Hereward 03 - End of Days (20 page)

Redwald had forgotten her by the time he reached the king’s tent. William was in good spirits. He could hear the monarch’s roaring laughter echoing across the ward. As he stepped into the tent, he was surprised to see his father, Asketil, astride a stool, sipping from a cup. He seemed more upright, his face less lined, his hair more lustrous, as if the old man were drawing strength to him by the day.

‘Ah, Redwald,’ the king boomed. ‘Join us. Sup some wine. Your father is spinning some tales from the court of old king
Edward. He is better than any scop. Now it seems I have two good men who will advise me on the ways of the English.’

Asketil grinned and raised his cup to his son. A silent communication passed between them. The old man was playing his part. Soon they would have the king in their thrall.

A girl came over with a pitcher of wine. She had sleek black hair that reminded Redwald of Acha, and fine bones. She gave a shy smile as she filled his cup. But when she moved to Asketil, the old man was too drunk to hold his cup still, and she slopped wine into his lap.

A shadow crossed Asketil’s face. Redwald knew what was coming before the old man raised his arm. Lashing out with the back of his hand, he struck the girl so hard across the face that she all but flew across the room. She screamed. The pitcher upended, flooding good Frankish wine across the mud. For a moment, Redwald was back in the thegn’s hall in Barholme, not long after he had watched his mother and father die. Asketil was much younger then, his hair like spun gold and his body as strong as a bull. The young man had watched him rain blows down on his true son, Hereward, beating him until the blood flowed and his wits had been knocked out of his skull. How many times had Redwald witnessed that brutality? And yet Asketil had never raised a hand against him.

Even the king looked shocked by this violence. But then he nodded and grinned, and offered his own hand to help the woman to her feet. Dazed, she put her fingers to a swollen lip and felt blood trickling down her chin. As tears started to form, William urged her out, with more gentleness than Redwald had ever seen him display. He turned back to his two guests and shrugged. ‘There is more wine where that came from.’

They all laughed.

Once their cups had been filled once more, the king’s grin faded and his mood grew grave. Redwald knew it was time for serious business. ‘The witch will be given her own tent, and as much food and drink as she wants,’ he said. ‘She will have pride of place to work her magics here.’

Redwald smiled to himself, recognizing the brilliance and cunning of the king’s plans. How alike they were.

‘I have work for you too,’ William continued, pointing at the younger man. ‘A great settlement has grown up along the causeway we are building. Merchants and craftsmen, whores and beggars, and any who think they can gain a few scraps from our table. Move among them. Spread fear of the witch, and with any luck they will take their knowledge of her presence out among the English. And then, in time, it will find its way back to Ely.’ Another grin appeared, but this one was sly. ‘On the morrow, she begins her spells. The Devil is on our side. Let every man be afraid.’

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IX

A GROWING SHADOW
was carving its way across the muddy fenland. The ground shook in its wake, as if the very heavens were tumbling. In the jumble of huts and workshops beside the new causeway, awed folk stopped what they were doing and craned their necks up to watch the tower move. Ropes creaked. Drums beat a steady rhythm. And inch by inch, the sun itself was consumed. On that chill autumn day, the king prepared for a war the like of which men had never seen before.

The air was sharp with the bitter sweat of the Englishmen who strained their sinews to drag the soaring timber structure on its platform across a row of slowly rolling tree-trunks. Once the tower reached the end of the row, four men would haul the last of the trunks to the front so the process could begin again. A Norman commander bellowed his orders and the red-faced, shaking men pulled as one. As he looked up the height of the tower, Hereward imagined archers at the summit picking off any attackers long before they reached the causeway. William the Bastard left nothing to chance.

Here Hereward was nothing but a lowly potter, clay-stained and insignificant in his brown cloak with its deep hood that shrouded his features in shadow, a threadbare tunic and
breeches. He carried only a short-bladed knife. No one, he hoped, would give him a second look.

