Hereward 03 - End of Days (35 page)

And still the Normans swarmed through the gates. Whole sections of wall were collapsing on either side. The king’s army flowed out on both flanks, crashing across Ely. So many there were, it seemed the deluge would never end.

Kraki stabbed his spear into the foot of the warrior in front of him. As the knight’s knee buckled in agony, the Viking rammed his weapon into his opponent’s eye socket. The Norman tumbled back on to a growing pile of bodies. On Hereward’s other side, Guthrinc stood like an oak. However hard the king’s warriors slammed against his shield, he never budged an inch. When he drove his spear forward, he lifted a man off the ground, the weapon punching through solid mail and into the heart. At his feet, the spreading pool of rainwater
had turned the colour of rust. The air became thick with the reek of loosened bowels and bladders.

In front of him now, the wall of Norman soldiers was so dense Hereward could not see the other side of it. Under their slashing swords, shards of wood flew off his shield’s rim and a crack had begun to grow towards the central boss.

His head throbbed. His vision began to close in. And with each death he claimed, he felt his devil rise higher, calling to him to set it free. The clamour of the battle faded away until there was only the steady, rapid beat of blood in his head. Faces swam before him. They fell like the wheat before the farmer’s sickle. As his heart swelled, he thought that he could slaughter every man there; no amount of blood could sate his hunger.

But the shield wall was starting to fail. He sensed gaps around him, good English men cut down by Normans hacking for their shins and ankles. As he prepared to give the order to fall back, a familiar face flashed across his vision and a rush of cold flooded through his hot passion.

Redwald caught his eye and held it for a long moment. A hint of a taunting smile. And then his brother moved away, glancing back only once. That lure was enough. Hereward felt his devil leap into his head.

With the shocked cries of Kraki and Guthrinc ringing in his ears, he tore away from the shield wall. ‘Give the order to retreat now, as we planned,’ he yelled to his shield-brothers. He tossed aside his spear and snatched up the axe hanging from his waist. Hacking, he carved a path through the Normans. They fell away from his blade, as afraid of the madness they saw in his eyes as of his weapon.

And then he was through the flow of bodies and sprinting in pursuit of Redwald.

If he was to die that day, he would take his brother with him to hell.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY
-T
WO

THE HUNTING HORN
rang out, low and mournful. Through the blaze of his rage, Hereward heard the insistent tone rise above the furious clash of battle and was pleased. Now his plan had been set in motion, he could give himself to vengeance. He threw himself up the hill. A Norman warrior rounded on him, growling. Without even slowing his step, Hereward hacked down. His speed caught the soldier unaware. The blade sliced through the neck and down to the collarbone, and the Mercian had wrenched his weapon free and was running up the slope before the man even knew he was dead.

Ahead of him, he could see Redwald scrambling among the huts, avoiding the worst of the fighting. A coward to the last. He didn’t care that his brother had seen him. Let the traitor know that death was on his trail.

Hereward splashed through pools of rainwater as he sought out the fastest route. He knew these narrow, muddy tracks well. On every side, fighting men flashed by, barely silhouettes in the gloom. The Mercian ignored them all. He clambered over waste heaps and edged round obstacles, all the time keeping his eyes on his prey. Redwald seemed to be moving up the hill with purpose. Where he was going, Hereward could not
guess, but his brother knew Ely well from the seasons that he had lived there.

As he emerged from the huts close to the minster wall, he saw that the gates to the church enclosure hung open. That had to be his brother’s destination. Drawing his sword, he prowled forward.

Through the pulse of his blood, he made out someone calling his name. He ignored it. But as he reached the gate a hand grabbed his arm and he whirled without thinking, swinging his sword in an arc. Whoever was there reeled back, crying out. Somehow he halted his strike. As his vision cleared, he realized he was looking at Sighard.

‘You could have taken my life,’ the young man snapped. Hereward lowered his blade. ‘Why do you hide here?’ Sighard continued. ‘Your army needs a leader.’

‘Leave me,’ the Mercian growled, turning back to the minster gate. His devil would not let him rest.

Sighard threw himself in Hereward’s path. ‘You cannot abandon us. Only you know the plan. Men are dying – do you hear me?’

