Hereward 03 - End of Days (22 page)

Slipping his hand inside his cloak, he drew out his knife and kept it hidden in his palm until he came to the blue tent. Glancing around once to be sure he was not being watched, he darted inside.

His nose wrinkled at the odours of sweat and urine mixed with the pungent aroma of unfamiliar herbs. A three-legged iron brazier hissed in the centre. Most of the smoke swirled up out of a hole in the tent roof. A bed lay on one side: fresh straw and warm woollen blankets. Around it, the wise woman had scattered the accoutrements of her trade: a human skull marred by a jagged black hole where a spear had plunged through the bone, and many smaller animal skulls; posies of woodland flowers and bunches of dried herbs. Pots and bowls were scattered everywhere, some covered with a foul-smelling residue. But there was salt pork on a trestle, and fresh bread
and ale and a pitcher of wine. Hereward guessed she had never lived so well.

He stepped into the crook of the tent beside the entrance. Outside, he could hear her shrieks begin to subside as the wind died. The thunder rolled away. He waited, holding the knife close to his chest.

Not long after, the tent flaps were thrown aside and the witch swept in. She ranged over to the brazier and tossed a handful of herbs into the hot coals. A sweeter smell filled the tent.

Hereward made no sound, but she must have heard something for she whirled. Her eyes flashed. ‘Who are you?’ she snarled.

‘An earth-walker seeking the aid of a wise woman,’ he said in a placid voice.

For a moment, she sized him up, then clawed her finger to beckon him to the brazier.

‘Many speak of blood and war and sickness and hunger in days yet to come. Is this what you see?’ Hereward asked.

‘All those things.’ The witch snatched a chunk of salt pork and devoured it. ‘In the coming war, the English will be crushed. The king will be victorious. But then there will be food for every belly, and peace, everywhere. The
alfar
have whispered these things to me.’

Hereward flinched. Was she merely sowing seeds of despair, as William the Bastard would have wanted, or were these things to be? He thought back to the times he had sat with Turfrida in a hall of scented smoke, sweating in the heat from the stoked hearth as she rolled her eyes back and repeated the
alfar
’s whispers. Turfrida always believed those words to be true.

The witch must have seen his drifting gaze, for she furrowed her brow and asked, ‘These things weigh heavy on you?’

He shrugged off her question and stepped closer still. ‘Tell me more,’ he murmured, his fingers tightening on the knife’s
handle. ‘This time of gold you say yet awaits. Food in every belly and mead in every cup, and God shining His light down upon all England. Then will we see the beatings stop, and the thefts, and the gibbets?’ He smiled. ‘For that would be heaven indeed.’

‘Aye, peace for all,’ she replied, distracted. She leaned over the brazier and inhaled the fragrant smoke. Her eyelids fluttered.

One swift slash across the throat would do it. She would not be able to cry out for aid, and there may yet be time for him to slip away.

He shuddered. In his cloak, his hand trembled, and he realized he could not use his knife. His stomach clenched at the thought of killing her. Yet he had slaughtered so many men he could not guess the number, and all without a second thought.

She opened her eyes and creased her brow once more. ‘What ails you?’ she spat.

A tremor ran through him, and he turned his head away from her. Yes, he had killed many a man, but no women. Never a woman. He thought of his mother’s blood draining through the boards of Asketil’s hall after she had been beaten to death by his father’s fists. He remembered his first love, Tidhild, dead at his feet. And Turfrida too, lying in her grave. Three women, three unjust deaths. No more.

The witch spat into the brazier. Her phlegm sizzled.

Hereward gritted his teeth, fighting with his very nature. But he could not bring himself to release that terrible devil that lurked inside him; or rather, it refused his summons. Mocking him, he thought. Showing him who was master.

He reeled back a step, grimacing. The time had passed. Aware that the witch was watching him like a hawk, he turned and strode across the tent. ‘I must take my leave,’ he mumbled.

‘Stay,’ she called after him. ‘The
alfar
still whisper. There is much you should learn here.’

He threw aside the tent flap. Grey light flooded in.

She spat in the brazier once more, and hissed, ‘What say you, Hereward?’

