Hereward 03 - End of Days, page 27
His cheeks colouring, the monk shook his head. ‘It is you who have aided me, and for that you will always have my loyalty. When I killed Sunnild, the woman I loved—’
‘An accident—’
‘The stain upon my soul was no less for that. I thought I would never wash the blood from my hands.’
‘But you have made amends.’
‘For the taking of a life? No. But I have tried.’ He bowed his head for a moment, the weight of his emotions heavy upon him. ‘Sunnild’s death is a burden I will never escape. I could never take another life. It would destroy me. But in this struggle of the English …’ he hesitated, then added in a quiet voice, ‘in you, I have found a purpose.’
Hereward grinned, trying for a light response. ‘You have tried to save my soul.’
Alric showed no humour. His eyes gleamed in the candlelight. ‘No. I have tried to show you the path. You have saved your own soul.’
The Mercian felt humbled by the faith the other man showed in him. He broke off a chunk of the gold ring round his arm and laid it upon the shrine. As he whispered a prayer, he felt something deep shift within him. When he was done, he rose, offering a hand to help the monk to his feet. ‘If we die this day, my life has been better for having you in it,’ he said.
‘If we die this day, my life has been better for having you in it,’ the monk repeated.
Hereward smiled. ‘Good. Then come, for the hours are running away from us.’
He led the way along the nave and out of the church. The rain sheeted across the minster enclosure and the day had once again become like night. At the gates, Hereward looked out beyond Ely. Fires raged along the palisade. Black smoke swirled up to the storm-clouds, and he could smell the bitter reek of burning on the wind. His men had fought hard to maintain the defences, but it had always been only a matter of time before the walls fell.
With Alric beside him, he made his way to the speaking-mound. A constellation of torches danced across the whole of Ely, sizzling in the downpour. His army waited for him in silence, faces turned towards him, lit by the glow of the flames. Pale, frightened, hopeful, desperate. Once again he felt humbled by the weight of faith that had been placed upon him. So many of them, from all parts of England, north and south and east and west, all of them fleeing the Normans to shelter under his standard. Some wanted only food and security. Others wanted vengeance against the invaders. They all counted upon him.
He could not lie to them.
‘Though we lose this day,’ he said in a voice that somehow carried above the roar of the storm, ‘it is not because our arms have not been strong enough, or because there has not been enough fire in our hearts. Some of those we once called friends have failed us. They have shown weakness where you have shown courage, greed where you have made only sacrifices. You, all of you, deserved better than their betrayal. But we will not bow our heads. We will not be broken-hearted.’
A roar rose up from the army.
‘We are wolf-brothers all, fierce and brave. And like the wolves of winter, we will fight to the death.’
The cheer grew louder still.
‘Stand firm,’ Hereward yelled above the clamour. ‘Those who survive this battle must spread the word of our fight far and wide. Let it grow in hearts and flourish in words. And let all know, now and for ever more, the English will never be defeated.’
The deafening roar of defiance drowned out the very storm. Spears jabbed towards the heavens and fresh-painted shields swayed overhead, a sea of colour in the gloom of the day. Hereward felt his heart swell.
But as the cheer died away, he heard a corresponding roar from far off in the storm. The time of waiting had passed. The Normans were coming.
As one his army turned, and with a battle-cry that must have chilled the blood of the king’s men they thundered down the slopes towards the wall and the final battle.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
THE GATES OF Ely splintered. A sound like thunder boomed time and again as the Normans rammed the felled tree against the entrance to the English stronghold. Beyond the palisade, an ocean of iron washed as far as the eye could see. Norman knights and foot-soldiers in black cloaks and helms and hauberks, and wild-haired axes-for-hire in furs and leather, all swelling up from the water’s edge to the walls around the hilltop settlement. The rain lashed down and the wind howled and the dark seemed to close in around them until men and storm became as one.
