Hereward 03 - End of Days, page 22
The monk looked surprised, as if this was some great revelation. ‘All you did, you did yourself. If I nudged the tiller here and there on the course of your life, then I am happy, but it was no more than that.’
‘We can argue about this until dawn, monk, and God knows we like to bicker,’ Hereward said with a laugh.
Alric’s smile faded and he grew serious. ‘Dare we dream, then, of an England free from the conqueror’s yoke? Aye, and an end to this struggle?’
‘We are closer than we have ever been since we took up arms. We have William the Bastard on the run. Now we need only to harry him.’
The monk raised his eyes in thought, marvelling at what crossed his mind. ‘And what then for us? Days without want and war? What will we do with the hours?’
Hereward forced a smile, but Kraki’s words still weighed on him. ‘What will you do?’
Alric furrowed his brow. ‘I have given it little thought. Perhaps return to the monastery at Jarrow …? His voice tailed off. Hereward thought he saw a shade of sadness in his friend’s face, as if the monk had recognized something that he had not yet found the words to define.
The sound of running feet echoed off the stone.
‘What is amiss?’ the churchman called, peering into the gloom beyond the candlelight.
Five monks came running along the nave, calling the name of Abbot Thurstan. Alric caught one of them by the arm.
‘The bones of St Oswald are gone,’ the man cried out, ‘taken from the locked and hidden relic box.’
‘Who did this?’ Hereward growled. He sensed a looming disaster a moment before the monk gave words to it.
‘God has withdrawn His support for the English,’ the man gasped. ‘We are abandoned.’
The Mercian thrust his way through the knot of monks and strode to the door. Alric hurried after him. At the enclosure fence, they slowed their step. The music died away, the drums stilling one by one. The singing and the cheering and the chatter ebbed. A great silence was falling upon the English.
Hereward stood at the gate and looked down the slope. Word of the theft was rippling out across every man and woman there. God had abandoned them, that was what they were hearing. At the moment of their greatest victory, they had been judged and found wanting.
‘This is not God’s work,’ Hereward said, his voice hardening. ‘No, there is a Judas among us, someone who, even at this late hour, does not want the English to be victorious. We cannot rest until we find him.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
FROST GLISTENED ON the sunlit grasslands. In the enclosure, the horses stamped their hooves and snorted, their breath steaming as the boy tossed hay for their feed. The sharp apple tang of their dung drifted in the air. Rowena pressed her cheek against the rough wood of the barn door. Her chest felt tight, her breath short, and her hands trembled. Here was the moment of reckoning.
She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter around her. The cold had come early that year. It did not bode well. Peering out from her hiding place, she watched the serving girls hurrying with eggs held in the folds of their skirts. From the hut closest to her, she could hear the sound of rhythmic hacking as the butcher carved the carcass for the day’s meal. Across the royal manor at Branduna, all were busy with their tasks.
Shielding her eyes against the bright morning sun, Rowena looked beyond the palisade to the dark smudge of trees that circled the great hall and its outbuildings. In times of peace, the king would be preparing to ride out there to hunt the deer that roamed in abundance among the dense woods. But now he brooded alone, worrying, no doubt, that power was slipping from his grasp. She smiled to herself. Hereward had done what she had not believed possible. These were the last days of the Normans, and even William the Bastard knew it. Soon her husband would be avenged.
Within her cloak, she closed her fingers around the hilt of the knife. It was a good blade, with a sharp edge and a handle of bone carved in the shape of a falcon. She had taken it from the chest of Galien, after they had lain together that last night in his tent. She had run him well, like a hungry dog eager for a bone. His wife cared little for him, and lay like the dead when he sought the comfort of her thighs, or so he had said. She remained at his manor, sewing away the days and nights, and he had brought Rowena with him to the king’s war-court. No longer a mere whore, she was now the consort of a nobleman, and he had placed her among the king’s serving women so she could supply his needs whenever he required.
