Hereward 03 - End of Days (34 page)

Hereward had heard enough. He thrust his way through the crowd. ‘Make way,’ he called. ‘Words of cowardice will not avail you. Now hear the truth.’ As Thurstan glared down at him, the Mercian realized that his enemy within Ely had been revealed. He grabbed the abbot’s sleeve and tugged him from his perch, then climbed on to the barrel in his place.

He looked around at the rapt, frightened faces staring up at him. They wanted hope, nothing more, he could see that. He wished he could offer it to them. ‘You know the Norman bastards,’ he snarled. ‘Have they ever shown mercy to any English? For five summers now, they have stolen our land and our food. They have murdered our loved ones and hanged them on gibbets as food for the ravens. Not even dogs would be left that way. We have suffered misery heaped upon misery, but we have endured. And here in Ely we have stood shoulder to shoulder and we have been stronger for it. We have defeated the king himself at Belsar’s Hill. Great things remain within our grasp, as long as we stay strong.’

He could see from the relief in some faces that this was what they wanted to hear. But others still furrowed their brows and eyed him with dark suspicion. ‘What will you do?’ a woman called. ‘How will you deliver us from the wolves?’

‘I will fight, as I always have done,’ Hereward called back. ‘And I will give my life for you.’

A murmur of approval ran through the throng.

But Thurstan raised his arms in the air and announced, ‘What good will one dead Mercian do you? I will deliver you to the king and I … only I … will protect you.’

Hereward leapt down from the barrel and caught the abbot’s elbow. He steered the churchman through the crowd, whispering, ‘Walk with me, Father. I would talk to you.’

‘What will you do? Kill me, a man of God?’ Thurstan snapped. ‘Folk will turn on you in an instant. Already they cannot decide if you are devil or the leader who will carry them to the promised land.’

‘Oh, I am devil, Father. Have no doubt of that.’

The monks trailed along behind as Hereward led Thurstan out of the Camp of Refuge. ‘Return to the minster,’ he said. ‘I will have Guthrinc set men to guard you. For your own safety.’

The churchman snorted with derision. ‘And would you have us slaughtered if we refuse to be your captives?’

‘Aye, Father, I would,’ Hereward replied without hesitation. ‘I would have you cut down in the church itself and mount your heads on spikes at the door if it served to keep the folk of Ely safe.’

Thurstan blanched. He turned on his heel and marched up the slope, his monks hurrying behind him.

‘What has become of him?’ Alric asked. ‘Thurstan is a kind man, and he has always stood by the English. We would not have survived long without his hand of friendship.’

‘The abbot has stared long and hard into the dark of the night and found himself wanting,’ Hereward murmured as he watched the monks walk away. ‘He has not the strength to stand by the consequences of his actions. He thinks he has too much to lose … his power, or gold … He sees it slipping through his fingers.’ Hereward shrugged. ‘And he values that more than his honour.’ He spat, adding, ‘The snakes in our home have proved worse than the ones beyond the walls.’

‘Many times I have looked for Thurstan,’ Alric said, dazed, ‘but he was nowhere to be found. The monks told me he was walking beyond the walls, seeking God’s advice in solitude—’

‘Meeting the king and his men, more like. Or he would not have offered safe passage so easily. He has sold us like a pig at market.’ Feeling his devil stir, Hereward bunched his fists. He imagined throttling the abbot at the altar and hurling his body over the walls as a sign to the Normans that the English would brook no betrayals.

The monk rested a concerned hand on his friend’s arm as if he could read his thoughts. ‘Vengeance will gain us nothing,’ he said.

Another thought struck Hereward and he frowned. ‘The guards at the gate said naught of Thurstan’s comings and goings. They would have told me, and this betrayal would have been halted long ago.’

Alric shook his head. ‘What matters that now? Unless God brings a miracle, all is lost.’

‘You pray to God, monk,’ Hereward replied after a moment’s thought, ‘but the miracle might already have been delivered.’

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY

IN THE GLOOM
of the church, a few candles flickered. Shadows swooped across the walls as the two men made their way through the scent of incense to the shrine of St Etheldreda. The rain had started again, harder than ever, and the drumming upon the roof echoed along the nave. Behind it, Hereward could hear the steady pounding of the Norman siege machines beating out their rhythm of destruction. He felt that cadence match the throb of blood in his head. The end was coming, he could sense it in his bones.

