Hereward 03 - End of Days, page 16
Here Hereward was nothing but a lowly potter, clay-stained and insignificant in his brown cloak with its deep hood that shrouded his features in shadow, a threadbare tunic and breeches. He carried only a short-bladed knife. No one, he hoped, would give him a second look.
Keeping his head down, he pushed his way through the crowd. He felt staggered by the size of the community that had grown up in such a short time. Folk thronged past merchants perched on bales and barrels proclaiming their wares in booming voices. Makeshift workshops had been thrown up, some almost overnight by the look of them: clay walls, heaps of sod, straw and timber, some of the building materials clearly stolen from the supplies destined for the causeway. Under the rickety roofs, looms rattled and hammers fell. Leatherworkers scraped hides with their curved blades and metalworkers hunched over pieces of gold and silver, engraving intricate designs. Smoke from the fires mingled with the meaty scents of hot pies and bubbling stews from the food sellers. Cattle lowed and pigs grunted. Hens scratched among the feet of the jostling multitude.
Amid the confusion of sensations, Hereward smiled to himself. The press of bodies and the constant din made his work easier. The Norman guards patrolling nearby were more concerned with the causeway than the mass of folk attempting to scrape a living from the vast army that had descended on the wetlands.
Once he had a good view he came to a halt, pretending to delve into the depths of his leather sack. He let his gaze run along the length of the causeway as it stretched into the misty distance. The Normans were widening and strengthening the existing track from Belsar’s Hill to the West River, not far from Alrehede, so that it would be broad enough and stable enough to take the Norman cavalry. Here the fen was probably only eight or nine furlongs wide, he estimated, with less water and marsh than in most other parts of the wetlands. The best and narrowest place for a crossing. And beyond it, Ely was in easy reach.
Walking along the line of the causeway, he flashed glances at the men at work. Their faces were drawn from too much labour and too little food and sleep. The Normans drove them like animals. They dragged tree-trunks and great pieces of timber, lashing them together with cowhide to form the base of the road. And as the work moved across the marsh, English captives laid sheepskins filled with sand on the track to keep the top layer clear of the surrounding bogland. From the mountains of stone and wood heaped along the way, the men formed a chain to pass buckets of material to form the solid surface. Other filth-streaked, bare-chested labourers dug out deep, rolling ramparts of peat along the route. And on the waters beyond the scene of hard labour Hereward could discern many moored boats. More wood and stone was being unloaded.
His thoughts whirled. There could be no doubt now that the feeble causeway they had destroyed had been one of William the Bastard’s deceptions. This one would not be so easy to wreck. If he set his men to work with shovels for a week, they would barely have torn it down. And yet he had seen one weakness that he might be able to turn to his advantage, if fortune smiled upon him.
Ahead, three Norman soldiers were swaggering towards him through the stream of bodies. His neck prickled; he could take no risks that might uncover him. One of the warriors stopped to examine a linen merchant’s wares. When he rubbed the end of the cloth between his thumb and forefinger, his nose turned up as if he could smell something foul. Tossing the linen aside, he muttered to the others. The soldiers barked with laughter. The merchant’s cheeks reddened. As they moved on, Hereward lowered his head and retreated into the shadows of his hood. He turned left, only to find his path blocked by two men arguing over a goose. The soldiers drew nearer. One looked directly at him, and then glanced away at a comely girl helping her mother carry a churn.
‘Pots,’ Hereward mumbled, his eyes darting. ‘Good pots.’
When the soldiers were only steps away, an outcry erupted nearby. A boar had broken free from its pen. Folk scurried in all directions from the squealing beast. Seizing his moment, the Mercian plunged off the track and into the filthy, ramshackle settlement.
For a while, he hid among the mass of huts and tents. More of the defences still needed to be examined before he could creep away. Yet as he prowled closer to where the settlement pressed hard against the slopes of Belsar’s Hill, he glimpsed two figures through a gap between the huts. He felt his senses start to jangle, though he was not sure why. Keeping low, he slipped from wall to wall in their wake.
