Hereward 03 - End of Days (31 page)

The Viking leaned in and whispered, ‘It seems you do not have the power you thought. Not a master now, eh?’ He shook his head, then gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘We shall walk through the dark and the wild as brothers.’

Redwald felt queasy. It seemed that a shadow was falling over him, and he could not escape the feeling that he would not be returning from this battle.

Behind him, the king gave a cheery hail. He turned to see a group of men arriving, all of them cloaked and hooded. For
a moment, Redwald was not sure what he was seeing. But when the towering leader of the group threw back his hood, realization dawned on him. It was Thurstan, abbot of Ely, and the other men were monks.

William clapped the cleric on the shoulders, dispelling any notion that the churchmen had been taken prisoner. Redwald all but gasped aloud. The monks were now betraying Hereward and the English rebels whom they had once offered safe haven in Ely. This was why the king had laughed so loud when he had asked if God had shown him the way – Thurstan must have revealed the location of the secret path that would take the Normans to the walls of the English camp, bypassing all the defences. Scarcely could he believe the scale of this treachery. He edged closer to eavesdrop.

‘You are satisfied with our agreement?’ the monarch was saying.

‘I have prayed hard and listened to God’s counsel,’ the abbot replied.

‘And what does He say?’ Redwald recognized the fleeting smirk he saw on William’s lips. If anyone here was a spider at the centre of its web, it was the king.

‘I have a duty placed upon my shoulders,’ Thurstan began. He raised his head, trying to show strength.

William must have seen through the disguise as easily as Redwald, for he waved a dismissive hand. ‘You will keep your land,’ he said. ‘You have my word on that. And your treasure … your crosses, and reliquaries and holy books,’ he corrected himself with a smile, ‘wherever you have hidden them, will be given safe passage back to your church, and they will not fall into any other hands, I will see to that.’

‘The English cannot win,’ the abbot said as if he were trying to convince himself.

‘The English cannot win now you have revealed the secret path past their defences,’ Redteeth muttered at Redwald’s elbow.

‘And I would not see the folk of Ely harmed in the coming
fight,’ Thurstan continued, his voice faltering. ‘I will deliver them to you. My word carries weight. If I say I will no longer support Hereward, all will turn their backs upon him.’

‘And you have a gift for me?’ The king held out his hand. His gaze never left the abbot’s face, until the other man was squirming. Redwald watched as the monarch humbled the churchman, sucking out what little remaining power the cleric clung to. There was a lesson for him here.

Thurstan bowed his head for a moment, then turned and beckoned. Two monks stepped forward, heaving a chest between them. ‘Here, then. The arm of St Oswald.’

The king’s smile grew broader still. He turned and raised his arm. When the Butcher saw, the monarch snapped his hand forward.

Taillebois bellowed an order and the column of men began to move towards the copse. The soldiers surged around Redwald, carrying him along with the flow. He wanted to resist. He was afraid. But there was nothing he could do.

The rain lashed down. The gale ripped at his face. The murky light seemed to be fading fast. The tramp of feet and the steady crash of swords upon shields enveloped him as he was swept away from safety and the days that he had dreamed for himself. But even then he could hear the king’s jubilant voice booming out above the storm: ‘Now God sides with the Normans!’

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
-S
IX

THE TENTS BILLOWED
in the howling gale. Lines cracked. Beyond the walls at Branduna, sheets of rain whipped across the grasslands. Pools of grey water spread under the blackening sky, and the tracks that criss-crossed the near-deserted camp were little more than streams of brown mud.

Rowena pulled her cloak tightly around her. Buffeted by the wind, she was soaked to the skin by the stinging rain within moments of slipping out into the storm. She closed the enclosure gate behind her and set off among the tents. Only the serving girls had stayed behind in the hall, huddled around the hearth, sewing and singing. Some of the men were in the brewhouse drinking. But she could see boys running errands for the nobles who had not joined the king’s foray into the east. The lads looked like drowned rats, tunics clinging, hair plastered to their heads, while the masters sat warm and dry awaiting their return.

Wiping the rainwater from her eyes, she tried to peer through the torrent. Deda was nowhere to be seen. Her heart fell, a little. She was not sure why. Since Elwin had been taken, she could barely understand any of her motivations.