She pushed aside her anger, and the queasy turn of her stomach, at the thought of lying with him. Her plan had worked as well as Hereward’s. She had whispered honeyed words, and kissed demanding lips, and stroked arms and necks. She had flattered and feigned amazement at their strength and wisdom and prowess. And with every stinking, thrusting Norman bastard that had lain atop her, she had moved closer to the king himself.
Stepping out from the shelter of the barn, she hurried across the enclosure. She kept her head down, seemingly busy with her work. As she passed the brewhouse, steaming with sweet scents, she glanced over the wall to where the army was camped. Tents flapped in the chill breeze. Standards fluttered. The whipped Norman soldiers were licking their wounds and waiting for the king’s next orders. Flee or fight, none of them seemed sure. Since the invasion, they had swaggered across the land with chins thrust high. An army that had never been, could never be, beaten. Now they walked with heads low and shoulders hunched. She had never seen them so dispirited.
She skirted the edge of the horse enclosure and slipped into the shade of the great hall. While the king agonized over his plans, he demanded solitude. Few of the army’s commanders ventured to that place, and that had given her the opportunity for which she had been waiting for so long. The two-storey timber and wattle hall reeked of age. The Bastard had not yet begun to replace the old king Edward’s hunting lodge with one of his new stone buildings. The doors were worn and badly fitting, so that draughts howled through when the wind was strong, and the thatch was thinning here and there. In the storm two nights gone, the rain had puddled on the boards.
Easing the rear door open, she stepped inside. She was in one of several small single-storey rooms attached to the main building. She smelled dust and woodsmoke. Once her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, she looked around. A broom leaned against one wall. Fresh logs had been piled high for the hearth. She crept through into the next room where a trestle was laid out with pitchers of wine and ale and fresh cups. The two serving girls who usually attended the monarch had gone off to fetch bread and cold stew for his meal. Only a short while remained before they returned. She hoped it would be enough.
Crouching beside the next door, she peered into the great hall. The vast space was filled with shadows. No candles flickered. The only light came from the fire crackling in the hearth. Long feasting tables stood to the sides, and tapestries hung along the walls, faded and threadbare now. Some seemed to show scenes of hunting and battle. At one end was a large chair of blackened oak on a dais.
The king had his back to her. Silhouetted against the fire, he looked as big as a bear. One foot rested on the stones around the hearth as he peered into the flames, brooding. He was wearing an orange tunic and brown breeches. That was good. She had only ever seen him in armour and always imagined him as the great war leader. Now he was just a man. She pricked her index finger on the tip of her knife to test its keenness.
Rowena’s breath burned in her chest and she was almost afraid to take another for fear the monarch would hear. Though she had planned this strike for so long, she was afraid; she could not deny that now. Not of being caught. She fully expected to be dragged out of that hall drenched in the king’s blood and to be executed for such a terrible crime. After the murder of her husband, her life meant nothing. No, she was afraid of killing a man. She had never even raised a hand against anyone before.
For a moment, she closed her eyes and remembered Elwin’s face. As she steeled herself, aware that time was short, the king hurled his cup across the hall in anger or frustration. He spun round, the fire lighting his glowering face so that for a moment he resembled a wild beast. Rowena almost called out in shock.
Muttering to himself, he began to prowl around the hall. One huge hand smashed into the palm of the other. His gyre grew wider with each circle of the hearth, and Rowena saw that soon he would draw close enough to her hiding place for her to strike.
She withdrew her knife.
The king’s footsteps echoed nearer. Her body felt rigid, but her hand shook.
For Elwin, she thought, and crossed herself. May God forgive me.
She listened to the steady pace of his heavy tread. She watched his bulk block out the firelight. Soon, soon.
A hand clamped over her mouth and dragged her backwards. Her thoughts whirled away in shock, and by the time she had gathered herself enough to fight back, she been pulled through to the next room. Another hand gripped her wrist and shook it hard until she dropped the knife. Vainly, she tried to wrench herself free, but her captor was too strong. He spun her round to face him.
