Hereward 03 - End of Days (2 page)

They paused on the edge of a black lake and looked out across the still fenlands. Wood and water, stinking bog and whispering reeds, as far as the eye could see. A treacherous landscape for any who did not know its moods, and one that changed constantly, with the tides flooding in through the saltmarshes to the north and east, and the rainfall swelling the rivers and streams to the east. Land that had been dry only a day earlier could pull a man down to his death.

Shadows were pooling under the trees. Along the western sky, a crimson band blazed as the sun slipped away. Time was short. They hurried on.

After a while, moonlight cast patches of silver among the trees. And then, through the curtain of branches, a soft golden light danced. The two brothers slowed, catching their breath. This was the place.

‘Forget your fears,’ Sighard whispered, resting one hand on Madulf’s shoulder. ‘Remember only the reason why we are here. Everyone in Ely counts on us.’

Murmuring voices drifted on the dank night air. Sighard breathed in the scent of woodsmoke. Pulling aside the hanging willow branches, he left his brother and stepped into a small clearing where some twenty folk squatted on logs around a roaring campfire. Many heads were bowed in deep reflection. Others leaned in close to whisper, as if raising their voices would bring the wrath of God upon them. He sensed a mood that was tense, almost reverent.

Through the twirl of smoke, Sighard could see a shack that had almost been swallowed by its surroundings. Yellowing grass grew waist-high on every side; the ash trees pressed so close they seemed all that stopped the bowing walls from collapsing. The roof gaped where sods of turf had fallen away. Sighard thought that it barely looked fit for pigs.

At the rear of the congregation, he dropped to his haunches and looked around the group. Worry etched deep lines into
faces. They were frightened, he thought, seeking aid from whatever source they could find.

From the hut, a faint trilling rolled out. The crowd fell silent, and as the chirruping grew louder all eyes turned towards the door. Unable to look away, Sighard watched too. After a moment, he realized he was holding his breath tight in his chest.

When the door ground open, a dark shape moved in the shadows inside the shack. The trilling died away and a suffocating quiet descended on the clearing. Under his breath, Sighard muttered a prayer. These folk had heard the monks’ warnings, as he had. Lives destroyed, fortunes blighted. Sickness. Starvation. Death.

In the doorway a figure loomed. For a fleeting moment, Sighard imagined all the terrors he had heard whispered. Yet it was only a woman who stepped out into the firelight. Even then he was not comforted. Like a wolf she was, lean and strong and savage, her thin lips curling back from jagged teeth, fingers crooked to tear with broken, filthy nails. Her face had been weathered by the harsh fenland seasons, her filthy dress reduced to little more than mildew-stained rags. But though her hair was streaked with grey she glowed with the vitality of a much younger woman. Sighard found himself caught in the grip of her glittering eyes. They looked all black from rim to rim, the eyes of a devil, not a woman.

As she prowled along the front row, folk reared back as one. ‘Now you come,’ she murmured, her voice flinty. ‘In the cold of winter, you denied me food. Your children threw stones at me in the woods. You turned your faces away at the market. And your churchmen beat me with cudgels until my arms and back were blue and my blood flowed freely. Yet now you come.’

A man flushed from the heat of the fire bowed his head. He could not look at her. ‘Brigid,’ he ventured, ‘we should not have done you wrong. All of us are in agreement.’ He glanced around. Heads nodded. ‘Find it in your heart to help us and we shall be in your debt.’

Brigid looked across the group. ‘What would you have me do?’

‘Whatever is in your power,’ a wife cried. Her worries had been stifled for too long. ‘The church does not help us any more. The priests either bow their heads to King William in hope of favour, or are so fearful of his vengeance they cower like mice.’

‘Give us wards to keep the Normans at bay,’ a man shouted.

‘Make them piss blood. Make their cocks drop off with the pox,’ another yelled.

‘Hide our barns,’ a second woman pleaded, ‘so they cannot steal our food and we can live through the cold season.’

Brigid grunted. She stared into the dark beyond the circle of firelight and cocked her head as if listening to voices. When Sighard followed her gaze, he saw only gloom among the ash trees. He felt his skin crawl. Brigid prowled to the fire where a pot hung on a chain over the flames. Though the liquid bubbled in the heat, the woman dunked her fingers in and pulled out a shrivelled mushroom. ‘The flesh of the gods,’ she croaked. ‘It gives me wings to fly to the guardian of Lugh’s Spring and ask his aid, as it did for my mother, and my mother’s mother, and all the mothers before them.’ Brigid dipped a wooden cup into the brown stew. She let the contents cool, then began to sip. Once she had drained the liquid, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes in ecstasy. Slumping to her knees, she began to rock, humming to herself.

