Hereward 05 - The Immortals (38 page)

‘Death waits everywhere.’

Another torch roared alight. A mountain of a man lumbered from the rear of the chamber into that sunbeam. Naked to the waist, his shoulders were as broad as an ox. A large, round belly hung over his leather belt. His head was shaven, his left eye milky where a jagged pink scar ran from temple to cheek. A gold ring glowed in one ear. No one there knew his name, but they had been told he would guide them to Death, and, if they were strong, back to the world again.

Hereward could sense Guthrinc to his left and Kraki to his right, but every man kept his eyes ahead, as they had been commanded. Somewhere Hengist began to whimper.

‘Quiet,’ their guide barked.

A stone table was swathed with shadows in one corner. From it the shaven-headed man fetched a golden bowl. The dark contents gleamed in the torchlight, and the Mercian breathed in that familiar scent of the battlefield.

‘Here is the blood of the lion and the bull,’ the guide intoned. Dipping two fingers into the gore, he walked along the line, painting an X on each man’s forehead. ‘You are marked,’ he said. ‘Death will see you now. Your old life will be gone.’

As he passed in front of him, the guide’s good eye locked with Hereward’s. Pupil and iris seemed all black, and the Mercian felt that this scarred man was looking deep into his skull, right through him, and out through the walls of that place.

Once he was done, the guide strode back to the stone table and fetched a wooden pail. Placing it on the beaten mud floor in front of him, he tugged aside the cloth hanging from his belt, grasped his cock with both hands and pissed into the bucket. The stream was long and strong and steaming.

After he was finished, he lifted the pail and carried it to the end of the line, pushing it against Sighard’s lips. ‘Drink,’ he said. ‘And soon you will fly beyond Midgard to the shores of the great black sea, and there you will be judged.’ He had eaten the toadstools that gave a man wings. Many died when they swallowed that dangerous food. In the piss, though, it kept its power, but the chance of survival was greater, Hereward knew.

Down the line the guide moved with the pail, each warrior swigging back a mouthful of that hot, bitter drink. And then they waited.

Hereward felt his stomach churn and bile rise into his mouth. The sound of dripping became the beat of a war-drum. His vision twisted and he closed his eyes.

‘You will meet a beast, or a bird, or a fish there,’ the guide was saying, ‘and when you return, if you return, you will paint it upon your shield.’

More words echoed, but Hereward could not understand them. He heard the thunder of wings, and then he was flying, up, out of that chamber, high over the world and away.

Along the shores of that black sea he walked. His father and his brother were not there to meet him, and for that he was thankful. But he was greeted by a squat, fierce Viking with a beard dyed the colour of blood. A raven sat upon his shoulder.

‘This will be your sign,’ the Viking growled.

Hereward felt convinced he had met this warrior before, but for the life of him he could not remember his name.

He walked on.

A woman waited for him, in a dress the colour of spring leaves. Smiling, she reached out her arms to welcome him, and he saw it was his wife, Turfrida. Taking him by the hand, she led him along the water’s edge as she told him of many secret things. And then she cupped her hand, and whispered in his ear, and he saw his son, far, far across the whale road, in England. Hereward wanted to watch him longer, but Turfrida shook her head. He felt a great sadness, but when she kissed him on the cheek it passed.

And then he was flying again, and looking down upon himself seated on the ledge in Malakopea-below, staring into the dark where the devils danced.

The world held its breath.

Hot sun flooded the courtyard of the Boukoleon palace. The wind swept grey ashes from the pyre across the flagstones as the grave-priests silently collected the remnants of Godred’s charred bones and slipped them into sacks.

Hereward barely gave them a second glance as he strode out into the light. His heart still swelled with all that he had seen and felt. Had it all been a dream, or a vision, or had he truly visited that place? One thing was certain: he felt changed by it.

Behind him, his spear-brothers cheered and slapped each other’s backs, every one of them filled with a joy that they had not known for far too long. Hereward turned and looked at them, marvelling at their crimson capes, and their new gleaming helms and vambraces.

Guthrinc threw his arms around him and crushed him so hard he thought his ribs would snap. ‘All that you promised you have delivered,’ he said, his eyes narrowing as if he knew the doubts that had haunted Hereward for so long.

