Hereward (44 page)

‘Word spreads fast,’ the monk remarked.

‘To hear tell, the suffering inflicted by the Normans reaches across every part of England. Anger is everywhere.’

‘But they are drawn here by your name. It seems your exploits in Eoferwic have caught alight.’ Alric restrained a grin. ‘The English needed a hero and there you were.’

‘I am no hero,’ Hereward snapped, rising to the bait. The words died in his throat as he saw two familiar faces across the camp. Unsure of his feelings, he left the monk and pushed through the crowd. Kraki and Acha sat on a log beside the campfire, eating some of the fowl that Guthrinc had roasted. The Viking had earned a new scar over his left eye since the last time Hereward had seen him, and a few more strands of silver gleamed in his hair and beard. His creaking leather and stained mail were splattered with the mud of the road.

Acha’s eyes met Hereward’s before her companion looked up from his meal, and the warrior was struck afresh by her fierce beauty. Though she wore a worn woollen dress, her raven hair gleamed. She flashed the warrior a smile that appeared to hold a hint of contrition.

When he saw Hereward, Kraki wiped the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand and tossed his bone into the fire. Rising to his feet, he held the warrior with an unwavering gaze. ‘You and I, we had our troubles. But your courage and fighting skills were never in doubt. Let us put the past behind us and start afresh, for together we can spill enough Norman blood to turn this wet land red.’

Hereward searched the Viking’s face. They would never like each other, but Kraki had proved himself loyal when he had taken Tostig’s oath. The warrior accepted the man with a firm nod. ‘Your axe will be put to good use soon enough.’ He turned to single out Alric. ‘The monk will tell you our plans.’

With a grunt, Kraki pushed his way through the crowd. The moment he was out of sight, Acha jumped to her feet. ‘There is little I can say about Eoferwic,’ she began. ‘I was weak.’

‘It is behind us now. You have not returned to the Cymri?’

Her eyes flashed. ‘He would not let me,’ she snapped, nodding in the direction of the Viking.

‘You are with Kraki now?’

Acha looked down, trying to hide the shame she felt. ‘He was—’

‘You do not have to answer,’ Hereward interrupted, his tone gentle. ‘I know your mind, remember.’

Hope flared in the woman’s eyes. She stepped forward, almost pressing her hands against his chest. ‘I would rather be with you.’

‘I have a wife now.’

‘Then take another.’ Acha looked round. ‘Where is she?’

‘Where she is safe.’

‘You would never have to keep me safe. I would stand at your shoulder at all times.’ Her dark eyes widened as she looked up at him. ‘We know each other’s hearts. We are the same inside. You told me that. You know it.’

Hereward hesitated, knowing that what she said was true. Before he could respond, a cry echoed across the camp. Bodies fell aside as someone pushed their way through the crowd. Redwald burst from the gathering, flushed and breathless. Rushing up to the campfire, he grabbed Hereward’s arm and gasped, ‘The Normans are coming!’

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY
-F
OUR

GOLDEN EYES SHONE like torches through the grey mist drifting among the skeletal trees. Beneath the wind hissing across the silver water, Harald Redteeth could hear the whispers of the
alfar
as they watched the world of men. They were warning of the raven-harvests to come. A crow cautioned him as it swooped across the still landscape. When he peered into the mirror-surfaces of the lakes, he saw the yawning skulls of the dead looking back at him from the other world. Oblivious, the Normans rode on, along the edge of the stinking marshland where stagnant pools reflected the lowering sky. But Harald listened, and he heeded.

Scouts galloped back from one of the islands rising out of a sea of reeds in a brown bog, their tunics smeared with mud where they had crawled on their bellies. Aldous Wyvill listened to their insistent reports and nodded. The rebels milled about, not yet realizing their end was upon them, Harald overheard, and Hereward was there, with the monk. The Viking’s fingers folded around the haft of his notched axe. What would it take to send the English warrior to the Grey Lands? In Flanders, Redteeth had been convinced he had struck a killing blow, but still the life-bane had survived. Now his quest had become more than a matter of vengeance. The
alfar
had told him there had to be a balance in life and only one of them could continue on the road in the days to come. Hereward or Harald. Harald or Hereward.