The moon slipped across the sky. No one spoke.

When the crack of a dry branch echoed from deep in the woods, everyone jerked and looked round. As they strained to listen, Sighard watched their fears play out on their faces.
Wuduwasa, wuduwasa
, the whispers rustled. A ceorl crossed himself, afraid he would be the next victim of the silent denizen of the wildwood who gnawed on the bones of men. They held their breaths and waited. Only when another crack echoed, this time further away, did they turn their attention back to the fireside.

Finally Brigid began to mumble. Sweat slicked her brow. ‘Speak,’ she breathed, her eyes still shut. ‘Ask what you would.’

‘Will the guardian help?’ someone at the front whispered.

The wise woman nodded.

Smiles leapt to lips. Hands clasped in hope. A white-haired woman, as bent as a wind-blasted tree, leaned forward. She swallowed and her voice cracked when she spoke. ‘Are these the last days?’

Brigid rocked back and forth. A tremor crossed her face. ‘I see … fire. I see ravens feeding on a hill of bodies. A bloody sky and a bloody lake.’

In front of Sighard, a wife’s shoulders began to shake with silent sobs.

‘A cold wind blows from the north, and there are ashes in the wind,’ Brigid continued.

A crash reverberated through the woods nearby. Men jumped to their feet, and a moan of unease rippled through the group. ‘It is the
wuduwasa
,’ someone gasped.

In that febrile atmosphere, Sighard could see the moment was slipping away from him. He stood up and raised his chin, trying to look commanding. It seemed to work, for all eyes turned to him.

‘My name is Sighard. I come from the camp at Ely,’ he announced. His mouth felt too dry. Though he dreaded the answer, he had to ask the question that all in the camp needed to know. ‘Where is Hereward?’

The words seemed to hang in the air. Sighard swallowed, more afraid than at any time since he joined the rebel army.

Brigid squinted, trying to discern his face through the smoke. ‘Is he alive? Or dead?’ he continued, unable to hide the tremor in his voice.

There. It had been said and could not be unsaid. Though he kept his gaze upon the wise woman, he sensed the others around the fire turn to look at him. So much hope had been invested in Hereward. The leader of the uprising and the one man who could turn back the iron tide of the Normans. Who
could prevent all the misery and the suffering. If the rebels had not been so desperate, he would never have said anything that would shatter that hope, which had been in such short supply for so long.

But desperate they were.

Brigid bowed her head and began to mutter to her unseen companions. Sighard held his breath, waiting for her answer.

A terrible, throat-rending scream tore through the night.

Sighard jerked in shock. Panic flooded through the congregation. Cries of ‘The
wuduwasa
is coming!’ rang out and within moments the terrified throng were fleeing in all directions. In the confusion, Sighard lost sight of the wise woman, and when his view across the fire was clear he saw that Brigid too was gone.

As the contagion of dread throbbed through him, he dashed away from the fireside. Bursting through the curtain of willow branches, he found Madulf crouching against a tree, hunted eyes darting.

‘That scream,’ his brother hissed. ‘What stalks this place?’

Crashing erupted away in the trees as if some great beast raged there. The two brothers gaped at each other and then they scrambled away. In that wild flight, Sighard fancied he could glimpse bloody fangs in the dark, and feel cold breath upon his neck.

When the two men tumbled out of the trees on to a beaten surface, Sighard realized that by blind luck they had found their way to the old straight track. Pearly moonlight dappled the way ahead. Sucking in a gulp of air, he looked around, chose his direction and ran. Madulf bounded at his heels.

Behind them, breaking branches cracked.

Blinking away tears of fear, Sighard muttered a prayer. If God allowed him to slip away from the
wuduwasa
’s grasp and reach the safety of Ely’s walls, he would make an offering at Etheldreda’s shrine every week.

But God was not yet ready to come to his aid. Stumbling over a root, he sprawled on the track. The air rushed from his
lungs. Madulf skidded to a halt, looking all around. With shaking hands, he grabbed Sighard and wrenched him up on to sore knees.