As he peered round the final hut, he stiffened at the sight of two men he had never thought he would see together: Deda the knight and Harald Redteeth. They were so close that his nose wrinkled at the lamb-fat the Viking used to grease his furs. He threw himself back into the shadows, hoping they had not seen him.
The two men walked on a few paces, and then Redteeth came to a sudden halt. He cocked his head as if listening to some unseen companion. Hereward felt his neck prickle. He had seen the Northman do this before and it never failed to unnerve. The knight turned, frowning, asking what was wrong. Redteeth ignored him. He spun round and looked directly at Hereward.
And as the Mercian darted away, an angry cry rang out at his back and feet thundered in pursuit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE THRONG JOSTLED by. Hungry, most of them. Fearful that the End of Days was drawing in and hopeful that the Normans would offer them some shelter from the storm of want, sickness and death. The Normans who had brought all those things to England’s door. Rowena forced a smile, trying not to let those sour thoughts show on her face.
‘This is the third time you have accompanied me into danger. Do you wish to lose your life?’ Rowena asked as she examined the fine silver jewellery on the metalworker’s trestle.
Scowling, Acha looked past her to the Norman soldiers patrolling the causeway. ‘If I die, it will be you who will have killed me.’
Rowena eyed the other woman as she turned a silver bracelet over in her hands. It gleamed in the light, showing off the black runes carved around its band. She wished Acha had not accompanied her. Soon her life would be over, and with any luck, the king’s with it. There was no other course. But now she had to think about Acha’s safety, and that was a distraction she did not need.
She thought back to that cold hut where she had tried to say her farewell. Barely had the words left her lips before Acha was dropping a few meagre possessions into a sack and insisting she come with her. She could not understand it. But she had been glad of the company through the night-dark fenlands. The wolves would soon be venturing out of the woods in search of food. And there were worse things abroad in the east.
She put the bracelet down and nodded to the sallow-faced metalworker. Pushing her way through the crowd, she raised her head to study Belsar’s Hill looming up ahead. A pall of black smoke from the campfires hung over it.
‘And you are to whore yourself as well?’ she asked Acha.
‘I will not.’
‘Then where will you sleep and what will you eat?’
‘I can still pour wine and serve meat.’ The other woman’s voice was flinty.
‘The invaders are not kind to English women. They think we are all whores compared to their cold, obedient Norman wives.’
‘And you think all English are kind to Cymri slaves?’ Acha snapped. ‘I have survived. I will do so again.’
Rowena hoped the other woman was right. But as she looked around at the grim faces of the soldiers, and the drunken axes-for-hire knocking folk out of their path, she feared the worst. There was little kindness in this place. None of the comforts she knew from her home. And away from the scrutiny of their nobles, the Normans made their own laws. Death came easy.
Suddenly afraid that she had made the wrong decision, she turned away from the crowded track and walked among the huts. Her chest felt tight and she thought that she might cry. Barely had she gone ten paces when she heard angry shouts ring out. A man was weaving among the dwellings, his cloak flying behind him. In his haste, his hood flew back and she was shocked to see that it was Hereward. He glimpsed her too, and his own features lit with surprise.
At first she thought he had come hunting for her. But then Acha exclaimed and pointed. A Northman was pursuing the Mercian, his face a mass of burns and scars. Roaring like a wounded beast, he gripped his axe as he pounded along the muddy track.
‘We must help,’ Acha gasped.
Without thinking, Rowena darted in front of the fierce Viking warrior. He bellowed, ‘Out of my way,’ and attempted to thrust her aside, but she tangled herself in his arms. They all but fell to the ground.
‘I am hungry,’ she cried. ‘Oh, aid me, I beg you. And I will give you a night of joy that you will never forget.’