It was Deda.
When she saw him she was so surprised the fight went out of her. He released his hand from her mouth and pressed a finger to his lips.
‘Are you mad?’ he whispered, his face dark with disbelief.
She stuck out her jaw, trying not to show her dismay. All was lost. But she would not give the Norman bastards any satisfaction. She would face her death with dignity. ‘Call the guards,’ she spat. ‘I am not afraid.’
‘If your tongue flaps any louder, you will summon the guards yourself.’ Easing her into the corner of the room, he plucked up her knife and weighed it in his palm. ‘I ask again: are you mad?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You think you can kill a king?’
‘All men can be killed. And he is a man, no more. One who has stolen the crown.’
Deda peered into her face, trying to make sense of what he had discovered. After a moment, his features lit. ‘This was why you whored yourself. To get close to William so you could stick your blade into him.’
‘For the murder of my husband.’ She glared at him.
The knight softened. ‘Your husband is dead. I am truly sorry,’ he said with pity.
Rowena gaped. ‘What kind of Norman are you?’
‘One who would not see you harmed.’
Her mind reeling, Rowena stepped back and looked into the knight’s face. Still she could see no cruelty there. ‘Do not taunt me. Take me to the guards. I am ready for my punishment.’
‘You have suffered enough.’ He stepped to one side and swept out an arm to guide her through the door.
‘Where—’
‘We cannot talk here. We will be discovered.’ He looked around the enclosure, making sure they would not be seen. When the butcher’s boy had passed by, hauling a boar’s carcass, Deda ushered Rowena past the horses and back to the shade of the barn.
‘Why do you care if I am discovered?’ she snapped.
‘You are the eyes and ears of the English, here among us.’ He smiled. Trying to show he is a friend, she thought. She looked away, refusing to be taken in. ‘And the king has a nose for such a person,’ he continued. ‘Sooner or later you will be caught, and then you will be killed. And then I will be filled with sadness.’
Rowena shook her head. ‘Someone must make William pay for what he has done.’
‘There is no hope for your plan,’ Deda said quietly.
She blinked away tears of frustration. ‘I mean to do this, come what may. If you do not give me up I will come back again, and again, and again, until the Bastard is dead.’
‘Then I will step in your way again and again and again.’
She stamped her foot and shook a finger in his face. ‘Why are you tormenting me so? Do you take joy in my anger?’
The brewer appeared carrying a sieve filled with mash to take to the breadmakers, and Deda stepped in closer and hooked his cloak over his raised arm to hide her from prying eyes. Rowena looked up into his face, feeling the weight of his presence so close to her.
‘Some say that trying to rule England will be punishment enough,’ he said in a sardonic tone. But then his smile fell away, his features darkening. ‘If William is to suffer, it will be God who makes that decision.’ He glanced around the enclosure and seemed to reach a decision. ‘I will take you back to your own folk, in Ely, so you will be safe.’
‘Why would you risk your life to aid me?’
Deda only looked into her face, his features unreadable. Rowena felt the tears that had been building for so long rise up. The dam broke. In one rush, she remembered all that had been torn away from her, and the terrible sacrifices she had made, the throwing away of her future and her honour and her dignity, and all of it for naught. It had been hopeless from the very start. Shuddering, she felt her knees buckle, and she collapsed against him. And in that moment she felt even more sickened, for she was being comforted by one of the very dogs who had slaughtered the man she loved more than anything in the world.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
WAVES OF GREY ash drowned the coals in the hearth. The hall was cold and dark, and Hereward’s breath steamed as he clambered from his bed. Through the wattle walls, distant voices thrummed, too many for such a chill dawn. He felt uneasy, those anxious tongues caught up in the skeins of his troubled dreams. Stamping his feet for warmth, and clapping his hands, he pulled on his clothes and shoes and a thick cloak, and stepped out into the thin grey light.