Urging his horse alongside the Norman commander, the red-bearded mercenary said, ‘Hereward is more than a man. He is ridden like a mare by some night-walker, and he has all the powers of the dark world on his side. You must take special care with him.’

Aldous eyed Harald with contempt, then glanced back to see if the superstitious comment had affected his knights. The Viking was used to the look, and cared little. Fools lay everywhere.

‘No risks will be taken,’ the commander replied, turning his attention away from Redteeth to study the approach to the island. ‘We will strike quickly and hard before the rebels have a chance to mount a defence.’ Looking across the boggy ground, he turned up his nose. ‘If we could use our cavalry, this would be over in the blink of an eye. As it is, we are still better armed.’ He smiled at the chink of the heavy mail hauberks and the swords rattling against thighs.

Harald settled back into the rhythm of his mount and continued to listen to the whispers from the trees.

On the edge of the bog, the knights dismounted and left their horses with two of the young hands who had accompanied them from the hall. A narrow, low ridge of grassland ran towards the foot of the island. The Viking scrutinized the dense bank of black trees covering most of the island and the marshland and floodlands surrounding it. The rebels had chosen their camp well, he thought. But if the English were not prepared for the attack, their new home would be the perfect trap, with little opportunity to flee across the causeway that stretched across the water on the western side.

Aldous raised one hand to draw his men in line on top of the grass ridge. Harald settled into position midway along the column. The knights kept low, moving slowly so they would not be heard. The Viking sniffed the air. Woodsmoke. Two campfires, perhaps three.

At the foot of the island, the grey mist swirled among the willows and ashes. Harald smacked his lips, tasting the blood that was to come. As the knights steadily climbed the slope, muffled voices floated back through the fog. The rebels sounded busy. Preparing to flee, Harald wondered? Finding a position to make a stand?

When the calls and chatter were clearly close at hand, Aldous raised his hand again to bring his men to a halt. Whisking his arm left and right, he ordered them to move out in a line. The scouts had told him the island summit was flat and sloped gently down to the bog on the far side. A jaunty tune meandering through his head, Harald resisted the urge to whistle as he gripped his axe. He fixed his eyes on the Norman commander. The whispers of the
alfar
faded away. Silence fell.

Holding his hand high, the Norman commander waited, listening to the ebb and flow of voices. All eyes were upon him. He whisked the arm down. ‘Dex aie!’ he called in his own tongue.
God aid us
.

Echoing the cry, the knights rushed up the final few steps of the slope and over the rim. Through the mist, Harald saw the English scatter like rabbits. There were fewer than he had anticipated.

Careering down the incline, the footfalls of the heavily armoured Normans sounded like thunder. A wolf in human form, Harald outpaced them all. His eyes darted this way and that, searching for Hereward. A rebel in a brown tunic bounded through the ferns to his left. Two men disappeared into the mist to his right. The ghosts of others flitted ahead.

Plunging down the slope, Harald realized the fog was growing thicker still. He saw that all but one of the knights on either side had disappeared from view as they followed the muffled yells echoing from across the island.

His breath rasping in the chill air, the Viking skidded to a halt on the edge of a bog. He had reached the far side of the small island. The knight clanked to a stop beside him, then began to range along the edge of the marsh, looking around.

His senses tingling, Harald dropped to his knees to examine the muddy ground. It had not been churned up by fleeing feet.

‘No one came this way,’ he grunted.

The Norman ignored him, prowling past hanging willows.

The red-bearded mercenary stood up and tried to pierce the dense fog. Deep in the cave of his head, the voices of his ancestors rang out in warning. ‘Wait,’ he cautioned. ‘Something is wrong here.’ The knight stopped, lifting a sweep of branches with his sword.

Silence fell across the island. No fearful shouts or cries of fleeing rebels. Harald raised his axe, turning slowly.

From somewhere nearby, a throat-tearing scream shattered the quiet. Then another. And another.

Death cries, the Viking warrior knew.