‘Aye,’ Kraki said, shaking his new Dane-axe. ‘We are filthy rogues and thieves and murderers no more. We are the emperor’s men!’

The English cheered once more.

Turning, Hereward glimpsed Alric standing on the other side of the courtyard. The monk was smiling, more at ease than the Mercian had seen him in a long time. Leaving his men to their euphoria, he strode over to his friend.

‘I am pleased that you have finally gained your just reward,’ Alric said once they had embraced.

‘There are still battles to fight. At least now we will be well paid for it. And you,’ he added, ‘I am told you stood up to Falkon Cephalas.’

‘It seems I am a warrior too, in my own way,’ the monk replied with a shy smile. ‘And there will be more battles there too, but I will not shirk from them.’

For a moment, Hereward thought he heard wings, and he raised his eyes to the blue sky, but there was nothing.

Alric furrowed his brow. ‘What troubles you?’

‘No troubles this day, monk. Today we feast and drink.’ The Mercian paused. In his mind’s eye, he glimpsed a boy playing on the edge of a vast forest. ‘But I was thinking of England, and all we left behind.’

‘We will never forget.’

‘No. We will never forget. But no more will it haunt us.’ Shaking off his reverie, he clapped an arm round Alric’s shoulder. ‘Now, come. There is a tavern waiting, and much wine to be swilled before the sun sets. And tomorrow, monk, tomorrow the fight for gold and glory begins in force.’

Across the courtyard they walked, to the band of spear-brothers. And the world held its breath.

England, All Hallows’ Eve

THE RAIN HAD
stopped not long after dawn. Though the black clouds had scudded away, in the trees it was as gloomy as dusk. Moisture dripped from the branches in a steady patter as the man dragged the boy by the hand. Around them, the sodden forest seemed to be holding its breath. No birds sang.

‘Do not tarry,’ Centwine the monk snapped. His exhortation hung in the dank air. ‘There are great men to see you. We must not keep them waiting.’ He cursed as his twisted spine threw his gait off and he almost stumbled over a gnarled root.

The boy had Danish blood, anyone could see that. His hair was blond, his skin pale, his eyes an icy blue. Though he had only seen three summers, he was tall for his age, and wilful. Scowling, he struggled to wrench his hand free. ‘Let go.’

The monk only gripped tighter. ‘Stop your struggling or I will teach you a lesson with this.’ Baring his teeth, Centwine swung up his free hand.

‘Do not strike him.’

Jolted, the monk whirled, searching for the source of the voice.

‘Come to me.’

On her horse, the woman waited for the squat churchman to locate her. A grey woollen cloak swathed her slender frame, the hood pulled low to hide her features. She felt calm now. The ride had been long and hard and dangerous. The three warriors who sat on their steeds at her back had guarded her well from the cut-throats and rogues stalking the wild areas. But her greatest fear had always been that she would arrive too late.

When the monk saw her, he glanced around, thinking of running. She imagined he encountered few strangers here, away from the main road to the abbey, and any that he did were probably up to no good. But he took in the warriors and their axes and knew it would be futile to run. Hauling the lad behind him, he eased forward as if he were approaching a cornered dog.

The woman slipped down from her mount and waited.

‘Who are you?’ the monk asked, narrowing his eyes.

In the depths of her hood, the woman smiled. ‘I know of you, Centwine of Crowland Abbey. You are dragging this lad to Richard fitz Gilbert, who has ridden from Windsor with the other Norman bastards.’

The monk’s eyes widened. ‘How do you know this?’

‘Ears hear and tongues wag. And I know what fitz Gilbert will do once he has this lad in his grasp. As do you.’

Centwine lowered his eyes. Though he could not see her face, the woman knew he could feel the weight of her judgement.

‘You would sell an innocent soul for a bag of gold,’ she continued, her words like pebbles falling on wood. ‘I would think you would want to be away from here, to pray for forgiveness.’

Startled, the monk looked up. ‘But the king’s men—’

‘Go. Or
my
men will see how fast you can run with an axe at your back. Richard fitz Gilbert will return to Windsor empty-handed this day.’

For a moment, Centwine hesitated, weighing whose wrath would burn hottest. Slowly his fingers slipped from the boy’s wrist and he edged away.

