Hereward 02 - The Devil's Army (10 page)

Hereward’s features became drawn as he pushed his way further into the Camp of Refuge. Lethargic children with big eyes and too-sharp bones squatted in the dirt outside their homes. Through open doors, he glimpsed sick men and women rolling and moaning on their beds of straw. The stink of vomit and sweat was fierce in the stifling heat. More fights. Broken limbs and untreated wounds. Excrement pooled beside the houses where the children played. And everywhere there were bodies pressed tight and cries for help and calls for alms.

Hereward came to a halt and looked around. Not even in the grimmest parts of Eoferwic had he seen such a miserable sight. ‘They say we are the Devil’s Army,’ he murmured, barely aware of Alric’s eyes upon him. ‘Then this must be hell.’

‘Aye, hell it is.’

He heard the odd note in his friend’s voice and looked into the monk’s face. The other man stared back. His lips were tight but his eyes held a glint that Hereward knew well. ‘I see why you brought me here. There are some who say your heart is too big. I say ours are not big enough.’

The Mercian realized that the men and women had come to a halt and were watching him as if he were, as Alric had suggested, a king come down among common folk. Silence fell on the crowd. He looked around those dour faces and expected to see some hint of accusation, or blame for their predicament. But he glimpsed only blank acceptance, and then, after a moment, a smile or two breaking those solemn visages, flickers of hope like candles in the dark of the night. His name rustled out, and again, and another time, the whispers building until it became like a murmured prayer at matins.

Hereward felt humbled by what he heard in that sound. He glanced down at a blond-haired boy looking up at him. The lad seemed a little frightened by this figure that had so troubled the adults. For a moment, he saw himself at the king’s court so long ago, and then, in the rush of emotion that came with recognition, he broke into a reassuring grin. Bending down, he grasped the boy and swung him up on to his shoulders. ‘You shall be king for the day,’ he called, and those around laughed as he had hoped. ‘What shall be your first decree?’

The boy hesitated, unnerved. As the crowd shouted encouragement, he was caught up in the spirit, and threw his arms in the air, calling, ‘Bread!’ The throng cheered and clapped.

Hereward laughed, tickling the boy beneath his armpits so that he squirmed. ‘Bread it shall be,’ he cried. ‘And more besides.’

He sensed Alric eyeing him uneasily. In that wordless glance he saw a caution that he should not promise what he could not deliver. But as he set off through the Camp of Refuge with the boy still on high, he said quietly to the monk, ‘I have not been a good leader. I thought my work was to defeat the Normans by using all my skills as a leader of battle-wolves. And yet I missed the battle beneath my nose. We must win here, in the Camp of Refuge, if we are ever to win the greater fight.’

‘Then what should we do?’

Hereward pushed his way through the bodies up the slope to the edge of the camp and then he turned and surveyed the
island. ‘We need men and women who will fight for food as we fight our foes. And leaders who will send them into battle well armed and with good plans. Look. Ely is rich in beasts of the chase. The soil is good. There are plants in the woods and on the edges of the marshes, and fish, and soon there will be berries and nuts. And with gold we will buy more food from the merchants in the towns. They would rather sell to us than to those Norman bastards.’

‘Gold?’ Alric enquired.

Hereward nodded, smiling. Already a plan was forming, if he had the time and the wit to make it real. ‘Once again you have taught me a lesson, monk. Should I ever forget your true worth, may God strike me dead, for you have made me man not devil. No mouth will go unfed while I am here in Ely, I vow this now. I am not William the Bastard, I am Hereward, I am English, and I will never betray the folk I have called beneath my banner.’

The boy cheered. Hereward put him down and kicked him up the arse to send him on his way. As the lad scurried off, he grunted, ‘I hate children.’

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

GOBBETS OF FAT
sizzled and spat in the roaring flames. The sweating slave turned the spit and the sticky scent of the roast ox swirled up with the grey woodsmoke. Around the bonfire, the women lifted the hems of their finest dresses and whirled to the harpist’s tune with faces bright from the heat. Now the scop had finished spinning his tales, the drunken men bellowed a bawdy song to accompany the wild dance. They clapped and stamped their feet to the beat. All life in Ely had gathered on the green for the feast – old friends and neighbours and new arrivals, warriors and monks and ceorls.