As Hereward somehow shook off the grip of his rage, he felt a moment of clarity settle on him. He looked across Ely and saw only carnage. The shield walls were failing fast. Fewer men than he had hoped maintained the positions upon which he had painstakingly decided. Thurstan’s call to surrender must have worked, he realized, feeling his anger spike once more.

Thrusting Sighard to one side, he ran to the speaking-mound and crouched on top, scanning the settlement. His men had heeded the first horn and were retreating up the hill step by step. But their progress was too slow.

‘You have your horn?’ he called back to Sighard.

‘As you commanded.’

Hereward looked up at the heavens. The rain was beginning to ease. Perhaps God was on their side after all. ‘Blow it now,’ he said.

Sighard put the horn to his lips and a moment later the low, mournful sound rolled out across Ely.

Pushing aside his lust for vengeance, Hereward threw himself down the hill to aid his men. Barely had he reached the nearest half-timbered hall than he heard a crackling resonating above the clash of sword and shield. Smoke billowed into the air near the wall, and a moment later fingers of flame reached up. One of the barns was alight. It was only the first. Columns of smoke whipped in the wind everywhere he looked. The crackling became a roaring as the fires rushed up, whisking great clouds of sparks over the settlement. Soon every barn was burning. As planned, the lads he had positioned in each one had ignited the dry winter feed at the signal of the second horn blast. Even at the minster the stores were burning. Fire had served them well once before, and it would do so again.

Cries of alarm rang out from Norman soldiers still haunted by the inferno at Belsar’s Hill. Hereward watched as panic tore apart their formations. His men were ready. They had not known when and where, but they had all been told to expect a conflagration. He nodded to himself. Now it was in the hands of God.

Ely was burning. Everything had been wagered in one last, desperate attempt to save the folk who had sheltered him. The heavy rain over the last few days would stop the fire spreading among most of the houses, he had hoped, but he could not be sure.

Among the huts he raced, with Sighard close behind. Dense, choking smoke provided all the cover he needed. A knight staggered out from beside a workshop, searching around for his fellows. He half turned, fumbling to raise his shield; too late. Hereward’s blade sliced through his neck, almost severing his head. As another soldier ran out to aid his brother, Sighard rammed his spear into the man’s back. A vengeful fury filled the young Englishman’s face.

‘For Madulf,’ he shouted.

‘Remember, stay away from the main roads,’ the Mercian
yelled as the two men raced on. ‘And blow your horn again.’ The smoke folded around them.

As the third blast echoed, Hereward ran towards the largest fire glowing through the smoke. Kraki and Guthrinc waited with a horde of their best fighting men, shielding themselves from the searing heat.

The Viking eyed him with suspicion. ‘I thought you had abandoned us.’

‘Never.’ The Mercian pushed his way among them and stabbed his axe ahead. ‘Now,’ he shouted, ‘let us send some of these bastards to hell.’

With a roar, he threw himself forward. His men charged behind. Norman soldiers scattered ahead of the racing wall of spears and axes. Hereward whipped his arm right and left, urging his warriors to form a wider line. As they thundered in an arc, they herded their enemies up the track to the minster. Behind the roaring of the fires, he could hear the battle-cries of his other men, ten well-drilled hordes driving the Normans in the direction he wanted.

As the hated enemy ran ahead of the English through the billowing smoke, the ground opened beneath them. Mud-covered branches shattered underfoot, plunging the running soldiers into Hengist’s pits. Screams tore from the depths. Hereward ran to the edge of one and looked down on men writhing on spikes. He wrinkled his nose at the stink. Each sharpened branch had been smeared with shit so that even if the soldiers survived their impalement their wounds would fester and sickness would eat them from within. He spat into the hole. They deserved no less.

‘You learned your lessons well in Flanders,’ Guthrinc said beside him as he too looked down.

‘We do what it takes to survive this battle,’ he replied.

A rolling cacophony of screams echoed from all across Ely. The pits would claim a goodly number of the enemy, but not enough. Up the hill they raced, avoiding the main thoroughfares where more pits had been hidden. The rain had stopped
by the time they reached the minster enclosure. They had been fortunate. The fires were still burning.