‘Out of my way, whore,’ he yelled. He hooked an arm round her and flung her to one side with such force that she crashed against the wall of a hut. She felt dazed, and winded, but when she looked up she saw the Viking roaming back and forth searching for his prey. Hereward was nowhere to be seen. And nor was Acha.
Throwing his head back, the Northman shook his fist at the heavens and roared curses until his throat was raw. When he stormed past, he glared at Rowena with murder in his eyes, but she sensed he would not harm her. He hailed someone in his angry, rumbling voice. Rowena turned and saw it was the knight, Deda. He stared back at her.
Her heart pounded. She walked away as quickly as appeared seemly. She could not be sure whether the Norman had recognized her. The last time they met, when she had spat in his face, she had been hooded. But she knew if word got out that a woman of Ely was in the camp she would be branded a spy, and she would pay the price.
The knight did not follow, for which she was thankful. For a while, she searched among the huts until she saw Acha beckoning from the rear of one of the makeshift workshops. When she hurried over, she found Hereward crouching beside a barrel of stagnant water.
Rowena waited for the edge of his tongue, but he only said, ‘I am in your debt.’
‘Is Kraki with you?’ Acha whispered.
The Mercian shook his head. ‘I am alone. There is less danger that way.’
As he looked from one woman to the other, Rowena blurted, ‘I am here to kill the king.’ She expected shock, or anger, or ridicule, but the warrior only nodded his head. He seemed to understand her. She found that strange. She barely understood herself.
He stood up, still keeping his head down. ‘It is not my place to tell you your business,’ he said in a gentle tone, ‘but take care. And do not throw your life away needlessly.’
She stuck out her chin. ‘You risk your own neck.’
‘So that others may live without the yoke of the Normans around theirs.’ He hesitated, choosing words that did not seem to come easily to him. ‘I know what is in your heart,’ he began. ‘There are days when I would throw my life away in an instant to find vengeance for the murder of my wife. But I have been shown there is no gain in that, and, if I could, I would show you the same.’
She looked into his face. Turbulent emotions moved just beneath the surface. In days gone by, she had been angry with him, and scared of him, but now she felt sorry for him. Whatever he was fighting seemed great indeed.
‘Would Elwin wish you to die to avenge him?’ he asked.
She winced. Tears flecked her eyes at the memory of her husband.
‘Even if you would live …’ he held out a hand to her, ‘there is a danger in allowing yourself to be consumed by such a desire. The prize you seek may be more painful than the hurt you now feel. And success may not be the salve you hope.’
She nodded. ‘You are kind.’
‘I know my words will not turn you from your path here and now.’ He smiled. ‘I have lived through this. But I would hope you will think on what I have said, and in days to come see the truths of it. I would not see you harmed,’ he added, then turned to Acha. ‘Nor you. Kraki needs you.’
The other woman looked down, chastened. ‘I cannot return to Ely until I am sure Rowena is safe,’ she said quietly.
Hereward frowned, puzzled by what he was hearing. ‘That is a noble cause. But again, take care. You are in a nest of vipers here.’ He glanced around to be sure they were not being watched. Then he pulled up his hood, nodded his thanks once again, and slipped away.
Dusk came too fast.
Once Acha had found work with a noble newly arrived from Normandy, Rowena said farewell. Her friend’s new master was an ascetic man, not given to grand displays, and Rowena walked away in confidence that Acha would be safe with him. Yet she felt unprepared for the pang of loneliness she felt as she trudged up the track to Belsar’s Hill, or her apprehension at the enormity of what lay ahead. At times, she paused by the side of the road, afraid she might lose her stomach. Hereward’s words haunted her, but she forced herself to carry on.
As night fell, the whores waited under the torches by the gate. They were a poor band. Some missed eyes, or hands. Others bore the scars of the pox on their faces. Their dresses were filthy and threadbare. Most were drunk. As Rowena drew near, two women rolled in the dirt, biting and scratching and tearing at their hair. Their curses were worse than any she had heard the Norman soldiers utter.
