Hereward 03 - End of Days (41 page)

Hereward slumped down against the cold wall of earth and sank his head between his knees. He could hear the rhythmic chops of Guthrinc’s knife as he butchered the wolf carcass he had carried back across his shoulders. As he drifted into sleep, he thought they sounded like a heartbeat slowly fading into nothing.

Dreams folded around him again, and this time he was holding a babe in his arms, his son, now cared for by the monks at Crowland and whom he had not seen since the day of
Turfrida’s burial. He felt at peace, a peace deeper than any he had ever experienced in his life. He blinked, and his eyes blurred with tears, and that, too, was strange.

He jerked awake. Someone was shaking him. His hand leapt to the hilt of his sword and he half lurched to his feet. Fingers dug into his arm. It was Acha. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No.’ She was smiling.

He looked past her. Lit by the fire’s glow, Alric had levered himself up on his elbows and was looking around. ‘Food,’ he croaked. ‘I am hungry.’

C
HAPTER
S
IXTY
-T
HREE

28 March 1072

THE KING GLOWERED
at the three men. ‘Ravens, all. You have fed well on the corpse of England. Power, land, gold.’ He held out a hand, palm upwards, and slowly curled his fingers into a fist as if he were crushing balls. ‘Of all those who have prospered from my victory, you know Hereward the best. You have fought him. And you have been defeated by him. Time and again. I ask you once more: what will stop his rebellion against my rule?’

William de Warenne would not meet the monarch’s eyes. He rested his elbows on the table and bowed his head, playing with his cup of wine. Beside him, Ivo the Butcher stared at the boar’s head as if it would give him the words he needed. Only Abbot Turold of Burgh returned William the Bastard’s gaze, and after a moment’s reflection he said, ‘He will never stop. It is not in his nature.’

Cloaked in shadows, Redwald peered through the crack in the door at the scene in the feasting hall of the king’s new palace in Wincestre. He flinched at the churchman’s words. He had seen men killed for less.

When the king plucked the long-bladed knife from the cold pork, Turold all but gasped, the blood draining from his face. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and strong, as much a warrior as a cleric. But the monarch only sawed off a chunk of pork with slow, deliberate strokes, never once taking his gaze from the abbot’s flickering eyes.

Taillebois tore off a chunk of bread. ‘There is nothing left of the English. They are no threat,’ he growled, shrugging. ‘Hereward has no more than twenty men left. They flee like startled deer through the forests, hiding among the roots and gnawing on whatever scraps the folk throw them. They are beggars and thieves. But not an army.’

The king stabbed the knife in the meat with such force it rammed into the wood beneath. William de Warenne jerked and spilled his wine. ‘There are times when I wonder if any clever men joined me on those ships from Normandy.’ He thrust back his bench and wandered round the table. Turold rested his hands beside his cup and stared at them. ‘Listen to your own words,’ the king continued. ‘The folk toss Hereward and his men scraps. Even when they all but starve themselves. Defeat has not diminished him.’ Redwald watched him stride behind the three men and stare at the backs of their rigid heads, a flicker of contempt crossing his face. ‘The English know he was not defeated by my might. He was betrayed … by that cur Morcar who rots in the dark beneath this palace, and by the monks, English monks, who sacrificed their allies to cling on to whatever worldly goods their fingers could grasp. Hereward is my enemy, but he deserved better than the weak bastards who surrounded him.’

William de Warenne moistened his lips and began, ‘The English think him—’

‘The English think him a hero,’ the king roared. Though he had been expecting the outburst, Redwald’s heart thundered. He felt fear whenever he was in the monarch’s presence, but never had he encountered a man he admired more. William the Bastard bunched his fists as if he were considering hammering
them into the base of the noble’s skull. He seemed to think better of it, for he unflexed his fingers and walked back round the table. ‘They give him scraps now,’ he continued, ‘and they tell tales of his exploits around the hearths. I know – I have heard those tales. Bear-killer. Giant-killer. A sword filled with God’s fire that will take the king’s head. My head!’ His huge hand swiped a pitcher of wine on to the flagstones. ‘And after the scraps, they will ask for his aid against the hated invaders. And they will draw to his standard once again. And the English earls and thegns who have seen their land stolen and given to bastards like you …’ he yelled the final word, ‘will rally to his call. And before I know it, there will be another English army. And another. And another. Until I lie on my deathbed, worn down by constant war and the failings of such dogs as you.’