Startled, he turned back at the sound of his name.

The witch grinned.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-N
INE

HEREWARD CRASHED OUT
of the tent and into a gathering crowd drawn by the witch’s shrieks of alarm. As folk hovered around the entrance, as fearful as they were curious, he shouldered his way into the mass, cursing himself. He had been too weak, too slow-witted. And now he would pay the price, and all the English with him.

Diving into one of the narrow, waste-strewn tracks among the huts, he picked a winding route that he hoped would confuse anyone on his heels. A voice in his head whispered that his exertions were all for naught – there was no way out of that place, and all he had was his knife, a child’s weapon. He could not even fight his way to freedom. But he pushed it aside and shrugged off his cloak, hoping that at least would make him harder to identify.

At the rear of a workshop, he paused to catch his breath. Cries rang out across the settlement, but now there was no order to the Normans searching for him. He hoped he could use that confusion to his advantage. But as he glanced towards the causeway, he saw two men standing on the peat ramparts, gaping back at him. He felt a rush of heat as he locked eyes with Redwald. His father, Asketil, stood beside his brother, his face ragged with hate.

And then his devil did stir. Blood thundered into his head, and all he wanted at that moment was to plunge his knife into his brother’s chest. What cared he if the Normans caught and killed him? He would have vengeance, finally.

A woman’s cry jerked him from his fury. ‘He is here! He is here!’ she yelled, and he realized it was Acha. Her exhortations seemed to come from far away, near the end of the causeway closest to Belsar’s Hill. The sounds of pursuit moved away from him and towards those increasingly insistent cries. Hereward felt a chill when he realized that she was buying him time to escape, probably at the cost of her own life. His kin forgotten, he peered round the edge of the workshop and watched Norman warriors flood towards her, and the English too. Bafflement filled their faces as they looked around in vain, then anger when they sensed they had been deceived. Two of the warriors dragged her away. The crowd yelled and shook their fists, as if she were the enemy, not the bastards who had seized her.

Even as the Normans wrenched her along the track to the camp, showing no mercy with their fists and feet, even though she must know only death awaited her, she allowed herself to smile because her ploy had worked. Hereward stared after her, stung by that simple, selfless expression. Never had he thought her capable of such an act of sacrifice. He felt remorse that he had so underestimated her.

There was nothing he could do to save her. As the search began again, he forced himself to turn away. Redwald and Asketil were gone too, and he raced away to the very edge of the settlement before they could raise the alarm.

Ahead of him, the reed-beds rustled, a sea of creamy-brown stretching out to the willows where he could lose himself. He glanced back. No eyes were on him. Acha’s ruse had worked. Murmuring a prayer for the woman, he dived into a ditch half filled with freezing, filthy water and clawed his way along.

Barely a moment had passed when he heard a shout. The
tanner from the campfire was peering down at him from the ditch’s edge.

‘Hold your tongue,’ the Mercian urged. ‘I am Hereward of the English. I fight so you might be free of these bastard Normans.’

For a long moment, the leatherworker held his gaze as this information settled on him. Then he spun round, put his hand to his mouth and began to yell for aid.

Snaking up one arm, Hereward grabbed the tanner’s ankle and yanked him into the ditch. The man flailed as he fought to keep his head above water, but Hereward pressed him down. Filthy ditchwater flooded the leatherworker’s mouth. Like a madman, he thrashed out, trying to claw at the Mercian’s face.

‘I fight for you,’ Hereward protested when the spluttering tanner gulped a mouthful of air. But still the man tried to cry out, and still he struggled.

‘I fight for you,’ the warrior repeated. His anger surged. ‘I fight for you. I fight for you.’ And on and on, his words growing with passion until his voice cracked. He thrust the tanner’s head underwater to try to quieten him, and then again. Finally he accepted he had no choice. Putting iron into his arms, he pinned the man down until the wild thrashing turned to twitches, and the viscous bubbles stopped breaking the surface, and all movement finally ebbed away.

His fingers slipped away from the tunic. The body sank down into the muddy depths. Sickened by what he had done, Hereward peered into the black water. Once he had gathered his thoughts, he crept away. His conscience dragged his gaze back one final time, and he regretted it. The ditch-rats were already beginning to feast.

