Hereward 03 - End of Days (23 page)

‘I will go to bring her back,’ Kraki said, climbing to his feet. His tone seemed to suggest that his woman had only wandered down to the waterside. ‘And I will go alone. No other man should risk his life.’

‘No,’ Hereward replied. He laid a reassuring hand on the other man’s shoulder. ‘You will not go alone. You will go with an army at your side, the greatest army the English have ever known. I have found a crack in the enemy’s defences. We leave Ely after the second sunrise and we will crush the Normans before us. They will pay for all the cruelties they have inflicted on the folk of England. And if God is willing, we will pluck Acha from the wolf’s jaws or die trying.’

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THE WOMAN COWERED
away from the blade of rosy dawn light that sliced across the mud floor of the gloomy hut from the open door, where Deda watched with pity. She huddled against the far wall, her knees tucked up to her chest, her face hidden by her raven-black hair. Her dress was torn, her bare feet filthy and criss-crossed with scratches. The guards had not been gentle with their gauntlets or their shoes. But they had not shamed her, not yet at least. She was too valuable to the king, and he needed at least one knife to hold to her throat.

The camp on Belsar’s Hill was waking. Kindling crackled and smoke twisted up into the pink-tinged sky. Pots of yesterday’s stew began to bubble over the flames, the sticky scents clouding the ever-present odour of rotting vegetation drifting in from the wetlands. The men farted as they pissed by their tents, bleary-eyed and reeking of vinegar-sweat.

Deda stepped into the hut and looked around. There was nothing in it, not even a bed of straw or a blanket to keep out the night’s cold. Barrels of wine had been stored there until it had been decided it would make a better cell for their new prisoner. The ghost of the sharp scent hung in the air.

‘I have brought bread,’ he said. He removed the chunk of
loaf and held it out. He had not been told to bring her vittles, but it seemed only right. The guards would not feed her.

She turned her face towards him, the matted hair falling away. Her creamy skin was dappled with bruises. He had expected some frightened girl, tearful and pleading for release, but her eyes glinted like a cornered wolf’s.

‘Have you come to gloat? Or have your way with me?’ Acha snarled.

‘I have come to give you bread.’

She looked him up and down with contempt, then took the morsel of loaf without thanks. She watched him with those cold eyes as she chewed on it. He imagined she was probably enjoying a vision of slitting his throat.

‘They have not knocked the fire from you, then,’ he said.

‘I have taken many a hand in my life, and suffered much hardship. Last night was naught.’

He tried to place her accent. She had taken on the tones of the English she had lived with, the harshness of the Northfolk, and the rolling sounds of the east, but he heard a more melodic cadence beneath it all. ‘And given many a hand too, I would wager. Although they say you can measure a man … or a woman, I would think … not by the blows they give, but the ones they can take. You have a warrior’s heart.’

‘Would that I had a warrior’s axe.’

‘That would not be so good for me, I think.’ He smiled, hoping it might raise her spirits, but they both knew that what was to come would be worse yet. ‘I have been sent to ready you for the king.’

‘Let the bastard come.’ She gnawed on the bread.

‘A word to the wise. Hard knocks come often enough. It is best not to call for them while they still sleep.’

Acha levelled her cold gaze at him. He could see she had nothing more to say to him. ‘I am glad you are well,’ he said with a bow, stepping to the door. ‘It is my deepest wish that you remain so.’

On the threshold, he glanced across the castle ward and saw
the king stride out of his tent, his breath steaming in the chill air. He crossed the muddy waste like a bear, and clapped his huge hands together when he arrived at the hut.

‘Deda. You have softened her up?’ he said.

‘She is more flint than clay, my lord. But she awaits you.’

William forced his broad shoulders through the doorway and marched across the floor. He loomed over the prisoner, his hands on his hips. She pushed herself up against the wall, her back straight, and held his gaze with defiance.

‘You still have your life,’ the monarch said. ‘I have shown mercy. And I can show even greater kindness.’

‘You have nothing that I want.’

Her tone was level, and Deda felt pleased that the woman was taking his advice. The king’s rage was terrifying indeed.