Keeping his head down, he pushed his way through the crowd. He felt staggered by the size of the community that had grown up in such a short time. Folk thronged past merchants perched on bales and barrels proclaiming their wares in booming voices. Makeshift workshops had been thrown up, some almost overnight by the look of them: clay walls, heaps of sod, straw and timber, some of the building materials clearly stolen from the supplies destined for the causeway. Under the rickety roofs, looms rattled and hammers fell. Leatherworkers scraped hides with their curved blades and metalworkers hunched over pieces of gold and silver, engraving intricate designs. Smoke from the fires mingled with the meaty scents of hot pies and bubbling stews from the food sellers. Cattle lowed and pigs grunted. Hens scratched among the feet of the jostling multitude.

Amid the confusion of sensations, Hereward smiled to himself. The press of bodies and the constant din made his work easier. The Norman guards patrolling nearby were more concerned with the causeway than the mass of folk attempting to scrape a living from the vast army that had descended on the wetlands.

Once he had a good view he came to a halt, pretending to delve into the depths of his leather sack. He let his gaze run along the length of the causeway as it stretched into the misty distance. The Normans were widening and strengthening the existing track from Belsar’s Hill to the West River, not far from Alrehede, so that it would be broad enough and stable enough to take the Norman cavalry. Here the fen was probably only eight or nine furlongs wide, he estimated, with less water and marsh than in most other parts of the wetlands. The best and narrowest place for a crossing. And beyond it, Ely was in easy reach.

Walking along the line of the causeway, he flashed glances at the men at work. Their faces were drawn from too much
labour and too little food and sleep. The Normans drove them like animals. They dragged tree-trunks and great pieces of timber, lashing them together with cowhide to form the base of the road. And as the work moved across the marsh, English captives laid sheepskins filled with sand on the track to keep the top layer clear of the surrounding bogland. From the mountains of stone and wood heaped along the way, the men formed a chain to pass buckets of material to form the solid surface. Other filth-streaked, bare-chested labourers dug out deep, rolling ramparts of peat along the route. And on the waters beyond the scene of hard labour Hereward could discern many moored boats. More wood and stone was being unloaded.

His thoughts whirled. There could be no doubt now that the feeble causeway they had destroyed had been one of William the Bastard’s deceptions. This one would not be so easy to wreck. If he set his men to work with shovels for a week, they would barely have torn it down. And yet he had seen one weakness that he might be able to turn to his advantage, if fortune smiled upon him.

Ahead, three Norman soldiers were swaggering towards him through the stream of bodies. His neck prickled; he could take no risks that might uncover him. One of the warriors stopped to examine a linen merchant’s wares. When he rubbed the end of the cloth between his thumb and forefinger, his nose turned up as if he could smell something foul. Tossing the linen aside, he muttered to the others. The soldiers barked with laughter. The merchant’s cheeks reddened. As they moved on, Hereward lowered his head and retreated into the shadows of his hood. He turned left, only to find his path blocked by two men arguing over a goose. The soldiers drew nearer. One looked directly at him, and then glanced away at a comely girl helping her mother carry a churn.

‘Pots,’ Hereward mumbled, his eyes darting. ‘Good pots.’

When the soldiers were only steps away, an outcry erupted nearby. A boar had broken free from its pen. Folk scurried in all directions from the squealing beast. Seizing his moment, the
Mercian plunged off the track and into the filthy, ramshackle settlement.

For a while, he hid among the mass of huts and tents. More of the defences still needed to be examined before he could creep away. Yet as he prowled closer to where the settlement pressed hard against the slopes of Belsar’s Hill, he glimpsed two figures through a gap between the huts. He felt his senses start to jangle, though he was not sure why. Keeping low, he slipped from wall to wall in their wake.

As he peered round the final hut, he stiffened at the sight of two men he had never thought he would see together: Deda the knight and Harald Redteeth. They were so close that his nose wrinkled at the lamb-fat the Viking used to grease his furs. He threw himself back into the shadows, hoping they had not seen him.

The two men walked on a few paces, and then Redteeth came to a sudden halt. He cocked his head as if listening to some unseen companion. Hereward felt his neck prickle. He had seen the Northman do this before and it never failed to unnerve. The knight turned, frowning, asking what was wrong. Redteeth ignored him. He spun round and looked directly at Hereward.