‘Go,’ the woman commanded. Turning, the monk scrambled through the dripping undergrowth until he was lost in the trees.

When there was only the patter of falling droplets to disturb the stillness, the woman threw back her hood. Her skin was as pale as snow, her hair black as raven wings. Dropping to her haunches, she cupped the puzzled boy’s hands in her own cool fingers. ‘You are safe now,’ she murmured. ‘I will take you far from here, where you can grow to be a man without fear of harm.’

‘Who are you?’ the boy asked.

‘My name is Acha, of the Cymri. I knew your father. I stood beside him at the battle of Ely, when he fought to free the English from the rule of a cruel king.’ She hesitated as the flood of memories threatened to drown her. Of the first time she met Hereward in frozen Eoferwic and of feelings as sharp as a new knife. Of the struggles and the hardship and the crushing disappointment of that final battle. And she thought of Kraki, the man who had loved her more than any other. His face floated in her mind, and the tenderness he kept hidden from all others, and she felt warmth flow deep into the heart of her. ‘Your father is a great hero. All the stories they whisper of him in the taverns and by the home-fires are true. No man was braver.’

The boy stared at her with wide eyes. ‘My father?’

‘He waits across the water now, and one day he will return to save us all. Do you have a name?’

‘Elstan.’

She shook her head. ‘You are Hereward, son of Hereward. Know it well from this moment on. One day you will live up to all that that name means.’

‘Hereward.’ The lad let the word play on his lips for a moment. Then he craned his neck to look back into the trees. ‘You have sent Centwine away. How will I find my way to the abbey?’

‘You are done here now. No more chill cells, and thin gruel, and cold-hearted monks. You will have a new home, in the west.’ She brushed his hair back from his forehead, seeing the mark of his father in his features. Smiling, she added, ‘I have a child too. He is only a babe in arms, but he will be a brother to you. Come.’

Acha took the boy’s hand and led him to her horse. Climbing up, she hauled him on to the animal’s back and placed his arms around her waist. Her life had been hard, and at times bitter, but she felt her spirit soar that she had done this good work. This boy would have better days, and if all went to plan he would leave his mark upon the world.

The rain began falling once more. The pattering of droplets on leaves quickened, drowning out the snorts of the horses. Pulling up her hood, Acha leaned over her mount’s neck and urged it on, into the trees, into the shadows, into the days yet to come.

Hereward was already moving into myth within living memory of his epic struggle with the invading Norman force after 1066. As they slipped into their twilight years, those who knew him, who fought alongside him, were spreading stories of a hero who seemed more than a man … not just a simple war-leader, but someone who had left his mark upon history in an almost supernatural way. These stories were circulating, and growing in the telling, over a time span in which many other real, historical figures would have quickly been forgotten. This tells us a great deal, not just about Hereward himself, but about the importance of what the English of that time thought he had achieved.

It also informs us about his death. There are plenty of theories about what happened to Hereward after the battle of Ely, but no record of the facts. But if we’re sifting through sand, as we have to do when we examine the skimpy evidence from such a long time ago, we can be quite sure that he didn’t die at Ely. If he had, that great death would have been part of those stories that began building soon after the defeat of the English rebels.

Academics are bound by evidence. Writers of historical fiction have huge advantages when it comes to playing ‘what if …’ – we can use what we know of human nature to make informed judgements. One of the theories is that Hereward received a payoff, a bribe perhaps, from the new King William, and retired to his new estate to live out his days in comfort. But would a man who was such a dangerous and wild force in his youth, and risked everything to lead a rebellion with no clear personal stake, go so quietly? Would the Hereward of Ely be bribed into silence? I suggest not.

We don’t know for certain, of course, but we do know many English rebels fled the country, and many nobles too. After
Hereward: End of Days
it would have been easy for me to move on to new characters, a new story, perhaps a new era (and there are plans afoot for that), but I wanted to understand what it must have been like for those defeated heroes – men who had lost everything, family, friends and livelihood. A good many of the warriors did indeed head to Constantinople, to gain service in the Varangian Guard, or to work as mercenaries. A number became pirates in the Mediterranean, as was shown in
Hereward: Wolves of New Rome
, and then attempted to establish a New England to the north of the old Roman empire.