The air was thick with arrows, whipped through the gloom from the Norman longbowmen. As Hereward crouched on the walkway, he watched the shafts punch through throats and chests and eye-sockets. A mist of blood was caught in the wind as bodies were torn apart. Dying men wheeled backwards into the void, slamming into the warriors below. Their screams were swallowed by the din of battle, the clatter of iron and the exhortations and the battle-cries and the constant whistle of the arrows.
Along the palisade, his own archers rose up, loosing shafts into the Normans below. The king’s army pressed forward so hard, the fallen were carried along in the flow, the arrows protruding from their sagging bodies.
Wiping the streaming rainwater from his face, he peered along the walkway. Under the weight of the English ranks, the wall had started to sag. Whole sections creaked and wavered, blackened from the burning caused by the fire-missiles.
The Mercian dropped from the wall and forced his way through the ocean of waiting warriors. Faces etched with fear loomed out of the driving rain. Eyes darted. Hands trembled. They knew their fate would be decided within moments.
In front of the bowing gate, his most trusted men gripped their spears and shields. Kraki, black-eyed and glowering; Guthrinc, towering over the others, as calm as if he were setting out to fish the mere; mad Hengist, who seemed to be laughing at the confusion that swirled around him; and Sighard, head raised in defiance but his eyes still hollow.
‘The whole wall will be down before we know it,’ Hereward bellowed.
‘Good,’ Kraki spat. ‘I am sick of this waiting.’
‘Your axe will taste Norman blood soon enough,’ Hengist said, his eyes sparkling.
Guthrinc caught Hereward’s eye and nodded towards Sighard. The Mercian clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and grinned. ‘Are you ready for this glory?’
‘I am ready. I think a hundred dead Normans is fair price for my brother’s life.’
‘Only a hundred?’ Guthrinc rumbled. ‘Aim higher, lad. I am going for two hundred myself.’
The oak bar across the gates strained and then a loud crack echoed. It bent, splintering. Through the growing space between the gates, Hereward could see rain-slick helms and hungry eyes.
‘Time,’ he yelled, turning and thrusting his spear into the air. ‘Shield wall.’
Across the slopes of Ely, the English army broke into well-rehearsed groups. Lines formed, shields slotted into place, spears bristled out.
In front of the gates, Hereward thrust his way into the centre of the line. Kraki stepped to his left, Guthrinc to his right. Others fell into place on either side and behind. They would be the first to meet the Norman bastards, that was only right. He raised his shield and peered over the rim. The world closed in around him.
The gates bowed, fell back, leaned in once more, each time the gap between them growing wider. How many Normans waited only a spear’s throw away, Hereward wondered. Thousands? He cared little. Let them swarm in their multitude. All the more for the slaughter.
And then, with a resounding crack, the oak bar shattered and the gates burst open. Hereward heard the roar of hell awakening. A torrent of knights swept through the gap. Double-edged swords hacked and stabbed. Shields splintered and groaned, but the wall held. And as the knights swung their blades up once more, Hereward and the English warriors thrust their spears. Sparks glimmered in the half-light as iron tips glanced off mail shirts. But there was blood too. Hereward’s spear drove up under the chin of the Norman in front of him, through the fleshy part of the neck and into the skull. The Mercian yanked back his weapon in a shower of crimson and his opponent crumpled.
And still the Normans swarmed through the gates. Whole sections of wall were collapsing on either side. The king’s army flowed out on both flanks, crashing across Ely. So many there were, it seemed the deluge would never end.
Kraki stabbed his spear into the foot of the warrior in front of him. As the knight’s knee buckled in agony, the Viking rammed his weapon into his opponent’s eye socket. The Norman tumbled back on to a growing pile of bodies. On Hereward’s other side, Guthrinc stood like an oak. However hard the king’s warriors slammed against his shield, he never budged an inch. When he drove his spear forward, he lifted a man off the ground, the weapon punching through solid mail and into the heart. At his feet, the spreading pool of rainwater had turned the colour of rust. The air became thick with the reek of loosened bowels and bladders.