For a moment, the king sized her up. Then he nodded and began to pace around the hut, one finger against his lips in thought. ‘Not gold?’ he suggested. ‘Not food for your belly, not relief from hunger for the rest of your days? Not a place at my court? I need good women to bring me my wine.’

‘I have been a slave. I would not be one again.’

‘Your pride may be your downfall, as it has been many a man’s. Nothing, then? Safe passage to any part of this land? You have no kin who can care for you?’

Deda watched a tremor cross the woman’s face. It was barely perceptible, and he was sure the king had not seen it, but he thought it seemed that William had found his lure. And yet Acha still shook her head. She must know that her life hung in the balance. Why would she not take something of value to her?

‘The English cannot win. You must know that,’ the monarch continued. ‘Hereward and his pack of wild dogs have only thrived at Ely because I have not turned my gaze towards them. You have seen my army. We have greater numbers, better weapons, enough food to ensure that no man will starve. They will stay strong. They will not back down. And what have the English? Thin hope and nothing more.’

‘They have Hereward.’

William came to a halt. A shadow crossed his face. Deda flinched. He felt that he was watching a dam flexing under a spring torrent; with one more droplet it might break. ‘One man,’ the king said.

‘More than that. His army will follow him into hell.’

‘Aye, that they will do.’ He strode towards her, his lips tight. Acha kept her head high. Deda admired her for that. ‘This war could be done in a day, or it could drag on into the cold season, if those farmers that he calls an army continue to hide away like whipped curs. But it will be done, and I will win. I have other things of greater import to occupy my days. I would not waste hours here.’ He towered over the woman once more and slowly lowered a finger to point at her. ‘Now
you
show mercy. Tell me of the secret path that the English use to come and go as they please, so this matter can be finished quickly. If you do, I will spare the lives of the folk at Ely. You have this chance to save them. Take it.’

‘I know of no secret path,’ Acha said without hesitation.

The king searched her face for a moment and then said, ‘Very well.’ He turned on his heel and walked out. Deda closed and barred the door behind him. He knew what was to come next.

‘Spare her life,’ he urged as they walked away. ‘She is no threat.’

The king came to a halt, eyeing his knight. ‘You are starting to appear weak, Deda. This troubles me.’

‘There is strength in mercy, my lord. The English are like dogs. They flinch from a hard hand, but after too many blows they grow used to their treatment, and resentful.’

‘There are some who say you grow too close to these English.’ The king did not break his penetrating gaze. ‘And that is not a man I want close to me.’ He walked away a few paces, and then turned back. ‘Prove to me that you are loyal. Slay this woman yourself, then throw her remains into the bog.’

Deda grew cold as he watched the king make his way back to the tent. If he did not do as his monarch asked, it would be his remains in the bog, he knew that.

‘Norman bastard.’

The knight turned to see Harald Redteeth striding towards him. Once again the Viking’s eyes looked all black. It seemed he had been catching birds. Some more skulls had been threaded on the leather strips hanging from his hauberk, and he had re-dyed his beard red with woodland berries. ‘A fine greeting.’

‘But true. You are all bastards. No escaping that.’

Deda shrugged. He could not argue with that. What the king had done in the north hung over as many Normans as English. For the first time he had been hearing whispers of criticism and doubt about the man who had led them to so much plunder.

Redteeth glanced towards the king’s tent as William parted the flaps and went inside. ‘Watch your back,’ he said. ‘The worst enemies are not always the ones you face across a battlefield.’

‘All life is a battle, my friend, from womb to grave, and the best weapons are not always the ones made of iron.’ Deda smiled and swept one arm for the Viking to walk with him. ‘And sometimes a swift retreat is the best route out of trouble.’

‘You will return to Normandy once this war is done?’

‘If I live that long.’ They wandered through the castle gate and into the camp. ‘And where will your axe take you?’ Deda went on as they warmed themselves by the nearest fire. He smiled, but his thoughts were away in the hut, with Acha, and what he would have to do.

The flames danced in Redteeth’s eyes as a log crackled and spat. ‘I have had my fill of your ilk,’ he replied, his gaze far-away. ‘I would be with men who know honour. Who understand the ties of days gone by.’