And as the Mercian darted away, an angry cry rang out at his back and feet thundered in pursuit.

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THE THRONG JOSTLED
by. Hungry, most of them. Fearful that the End of Days was drawing in and hopeful that the Normans would offer them some shelter from the storm of want, sickness and death. The Normans who had brought all those things to England’s door. Rowena forced a smile, trying not to let those sour thoughts show on her face.

‘This is the third time you have accompanied me into danger. Do you wish to lose your life?’ Rowena asked as she examined the fine silver jewellery on the metalworker’s trestle.

Scowling, Acha looked past her to the Norman soldiers patrolling the causeway. ‘If I die, it will be you who will have killed me.’

Rowena eyed the other woman as she turned a silver bracelet over in her hands. It gleamed in the light, showing off the black runes carved around its band. She wished Acha had not accompanied her. Soon her life would be over, and with any luck, the king’s with it. There was no other course. But now she had to think about Acha’s safety, and that was a distraction she did not need.

She thought back to that cold hut where she had tried to say her farewell. Barely had the words left her lips before Acha was
dropping a few meagre possessions into a sack and insisting she come with her. She could not understand it. But she had been glad of the company through the night-dark fenlands. The wolves would soon be venturing out of the woods in search of food. And there were worse things abroad in the east.

She put the bracelet down and nodded to the sallow-faced metalworker. Pushing her way through the crowd, she raised her head to study Belsar’s Hill looming up ahead. A pall of black smoke from the campfires hung over it.

‘And you are to whore yourself as well?’ she asked Acha.

‘I will not.’

‘Then where will you sleep and what will you eat?’

‘I can still pour wine and serve meat.’ The other woman’s voice was flinty.

‘The invaders are not kind to English women. They think we are all whores compared to their cold, obedient Norman wives.’

‘And you think all English are kind to Cymri slaves?’ Acha snapped. ‘I have survived. I will do so again.’

Rowena hoped the other woman was right. But as she looked around at the grim faces of the soldiers, and the drunken axes-for-hire knocking folk out of their path, she feared the worst. There was little kindness in this place. None of the comforts she knew from her home. And away from the scrutiny of their nobles, the Normans made their own laws. Death came easy.

Suddenly afraid that she had made the wrong decision, she turned away from the crowded track and walked among the huts. Her chest felt tight and she thought that she might cry. Barely had she gone ten paces when she heard angry shouts ring out. A man was weaving among the dwellings, his cloak flying behind him. In his haste, his hood flew back and she was shocked to see that it was Hereward. He glimpsed her too, and his own features lit with surprise.

At first she thought he had come hunting for her. But then Acha exclaimed and pointed. A Northman was pursuing the
Mercian, his face a mass of burns and scars. Roaring like a wounded beast, he gripped his axe as he pounded along the muddy track.

‘We must help,’ Acha gasped.

Without thinking, Rowena darted in front of the fierce Viking warrior. He bellowed, ‘Out of my way,’ and attempted to thrust her aside, but she tangled herself in his arms. They all but fell to the ground.

‘I am hungry,’ she cried. ‘Oh, aid me, I beg you. And I will give you a night of joy that you will never forget.’

‘Out of my way, whore,’ he yelled. He hooked an arm round her and flung her to one side with such force that she crashed against the wall of a hut. She felt dazed, and winded, but when she looked up she saw the Viking roaming back and forth searching for his prey. Hereward was nowhere to be seen. And nor was Acha.

Throwing his head back, the Northman shook his fist at the heavens and roared curses until his throat was raw. When he stormed past, he glared at Rowena with murder in his eyes, but she sensed he would not harm her. He hailed someone in his angry, rumbling voice. Rowena turned and saw it was the knight, Deda. He stared back at her.

Her heart pounded. She walked away as quickly as appeared seemly. She could not be sure whether the Norman had recognized her. The last time they met, when she had spat in his face, she had been hooded. But she knew if word got out that a woman of Ely was in the camp she would be branded a spy, and she would pay the price.