The hubbub was rising from somewhere near the gates. He shook the last of the sleep from his head and tried to comprehend what he was hearing. The rest of Ely still slumbered. No smoke rose from the hearth-fires. As he trudged over curled leaves crisp with frost, he decided the voices were not urgent enough to signify an attack. Names were called. Orders were shouted.
The sound of running feet drew near, and Sighard and Madulf dashed from among the huts. Worry cast a shadow over their features.
‘Hereward,’ Sighard called. ‘We were coming to wake you.’
‘What is amiss?’
‘It is Morcar,’ Madulf gasped, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. ‘He is taking his leave of Ely. And his army goes with him.’
Hereward frowned. Morcar, never trustworthy, always seeking his own gain. What was he hoping to achieve now?
He pushed past the other two men and loped down to the gates. Morcar’s men milled around the walls, spilling out on to the track leading down the slope away from Ely. They were bleary-eyed and sullen at being stirred to action so early. Hereward thrust his way into the throng, throwing bodies aside as he searched for the earl.
He found the nobleman in deep conversation with one of his commanders. When the warrior neared, Morcar eyed him slyly, running one hand through his straggly blond hair.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Hereward tried to keep his tone civil. The earl was thin-skinned and easily aggrieved. If Morcar took offence, there would be no reasoning with him.
‘We have fought well together as brothers,’ the earl replied with an unconvincing smile, ‘but it is now time for us to part ways.’
‘We have won a battle, not the war. There is still fighting to be done,’ Hereward said, too sharply. He tried to read the plan he saw flickering behind the other man’s eyes. Was this some ploy to gain a greater commitment from Hereward, perhaps the support of the English for Morcar’s own bid for the crown?
‘Our fighting is done,’ Morcar replied, swinging one arm out to indicate his army. ‘I gave my spears to you, as promised. But this agreement was not for all time.’
Hereward leaned in and said in a low voice so the others would not hear, ‘You know we cannot defeat the king without your force.’
Morcar laughed. ‘Where is the fire in your breast? The great Hereward! You can do aught that you set your mind to. The English will rise when you call to them. You will have an army greater than the few you see here. No, you have no need of us.’
Hereward gritted his teeth. Not a word that left the earl’s lips rang true.
Kraki pushed his way alongside, scowling with fury. ‘They have robbed us of our supplies,’ he snarled.
‘A few morsels for the road.’ Morcar showed an innocent face. ‘Would you see us starve?’
‘Morsels? There is barely enough left to feed us,’ the Viking raged. Hereward stretched out an arm to hold him back.
‘The king is wounded, not dead, and that is when he is at his most dangerous. You said so yourself,’ Hereward insisted. ‘If you think this business done, or if you think you can bargain with him, you will find his teeth sunk in you in no time.’
Morcar only laughed. Hereward fought to hold back his rage. They were so close to victory he could almost taste it, yet in playing his games of ambition Morcar could snatch it away from them. His hand closed on the hilt of his sword.
Morcar saw the move and the false humour drained from his face. ‘It will only benefit the king if we slaughter each other,’ he said.
‘It would be worth any price to see a snake put to death,’ Kraki raged.
Hereward withdrew his hand. Morcar was right. The earl would fight out of pride, and they would tear each other apart. He had no choice. ‘Let them go,’ he said.
‘And leave us short of food and men,’ Kraki protested.
‘Let them go,’ Hereward thundered.
‘I am taking one of your scouts to lead me along the secret path,’ Morcar said. ‘Those waters are treacherous and I could never navigate them alone.’ Hereward felt sickened to see that triumphant grin.
‘May they suck you down to Hel,’ Kraki snarled.
Hereward drew the Northman away, barely able to control his own anger. When they were out of the crowd, he said, ‘Morcar is right about one thing. Once our messengers spread the word and the English rise up, this morn will be forgotten.’ He forced a grin, knowing he would have to work hard to keep spirits high. Kraki grunted, unconvinced.