Beyond the circle of light cast by the fire, Hereward clutched his mead-cup and watched the festivities. Alric stood beside him, as sober as always. ‘You are thinking of Vadir,’ the monk said as he eyed the other man’s reflective expression.

‘He liked a good feast, and enough ale to drown himself.’ Hereward recalled scrabbling out his friend’s grave in the hard Flemish soil.

The monk raised his head to look up to the sprinkle of stars across the clear night sky. A bat flitted overhead. ‘Do you yearn for the days when every woe could be made well by cutting off its head? Now you battle with enemies who are like the
mist. Not enough food to fill the bellies of these folk who rely on you so. Men at your shoulder each with a smile on his face and a sword behind his back. Fear of the king, fear of the End-Times, fear that everything familiar is gone, never to return. Fear everywhere, eating its way into hearts like a sickness so that soon Englishmen will tremble too much to lift a spear. Why, beside that William the Bastard is a half-lame deer.’

Hereward laughed. ‘Ah, monk, where would I be without you to show me the dark in the brightest day?’

Alric smiled to himself. ‘I would not want you to become soft.’

Lost in his thoughts, the warrior wiped mead from his chin with the back of his hand. He still did not know why he had chosen this bloody path when it would have been easier to cross the whale road and earn good coin with his strong sword-arm. His demons were eased, though, he knew that much.

‘Good news from your journey to the south?’

‘A hunter bides his time.’

‘No, then.’

Hereward shrugged. ‘I have more than one dog running.’

‘You keep your secrets close.’ Alric searched his friend’s face for clues. ‘To protect us, I would wager.’

‘There is nothing to be gained from staring into the dark.’

The monk nodded towards the festivities. ‘These folk eat heartily and drink until their legs fail, but not because they are at peace. They would savour the last drops of life because all here know this may be their last feast.’ He paused, looking down at his feet. ‘At least tell me: how bad is it? You owe me that.’

Hereward tightened his jaw, but he could not deny his friend. ‘We are few. The king’s men are many,’ he began, choosing words that would not dwell on hopelessness. ‘William the Bastard has had his hands full since he stole the crown. New laws, new castles, taxes to collect, Norman knights to reward, and not a few restive English folk. But as more and more of our own bow their heads to him, his time is freed. Soon his cold gaze will turn
towards the east. And William the Bastard is not a man to do things by halves. When he comes for Ely, the slaughter of the English army at Senlac Ridge will seem as nothing.’

‘Are we not growing stronger by the day?’ Alric replied, holding out his hands.

‘Not fast enough. We need more men, and seasoned fighters at that. We need weapons that can match the Norman sword and crossbow. We need food for that army, and gold, for where there is gold there is power.’ He let his gaze linger across the heads of the feasting Ely folk. ‘And we need for the English to believe we can win.’

‘Your fame is spreading far and wide.’

‘Not fast enough.’ Hereward swilled down the last of his mead and grinned. ‘No one said this fight would be easy. There are paths through the wilderness if only we can find them.’

‘If anyone can find them, it is the man who slays bears and tears the throat out of wolves with his own teeth,’ Alric baited. He beckoned to Acha who was circling the feast with a pitcher of mead. ‘Drink more and ease your troubles,’ he added.

Hereward looked away into the gloom as Acha sauntered over. He could feel her gaze heavy on him. ‘Let me fill your cup,’ she purred. ‘You were missed these last few days.’ She poured the mead, leaning in closer than she needed.

Before Hereward could respond, she let out a cry of shock. The golden mead splashed on to the mud. Kraki had grabbed her arm and was dragging her away. ‘Watch this one,’ the Viking slurred drunkenly. ‘She has a sting like a wasp.’ Acha glowered as she stumbled back towards the fire.

‘If he treats that one like a mare to be broken, he will get kicked where it hurts,’ Alric said uneasily. Hereward observed Acha’s murderous glare and began to worry that a kick would be the least of the dangers lying ahead.

They strolled around the perimeter of the feast. Hereward watched the men slicing hot slabs of beef and wolfing down the meat before they had trudged out of the ashes. ‘They eat as though there will be no tomorrow,’ he muttered darkly.

‘The hunger will pass, God willing,’ Alric exclaimed, grabbing his friend’s elbow. ‘Come, let me show you the fruits of your promise.’ He pulled the Mercian through the crowd until he found the red-headed youth and his darker brother, and the girl who had accompanied them to Ely, sprawling on the slope of the Speaking Mound. ‘Meet your new Masters of the Larder,’ he announced. ‘Sighard, Madulf and Edoma.’