In front of him now, the wall of Norman soldiers was so dense Hereward could not see the other side of it. Under their slashing swords, shards of wood flew off his shield’s rim and a crack had begun to grow towards the central boss.
His head throbbed. His vision began to close in. And with each death he claimed, he felt his devil rise higher, calling to him to set it free. The clamour of the battle faded away until there was only the steady, rapid beat of blood in his head. Faces swam before him. They fell like the wheat before the farmer’s sickle. As his heart swelled, he thought that he could slaughter every man there; no amount of blood could sate his hunger.
But the shield wall was starting to fail. He sensed gaps around him, good English men cut down by Normans hacking for their shins and ankles. As he prepared to give the order to fall back, a familiar face flashed across his vision and a rush of cold flooded through his hot passion.
Redwald caught his eye and held it for a long moment. A hint of a taunting smile. And then his brother moved away, glancing back only once. That lure was enough. Hereward felt his devil leap into his head.
With the shocked cries of Kraki and Guthrinc ringing in his ears, he tore away from the shield wall. ‘Give the order to retreat now, as we planned,’ he yelled to his shield-brothers. He tossed aside his spear and snatched up the axe hanging from his waist. Hacking, he carved a path through the Normans. They fell away from his blade, as afraid of the madness they saw in his eyes as of his weapon.
And then he was through the flow of bodies and sprinting in pursuit of Redwald.
If he was to die that day, he would take his brother with him to hell.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
THE HUNTING HORN rang out, low and mournful. Through the blaze of his rage, Hereward heard the insistent tone rise above the furious clash of battle and was pleased. Now his plan had been set in motion, he could give himself to vengeance. He threw himself up the hill. A Norman warrior rounded on him, growling. Without even slowing his step, Hereward hacked down. His speed caught the soldier unaware. The blade sliced through the neck and down to the collarbone, and the Mercian had wrenched his weapon free and was running up the slope before the man even knew he was dead.
Ahead of him, he could see Redwald scrambling among the huts, avoiding the worst of the fighting. A coward to the last. He didn’t care that his brother had seen him. Let the traitor know that death was on his trail.
Hereward splashed through pools of rainwater as he sought out the fastest route. He knew these narrow, muddy tracks well. On every side, fighting men flashed by, barely silhouettes in the gloom. The Mercian ignored them all. He clambered over waste heaps and edged round obstacles, all the time keeping his eyes on his prey. Redwald seemed to be moving up the hill with purpose. Where he was going, Hereward could not guess, but his brother knew Ely well from the seasons that he had lived there.
As he emerged from the huts close to the minster wall, he saw that the gates to the church enclosure hung open. That had to be his brother’s destination. Drawing his sword, he prowled forward.
Through the pulse of his blood, he made out someone calling his name. He ignored it. But as he reached the gate a hand grabbed his arm and he whirled without thinking, swinging his sword in an arc. Whoever was there reeled back, crying out. Somehow he halted his strike. As his vision cleared, he realized he was looking at Sighard.
‘You could have taken my life,’ the young man snapped. Hereward lowered his blade. ‘Why do you hide here?’ Sighard continued. ‘Your army needs a leader.’
‘Leave me,’ the Mercian growled, turning back to the minster gate. His devil would not let him rest.
Sighard threw himself in Hereward’s path. ‘You cannot abandon us. Only you know the plan. Men are dying – do you hear me?’
As Hereward somehow shook off the grip of his rage, he felt a moment of clarity settle on him. He looked across Ely and saw only carnage. The shield walls were failing fast. Fewer men than he had hoped maintained the positions upon which he had painstakingly decided. Thurstan’s call to surrender must have worked, he realized, feeling his anger spike once more.
Thrusting Sighard to one side, he ran to the speaking-mound and crouched on top, scanning the settlement. His men had heeded the first horn and were retreating up the hill step by step. But their progress was too slow.
‘You have your horn?’ he called back to Sighard.
‘As you commanded.’
Hereward looked up at the heavens. The rain was beginning to ease. Perhaps God was on their side after all. ‘Blow it now,’ he said.