In front of the shrine, the offerings left by the Ely folk were now inches deep across the flagstones. Hereward felt the weight of his burden. He had thought his purpose was to lead the English out of the dark that the Normans had set upon the land. But in the end, all he had done was lead the folk who had trusted him to disaster. He sank to his knees and bowed his head, asking the Lord for forgiveness.

Alric knelt beside him and rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘You have not failed,’ he murmured. ‘No man could have done more.’

‘There is nothing to show for the sacrifice I have asked of the people who followed me.’

‘You are wrong. What you have done here will flow out across England for all time. Whenever the English feel a boot upon their neck or a spear at their back, they will think of Hereward, and they will know they do not have to bow their heads. They can fight back, aye, even if they are few and the forces against them are many.’ Alric smiled, his voice filled with respect. ‘You have given them a gift beyond all value, Hereward. The knowledge that one man can bloody the nose of even a great and powerful king. That will never be forgotten.’

Hereward turned over Alric’s words for a moment, and then said, ‘Do not belittle the part you have played in this. You have helped tame a wild beast and turn it into this leader of which you speak so highly.’

His cheeks colouring, the monk shook his head. ‘It is you who have aided me, and for that you will always have my loyalty. When I killed Sunnild, the woman I loved—’

‘An accident—’

‘The stain upon my soul was no less for that. I thought I would never wash the blood from my hands.’

‘But you have made amends.’

‘For the taking of a life? No. But I have tried.’ He bowed his head for a moment, the weight of his emotions heavy upon him. ‘Sunnild’s death is a burden I will never escape. I could never take another life. It would destroy me. But in this struggle of the English …’ he hesitated, then added in a quiet voice, ‘in you, I have found a purpose.’

Hereward grinned, trying for a light response. ‘You have tried to save my soul.’

Alric showed no humour. His eyes gleamed in the candlelight. ‘No. I have tried to show you the path. You have saved your own soul.’

The Mercian felt humbled by the faith the other man showed in him. He broke off a chunk of the gold ring round his arm and laid it upon the shrine. As he whispered a prayer, he felt something deep shift within him. When he was done, he rose,
offering a hand to help the monk to his feet. ‘If we die this day, my life has been better for having you in it,’ he said.

‘If we die this day, my life has been better for having you in it,’ the monk repeated.

Hereward smiled. ‘Good. Then come, for the hours are running away from us.’

He led the way along the nave and out of the church. The rain sheeted across the minster enclosure and the day had once again become like night. At the gates, Hereward looked out beyond Ely. Fires raged along the palisade. Black smoke swirled up to the storm-clouds, and he could smell the bitter reek of burning on the wind. His men had fought hard to maintain the defences, but it had always been only a matter of time before the walls fell.

With Alric beside him, he made his way to the speaking-mound. A constellation of torches danced across the whole of Ely, sizzling in the downpour. His army waited for him in silence, faces turned towards him, lit by the glow of the flames. Pale, frightened, hopeful, desperate. Once again he felt humbled by the weight of faith that had been placed upon him. So many of them, from all parts of England, north and south and east and west, all of them fleeing the Normans to shelter under his standard. Some wanted only food and security. Others wanted vengeance against the invaders. They all counted upon him.

He could not lie to them.

‘Though we lose this day,’ he said in a voice that somehow carried above the roar of the storm, ‘it is not because our arms have not been strong enough, or because there has not been enough fire in our hearts. Some of those we once called friends have failed us. They have shown weakness where you have shown courage, greed where you have made only sacrifices. You, all of you, deserved better than their betrayal. But we will not bow our heads. We will not be broken-hearted.’

A roar rose up from the army.

‘We are wolf-brothers all, fierce and brave. And like the wolves of winter, we will fight to the death.’

The cheer grew louder still.

‘Stand firm,’ Hereward yelled above the clamour. ‘Those who survive this battle must spread the word of our fight far and wide. Let it grow in hearts and flourish in words. And let all know, now and for ever more, the English will never be defeated.’

