Hereward 04 - Wolves of New Rome (6 page)

When he was well enough to sit up, she brought him hot broth from her home nearby and the hard, seed-filled bread they ate in those parts. The stew was thin, little more than water, but he gulped it down and enjoyed the heat it brought to his arms and legs.

‘Your ship … when you fell prey to the storm … you were bound for the Normans?’ she asked, her face darkening.

He paused with the bowl at his lips and frowned.

‘To see the knight … Vavasour … and his men?’

‘Drogo Vavasour?’

‘He has made camp to the west of here. Men in long mail-shirts, their hair cut short and shaved at the back.’

Ragener looked across the stark, brown landscape beyond the beach. ‘What would a Norman knight and a war-band want in these parts?’

‘They say his king is hungry for power and wants more lands to call his own.’

The ruined man shrugged. That was the Norman way. But Drogo Vavasour … he knew that name, knew the tales they told of him in the villages of England. ‘There is no peace in this world anywhere,’ he murmured. ‘The drums of war beat in England, in Sicily, in Constantinople. And soon it will come here. That is the way of things. We cannot rest, ever. You fight or you are conquered. You fight or you die.’ Thoughtful, he watched the gulls swirling overhead.

As she took the bowl, the woman bowed her head. ‘God has not been kind to you,’ she said in a soft voice, still unable to look him full in the face.

He felt a laugh rumble up from deep inside him. It rolled out, too high-pitched, and went on too long. The girl recoiled, thinking him mad. Perhaps he was. ‘When I was thrown from my ship, I was told God would decide my fate,’ he said when he was finally able to control his hooting. ‘God has passed judgement on me. I live.’

‘Then you have been chosen to do God’s work.’

He nodded. ‘God smiles upon me.’ His fingers closed on a rock, as sharp as flint. A red line sliced across the ball of his thumb. He sucked the blood off, then weighed the rock in his remaining hand, remembering. ‘When William the Bastard seized the crown, life became hard in England,’ he said. ‘In my village, many were close to starving. I stole a loaf of bread to fill an empty stomach. The Normans caught me and cut off my nose.’ His face fell. ‘The bread was not for me. It was for my mother,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘She told the soldiers where I hid when they came looking for me.’ He felt the stinging sense of betrayal rise up in him just as strongly as it had then, and the desperate loneliness that followed. ‘The Normans took my ears because I spoke harshly to a knight, and they slit my lip …’ he shrugged, ‘because I was less to them than a rat.’

‘How you must hate the Normans,’ she said, her voice tremulous with compassion.

He examined the stains on the linen binding his stump. ‘I have suffered greatly. Mine has been a life with no joy, and little love. I did not deserve this. No man does.’

‘But now God smiles on you,’ she reminded him, trying to raise his spirits with the sweetest smile he had seen upon a woman in many a year.

‘But still you flinched when you looked upon me.’ He peered into her eyes until she squirmed and looked away. Her smile faded.

After he had taken her face with the sharp rock, he wandered along the dusty coast path to the Norman camp. The white tents billowed in the hot breeze, the lines cracking. Over one, the pennant of Drogo Vavasour fluttered, a golden dragon against a red field. Ragener breathed in the sweet scent of woodsmoke from the fire. He thought he could smell meat cooking too and his stomach growled in response.

Two red-faced guards waited aside the track winding into the camp, their tunics stained with sweat. Their hauberks and shields were heaped to one side. When they saw him, they cried out a warning and snatched out their double-edged swords. They seemed surprised to see anyone approaching the camp, never mind one with such a ruined face.

Once he had made them understand what he wanted, they beat him around the face to show him his place, then all but hauled him through the camp to the commander’s tent. As they dragged him through the flaps, they threw him to his knees and cuffed him again for good measure. He did not cry out.

Ragener breathed in sweet perfume. Such an odd scent for the tent of a military leader, he thought. As he looked up, he saw three women sprawled on embroidered cushions, local girls by the look of it, all of them seemingly naked under the thin covers draped over them. And when he looked higher, he saw a tall, muscular man looming over his playthings. This could only be Drogo Vavasour. Naked to the waist, his torso and arms were a map of his life, a mass of scar tissue from axe, sword and spear. From Drogo’s reputation, Ragener expected a face as stern as granite cliffs, but the Norman was laughing silently to himself as he looked down on the sea wolf, his eyes playful. He swaggered across the tent to a trestle where a pitcher and goblet stood beside a cross, and bowed his head to the cross in a moment’s silent contemplation. When he glanced back, all humour had drained from his face. Ragener thought he saw only disgust there. ‘Remain silent until I am done,’ the knight commanded.