Sighard put the horn to his lips and a moment later the low, mournful sound rolled out across Ely.
Pushing aside his lust for vengeance, Hereward threw himself down the hill to aid his men. Barely had he reached the nearest half-timbered hall than he heard a crackling resonating above the clash of sword and shield. Smoke billowed into the air near the wall, and a moment later fingers of flame reached up. One of the barns was alight. It was only the first. Columns of smoke whipped in the wind everywhere he looked. The crackling became a roaring as the fires rushed up, whisking great clouds of sparks over the settlement. Soon every barn was burning. As planned, the lads he had positioned in each one had ignited the dry winter feed at the signal of the second horn blast. Even at the minster the stores were burning. Fire had served them well once before, and it would do so again.
Cries of alarm rang out from Norman soldiers still haunted by the inferno at Belsar’s Hill. Hereward watched as panic tore apart their formations. His men were ready. They had not known when and where, but they had all been told to expect a conflagration. He nodded to himself. Now it was in the hands of God.
Ely was burning. Everything had been wagered in one last, desperate attempt to save the folk who had sheltered him. The heavy rain over the last few days would stop the fire spreading among most of the houses, he had hoped, but he could not be sure.
Among the huts he raced, with Sighard close behind. Dense, choking smoke provided all the cover he needed. A knight staggered out from beside a workshop, searching around for his fellows. He half turned, fumbling to raise his shield; too late. Hereward’s blade sliced through his neck, almost severing his head. As another soldier ran out to aid his brother, Sighard rammed his spear into the man’s back. A vengeful fury filled the young Englishman’s face.
‘For Madulf,’ he shouted.
‘Remember, stay away from the main roads,’ the Mercian yelled as the two men raced on. ‘And blow your horn again.’ The smoke folded around them.
As the third blast echoed, Hereward ran towards the largest fire glowing through the smoke. Kraki and Guthrinc waited with a horde of their best fighting men, shielding themselves from the searing heat.
The Viking eyed him with suspicion. ‘I thought you had abandoned us.’
‘Never.’ The Mercian pushed his way among them and stabbed his axe ahead. ‘Now,’ he shouted, ‘let us send some of these bastards to hell.’
With a roar, he threw himself forward. His men charged behind. Norman soldiers scattered ahead of the racing wall of spears and axes. Hereward whipped his arm right and left, urging his warriors to form a wider line. As they thundered in an arc, they herded their enemies up the track to the minster. Behind the roaring of the fires, he could hear the battle-cries of his other men, ten well-drilled hordes driving the Normans in the direction he wanted.
As the hated enemy ran ahead of the English through the billowing smoke, the ground opened beneath them. Mud-covered branches shattered underfoot, plunging the running soldiers into Hengist’s pits. Screams tore from the depths. Hereward ran to the edge of one and looked down on men writhing on spikes. He wrinkled his nose at the stink. Each sharpened branch had been smeared with shit so that even if the soldiers survived their impalement their wounds would fester and sickness would eat them from within. He spat into the hole. They deserved no less.
‘You learned your lessons well in Flanders,’ Guthrinc said beside him as he too looked down.
‘We do what it takes to survive this battle,’ he replied.
A rolling cacophony of screams echoed from all across Ely. The pits would claim a goodly number of the enemy, but not enough. Up the hill they raced, avoiding the main thoroughfares where more pits had been hidden. The rain had stopped by the time they reached the minster enclosure. They had been fortunate. The fires were still burning.
When he reached the gate, he looked down the slope. The fires glowed through the dense bank of smoke covering everything. He hoped he had done enough. His men streamed up the hill from every direction to the agreed meeting place. Guthrinc and Kraki urged the remnants of their army into the enclosure, where four more stores burned brightly.
‘Make ready,’ Hereward called to Sighard. ‘We must hold the bastards back for just a little longer.’
Sighard called twenty of the fiercest warriors to form a line across the hilltop. When three Norman knights burst from the smoke, the fighting men hacked them down in an instant.