‘Come,’ he insisted.

‘Wait …’

‘Are you mad?’

As Madulf tried to drag him along, Sighard threw him off. His hands were wet, sticky. Raising his palm to his nose, he recoiled from the iron stink.

‘Blood,’ he whispered. ‘Fresh.’

‘If the
wuduwasa
hunts behind us, how could that be?’

Sighard felt the uncertainty drive his terror to a new level. Jumping to his feet, he advanced with hesitant steps, no longer sure which way he should go.

When Madulf grabbed his shoulder, he almost cried out. ‘There.’ His brother’s hand shook so much he could barely point.

A dark shape lay across the path. A moan rolled towards them. Fighting the instinct to run, Sighard crept forward and dropped to his haunches. In a shaft of moonlight, he saw that it was a man. A growing black pool shimmered around him.

Flashing a worried glance at his brother, Sighard turned over the prone figure. He flinched. ‘Jurmin,’ he whispered.

‘What?’ Madulf leapt to his side. ‘The scout?’

Sighard nodded. Jurmin had been dispatched to spy upon the Normans when the worries about Hereward’s disappearance had reached fever pitch. The scout coughed and a mist of blood settled on Sighard’s arm. Jurmin blinked, forcing himself to focus on the face hovering over him. With a burst of vigour, he grasped Sighard’s wrist and tried to lever himself up on to his elbow. ‘Run for Ely as fast as your legs will carry you,’ he croaked. ‘The hour is later than we ever realized. The Normans are everywhere.’

Still caught up in visions of the
wuduwasa
, Sighard fought to comprehend what the scout was saying. ‘The Normans?’

‘You must find Hereward … Kraki … any of them …
warn them … warn them all.’ He choked and spat a mouthful of blood. ‘Warn them … the king is coming. The king!’

Sighard reeled. ‘William the Bastard is making his move?’

Madulf clutched his head. ‘We thought we had all the time in the world. The king would never attack before the spring floods had gone. Everyone said!’

Dry wood cracked in the trees behind them. Not the
wuduwasa
at all, Sighard realized. Something that could be far worse. He strained to hear. The clank of iron. Dim voices calling in the harsh Norman tongue.

‘Go,’ Jurmin insisted. ‘God comes for my soul. You cannot help me.’

Sighard gave the man’s arm a squeeze. He could see from the puddling blood that Jurmin was right: his days were done. Grabbing hold of Madulf’s arm, Sighard urged him along the track.

As they crept away, jubilant cries rang out. The Norman hunting band had found Jurmin. Sighard glanced back and saw shapes looming over the wounded scout. Moonlight glinted off helms and mail shirts. A note of triumph rang in the harsh voices. Swords flashed up, then down. Jurmin screamed.

Consumed by terror, Sighard ran. The king was coming, and Hereward had abandoned them. A hell of iron was about to descend upon the English.

The End of Days was here.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

IN THE WHISPERING
reed-beds, the English warriors were waiting to drench their spears in blood. Silent, unmoving, they crouched, breath tight in their chests, eyes fixed upon the wall of fog drifting among the willows. In that hour after dawn, the fenlands still slumbered. For too long, the only sound had been the steady patter of moisture dripping from the branches on to the blanket of sodden brown leaves. Now the muffled jangle of mail shirts rang out. The ground was throbbing with the distant pounding of hooves.

Kraki smiled. This time was to be savoured. The peace before the axe fell and the blood pumped. He could smell his own sweat, musky and comforting under the aged leather and furs. The reassuring weight of his hauberk was heavy upon his shoulders. The eyelets of his helm framed the world in iron. He always saw the world that way, a circle that was an arena, for fighting was all he had known since he was a boy. There had only been two choices in his northland home, where the sun glinted off the mountain snows and the air was as sharp as a Norman sword, and he could never have settled for the dull consistency of a farmer’s life. The back-breaking ploughing, and the sowing and the praying. Life was harsh, and you had
to place your hands round its neck and throttle it until the myriad riches tumbled from its purse. He remembered the first man he had ever killed, the face split in two by his axe, the glistening contents steaming in the chill air. He had felt no remorse, no queasiness at the brutal realities of death. For his lack of emotion some thought him cold-hearted, a butcher even. But in battle, he heard the song that filled the heart.