She was lost, of that she could be sure.

Taking care not to slip, she crept along the track. If Deda still planned to aid her, she could not afford to raise any suspicions. In the febrile atmosphere that had hung about the king’s men since the defeat at the causeway, a knight spiriting away a serving girl could be seen as a traitor helping a spy. She tried to tell herself that he was a Norman. What did she care if he suffered, or even died?

‘Woman. Here.’

Rowena jerked round as the voice boomed out above the din of the downpour. An old man swayed drunkenly in the entrance to a tent. She recognized the English thegn who seemed close to the king: Asketil was his name. His hair was white and thinning and red veins threaded across his nose and cheeks, but there was a power to him that she found unsettling.

She hesitated, wondering if she should simply run away. Surely he would not pursue her through the storm. But then he barked his command again and she found herself drifting towards him. He held the flap aside and she stepped into the tent.

‘Pour me wine,’ he said, waving towards a pitcher.

With a trembling hand, she snatched up the ewer. The quicker she could do it, the quicker she could be away. Lowering her eyes, she handed the old man a cup of wine and then turned to leave.

‘Wait,’ he demanded, his voice hard. ‘Stay.’ He swilled back his wine and held out the cup again.

‘My lord, I have duties—’

‘Stay.’ He glowered at her, the snap in his voice suggesting he would brook no dissent.

Rowena poured another cup. As she offered it, Asketil grabbed her wrist and yanked her towards him. She gasped and tried to pull free, but his grip was stronger than that of a man half his age.

‘You would question my order?’ he growled, his breath sour. ‘You are here to serve. You do as I say.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

When his face darkened, Rowena realized her eyes must have flashed with contempt at the suggestion she should bow to his wishes. She regretted it instantly. Asketil lashed out with the back of his hand. She spun away, dazed, and fell to her knees. As she gathered her wits, she tasted blood. And when she looked up into the old man’s face, she all but gasped. His features were contorted with rage. It seemed to her at that moment that a devil had taken control of him.

Rowena raised one arm to plead for mercy, but the old man thumped his hand down again, and this time it was a fist. Her head snapped to one side. Pain lanced through her. Her face numb, she blinked away stars and tried to scramble to her feet.

Fingers snarled in her dress and hauled her upright. Asketil pressed his face close to hers. ‘Women must be trained, like dogs, or they will bite the hand that feeds them,’ he growled.

As she stared into his bloodshot eyes, she felt something break inside her. In a flood of emotion, she reeled once again from the torment she felt when she looked upon her husband’s head, and from the sickening indignities heaped upon her by the men who had lain between her thighs, and from the disdain the old man had shown her, and from his blows. She rammed her hand between his legs and squeezed as if she were breaking the neck of a rabbit.

Asketil howled.

Her eyes stung with tears at the rush of euphoria she felt at this grand release and she wrenched free of his grip, her dress tearing. But as she scrambled to flee the tent, she heard a roar behind her that made her blood run cold. The thegn fell upon her like a wild beast. He threw her across the tent like a straw caught in the wind. Blows rained down. Feet crashed into her belly. The breath rushed from her, and then her wits.

When she came round, she was lying on her back in a cloud of agony. There seemed to be blood everywhere. She blinked the haze from her eyes and saw Asketil wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He was shaking, though not from the exertion, she thought. His eyes gleamed with a strange
hunger. He poured himself a cup of wine and downed it in one.

‘I look at you and I see my wife,’ he said, peering down at her. His voice rang with contempt. ‘She failed me time and again. She bore me a son who was too weak to be of my blood. Then she would shield him each time I tried to teach him a lesson, and thereby drove that weakness deep inside him where it could never be healed.’ He spat. ‘Boys learn to be men through pain. A fist. A knife. A sword.’ His eyes took on a faraway look. ‘There was a chance to save the boy, but she took him away from me, that cunt. And then, when I had made her pay, he hunched over her body like a wolf, spitting and snarling, fingers crooked like claws and threatening to tear out my throat. There was no hope for him.’

Rowena levered herself up, wiping the blood from her eyes.

‘Bow your head to me and call me master,’ he said in a wintry voice.

‘I will not submit to you.’ She raised her head with defiance. ‘Even though it should cost me my life.’