He took a leather strap with iron nails hammered through it from a small casket and knelt before the cross, bowing his head in supplication. The first lash of the strap raised bloody weals across his back. Ragener winced, but this strange Norman did not stop there. Only when his back was running red did he stand up. Eyeing the women with contempt, he spat something in his native tongue and they fled from the tent in terror, not even pausing to hide their nakedness.

Once they had gone, the Norman turned back to his guest, or captive, Ragener was not sure which. ‘We are all cauldrons of sin,’ he intoned, ‘and we must drive those devils out of us through suffering, as our Lord did upon the cross.’ Reaching behind him, he trailed one finger across his back. When he examined the bloodstained tip he nodded, pleased, and poured himself a goblet of wine.

The sea wolf furrowed his brow as Vavasour’s face lightened once more. It was almost as if he was two men sharing the same body.

By the time he had crossed the tent and was looking down upon his visitor, he was grinning. ‘Half a man,’ he said, cocking his head in mock-puzzlement, ‘or perhaps not a man at all. What manner of creature are you?’

‘My name is Ragener. The Hawk.’

‘The Hawk, you say?’ Drogo flashed a look at his guards. Ragener saw the faint mockery, and pushed aside his anger. ‘And an English hawk too. Why have you dragged what remains of your body into my camp?’

Ragener clambered to his feet. ‘In Hastinge, in Wincestre, aye, all over England I heard tell of the great Drogo Vavasour.’

The Norman raised his goblet in a silent cheer.

‘Here is King William’s most feared warrior, a man who killed more English than any other at Senlac Hill, who, they say, cut off the cock of the former king Harold and held it up high for all to see.’

Vavasour feigned a proud nod.

‘Who herded the English rebels in Cestre into a village and roasted them alive, dining on a goose leg while he listened to the screams. Whenever King William spied a threat to his crown, he sent for Drogo Vavasour, it is said.’

‘You are skilled in the art of flattery, Hawk.’

‘For your service to the king you have been rewarded well, with land and gold. But there is one thing that has slipped through your fingers.’

The Norman’s eyes narrowed.

‘Hereward, the last of the English rebels. The man who murdered your brother.’

A SUFFOCATING BLANKET
of heat was pressing down on him. Hereward stirred, wrinkling his nostrils at the reek of baking seaweed. He tasted brine upon his tongue, felt granules of sand grinding into his cheek. His head throbbed to the beat of the pounding waves. With weary strokes, his thoughts swam up from a world of darkness.

Coughing out seawater, he thrust himself up and looked around. He was lying in foaming surf amid the shattered bones of the ship. What remnants remained suggested the vessel had been torn to pieces. The coarse sand stretched up to a line of brown rocks. Above it was a sky burned silver. No trees, no vegetation of any kind. A bare and lifeless land.

His gaze flickered towards sudden movement. A figure silhouetted against the glare whirled across the beach in a wild dance of flailing arms and kicking legs. Lank wet hair flew and a high-pitched tuneless song rolled out. Squinting, Hereward realized it was Hengist finding his mad joys in the midst of disaster. The Mercian hauled himself up on shaking legs. Where there was one there could be more. His crew would fight to the last, even against turbulent seas, and they had been close to shore when the ship had been wrecked.

‘Hengist,’ he yelled, cupping his mouth. ‘How many more yet live?’

Grinding to a halt, the other man beamed, then raised his head and his arms to the sun. Hereward cursed under his breath. Striding up the beach, he surveyed the shoreline. Sodden figures lay in the surf. Some did not move – dead or dazed, he did not know. Others clawed their way out of the foam or struggled to stand. His heart grew heavy. How few there were. He could not see Guthrinc, or Kraki, and perhaps fifteen more.

His gaze fell on a slight, still form and he felt a pang of fear. Racing along the beach, he dropped to his knees beside Alric. The monk lay face down, unmoving.