The deafening roar of defiance drowned out the very storm. Spears jabbed towards the heavens and fresh-painted shields swayed overhead, a sea of colour in the gloom of the day. Hereward felt his heart swell.

But as the cheer died away, he heard a corresponding roar from far off in the storm. The time of waiting had passed. The Normans were coming.

As one his army turned, and with a battle-cry that must have chilled the blood of the king’s men they thundered down the slopes towards the wall and the final battle.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY
-O
NE

THE GATES OF
Ely splintered. A sound like thunder boomed time and again as the Normans rammed the felled tree against the entrance to the English stronghold. Beyond the palisade, an ocean of iron washed as far as the eye could see. Norman knights and foot-soldiers in black cloaks and helms and hauberks, and wild-haired axes-for-hire in furs and leather, all swelling up from the water’s edge to the walls around the hilltop settlement. The rain lashed down and the wind howled and the dark seemed to close in around them until men and storm became as one.

The air was thick with arrows, whipped through the gloom from the Norman longbowmen. As Hereward crouched on the walkway, he watched the shafts punch through throats and chests and eye-sockets. A mist of blood was caught in the wind as bodies were torn apart. Dying men wheeled backwards into the void, slamming into the warriors below. Their screams were swallowed by the din of battle, the clatter of iron and the exhortations and the battle-cries and the constant whistle of the arrows.

Along the palisade, his own archers rose up, loosing shafts into the Normans below. The king’s army pressed forward so
hard, the fallen were carried along in the flow, the arrows protruding from their sagging bodies.

Wiping the streaming rainwater from his face, he peered along the walkway. Under the weight of the English ranks, the wall had started to sag. Whole sections creaked and wavered, blackened from the burning caused by the fire-missiles.

The Mercian dropped from the wall and forced his way through the ocean of waiting warriors. Faces etched with fear loomed out of the driving rain. Eyes darted. Hands trembled. They knew their fate would be decided within moments.

In front of the bowing gate, his most trusted men gripped their spears and shields. Kraki, black-eyed and glowering; Guthrinc, towering over the others, as calm as if he were setting out to fish the mere; mad Hengist, who seemed to be laughing at the confusion that swirled around him; and Sighard, head raised in defiance but his eyes still hollow.

‘The whole wall will be down before we know it,’ Hereward bellowed.

‘Good,’ Kraki spat. ‘I am sick of this waiting.’

‘Your axe will taste Norman blood soon enough,’ Hengist said, his eyes sparkling.

Guthrinc caught Hereward’s eye and nodded towards Sighard. The Mercian clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and grinned. ‘Are you ready for this glory?’

‘I am ready. I think a hundred dead Normans is fair price for my brother’s life.’

‘Only a hundred?’ Guthrinc rumbled. ‘Aim higher, lad. I am going for two hundred myself.’

The oak bar across the gates strained and then a loud crack echoed. It bent, splintering. Through the growing space between the gates, Hereward could see rain-slick helms and hungry eyes.

‘Time,’ he yelled, turning and thrusting his spear into the air. ‘Shield wall.’

Across the slopes of Ely, the English army broke into well-rehearsed groups. Lines formed, shields slotted into place, spears bristled out.

In front of the gates, Hereward thrust his way into the centre of the line. Kraki stepped to his left, Guthrinc to his right. Others fell into place on either side and behind. They would be the first to meet the Norman bastards, that was only right. He raised his shield and peered over the rim. The world closed in around him.

The gates bowed, fell back, leaned in once more, each time the gap between them growing wider. How many Normans waited only a spear’s throw away, Hereward wondered. Thousands? He cared little. Let them swarm in their multitude. All the more for the slaughter.

And then, with a resounding crack, the oak bar shattered and the gates burst open. Hereward heard the roar of hell awakening. A torrent of knights swept through the gap. Double-edged swords hacked and stabbed. Shields splintered and groaned, but the wall held. And as the knights swung their blades up once more, Hereward and the English warriors thrust their spears. Sparks glimmered in the half-light as iron tips glanced off mail shirts. But there was blood too. Hereward’s spear drove up under the chin of the Norman in front of him, through the fleshy part of the neck and into the skull. The Mercian yanked back his weapon in a shower of crimson and his opponent crumpled.