The Normans had been too confident, he saw now. He felt sure the rebels had been aware of the impending attack and prepared for it, and he was not about to risk his life finding out the truth. ‘Return to the horses,’ he called to the knight, as he began to move back up the slope. ‘We have lost the advantage here.’

He glanced back to see if the man was following and noticed large bubbles bursting on the surface of a pool in the bog. The knight turned just as a figure rose up from the depths, black slurry streaming off him. White eyes appeared in the mud-dark face, and then white teeth in a triumphant grin.

Rooted, the knight could only stare as Hereward’s blade flashed towards his neck.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY
-F
IVE

THE BARKED ORDERS of the Norman commander echoed through the fog. Redwald grinned. Though he could not understand the words, he could hear the uncertainty in the man’s voice. Another scream tore out nearby. Hereward’s plan was working perfectly.

Leaning against the damp trunk of an ash tree, he listened to the sound of feet running in confusion. When heavy footsteps drew near, he cupped his hands to his mouth and called out as though he were lost.
The Normans lumber like oxen in their armour
, he thought as the leaden footsteps moved in his direction. He waited until the figures coalesced in the fog and then turned on his heel and ran down the slope.

Branches tore at his face, but his breathing remained regular. He had not felt this alive since the days with Harold Godwinson. From the thunder at his back, he estimated he had drawn seven or eight of the knights; a good number.

Leaping over a rotting log that had been dragged across the path, he flashed a quick smile at Guthrinc who waited behind a tree beside it. The large man’s face was smeared with white mud, the hair matted, charcoal ground into the skin around his eyes. He had the face of death, like many of the rebels. Redwald remembered Hereward’s words:
terror strikes as sharp as any axe
. He hesitated a little further on and glanced back. As the first knight slowed near the log, the burly rebel swung his axe into his chest. The
chunk
of iron carving bone echoed down the slope. Guthrinc wrenched out the blade and had faded into the fog before the knight had slumped to his knees in a gout of blood.

Turning, Redwald continued down the slope, just slowly enough to catch the attention of the Normans who had hesitated beside their dying fellow. He allowed himself a gleeful laugh. He felt a queasy joy at seeing such vengeance for the terror the Normans had inflicted on him during William the Bastard’s victorious battle for the English crown. The enemy had made him feel weak that day, and that was the harshest blow of all. He would rather lose a hand than feel that way again.

Further down the slope, he leapt across a spread of branches, yellowing turf and dry leaves. Once more he turned and glanced back at the wall of iron speeding towards him. The knight at the head crashed through the thin covering into the hidden pit. His bubbling scream rang out as the stakes embedded in the bottom rammed through his body. Unable to slow, a second knight tumbled in after him.

Redwald clenched his fist in triumph. He had doubted Hereward’s assertion that the numerous pits they had dug would claim lives, but the warrior had insisted he had witnessed the tactic’s lethal success on his travels on the other side of the whale road. His brother had grown during the years they had been apart, Redwald decided. Perhaps Hereward truly could lay claim to the throne.

Sprinting to the edge of the marshland, Redwald continued along the rim until he came to a green area reaching into the fog. He glanced around for the secret marker and then ran out from the treeline. The four remaining knights roared as they saw him.

Feigning panic, the rebel raced ahead. A sly smile crossed his face as he heard the pounding of the Normans’ leather shoes turn to splashing. A moment later their frantic cries sounded and Redwald came to a halt. He turned and placed his hands on his hips, relishing the sight of his enemies’ final breaths. The four knights thrashed thigh-deep in the sucking bog, the weight of their armour dragging them down. Redwald stood on the thin finger of solid ground reaching out into the marsh that only a fenlander would recognize. The more the Normans fought to get free, the more they sank. In desperation, they tossed aside their swords and axes, and hurled their helmets away. Redwald enjoyed that, for it meant he could see the terror in their eyes more clearly. Two of them struggled to remove their hauberks, but it was a futile task. Down they went, with gathering speed, the stinking black mud pulling at their stomachs, their chests, their necks. Their cries became childlike, their eyes filling with tears.