Hereward spun his friend on to his back and held his face between his huge hands. ‘Monk,’ he urged, shaking the other man. ‘Monk.’

Alric jerked and vomited a mouthful of seawater. Feebly, he tried to bat away Hereward’s grip as if he were swatting a fly. ‘You have laid a curse upon me,’ he croaked, ‘to be thrown into the sea whenever I cross the whale road.’

With a grin, Hereward released his grip. His friend jolted back on to the sand. ‘You live, monk,’ the warrior called back as he strode to the next survivor. ‘That is all that we can hope for on this journey.’

One of his men cried out, and he turned to see a figure clambering over the rock pools at the margin of the cove. It was the woman, still wrapped in the soaking cloak that had covered her nakedness aboard ship.

‘Take her,’ the Mercian commanded.

Two of the warriors raced down the beach and collected the woman.

Once they had gathered the men together at the top of the beach, Hereward saw that his first impression was correct. Near half the crew were missing, and five of their number there were dead. He bowed his head for a moment, feeling the weight of loss as if he had killed each one himself. And in truth he had, for he was their leader. He had made the choice that allowed the storm to claim them. Closing his eyes, he ran through the names, remembering the faces, the lives.

Eadlac. The best riddle-maker amongst them. Guthmaer. A gentle man who carved toys for children. Aliwin. A farmer from Wessex, dour but brave. Scirheah, who had sired ten children. His heart had broken to leave them all behind. And Yonwin, who took four cups of mead to find the courage to talk to the woman he secretly admired.

Every one felt like a knife in his heart.

Hereward forced aside his grief. It would not do for the others to dwell upon such matters. He eyed Sighard, who already seemed to have a cloud over him.

‘No dark thoughts,’ he commanded as he searched the faces of the ones who had survived. ‘Look around you. This cove is small. Our spear-brothers could have washed up anywhere along this coast. They could be hunting for us now.’ He cocked his head to listen for any calls, but only the wind moaned across the arid landscape. ‘We will search until we find them.’

Alric, though, was peering away from the sea, across the brown rock and sand that stretched to the horizon. ‘What then?’ he asked. ‘Where do we find water? What would you have us eat – the dirt beneath our feet?’

Hereward watched the brows of his men knit with worry. ‘We will survive,’ he snapped, annoyed by the effect the churchman’s words were having, ‘as we always do. No land is dead. If there are no birds, there will be lizards. And if not lizards, there will be rats. And if we find none of them, we will dig for worms and insects. You will eat what carries you to the next dawn. And by then, if God wills, we shall have found a village—’

His words drained along with the blood in Hengist’s face. A rare spark of sanity gleamed in the man’s eyes as he pointed past his leader’s shoulder and out to sea. Hereward turned to see sails billowing, red, yellow, blue, on ships of varying shape and size. He counted at least thirty. Some were warships, others little more than merchants’ vessels. But all of them had the shields of warriors hung along their sides. Spurs of light glinted in the molten sunlight, reflecting, he guessed, off helms, and axes, and perhaps mail-shirts. These were fighting men.

‘A war-fleet,’ Alric said, his brow knitting. ‘Here?’

Hereward narrowed his eyes. ‘We knew the sea wolves were hunting one of their own who had stolen something from them.’ His gaze flickered towards the woman who sat alone, further along the beach.

‘You think that woman is the prize?’ Alric asked, his brow furrowing. ‘What value could she have? And why would Ragener the Hawk have stolen her from his own, risking their wrath?’

‘The ruined man said she was cursed,’ Hengist reminded them.

‘Then give her back,’ Sighard called, flashing a sullen look. ‘At least then we will not have to fear their anger.’

‘We have offered this woman the hand of friendship. Now that she is in our care, we defend her with our lives,’ Hereward said, his voice cold. He did not deign to look at the younger warrior. ‘And you are mistaken if you think a pack of sea wolves will think twice about slaughtering us, if we give up this woman or not.’ He half drew Brainbiter. ‘They would kill me for this alone. And some of you still have your axes. No, they will take from us what they want and leave us as a feast for the gulls.’

His men shifted with unease. All knew there could be no gain in standing their ground.

‘We will head inland,’ Hereward said. ‘They will find the wreckage on the beach and see our footprints, and follow. Our only hope is to keep going until they deem it too far to be worth their while.’