Hereward 05 - The Immortals (24 page)

The king smiled, resting one hand upon the monk’s head. ‘You have served me well, good Centwine. This news has captured my interest. Your abbey will receive the full weight of the king’s gratitude. Your brothers will know a time of plenty.’ As the monk fawned and scraped, the monarch wiped his hand on his tunic and looked to Richard. ‘An abbey is no place to raise a boy. Find him.’

Fitz Gilbert nodded. He knew his king’s mind well enough. The boy would not see a fourth summer.

The king turned back to the circle of nobles, his gaze falling upon the forgotten thief, and then the warrior who still held his sword above the man’s neck. William the Bastard waved a dismissive hand. ‘Take his head.’

FLAMES FLICKERED IN
the vast gulf of night. Like the spirit-lights that the doomed see wandering along the ghost-paths on All Hallows’ Eve, the points of illumination floated through the gloom, winking out then reappearing as they passed behind trees. No sound floated through the vast forest, no hoot of owl nor rustle of leaf. Under the dense canopy the air was still, and oven-hot.

Hereward lay flat on his belly, his fingers dug deep into the leaf-mould as if he were gripping on to the world for dear life. Sweat slicked his brow and soaked through his tunic. He blinked away the stinging droplets, watching that trail of torches for any sign that they were changing direction. If they moved towards where Hereward and the others lay hidden in the undergrowth, there would be no more running. The Turkish war-band would have picked up their trail and would fall upon them in no time.

Behind his eyes, his devil called to him, cajoling, mocking, urging. He imagined creeping behind those prowling Turks, ghosting from the dark to trace his knife across a throat, then disappearing back into the shadows before his victim had even gurgled his last. Whittling them down, one by one. But he knew it was a futile dream.

The Turks swarmed over these parts like ants, moving closer to Constantinople by the day. When this war-band was destroyed there would be another to take its place, and another, and another, and if they found their brothers slaughtered it would only drive them to wilder excesses. Then there truly would be no escape.

The torchlight bobbed along like summer fireflies for a little longer before juddering to a halt. Hereward’s fingers closed around Brainbiter. For an interminable moment, his breath burned in his chest. Just as he had convinced himself that the Turks had decided to rush their hiding place, the flames jerked to life once more and continued on their way.

Sighing, he rested his cheek on the dirt. Exhaustion tugged at his limbs. It seemed an age since he had slept. In the dark, his thoughts swept back across the long miles and the four days since they had left the ridge with Drogo Vavasour close on their trail. Through the grasslands they had ridden and deep into the forest, where the way was harder. Their pace naturally slowed in that trackless, gloomy world, but they knew it would slow their pursuers too. Soon they had found the babbling stream they had been searching for, and led their mounts along it till they found the river that carved through the forest’s heart, as Maximos had promised.

Splashing through the cool shallows, they had reached a bend where the river widened and became slow-moving enough to cross. Waist deep, they had waded to the other side, and continued along the shallows before finding another spot where they could cross back.

As they had trudged on, heading south, they had laughed together, sure now that no scout could ever follow them. But that night Zeno had woken them from their sleep. On his watch he had heard the distant whinny of a horse. Creeping along the water’s edge, he had come across the Normans, closer than they could ever have imagined. The warriors had no choice but to flee through the dark, risking the chance that one of their horses would break a leg on the uneven ground.

Over the next three days, they had covered their tracks with branches and leaves, had plunged again and again into the cold water, all to no effect. Drogo and his men were relentless, undeterred by any obstacle. They seemed never to rest. Zeno had started to wonder if they had some talisman that guided them – he could think of no other explanation. But Hereward knew it was only Vavasour’s hatred pushing him beyond the limits of any ordinary man.

Weary, with their bellies growling, they had managed to catch a little fish along the way, which they had gnawed on, raw and slimy. And then they had been seen by the Turks.

Hereward ground his teeth. This journey had become more cursed by the day. They had been forced to flee faster, and further off their course, to save their necks as the Turkish war-band also pursued them, hungry for whatever wares they might be carrying. Only when night fell could they seize one slim chance to hide.