‘Then cost you it shall.’ He tossed his cup aside and advanced.

‘Leave her.’

Rowena glanced back and saw Deda standing in the entrance to the tent. Rain streamed from his cloak into a puddle around his feet. She had never seen his face so hard, his eyes so cold. His right hand rested upon the hilt of his sword.

Asketil only laughed. He grabbed a handful of Rowena’s hair and yanked her to her feet. She cried out and fought, but he shook her until her head rang.

‘I said, leave her.’ Deda’s voice cracked with an anger that surprised Rowena. Never had she heard him anything but gentle, even when she had spat in his face. He flung back his cloak to show his now half-drawn blade to the thegn.

Asketil’s features darkened. ‘You would threaten me? I have the ear of the king. And you … you are nothing.’

‘The king would take little convincing to loose my head from its shoulders, that is true.’ The knight took a step forward. ‘But
I will not … cannot … stand by and watch you harm a woman.’

The old man frowned, incredulous. ‘You would risk your life for her?’

‘For any woman.’

‘You Normans keep your women in their place.’

Deda shrugged, said nothing.

Realization dawned on Asketil’s face. ‘I see it now. You are like my son, an infant mewling for his mother. Weak.’

‘I would not wish to harm an old man,’ the knight said, ignoring the taunt. ‘There is no honour in this fight. Do as I say. Let her go.’

‘I am still strong,’ Asketil snarled. He shook Rowena again, with force, and as she cried out he snatched a short-bladed knife from the folds of his tunic. ‘Boy,’ he yelled. ‘Boy!’

One of the serving lads ran in and stared at the tableau, aghast.

‘You know this knight?’ the thegn snapped.

‘It is Deda, my lord,’ the lad stuttered.

‘If I am found harmed, or dead, you must tell the king. Do you hear?’

‘Y … yes, my lord.’

‘Go!’

The boy ran out from this tent of mad folk.

Asketil turned his attention back to Deda. ‘Now you are unmanned. Draw your sword, wave it around and know that it is useless.’ He laughed at his own words until the grim humour drained from his face. ‘I will show you what it means to be weak. Watch.’

Rowena screamed as the old man swung back his knife hand to slash her across the face.

From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Deda as he lunged, drawing his sword and hacking down in one fluid motion before the thegn could complete his strike.

The old man’s own scream rang out and Rowena flew from his grasp. When she glanced back, she gaped in shock. Asketil’s
right arm lay on the ground. The thegn sprawled beside it, twitching as blood pumped out from the stump. The gore puddled around him so fast that Rowena could see he would be dead within moments. And yet still he showed a defiant face.

‘You would kill an old man,’ he croaked. ‘There is no honour in you.’

Deda hovered over the thegn, watching the life-blood spill out of him. Rowena thought how devastated he looked, as if he had failed, not saved her life at all. He rested the tip of his sword against Asketil’s chest. The old man never blinked, never showed anything other than contempt. The knight bowed his head and then leaned on the hilt of his blade. It slid into the heart, putting the thegn out of his suffering. A low, last breath rustled out of the old man’s lips. Deda hung there for a moment, his head still lowered, his eyes closed.

After his silent prayer, he stood up and withdrew his sword. He wiped the blade clean on his cloak in what Rowena thought was almost an act of sacrament. Once he had sheathed the weapon he turned to her, and with tenderness helped her to her feet. When she peered down at Asketil, she felt oddly empty. No rage burned inside her at the brutality the old man had dealt out, nor did she feel any pity for his plight. He seemed a husk, nothing more. How could she or anyone have been frightened by him?

Her legs almost gave out beneath her, but Deda slid an arm round her shoulders and helped her to walk. ‘You have doomed yourself,’ she croaked. ‘By this action, you have challenged the authority of the king. He will see you hunted down and killed.’

‘A man is nothing if he does not have his honour. Whatever the cost, I must remain true to myself.’ When she looked up at him, he smiled back.

Rowena felt emotion well up in her, and for a moment she thought she might cry. She rested her head on his shoulder and allowed herself to be led out into the storm. The icy rain seemed to numb her pain and she found renewed strength
inside her. By the time they had crossed the camp, she was walking unaided.