‘We hunt him by the day,’ the Butcher muttered, ‘and soon we will catch him. And then we will bring his head to you and all will be well.’

‘You will never catch him,’ William said through gritted teeth. ‘Because he has more wits than all of you together. And one thing even greater – the hopes of the English. That will put fire in his heart greater than any lust for gold or land.’

Turold poured himself another cup of wine, his hand shaking so violently that the liquid splashed everywhere, Redwald saw: ‘What would you have us do, my lord?’

The king shook his fist. ‘We must sever the cord that binds the English folk to Hereward. Never more must they believe they have a champion in their midst.’ He looked round the gloomy faces. ‘Find me the answer I seek. Or pay the price.’

Redwald stepped away from the door as the monarch began to circle the table once more, like a hungry wolf. He could not afford to be seen. Since the court had returned from Ely he had rarely encountered his master, which troubled him.

He burst out into the cluster of stores and sheds and cook-houses at the rear of the palace. The night was warmer than it had been for weeks. Winter had finally gone, and the spring held hope.

Edoma waited for him beside the slaughterhouse. She had put on her prettiest dress and washed her hair and tied it back with a ribbon. Though she offered him everything he needed, he found that with each passing day she disgusted him a little more. If only he could make her disappear. But he needed her, for a marriage still might earn some favour from the king and bring more attention his way.

‘How was it?’ she said with a flirtatious smile. She widened her eyes as she looked up at him, hoping it would flatter him. ‘Have you learned anything to your benefit?’

‘Yes, much,’ he replied, putting a hand to his forehead as he thought. ‘The king needs my brother dead, but Turold and the others are too slow-witted to give him what he desires.’

‘But you are clever,’ she said, leaning in close so that her breasts brushed his chest.

He nodded. ‘I have failed once to kill Hereward. I cannot do so again. I must find a way to take his life, and then I shall have all the rewards I justly deserve.’

C
HAPTER
S
IXTY
-F
OUR

10 April 1072

The fat of the newly killed deer sizzled as it dripped into the fire. Sweating, Sighard turned the meat on its oak spit. The smell of the succulent venison drifted across the sun-dappled greenwood, no doubt exciting the appetites of the men hard at work in the makeshift camp. They would eat well this day, and all the better for knowing it was the king’s deer, killed on land William the Bastard had stolen and made his own. Hereward looked round at the activity: the cutting of firewood, the whittling and fletching of new arrows, the stripping and curing of the hides. Among his men, there seemed fresh hope now that they had survived the harsh winter months.

For a while every day had seemed to be more running and hiding and sweat and fear as they gave their all to evading the hunting bands that the monarch sent into the Brunneswalde. But as they ventured further into the murky, unforgiving forest, and as the snows came harder, the Norman warriors became fewer and soon days and then weeks would pass without any sign of pursuit.

And when they crept out of the trees into the small
settlements on the fringes, their cloaks smeared with the green of tree and lichen, they had discovered that stories of the wild men of the woods had spread like the fires that had devastated the western fens. The band of men with bow and spear and sword who fought for the downtrodden English against the cruel king, who could sweep out of the greenwood to attack the thieving Normans and disappear without trace only moments later. The warrior who had lost all and still gave more, and his friend the monk. The giant of a man who was as gentle as he was lethal. Heroes all. With the tales had come gratitude, and bread, and ale, and shelter when they needed it. And as the days warmed, and the new buds sprouted, and as Alric regained his strength, Hereward realized he had started to hope too: that the rebellion could begin anew, that a second army could be built and that the English would rise up and heed his call.

On the edge of the campsite, Herrig raised one arm. He had been keeping watch since first light. A moment later, Hereward heard what must have disturbed him: the crack of dry wood. Someone was approaching.

In a flash, the men readied their weapons. Kraki slipped away from Acha and pressed his back against a broad oak, his axe ready. Hengist knelt by another tree, a shaft nocked in his bow.

When a whistle rolled out, they all grinned. Herrig stood up and waved. ‘It is only Hunlaf,’ he called.