Craning his neck up, Hereward peered among the trees and saw the last of the torches fading away. Relief flooded him. At last God had smiled on them. It was a thin hope, but he would seize it with both hands. Dragging himself to his feet, he edged past the wall of blackthorn to where the other three men hid with the horses.

‘Gone?’ Maximos whispered.

Hereward nodded.

Closing his eyes, Alexios pushed back his head in a silent prayer of relief.

‘Soon our luck will run out,’ Zeno said, scowling. ‘We do not need enemies. We are killing ourselves by degrees.’ His long-repressed anger rising, he jabbed a finger at Hereward. ‘He is killing us.’

‘Hold,’ Alexios said, laying a hand on the other man’s arm. ‘There can be no gain from fighting among ourselves.’

Shaking the younger man off, the Wolf stepped towards the Mercian. ‘We have one slim chance to survive. Leave the gold for the Normans—’

‘It will not deter them.’

‘You think—’

‘I know. Drogo Vavasour wants my head. Nothing less will satisfy him.’

Zeno bared his teeth. ‘That can be arranged.’

‘Hold,’ Maximos cautioned, his eyes narrowing.

‘I will not die because this one wants to be rich.’

Hereward flinched. The voice of his devil grew louder. Despite himself, he found his hand reaching towards the hilt of Brainbiter.

Zeno’s gaze snapped towards the movement. ‘Come, then. Let us have it.’ He levelled his own blade at Hereward’s chest.

‘Enough,’ Maximos commanded. He and Alexios thrust themselves between the two men. For a moment, the Wolf’s blade wavered before he sheathed it. Half turning away, he flashed a murderous look at the Mercian. ‘The gold must go.’

Together, Maximos and Alexios glanced back at the English warrior. Hereward could see in their eyes that they both felt the same. They were trusting that good sense would soon return to him. Neither of them understood why he risked all to take that gold back to Constantinople.

‘The gold stays,’ he growled, walking away. He answered to no man.

In brooding silence, they led their horses through the sweltering forest. Sometimes they would glance back and see their enemies bearing down on them, but it was only a trick of the light. Sometimes they heard the whinny of a horse, and a whistled call and response. It was impossible to tell if the sounds were a day’s ride or only moments away.

There was no rest, no easing of worry. They snatched sleep when they could, usually sagging on the backs of their mounts as they trundled along animal tracks between the trees. They hungered and sweated, pausing only to scoop handfuls of water from the streams they crossed.

‘Why will they not give up?’ Alexios muttered at regular intervals, as if he were murmuring an incantation.

Finally, two days after they evaded the Turkish war-band, they saw the sun again. Emerging from the treeline, they looked out across rolling grassland, studded with copses and rocky escarpments.

Looking up to the sky, Maximos closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth on his face. ‘We have come far south,’ he said. ‘We should start to head towards the west.’

Zeno spat a mouthful of phlegm. ‘You think we will survive this open land?’

‘Enough talk,’ Hereward growled. ‘Ride.’ He urged his horse on, but he could feel it protesting beneath him. Sometimes it nearly stumbled. Every step seemed an effort. He felt sorry for the beast, but there was little he could do to help it.

Down a gentle incline they rode, the grass swaying like green waves. Glittering dragonflies whisked by. Hereward wiped the sweat from his brow. The sun was high, the heat suffocating. No breeze stirred the leaves in the copses that dotted the landscape. Looking back, the Mercian saw the lines they had made through the grass, stabbing like a sword towards them. He felt his unease grind up. ‘Faster,’ he urged. ‘Faster.’

Grim-faced, the Romans dug their heels into their horses’ flanks. The steady thrum of hooves became a drumming on the earth that matched the pulse of blood in Hereward’s head. His neck prickled as a sense of dread descended upon him.

Barely had the dark mood settled when a cloud of shrieking birds swelled up from the edge of the forest. Wrenching round, Hereward saw four riders burst from the treeline and hurtle down the incline. Drogo had sent his men on different tracks to run the prey ragged, and then trap them between two groups. The others would be along soon enough.