On the edge of the group, she stood with her head lowered. She hoped she would not draw attention to herself, but she could feel eyes upon her, and when she glanced up the stares were murderous. As she heard the guards drawing the bar on the gates, she turned away and muttered a prayer. What she was about to do was a sin and she would pay with her soul; the churchmen had said that time and again. Endure a man’s affections only to quicken with child, they said. Most of the wives she had spoken to laughed at such things. They rolled with their husbands by choice. They did not lie there and cry, as the Norman women did, or so it was said. But still she feared God’s wrath for her whoring. Yet doomed though she felt herself to be, still she believed it a price worth paying.
As the gates trundled open, she turned back and put on a smile that promised much. She noticed the other women doing the same. The two whores who had been fighting jumped up and brushed themselves down. Dragging fingers through their tangled hair, they darted into the camp.
Rowena shuffled in behind them, feeling her panic rise with each step. As the other women dashed along the narrow tracks, trilling and calling, she walked slowly, sizing up the men who watched her with lascivious eyes. She ignored the brutish and the low-born. Though her cheeks flushed at their cruel insults when she spurned their advances, she walked on, searching for the commanders or the noblemen who might bring her closer to the king’s gyre.
In the end, she smiled at a high-ranking soldier who had a tent close to the castle enclosure. He was gentle and he had an easy nature, but as he lay atop her thrusting and grunting she closed her eyes and ran with visions of stabbing her knife into his neck until she was drenched with his blood. Afterwards, they talked for a while, and she learned how the king would sometimes wander through the lower camp, booming encouragement to his men. She felt better for that, for it was something she thought she might be able to use. But after she had taken his coin, she stumbled out to the dark near the walls, where she sat and heaved silent, juddering sobs long into the night.
When she had dried her eyes, she stood up and wandered back through the camp. The coin she had earned would buy her a berth in one of the tents the other whores used, and some warm food for her belly the next day.
Choking smoke swirled across the camp. The fires glowed in the dark wherever she looked. But now that most of the men were sleeping or drunk or both, an uneasy stillness had fallen across the hilltop. At least the din that rang out during the day had distracted her. Now she had only her thoughts for company, and they were the last thing she needed.
As she wandered towards the torches over the gates, a tremendous exhaustion settled on her. She glanced up at the vast vault of heaven and felt an aching loneliness. The hopelessness of it all was near too much to bear.
‘You are far from home.’
Her heart pattered as she whirled around, looking for the source of the voice. ‘Who goes?’
A figure was silhouetted against one of the fires. ‘There is no need to be afraid. It is only I.’
She clenched her fingers around the knife in her cloak. When he turned slightly and the orange flames lit his face, she saw it was Deda. ‘I do not know you,’ she said.
‘I think you do.’ He took a step forward.
‘Stay back,’ she snapped. The knife felt hard in her hand. ‘I have never seen you before.’
He laughed, though gently. ‘I never forget any woman who spits in my face. That seems only courteous.’
‘I fled Ely,’ she said, changing course. ‘There was nothing for me there.’
‘You are looking for your husband. Did you find him?’
‘Yes,’ she lied. ‘He works on the causeway.’
He nodded, but she could see in his eyes that he didn’t believe her. Glancing around the camp, he said, ‘And you are here to … spit at me again?’
Rowena couldn’t think what to say. He stepped forward another pace and she saw his nose wrinkle. He could smell the musk of fornication upon her. He frowned, puzzling over some thought or other.
‘Please, I must go,’ she said, attempting to push by him.
He did not move. ‘You have nothing to fear from me.’ She was surprised to hear a note of compassion in his voice. ‘Many women in these parts have had their menfolk taken from them. It is a harsh treatment. You … all you English … deserve better.’ He stepped aside and bowed, sweeping out one arm to guide her way. ‘Go in peace.’
Rowena hurried by. She did not look back until she reached the gates, and by then Deda was nowhere to be seen. And yet his words echoed in her head, and they troubled her in a way she did not understand.