As the men returned to their tasks, Hereward walked from the campsite to where a short man with a wind-chapped face waited. ‘Greetings, Hunlaf,’ the Mercian called. ‘How fares your good wife?’ Whenever Hunlaf brought news from the settlements, or gifts of honey cakes or ale or cheese, his cheery mood brightened even the darkest day. Deda had taken to calling him Hunlaf the Drunken in jest, though he was always sober. But as he neared, Hereward took in the man’s drooping shoulders and downturned mouth. Beckoning for Alric and Guthrinc to join him, the Mercian said, ‘Trouble?’

‘Aye,’ the man replied, ‘and worse than I ever feared.’ When he looked at the three men, his mouth began to tremble. ‘I carry two burdens,’ he continued. ‘The first – I ask you to follow me so you can see with your own eyes what is to be. And the second – I bring a message from the king himself.’

‘William the Bastard has spoken to you?’ Hereward said, incredulous.

‘Through … through his messenger.’ Hunlaf sagged, burying his face in his hands. ‘They took my wife. They threatened to kill her if I did not come to you.’

The Mercian snatched out his sword and looked around. Guthrinc and Alric too eyed the surrounding trees.

‘I did not bring them here,’ the visitor insisted. ‘I would never betray you.’ He held out his hands, pleading. ‘You must believe me. The Normans did not care to know where you were camped. They only wished you to know the king’s mind.’

‘A trap,’ Guthrinc said.

Alric nodded. ‘They cannot catch us so they would lure us to them.’

‘I beg you,’ Hunlaf said, his eyes rimming with tears. ‘If you do not come with me, they will kill my wife.’

‘We will come,’ Hereward said, ‘but if there is even the smell of a trap, we will be away, and your wife must fend for herself.’

Hunlaf clasped his hands in relief. ‘You will see I speak true.’

They fetched Kraki to join them, and set out east through the cool forest. Guthrinc searched among the tangled trees with his clear eyes, but saw nothing. After a while, he put his head back, sniffed the air, and muttered, ‘Smoke.’

When they came to the edge of the woods, Hunlaf pointed to where strands of grey twirled up. Charred timbers protruded from the ground in a vast, blackened circle.

‘Is that … Aseby?’ Alric asked.

‘The Normans burned it down,’ Hunlaf said, his voice cracking.

‘What gain is there from such an act?’ Hereward asked.
‘They were quiet folk in Aseby, and hard-working. No trouble to the Normans.’

‘Aye, no trouble,’ the other man said. He turned away, unable to look at the remains of the village. ‘Good folk, all. That is why they were chosen …’

The Mercian grabbed Hunlaf’s shoulders and spun him round. ‘Chosen? What is this?’

‘One village will burn every day, because of you. One village, until there are none left in the east. The king would have you see this so you know he will be true to his word.’

‘And once more, what will he gain?’ Alric said. ‘To make the English blame us for their suffering, to hate us so they will not rise up alongside us?’

‘No more villages will be burned if you meet him,’ Hunlaf said.

Guthrinc laughed. Kraki snorted dismissively. ‘He thinks us mad. We will willingly walk to our deaths? I think not.’

Hereward bowed his head. He had feared this would be the monarch’s next step. William the Bastard had never been shy of making innocents suffer to achieve his own ends.

‘If you meet him, the king has given his word that you will not be harmed,’ Hunlaf said, holding up his hand to silence the ripple of laughter from the other men. ‘He has made this vow, before God, in his abbey. And it was witnessed by many, at his request. God will surely strike him dead if he betrays his oath.’

‘There is more, yes?’ Hereward said.

Hunlaf nodded. ‘What you have suffered this winter will be as nothing compared to what is to come. As the villages burn, he will set a price upon your head greater than any man could dream of. Every axe-for-hire in England and beyond, every hungry man, every Dane and Scot and Frank and Norman, will hunt you down. There will be nowhere you can turn.’

After a long moment of silence, Hereward said, ‘Did we really think the king would give us all the time we needed to raise another army?’

‘After Ely, we thought he would be turning his gaze
elsewhere,’ Kraki muttered. ‘Filling his coffers, or marking his ledgers. We are a few poor men. No threat to a king.’

‘No.’ Alric pressed his hands together as though he were praying. ‘I see it now. The king is afrit. Not of our numbers, no. But because the tales of you grow in the telling, until now they are bigger than William himself.’