By the time he crawled out of his hiding place and into the reeds, the light was dimming. From the settlement, the voices of the men searching for him still rang out, but there seemed a dismal tone to them now.

Yet as he crawled away into the twilight, he felt no joy at his escape, only a grim resignation and a sense that more misery was yet to come.

Acha was lost. She could be cold, and hard, and selfish, and proud, and sharp-tongued. And yet she had given up her life for him. He could not understand why she had done such a thing, nor why it troubled him so.

As the night closed in, her final, lingering smile haunted him.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY

THE MOURNFUL HOWLS
of the hunting dogs echoed across the desolate wetlands. Deep in the dark, torches flickered as bands of Normans searched the edges of meres and dense woods. The night was chill and moonless and all of the fens was a sea of ink.

Hereward scrambled over tangled roots, all but feeling his way through the inhospitable landscape. Blood dripped from his hands where he had torn them on the flints of causeways. His tunic was sodden, his hair plastered to his head, his limbs were like lead and his chest was afire. Yet he never slowed. But as he clawed his way through a willow copse, his fingers closed around the way marker near-hidden in the sedge. Only then did he allow himself to pause and glance back at the bobbing lights.

‘Come, you bastards, and drown in the bogs,’ he snarled. ‘You will not catch me now.’

Here was the secret path back to Ely. He had walked it enough times to navigate its lethal turns without need of eyes. But so well hidden was the start of the track, the Normans would never find it unless someone placed his foot upon it.

As he sucked in a deep draught of the cold night air, he noticed another light – smaller, perhaps no more than a
lantern-candle in the trees. It was moving away from Ely, away from the start of the secret path. Was it someone searching for him, he wondered. Only Alric knew he had been risking his neck at the causeway – he had not wanted his men to fear for his safety and lose heart – and even the monk would not be fool enough to venture out alone after dark. He opened his mouth to call out and then thought better of it. He could not risk alerting the Normans to his presence.

Before he could search for the light’s owner, it disappeared. Perhaps whoever it was had thought better of his impetuous journey, or had seen the Norman lights and decided to turn back. There was nothing he could do now. With a shrug, he set off along the path.

The journey was treacherous, but the waters were low and soon he set foot upon dry land. Ahead, the torches glowed over Ely’s gate. He hailed the guards, who were shocked by his bedraggled appearance so late at night. By the time the gates had trundled open and he had stepped inside, Alric was running down the track from the church, beaming.

‘You have the luck of the Devil,’ the monk exclaimed. His grin faded when he saw the Mercian’s solemn expression.

‘Fetch my war-band to the minster. And bring Earl Morcar too,’ Hereward commanded. ‘We have much to talk about. But first I must have speech with Kraki.’

Alric frowned. Hereward knew his friend had learned to read every secret in his face, however hard he tried to hide it. ‘What is amiss?’

The warrior only clapped the monk on the arm and strode off through the settlement.

He found Kraki sitting alone in the dark of his hut. Only a few embers glowed in their hearth. By their light, Hereward could see the dark rings of worry under the Viking’s eyes, and the deep furrows in his forehead. He held a cup of ale loosely as he peered into the coals.

‘You would drag me from my hearth now?’ he rumbled, looking up at the disturbance.

Hereward squatted next to him.

‘You look like a drowned rat.’

‘Better that than a dead one.’ For a moment, Hereward struggled to find the right words. ‘I have grave news.’

Kraki raised his bushy eyebrows.

‘About Acha,’ the Mercian continued. ‘The Normans have taken her.’

At first, he thought the Northman had not heard. The Viking stared into the embers, his face like stone. Then he roared and hurled his cup across the hut. Ale splashed up the walls.

‘Where is she?’ he snarled, his eyes glittering. ‘I will carve through ten men, a hundred, to bring her back.’

In quiet tones, Hereward told him what had transpired at Belsar’s Hill. When he was done, Kraki nodded. ‘Aye, that is like her. More fire than sense.’ He bowed his head, then looked Hereward full in the face. ‘She yet lives?’

‘She lived when I last saw her.’

They both knew what remained unsaid.