When he reached the gate, he looked down the slope. The fires glowed through the dense bank of smoke covering everything. He hoped he had done enough. His men streamed up the hill from every direction to the agreed meeting place. Guthrinc and Kraki urged the remnants of their army into the enclosure, where four more stores burned brightly.

‘Make ready,’ Hereward called to Sighard. ‘We must hold the bastards back for just a little longer.’

Sighard called twenty of the fiercest warriors to form a line across the hilltop. When three Norman knights burst from the smoke, the fighting men hacked them down in an instant.

Hereward tested the uneven timbers beneath his feet and nodded to Hengist, who crouched like a hungry dog next to the enclosure fence. With a laugh, the Englishman bounded a few spear-lengths away and began to tear up some of the planks to reveal the hidden ditch. He dropped into the hole and a moment later white smoke swirled out. Hereward heard the crackling as the pitch-soaked straw caught alight. Across a long line in front of the minster enclosure, more trails of smoke rose from the ground.

Further down the hill, lost in the grey cloud, the voices of the Norman commanders could be heard as they tried to direct their bewildered men. Soon the attack would begin again in force.

‘Back now,’ Hereward yelled, ‘but keep your weapons at the ready.’

The last line of warriors retreated through the thickening smoke just as the covering timbers began to crack and fall. Flames licked up, gained life and power, and rose into a wall of fire.

Hereward led the men through the gate into the minster enclosure where his army waited, looking to him with worried eyes. Too few of them remained.

‘An unwise man would think we have trapped ourselves in the church,’ Guthrinc said, one eyebrow raised.

‘Aye, he would,’ Hereward replied, giving nothing away.

‘Is this our last stand, then? A prayer to God for some miracle?’ Sighard asked.

‘A hard word for God’s servants, more like.’ The Mercian glanced back at the sheet of flames. ‘The fire will not hold the king’s men back for long. Let us see how Abbot Thurstan likes the cold iron of my sword.’

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY
-T
HREE

THE CHURCH DOOR
crashed open. Hereward stalked into the candlelit nave, Kraki, Guthrinc and a knot of other warriors trailing behind. He smothered the anger burning in his chest. Their footsteps echoed off the stone walls as they marched through the chill to where Thurstan and a group of monks knelt in front of the altar. At the interruption, the abbot jerked round. The Mercian saw fear light the churchman’s face before he regained control. He was right to be afraid.

‘Praying for our souls, Father, or your own?’ Hereward called.

Thurstan struggled to his feet, his arthritic knees cracking. ‘This is a house of God,’ he called, waving a finger. ‘You have no right to intrude.’

‘You were not so harsh in your judgement when you thought my army would save your land, your gold and your power from the king’s grasping fingers.’ Hereward flicked his right hand forward. As the monks rushed to form a barrier in front of the abbot, Kraki and the others stepped forward and thrust them aside.

Hereward drew his sword and levelled it as he walked. Thurstan threw himself back, almost tipping the altar over as
he crashed against it. Without slowing his step, the Mercian pushed the tip of his blade against the abbot’s throat. A bubble of blood rose.

‘Blasphemy,’ the cleric gasped. ‘God will punish you—’

‘I have been punished enough in my life, and I am sick of it.’ Hereward fought to hold his rage in check. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to take the churchman’s head. ‘I would linger over these questions …’ he jabbed the sword a little to emphasize his meaning, ‘but time is short. You have sold us to the Normans, Father. Men you called friends. Men you prayed with. You have sold the last hope of the English and now you think to instil a fear of God in me to save your worthless neck?’

Thurstan screwed up his eyes. ‘Mercy …’

Hereward laughed without humour. ‘You will buy your mercy with two gifts.’

The abbot nodded in agreement, wincing as the blade bit into him. Blood trickled down to the neck of his tunic.

‘Your first gift: you will swear now, before God and here upon His table, that you will plead with the king to spare the lives of all plain folk in Ely. You will tell him that I forced them to do my bidding, through fear of death. That they are goodhearted and loyal to the crown. And that they despise me as a thief and a murderer. That should not be hard for you. You have his ear, do you not? He will listen to you.’