The Romans saw their pursuers at the same time. As one, they urged their horses on to greater excesses. The world blurred.

Hereward leaned across the neck of his mount, feeling the wind tear at his hair. The Normans’ beasts would be weary too. Everything now depended on outriding them, until they could find another location where they could attempt to lose their pursuers, or some high ground where they could take a stand if that was all that was left to them.

Slowly, the Romans began to pull ahead of him. Hereward dug his heels in, pressing his mount on, but its mouth foamed and its eyes were wide and white.

Cut the coffer free
, he told himself. Yet even then he could not betray his spear-brothers.

He saw Alexios glance back, worried, and then fate snatched all choice away from him. His horse crashed down as if its legs had been hacked from under it. Hereward spun through the air and landed hard on the earth. When he pushed himself up through the swaying grass, he saw that his mount lay dead, its heart having finally given out as the last of its strength ebbed away.

Hereward could feel the hungry stares of Drogo’s men upon him. Sensing blood, they thrashed their steeds towards him and thunder filled the air.

‘RUN TO ME!’
Ahead, Alexios had brought his skittish horse up sharp and turned it round. Beckoning wildly, he yelled, ‘I will carry you.’

In the moment that Hereward took to glance from the young Roman to the Normans bearing down on him, he reached a decision. His enemies’ armour flashed in the blazing sun. Their double-edged swords glowed in their hands. And yet his devil called to him, deep in his head, the voice growing louder by the moment, matching the pulse of his blood in his temple.

Under the neck of his sweat-stained tunic, his fingers closed around the relic that Alric had given him that night in Constantinople. He felt God’s power throb beneath their tips. From the moment they had met, his friend had fought hard for his salvation, had suffered and sacrificed, and he himself had struggled through years of fighting what lay inside him. Now Hereward knew he was damned, come what may, and only the beast that controlled him could save him.

With a yank, he tore the leather thong that held the relic over his head and tossed it away. He never saw it land in the long grass. His hand was already leaping to the hilt of Brainbiter.

‘Go,’ he yelled to Alexios. ‘Leave me. This is my fight.’

He could feel the young Roman’s incredulity. What kind of madman turned his back upon rescue and looked death in the face?

The Normans were only three spear-lengths away now. Bounding to his fallen horse, the Mercian gripped his sword in his hand and stared down the enemies racing towards him. Already tasting victory, mouths flickered into smiles. Blades swung high. They could hack him to pieces or smash his bones beneath the trampling hooves of their steeds.

But from the moment he had been taught how to ride into battle, Hereward had studied these beasts. He knew they always leapt the obstacles in their path. When his foes were a spear-length away he dropped to the ground, tucked tightly behind the carcass of his mount. When the riders sailed overhead, he jabbed his blade up and ripped through the belly of the steed that passed above him.

Hot blood showered him. Blinded by the flood, he only heard the cries of the riders and the thunderous sound of the dying horse crashing into another. Both of them slammed to the ground.

Blinking away the gore, Hereward was up in an instant. As the world closed in, only the booming of his heart reverberated through his head. He was dimly aware of two riders bringing their mounts round, but his gaze fell upon the two men he had brought down. One squirmed on the ground, wrenching at his right leg, which was crushed beneath his dead steed. The other horse heaved itself up and began to canter away. Its rider staggered to his feet, dazed.

As the man’s senses returned to him, he glanced around and saw Hereward stalking towards him, stained from head to toe in blood. This fierce vision of hell gripped him. Gaping, he reached for his empty sheath. When he saw the fallen blade lying in a circle of flattened grass, he hurled himself towards it. Too late. Hereward was upon him.

The booming in his head had grown louder still. The Mercian thrust Brainbiter into the warrior’s side, and as the man went down he whisked his sword up and took the head. Without slowing, he plunged his blade into the chest of the trapped man.

The other two riders were circling. Now they had seen what had happened to their brothers, they were not about to take any risks. Through the haze, Hereward watched them make their calculations. Two of them, one of him. They had the advantage of horseback. Yet even so they were hesitant.

The Mercian grinned. ‘Come,’ he roared. ‘Your days are ending.’