‘No offence taken,’ Deda said with a wry smile.

‘Constantinople,’ the Viking said with a thoughtful nod. ‘There is good coin for a sharp axe there, I have heard tell. Northmen and English alike have set sail to join the emperor’s Varangian Guard. Once I have slain Hereward and my oath is fulfilled, I could happily end my days there, knee-deep in mead
and women. A life that is true to the ways of my father and my father’s father and all before him, that would be my wish.’ He glanced sideways at the knight. ‘Far away from England, where your kind are bringing in a long night.’

Deda grew wistful. ‘A good dream,’ he said. ‘I may join you there.’

They stood in silence for a long moment, and then Deda took his leave and wandered across the camp to the gates. He could not face returning to the castle ward and the act that weighed so heavily on his soul. While he brooded, Rowena came over. These days she looked hollowed out by life. Her face was drawn, her step leaden, her shoulders hunched. The fire he had seen that day in the English camp was gone. He knew why, he thought. In the early hours, he had seen her leaving the tents of some of the other knights. She was not a whore, could never be one, and he could not understand why she was attempting to ruin herself. But she seemed to have a taste for those who wielded power, so perhaps that was what drove her.

‘Good morn, Rowena,’ he said.

She started. ‘You know my name?’

‘If your name is Rowena, I do.’

Her look of bafflement faded quickly and she lowered her eyes. ‘I would ask for your aid,’ she said.

‘I have little coin to spare and no need of comfort at night,’ he replied, and instantly regretted his sour tone. She did not deserve such cruelty.

Her cheeks flushed. ‘That … that was not my meaning. I would offer my plea for mercy for the Ely woman.’

Deda regretted his harshness even more. Rowena must have struggled greatly to make such a request from a man she clearly hated. More, she had placed herself in danger. ‘You would do well not to speak of this woman with any other,’ he whispered, glancing around. ‘She is an enemy who sought to betray us to the English, and if you acknowledge her you would be seen in the same light.’

‘I know not why she came here,’ Rowena lied. ‘We spent our days together for the short time I was in Ely and I do know she is a good woman.’

‘Why have you come to me? You have other … friends in this camp.’

She looked up at him, her brow furrowing. It seemed she had no answer to his question.

‘I do not want to see this woman harmed, we are in agreement there,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘But I do not have the ear of the king. Far from it.’

She all but grabbed his hand in desperation. ‘If there is anything you can do … anything that might save her life …’ she pleaded.

Deda lowered his head. The weight on his shoulders seemed to have grown heavier still. ‘I will see what I can do,’ he sighed. But what could he do? To broach the matter with the king once more would probably end in his own death.

Rowena looked surprised at his response. But she smiled with relief and said, ‘You have my thanks.’ As she took her leave, she glanced back at him once, her brow knitted. Flashing another smile, she hurried away.

Deda looked back to the tower at the summit of the hill and the hut that stood in its shadow. A chill wind blew. A few fat drops of rain spattered in the mud. And in the distance a dog howled as if it had been whipped.

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REDWALD CLOAKED HIMSELF
in the shadows in the corner of the tent. The din of the feast swirled all around him and out into the still fenland night. Cups clashed together accompanied by loud oaths and raucous laughter rolled out like waves upon the shore. Every Norman noble and knight in the east was there, it seemed. Servant girls whirled with hot beef and smoked eels, and pitchers brimming with ruby wine. The succulent scents of the fine food would have drawn water from the mouth of any man. But Redwald ate nothing, nor allowed one drop of drink to pass his lips. He only watched.

The king roared with laughter, swilling wine across the table. Beside him, Abbot Turold, newly arrived from Burgh, leaned in and whispered, his eyes glittering with glee. At one of the far tables, Redwald could just glimpse Ivo Taillebois, glowering, and a sullen William de Warenne. Once they would have been supping at the king’s right hand. No more. He had supplanted them.

As he studied the king, Redwald unconsciously traced a finger over his new linen tunic, expertly dyed madder red. It had been provided by William himself, for a monarch’s close adviser could not be seen to dress like a common mudhopper.
He had a new leather belt too, engraved with whorls. Edoma had gasped with delight when he had shown the gifts to her.