Sighard jumped to his feet, wiping his greasy hands on his tunic. ‘Alric said it was your idea.’

‘What idea?’

The red-headed lad plucked up a sack and held it open for Hereward to see. ‘Burdock and rape, from the forest,’ he gushed.

Hereward turned up his nose. ‘That won’t fill many bellies.’

Standing, Edoma pushed back her blonde hair and said shyly, ‘We bring back only handfuls so the monks can tell us if they are of use. But we know where they grow now.’

‘Not just these plants,’ Sighard said with an enthusiastic sweep of his arm. ‘We have travelled far and wide around Ely. We know where the boar roam, and the deer. Good land where we can plant barley and wheat …’

‘If we can buy seed,’ Madulf added sullenly. The brown-haired brother remained seated.

‘… and in the Camp of Refuge, the women are building willow baskets to catch eels,’ Sighard continued.

Alric pointed towards the church tower on top of the hill. ‘At the minster, we have a barn which we are starting to fill with the food our new Masters of the Larder have found. These three have uncovered skills they did not know they had.’

‘Then you deserve the thanks of all here,’ Hereward said. He knew the monk was being kind; few others in Ely had the desire to spend their free hours foraging. ‘This work is as vital as any we do.’

‘I would be fighting,’ Madulf growled, drawing himself up. ‘That is why we came to Ely.’

‘Be careful what you wish for,’ Hereward said sternly. ‘But if that is what you want, you will get your chance.’ He noticed
Edoma was looking past him, distracted. When he followed her gaze, he saw Redwald leaning against the wall of a house, studying the bonfire.

‘I think I will see if your brother knows how to dance,’ she mused. As she walked away, the two brothers watched her go, scowling. They flashed each other a look and then both hurried after their friend.

‘Edoma has won two hearts, it seems,’ Alric observed. The youths positioned themselves either side of the girl as she chatted with Redwald.

Hereward grinned. ‘They are too young for her. She has a taste for tougher meat. But they will learn.’

For a moment, Alric watched the small group, lost to his thoughts. Then he murmured, ‘You trust Redwald?’

The Mercian glanced at the monk, taken aback. ‘There is no man I trust more.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Though if you held a spear to my neck, I would say you could match him,’ he added grudgingly. ‘Why do you ask?’

Alric shrugged. ‘I have not shared the years, like you and he. I know only what I see, and I do not see enough to make a fair judgement. He smiles easily, and he has the face of a boy.’ He paused, choosing his words. ‘But what hides in his skull I am not sure.’

‘You have spent too many days in my company. You start to see enemies everywhere.’

With a sound like a flock of gulls, a crowd of children ran up and circled Alric, tugging at his tunic. ‘Your friends have come calling,’ Hereward noted. ‘I would have thought they’d had a bellyful of you during those dull lessons you preach at the minster.’

‘Never,’ the children cried.

Laughing, Alric allowed himself to be led away. With a warm smile, Hereward watched the monk go and then turned and walked up the slope towards the church tower silhouetted against the starry sky. He paused at the minster enclosure, listening to the owls hoot and enjoying the night-breeze on his
face. Each moment of peace now felt more precious to him than all the gold in the church. Pushing open the creaking gate, he followed the snaking path through the beds of herbs towards the cluster of wood and wattle buildings, the stores, the eating house, the school, the monks’ halls. At the church door, he prowled inside, his leather soles whispering on the stone flags. Fat candles flickered around the altar and shadows danced across the walls. He breathed in chill air scented with tallow-smoke and sweet incense. From one of the annexes, he could hear monks chanting in the Roman tongue, the music of their voices echoing up to the rafters.

He found Abbot Thurstan kneeling in prayer beside a shrine. Offerings had been laid before it – bread, a bunch of summer savoury, a cup of mead, a piece of embroidered linen – the silent cries of people filled with worry for the days to come. As Hereward neared, the abbot jerked his head up as if he feared an attack. When he saw it was the Mercian, he nodded and clambered to his feet. He was a tall man, silver-haired and thin as a needle, with gentle ways and an air of quiet reflection that won him many friends. He had more learning than any other man in the fens, Hereward had heard.