,’ she said, swallowing. ‘What if she brings the Devil to the camp?’

‘Look around. There are devils everywhere.’ He laughed. When he saw she was truly concerned, he took her hand and kissed it. A little charm never hurt. ‘I know you are scared,’ he whispered, ‘but that is the king’s plan. Fear is his sword, and he has used it well to gain the power he has.’

‘The king is wise.’ She smiled. ‘But not as wise as you.’

‘Hush,’ he urged, glancing around. ‘Do not let any hear you say such things.’

Her eyes gleamed with pride. Edoma was cleverer than most women, he thought. She recognized that he would rise quickly in William’s court, given half a chance, and she had shackled herself to him.

She looked around to make sure no one was watching, leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Come to me tonight,’ she breathed in his ear, ‘and I will show you pleasures beyond your imagining.’ She skipped away, flashing one seductive look over her shoulder before the night swallowed her.